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MEZOR

Mezor is playing with fire. He tells himself if Cyrianus fails the lover’s challenge, he’ll put the little demon out of his mind. He doesn’t expect Cyrianus to succeed.

If he does, it could jeopardize everything.

If Cyrianus did what no other demon had managed—if he found a way to Mezor’s secret grotto—would Mezor truly be capable of turning him away? Just the thought of such a sharp-edged, furious creature in his lair rouses a flicker of hunger in his neglected hind-brain. Stranger still, it stirs the side of him no demon has ever seen—his primus.

It’s been an age since he felt his primus awaken.

Cyrianus doesn’t even truly want him. He just wants a lever to pull. Yet his clumsy proposition ignited Mezor’s instinct.

Bring him here, his primus whispers.

Mezor lies in the dark of his garden room, unsleeping.

The room Cyrianus chose to meet in this time has high arching windows with no glass, allowing the moon’s sleepy eye to gaze inside. The light is foreign to Mezor—Hell has no moon of its own, no stars. Each time the moon wanes above Mount Hythe he’s relieved, as if time is turning back to before the cataclysm, when the gentle dark held all of Hell in her embrace. In a way, choosing the moon as a marker reminds him that the demons of the Court are not his allies.

“I will find your secret,” Cyrianus opens with, his eyes flashing.

“But you haven’t.” He’s not surprised, and he’s certainly not disappointed. “Don’t be upset. Many have failed before you.”

“How many?” Cyrianus demands. Then, quickly, “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

“How many lovers have I had?” Mezor repeats, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cyrianus scoffs, but oddly, it’s a lie. “I’m more clever than them.”

“News from the Court?” Mezor prompts. He’s curious about what Cyrianus will bring him, even knowing it won’t mean anything to his quest.

“Rationing is ongoing. General Leuther has sent companies to hunt in the wilds, but it’s a very unpopular decision. In the meantime we’re all living off the barest scraps.” Cyrianus huffs.

Mezor can’t help a scowl at the idea of demons traipsing across his lands. At least the King had the decency to keep them contained in the Court until they marched off to war. Still… “That doesn’t concern me. Anything useful?”

“Well, there’s the digging. But I can’t see how that’s useful.”

“Digging?”

“The tunnel. I suppose General Leuther wants to dig all the way under the pit. What he thinks is out there is beyond me. Darkness. Dangerous beasts. Empty lands.” Cyrus shrugs.

Right on all counts.

Going under the pit instead of through would make it easy for General Leuther to expand into the wilds of Hell. He’s not the first to dream of building settlements in the wilds. But the general is all ambition and no sense. Mount Hythe is barely held together, and digging through its foundation is a quick path to disaster.

He frowns. “Leuther has grand plans.”

“There’ll be a coronation soon.” Cyrianus makes a sour face. “The tunnel is not going well. There’ve been two collapses just this week. Five demons sent to the aether. I’m only glad I wasn’t down there.”

Alarm races through him. “In the tunnels? Why would you be there?”

“Magnus likes to keep me in my place.”

Sudden desire to find the slimy coward and teach him a lesson surprises Mezor. He’s always disliked the King’s Quartermaster, who has a vicious tendency toward those weaker than him. But he’s never wanted to rip his throat out before now.

Cyrianus’s gaze narrows.

“Your markings. They’ve changed. You know they light up sometimes?”

“I know,” he growls, unable to contain himself.

Uncertainty flashes across Cyrianus’s face, but he presses on. “You had more of them last time, too.”

“You’re correct.” His markings are tied to the gate—as the gate slowly dies, they disappear. Once, they covered his whole body. Back then they lit up from joy more often than anger. “It’s nothing. Have you other news?”

Cyrianus shakes his head, claws twisting into his coat. “I want to be useful.”

“Only two meetings remain,” he says firmly. He’s resolved not to care when Cyrianus fails the challenge, but he won’t call it off early. Fair is fair.

“I’ll find you,” Cyrianus insists.

“Abide by the rules,” Mezor reminds him. “Only after the door closes.”

“Leave the torches on,” Cyrianus shoots back.

He chuckles. “I don’t need darkness to disappear.”

The lover’s challenge has always kept him from becoming attached to the demons he fucks. Four brief meetings are enough to satisfy him. Like he told Cyrianus, no one has ever found their way to a fifth meeting—he never expected them to try. Maybe it’s because it’s been a long time since he took a lover, or maybe he’s losing the plot, but he’s never given the challenge to someone he actually liked.

Does he like Cyrianus?

Yes , he realizes. It’s not mere curiosity. The little demon fascinates him.

When the door shuts behind him, his primus growls in dissatisfaction. Instinct demands he stay, melting into the shadows to watch Cyrianus fumble about. Instead he forces himself to head toward the grotto.

His primus scoffs at the demons he normally takes as lovers—nulls, of course, all of them, as he’d never physically be able to get into bed with another primus. Yet he’s reacting to Cyrianus as if the demon is a vergis.

It’s impossible. He’d be able to scent a vergis immediately. Cyrianus’s scent is all wrong—bitter, acrid and repellant.

Too wrong , his primus snarls. Like a false scent.

It can’t be.

But he can’t deny something about Cyrianus draws him in. His prickliness hides a damaged soul, yet beneath it all is a surprising strength. His boldness isn’t just a show. If Cyrianus found his way into Mezor’s lair, he’s not sure he’d be able to resist putting the little demon underneath him. Seducing him with sweet words, not all of them false.