Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

CLIO

Clio had done a lot of thinking about where the master weavers might keep their most dangerous prototypes. They were likely somewhere less accessible than the spell storage rooms Lyre had shown her during her Chrysalis tour. Somewhere out of the way and well guarded.

Lyre had given her a glimpse of a location that fit the bill: the heavily warded door in the underground level. When he'd taken her down there to use the passageway to the tower, he'd tried to block her view of that other door.

That was where she would start.

It took her ten minutes to find her way back to the lobby without running into any Chrysalis employees, but in the process, she'd stolen an unattended lab coat that someone had left hanging on a door handle.

Out of sight of the lobby, she pressed a hand to her chest and cast a cloaking spell over herself. True invisibility was impossible—unless Chrysalis had invented a spell for it without telling anyone—but cloaking spells made a daemon difficult to notice. It was perfect for sneaking around, so long as she didn't knock over any more potted plants.

She casually strolled into the open lobby. The receptionists didn't even glance her way, and the other Chrysalis employees were busy doing whatever it was they did. Kassia and Eryx sat in leather chairs, the former sitting alertly, the latter sprawled in obvious boredom. Clio wished she could bring them with her, but it would draw too much attention.

She ambled toward the corridor Lyre had taken her down earlier. It took a few tries to find the right door, but then she was descending the metal stairs, her heart rate increasing with each step. Anticipation and apprehension competed for dominance.

At the bottom, she faced the reinforced metal door with her hands on her hips and scrutinized the weaving with her astral perception, dissecting the various sections and layers. The complexity amazed her—and the violence woven into its threads frightened her. One mistake and the spell would extract a lethal price.

Touch the door in the wrong spot—dead. Tamper with the weaving—dead. Cast any kind of magic on it—dead. Even touching the right spot wasn't enough. It had to be unkeyed in a specific way too.

Her limbs jittered slightly with nerves as she finished her examination. She touched two fingers to a single glowing sigil. A flicker of magic. A flash of light. The bolt clacked and the magic dimmed, sleeping until it was reengaged.

She pushed the door open and cautiously peeked inside. Another hallway. How anticlimactic. Steeling herself, she hurried to the door at the other end. No deadly wards on this one, just a simple lock spell. Beyond it, she found a small antechamber, dimly lit by a single lamp on a desk near one wall. The room was empty and silent, with a strong air of neglect. At the opposite end were three halls, each labeled with a sign.

"Examination Rooms," she read in a whisper. "Equipment and Supplies. Subject Occupancy."

She stared at the third sign. Subject occupancy. Did they keep prisoners down here?

She took two steps before pulling up short, her attention catching on the wall behind the desk. Except it wasn't a wall. It was a hidden door that blazed with layer upon layer of constructs and runes, all connected by crisscrossing lines in an eye-straining tangle. Murky crimson stained the layered golden threads: blood magic.

She knew little about blood magic. It was difficult to weave, rare to see, and always nasty. This ward was keyed to specific daemons' blood, meaning no one but those daemons could get through the door.

Massaging her temples in concentration, she studied it a minute longer, then turned away. If she worked at it, she could probably figure out how to unravel the spell without getting herself killed, but once the weaving was undone, it would be gone. She couldn't replace it, and she wasn't ready to take such a drastic step.

She again considered the Subject Occupancy hall, then shook her head. The only reason Chrysalis might keep "subjects" would be to test spells on them. She didn't want to see what that looked like.

Instead, she started down the equipment wing. Doors lined the dim, dank hall, locked with simple wards she could easily undo. In the first room she found a bunch of tools—surgical knives, spellcrafting paraphernalia, gadgets she had no name for—all stacked haphazardly on shelves. No magic at all.

She slipped out and checked the next three rooms with similar results—nothing useful. Then she opened the fourth door.

Shelves of steel disks, metal spheres, collars, wristbands, handcuffs, belts, chains—all spelled. The sheer volume of magic overwhelmed her asper and she had to close her eyes.

Opening them again, she examined the nearest weavings. They were all designed for restraint and loaded with strengthening weaves and magic-dampening spells. A few even held paralysis spells.

She crouched beside a square basket half full of metal collars. Rejects, she realized. All the weavings were faulty or broken. She cautiously lifted the top collar off the pile for a closer look. This weavingwas designed to—to inflict pain? A collar that would torture its wearer?

"I'm still working on that design."

The collar fell from Clio's hands and landed on the pile with a clatter. She shot to her feet and whirled around, fright interrupting her astral perception.

A daemon leaned in the open doorway, one shoulder braced against the frame. Pale hair, a flawlessly handsome face, brilliant amber eyes. Another incubus. That made six now.

