Page 44

MEZOR

The fastest way to the King’s hideout is straight across the pit. Mezor is selfish. He takes Cyrus the long way—through the wilds.

He feels like a fool for bringing Cyrus straight into the King’s den. With the world seeds planted, Branok is in a tenuous place—he holds all the cards, but he has the most to lose. To him, Mezor’s bond will be nothing but a liability. Yet Mezor can’t hide Cyrus away from the King out of fear.

Cyrus deserves every reward for his service. Ensuring he gets it will be Mezor’s last act.

“You know a lot about the King,” Cyrus says on the second day of travel.

“Branok doesn’t confide in anyone,” Mezor replies. “I only know what I’ve gleaned, and after a hundred years, that’s not much. But some things are better left a mystery.”

He doesn’t much like Branok. Cruel in his utter lack of conscience, capricious, single-minded. Yet there’s something about him—some deep, un-healing wound—that makes it hard to turn away from him. There’s a reason the demons call him the Hollow King, and it’s not only because of his mastery over the hollows themselves. He is hollow. Lurking in his soul is a long-burning fire that hurts to look at.

“He’s a primus.” Cyrus’s tone is bitter. “But he isn’t a protector. He uses people. It’s every demon’s dream to be as brutal and cruel as him.”

“Not every demon,” Mezor points out.

“No. You’re right.” Cyrus grimaces. “Some are just living. Like Claudius.”

Not what I meant. “Claudius is the one who forced you into the challenge.” He fights to keep the growl from his voice, but from Cyrus’s look he doesn’t succeed.

“The Grey Company did that together.” Cyrus scowls. “They’re so thick-headed. They could have executed Magnus in a heartbeat, damn the Court’s law. He wouldn’t hesitate to do the same.”

Above them the rok screeches. He swoops low, his claws skimming the air above Mezor’s horns, and the wind of his passage stirs Mezor’s hair. He looks up. Ekko banks between the trees skilfully and takes to the air currents, then makes a winding circle back.

The rok could easily fly free. But as Mezor said, not all demons are brutal and cruel. The rok is attached to one in particular who has a soft heart.

Mezor is attached.

He can’t fool himself.

Ekko lets out a second cry and launches himself from the sky. He plummets.

“He’s hunting.” Mezor swings the bow down from his back. “Let’s see what he’s found.”

Ekko rises again, his broad wings flaring, then shoots downward.

“What’s he doing?” Cyrus wonders.

“His prey is putting up a fight.”

Cyrus is alarmed. “We have to go faster!”

Mezor shakes his head. “Slow and quiet. We can’t risk chasing it away.”

“Whatever it is might injure him,” Cyrus protests.

“He’s a rok.” Mezor smirks. “It’ll be no match for him. Or it’ll fight hard enough to annoy him into giving up. No need to fear for his safety—outside the Court, a rok is king of the skies.”

Cyrus’s brow furrows, but he follows suit as Mezor slows his pace. Branches snap ahead and shadows move through the trees. The fight is silent, neither creature interested in drawing the attention of others. The predator because he doesn’t want to share his meal. The prey because it has a better chance of staying alive.

Unfortunately for Ekko’s prey, there’s an arrow with its name on it in Mezor’s quiver. In spite of what he’s told Cyrus, he has some doubts about the rok’s hunting abilities after years in a cage. He has no intention of letting him lose the kill.

When they’re close, Mezor crouches behind a fallen tree and gestures for Cyrus to do the same. He stalks low, closing in on the two figures as they roll between the trees on the forest floor. Ekko detaches from his prey and launches himself into the air, the trees too close for him to spread his wings gracefully. He takes flight a short distance aways and lands with a baleful glare. Opposite, his prey staggers to its feet.

It’s an izil, pale as the dawn and wild-eyed. Ekko has already injured it—its back foot is at an awkward angle and there are wounds across its chest. But an izil’s defensive kick can be painful for an enemy. Ekko only looks ruffled—and frustrated—but his feathers might hide wounds.

