Page 95 of Hell's Secret Omega

Cyrus takes the bow and arrows and follows Ekko into the trees. He’s becoming a skilled hunter. Once it would have been unimaginable. Now, death no longer frightens or shames him. When he lets the arrow fly he’s thankful instead—thankful that he sees more izil in herds than alone. Thankful no serpentswrithe across the forest, wreaking destruction as madness engulfs their minds. Thankful for the cycle of healing that has brought a small measure of abundance and hope back to Hell’s wilds.

The forest is dappled with gentle light from the canopy’s luminescent underside. Ekko flies overhead silently. He soars higher, circling on an updraft to observe the landscape. Soon Cyrus sees what he sees—a herd of izil, lots of young in their number. They’re so voracious they’ve been clearing out new growth on this side of the forest. Mezor grumbles every time he sees their mark. Yet he’s reluctant to disrupt the delicate balance of the burgeoning ecosystem.

Well, Cyrus is part of the ecosystem now. As is his companion.

The izil nibble their way across the patch of grass, pausing at the edge of the trees to munch tender young leaves from the low branches. Cyrus spots his target immediately—a bedraggled izil who lingers at the back of the herd, staggering back and forth, pausing occasionally to nibble. The forest’s gentle light reveals patchy fur and a milky sheen over its eyes. It’s been fortunate enough to live to an age many izil have never seen.

He lifts his bow and sights.

The izil’s head lifts. As if sensing his presence, it looks straight across the clearing at him. A full-body shiver takes him as it lowers its head to graze again, placid in the face of death.

The arrow flies true, obeying his will, but his aim still isn’t the best—he hits the izil in the flank instead of the chest. The beast collapses silently and the rest scatter with squeals of alarm, their tails flashing. Ekko shoots from the sky to slice the fallen izil’s throat with his claws before it can suffer.

Cyrus shoulders the bow again.

“Good job,” he calls, but he doesn’t draw any nearer. Ekko gets territorial after a kill.

Ekko gives a satisfied cry.I know I’m a good hunter, the screech says. He’s big enough to fly off with a young izil on his own, but he often comes to fetch Cyrus to hunt with him.

Cyrus turns away to let Ekko eat in privacy. Atop a nearby hill, he watches for intruders. It isn’t long before one arrives—a tall, shadowy figure emerging from the trees. Ekko shrieks in warning.

Cyrus laughs. “He still doesn’t like you,” he calls down.

The shadows fall away to reveal Mezor’s smirk. “He had better get used to me.”

Cyrus makes to stand, but Mezor shakes his head. He climbs the hill to sit below Cyrus on the slope, his proximity bringing a burst of his stormy scent to Cyrus’s nose. His body thrums as Mezor leans his head into Cyrus’s chest. He runs his claws gently over Mezor’s dark hair and his mate’s eyes drift shut. A deep rumble of satisfaction vibrates through him.

“I woke and found you missing,” Mezor says. “You shouldn’t wander alone.”

“I wasn’t alone. Ekko was with me.”

Mezor hums. He’s still untrusting of the wilds. After centuries of watching it decay, Cyrus doesn’t blame him.Hetrusts the forest, though. He senses the presence of Mezor’s brothers through the trees, the way he once sensed Kalad. No harm will come to him here—he knows it to his bones. Still, Mezor’s protectiveness makes his vergis purr.

My mate.It’s still surreal to say the words inside his own head.Mine. Forever.

He twists a lock of Mezor’s hair into itself, making a glossy braid, winding in tiny white flowers from his pouch. Whenever his knuckle brushes Mezor’s horn, the muscle in his broad chest twitches and his nipple jumps.

Cyrus brushes the gleaming horn a few more times on purpose.

“Is it strange that I miss the Court sometimes?” he wonders.

“Why would it be?” Mezor replies. “Your life there was still yours, even if it was painful at times.”

“Sometimes I felt connected to its halls, as if the souls of those who’d lived there before me lingered.” He lets the braid slip through his fingers. “But I hated it, too. Even after the King was dethroned, his madness had already soaked into its stones. It seemed like everyone in the Court was mad, even me.”

“Stones hold stories. But even the Court will heal in time.” Mezor shrugs, muscles rippling.

“There are still demons inside. Whenever I remember that, I feel a duty to them. Even though we were strangers—or enemies.”

The bridge is gone, destroyed by the King’s escape to Earth—and the corrosive poison he trailed behind him. The last of the Grey Company never made it out of Hell. For those left behind, there are no kings or generals to dictate their lives. But what kind of life do they have within the mountain? The Court’s purpose was war. Without it, they’re rootless blooms floating on the surface of a pond.

But Cyrus was the same, once.

Mezor opens one eye. “You feel duty to demons who swear no duty to you.”

“I think duty must be cyclical.” Cyrus smiles and strokes the hair back from his broad forehead. Mezor’s brow creases under his touch. But he’s loving this attention—Cyrus can tell. “You’ve passed yours on to your brothers, who work hard to heal the realm in their sleep. But some of it must have made its way to me.”

“These are the things that make you special.” Mezor captures his hand. Warm, dry lips on Cyrus’s palm send a tingle down his spine.

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