Page 4 of Hell's Secret Omega

“You want? Don’t be insolent!” The King slams his hand on the table, making the bag rattle and chime. “Your service is not over. You will liaise with my Hunter until his work is complete. Then I will decide if you deserve a reward.”

“It’s not a reward!” Anger makes his chest tight. “It’s our agreement. I spied for you all these years. You said you’d grant me?—”

He breaks off, darting a look at the other presence at the table. Mezor’s gaze hasn’t left him, piercing and curious. A noise of frustration tears itself from his throat. He reaches for the bag on the table unthinkingly.

The King’s clawed hand comes down before he can touch it. He gets to his feet, towering over Cyrus. His other hand—red as angel blood—swipes at Cyrus. The red hand has killed demons with a single touch. Cyrus yelps in terror and stumbles back.

“Now, sire.” Mezor’s chair scrapes the stone. His massive hand lands on the King’s shoulder. “I need him, do I not? Best not kill him before he can be of use.”

Don’t kill me at all!Cyrus nearly shouts, fury at the injustice burning through his veins.

The King shakes off Mezor’s grip. “Of course,” he says, but his gaze is cold. “You will be a spy for Mezor. Everything you reported to me, now you will report to him. The state of the Court. The—coup,” he spits. “General Leuther’s activities. Mezor will tell me when your task is complete. Then we may discuss the bargain.”

Cyrus opens his mouth to protest, but the King turns on his heel. His long, black-furred cape sweeps the ground behind him as he strides out of the room. The door slams. Cyrus can hardly breathe.

Mezor sits down with a deep sigh.

“You got off easy, little spitfire.”

Easy. Cyrus chokes on a horrible laugh. A return to the place of his living nightmare empty-handed. Countless more nights hiding who he is and days living a double—triple—identity.

Mezor’s eyes meet his again, dark and unfathomably deep. Cyrus looks away.

“Where will we meet?” he demands. “And how often?”

“Hm.” Mezor stands. His long, curved horns gleam in the torchlight. Deep down, in a place Cyrus longs to pretend doesn’t exist, hunger flares as the Hunter’s muscles ripple powerfully and his scent swells. He picks up the white arrow and hands it back to Cyrus, his ruby eyes glimmering. “Use this. If you send it flying, it will find its way back to me. I’ll follow its path. That way, we can meet any time you have news, anywhere you like. But be sure the news is useful, spitfire, because I’ve no patience for time-wasters.”

“Don’t call me that,” Cyrus hisses, ears burning. He could’ve sent the arrow back to its owner at any time. Instead he made a big show out of returning the thing.

Mezor scoops the bag off the table. “I must speak to the King.”

He turns away, ducking again as he leaves the room.

Cyrus grits his teeth. Dismissal, again. How will he survive forced contact with the arrogant bastard?

Worse, it’s not just his ego Cyrus hates. The Hunter is the one demon who might sniff out Cyrus’s secret—the secret he’s carried since he left the Hellspring. Cyrus is avergis. The word means one who bears pups—not that he ever will. It means the urge to bare his neck for those stronger than him. It means weakness, debilitating heats, and a scent that reveals him. His transformation in the Hellspring was never incomplete; it was simply a cosmic joke.

If he were anywhere but in Hell, he would have a mate. Aprimus, a protector, someone who could claim him and plant his seed in Cyrus’s body.

He’d never allow such a thing. Still, it’s humiliating enough to know he could’ve been destined for that fate. The smallest mercy is that there are few primus in hell. The King. Captain Romanos. Mezor. Without the scent blockers he wears, they could easily sniff out his identity—just like the King, who knew the first time Cyrus crossed his path. It was the King who told Cyrus about the Court’s ancient library and the books there that would explain his condition.

He didn’t do so out of kindness, of course—the King used his secret to gain a spy.

He can’t antagonize the Hunter. But all demons have weaknesses. Needs, wants, petty little fears that drive them. He will play nice until he understands what makes Mezor tick. Inthe meantime, he’ll have to hope the Hunter notices nothing unusual about him.

If only he would stopwatching.

Chapter 3

MEZOR

The gate chamber is empty—theKing retreated to the back room. Mezor lets annoyance wash through him and away. The King is more reclusive and capricious than ever these days, and who can blame him? His century-long war against New Yden came to naught. His Court sits in the hands of traitors. He’s been banished to the shadows like his hollows—and like them, reduced to a ghost of his former self.

Mezor climbs the dais to the gate. The King’s plight makes him tired. The endless maneuvering he requires goes against Mezor’s nature. He likes simple problems with simple solutions. Everything is complex in the King’s world, layers of shadows and secrets hiding more darkness.

His mind drifts to the King’s spy—Lieutenant Cyrianus. He’s known since he met Cyrianus that the little demon is a consummate manipulator. He must be to survive the Court—he’s so different from other demons. Someone like that shouldn’t interest Mezor at all. Yet every time he lays eyes on Cyrianus his curiosity is sparked anew. He smells of tar and ash, but his fine face and silver eyes trick Mezor into looking. And he has such insolence. Such fire! He’s known the King to slicedemons from neck to groin for less, and Cyrianus gets away with it.

It’s been a long time since he was curious. Something tells him Cyrianus has his own secrets, and Mezor finds himself trying to peel back the shadows with the sheer force of his gaze.

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