Page 34 of Hell’s Secret Omega (The Court of the Hollow King #2)

MEZOR

Mezor returns to find the grotto empty and a niad pinned to his table.

They’ve taken Cyrus . Fury rips through him.

But the niad is pinned with one of Cyrus’s practice arrows, and taking stock, he finds Cyrus’s clothes missing. His anger is smothered by cold reality. He takes a deep breath. Cyrus left of his own volition. But why?

Checking over the grotto, the reason is soon clear: the niad’s sticky, gleaming trail leads across the grotto’s roof and up the stairs, back to the Court. His clever vergis followed the creature’s path to find its origin, though it’s likely he doesn’t know its nature.

But he’s not back yet…

He calms himself. The trail still shines, meaning the niad hasn’t been dead for longer than a few hours. Cyrus has taken care of himself through years of the Court’s thorny dangers. Plus, the bond is quiet, save for the low-level itch of Cyrus’s bond-sickness. That doesn’t mean he’s out of danger. But Mezor needs to trust him.

He takes care of the sticky trail of slime, putting the torch to it and watching the flame crawl high across the roof of the cave and out the exit. Whoever sent it will expect it to return with valuable information. Though this one has been silenced, others will soon follow its tracks.

If Leuther has uncovered a nest of niads, it’s only a matter of time before the grotto is compromised.

The bond remains uncommunicative. He may need to enter the Court when night falls. Wrapped in shadows, he’d be invisible. It’s been three days since they last touched—the bond sickness will soon become urgent for Cyrus. But if they somehow miss crossing paths out there, Cyrus’s suffering will be painfully prolonged.

He must wait.

He doesn’t have to wait much longer. The grotto announces Cyrus’s return with a welcoming flare of light all throughout. Mezor’s own markings brighten in answer. He stands from the table where he’s been pretending to whittle more arrows, relief sweeping through him when he opens the door. Cyrus hurries across the grotto and slams into him, latching on.

“You’re late,” he says, muffled.

Mezor squeezes him. “You’re covered in ash.”

He strokes Cyrus’s hair, letting his thumb brush the base of one dusty horn. Cyrus shivers and rubs his face on Mezor’s chest, leaving ash there too. “I’ve been out. I took precautions to disguise myself.”

“Cyrus…” He puts the little demon at arm’s length. His heart twists. “The grotto has been compromised. We can’t stay here any longer.”

Cyrus searches his eyes. “What? But it’s your home.”

“Do you know what a niad is?”

Cyrus shakes his head.

“It’s the creature you killed. It’s a spy, not a very effective one, but dangerous nonetheless. A niad lays a hundred eggs, and its young can be trained from hatching to seek out a particular scent. They will search far and wide, and if they find it, they return to their place of origin and describe their path to their nest-mates.”

“So anyone can follow their path.” Understanding dawns on Cyrus’s face.

“They were used by angels to assassinate traitors before the cataclysm. General Leuther must have stumbled on an old clutch preserved in oil.”

Cyrus shudders. “It was horrible. I didn’t kill it—it fell into the pond and drowned. Then everything went dark.”

“It’s a foul creature. Bred to be that way through no fault of its own.” Mezor sighs. “One niad means there are many.”

“Claudius—of the Grey Company—told me Leuther is searching for the King.”

“You saw him.” Mezor suppresses a flash of possessiveness. He doesn’t trust the Grey Company one bit. But Cyrus does.

“He gave me news.”

Mezor frowns. From the view of a twisted mind, it has its own logic. “Leuther wants to challenge him, most likely. And kill him. Otherwise he’ll never have credibility among his own allies.”

“He wouldn’t stand a chance,” Cyrus snorts. He turns to the creek, stripping off his dusty clothes as he goes. “The Grey Company is still around, though. So those little spy insects aren’t that clever. They’ll leave after Leuther’s coronation, when he’s moving everyone from the Court to his new tower. I have to return before then.”

