Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

CLIO

Lyre watched her. Clio stared back, her pulse racing in her ears. The moment stretched as she waited for him to react—and prepared to defend herself by whatever means necessary.

He tucked his binder under his arm and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Why would you touch anything in here without permission?"

"I—I wouldn't have touched it if you hadn't startled me." She forced a note of command into her voice. "Unkey the spell."

"Hmm." He rocked back on his heels. "Not sure I know how."

"What?"

"That lovely bit of work predates me. It's pretty complicated. Since you fancy yourself a spell expert, with all that staring at weavings you just did, if you look here, you'll see?—"

He started to point. She had no idea why, but she flinched back as though he might hit her. Her elbow bumped the door—and got stuck too.

Lyre's hand paused. "Now look what you've done."

"I didn't—get me off this!"

"As I was saying, you can see here that the weaving amalgamates anything that touches it, so it's embedded into your skin now?—"

"Get me off this door!" She jerked helplessly, her immobilized wrist and elbow twisting awkwardly.

"I could pull you off it, but you might lose some skin. Though, since the weaving is spreading into your flesh the longer you stand there, you might leave more than skin behind."

Her heart kicked up to a full gallop as her discomfort ratcheted toward real fear. Lyre, however, seemed perfectly calm. Humor danced in his amber eyes, softening the color to buttery gold.

He was laughing at her.

She gritted her teeth. "Get. Me. Off."

His irresistibly inviting lips curved up, and Clio's stomach somersaulted inside her. The air suddenly felt hotter, her skin flushing.

Shadows slid through Lyre's eyes, dimming the amber to shimmering bronze.

"Get you off?" he repeated, his voice like honey, warm and deep and sensual. "With pleasure."

A hot blush blazed across her cheeks as she realized what she'd said. "I—I didn't mean?—"

Flustered, she stepped away from him—right into the door.

Her right shoulder and hip hit the metal and fused to the spell through her clothes. She yelped, her arm bent painfully and the rest of her body straining to keep from touching the metal.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" she burst out.

Lyre's eyes popped wide. Shadows still clung to his irises as he threw his head back and laughed. The sound dove through her like a firework and exploded in her lower belly.

She was not getting all hot and bothered over an Underworld sex fiend, especially one who was laughing at her while she was trapped in a spell, alone and helpless in an abandoned storage room.

She twisted her head toward the door, gaze flashing over the spell. She didn't understand how it worked, but she knew what type of construct to look for. Somewhere in the weaving's layers, there was a release. Somewhere, there would be a?—

There.

Baring her teeth, she slapped her free hand against the door and sent a shot of magic into the metal. The weaving disengaged, the glowing threads going dim and dormant. She fell away from the door and grabbed a shelf for balance.

Blinking, Lyre looked at her, then at the door, then back at her. With as much dignity as she could muster, she tugged her long skirts back into place.

"How did you do that?"

He brushed right past her and leaned toward the door, squinting at it with his nose an inch from the metal. He tapped the sleeping spell. Light flared in her astral perception as he reengaged it.

"Is it faulty?" he muttered. "It's pretty old, but it seems…"

He slid his fingers over the metal, manipulating the intricate weaving with casual ease. She watched the webbing of lines shift and dance under his touch, mesmerized by each smooth motion. His skill was… unbelievable. She could hardly follow what he was doing.

He straightened and turned to her, his brow furrowed. He didn't seem angry. Almost—almost intrigued?

"How did you do that?" He reached for her. For a second, she watched his hand coming toward her face—no, toward her mask—and she couldn't move.

She grabbed his wrist.

They froze like that—her holding his wrist, his fingertips hooked under the edge of her mask, about to lift it up. The backs of his fingers rested lightly against her cheek. His face was close, so close she couldn't think.

Her heart fluttered in her chest like it had sprouted butterfly wings, and a slow wave of heat rolled through her middle. She hadn't touched him since arriving—hadn't touched him since their first encounter.

