Page 25

MEZOR

Mezor is addicted. He should find Cyrus’s frequent presence stifling. He’s been alone for so long that someone else in his space, their habits, their moods, should be an irritation. It’s the opposite. Cyrus’s outsized personality brightens Mezor’s home. His nosiness is endearing. He seems fascinated by the grotto, curious about the swooping stone catchements, the lichens, even the tiny fish that live in the creek. He lights up with every new discovery, and Mezor sees his tiny haven with new eyes.

They fuck, because Cyrus is eager and Mezor is insatiable. He shows Cyrus an array of carnal delights. Some he won’t bring up—giving pain, for example, makes his stomach turn. Cyrus bears a broad scar across his chest, evidence of a lifetime’s worth of pain. But there are plenty of pleasurable sensations to rouse in a willing vergis.

Best of all are the moments Cyrus falls silent and crawls into his arms. Then, the bond hums with warmth and life, and Mezor shuts his eyes and imagines impossible futures. Cyrus’s presence seeps into his soul like life-giving water, and the shriveled seed that lies inside drinks it in and unfurls.

It’s in one such moment, while Cyrus is still damp and covered in his own come and his satisfaction buzzes through the bond, that he shifts around and props himself up on Mezor’s chest. Mezor opens his eyes, curious.

“I’ve decided to leave,” Cyrus says.

Mezor blinks, brain churning slowly. Cyrus’s expression is far too focused for someone who just rode himself into howling completion on Mezor’s massive cock.

“Leave?”

“After this. When the bond is broken. When I have my new body.” He frowns. “I hate the Court. I don’t want to run around as Magnus’s lackey, eternally a roach under his boot, which is what will happen if I stay.”

A growl bursts through Mezor before he can hold it back. “You’re so far above that slimy cretin?—”

Cyrus puts a hand to his lips, stopping the words.

“In the Court’s eyes, I’m a lowly insect. But I leave the Hellspring with a captain’s body and Magnus suddenly bows his head to me, it would make me sick. I’d rather take my chance in the human realm.”

“The wastes are dangerous.”

“The Court is dangerous,” Cyrus returns, narrowing his eyes. “You said you’d help me.”

“I will.”

“Then I want to learn your bow.”

Mezor turns his face into Cyrus’s palm, pressing his nose to the scent gland. It’s clear of scent blocker for now, and he breathes deeply of Cyrus’s clean, bright scent until his anger drains away. How he longs to rip the Quartermaster into little shreds and scatter him across the Pit.

“I will teach you. It was part of our agreement.”

Cyrus’s tension melts and his expression turns playful. “You agreed to give it to me, not just teach me how to use it.”

“Maybe I will.” Mezor squeezes him, letting some of his pent up frustration escape. Cyrus squirms.

“I went to the Grey Company.”

“Of course you did.” Mezor sighs. “You live dangerously, bright flame. Come here, I want to make you forget all that.”

Cyrus’s eyes flutter shut as Mezor strokes his spine, letting his claws trail all the way down to the sweet parting of his cheeks.

“Sh-sharp,” Cyrus stutters, twitching.

“Then hold still.”

He puts it out of his mind for a bit. But it’s hard to forget forever. The Court will split and split again without the King at its head to hold it together. There will be danger no matter which faction Cyrus chooses to align with. No matter if he stays in Mount Hythe or leaves for the unknown.

How much of a fool is Mezor for wanting to protect the little demon?

Standing atop an atoll, Mezor’s eye is caught by a bright flash of movement.

The meadow below flooded many years ago and the water mixed the rotten earth into a noxious bog, thick and sticky. A hump of rock watches over the bog—the only remnant of the shepherd god who once cherished and tended this meadow. A ghostly white shape hovers at the edge of the sludge. An izil, trapped in the mud. Its ears lay flat to its skull as it dances with fear, struggling to pull its front legs free. Its normally graceful body jerks and twists.

Mezor tastes its bitter fear on his tongue. Even if he frees the izil, the bog’s corruption will eat away at its blood and kill it soon.

You can’t save them all , he reminds himself.

He can’t turn away, either. As long as he’s a witness, he must act.

The izil fights him. Mezor holds it firm while he digs away at the muck. The creature is heavy with milk—a mother. When he pulls it free, it’s clear the creature has been trapped for a while. Its hooves are already pitted with corrosion. It darts from his grip the instant he lets go, and he watches the white streak disappear into the forest with a heavy heart.

Maybe it has a fawn out there. Maybe they’ll run together for a few more weeks.

When he arrives at the King’s hideout, he takes great pleasure in trailing poisonous bog water all over the pristine marble floors.

“You stink,” Branok growls, eyes flashing with annoyance.

Mezor ignores him. He goes straight to the table and places the new piece on the map—with bitter irony, it’s a piece of izil horn.

“A dozen. Is it enough yet?”

“I told you. We need all of them.”

He slumps into the chair. “Fine.”

Branok doesn’t inquire about his state, terminally incapable of expressing sympathy. He begins to pace, a habit Mezor hates. His bare claws go tic-tic-tic on the stone. “If you could only plant them faster?—”

“I cannot move any faster!” Mezor snarls. “I’ve told you. The gate is old and not meant for hard use. Its powers are already failing. If it stops working altogether, we will both be trapped as we are until I’ve traipsed around the rest of Hell on foot.”

Abandoning Cyrus for weeks at at time. The bond wouldn’t survive, and it’s possible neither would Cyrus. The bond grows stronger, but they need more time. More touch. More…

He sighs into his hands.

The King grunts. Tic-tic-tic . “You’re not letting that little brat distract you, I hope.”

Rage curls in Mezor’s belly. How dare he. “You and I have an agreement. That doesn’t mean I’m at your beck and call, to move around your board like a game piece. Nor is Lieutenant Cyrianus, for that matter.”

The King stops.

“I play the game because no one else dares set the board,” he says coldly. There’s an emptiness in his gaze, the same emptiness that’s unsettled Mezor since the first day. Like there’s something missing from his soul. “You owe me absolute fealty. So does he—just ask him. Or hasn’t he told you how I plucked him out of obscurity?”

Mezor’s hackles go up. So it’s like he thought—the King targeted Cyrus to be his spy on purpose. “I think you did it because you have a weakness for vergis. I watched what you did with that little vergis angel.”

“They make good pets,” the King sneers, but his eyes are shadowed.

Mezor lurches to his feet. Cold fire licks up his spine. “He’s not a pet.”

He’s taller than the King, stronger. A sudden image flashes through his mind: his hand around Branok’s throat, the King at his mercy. I could so easily do it .

The King only smirks as Mezor looms over him.

“Docile. Obedient. Temporary. Isn’t he all those things to you?” His tongue flickers across his lips, red as angel blood. “I smell your anger. But you’ll do nothing, as usual. You wouldn’t dare make a move against me. You need me.”

Mezor sucks back a breath of fury. The King’s eyes gleam. The shadow in them is deep and dangerous.

But he’s right.

“Someday you’ll play this game against the wrong person.”

“Work faster, Mezor. And remember what you’re working for.”

Few people are willing to pay the price Branok pays for his power. The game he plays is twisted and cruel, even to him. Mezor’s choice is between the brutal chaos that’s swallowed his world and the knife-point of an unpredictable madman—he could sweep the board clean and start again, but to what end?

The best he can do is help Cyrus extricate himself from the King’s grip and get him out of the Court. At least he can pass into the dark knowing Cyrus is no longer a pawn.