Page 52

MEZOR

Cyrus is uncertain about leaving. He doesn’t have to say it—every time his eyes go to the sea, a flicker of worry crosses his brow.

He’s healthy and whole, practically radiant now, his dark hair falling in long ripples down his back, his simple woven shirt open at the neck to show a slice of gleaming skin. The proud set of his shoulders makes him seem taller. Though he’s still soft in places Mezor treasures, he’s also grown stronger from the constant labor of carrying and laying rocks for the road. And he walks with confidence—not the spiky, sharp-edged anger he first carried with him, but something easier. It drives Mezor wild that his vergis can stride through Hell’s wilds like he owns them and then turn around and get to his knees so he can beg for Mezor’s cock.

But they’re running out of excuses to stay in Hell. Cyrus’s heat has passed. Sometimes, Mezor sniffs him subtly when he isn’t paying attention to see if his seed has taken root. He isn’t confident it’s even possible, and through unspoken agreement they haven’t yet discussed it. But something about Cyrus seems…ready. Perhaps not this heat, but the next.

Once, what seems like a lifetime ago, he had a vision of pups who grew up amid a twisted and corrupted Hell. That Hell is gone, yet Mezor harbors no lingering desire to bring his dream to life, even in this new, gentler world. They need a new start. Somewhere that holds no cruel memories for either of them.

He and Cyrus walk the road often, acting as protector and guide. The fruits of their labor grow abundant on either side of the path—remnants of the drowned garden he retrieved from the grotto and carefully raised from seed. Their riotous glow can be seen from the mountain.

Less souls are left in the pit now—of the demons who stayed, many found purpose in leading their once-kin through the wilds. Mezor taught them as best he could. At first it felt like the blind leading the blind. But when the first demons reached the shore and he saw the look in their eyes, he knew he’d done the right thing.

Now there are demons walking the road every week, and trickles of souls following behind, all finding their way to the sea.

The sea is what Cyrus worries about.

“I’ve just had enough of water for the time being,” he protests when Mezor raises it again. “A little more time.”

“There are demons who are more than ready to take up the roles of protector and guide,” Mezor points out. “Some glad to stay in Hell for a long time. When they’re ready to leave, who knows—maybe one of my brothers will wake at last.”

“Maybe I’m also eager to stay for a long time,” Cyrus mutters. They’re at the top of the hill overlooking the sea. The dawn light softens the sharp angles of his frown.

“The sea won’t take us. I feel it.” And then, because he sees the flash of fear in Cyrus’s eyes, he gentles his tone. “The sea won’t take me , Cyrus. I’m past that now.”

Cyrus turns to him. For a moment Mezor catches a glimpse of the Cyrus he once knew, lost and vulnerable and hanging onto any certainty he could find.

“You still carry that Mezor inside you.”

Mezor pulls him in, his heart aching. “I always will. And you still carry that Cyrus. Come now. Let’s step into the unknown and show those two what their future can be.”

Cyrus takes a deep breath. “Okay. But we’ll need to put a roost for Ekko in the boat.”

Mezor grins, his eyes going to the sky, where a the flicker of shadow flies in endless circles, waiting, as always, for them to realize what he’s always known. That a new beginning is on the horizon.

A shudder rocks the boat. Mezor comes awake in an instant, leaping to his feet before he remembers the cabin is only tall enough to accommodate Cyrus, not him. With a groan, he rubs his head and staggers above deck—right into the middle of a storm. The boat creaks warningly as it stumbles over the waves. Ekko is nowhere to be seen. All else being fair, he’s probably made land by now.

When Mezor went to sleep, they were drifting on the calm outward tide of Hell’s black sea.

Now he tastes salt in the air.

Earth.

It’s dark, but not a kind dark—rather a looming, unhappy charcoal. Spray bursts from the boat’s bow. A moment later they crest over a wave the size of a rolling hill. Mezor barely has the presence of mind to grab hold of something before they’re tumbling, crashing into the trough nose first.

