Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

CLIO

Clio leaned against the wall, chewing on the edge of a fingernail as she waited for Lyre. How long would it take him to sort out "the mess" in the weavers' workroom? Was anyone else injured? Would he have to clean up the body?

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She needed to think about something else before she completely lost her composure.

The memory of her name in Lyre's seductive tones popped into her head and warmth fluttered up her spine. Ugh. Not a helpful line of thought either.

Sex fiend, she repeated to herself. Sneaky, predatory sex fiend. She had to resist his allure.

Sighing, she twitched her arm to adjust the ridiculously long sleeve of her costume. She was grateful for the mask, but the rest of the outfit she could have happily shredded. A tie holding one of the giant sleeves in place on her upper arm had loosened. She retied it, holding one end with her teeth as she tried to get a good tight knot.

Movement caught her eye, and she looked up sharply. Lyre was striding across the quasi-lobby, lab coat flapping behind him, already ten steps ahead of her. She'd been so busy wrestling with her sleeve that she hadn't even seen him come out of the corridor beside her. Had he said anything before walking off?

Embarrassed at her obliviousness, she rushed after him. "Hey, wait up. Hey! Lyre, why are you?—"

He stopped and turned. She skidded to a stop, gaping at his face. He looked just like Lyre, if Lyre had suddenly reverse-aged from his early twenties to about fifteen.

The boy glared at her, a drawstring bag clutched in one hand. "Why are you shouting at me?"

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I thought you were Lyre."

The incubus's whole face pulled into a grimace, as though being mistaken for Lyre was the most offensive thing he'd ever heard. "Obviously not."

She stepped back. What a brat. But his sneer had reminded her of something she'd forgotten—the two other incubi who'd joined Lyre in the spell shop. Did they also work here? Maybe they were the source of the hundreds of golden weavings in that storage room.

"Who are you?" the incubus boy demanded. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm waiting for Lyre. I'm the envoy from?—"

A quiet popping sound interrupted her. She and the boy both looked at the cloth bag in his hand, its contents straining against the fabric. The popping continued: the sound of threads snapping in rapid succession.

The bag's bottom seam tore open. Dozens of small steel balls plunged to the floor and hit the tiles with a deafening crash. The spheres bounced and rolled in every direction, ricocheting off the walls, and Clio cringed at the horrible racket. When they finally settled, she turned to the boy—and saw the fear stamped on his face.

Across the room, a sphere sparked with a flicker of gold. It pulsed three times, then burst into a shrieking golden spiral. The explosion caught the nearest spheres, whipping them into the air. Light flashed and they erupted into violent maelstroms too.

The chain reaction spread like lightning, and Clio could only watch in terror as the expanding blast screamed toward her in a deadly barrage. Beside her, the incubus boy threw up his hands. Magic rushed out from his palms as he cast a shimmering shield over his body.

She didn't think. With only a second to spare, she thrust her hands out and mimicked his shield. A green barrier flashed into existence around her.

Then the explosion hit them.

Lyre

Lyre sprinted toward the explosion as the sound and light died out. With Ariose on his heels, he flew into the lobby, where magic and smoke hazed the air. The walls had turned black, deep gouges scarred the concrete, and the ceiling sagged, threatening to collapse. Somewhere, an alarm blared loudly. The building was going into lockdown.

Steel balls, the source of the spell, shone among the debris, and in the center of it all, two figures were sprawled. The envoy's robes were splayed across the scorched floor like white wings, and blond hair spilled from beneath her hood. Her mask lay on the floor a few feet away, shattered.

Lyre raced to her side, dropped to his knees, and pressed two fingers gently against her throat. Her pulse, strong and steady, beat against his fingertips.

"Viol," Ariose barked, grabbing the second figure by the collar and hauling him into a sitting position. "What did you do?"

"It was an accident," Viol whined, prodding his head with a shaking hand. "The bag ripped and…"

"You killed an Overworld envoy." Ariose shook Viol by his shirt collar. "How will we explain this to her territory? We could lose all Overworld business because of your?—"

"She's not dead."

Lyre's brothers twisted sharply to look at him as he slid his hands into the girl's hair, checking her skull for any swelling. A thread of healing magic confirmed there were no fractures.

"Not dead?" Viol repeated. "But I used a bubble shield and still got blasted."

"Did she shield?" Ariose asked him.

