Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

CLIO

Lyre's papers and tools went flying as the spell detonated. He jerked back from the sizzling discharge, swearing hoarsely.

Lurching up, Clio rushed toward him. "Lyre, are you okay?"

He jumped, his head whipping toward her. "When did you come in?" he gasped, thumping a hand against his chest. "You almost gave me a heart attack."

"You shouldn't pull magic back like that," she admonished, stepping over his scattered tools and crouching beside him. "Are you hurt? "

He lifted his hand. Angry red lines streaked up his forearm where the power had burned him. "It was that or let it explode full force. This is a lot less damage."

Hissing in sympathy, she took his arm and tugged him up. Guiding him over to the table, she pushed his burned hand into the pitcher of water.

He yelped. "Cold! It's cold!"

"That's the idea." She held his elbow so he couldn't pull his hand out. "How often do you do this to yourself?"

"In Chrysalis, I'd use shields most of the time." He shrugged one shoulder. "But here, I didn't want any big bangs that would draw attention. And Miysis probably wouldn't like it if I wrecked the room."

"What went wrong with the weaving?"

"Since you were watching, I'm hoping you can tell me."

"Um." She looked away, suddenly feeling the urge to examine the drapery. "I, uh … wasn't paying attention."

"You were waiting right there. What were you doing, sleeping?"

"I just zoned out, I guess." Fighting back a blush, she pulled his hand out of the water and steered him over to the lounge chair. "Sit down. I'm going to heal your arm."

"You don't need to?—"

She shoved him down and sat beside him. Taking his chilled hand in both of hers, she sent a thread of healing magic under his skin.

"Clio—"

"Shh. I'm working."

He fell silent, and she quickly repaired the damaged skin and muscle where his magic, unstable from the weaving, had burned its way back to his core.

"There," she said on an exhale, her eyes focusing on the physical world again. Faint pink lines marked his skin where the angry burns had been minutes before. "How does it feel?"

"Hmm …"

Confused, she looked up to find his eyes had slid from her face, drifting downward, and by the time he reached her feet and started back up again, his amber irises had darkened to bronze.

"You look beautiful." His voice was a deep, husky croon .

She ducked her head self-consciously. Pampering guests was standard griffin hospitality, and before the state dinner, two lovely young women had arrived to prepare her. Clio's hair was elaborately braided and her eyes were lined with dark ink. A delicate tapa was draped over a silk chest wrap that tied on one side, leaving a strip of her stomach bare above layered skirts in violet and gray. The griffin women had debated over bodypainting, then decided to leave her naturally patterned nymph skin on display instead.

"What were you weaving?" she asked quickly, hoping to distract him. Not that she didn't like the way he was looking at her, but rather, she liked it too much. "I couldn't tell except that it … it looked …"

His lustful stare faded to bleakness as he glanced toward the steel sheet on the floor. "I can't hide here forever, and when I go back, I want to be prepared."

"Prepared for what?" she asked, an ominous shiver running over her.

"For my father."

She too looked at the weaving tools spread across the floor. A web of death. "Don't you already have combat spells you could use against him?"

"It'll take more than a regular battle weave to slow him down." The muscles of his forearm tightened under her hands. "Each Rysalis patriarch collects all the knowledge of his generation and compiles it for the next patriarch. My father has access to the combined genius of a thousand years of Rysalis weavers."

He turned dark eyes to hers. "You've got to understand, Clio. We're raised from the cradle to fight to be the best. We all want to surpass—and replace—our father someday. Lyceus survived seven older brothers, killed his own father, and has ruled the family for forty years."

"Forty?" she repeated in disbelief. "He doesn't look old enough for that."

"Incubi show fewer signs of age than most daemons."

Her eyes widened. "How old are you, then? "

"Twenty-two seasons."

"Oh."

"Lyceus …" Lyre pulled his hand away from hers, balling it into a fist. "After he became the family head, he killed his uncles so they couldn't assassinate him later. He killed every one of his brothers who challenged him, along with numerous cousins, and he killed his two eldest sons."

"I thought Andante was the eldest …" she mumbled weakly.

"Andante is the eldest surviving son. The other two died before I was even born."

She shook her head. "How many sons has Lyceus had ?"

"Twelve. Six surviving." Lyre was quiet for a moment. "So, you see the problem. My father has been killing master weavers since before I was born. He's the most powerful, the most skilled, and he has access to the accumulated knowledge of our entire bloodline. No one has ever defeated him."

