Page 2

CYRUS

Cyrus wedges himself into the crack and wriggles. The stone almost seems to give around him, but it’s only his unique talent for squirming into small spaces. The body he so hated at first is perfectly suited to squeeze through cracks, and the rest is mind over matter. The trick is not to get scared halfway through.

He expels the last gasp of air from his lungs and slides inch by excruciating inch between the two rock faces. Another demon might have shut his eyes. Cyrus’s eyes are wide open, the rocky surface staring back at him. Faint light from the hall to his left illuminates flickers of crystal, sharp as knives and a mere hairsbreadth from his nose.

He inches sideways. The hem of his coat pulls, catching on an outcropping. This would be easier in less clothing, but stripping down poses more danger than getting stuck in a crack. At least if he gets stuck, a soul-sucking hollow will probably happen upon him and his end will be swift. Being caught without his coat means one less layer between the cruel Court and his distinctly…un-demonic differences . A soft, slim chest and narrow shoulders. Slender limbs that refuse to put on muscle, no matter how many bags of grain he carries.

Defective .

He pushes the last air from his lungs. At last he pops free of the crack, spat into the dark tunnel.

All that is about to change.

He’s had this form for so long it’s painfully familiar to him, from the tips of his clawed feet to the taper of his shining horns, but soon he’ll be rid of it. He touches his pouch briefly, paranoia making him compulsive. Inside are the artifacts the King ordered him to retrieve—his final task.

In the many years since Cyrus first entered the Court, the Hollow King reaped hundreds more souls from the tournament to grow his demon army and fight his war on Earth. But a few months ago, Hell’s generals conspired to stage a coup. Tired of war without end, the generals withdrew their troops from the battlegrounds and killed the Hollow King’s right hand demon, sending the King himself fleeing into exile. Cyrus feared the worst. His position as the King’s spy could have gotten him killed if they discovered it, alongside everything else about his nature he’s kept hidden over the years. His chance to enter the Hellspring seemed to vanish in front of his eyes—not to mention his odds of survival.

But the King still controls the Hellspring, even now. Cyrus won’t have to guard himself for much longer. Once he passes on the artifacts, the King will grant him leave to enter the Hellspring again, and he’ll be given a new body—a better one.

His secrets will die in those icy waters.

The tunnel is long and sloping, and eventually Cyrus starts to head downhill, gravel slipping under his feet. He walks more carefully, holding onto the wall and curbing his impatience. Rushing leads to mistakes. He doesn’t need to spill ichor in here and draw the hollows, or worse, damage his precious cargo.

Down, down, the tunnel goes. Below the lower levels. Below the forge. Under the tournament of souls itself—closed now, its labyrinthine levels empty. He never imagined leaving the Court’s walls once he entered. For many years it’s been home—a cold and cruel home, perhaps, but better than the desolate pit of Hell, where his soul would have quickly faded to nothing. But everything has changed now. He lives on a knife-edge. He must hang onto the King’s favor with all the strength in his claws.

Deep inside the earth, the tunnel is pitch black, and he finds his way by feel. His step quickens as the slope evens out. Once, he would have been apprehensive about such a meeting. Today he practically vibrates with anticipation. He’s served the King since his first year in the Court. He’s the King’s most loyal and long-lasting spy—and the best. His latest triumph sits in the pouch at his waist.

Surely the King will agree he’s fulfilled his side of the bargain.

Light heralds the end of the tunnel. The torch posted at the exit tells him the King is expecting him. Cyrus passed along a message through one of the hollows, but it’s hard to say how much of his messages get translated—if any. The hollows are strange creatures. Emerging into the hall, he senses their presence. The air has a chill and their hunger tugs at his soul. He pulls his coat tighter, then lets go as soon as he realizes what he’s doing. He mustn’t show fear. Not to the hollows. Not to the King.

Fear is weakness. And weakness can get him killed.

The King’s scent overwhelms him as soon as he steps into the hideout. As always, it makes him physically itch. The first time he was summoned to the King’s presence and that scent washed over him, he’d been terrified. But the bargain that followed saved his life.

Spy for me, and I will give you the body you want.

For years he’s used his natural abilities to do exactly that—hiding, sneaking, listening. To demons they’re despicable skills, but they’ve served him well over the years.