He dives into the water without a second look. Mezor grits his teeth. He wants to tell Cyrus it’s too dangerous—more than one high-ranked official still wants to make an example of him. But he’s not Cyrus’s jailor.

He sits cross-legged in the moss, watching Cyrus swim. It makes him proud to see the play of light across his new muscles through the water. Cyrus surfaces with a gasp only to plunge into the chilly water again, his pleasure singing through the bond. It unfurls a bright tendril in his heart. Deep down he knows their time together is coming to an end.

“You’re always watching me.” Cyrus hangs his elbows on the shore some ways down. The current is light and playful around his pebbled nipples. “Even before, I felt your eyes on me. I used to hate it. Why would a such a powerful being—a god— like you have any reason to watch me?”

The confession that Cyrus noticed makes his blood rise thick and hot. “And now?”

Cyrus swipes the wet hair off his face. His eyes gleam. “Now I know why you did it, of course.”

He swims away without saying anything more, his silvery flank flashing to the surface as he dives?. The moss glimmers bright on the bank wherever he splashes, tracing the path of Mezor’s longing.

“One more night,” Cyrus says breathily, later, thighs loose against Mezor’s cheeks. He slumps, his soft sac pressing cutely against Mezor’s half-open mouth, heedless of his fangs. The delicious perfume of his slick fills Mezor’s nose.

Mezor wades through the haze of sex to capture his words. “One more night,” he repeats dumbly.

“Please.” Cyrus shivers as Mezor swipes his tongue across the tempting package right above his mouth.

He squirms away, turning to ease himself down Mezor’s body. Every brush of his skin makes Mezor’s cock pump with a need to bury itself in his vergis. Make him mine. Claim his clever mind, his mischievous tongue, his pride, his heart. His pseudo- knot throbs, threatening to burst into a full knot. It’s harder and harder to hold back. Mezor tries to collect himself.

It’s impossible to know how long the niads have been searching. What he didn’t tell Cyrus is that if Leuther is smart, he will have trained them on things stolen from Cyrus’s ruined nest. Magnus’s lieutenant, spy for the Grey Company, appointed by the King—Leuther will have put the pieces together and realized Cyrus must be under the King’s domain. Now he hopes Cyrus will lead him to the King.

The grotto is where Cyrus feels safe now. Mezor told him he’d be safe here and he believed it. But its sanctuary was always an illusion, and now he must break it, before it’s too late.

Before Cyrus’s mouth closes around his throbbing tip, he winds his claws into the little demon’s hair and tugs his head back to lift his eyes.

“One night. Then we go to the wilds. From there, to the King.”

Cyrus swallows him down without another word, eyes drifting shut as his throat slowly works to accommodate Mezor’s girth. His claws prick Mezor’s hips in gentle rebuke, the two delicious sensations turning his primus brain to other things against his will. He shudders, stroking Cyrus’s cheek.

“My bright flame. So brave. So hungry for my seed.”

Cyrus moans, and Mezor bursts with pleasure, coming down his throat and across his upturned face with an ecstatic sigh. The bond thrums.

Cyrus falls asleep in the cradle of Mezor’s bicep, his face troubled. Dreams filter through the bond in faint flickers of emotion. He longs to know what future Cyrus sees when he sleeps, but he’s afraid to ask. Their time is limited. His time is limited. It is the contract he agreed to, the price for saving his home. But it makes every moment and every touch, every gasp he can pull from Cyrus, every shy smile, every laugh, that much more precious.

He drifts into a meditative state and their heartbeats sync as one. Thoughts turn to susurrations, then to silence.

The clatter of rock pulls him back to himself. He jerks, heart suddenly pounding. Did I…sleep?

A burst of fresh sound erupts over the cottage. Something hits the roof. Cyrus stirs awake and is upright in a second.

“Demons?” he says hoarsely.

Mezor frowns. Light stirs across his chest, the markings betraying his emotions as always. “Get your clothes.”