"Do you think this new weaving you're making will kill him?"

"I don't know." He raked his hand through his hair. "I can't even weave it properly, so chances are it'll be useless anyway."

"I can help, if you want."

"If I can't weave something stable, your astral perception probably won't do us any good. I can't get it to hold. I'm not even sure if my theory is …" His eyes went out of focus, turning to his mental schematic of the spell. "I have to weave the first half before I can weave the second, but the first half isn't stable by itself."

"What do you mean?"

"Symmetry," he murmured, drumming his fingers on his knee. "A spell that reflects itself, kind of like the linked trackers we've been using, but incapable of existing alone. The two halves are bound, dependent on each other. If I make it stable on its own, it won't function the way I need for … but …"

He puffed out a breath, his eyes focusing again. "It's impossible. Reed always said I have more vision than sense. Even if he was here, we still couldn't do it. The two sides have to be identical down to every strand and I don't know that I could produce a perfect reflection even if I watched myself in a …"

He trailed off, his eyes going out of focus again.

She waited a moment, then prompted, "A what?"

"A mirror," he breathed, his suddenly intense stare fixing on her. "A perfect reflection of my magic, just like a mirror. Like a mimic . Clio, how closely can you duplicate a complex weave?"

"I can make a perfect copy of the original, unless I'm rushing and screw it up."

"How close behind me could you mimic my weave?"

"A second or two?"

"It might be enough. You would have to mimic my aura too. Would our magic be indistinguishably identical? It might not …" His excitement waned and his eyes darkened. "But I can't ask you to help me weave a death spell."

"Lyre, just tell me what you need me to do."

After one more searching look, he led her to the steel disc on the floor, glowing with its own weave. He returned to his spot and she sat across from him. Breathing deep, she focused her asper and her green aura shimmered to warm gold, identical to his.

He raised his hands into the air between them, poised above the steel disc. He didn't speak, but he didn't need to.

She raised her hands, hovering a few inches away from his, waiting with all her attention focused on him as she'd never focused before. No mistakes. If it went wrong, broken bones and a smoking hole in the floor would be the least of the damages they could expect.

Golden light sparked over his fingers, and he began to weave. Identical light spanned her fingers as she mimicked him.

His hands drifted in a slow rhythm, and she followed each gesture until they were moving in almost perfect unison. Sizzling magic spiraled out from their hands, identical shimmering gold, two mirror-image weaves forming side by side.

His fingers moved, hers dancing the same steps. She didn't have to think, her mind empty, her instincts tuned to the serene flow of the weave as he guided her through it. Time slipped away, and all she knew was the movement of his hands and hers, carried by the weaving rhythm .

Then he stopped. The intricate construct, two mirrored weaves bound together by their symmetry, hovered in the air between her and Lyre, their palms in the center of their respective creations. Magic sizzled against her skin—a warning of its deadly power.

Using his free hand, Lyre withdrew a small vial from his pocket and pulled the cork out with his teeth. Eyes fixed on the parallel weavings they had created, he upended the vial over the metal disc between them.

Silver liquid spilled onto it. The quicksilver didn't splash or splatter but pooled on the metal, spreading across the glowing weave already embedded in the steel. The liquid crept outward until it reached the weave's edge, where it stopped as though the line of magic was a physical barrier. The pristine surface reflected the spell above it, a perfect mirror.

Lyre's eyes met hers through the weave between them and he guided their creation down. It touched the quicksilver mirror and golden light flared. He pushed it into the liquid. The weaving melded with the quicksilver, and the runes and lines shifted within the solution, taking on a new form.

Her eyes widened as the true shape of the spell revealed itself to her asper.

When the shifting weave settled, Lyre set the empty vial in the center of the liquid pool and a spark of magic ran down the glass. The weaving in the disc brightened, then the quicksilver moved as though coming to life—climbing the sides of the vial and pouring itself into the container. Every single drop crawled back inside, leaving the metal disc perfectly clear.

As Lyre corked the container and slipped it back into his pocket, exhaustion hit Clio like an ocean wave. Letting her aura shift back to green, she groaned and stretched her stiff muscles. How long had they sat there weaving? A feverish ache in her muscles warned her that she'd depleted a significant amount of her magic reserves.

"It worked," he murmured. "It would have been impossible without you."

"I'm glad I could help." She hesitated. "Lyre, that weaving, it looked like … "

"It isn't finished yet. That's just one part."