"She cast something, but I wasn't looking. Either way, I designed this weaving"—Viol waved at the scattered steel marbles—"to tear right through regular shields. I don't know how she could have…"

He trailed off, and all three of them stared at Clio. Lyre's gaze moved from the soft curves of her cheekbones to the smooth arch of eyebrows, thick lashes, a petite nose, and the full pink lips that had been distracting him since he'd first seen her. A prickle ran down his spine. Something about her face seemed so… familiar.

A soft breath puffed from her lungs. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened, revealing vibrant irises the exact color of a midsummer sky.

Recognition hit him like a punch to the gut.

The girl. The one from the spell shop. The young woman with blond hair and flashing blue eyes who'd glared at him so adorably when she'd thought he was stealing the quicksilver, who'd then distracted his brothers before they could realize he'd smashed the vial.

She was the Iridian envoy?

Confusion muted his voice as her hazy gaze shifted from Viol, to Ariose, then to Lyre. He wasn't sure what expression was on his face, but whatever it was, it made those blue eyes widen. Her hand flew to her forehead and panic crossed her expression as she realized her mask was gone.

"Are you injured, envoy?" Ariose asked, showing no sign that he recognized her as the girl who'd fallen into Lyre in the shop.

"I… I don't think so," she whispered.

"How did you survive the detonation?"

"I … shielded …"

"You—"

The damaged ceiling quaked and a four-foot-wide chunk of concrete fell, crashing to the floor a few feet away. Ariose glanced at it, then rose.

"Get her out of here," he told Lyre. "We need to clear the floor and stabilize the ceiling."

As Ariose pulled Viol up, Lyre shook off his shock. He would worry about the mystery of who the envoy was later.

Moving stiffly, the envoy pushed herself into a sitting position, keeping her gaze downcast. Her forehead was furrowed with anxiety. Had she realized he'd recognized her?

Lyre started to reach for her when the ceiling creaked again. A rain of concrete chips pattered their heads. He plucked a piece out of her hair, then reached around her and pulled her hood up, settling it on her head. Her gaze snapped to his face and pink infused her cheeks.

She was blushing just from that?

"Are you sure you aren't injured?" he asked.

She nodded, her cheeks vivid red. "Just… shaken up."

"Well, let's get out of here before the ceiling caves in."

She fearfully glanced upward. He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her to her feet. She barely got upright before her shaking knees buckled. He automatically closed his arms around her, just like the first time they'd met.

And just like that first time, she clung to him without resistance, as though she wanted nothing more than for him to hold her. Her petite frame seemed so small and fragile under all those layers of fabric. The top of her head scarcely cleared his shoulder.

Ariose's upper lip curled when he saw Lyre holding the envoy in his arms. With a warning expression, he mouthed a few words. Lyre wasn't great at reading lips, but he was pretty sure his brother had said either "keep it professional" or "keep it in your pants." Either way, the message was the same.

Clinging to the front of his lab coat for balance, Clio pushed backward, trying to stand under her own power.

"I'm fine," she muttered. "I'm good. I don't need?—"

Lyre looped an arm around her shoulders and guided her into motion. She resisted for a moment, then let him steer her out of the foyer. By the time they reached the stairs, she was walking steadily again, but he didn't remove his arm. She didn't suggest it either.

He should have removed his arm. He should have reopened the distance between them that he'd breached when he'd tried to lift her mask. But a whisper of carnal desire was stirring inside him, making him want to see how much he could really make her blush.

Veering away from those thoughts, he pushed the stairwell door open, revealing a short hall that connected to the reception area. People were running all over the place as alarms blared. Walking at his side, Clio wrinkled her nose at all the noise and commotion.

Her bodyguards in their red leather outfits were pacing anxiously in front of the main desk. At Clio and Lyre's arrival, they ran over, terse and wary at the sight of their ward with singed clothes, messy hair, and a missing mask.

Lyre pulled his arm away. "We'll resume later. The receptionists will have someone take you to your accommodations."

Clio nodded, only a hint of pink remaining in her cheeks. As her guards flanked her, probably bursting with a thousand questions, her huge blue eyes darted across his face, analyzing his expression.

Lyre canted his head to one side. "By the way, I was wrong."

Confusion quirked her lips. He leaned down, bringing his face close to hers, and watched her eyes widen.

"Your name," he purred. "It does suit you."

Just like that, brilliant red flamed across her face. She backpedaled into the arms of her female guard, and he grinned in satisfaction.

"Until later, then, Clio."

She only managed to splutter as he turned and walked away. Until later. She would do well to rest and gather her wits, because once he had her alone again, he planned to get some answers out of the mysterious "royal envoy."

He smiled. And if he got to make her blush some more in the process, all the better.