Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

CLIO

Lyre spoke all of ten words to Clio before dropping her off at the reception desk. She watched him stride away with her lower lip between her teeth. Why had her request for a custom weaving upset him?

The receptionist had a daemon escort Clio, Kassia, and Eryx back to their inn. Eryx, his good humor back in full force, couldn't wait to see what sort of custom weaving Chrysalis would produce. Kassia was less pleased. Hanging around for an indeterminate amount of time while the master weavers designed a spell made her nervous, and she especially didn't like the idea of Clio sneaking around looking for those mysterious prototypes while they waited.

With deliberate snooping now part of the plan, they discussed a dozen different ways to ensure Kassia and Eryx could accompany Clio beyond the reception area, but Clio wasn't sold. The more people she brought with her, the harder it would be to sneak away from Lyre.

After two hours with no word from Chrysalis, Clio gave up on waiting and went to lie down. She didn't get nearly enough sleep before restless dreams pulled her awake, and she crawled out of bed with images of amber eyes and warm bronze skin burned into her memory.

"Thanks a lot, brain," she muttered as she got in the shower. She didn't bother with the heating spell, hoping the chilly water would settle her. The last thing she needed was to be all riled up before even seeing Lyre again.

Kassia met her in the bedroom as she padded out, wrapped in a fluffy towel.

"I was just about to get you when I heard the shower," she told Clio. "A messenger from Chrysalis stopped by after you went to bed. When we told him you were sleeping, he said he'd reschedule. We should have just enough time to eat before they come to get us."

"You should have woken me," Clio said anxiously, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding her towel in place with one hand. "I don't want to delay everything."

"You needed to rest. I asked the messenger about it, and he said different castes have different preferences on when to sleep, even Underworlders, so Chrysalis will accommodate whatever schedule is most comfortable for you."

Speaking of comfort, Clio glanced forlornly at her costume spread on the bed, waiting for her to put it on again.

Kassia noted the direction of her look. "I also mentioned we weren't prepared for a long visit. Someone dropped off a package for you about an hour ago."

She tipped her head toward the simple wooden dresser where a lumpy package wrapped in brown paper sat. Curious, Clio fixed her towel in place and pulled the paper apart.

A dozen garments spilled across the dresser, all different colors. She picked up a rose top with long sleeves in the same soft, unidentifiable fabric as the navy shirt Lyre had been wearing. There were more shirts, a sweater, two skirts, and a few pairs of pants in malleable fabrics.

"Wow." She stroked the rose shirt. "This is really nice."

Kassia smiled wryly. "They offered me and Eryx laundry services, but no new clothing."

Shooing Kassia out, Clio dried off. She found undergarments at the bottom of the pile and the rose shirt followed. It was too big, the long sleeves falling past her knuckles, but she didn't care—it was too soft to resist. She pulled on a pair of fitted black pants in another unfamiliar fabric and laced up the ties at each hip.

After braiding her damp hair and twisting it into a knot at the back of her head, she joined Kassia and Eryx to eat the meal provided by the inn—three salads full of unfamiliar leafy things that were quite tasty. She'd barely finished eating when a messenger arrived to fetch them.

Her nerves returned on the walk back to Chrysalis, but she couldn't help feeling lighthearted as the breeze tugged a few strands of hair loose from her bun. The sun was warm, the view was spectacular, and she felt properly energized after her nap. She was ready for Round Three with Lyre.

As they crossed the bridge over the canal, she paused at the railing, gazing down at the sparkling water. A bonus to the sunlight was that the creepiest town inhabitants were nowhere to be seen, and she didn't have that unsettling feeling of watching eyes from her previous trips through Asphodel.

In Chrysalis, a receptionist escorted Clio back to the meeting room. Her good mood dimmed as the minutes ticked by. Nice of Lyre to be so late.

When the door finally opened, she was ready to give him a piece of her mind, but the words died in her throat.

The incubus in the doorway was a stranger. Though his face was disconcertingly similar, he wasn't Lyre. Nor was he one of the two incubi who'd joined Lyre in the spell shop, or the younger one who had blown up the basement. How many near-identical incubi were there here?

The new incubus sank into the seat across the table and his amber eyes slid over her, taking in her new shirt before returning to her face.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Clio." His voice was a soft, deep croon. This incubus was even more flawless than Lyre—a little broader in the shoulders, a little taller, his features just a shade more chiseled and masculine. His hair was an inch or two longer, falling in his eyes and oh-so-touchable.

She realized she was staring as she did her mental incubus comparison and jerked her focus back on track. "Who are you? Where's Lyre?"

"I'm Madrigal. I'll be working on your commission."

"Why isn't Lyre doing it? He's my consultant."

Her sharp tone didn't faze him. "I'm afraid Lyre doesn't take commissions from external clients."

He didn't? Was that why he'd acted so cold when she'd said she wanted a custom weaving?

"I would prefer to work with Lyre."

"My apologies, Clio, but that won't be possible. Our master weavers have many varied skills, but not all are suited to this kind of commission work." Madrigal tilted his head, his smile conspiratorial. "To be frank, Lyre is too slow. You would be waiting half a season to get a custom weaving from him."

His tone sounded teasing, but she detected a note of arrogance. She wasn't sure what to think of this new incubus. She'd been getting to know Lyre, but now she was starting over from scratch with someone new.

"You said half a season. How long is that?" she asked.

"We have two seasons in the Underworld—a long summerlike one, and an equally long cooler season. One season —either cold or warm—is approximately one Earth year. It's how we mark time."

