Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

CLIO

Clio reached the top of the stairs at the same time the incubus appeared at the bottom. She looked over her shoulder as he drew his arm back and threw something. A gemstone hit her in the back just as she shoved through the door into the hallway.

Magic jolted through her body, and all her muscles went limp.

She took one flailing step and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Her muscles had gone weak, as if she'd run for hours. Arms straining, she rolled onto her back. Golden threads were glued to her arms and legs, draining her strength.

She couldn't see the full shape of the spell to remove it. Desperate, she dug her fingers into her chest and used her magic to rip at the weave. The dragging weakness lifted a fraction.

The incubus stepped into the threshold, blood trickling down the side of his face and a manic grin stretching his gaunt cheeks.

She flung her hand up and cast a band of force. He didn't bother to counter, trusting his shields to deflect it. But she hadn't been aiming for him. Her spell hit the open door and hurled it shut—right into his face. The steel slammed closed and a crash followed as the incubus fell down the stairs.

Clio scrambled to her feet. Her legs shook but she couldn't stop to remove the weaving that had turned her muscles to jelly. She had to get to the lobby—back to Kassia and Eryx.

She got three staggering steps down the corridor before a group of daemons in lab coats strode into sight. Their conversation died when they saw her. She spun and bolted in the opposite direction. At the first intersection of halls, she wheeled around the corner. Behind her, a door banged as the incubus burst out of the stairwell.

Recessed doorways filled the long hall. Nowhere to hide. She'd have to run. She took two staggering steps—and arms reached out from the first alcove and snatched her in mid-stride.

She was yanked against a hard body. Panic exploded in her head, and she writhed wildly, her enfeebled limbs shaking.

" Clio, " a voice growled in her ear.

She froze in disbelief, then her muscles gave out and she slumped into her captor.

"Lyre?" she whispered.

He pulled her tighter to his chest, his arm strong and unhesitating, and opened the door behind him. He dragged her through, then shut it and rekeyed the lock spell. She didn't have the breath to question him, to ask where he'd come from or what he was doing here. He hauled her through a dark, dusty room of library-like shelves filled with small wooden boxes and into the shadowy gap between two shelves.

With an arm around her middle, he dropped to his knees and pulled her down. As she kneeled across from him, he reached under the neck of his shirt and pulled out a chain. Colorful gems were attached to the silver links, and a small skeleton key with a ruby embedded in the bit hung in the center like a bizarre pendant. He slid his fingers down the chain and stopped on a pink stone.

The door at the end of the room rattled, then popped open. Light flooded in.

Lyre held the gem, ready to unleash its spell. Clio kept still, breath locked in her chest, her lungs straining for air—but she dared not make a sound.

Light flickered as the person in the doorway shifted, and then the door clacked shut again. She and Lyre waited, unmoving, listening for footsteps. All was silent.

Lyre let out a heavy breath and tucked his spell chain back under his shirt. Clio squinted at the spot where it had disappeared. She'd been too focused on the danger to check out the weaving he'd been prepared to use.

She opened her mouth to ask how he'd found her—and pitched face-first toward the floor.

Lyre caught her and eased her down, one hand under the back of her head to support her neck. Her limbs were barely responding to her commands, her strength drained from the weaving still webbing her body.

"A leech ailment," he muttered. "I can get it off you. Hold on."

She lay limp as he touched her skin between her collarbones. The room was so dark she could hardly make out his face.

"You saved me," she whispered.

He grunted in reply. His touch lifted from her throat. Then he pushed the hem of her shirt up and pressed three fingers to a spot above her belly button. She squeaked in alarm, weakly pushing her shirt back down.

He caught her wrists and pulled them out of the way. "Stop that. I'm trying to remove the spell."

She dropped her hands to her sides. His attention was fixed on her middle, his fingers lightly prodding her. Soft washes of magic tingled over her skin.

"How did you find me?" she murmured.

"Madrigal was looking for you."

"Buthow did you know I would be here?"

"I asked myself, ‘If I was a nymph with a death wish, where would I go?'"

She flinched. "I didn't… I mean, I?—"

"I don't want to hear your excuses."

His flat tone cut right through her. She cringed, trying to ignore his fingertips sliding from her middle to her left hip. In the darkness, his expression was invisible and not even his eyes gleamed bright amber like usual.

