Page 24 of Hell’s Secret Omega (The Court of the Hollow King #2)
CYRUS
Being away from Mezor aches worse than heat. But they have no choice. Cyrus returns to Court, and Mezor to his duties, with an agreement to meet as often as possible whenever Mezor is not beyond the gate.
The first time Mezor shows him how to travel in and out of the grotto, Cyrus is incensed.
“You did trick me. I’ve been here!”
They’ve emerged into a hall Cyrus is familiar with—one of many smaller tributaries off the Obsidian Wing. Another demon might have overlooked such a hall when searching, but Cyrus has walked past this exact spot at least three times. Except clever shadows make it look like a blank wall from the outside, hiding the opening.
Mezor waves a hand to dissipate the shadows. “It was a necessary cruelty.”
At least he sounds contrite.
“How many have won your lover’s challenge ?” Cyrus demands.
“None.” Mezor arches a brow. “Save you.”
“But I didn’t win. I passed right by the entrance.”
“You’ve won, bright flame.” The nickname sends shivers up his spine. “Trust me.”
He comes to the grotto late at night to drown in the Hunter’s embrace, not even allowing himself the luxury of sleep. Every gentle touch, every delightful peak, even the moments when his eyes take in lush growth instead of bare stone set a whirlwind spinning in his heart. He longs to believe Mezor and his grotto are real, even if temporary. But history has him waiting for the hammer.
“I won’t always be here,” Mezor warns him. “I will try to make my trips short, of course, to spare you. But the wilds are unpredictable.”
Cyrus shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Your task is important. I’ll live.”
Mezor frowns as if he wants to disagree—but of course he can’t.
He lives, but he suffers. On the days Mezor is away and the pain is at its worst—when he wants nothing more than to crawl into his nest and feel sorry for himself—he instead imagines Hell as it used to be. Then he imagines it burning up. What is it like to lose everything? Kin, home, future. It must be the kind of pain that digs into the soul. That’s what drives Mezor.
It’s during one of these periods that Cyrus finds himself back at the forge.
It’s time . He clutches the ledger papers to his chest. Strangely, he isn’t afraid anymore.
It’s early yet; the bellows clang as the forge starts up, and steam releases out the top of the hammer in irregular shrieks. Near the hammer, a tall, broad-shouldered demon with wickedly curved horns ties a heavy leather apron around his waist. Cyrus heads straight for him, ignoring the shouts as he crosses the floor. He even dusted off his uniform today—he stands out, the Quartermaster’s officious little lieutenant who’s too big for his boots.
It doesn’t matter what they think of him. It only matters that the numbers make their point.
“Claudius?” Cyrus says loudly, pausing safely out of arms’ reach.
“What?” the demon growls, turning on his heel. Black callouses stain his palms and old burn scars run up his forearms. His forehead creases when he sees Cyrus. “You! I’ve told you, I’ll report the repairs to the Quartermaster when they’re done?—”
“I’m not here about that,” Cyrus interrupts. He presses on quickly before the inevitable hand comes out to cuff him. “I’ve heard you’re with the Grey Company.”
Claudius’s expression turns furious. He reaches for the knife at his belt. “Who told you that?”
“No one told me. The walls whisper.”
“Did Leuther send you?”
“I’m not here on anyone’s behalf.” He shakes out the sheaf of papers. “I’m an excellent account keeper, sir. The Quartermaster couldn’t ask for better. But if he were to start keeping his own accounts, he might notice something odd about the numbers.”
Claudius snatches the papers. As he reads them, his face darkens with alarm. Cyrus has calculated the discrepancies between what the stores should be and what they were when he counted them. In truth, on his own Magnus might never realize the Grey Company is stealing. Cyrus has been making the ledger for so long because the Quartermaster isn’t as clever as he pretends, another thing Magnus hates him for. But the Grey Company don’t know that.
