Page 7

MEZOR

Mezor returns from his third trip through the gate scattered and loose, like he’s not been put back together properly.

The gate is failing faster. He needs to let it rest or he’ll regret pushing so hard. He’s waited for so long, playing out his contract with Branok while Hell turned to dust around him, surely a little longer won’t kill him. Still, the thought makes him itch.

He’s not used to sitting around.

Even through the long years he served the King, he remained the Hunter— he walked far afield through Hell’s wilds, bringing back fifty-foot serpents for the King’s Court to feast on. He’d scouted for signs of anything but rot and decay in his beloved homeland. He’d scoured the ruins of long-ago civilizations that once lived side by side with his people, searching for anything that could reverse Hell’s corruption. Now he has little to occupy him except meditation and carving new arrows. Every act feels hollow.

A thunk jars him out of his thoughts, and he lets the world seeds scatter across the table as he stands. Opening the door, he finds a white arrow embedded in the wooden doorframe. Its fletching quivers.

It’s the arrow he gave Cyrianus, of course. A flicker of concern runs through him, and he scowls. Concern? The arrow just means the little demon wants to meet. Mezor’s instinct tells him to protect , but it’s only that—instinct.

Truthfully, he didn’t expect Cyrianus to get in touch at all. Mezor has little use for a spy. It’s obvious this is another of the King’s games—though what game, exactly, Mezor doesn’t yet know. He assumed Cyrianus would realize the same.

He plucks the arrow out of the wood. Time to meet the lieutenant and see what he has to say.

He waits until nightfall. Drawing attention to his presence is the last thing he needs. The arrow leads him on a merry chase through the warren of the Court, until finally he’s standing in front of the door to the public feast hall.

Surely not .

It was always his job to bring meat to the table, so without him, the hall has almost certainly fallen into disuse. But that doesn’t mean no one will notice their presence.

The door is cracked open. He ducks under the frame and enters. The feast room is dark and empty, delicate starlight raising shadows from the shapes scattered across the hall. At the far end sits the King’s former throne, now stained with dried ichor where General Talos was murdered and displayed. Torchlight from the yard below picks out veins of gold that rise up the wall behind the throne. Few know it, but those threads are rooted through the stone of the mountain all the way to the Hellspring, feeding the King with its blessed—or cursed—waters while he sat and watched his demons feed themselves.

One of the shadows detaches from the wall.

“How did you get in?” Cyrianus says in disbelief.

Mezor raises a brow. “The door was open.”

“Yes—no—I mean,” Cyrianus stammers, “how did you get into the Court? I know all the secret passageways. None are fit for a brute like you.”

He can’t stop the chuckle that rumbles past his lips. “Do you? Well, I propose you know all but one. And it’s a perfect fit for a brute like me .”

Faint light reveals the scowl on Cyrianus’s pretty face. “That’s impossible. I’ve spent years finding every crack in the mountain.”

Mezor spreads his hands. “What did you expect when you summoned me, then?”

Cyrianus’s cheeks darken and his gaze flickers. “I hoped you wouldn’t show,” he mutters.

“Then you could tell the King you’d held up your end of the bargain?” Mezor takes a step toward Cyrianus, who shuffles back almost automatically.

Interesting.

He’s not afraid of Mezor—he made that clear. So why keep his distance? Revulsion, perhaps?

Some long-forgotten sense tells Mezor otherwise. He dearly wants to throw the little demon off balance, to see what happens when his ichor rises.

The flame of interest isn’t unfamiliar. He’s had lovers in the Court before. Majors and captains, demons with the hunger to ascend the ranks. Safely obsessed with themselves and their own mortality, all they cared about was Mezor’s proximity to power. It was nothing more than a meeting of flesh.

He never once took delight in making their cheeks darken and their eyes flash.

Annoyed at his own irrational desire, he tears his gaze away from Cyrianus.

“I’d expect a spy to pick a better meeting place than the most public hall in the Court,” he says, maybe more roughly than he needs to.

Cyrianus’s shoulders tighten and he—there’s no better word for it— bristles . But another tension runs underneath, a wariness that manifests in his silver gaze.

“It’s where I always met the King,” he mutters, face slowly darkening in annoyance. “No one comes here anymore.”

Mezor lets it go. “Tell me your news, then.”

