Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

LYRE

Sprawled on his back on the sofa, Lyre turned the steel collar over in his hands, watching it spin without seeing it.

He'd deserted Chrysalis as soon as he could reasonably escape, leaving the cleanup job to someone else. Anyone else. He didn't care. The whole building could collapse and he wouldn't care.

So much chaos. He was kind of in shock. How could one girl trigger such pandemonium in so little time? And really, she hadn't done anything particularly chaos-inspiring. It had all just happened, a series of unfortunate events that added up to a near cataclysm.

He smirked at the ceiling. He probably shouldn't be so entertained, but it was pretty hilarious.

His smile faded as his thoughts returned to Clio's "tour." How had she disengaged that spelled door? The ward was one of their best nonlethal lock spells. It must have been faulty. There was no other explanation.

Yet she'd put her hand on the door with such confidence.

And then there was the mystery of how she'd survived Viol's idiotic chain-reaction blast. If Andante or Ariose didn't get to him first, Lyre would be having a stern chat with his youngest brother about creating spells he couldn't control.

A regular shield cast was exactly what it sounded like—a simple barrier of condensed force that protected a daemon from physical attacks. The more magic the daemon fed into the cast, the more force it could withstand. But incubi weren't renowned for the strength of their magic, and regular shielding left them at a disadvantage.

The reflective bubble shield Viol had used to protect himself was one of Lyre's inventions. Since he hated making weapons, his largest contributions to Chrysalis came in the form of defensive spells, including a variety of reflective or absorptive shields that were far more powerful than regular shield casts.

So how had Clio, who didn't know his advanced shielding techniques, protected herself from an explosion designed to obliterate regular shielding?

A tap on his front door interrupted his thoughts. Without waiting for a response, Reed swung the door open and drifted into the main room as though he'd wandered inside purely by chance.

"What's up?" Lyre asked, not bothering to straighten from his slouch.

With the sofa taken, Reed pulled a chair out from the small kitchen table and dropped into it. He nodded at the steel ring in Lyre's hands. "Working on Eisheth's collar?"

Lyre grimaced. "Thinking about it, I guess."

"You have less than a dozen cycles to finish it."

"I know."

Reed leaned back in the chair, eyes half closed as he relaxed. "How did it go with the client?"

"Didn't you hear?"

"Ariose didn't offer any details."

Lyre spun the metal hoop again. "The envoy's name is Clio. She's a short blond girl who attracts trouble like a magnet and doesn't have a deceptive bone in her body. One exploded corpse just about made her faint, and I can't figure out what the hell she's doing here shopping for military spellcraft."

He could feel his brother's attention on him, but he didn't look away from the rotating collar.

"Why not just ask her?" Reed suggested. "Find out what her real intentions are."

"She won't spill her secrets just because I asked."

"Lyre." Reed gave him a long look. "You know what I mean. She's female. You can make her tell you whatever you want."

"She'd notice."

"Not if you do it right."

Lyre dropped his arms and the collar hit the floor with a clank. "I don't like doing that kind of thing."

"You can't be so soft," Reed said quietly. "Weak daemons don't survive long in Asphodel."

From anyone else, Lyre would have taken those words as a threat, but Reed sounded concerned. "If she were a different sort of woman, maybe. But she's…"

"She's what?" When Lyre didn't answer, Reed rubbed his face. "This is dangerous, Lyre. You can't sympathize with a client, especially an Overworlder. Our father and Andante are barely tolerating your… lack of commitment."

A polite way of referencing what Andante had called Lyre's "petty rebellions."

"Once things are sorted out from Viol's moronic weaving," Lyre said, "I'll finish my consultation with the girl and that'll be that. It doesn't matter why she's here. All I have to do is sell her some magic and send her home."

"I suppose." Reed pulled a metal disk from his pocket. "I need some help with this."

Rolling off the sofa, Lyre joined his brother at the table, and Reed explained the weaving he was working on. Of all his brothers, Reed was probably the most talented when it came to pure technical skill. He could weave anything, no matter how intricate or finicky. Lyre's technical finesse wasn't at the same level, but he excelled at problem solving, improvisation, and experimentation.

They often worked together, Lyre figuring out the problem and its solution while Reed did the actual weaving. Lyre enjoyed their tandem approach primarily because it meant fewer spells exploding halfway through the weaving.

