Page 21

MEZOR

The world seed takes Mezor far from any gate, almost a full week into the mountains. The waxing crescent moon looms large in his periphery as he travels. No doubt Cyrus will try to summon him—it’s better if he’s away to resist the temptation.

Far from taking his mind off Cyrus, he’s plagued day and night by memories of the little demon under him, around him—his heat, his scent, his sweetness…on the inside, he’s being driven to madness. For the first time, Hell’s quiet dark is stifling. Even the seedling seems hesitant to push through the soil.

Deep relief washes through him when he finally returns to the gate.

What is wrong with me?

He touches the gatepost and braces himself. Cold fire engulfs him, scattering his atoms through the aether. Empty. Lonely. Aching. What are these sensations pricking at him in the void? He re-materializes in the grotto and they coalesce into a storm of emotions that almost bowls him over. His breath stops in his throat.

Pain sweeps through him—not his own. In the middle of the cottage door, his white arrow quakes as if it’s only just landed. It’s embedded so deeply that the wood splinters when he wrenches it free. Worry turns to dark dread.

The pain he feels belongs to Cyrus. That can only mean one thing.

They’re bonded.

It’s night in the Court and the halls are blessedly empty. Mezor leaves the arrow behind. He doesn’t need it to know where Cyrus is now—a tug in his gut leads him straight there.

Fool , he curses himself. You utter idiot. Of course they bonded. Cyrus was a vergis in need who’d never known a kind touch. The bond probably took hold the instant he touched Cyrus. In his arrogance, he didn’t even consider it a possibility.

Wreathed in shadow, he ascends through Mount Hythe. The pain—the bond—leads him higher and higher, until he reaches the level of their meeting room. For a sinking moment he wonders if Cyrus waits inside—has been waiting this whole time.

But no. Cyrus is too proud for that. The bond pulls him past the room, to a part of the Court Mezor is passingly familiar with: the ancient library.

Mount Hythe’s library is vast, with many rooms, most of them empty of the knowledge and history they once held. When the angels fled they took their works with them and left only carcasses. Still, there’s something comforting about it—as if the ghosts of lost books still fill the space with possibility. He understands immediately why Cyrus would choose this place, and it makes his heart twist.

Mezor’s primus urges him on. I was right all along. He’s clever and perfect and he needs us. The ideal mate. He tears through the rooms. Cyrus’s faint honeyed scent suffuses the place in spite of the scent blocker he wears, and Mezor greedily breathes lungfuls of it. If another primus stumbled on this place, Cyrus’s scent would give him away completely. The thought makes him furiously protective.

Cyrus’s pain builds in urgency the closer he draws. Then it fades—he’s gone too far. Mezor snarls aloud. Cyrus has hidden himself away, of course. Too impatient to listen to the bond, he drags the nearest bookcase free from the wall. Books tumble to the floor, paper flying up around him. Nothing. The next one yields nothing, too. And the next. He rips tapestries from stone, drags up the carpet, his primus going wild.

Where is he?

The building agony sobers him. He’s going about this wrong. Breathing deeply, Mezor lets himself feel the pain—lets it sharpen, a dagger sliding between his ribs. It’s nothing to him, but to Cyrus it must be agony.

This way, the bond whispers. It’s still new and weak, hard to pin down. He follows the call to a plain, unassuming room. At the back of the room he stops in front of a massive floor-to-ceiling tapestry.

Here .

Mezor tears the tapestry aside.

The sight of Cyrus makes his breath hang in his throat. This is the place he’s carved out, away from the cruelty of the Court. The type of place a vergis thinks of as safe—or at least, safe enough. Curled into the tiny, dark crook where the wall has crumbled away, he’s deeply asleep.

No. Not asleep.

Mezor crouches. Cyrus stirs weakly. His face is pale and damp with sweat. Claw marks mar the collar of his shirt where he’s torn at his clothes. Mezor touches his forehead and his eyes snap open, glazed and feverish.

“You,” he croaks, showing his fangs. “Get away.”

Spitfire, indeed.

“Shh.” Mezor slides a hand under his head and grips the back of his neck. Cyrus whines, and his eyes flutter closed. Relief washes over him on the other end of the bond. “I’ve done wrong by you, bright flame. Hush now.”

He lifts Cyrus out of his nest.

Cyrus begins to struggle again. “No! Papers—my papers. Need them.”

Mezor growls. The little demon is so unimaginably stubborn. He’s loathe to set Cyrus down, but the space is too tiny for him to reach inside easily. He cradles Cyrus awkwardly with one arm and fishes around in the hole until his fingers find a further crack in the wall. He draws out the crumpled papers and Cyrus grabs them.

“F’r you,” he mumbles, flattening them to Mezor’s chest.

What?

“Take them,” Cyrus insists.

“Fine.” Mezor shoves the papers into his shirt, and Cyrus seems satisfied. The bond floods with fresh warmth, so bright it makes him reel. He shudders. Stop that. But Cyrus can’t read his mind, of course.

Not yet.

He casts a last look over the nest—such a tiny measure of peace Cyrus clawed back from the Court. Its familiar scent would be a comfort to Cyrus, but he can’t bring himself to take any of the tattered rags with him. They make him angry.

No, Cyrus will recover from the bond-sickness in Mezor’s bed, surrounded by soft furs and blankets soaked in Mezor’s scent. It will have to be enough.

What comes after…he’ll figure it out once Cyrus is stable.