Worse than any wound, a black stain crawls up the izil’s back leg. Corruption. A slow, painful death awaits it regardless.

“What is it?” Cyrus whispers.

“An izil. They used to run in herds through the forest. An ambitious hunt.”

The two beasts face down through the trees, frozen. Whoever moves first has the disadvantage.

Mezor half rises from his crouch and draws an arrow from his quiver.

“You’re going to kill it?” Cyrus murmurs with surprise.

“Look at its leg. It would be a mercy.”

The izil seems to make a decision, gathering its legs underneath it, body tensing. It bolts. Ekko leaps into the air faster than should be possible for a creature of his size. But the gaps between trees are too narrow for his wingspan, and he hasn’t yet learned how to flush out prey to open ground. He slows with great sweeps of his wings, letting out a frustrated cry.

Mezor draws, eye on the injured animal. In his periphery, Cyrus turns away. He looses the arrow. The izil stumbles and collapses. Ekko dives through the trees and lands next to his prey, digging in quickly.

A flash of blood-stench-pain comes through the bond—Cyrus’s emotion.

“Wait for me,” he tells his mate.

Cyrus nods tightly. But the feelings don’t fade as Mezor crosses the distance to the fallen izil—they build to a crescendo as he draws farther. A phantom flash of fingers at his neck distracts Mezor, and with a sick feeling he realizes the death has Cyrus reliving his challenge.

Ekko glares with his black eye as Mezor approaches. The rok’s ego is surely bruised—and he must worry that Mezor is here to take his kill away. Mezor holds his hands up.

“I need to retrieve my arrow.”

Ekko stops eating as he approaches and watches him warily. His beak and claws are stained reddish brown. In spite of his glare, a gleam of satisfaction also lights his eye. He allows Mezor to draw near. A rok doesn’t share his prey—but Mezor’s link to Cyrus must put him in a special category in Ekko’s mind. One he won’t take for granted.

Mezor kneels next to the izil and pulls his arrow from its breast, wiping off the tip. Around the izil’s fallen body glow patches of moss, their questing tendrils stretching toward the creature.

He prods the moss gently. The tendrils realign toward him, only to dismiss him when it becomes evident he’s alive. They’re decomposers, taking nutrients from carcasses and returning them to the earth. It’s been a long time since he’s seen them.

When he returns to Cyrus’s side, Cyrus is visibly relieved.

“Come here.” He sits on a fallen log and gestures Cyrus closer.

Cyrus steps between his legs, claws pricking Mezor’s thigh. He looks exhausted again, his eyes without their usual lustre, his shoulders drawn in. When Mezor cups his lower back gently he slumps with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Cyrus murmurs. “I know you’re the Hunter. It’s part of your life—and Ekko’s. But I can’t handle it.”

Mezor reaches into the hidden pouch inside his quiver where dried berries from the grotto are stored.

“Eat.” He lifts one to Cyrus’s lips.

Cyrus lets Mezor feed him. He chews slowly, and through the bond the flavour bursts over Mezor’s tongue at the same time as Cyrus tastes it.

Mezor’s chest tightens. There’s no experience to liken to a mating bond. Even before the cataclysm—when he was among his brothers, full of purpose and surrounded by the beauty of Hell—his happiness was fundamentally different from what he feels in this moment, with Cyrus in his arms.

He picks up another berry.

“You like this.” Cyrus’s eyes curve with amusement.

“I like servicing your needs,” he replies with honesty.

Cyrus shuts his eyes, a flicker of pain crossing his face. “I wish I could do the same.”

Mezor takes a deep, steadying breath. “You do. My needs are fulfilled, Cyrus.”

Cyrus gives him a sad smile and climbs into his lap. “Can we rest here? Just for a bit?”

He tightens his grip on his mate. “Of course.”