How could the warmth of his skin under her hand affect her so strongly?

Sex fiend, she reminded herself. Master of seduction. Incubus. He was born to beguile women. According to Kassia, his caste ability—aphrodesia—gave him the supernatural power to tempt his victims into his arms against their better judgment.

She peered intently at his shimmering golden aura, but as far as she could tell, he wasn't using any magic, not even his aphrodesia.

Somehow, that didn't comfort her. If he was this alluring without aphrodesia, what would he be like with his seduction magic in play?

She pulled down on his arm. He released her mask, letting her guide his hand away. When she forced her fingers open, freeing his wrist, he stepped back, his expression indecipherable. Then he turned and walked toward the entrance.

She stalked after him, skirts rustling and long sleeves flapping. She caught up as he stepped out into the hallway. The long window across the corridor bustled with the movement of the weavers on the other side.

"You knew how to free me from that spell the whole time," she accused. She'd seen him work the weaving. He'd known exactly what he was doing.

"Of course."

"Why did you pretend you didn't?"

"Because it was hilarious."

"Hilarious?" she hissed, all thoughts of his allure popping like bubbles beneath a wave of anger.

He shrugged. "Do you know how rare it is for anything funny to happen around here? I wanted to enjoy the moment."

"At my expense!"

"Your point?"

She seethed. "You're incorrigible!"

"Shouting insults now?" He tsked . "Please."

"I'm not shouting."

"My ears tell me otherwise."

"You— you —" She flung her hands out, so frustrated she couldn't think of a comeback.

A weaver near the window started at her sudden movement. At the sight of her on the other side—a masked woman in white and green robes—he recoiled. The metal disk he held fell from his grip.

She watched it drop, not needing her astral perception to know that the red glow bulging from the metal was very bad. Lyre slapped his palm against the glass, and Clio dove behind him as gold light flashed across the window.

The disk hit the floor and exploded.

The boom shattered her eardrums. She clutched the back of Lyre's coat as the walls rattled and the floor shook. But the glass, shimmering with golden light, held fast. Silence fell again as dust drifted from the ceiling.

Lyre craned his neck to see her cowering against his back. "You used me as a shield? No shame, huh?"

She jerked upright. "Better you than me."

"Shameless and cold as ice."

She peered around him. The golden light on the window was fading quickly, and her asper glimpsed the fading weave that had reinforced the glass. He'd woven it so swiftly. Most weavings took minutes or even hours to complete.

On the other side, the table where the weaver had been working was a twisted caricature of its original form. A few other weavers had gathered around the smoking remains of something on the floor—probably the daemon who'd taken that explosion right in the face.

Clio's gorge rose. "Lyre? Is he … dead?"

He looked around again. "Huh?"

"Was it my fault?"

She didn't know why she was asking. She'd seen the spell unravel, the threads bloating with uncontained power as the weaver lost control of his unfinished work. She'd distracted him. It was entirely her fault.

"It…" Lyre glanced back into the room, then shifted half a step to block her view. "His weaving was faulty. It would have exploded anyway. Not your fault."

Her brow crinkled. He was lying, wasn't he? Why would he laugh at her stuck to a door, but lie to spare her feelings?

"Hey."

She blinked and realized she'd been staring vacantly at nothing. A quiet buzzing filled her head, and she wondered if she was losing it. Maybe the stress of the night had gotten to her.

Lyre was standing in front of her, his eyebrows pinched together. "What's your name, Envoy of Irida?"

"Clio," she mumbled.

"Clio." He paused, studying her. "You don't look like a Clio."

"I'm wearing a mask," she fired back waspishly. "You don't know what I look like."

"Fair enough. Come with me, Clio."

She trailed after him into an open lobby where several corridors converged. The white floors, shining spotlessly beneath buzzing lights, were empty.

"Wait here for a minute," he said. "I need to check on the mess back there. Then we'll go tour the defensive spells."