Her blood chilled as she realized his eyes weren't amber. They were as dark as the shadows. His temper was burning hot, and he was one small slip away from losing control.

"You know this area is restricted," he continued harshly. "If you're caught here, they'll kill you. If I'm caught helping you, my fate won't be much better."

Her blood went from moderately chilled to arctic ice. "But they wouldn't kill an envoy, would they? The political consequences?—"

"They'd call it an accident," he snapped. "Lots of apologies, a few expensive ‘so sorry' gifts, and everyone would move right on with their greed and ambition. But you'd be dead."

His hand shifted to her other hip, gentle and careful despite his anger. "Did anyone besides Dulcet see you?"

"Dulcet?" she mumbled.

"The incubus chasing you." He touched her left knee, then her right one.

"Just a few daemons in lab coats coming into the corridor, but they barely spotted me before I ran away."

As he lifted his hand from her knee, warmth and strength flowed back into her limbs. He pushed her sleeve above her elbow and moved his fingers to her inner wrist. She focused her astral perception and watched in amazement as the tangle of glowing threads spun apart beneath his touch, the runes dissolving one by one. He slid his fingers up her arm, the weave pulling apart obediently. When he reached the crook of her elbow, the rest of the spell on her limb faded to nothing.

He reached across her and pulled her other arm closer. She silently commanded her heart rate to slow as his fingers drifted across her skin. Another section of the spell dissolved, and he reached for her face.

She held her breath as he touched her jaw beneath one ear, then the other, then pressed each temple.

"Hold on," he muttered. "Dulcet has woven something else into this."

Lyre leaned over her and ran a fingertip over her cheekbone. She knew he was tracing a line of the spell. She knew that, but her skin still tingled and her heartbeat stuttered at the intimate touch.

He brushed his fingers across her other cheek, a whisper of magic trailing in their wake, then sat back on his heels and frowned down at her. His eyes were dark, but closer to bronze now than black. "There's still something there, but it will take too long to unravel right now."

Alarm flashed through her, and she pushed up on her elbows. "What is it?"

"I can't tell without more study. It's dormant, so he would have to activate it himself. Nothing to worry about if you stay away from him. It'll fade in a cycle or two on its own."

Lyre rose and held out a hand. She took it, enjoying the warmth and strength of his grip more than she should have. He pulled her up, and she regained her feet for all of two seconds before her knees buckled.

She grabbed his shoulders at the same moment he pulled her into his arms. How many times was she going to fall into his embrace? It was becoming a habit.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Did I miss part of the weave?"

"I'm fine," she mumbled in embarrassment, her legs trembling. "Just… just too much adrenaline."

She leaned against him, carefully testing her strength. It was hard not to think about the warm, firm muscles beneath his shirt or the strong embrace of his arms. It was hard not to think about how she wanted to press her hands to his chest and feel more of what his shirt was hiding.

He smelled so good. Spices and cherry. She wanted to breathe him in. She squeezed her eyes shut, wrestling with her runaway thoughts.

"Did he hurt you?" Lyre asked quietly.

"No," she whispered, though it wasn't quite true. Dulcet had thrown her around a bit. "He terrified me, though."

She didn't realize how tense Lyre was until she felt him relax—his body shifting subtly against hers and sending another blush raging into her cheeks.

"Dulcet terrifies me too sometimes," he admitted.

"Who is he?" she asked in bewilderment, forcing herself to step back. This time her legs supported her, but she didn't quite manage to let go of Lyre's upper arms. "Why are there so many incubi here who look like you?"

"I wouldn't say they look like me . We all look like our father."

Theirfather? She blinked dumbly, then the realization struck her like a splash of ice water to the face.

"Brothers?" she wheezed. "You're all brothers ?"

"Not every incubus here is my brother. But we're all related."

"How many brothers do you have?"

"Six."

"Holy crap." She pushed her hair out of her face. "Wait, who's number six? There's the two from the spell shop on Earth?—"

"Ariose and Reed," Lyre supplied.

"The younger one from my tour?—"

"That was Viol."

"Dulcet the Psycho, and Madrigal the Rapist?—"

Lyre snarled, his eyes flashing to black. "He didn't?—"

She shook her head quickly. "No, he didn't—he didn't do… that. But I think he was planning to… do… something."