Their father appreciated the results of their teamwork too, but when push came to shove, Reed's superior weaving skills trumped Lyre's slapdash ingenuity. Lyre was still the loser in his family's race for their father's approval.

He and Reed spent an hour going over the weaving before they were satisfied with the solution. After thanking Lyre, Reed wandered out again with the same apparent lack of direction as he'd appeared.

Lyre sat alone at his table, tapping his fingers on the sheets of paper covered in scribbled notes from their brainstorming, most of it his own scrawl, with only a few additions in Reed's neat print. The solution hadn't been difficult to puzzle through, but figuring out how to arrange the weave had taken longer.

He leaned back in his chair and stared around his house. The room combined a small kitchen with a table and chairs, and a living area with a single couch and way too many bookshelves. Just like in his workroom in Chrysalis, they were overflowing with texts, everything from spell-weaving theory to ancient histories. A few different styles of bows and several quivers leaned in the corners.

It was a mess, but it was a comfortable mess. His mess. Aside from Reed, he didn't allow any of his brothers—or his father—in his home. Or at least, he tried to keep them out. If they wanted to push the issue, there was nothing his elder brothers or father couldn't do to him.

Weak daemons didn't survive long in Asphodel.

Lyre had already survived surprisingly long, but he knew, as Reed did, that the tipping point was drawing near. Eisheth's collar weaving was the final push that would send Lyre plunging to his doom. The deadline had been set, and it would be either his salvation or his execution.

Abandoning the table, he stalked into his bedroom and changed clothes, donning fitted black pants, a long-sleeved shirt of soft navy fabric that clung to his torso, and of course his chain of defensive spells, tucked out of sight. He loaded a few more spells into his pockets, just in case, and strode to the door.

The cool night air filled his lungs as he stepped outside, but nothing short of a serious distraction would calm the simmer of dread that kept growing stronger. It was a warning that his time was running out.

Too bad there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Asphodel was more of a small town than an estate, but for every two daemons that lived there, another was a visitor. As the rulers of the largest and most powerful territory in the Underworld, the Hades family attracted a nonstop parade of sycophants and ass-kissers. Political allies, opponents, emissaries, ambassadors, petitioners, businessmen, traders, merchants, gold diggers—they all came to Asphodel to play the power game.

With so many visitors, Asphodel boasted an entertainment district so notorious Lyre wouldn't be surprised to learn it was infamous in the Overworld. From high-class clubs where patrons were pampered and fawned over, to dive bars where a daemon could get plastered, every possible amusement was available for a price.

That's exactly where Lyre was headed. He could walk into any establishment and be guaranteed endless distractions, mainly in the form of willing women. Some nights he went for easy marks, but most of the time he preferred to find a woman who thought she was immune to incubi charms. Then he would seduce her with his looks and charisma—and nothing more. No magic needed.

Even without aphrodesia, he never went home alone.

Finding a beautiful woman to distract him from the persistent anxiety he couldn't quite silence—that had been his plan. But halfway there, he found his mind lingering elsewhere. Lingering where it shouldn't be at all.

All the more reason he should have lost himself in some womanly charms. Instead, he wandered off course, walking the empty streets in aimless circles as his thoughts churned.

Eventually, he found himself ascending the stairs inside an empty guard tower on the edge of the canal that demarcated the business quadrant of the estate. Though it didn't look it, Asphodel was designed for defense. The canals running through the estate acted as moats. The bridges could be collapsed, cutting off invaders while soldiers rained attacks down on the enemy from the safety of the towers.

With no threats to worry about, the canal towers were hollow, unmanned structures. He climbed the stairs to the top and pulled open the panel walls to reveal the balcony that circled the upper level. From six stories up, he could see most of Asphodel, its lights burning like bloody stars.

He braced his forearms on the rail and stared across the vista until he found the dark line of the canal. He followed it a hundred yards, then traced another street, mentally following the familiar path. His gaze came to rest on a two-story building with its interior lights—a more welcoming shade of orange rather than reaper-red—still glowing.

A disgusted sigh escaped him. He'd reached a new level of pathetic. He couldn't stop puzzling over the envoy, and now he was spying on her.

Not that he could see much from the tower. The inn where Chrysalis sent all their guests who needed accommodations was far enough that he could only make out the shapes of windows and balconies. This was stupid. He should go home and work on that collar weaving instead.