She nodded and watched him hasten down the hall. Once he was out of sight, she slipped her fingers under her mask and wiped the tears from her eyes. Foul Chrysalis spell weaver or not, she hadn't meant to get anyone killed.

Exhaling unsteadily, she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. An unpleasant edginess threaded through her, and it took her a moment to recognize the feeling as impatience. She was impatient for Lyre to return.

She didn't know if she wanted him to return so she could get this stupid tour over with… or because being near him felt safer than being alone in this place.

And that was a dangerous feeling to have.

Lyre

Lyre stood in the shadows and watched the envoy rub at her eyes beneath that infuriating mask.

He did not understand her at all .

Shaking his head, he left her to wait. He'd worked with enough Chrysalis clients to know they came in three different shades—greedy bastards who wanted magic to show off, greedy bastards who wanted magic to frighten or crush their rivals, and greedy bastards who were desperate for more power. He'd assumed Irida's envoy would fall in the latter category.

Instead, he'd gotten a girl who didn't have a clue what she was doing.

The elaborate outfit and mask had almost fooled him. He'd seen an arrogant, show-off Overworlder and nothing more—just as intended, he suspected. But every time she opened her mouth, the image and the reality conflicted a little more until he knew the game of deception she was playing wasn't the one he'd expected. She was unlike any client he'd seen before.

He raked his fingers through his hair in bafflement. And now she was crying because she'd caused an incompetent weaver to blow himself up. Crying . And trying to hide it from him, meaning it wasn't a manipulation.

She didn't know shit about military tactics or magic. She didn't have the smooth confidence of a politician. She didn't even know what she was supposed to buy from Chrysalis.

He flipped open his binder and skimmed the documents inside. Bastian Nereid, heir to the Irida throne, had submitted the proposal to Chrysalis. What was that prince up to, sending this girl as his envoy?

Snapping the binder shut, he continued to the workroom and pushed the door open. Smoke reeking of burnt flesh spilled out.

"Lyre!" Amber eyes blazing, Ariose strode up the corridor from the direction of the stairs. "What happened? I just heard a weaver is dead and three others are injured."

Lyre shrugged. "Weaving accident."

His older brother surveyed him suspiciously. "What are you doing down here?"

"Giving the new client a tour."

"A tour? We don't give tours ."

"This one demanded a tour. And being from the Overworld, she has no idea what sort of magic we can offer, so it was a good opportunity to impress upon her how super extra special we are." He shoved his hands into his pockets, the binder tucked under one arm. "Don't have a fit. I just walked her down a few halls and showed off a couple of surplus rooms."

Ariose grunted and glanced into the workroom. "So what happened?"

"The envoy was in the hall, and when the nearest weaver saw her, he dropped his spell." Lyre lifted one shoulder. "You know how that goes."

"He didn't shield?"

"Seems not."

Ariose's lip curled. "Better to be rid of that kind of incompetence, then."

"Yeah. The envoy is upset though, so not sure how it will affect the sale."

"Upset? Why?"

"A daemon got blown up two feet away from her. I guess that kind of thing is distressing for Overworlders."

Ariose's sneer grew more pronounced, and Lyre hid a satisfied smirk. His brother would now avoid the sissy, emotional Overworld envoy. Problem solved before it could even become a problem.

"Get back to the envoy then," Ariose said with a dismissive wave in Lyre's direction. "I'll take care of this."

Lyre nodded. Being away from Clio was making him oddly antsy, as though something terrible might happen if he let her out of his sight for too long. The girl was a walking disaster. Knocking over the potted tree in the foyer should have been his first warning. Then getting stuck to the spelled door, then triggering an explosion that probably would have killed her if he hadn't reinforced the glass. Who knew what she might get into if he left her alone for?—

"What's that noise?" Ariose asked.

From down the corridor, a hideous sound like an entire cutlery drawer falling onto a hard surface shattered the quiet. The noise was coming from the spot where he'd left Clio to?—

Before he could even finish the thought, an ear-splitting detonation ripped through the basement.