Claudius looks around the floor. The forge room is far from empty. “I’ll send someone with the latest batch of repairs to the storeroom later today,” he says loudly.
He turns to the forge and tosses the papers into the flame. Cyrus has made duplicates and triplicates by the light of Mezor’s garden, paranoid about discovery. He suppresses the twinge as these copies are rendered into ash.
“I’ll be waiting.” Cyrus turns on his heel.
“You’re playing with fire,” says Claudius. “Best be sure you know what you want.”
Oh, I do.
Cyrus tamps down on his triumph until he’s back in the storeroom, then he allows himself a brief smirk and a flourish as he takes out the ledger book. When the ambassador of the Grey Company arrives, he’s ready.
Sabinus is a soldier, and not what he expected. The late General Talos’s insignia is emblazoned proudly on his chest, a dangerous symbol of sedition these days. He’s tall and narrow, not captain material but confident nonetheless. He strides into Cyrus’s domain with a swagger and shuts the door behind himself. Cyrus’s hackles rise immediately.
“Lieutenant Cyrianus?” He looks Cyrus up and down. “Ought to be a Flavius , if you ask me. Claudius told me to figure out what you want.”
“I want to contribute to the cause.” Cyrus sets his ledger down to keep from clutching it to his chest. “I’ve heard the Grey Company have plans to leave. I’m sick of working for the Quartermaster. I want out.”
“What does someone like you have to offer us?” Sabinus looks down his long nose. “We don’t need cannon fodder.”
“You’ve been stealing supplies. I have evidence. A simple re-tally would make it obvious to General Leuther.”
Sabinus sneers, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty is in his eyes. “Or I could cut you from ear to ear and let your ichor drown you. No re-tally. No problems for us.”
Cyrus shrugs. “If I die, Magnus will just have someone else do the next count. The difference between my numbers and his would be eye-opening, I’m sure.”
Sabinus’s expression turns sour. “No wonder they call you a rat.”
“So?” Cyrus presses, ignoring the insult.
“What’s in it for us?”
“I keep fudging the numbers. The Grey Company funnels more supplies away, except now I’ll tell you when no one’s going to be around—and I’ll cover for your asses.”
“What’s in it for you ?” Sabinus demands.
“I want out of the Court. Aren’t you crossing the bridge? I hate the it here. General Leuther might be expanding into Hell, but that’s the last place I want to be. I’m sick of living under the Quartermaster’s claw.”
A sliver of something that could, perhaps, be called sympathy crosses Sabinus’s face. It’s quickly smoothed away.
“Humans are weak. Better to spread across the human realm and steal their cities than stay here and build castles in the dark.” Sabinus scowls. “The King could’ve conquered all the human lands if he hadn’t cared so much about the one city guarded by angels. But we don’t need to throw ourselves at the Seraphim Wall anymore. The rest of the world could be ours.”
“Exactly,” Cyrus says, feigning eagerness. “That’s what I want.”
Sabinus’s gaze flicks over him dismissively. “Well, you won’t be conquering anything. But you could make yourself useful to someone who will.”
Cyrus bites back a retort. “Am I in or not?” he demands.
Sabinus pauses as if he has to think about it—as if he has a choice. Cyrus has them in a corner. General Leuther lets them wear Talos’s insignia because he needs Talos’s skilled patrol to help with the hunt. At the first whiff of their theft, he wouldn’t hesitate to sniff out all the traitors and slaughter them.
“Very well,” Sabinus says. “Give me the real tallies within a week’s time. I want to see how much we can draw off.”
One gamepiece in place , Cyrus tells himself when he closes the door behind the other demon.
He doesn’t let himself feel relief until he’s climbing down to Ekko’s cage, a peace offering of dried meat tucked into his coat.
“Soon,” he whispers as Ekko looks him over with his golden eye. He takes the meat from Cyrus and swallows it with a flick of his head. His cry rings loud against the walls of the hole. Crah!
Soon .