A prickle ran down the back of his neck. He wasn't alone.

He strained his senses, searching for the source of the hunted feeling. A daemon was nearby. Someone dangerous.

Lyre whipped around and looked up.

The tiled roof, extending partway over the balcony, rose in a steep pyramid to the peak. Leaning casually on the slanted surface like it was a comfortable daybed was a man all in black—a very well-armed man. Lyre spotted two short swords strapped to his thighs, daggers and throwing knives everywhere, and another longer blade sheathed across his back with the hilt jutting above his shoulder.

A black wrap covered the lower half of his face, but when his piercing gray eyes flicked down, Lyre inhaled in recognition.

"Ash?" he blurted.

The draconian mercenary inclined his head in a casual, almost dismissive nod. Lyre stood frozen, unsure how to react. He hadn't seen Ash since the exploding collar incident. The change in his appearance—the different clothes and array of weapons—from the previous times Lyre had seen him made it obvious: Ash was working tonight.

But what would a mercenary be doing on the job in Asphodel? Normally, they sent mercenaries out on missions.

"Uh." Lyre raised an eyebrow. "Am I interrupting something?"

Ash shrugged, the gesture a scarce shift of one shoulder. Expressive guy.

Grimacing, Lyre glanced once more toward the distant inn. He wanted nothing to do with whatever job Ash was on, and coming up here had been stupid anyway. He was about to turn toward the stairs when movement on one of the inn balconies caught his attention. A small figure leaned on the railing, and light caught on her long blond hair.

He was too far away to make out any other details, but he knew it was Clio lounging on her balcony while she waited for Chrysalis to open again—in plain view of the mercenary reclined on the tower's rooftop.

A slow, sickening sort of dismay trickled through Lyre. This tower was the ideal location to monitor that inn—high vantage point, isolated, no lights.

"Are you—" Lyre bit off the question. If he pried into the business of a Hades mercenary, he'd be crippling his life expectancy.

But Ash was also an assassin, and he was watching Clio's inn. A very bad sign. Lyre couldn't get involved. He shouldn't. If Hades had decided she should die, there was nothing he could do to protect her.

Why was he even thinking about protecting her?

Ash rose to a crouch and hopped off the roof. He landed easily on the railing beside Lyre, balancing on the balls of his feet and unconcerned by the six-story drop to the cobblestone road. He tugged the wrap off his face, letting it hang around his neck as he watched the balcony where a red-haired figure had joined Clio.

"An Overworlder," Ash murmured. "Unusual visitor for Chrysalis."

Lyre nodded cautiously. "It doesn't happen often."

Still crouched on the railing like he could perch there all night without tiring, Ash braced his forearms on his knees. "She's your client."

A statement, not a question. "You're well informed."

"Information is a weapon."

"So you're well armed, then," Lyre said with a halfhearted smirk. "More so than was already obvious."

Ash didn't look amused. "Samael is well armed," he corrected.

Lyre shivered at the mention of the Hades warlord. "I didn't think he cared about Chrysalis clients."

Ash gave another slight shrug. "Any Overworlder presence in Asphodel requires monitoring."

Lyre relaxed. So it was just routine surveillance of an Overworlder. That made sense. A clever enemy could get a spy or assassin into Asphodel under the guise of a Chrysalis buyer.

He tipped his head toward the inn. "I don't think you need to worry about that one."

Ash glanced at him questioningly.

"Did you hear what happened earlier? The weaver who blew himself up?" Lyre asked. "She almost fainted."

Ash didn't appear skeptical—he didn't show much expression at all—but Lyre could almost hear his doubt.

"Give me a little credit," he added, folding his arms and leaning one hip against the railing. "An incubus can always tell when a woman is faking it."

Ash snorted quietly. Now he was amused. It was a reaction, at least.

"Still," the draconian said, "she's a nymph."

"So?"

Ash sat on the railing with his feet hanging over the drop. "Their caste ability is problematic."

"Ah." Lyre rubbed his jaw. "I'm embarrassed to admit I don't know anything about nymphs except that their territory is loaded with precious stones and metals."

"You let her in your facility without knowing what she can do?"

"I couldn't find anything on nymphs in our reference books," Lyre confessed. "Plus, it was someone else's job to approve their proposal. I'm just supposed to sell them shit."

