Chapter 46
Horatio
Saul’s voice echoed in his head as the Reptilians led him to the holding pen.
“There’s two kinds of guards: one who wants to finish the day without a hassle, and one who needs hassle to finish the day. A smart guy like you will know which is which.”
Wyrm seemed like the former. Rushed. Fidgety. Constantly checking his watch. Scythe, on the other hand, plodded along like he had nowhere else to be.
He’s the one I need to worry about.
Scythe opened the empty holding cell and shoved Horatio inside. “Park it,” he snarled.
The antiseptic odor made him queasy. He sank onto a steel bench and did his best to appear nonchalant. The guards huddled together and spoke in hushed tones.
“We have 200 pounds of meat right in front of us. Let’s cut him open and have a feast.”
Horatio went numb from the neck down.
“No way, Wyrm. He’s the man from the prophecy—the one destined to kill the king.”
“Prophecy?”
“You’ve never heard about the prophecy?” Scythe hissed.
Wyrm snorted. “Unlike you, I don’t take gossip seriously.”
Scythe’s voice went up a few decibels. “The prophecy said he’d arrive on a silver ship, and he did! His captain’s a vampire, ya know. I’ll bet his magic is what made that giant boat disappear. Along with his crew.”
“The crew that’s mostly tiny Humerians?” Wyrm crossed his arms. “They’re no threat.”
“No threat? I heard Sugar Constantine once reached inside a guy’s pants, ripped off his ball sac, and took a bite.”
Horatio let out a sharp laugh. Both guards turned.
“I’ll bet you can tell us all sorts of stories about Sugar Constantine,” Scythe said.
“I could.” Horatio narrowed his eyes. “But then I’d have to kill you.”
The door opened, and the general stomped in, carrying a folded orange jumpsuit with a pair of canvas deck shoes resting on top. “Take off everything. Including jewelry.”
The three of them stared intently, waiting for him to strip.
Horatio scowled. “Privacy isn’t a thing around here?”
The general pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pants pocket. “Get the juice, Wyrm. Looks like we’ll have to do a cavity search.”
“Nope. Not necessary.” Horatio ripped his T-shirt down the front while swiveling his hips. After tossing the shirt at the bars, he unfastened his fly, performing a quick pelvic thrust after the pop of each button. Once naked, he helicoptered his dick.
The general slow-clapped. “Bravo, Guitar Slayer.”
Scythe passed Wyrm a small wad of cash.
“Did you guys bet on the size of my dick?” Horatio asked.
Wyrm guffawed. “Yeah. Scythe really underestimated you.”
“Usually the bigger the muscles, the smaller the—” Scythe glanced at the general. “Uh, sorry ma’am.”
“I heard it went to his knees.” Smirking, she slipped the prison garb under a gap in the bottom of the door. “Get dressed. The sight of your muscles is making me drool.”
“Oh yeah?” Horatio grinned. “Hungry for this?” He pointed his cock at her.
She glared. “I don’t want to bang you. I want to crack you open and devour your sweet entrails while they’re still steaming.” Her forked tongue flickered. “What do you say, gentlemen, shall we dine?"
Wyrm smacked his lips. “Yes. We should.”
White-hot fear tingled up Horatio’s spine. Getting eaten by Reptilians was not part of the plan. The three advanced—eyes glittering with a different kind of hunger.
Scythe shook his head and took a step back. “If we slaughter him now, Meridian will have us drawn and quartered.”
“I’m tired of that man-child and his tantrums,” the general said. “We’ve been bending to him for years, and where has that gotten us?”
“And now we’re stuck here in this putrid dimension.” Wyrm grimaced.
Horatio yanked up the jumpsuit and snapped every fastener. “You won’t like the taste of me. I’m tough and bitter.” He stuffed his feet into the shoes.
The general pulled a key from her pocket. “If you don’t want to partake, Scythe, I’ll turn you into dessert.”
Scythe put his hands up. “I’ll partake.”
Mind reeling, Horatio considered a bribe, but he only had two bracelets fastened under his hair. Too bad he didn’t have his guitar.
But I can still sing.
He blinked—and suddenly all three were in the cell with him.
Wyrm pinned his arms behind his back with one clawed hand while the other clamped over his mouth, silencing him. Horatio tried to kick free, but Scythe was already crouched, both hands locked around his ankles, pinning his legs to the floor.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even hum past the pressure in his throat. Helpless, he watched General Lacertilia draw a pointed blade from a sheath at her hip, grinning like a cat about to devour a bird.