This time, a second scent lurks beneath the King’s bitter ash. Cyrus shuts the door behind him and lights torches around the room, banishing the hollows to lurk in the shadowy corners. The new scent pricks at his memory. He strikes the flint and the torch flares. The faint smell of smoke lingers. Beneath it, ozone, like the portent of a storm.

Why is that scent familiar?

A heartbeat later, the King sweeps through the door. A second figure follows, ducking under the lintel to enter. His broad horns barely fit through the doorframe. His skin is red as a flame. Cyrus stiffens, all his senses coming to a point.

It’s his scent—the Hunter.

Mezor.

The one who makes Cyrus’s skin go tight with fear. The one who always looks at him.

No—watches him.

Before the coup, Cyrus only ever saw the Hunter in passing as he dragged his bounty to the feast table. They never met. Cyrus was glad. The biggest demons were always the most dangerous, the cruelest, and the Hunter was biggest of all. He knew the rumors—that the Hunter wasn’t actually a demon. That he was a shepherd god, a creature of Hell from before the cataclysm.

True or not, Cyrus only cared about protecting himself.

Now that the King is in exile, the Hunter is often at his side. Cyrus can’t avoid meeting him. And he’s just as bad as Cyrus would’ve expected. So arrogant he barely deigns to speak to Cyrus, who he’s obviously deemed his lesser.

The Hunter watches him, and Cyrus hates it.

Sure enough, those deep red eyes turn to him as soon as Mezor enters the room. Cyrus suppresses a shudder. In contrast, the King glances at him and flicks his gaze away in dismissal, which irks him for different reasons.

“Lieutenant Cyrianus. Bring me good news.”

The King seats himself at the long table that occupies most of the room and gestures for the Hunter to sit at his right. Cyrus resolutely tries to ignore the big demon.

“Your Majesty.” He bows. “I recovered the seeds.”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out the cloth bag that cradles his cargo. The objects inside ring against each other gently as he puts the package on the table.

A smirk twists across Mezor’s deep-set features. “You’ve put the world seeds in a burlap sack? Astonishing.”

Cyrus’s face heats. He turns pointedly toward the King, giving the Hunter his shoulder. “I’ve done as you commanded.”

Expressionless, the King waves a hand at Mezor. “I want to see them.”

Mezor pushes the bag toward the King, but he shakes his head sharply.

“No. You do it.”

Cyrus grits his teeth as Mezor fishes in the bag and pulls out what looks like a simple glass ball, innocuous but for its inner light.

“Curious,” the Hunter rumbles, holding it up. The torchlight reflects back threefold, making it glow brighter.

At last the King’s lip twitches, curling back to show his deadly fangs. “The hollows are drawn to it.”

The shadows at the edge of the torchlight reach toward the center of the room. A chill sweeps through Cyrus, and he clenches his fists in his coat. The hollows won’t enter the torchlight. Not unless the King wants them to.

Mezor furrows his brow. He puts the glass sphere back in the bag and it rings faintly. “You torment them with things from their old life. And look at your little spy—he’s afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.” His spine snaps straight. “I have something of yours, too. You should be more careful with your things.”

He sticks an arm inside his coat again and takes out the arrow he’s been carrying, bone-white and as long as his arm, and drops it to the table with a clatter.

He took it from the guardhouse where Captain Romanos and his little angel holed up after the coup. It was a token of the King’s alliance to Romanos and it irritated Cyrus. Why would the King want an ally in that brute? He was a better, more loyal spy. He’d taken the arrow to make a statement to both Mezor and the King— I’m not someone to ignore. Now, as Mezor’s brow arches and his gaze flickers from the arrow to Cyrus’s face, assessing, Cyrus regrets his rash decision. As usual.

A guttural chuckle erupts from the King, drawing his attention away. “Beware, Mezor. Best not make an enemy of my lieutenant. You will soon work closely, after all.”

“What?” Cyrus blurts, his stomach sinking. “But my task is done. I’ve served you faithfully—I want my side of the bargain!”

“ 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 a vergis . 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. A primus , 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. In the meantime, he’ll have to hope the Hunter notices nothing unusual about him.

If only he would stop watching .