Cyrianus pulls out a sheaf of paper. “It’s the supplies. Someone is stealing from the main store. I’ve been through the ledgers twice and confirmed it.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Mezor doesn’t take the papers.

“Well, I—” Cyrianus splutters as if that hadn’t occurred to him. His chin tilts mutinously. “The King told me to pass everything on to you! I overheard demons in the forge talking—they’re planning to leave the Court, and they’re furnishing themselves with the supplies to do it.”

“Good for them.” Mezor chuckles. The idea of demons marching out of the Court under their own power amuses him. “What does this have to do with me?

“Don’t you care?” Cyrianus demands.

Mezor’s brief amusement dies. In truth, he came because he was curious, not because he needs news of the Court. Stores going missing would’ve meant heads rolling under Branok’s reign, but Mezor isn’t managing an army. He’s barely managing himself. Cyrianus’s indignance steals the wind from him.

“No,” he tells the little demon, trying to gentle his tone. “The King is playing a game with us. I have no need of a spy to relay me the dealings of the Court. It means nothing for my work. You should return to him and demand a different deal.”

Cyrianus flinches. “Don’t you think I know that?” he hisses. “I have no choice. This is the deal the King gave me.”

“Not my problem.” Mezor turns away, but Cyrianus takes a step toward him.

“Wait!”

He barely comes up to Mezor’s chest, even his horns a mere handspan from root to tip. This close, Mezor can fairly taste the strange tar scent that surrounds him, which makes his lip peel back involuntarily. It doesn’t seem right that such an unusually soft face should accompany such a foul smell. It’s not like he can help it, he chastises himself.

“I can be useful,” Cyrianus insists. It would sound like begging on any other demon, but somehow he keeps the proud tilt of his head. “Tell me about your bargain with him. You have one, don’t you? Otherwise why work for him? I can help you.”

His boldness makes Mezor laugh. “Little spitfire, there’s nothing you can do for me. My bargain is between myself and the King.”

For a moment Cyrianus looks lost. He tugs at his collar, a nervous gesture that reveals a slice of his slim neck. Mezor makes the mistake of looking.

Cyrianus notices him looking, and his face changes. Mezor’s stomach tightens in anticipation as he opens his mouth.

“What about…something else?” Cyrianus swallows, his throat bobbing. Damn it, Mezor’s eyes are drawn to that, too. “I hear others talk about favors all the time, trading them like currency. I know what they mean. I can do that for you.”

A sudden haze of anger turns his vision briefly red. “Did you do favors for the King?” he demands.

“No!” Cyrianus yelps loudly, too loudly, his fangs flashing and his fists curling into balls. “Of course not. But if you won’t tell me anything?—”

“You’re a mere lieutenant! I can’t trust you with the King’s secrets.” Mezor clenches his jaw. Favors? Is the little demon insane? But Cyrianus’s expression is so furious he relents. “Tell me no one has made you do that for them.”

The thought makes him sick, while at the same time Cyrianus’s proposition stirs a thrill. He must be a monster. But to his utmost relief, Cyrianus’s expression twists into a disgusted scowl.

“Never.”

“Good.” Mezor sighs. He reaches for Cyrianus out of instinct. Bizarrely, he has the urge to comfort. But Cyrianus twists away quickly, misery flickering in his eyes. His tar-like scent rises.

“I don’t know why I even—” Cyrianus growls. “Ugh!”

“Now, listen,” Mezor says sternly. “Why would I entertain someone who can’t even stand to be touched?”

“Just give me a chance to be useful,” Cyrianus mutters.

“Fine.” He folds his arms so he’s not tempted to reach out again. To do what, he doesn’t know. Shake Cyrianus by the shoulders, probably. “I’ll give you four chances. Four meetings, one at every quarter moon. The fifth meeting, you must find your way to me. If you can’t, our bargain is over.”

“What kind of bargain is that? I only have to find you.”

“It’s a lover’s challenge.” He smirks. “Since you propositioned me.”

Cyrianus goes dark all over again, his silvery skin blushing. But he wastes no time. “I accept. That will be easy! I only have to follow you.”

Such a prickly ego. Hah. “Then show me how easy. I’ll even give you a hint—look below, not above.”

“I want something in return.”

“Do you, indeed?”