Page 70 of Hell's Secret Omega

“Bow and arrow?”

“Yes.” Cyrus straightens. “And a shirt. I won’t fight bare-chested like an animal.”

In reality, he refuses to let Magnus see the extent of the wounds he inflicted.

“Fine. Get him a breastplate!” Claudius waves at one of the company.

Three demons strap Cyrus into full leather armor. He bites his tongue against the agony of it as the leather pulls and presses on his back, but it’s the unfamiliar feeling of the edges digging into his muscles that brings it home. Makes him lightheaded.I’ve never so much as worn a breastplate before.

The demon strapping him in gives him a final smack on the shoulder. “At least get in one good shot. Right in his other eye, if you can manage it.”

He obviously doesn’t expect Cyrus to survive.

Maybe he’s right, and this is the end.

Cyrus stumbles into the center of the circle. Someone presses a bow and a quiver into his hands. The quiver only holds fourarrow. Four chances. He straps it on. He’s not experienced enough. The bow is made for someone half again as tall as him, and his draw isn’t powerful. He nocks an arrow anyway.

Across the circle Magnus sways on his feet. A demon cuts his bonds from behind. He’s already injured, ichor dripping from his right arm. The hated whip is gone from its holster. Claudius holds out a second bow and quiver of arrows to him.

“If I had my way he’d shoot you from twenty paces away and you still bound,” Claudius spits. “But that’s not a real challenge, is it? I reckon we need a new quartermaster. If he kills you, we’re in luck. If not, I’ll get the pleasure of beheading you myself.”

Magnus throws aside the bow and arrows with a sneer. “I’ll finish off the little traitor with my claws.”

There’s no preamble, no breath to prepare. Magnus charges at him. Cyrus looses his arrow. His shaking hands send it wide.

Magnus lunges. Cyrus scrambles to avoid his claws and takes off like a Hellbeast is on his tail. Magnus’s boots pound the stone.

“Coward!” he snarls.

The Grey Company jeer, feet stamping. Cyrus stumbles. Just as Magnus is almost on him, he grabs a second arrow in his fist. Magnus is too slow to evade. His body slams into Cyrus’s fist as the tip pierces flesh. He roars and swipes at Cyrus, catching him across the face. Bright, hot pain erupts along his cheek. He lets go of the arrow and scrambles backward as Magnus staggers.

He draws and shoots the third arrow with speed born of terror. The bowstring snaps his arm. Somehow, impossibly, the arrow is suddenly embedded in Magnus’s shoulder.

I hit him.

Magnus bares ichor-blackened teeth and roars. “I should have killed you on your first day!”

“I bet you’re sorry,” Cyrus gasps out, backing away. He takes another arrow from the quiver. “All those years I snuck around under your nose—I made you look like the fool you are.”

His ichor rises hot and angry. He doesn’twantto fight. He only wants to be free. But there’s always a price to pay in the Court. To the King, to the Quartermaster, to whatever new master takes their place. It doesn’t matter who. There’s no peace. Only pain, and more pain, and scratching out a life in the dirt under someone else’s boot.

“The eye!” someone yells. “Don’t forget.”

Cyrus draws his last arrow.

Magnus charges.

Cyrus lets the arrow fly. Instead of hitting Magnus’s one good eye, it pierces the base of his horn with a crack.

Magnus lets out a howl that raises every hair on his body. His eye turns from yellow to black. He’s on Cyrus before Cyrus can turn tail again, before he can run, before he can even brace himself. He hits the ground with a horrible jarring blow. Magnus’s claws tear at the leather breastplate and his snarl looms, his hot, stinking breath sweeping over Cyrus’s face. Cyrus swipes at his face with his claws, but Magnus grabs his hand and twists it cruelly, dragging it above his head, pinning it to the stone. The fingers of his other hand squeeze Cyrus’s neck. Claws sink into his jaw like hot blades. His cry is strangled into silence as his airway closes. In panic, he kicks and twists, but the ichor pouring out of Magnus’s shoulder wound makes everything slippery and he can’t find purchase.

He thrashes desperately.Someone—anyone!

Mezor—

Help me?—

“The rok!” The yell cuts across his fading senses. “Don’t let it—ahh!”

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