Page 46

MEZOR

Inside the hideout torches are lit, a sign the King already knows of their arrival. The sound of dripping water tickles his ears. Cyrus radiates tension beside him. He’s put several paces between them, but it won’t fool the King one iota. He’ll know they’re mated instantly.

Mezor leads Cyrus to the inner chamber, empty still. Anticipation licks up his spine.

In the middle of the room is a table, and on it a map. The board is laid with pieces. From each piece emerges a glowing line, all converging on the bowl in the centre of the map that represents Mount Hythe. Black water fills the bowl, gleaming like a mirror. As he crosses the room, a drop lands on the glassy surface and spatters excess over the map.

He sets his bow and quiver on the table. Then he picks up the last piece and places it on the map.

The surface of the water shivers.

“At last.”

Cyrus jumps. The King steps out of the shadows, long red cape covering him from the neck down. He looks unwell, cheeks sunken and long hair unkempt. His scent is powerfully abrasive even to Mezor’s nose. He’s changed in other ways, too. He’s taller, with dark veins spiderwebbing across his face. Black horns sprout from his crown, making a thorny circle.

Mezor bows, uneasy. “It’s done.”

The King dips one clawed finger into the bowl of water and brings it to his lips. Stomach turning, Mezor realizes what it is.

The King lifts the bowl to his mouth. He tips it back and his throat works as he swallows the contents.

“That’s water from the Hellspring,” Cyrus hisses, grabbing Mezor’s elbow.

The bowl clatters to the table and the King doubles over with a grunt. He coughs deeply, a hand over his mouth, and for a moment it looks like he might collapse. When he straightens, black ichor stains his lips. He chuckles wetly.

“I taste the power. It’s almost ready.” He pushes the bowl back to the middle of the table clumsily. Another drop falls from the ceiling and spatters in its hollow. His black eyes gleam. “You brought a tagalong.”

Cyrus steps out from behind him. “I came to make sure you keep your promise to him.”

“Ahah.” The King’s brow comes down sharply. “You’ve mated. I smell it. Couldn’t hold back, could you, Mezor? I expected you, of all people, to exercise restraint.”

“Our bond isn’t your concern,” Cyrus says, his voice rising.

Selfishly, Mezor wishes he would stay his courage for a beat. “The bond will break when Cyrus enters the Hellspring.”

“No, it won’t,” Cyrus says loudly.

Mezor turns back, surprised.

The King laughs. “Priceless! He doesn’t know.”

“Know what…?” Mezor feels control of the situation slipping away.

“Your power— all your power—was part of the deal,” the King says sharply, ignoring his question. “Now you’ve diluted it. I can see pieces of it inside him.”

His gaze flickers over Cyrus coldly, and Mezor’s heart turns to stone. He steps in front of Cyrus.

“I won’t let you touch him. Let him go to the Hellspring—his duty is done.”

“You’re already under his thrall.” Branok’s lip twitches into a sneer. “Tell your mate the truth, my little spy.”

“I’m not afraid of the truth,” Cyrus says, but through the bond Mezor senses fear.

“You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“Tell him!” Branok roars, suddenly seeming bigger, shadows swirling at his feet. Hollows . An icy chill rises.

Mezor looks between his vergis and the King. Cyrus bares his teeth.

“I can’t enter the Hellspring now that he’s poisoned it. That’s how General Leuther died.”

The King shakes with laughter. “Good riddance to that traitor!”

“He lied to me,” Cyrus hisses, gaze flickering between Mezor and the King. “It’s been poisoned since before the coup.”

The words cut the ground out from under him. Ice shards enter his veins. Cyrus will remain a vergis.

Alone.

A vergis without his mate.

The King’s laughter dies as Mezor’s primus rises in his blood and his scent swells to fill the suffocating room. Their eyes meet. All the hairs on Mezor’s arms rise. For a moment, he wonders what it would be like to dig his claws into that face.

He could kill Branok so easily.

The King looks away. The moment is broken. “Hah. I won’t touch him. How much power can a little vergis steal, anyway?”

Mezor tenses. “Wait?—”

He hardly registers the King’s red hand moving until Branok’s claws sink into his muscle. Fire erupts across his chest and he chokes on his words. Over the roar of blood to his ears Cyrus is shouting. The bond flares bright with fear.

“Stop—” Mezor grunts, gripping the King’s wrist. Not in front of him. Not yet. But his strength is already draining away, and he can only stagger backward as the King drives him into the wall.

The King’s hand begins to glow blood-bright.

“No!” Cyrus howls.

Hollows wink into existence around them and the temperature plummets.

“Stay back,” Mezor gasps.

“Don’t worry, little vergis. Your mate will not suffer when I take over his body.” Branok’s fangs flash red in the light. “You see, what no one understands is that corruption is power. With great sacrifice it can be harnessed. And Mezor knows sacrifice.” His claws jerk sickeningly inside Mezor’s body, drawing out his power, his very soul. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t…let him watch,” Mezor chokes. Fog curls at the edges of his mind.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen,” Cyrus cries.

The King’s laughter echoes around the chamber. Before Mezor’s eyes he seems to grow, while Mezor finds himself shrinking, slumping over the hand embedded in his chest.

“Is that what he told you to get you on his knot? Did you think you could change his destiny? Pathetic!”

“Let him go!” Cyrus snatches up Mezor’s bow and quiver. “You’re the one who’s pathetic. You may be a primus, but it’s no wonder you don’t have a mate!”

“Watch your step, Lieutenant.” The King pulls his claws out of Mezor with a jerk, and Mezor sinks into the wall.

Cyrus nocks an arrow, a fierce look on his narrow face. Mezor wills him to stand down. Pure terror flows through the bond—his or Cyrus’s, he can’t tell. But their connection is fading quickly as his soul weakens. His mate becomes a silver streak against the shadows.

But he doesn’t lift the bow.

Mezor grabs the train of the King’s cape with his failing strength.

“Don’t…harm him,” he rasps.

“You’re empty inside,” Cyrus accuses. “You lie and cheat and steal, feasting off other peoples’ dreams and futures like a hollow. You have nothing—that’s why you have to take what’s mine.”

The cape wrenches out of Mezor’s grip.

“Mezor belongs to me,” the King snarls, striding toward Cyrus. “You? You’re a momentary distraction.”

Weak as he is, it’s pure instinct that drives Mezor to his feet. The blow meant for Cyrus rakes across his chest. He grunts at the fresh pain, and Cyrus gasps behind him.

“Leave him be,” he growls at Branok.

“Mezor—”

He turns, pushing the bow down. “Please—go, Cyrus.”

Cyrus’s eyes widen with shock. Mezor shudders as bright hurt reverberates through him.

“Mezor,” he says again, his voice falling to a bare whisper.

His name on Cyrus’s tongue burns. The thrall drags at him.

“ Go ,” he roars. “Before it’s too late.”

The hollows swarm, grabbing at Cyrus with their pale hands and pulling him away. He struggles at first, then with a cry that sounds like a sob he turns away and lets himself be swept into the back room, to the long tunnel that will take him back to the Court.

Branok’s hand lands on his shoulder like a burning brand.

“It’s almost time.”

Mezor’s legs give way and he collapses to his knees, then he’s spinning into unconsciousness.