“What’s happening?” Cyrus cries behind him, and Mezor whips around.

“Get below,” he yells over the noise of the storm, suddenly terrified Cyrus will pitch overboard.

Cyrus’s eyes flash. “You too!”

He’s about to protest when a different type of water smacks him on the forearm. A moment later, the sky unleashes a torrent on them.

He and Cyrus stumble into the shelter. It’s not much comfort with the storm raging and the boat heaving under them. He ties a wet rope around Cyrus’s waist, his fingers fumbling in the icy cold, and ties the other end around himself. He might be a god, but he’s never felt so mortal. The planks under their feet groan in despair.

Another wave takes them soaring into the air, and Cyrus grabs his arm as the deck bucks beneath them.

“Will we make it to land? Is there land?”

“We’ll make it,” Mezor growls. He lashes the rope to the bench so that if the worst happens, they won’t be lost to the waves.

A massive crack sounds above them. The door of the hatch tears away, snatched by the wind. Down they go again, slamming into the ocean with a thunderous shudder. Water is everywhere—it’s impossible to tell if they’re leaking, or if it’s just waves and rain. Mezor has a feeling the boat won’t survive the next wave.

“Hang on,” he tells Cyrus as they go up again.

The sea pitches them forward. Instead of breaking in two, the boat tumbles, and they go tumbling with it. Mezor grabs for Cyrus as they land upside down in the tiny shelter, on the underside of the roof. The wood cracks under the force. Water rushes up to meet them.

“Hold your breath!”

Under the water is silence. Disoriented, Mezor kicks free of the ruins of the boat and swims for the surface. A shadowy figure slices through the water and surfaces at the same time. Cyrus gasps for air and swims back to the wreckage, grabbing on. Mezor follows, looping one arm around Cyrus’s waist and the other over the hull.

“Hold onto the boat,” he shouts. “It’s going to be a long trip.”

It is—long, brutal, and possibly the worst battering Mezor has ever endured. Cyrus never lets go of their capsized vessel, filling his heart with pride. Together they ride the storm out.

At last the waves seem to shrink to gentler swells and the howling winds subside. Mezor heaves Cyrus up onto the exposed hull, letting him rest. The downpour lifts and the clouds lighten. He breathes a sigh of relief

Cyrus sinks back into the temporary raft.

“Look,” he murmurs, pointing to the sky.

High above, a rok flies. And on the near horizon Mezor sees land.

He kicks them toward the distant land as Ekko drifts closer. The rok circles forward and back, seeming to urge them on. Soon Mezor can make out sun-bleached cliffs and a faint, hazy green. Then a broad, sandy shore. Finally, he sees pale grasses sweeping across the tops of the dunes. When they’re within reach, Cyrus cuts himself free of the rope and dives into the water.

The clouds part. Earth’s sky is blue, brighter than the brightest flower in Hell. He squints against the light, watching Cyrus disappear and reappear as he dives and surfaces. Eventually he stops, his chest rising out of the water.

“It’s shallow,” he says in wonder. He reaches into the water and brings up a handful of coarse sand. “There are things in this sand. Little creatures.”

The delight on his face is addictive. Mezor wants to see it forever. He snaps the rope tying him to the wreck and dives under, surfacing in water that barely comes to his chest. He strides toward Cyrus and picks him up, tossing him over his shoulder. Cyrus yelps and laughs.

“Where are we?”

“I don’t care.” Mezor carries him out of the water and up the shore. “I don’t care at all. We’re together, so we’re home.”

The story isn’t over.

“I don’t know how you’re doing it,” he growls in Nur’s ear. “But I want you. And I’m sick of letting you be in charge of this agreement.”

Nur shudders. He peels Arsene’s hand away from his mouth. “So you think you should be in charge?”

“I am in charge.”

Nur bares his teeth. “Prove it.”