Lyre bared his teeth.

"Who's your sixth brother?" she hurriedly asked.

Lyre took a deep breath and his irises lightened back to bronze. "Andante, the oldest. You'd be better off not meeting him."

Shivering, Clio let go of Lyre so she could wrap her arms around herself. "I'd like to not meet anyone else. What will happen now that Dulcet caught me in the basement?"

"Does he know who you are?"

"I don't think so."

"I doubt he'll report you. He hates paperwork, and frankly, he doesn't care about anything beyond his experiments. As long as you stick to the meeting rooms and lobby and don't wander around, you won't see him again."

She bit her lip. With no chance of finding the prototypes, she was stuck waiting for her custom weaving. And that meant facing Madrigal again. "Lyre, will you do my commission?"

"No."

She winced at his flat tone. "But Madrigal… I don't want to… I can't…" Unwanted tears welled in her eyes. "I couldn't stop him."

At her words, Lyre's irises flashed to inky black again. Rage slid across his features, and he strode away from her. Afraid to move, she watched him storm back and forth, hissing profanity and fighting for control with each step.

Where was the easygoing, teasing incubus from their last meeting? What had pushed him so close to savagery? The longer he hung on that edge, the more slippery his self-restraint would become.

He stopped and faced her. "Don't look into his eyes. Stay focused. Pain is a good counter, so pinch yourself if you get distracted. Get angry—stay angry. Awareness of what he's doing will keep your head clear, and you're already naturally resistant to his aphrodesia."

"I'm naturally resistant?" she repeated. "Why?"

"You're…" Lyre raked a hand through his hair, gaze darting away as though he didn't want to answer. "Aphrodesia doesn't work as well on virgins."

Her mouth fell open, her face flaming. "I—how—how did you?—"

He grimaced. "It's fairly obvious to incubi."

" How ?" she demanded, wishing she could crawl into a hole and die.

"Inexperienced women react differently to us. It's hard to explain."

She pressed her hands to her face, groaning quietly. Had all of them been able to tell? All six incubi? Was she essentially walking around with a big flashing "virgin" sign above her head? Ugh .

"Don't be embarrassed," Lyre said softly. "It's your best defense."

She shook her head. Her lack of experience in that department had never bothered her before—it was tough to find datable guys while in hiding on Earth amidst a horde of unappealing human males—but being exposed as a virgin to a bunch of the most sensual and attractive daemons she'd ever seen was mortifying.

Lyre took her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face. She looked up at him in surprise, her stomach swooping toward the floor.

"If experience in bed is what you want, I'd be happy to help you out before you leave." His dark eyes burned through her, stealing the air from her lungs. "For now, though, let's get you out of here before anyone else sees you."

Her heart lodged itself in her throat, cutting off her ability to speak. Lyre started toward the door, warm fingers still around her wrist. She stumbled after him, dizzy from her conflicting emotions. How could she feel apprehensive, exhilarated, disappointed, and scared all at once?

They slipped out of the storage room. Lyre moved cautiously, pausing at the corner to listen before continuing. Luckily, the hall was deserted. She could see the lobby at the other end—just past the door into the forbidden basement level.

Lyre picked up his pace, and Clio trotted after him, nerves clanging at the open stretch lined with recessed doorways. Her gaze fixed on the basement door, safely closed, and she hoped desperately it would stay that way.

She was so focused she didn't notice the other danger until Lyre's fingers clamped around hers. He yanked her sideways into the nearest alcove just as a pair of daemons appeared from the lobby, discussing a large schematic that one carried. There was no time to open the door beside them and nowhere to hide.

Lyre spun her around and pushed her back into the wall, bracing one arm beside her head. Then he pressed his body hard into hers.

She gasped, her brain going blank.

His mouth touched her ear, soft lips moving in a whisper. "Don't move."

She clenched fistfuls of his shirt. Footsteps sounded, drawing closer—drawing level with them. The daemons' conversation broke off. Once they'd passed, one of them chuffed under his breath.

"Those incubi," he muttered, sounding equal parts exasperated and admiring. "Nailing women right in the damn halls now."

Clio didn't move as the daemons continued down the corridor. Lyre's arm was beside her head, his face against her cheek—blocking her from view. The men could see only that she was female and wearing a lab coat, but nothing else that could identify her as a trespasser.