“Don’t worry, Guitar Slayer. I know exactly where to cut so you’ll die slowly.” She flashed her eyes at Wyrm. “Dibs on his cock. I’ll eat it raw while he watches.”
She raised the knife. Light glinted off steel—and the world went green.
A brilliant flash burst through the cell, followed by a swirling fog that swallowed the air—alive and humming, thick with the familiar scent of ozone and burnt sugar. Then came the voices. Not one, but thousands, whispering from every direction.
“Not yours. Ours.”
The general flew backward, slammed into the wall, and crumpled to the floor. Wyrm and Scythe shot upward, limbs jerking before crashing into the bars.
As the last whispers died down, a finger of green light reached out, searing heat into Horatio’s chest like a brand. He ripped open the jumpsuit. Right over his sternum, a strange symbol glowed—roots or branches—locked inside a circle.
Similar to Dagger’s tattoos.
Vixen magic. Tangible and relentless—it disappeared without fanfare.
He emptied his lungs in a rush, then dragged in a new breath, fingers and toes tingling. The general stirred, legs stretched in front of her, still clutching the knife.
“What in Sauria’s name are you?” she asked.
“I’m the guy from the prophecy, here to end Meridian. I have no business with you. But if you want to keep threatening me, I can make you my business.”
The trio struggled to their feet. Scythe grabbed a handful of paper towels and dabbed at a wound on his head. “I tried to warn you, Wyrm. But you think you’re smarter than me.”
Wyrm leaned forward—hands on knees—panting like a dog in a hot car.
General Lacertilia’s spine was stiff, but her hands trembled. “If you have power like that, why isn’t Meridian already dead?”
Horatio locked eyes with her. Juno said there were traitors everywhere, and he was sure the general was one of them. The way she flip-flopped from cordial to deadly was a tell.
“Put me in a cage and walk away.”
She gave him an unreadable stare before leading the other two into a huddle across the room. Horatio found it funny that despite their efforts for privacy, none of them whispered.
“Tell no one what transpired here,” the general said.
“But, ma’am, shouldn’t we warn the others?” Scythe asked.
“And let them know we lost control of a prisoner? Do you really want Komodo to find out about that?” she snapped.
“No, ma’am,” Scythe and Wyrm chorused.
“Wyrm, put the Guitar Slayer in an overnight cell. I’m taking Scythe to the infirmary.”
“You’re leaving me alone with him?” Wyrm asked.
“Face it. You’re expendable.” The general took Scythe’s arm and led him out.
The door slammed shut.
Wyrm rubbed his face with both hands. “They don’t pay me enough for this.” He let out a long sigh. “Are you going to let me put you in a cell, or are you busting out?”
Horatio considered bribing Wyrm to get his message to Komodo but nixed the idea. The guard kept glancing toward the exit. A guy that eager to punch out for the day wouldn’t stick around to help him.
“Lock me in. I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
Without comment or question, Wyrm took him down a hallway lined with empty pens.
“Low crime rate?” Horatio asked.
“These cages are strictly used for those waiting trial.” He clicked a boot heel against the floor. “Down below is where the real action is. There are thousands of baddies from all over the universe—some in for short stints, some for life.” He opened a cell and directed Horatio inside.
“Are there any secret dungeons?”
“This place is nothing but secrets that I don’t care about.”
“You just want the workday to be over.”
Wyrm’s face softened. “Exactly.” He locked the cell with a keypad. “I’ll be in the collections office until my shift ends at 6 a.m. Need anything, push the button on the wall.” He paused at the exit. “Uh, thanks for not killing us.”
Horatio smiled faintly. It wasn’t his choice to make—the prophecy was in charge of who lived or died. “My gun only has one bullet, and it’s not for you.”
“But… you don’t have a g—” Wyrm visibly swallowed.
“Next time, don’t skip the cavity search.”
The door clicked shut, and the lights dimmed.
Horatio collapsed onto the cot, limbs like jelly.
Still, he had to laugh. Wyrm thought he had a gun hidden up his ass.
Chuckling, he drank in the surroundings.
No security cameras. Grey brick walls separated the cells.
Each housed a cot, a toilet, and a metal sink.
The bars and floor were coated in titanium—recognizable by the dark silver color.
This room is magic-proof, but is it music-proof?
He hoisted his weary body up, stood over the toilet, and hummed a few bars of an old Queen song, grinning when tiny waves broke the surface of the water.
Kick ass.
He stretched out on the cot, arms folded behind his head, the smell of ozone still clinging to his hair. Whatever came next, at least he knew one thing for sure.
The prophecy had his back.