Page 25 of Hell's Secret Omega
“Did it help?” he asks, suddenly needing to know. “My heat?”
Mezor’s lip curls into a smirk, eyes gleaming. Behind the smirk there’s true gratitude. “Yes, Cyrus. It helped.”
Cyrus looks back down at his buttons to hide his answering smile. Smug satisfaction blooms in his chest. The door closes behind Mezor, leaving him alone.
Chapter 16
CYRUS
His heat is like a dream.Like something that never happened.
Maybe he did dream up the whole thing up. Maybe delirium led him to conjure a version of the Hunter that never existed—one who fucked him into oblivion.
His only real evidence is the tenderness in his body, which fades quickly. Too quickly. When it’s gone, there’s nothing but a strange prickle that dances up and down his spine any time Mezor crosses his thoughts.
Rumours fly of at least two companies returning from the wilds of Hell. The serpents’ dens are so thick they cannot cross the shale, so General Leuther sends the mountain patrol out to meet them. All three return triumphant, lugging meat behind them in huge nets.
Cyrus wrings out the rag he’s scrubbing in a tub of grey water. Half the meat will have spoiled by the time they make it back—which means the Generals will get the best of it, then the officers, then the soldiers. Minor demons will eat the rotten stuff and be grateful, unless they sicken and die.
As a lieutenant, he’s never eaten fresh kill from the feast hall. He makes do with gruel and the dried stuff bound for the storeroom, made for soldiers on the long journey to theSeraphim Wall. It’s better than the scraps. But heat left his reserves empty, and for a moment hunger seizes him.
He scrubs harder. When the kill comes in, he’ll be there. And if some of it goes missing on the way to the slop room, well, he’s the only one who knows the real numbers.
Cyrus wakes early on the morning the three companies are due to arrive, and so does everyone else. He’s made himself scarce since his heat, but he won’t get away with hiding today. Cyrus is the stock-taker—he’ll be expected to take stock when the butchery is done. He can only hope the Quartermaster will be too busy to comment on his absence.
The wall is packed. Cyrus shoves his way through the crowd, making use of his size to squeeze into spaces others can’t fit. When the ragged companies finally stagger into view, the wall erupts in clamor. It’s not a glad noise. They’re hungry, and anyone with eyes can see it’s not enough food for the whole Court. No matter how many have died of sickness or been buried in a tunnel collapse in recent days.
Cyrus pushes his way past the soldiers at the front of the line.
“Let me through,” he demands to General Leuther’s pikemen. Their eyes glance over him at first—he’s just another demon. He puffs his chest out and brings their eyes to the blue and gold coat he wears. “I’m here on official business.”
The nearest soldier scoffs. “What business?”
Another demon shoves at Cyrus from behind. “Think you’re too special to wait like the rest of us, huh?”
Cyrus hisses and straightens up, ignoring the rowdy crowd. “Quartermaster’s business,” he says to the soldier shortly. “Go ahead and keep me out, but you’ll have him to answer to.”
The soldiers lift their pikes and Cyrus hurries past. Shouts of anger follow him down the stairs. He pays them no mind. He might be hated, but no one envies his position. All work, no glory.
He goes straight to the tournament guardroom where the companies will drop their cargo. Major Justus and several of his captains already stand guard outside, and Justus gestures for them to step aside as Cyrus approaches.
“Get inside,” he says, opening the door. He follows Cyrus in.
The room is dark, quiet, and musty. The tournament of souls has been empty since the coup, but this room still stinks of violence. Cyrus shudders.
They don’t have to wait long for the companies to file in. Their nets are full, but the stench suggests little about it is a good haul. It’s certainly nothing like Mezor used to bring in. The demons drop their nets and weapons with a clatter, shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Some are injured. Some have telltale bruising around their eyes that points to sickness. All of them reek of blood and ichor.
They retreat to the far end of the room to shed their armor while Cyrus begins marking down their returns. Outside the shouting rises. Justus looks tense and unhappy.
Cyrus fixes his eyes on the nets.
8 young serpents, condition poor
5 young serpents, condition good
1 adolescent serpent, half rotted
1 creature of unknown origin, equal in size to three young serpents?—