She considered prying for more information, but she was just too tired.

They picked themselves off the floor and collapsed wearily on the lounge. Lyre didn't seem motivated to clean up the mess left over from his weaving, so she decided not to worry about it either. She flopped back onto the pile of cushions. "What a night."

"Tell me about it. I'd already blown myself up a few times before you came in." He canted his head toward her. "How did your dinner go?"

"Well enough." She pulled a face at the memory. "More importantly, Miysis is giving Rouvin permission to come here. He's sending a messenger tonight."

"Good. Assuming they can sort things out, that should throw off Bastian and his grand plans in a big way."

"My father said … he's deposing Bastian." She peeked at Lyre, but he didn't look surprised by the news. "Petrina will become the crown princess."

"Rouvin doesn't have much choice. He can't overlook treason." He leaned back until he was lying across the foot of the daybed, his head hanging off the edge and eyes closed. "Will Petrina be excited to have her sister become a princess too?"

"I don't know. I think so?" She twisted her hands. "I haven't had a chance to think about the …"

"Repercussions" was the word that came to mind, which surprised her. For so long, she'd wanted nothing more than to be part of the Nereid family, but now that it had happened, she was more concerned than excited about what it meant for her. As nymph nobility, the anonymity she'd always enjoyed would be gone. Would she be expected to join their elite society and take on the duties of a princess?

"Clio?" Lyre asked as he sat up. "What's wrong?"

She realized how stiffly she was lying on the cushions. Pushing herself upright, she fidgeted absently with her braided hair. "I'm just not sure how to feel about … being a Nereid."

"Isn't this what you wanted? "

"Well, yes—I mean, I thought it was, but …" She tugged the tie out of her hair and started plucking the braid apart, just for something to do with her hands. "If Rouvin had asked me first, I'm not sure what I would have said."

Lyre's forehead creased in bewilderment. "You mean you might have turned him down?"

Having a family, being part of a family, was all she'd wanted for years. She'd devoted herself to Bastian and Petrina, never questioning anything.

"It was the only thing I wanted," she whispered, "until I met you."

His eyes widened.

"Getting the KLOC to save you was the first time I made a real decision, a life-changing decision, that had nothing to do with the Nereids." She pushed her unbraided hair off her shoulders. "Since meeting you, I've realized a lot of things."

Lyre went still, focusing on her with unexpected intensity. Without thinking, she touched his face, tracing the invisible tattoo that marked his cheek under his glamour.

"I always thought family and bloodlines were the most valuable things in the world, but now there are other things that matter more to me." She drew in a breath, a slight tremor betraying her fluttering heartbeat. "Like you. Especially you."

Something flashed in his eyes—a look almost like panic.

She stuttered, but she couldn't stop now. "Lyre, I don't know what the future will bring for either of us, but I—we can't just go our separate ways when this is over. We … I want to be with you."

He looked away from her, his jaw tightening and his expression indecipherable.

"You feel that way too, don't you?" she asked, a strange desperation rising in her when he said nothing. "Lyre, I—I love?—"

He shot to his feet and took two lurching steps away from her.

"Don't say that to me." The words were flat, his back to her, his shoulders rigid.

Pain pierced her, deep and tearing. "But Lyre?—"

" Don't ," he growled, "say those words. Do you know how many women have said that to me? Cried it, screamed it, begged me to say it back? Those words are meaningless to incubi. "

Her voice vanished, buried beneath a tide of anguish.

He didn't turn, keeping his back to her. "Whatever you feel, I can't reciprocate. Incubi can't. I'm sorry."

The silence was so heavy that the air felt like water in her lungs, the weight crushing her heart.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice cracking. "I only wanted …"

He wrenched out of his frozen stance. Without looking back, he strode across the room, disabled the lock spell, and vanished into the hallway. The door swung shut behind him, the clack of the latch shattering the quiet.

She sat unmoving on the lounge chair, staring at the door. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

For years, she hadn't pursued a single selfish desire besides having a family. Now, she'd finally found something she wanted, someone she could fight for, but he didn't want her.

Pressure built in her chest, crushing her lungs until she couldn't breathe. I'm sorry. I only wanted … Whatever he wanted, it wasn't her love. He hadn't wanted to hear the words, but his refusal to listen didn't change how she felt.

"I love you," she whispered to the empty room.

The dam inside her broke and a sob tore through her lungs. She pulled a pillow into her arms, buried her face in it, and cried.