This one resembled Lyre the least. His hair was lighter, almost white, and his cheekbones were sharper. Or perhaps it was the sickly hollowness of his cheeks that gave his features that extra sharpness. His shoulders were narrow, with the thin limbs of someone who shunned physical activity.

"It's a beautiful weave though, don't you think?" he continued, his voice high-pitched compared to the other incubi. "I'll get it to work sooner or later."

Clio's blood roared in her ears like a thundering surf, and she fought to stay calm. He was talking to her like she was a weaver. Maybe he didn't realize she had snuck in. Maybe he thought she was supposed to be down here.

"It's… lovely," she choked out.

"I've been trying to perfect it for a couple of seasons now," he went on, his eyes gleaming strangely. "Finding the right melody has proven a challenge."

"M-melody?" Her gaze darted from the collar she'd been holding to the hall behind him. He was blocking her only escape.

He smiled. "The melody of pain. Suffering is its own kind of music—a song that rises and falls, increases in pitch and tempo… and builds into an exquisite crescendo."

She shuddered.

He stepped into the room, moving closer to her.

"Finding the right melody for the weave…" He hummed a few eerie notes. "Finding the right volume, the right tempo, that's what I haven't mastered yet. Get it wrong and the subject won't sing." He shrugged. "Or they die too quickly, and that's no fun at all."

"That sounds… very challenging," she whispered.

"Oh, it is. I never have enough subjects." His face pulled into a pout. "My brothers will only give me so many each season."

"Your brothers?" she repeated, edging sideways. If she could get past him, she could run for the door.

He casually stepped between her and the exit. The disconcerting gleam in his eyes brightened as his smile widened to show his teeth. His hand floated up, and he stroked his cool fingertips down her cheek.

"Can you sing, pretty one?"

Panic flared. "Pardon?"

In a flash of movement, his hand was around her throat. He slammed her back into the shelves in a crash of metal hitting concrete. She choked, clutching his wrist.

He leaned in until his nose touched her cheek and inhaled deeply. "Mmm. Lovely. How delightful that you've volunteered yourself as my next subject. I'm looking forward to hearing you sing."

"I…" She pried at his fingers. "I don't sing."

"Oh, I'm sure I can find the right melody for you." He slid his nose across her cheek to her ear. "I know how to make you scream for me all night long."

Terror eclipsed all thought and reason. She slapped her palm onto his face and unleashed an uncontrolled blast of magic. The force shoved him back, but most of it sloughed off him, diverted by a shield. She wrenched free of his grip and dove for the door.

He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back, tearing her braid out of its twist. She whipped around and flung another wild blast at him. A swirl of golden magic coated his hand. He batted her attack aside and threw her into the shelves a second time.

She bounced off and landed on her hands and knees as metal contraptions rained down on her back. Lurching up, she sucked in a breath and focused. Why was she flinging shapeless magic around? She knew more spells than most daemons.

Engaging her astral perception again, she glanced over him, seeing the intricately crafted shields that clung to his body like a second skin. She wasn't getting any attacks through those barriers, but maybe she didn't need to.

She formed a banded sphere of green light and hurled it at him. The bands opened and snapped around him like the bars of a cage.

He wove light through the air so swiftly she couldn't read it. With a flash of gold, her spell vanished like she hadn't even cast it.

"That was quite pretty," he observed. "I might have you show it to me again later."

She faced him, the door so close but too far to reach. She needed a spell with more firepower—something he couldn't brush aside.

Or maybe literal fire would do the trick. Lifting her hand, she summoned glowing lines that arched above her palm—a spell Kassia had shown her when she'd begun her spying missions for Bastian. The lines hit the floor and exploded into a wall of flame.

The incubus stepped right through the fire, the flames licking harmlessly at his shields.

She stumbled back, hitting the shelves behind her.

"That was another unusual cast." His glittering eyes drifted over her. "How intriguing. We'll delve into your knowledge of magic after we discuss how you found your way down here."

Light flickered over his fingers in a cast too rapid to follow. The realization that she was outmatched, that her astral perception and expansive spell repertoire meant nothing against a true master of magic, sent another wave of terror spinning through her head.

As he whipped the new spell at her, she conjured the only thing she could think of—the only cast she knew as advanced as his: the fancy shield she'd mimicked from the teenage incubus.

His spell hit her shield and bounced off it. The golden light rebounded across the short distance between them and slammed into the incubus, throwing him back into the shelves.

She didn't wait to see if he would fall, if he was hurt, if he was already coming for her. She hurled herself through the doorway and bolted down the corridor.