Lyre held as still as her, waiting as the footsteps receded toward the junction. He exhaled, his warm breath teasing her ear.

"Hey!"

She and Lyre tensed, but the hailing call was directed toward the other two daemons. Somewhere near the intersection, a third voice joined the original pair, and the trio began chatting about something in a rumble of conversation that wasn't moving anymore.

"Shit," Lyre muttered.

"Will they see us if we try to leave?"

"Probably."

Meaning they had to wait here until the coast was clear. Lyre knew it too, and he shifted his weight uneasily—which shifted the press of his body against hers.

It was stupid. It was ridiculously inappropriate. But suddenly she couldn't focus on the daemons only a dozen paces away. Suddenly her heart was pounding and her breath was coming quick. Suddenly she couldn't ignore the heat of his body, the spicy cherry scent filling her nose, the feel of him against her.

His hand closed over her hip, fingers digging in—but not in a painful way. In a way that made her blood race even faster.

"Clio," he hissed, her name heavy with warning.

She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but only a breathy sound escaped her.

" Clio ." This time he growled her name, and sizzling sparks of sensation rippled up her arms in a wave of gooseflesh.

"What?" she finally managed to whisper.

He pressed into her even harder, every line of his body molding against hers. Then his mouth caught her earlobe, hot and wet. A gasp escaped her, dangerously loud, and her eyes widened before falling shut.

Whatever he'd intended to say, he no longer seemed interested in communicating it.

His hand glided over her hip, his other arm still braced beside her head. She clutched his shirt, her mind empty. Should she be pushing him away? Should she be telling him to back off? Should she be doing something ?

Down the hall, someone barked a laugh. She hardly noticed.

Lyre's lips slid over the side of her neck, and she shivered from head to toe. He made a soft noise that sent heat diving through her, then his mouth closed over her skin. She instinctively arched her head back, as though that was the most natural thing in the world to do. And her hands, entirely of their own accord, ran up to his shoulders and curled over strong, sculpted muscle.

His mouth moved against her neck, finding the edge of her jaw. His sinful tongue teased and tasted—and every part of her brain was focused on each tiny, delicious sensation. She couldn't form a single coherent thought.

"Lyre?" She had no idea what she was asking.

His teeth grazed her jaw, then he pulled back enough so she could see his face—and his eyes.

Black, hungry, dangerous eyes.

His fingers slid into her hair, tilting her head back, and he leaned down, stopping with only a whisper of space between their lips. She couldn't move, locked in place, heat spiraling deeper and deeper through her center.

"Clio," he breathed. "Tell me to stop."

"W-what?"

"I can't…" His hand on the small of her back tightened, pulling her hips hard into him, and his voice roughened. "Tell me to stop. Make me."

Those midnight-black irises… he was losing control. Even though he knew he needed to step back, he couldn't do it.

She was trapped. He had her—a hand in her hair, another behind her back, holding her against him. His body pinned her to the wall, too strong and heavy to shift. What would happen if he lost control completely? What would he do?

Part of her really wanted to find out.

His breath warmed her lips, and then his mouth brushed across hers—a taste, a test. A promise of more. She almost moaned, her lips parting in anticipation. She slid her hands from his shoulders to his firm chest, fingers splayed over that silky soft shirt.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Then she slammed him with magic.

The blunt blow threw him backward, and he hit the opposite side of the alcove. She glanced once into his black eyes, then bolted from the doorway.

He didn't follow her.

The intersection was empty, the chatty daemons having departed. She flew down the hall, yanking the lab coat off as she ran. She dropped it behind her, leaving it for Lyre or someone else to collect, and didn't slow until she'd reached the end of the hall.

She took a moment to compose herself, then strode into the bright lobby. It was empty except for the receptionists, who didn't look up from their work.

Clio headed toward Kassia and Eryx, trying to calm the tremble in her limbs and hoping the flush in her face wasn't too obvious. Halfway to them, she paused to look back, simultaneously hopeful and worried that Lyre would appear.

He didn't.

She exhaled shakily and touched her lips—the lips he had almost, almost kissed. And she reluctantly admitted that her relief wasn't nearly as strong as the aching need he'd awakened.