She drummed her fingers nervously on the table. "If it would take Lyre half a season to make a spell for me, how long will it take you?"

"Depending on what you require, two to six cycles—or one to three weeks, as you're accustomed to calling them."

Weeks. She didn't want to spend weeks here, but she didn't have much choice.

"Let's begin by discussing what you require for your custom weaving," Madrigal said, his perfect professionalism a stark contrast to Lyre's less businesslike manner. "Once I have an idea of what you need, we can discuss your budget."

She nodded cautiously, and he began a round of simple questions she did her best to answer confidently. Did she want an offensive spell, defensive spell, or something else? Did she want wide-ranging, destructive, lethal, debilitating but not lethal? The more he drilled into specifics, the sicker she felt. She'd come here to bring back magic that could win a war, but she had given little thought to what those spells would encompass. Lyre had hinted at it—more than hinted—but only now was it sinking in.

Whatever spell Madrigal created would hurt people. Kill people. And she would take that spell back home so they could recreate it.

After a few minutes, though, her unease faded. She shifted restlessly in her seat, struggling to focus. Madrigal's eyes drew hers like golden magnets. Her skin felt flushed, her body hot, her pulse racing in her ears. A soft, fluttery warmth turned over and over in her middle, dancing with the rise and fall of his crooning voice.

He said something she missed and rose from his seat. She watched blankly, transfixed by his graceful movements as he pulled his chair around the table and sat beside her. A spicy scent, underlaid with something citrus, filled her nose and she inhaled deeply.

Madrigal was pointing at something on the paper in front of them, but his eyes were locked on hers. He was so close. Desire sang in her veins and she needed to touch him. She needed him to touch her. Her skin burned for it, but she sat rooted to her chair, breathing fast but unable to move.

His fingers slid across the back of her hand, a whispery caress that sent hot shivers rushing up her arm. The burning need grew exponentially stronger with each stroke of his fingers. He slid his hand along her arm, pushing her sleeve up with the motion. She was almost hyperventilating as a desperate ache spread through her.

His perfect lips curved into a smile as he leaned closer—and a loud rap rattled the door.

Clio jerked in her chair, confusion piercing her hazy thoughts. Madrigal's touch disappeared from her arm as he shifted to put more distance between them.

"Yes?" he called.

The door opened and a daemon clad in a black uniform leaned across the threshold. "I have a message for the envoy from Irida."

"Deliver it, then." Madrigal extended his hand expectantly.

The daemon didn't move. "The message is for the envoy."

Madrigal dropped his arm, his irritation obvious. "Clio, darling, go fetch your message."

She obediently rose and stumbled around the desk. The daemon backed into the corridor, and she stepped out after him. He closed the door with a snap.

That simple sound was like a whip crack exploding in her foggy brain. The sensuous haze burst and panic roared through her. She almost fell, grabbing the wall for support as her limbs trembled.

Madrigal had … he had …

"Um … miss?"

She jerked her head up. The daemon stood a long pace away, watching her hang off the wall and hyperventilate. Pulling herself together, she straightened.

The messenger pulled a white envelope, sealed with black wax, from the inner pocket of his coat and extended it.

"What is it?" she asked, her fingers hovering above the crisp paper.

He waved the envelope in answer. Plucking it from his hand, she opened it. A single sheet of paper inside contained a few lines of elegant script, but her eyes locked on the lowermost line—the name of the letter's sender.

Samael of Hades.

Ice splintered in her blood, and she frantically skimmed the rest of the letter. It was an invitation to an event. An invitation from Samael, the warlord of Hades—the most powerful, most feared daemon in the three realms.

The messenger cleared his throat. "The warlord has generously extended this invitation to a prestigious event in celebration of what we hope will be the beginning of a prosperous relationship between Hades and Irida." He paused, waiting for Clio to meet his eyes. "It is an honor to receive a personal invite."

In other words, Samael would take her refusal as an equally personal insult. Her hand shook, causing the thick paper to flutter.

"I am… most honored… to accept."

"Excellent." The messenger took a step back. "As per the invitation, the event will be held at the Hades residence and will begin upon the falling of the next eclipse. A chauffeur will pick you up. The warlord looks forward to meeting you."

With a small bow, the daemon retreated, leaving her standing alone in the corridor.

She clutched the letter. It wasn't an invitation. It was a summons. The warlord of Hades wanted to meet her, and she had no idea why. But the very thought terrified her.

She turned back to the meeting room door and started shaking all over again.

Madrigal had caught her in his aphrodesia magic, and he'd done it so subtly she hadn't realized what was happening. But now, free of his influence, she had to fight not to vomit on the spot. If that messenger hadn't interrupted… would she have come back to her senses?

She realized her sleeve was still pushed up to her elbow where Madrigal had been stroking her arm. She yanked it down again. How had she let that happen? How had she not noticed what he was doing? She hadn't been watching him with her astral perception. He'd seemed so polite and professional at the start of their meeting that she hadn't considered him a threat.

She stared at the door. He was inside, waiting for her. Waiting to resume his deliberate seduction. Did he do that to all his female clients, or was he making an exception for her?

Well, she wasn't going back into that room. No way in hell. She spun on her heel and stalked down the corridor. Halfway to the lobby, her steps slowed. She looked around.

She was alone. Unescorted. In Chrysalis.

Exactly the opportunity she'd been hoping for.

With a quick grin, she whirled in the opposite direction and sped into the long, hushed halls of the facility.