Page 30 of Hell's Secret Omega

CYRUS

The prickle leaves Cyrus twitchy,unable to focus, just like an impending heat. Any time the torch flame flickers a familiar shade of red, any time he glimpses a bank of shadows the perfect size and shape to hide a particular horned god, sharp anticipation nips at his hind-brain. He tries his best to ignore it at first. But to his dismay, it turns to a constant itch.

Worse, he can’t seem to stop his mind from drifting to Mezor at inopportune times.

In the powerful cage of Mezor’s arms, Cyrus felt safe for once in his life. It’s absurdly unfair. Everything he ever craved is wrapped up in that big, smirking package. And instead of getting help in exchange for his…companionship, now he’s the one indebted by their encounter—he all but begged Mezor to take his heat.

It wasn’t all one-sided,his inner mind points out. Mezor got something out of it, too, and it’s not just his pride telling him that. It was the way Mezor touched him…like he was precious. The look in Mezor’s eyes when Cyrus sank onto his cock. The way his breath grew ragged as he opened Cyrus up exactly the way he needed it.

Yet when Cyrus’s thoughts meander in the middle of taking stock or inscribing records, the memories are no comfort—they squeeze his heart like a wet rag.

Mate, his vergis cries.

Cyrus knows better than to listen to it.

He has one more chance to prove his worth. One final meeting. He must be clever, or the opportunity will slip through his fingers. He needs something he can bargain with—something Mezor wants.

Sneakinginto General Leuther’s headquarters is a challenge even for him. Leuther is paranoid, and for good reason. His loyal captains stand guard night and day, and when he’s not in the room it’s locked and the key is around his neck. Cyrus is clever, but not clever enough to break into a room under constant watch.

So he waits. All the while, the prickle grows into an ache, a hollow pit opening in his chest that seems to eat away at him.

The waning quarter moon passes. Cyrus doesn’t send the arrow. He can’t summon Mezor until he has what he needs—it doesn’t mean he’s forfeiting.

He’s at the forge when the earth gives a great shake under them. He’s reviewing the pick-axes that are meant to be delivered to the storerooms later that day while the forge worker looms with a scowl. The ground heaves and Cyrus stumbles, catching himself on the cart’s rail. Pick-axes slide out of the cart with a clatter. When he lifts his head, the ground rolls like a wave. His stomach gives a great heave and he swallows back nausea.

Demons tumble in the wake of the destruction. Behind him the forge hammer screeches and misfires, pulling shouts from the workers.

“Close the dam!”

“Release the pressure!”

The forge demon overseeing him hurries off, leaving Cyrus clutching his papers. Steam shrieks through the escape valve at the top of the massive hammer. The forge doors clang shut, but they can’t muffle the roar of the fire as fresh oxygen rushes in through a cracked pipe. Cyrus doesn’t hesitate. The forge is the last place to be when Mount Hythe is rattling like a die in a cup. He leaves the cart behind and stuffs his papers back into his coat.

Out in the halls there’s chaos. Cyrus grabs the first minor demon who crosses his path.

“What happened?”

“Another collapse.” The demon wrenches out of his grip. “We’re being put to work clearing it out. Quartermaster’s orders.”

He scurries off. Cyrus steps back into the shadows as boots sound on the stone. A company of soldiers marches around the corner, pikes in hand. A second company follows, then a third. At their rear is General Leuther himself. A captain hurries at Leuther’s side, and a snatch of their conversation hits Cyrus as they pass.

“…Twenty five missing, sir. The second cave-in came right after the first. If we’d had the struts?—”

“I don’t want to hear excuses!” Leuther roars.

Cyrus shrinks back, holding his breath as they pass by. Magnus is usually hot on Leuther’s heels, eager to lick his boots. But he must already be in the lower levels.

He puts his head down and hurries in the opposite direction, trying to project officiousness.I have business—stay out of my way!

Leuther’s headquarters are on the same floor as the feast hall. Cyrus checks both directions before emerging into the well lit hall. Just like he’d hoped, no guards are posted. He leaves a single torch lit near the stairwell and takes a second one with him, snuffing the other torches as he goes and giving himself shadows to hide in. He unrolls his lock-picks and makes short work of the door.

Inside, Cyrus sets his torch into the sconce. General Leuther’s desk is inches thick with papers. An ichor-stained knife juts from the mess like a warning—paperwork comes here to die. There are reams of it. Maps of the Seraphim Wall. Old orders from the King, in Magnus’s spiky hand, telling Leuther to deploy to the North, to the East, to pull back his troops. Reports of each company. Supply ledgers in Cyrus’s own handwriting. Crumbling books, so ancient their words are illegibly faded and smeared across the page. The desk and drawers are full of paper, all stained and scribbled twice over.

Cyrus hisses in frustration. There must be fifty years’ worth of correspondence. He shuffles through them, heedless of maintaining their order. Urgency pricks his fingers. Leuther will know someone was here, but there’s no way he can keep this mess as he found it. That’s probably the point.

But while General Leuther is conniving, he’s also arrogant, like all the generals, believing himself to be above other demons—untouchable. It’s not a surprise when Cyrus finds a catch that reveals a secret drawer, and inside that drawer is a sheet of vellum detailing the proposed path ofbothnew tunnels.

The drawing is laid over what he knows to be an incomplete map of the lower levels. Cyrus stares at it for a moment, frozen.

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