He exits the nest first. Cyrus scrambles behind him, pulling on his filthy coat and pants. There’s fear in his eyes. Mezor grabs the bow from the table as more thumps come from above. There’s a crack and thatch showers down on them. Then resounding thunder. A great serpent slams through the roof of the cottage, sending wood flying. Its body whips back and forth in confusion, so huge it seems to fill the whole space.

Cyrus stumbles out of the bedroom, his face ashen. The serpent’s tail slams into the wall and more rubble tumbles from the rafters.

“Get outside!” Mezor barks.

They duck under the collapsing lintel. Outside in the grotto there’s chaos. Serpents writhe across the walls, sending stones tumbling—he counts half a dozen, each with a body nearly half as long as the grotto itself. Chains trail from their legs, rattling over the rock. Enraged and confused, they’re wreaking havoc.

“It’s Magnus!” Cyrus cries. “They’re his beasts.”

Shit . On the other side of the grotto, water pours from deep cracks in the rock. That’s not normal. Damage from serpents is one thing, but there shouldn’t be water behind that wall…unless something’s happened in the tunnels above.

Cyrus yelps as a serpent tail flies over their heads, barely missing them. “They’re starving—they’ll eat through this whole place. What do we do?”

The serpents are already biting the rock, shaking loose more stones—some as big as boulders. Mezor swings his bow off his back.

“Go back to the Court and hide. Get somewhere safe. I’ll find you.”

“I won’t leave you,” Cyrus protests.

Another thunderous crack interrupts him. Mezor turns to see the cottage crumble. The serpent twists in the wreckage, trying to devour the rubble even as the walls collapse in on it. A wild, bitten-off cry bursts out of Cyrus, sending a dagger through Mezor’s heart.

His nest.

The serpent’s head turns, one eye catching on them. Mezor pulls Cyrus in tight and gathers the shadows to him, briefly wreathing them in darkness. “Straight ahead,” he murmurs in Cyrus’s ear. “That’s the exit. Go!”

“Find me,” Cyrus hisses, gripping him briefly, nothing but a blur of silver and black. Then he’s gone.

Mezor levels his bow at the serpent as it rears up to strike at him. The arrow flies true. The beast falls to the ground with an earth-shaking thump, white fletching sticking up from its blank eye. He reaches for another arrow.

A deep, dangerous rumble fills the air. A boom echoes across the grotto, loud enough to shake him, and dust and rubble burst from the wall. Mezor ducks, shielding his face from the shrapnel. The serpents shriek, panicked. The rumble rises to a roar. Water snatches at his feet suddenly, then his ankles. The booming stops. Mezor drops his arms and tries to see through the dust.

A river shoots from the mangled wall, rapidly swallowing everything in its path until water covers the ground inches deep. It tears the moss from the rock and lifts the broken beams of his cottage on its back. His heart sinks. He slots the arrow back into his quiver.

There’s nothing left to save.

Serpents crawl up the walls to get away from the flood. They’re addled, scales smeared with brown and black and their mouths dark with sickness. They leave streaks of blood as they chew at the rocks, trying to tunnel away. If they’re Magnus’s beasts, like Cyrus said, he can’t imagine what horrors they’ve experienced.

He wades through the rising water toward the gate.

“Come get me,” he roars, letting his voice ring over the howl of the flood. The water is already to his thighs.

With a series of rattling hisses the serpents launch themselves off the wall. They recognize who he is, even maddened by torture and starvation.

He breathes deeply as waves crash into his stomach, then his chest. With powerful strokes, he swims against the inertia of the flood. Serpents suddenly surround him in the water—six sets of flashing teeth. He swipes at the closest in warning, letting his claws speak for themselves, and it wheels away with a silent snarl. Ahead, the gate gleams golden in the murky water.

Mezor dives. The water rises above his head. Pressure squeezes him the deeper he goes. White flashes in the corner of his vision. He kicks toward the cave floor and grabs the plinth to keep himself from being carried away in the current, waiting for them to surround him, circling the gate in pale, giant ribbons.

He grabs the golden sphere and everything spins into white flame.