The draconian surveyed him critically, his stare sending a shiver down Lyre's spine.

"Nymphs are magically weak," Ash said, "but their caste ability allows them to perceive magic in a different way than the rest of us. They have an intuitive understanding of how a cast or weaving works."

Lyre remembered Clio confidently slapping her hand against the spelled door. "So a nymph could, hypothetically, see exactly how to disengage a defensive weaving?"

Ash nodded.

Lyre whistled softly. "That is problematic."

With an ability like that, a nymph could walk through a town like Asphodel and undo any lock or defense spell they came across. They could escort a more dangerous foe—like an assassin—straight through the most heavily warded buildings.

Clio's insistence on a tour of Chrysalis made more sense now, as did the way she'd examined the different weavings he'd shown her. She'd seen far more than he'd intended, but knowing how a spell worked and actually weaving it were two very different things. He could watch an artist paint a masterpiece, but that didn't mean he could duplicate it. And most of Chrysalis's spells were the equivalent of masterpieces.

But still. He was irritated she'd manipulated him like that. She'd gotten to see more than she should have, including the spelled door. If she told anyone else how to disarm it…

"Damn," Lyre muttered. "Why didn't someone tell me about her caste ability? Sure as hell would've been good to know before now."

"It's not common knowledge. Nymphs portray their ability as seeing auras or just the presence of magic."

Lyre peered at Ash. "Why did you tell me, then?"

In the distance, Clio and her redheaded bodyguard went back inside. Ash turned away from the view and faced Lyre.

The draconian's expression was unreadable, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "You've been making collars for Eisheth for a few seasons now."

Lyre nodded cautiously. "Yes."

"They've all failed."

"I suppose they have."

Ash's face went even colder. "Do you expect something in return for that?"

Lyre stiffened in understanding. Forcing himself to relax, he slouched against the railing and rolled his eyes. "Something in return for me being a screwup? Since you seem to know everything about everything, you must know I'm the most pathetic weaver my family has seen in generations."

Ash's lips curved in a faint smile that chilled Lyre. "I know a lot more about you than that."

Lyre swallowed down an edge of fear. He might be five or six seasons older than Ash, but underestimating him would be a deadly mistake.

"And what you know," Lyre said warily, "Samael also knows?"

"Not always."

Interesting. Lyre debated how to respond. They both had too many secrets, and the never-ending need to consider and reconsider every word he spoke in case it was the wrong one was a relentless drain that wore him down to the bone.

And he was sick of it.

"I didn't rig the collars to fail to spare you," Lyre said abruptly. "I did it to spare myself."

A suspicious pause. "Meaning what?"

"Isn't it obvious? I don't want to create a spell to torture you. I don't want to torture anyone." Lyre shook his head, bitterness thick in his throat. "I've woven a lot of foul magic, but that's where I drew the line."

Ash watched him, his features still, his thoughts hidden.

"Do you regret it?" Lyre asked softly. "The things you've done because they gave you no choice?"

Something flashed in Ash's eyes and his gaze dropped—a silent admission of regret. His head snapped up again as he realized what he'd done.

Anger tightened his features and his irises darkened to the color of storm clouds. "I don't owe you anything."

"No, you don't."

Ash slashed an aggressive look over Lyre, cutting across him from head to toe, then strode the length of the balcony. Grabbing the railing, he vaulted over it and dropped out of sight.

Lyre stared at the spot where the draconian had vanished, listening. No crunchy splat of a body hitting the ground sixty feet below. So the rumors that draconians had wings under their glamour were probably accurate. It would explain Ash's carefree attitude toward heights.

Lyre leaned against the railing, letting some of the tension out of his back muscles. Spying on clients. Having casual conversations with mercenaries. He was living dangerously lately.

At the inn, Clio's balcony was empty, the windows dark. She and her bodyguards must be taking a nap. Either that or they'd left the inn. He hoped not. Asphodel wasn't a safe place at the best of times, but for an Overworlder, it was a hunting ground—and they would be the prey.

His thoughts returned to the new revelation about his client's unique ability. He mulled over the implications, then smiled. Ash might have insisted he didn't owe Lyre anything, but it seemed the draconian was still appreciative. He'd had no other reason to share what he knew about nymphs.

If information was a weapon, then—thanks to Ash—Lyre would be heading into his next meeting with Clio significantly better armed than last time.