Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

LYRE

Lyre leaned casually against a wall, arms folded. The interior foyer, where the east and west branches of the building met, was mostly quiet, with only the occasional daemon or two passing through. Some of them greeted him, others just nodded, but he ignored them either way.

Twenty paces down the south hall were four doors, three open and one closed. The small meeting rooms weren't often used, so it was easy to keep track of them. The closed door was the reason he was loitering in the foyer.

Clio's third meeting with Madrigal was currently underway. Lyre had spied on the last one as well, and he couldn't quite describe his pleasure when, after an hour, Madrigal had stalked out of the room looking uncharacteristically pissed off. It seemed Clio had figured out how to shake off his aphrodesia. As long as Madrigal didn't grow desperate enough to really enthrall her, she should be fine.

Lyre tapped a finger thoughtfully against his chin as he waited. Once Clio was safely out of Chrysalis, with no more excursions through the building, he could get back to work. This hadn't been his most productive cycle.

The meeting room door popped open, and Madrigal stepped out, his body language stiff with annoyance. His dear brother wasn't accustomed to rejection.

Clio appeared in the threshold behind him, her blond hair pulled into a high ponytail and her small frame clad in dark, fitted pants of a common Underworld style and a green scoop-neck sweater at least two sizes too large. She folded her arms and cocked her hip, her mouth moving in words he couldn't hear but imagined were scathing.

Madrigal shooed her back into the room, shut the door, and strode away, likely to alert reception to send an escort to take her to the inn. Another point for Clio.

Lyre's neck prickled, and he pivoted. Two feet away, the last incubus he wanted to see smiled at him.

He sprang away from the wall with a snarl. "What the hell, Dulcet?"

His younger brother shrugged. "You looked distracted."

"And that's a good reason to sneak up on me?"

Dulcet nodded, and Lyre flexed his jaw. Despite having six brothers, Lyre only cared to spend time in the company of one—and if there was a family member he could kill without a flicker of guilt, it was Dulcet. He'd be doing all three worlds a favor by ridding them of that twisted mind.

However, that was assuming Lyre could kill Dulcet, which he seriously doubted. Despite being younger, Dulcet had surpassed Lyre years ago in both weaving skill and unchecked sadism.

"What do you want?" Lyre asked icily.

Dulcet hummed a few notes of a song as he picked at something under his fingernail. "I wanted to ask a favor."

"Oh, that's easy. My answer is no."

Dulcet pouted. "But you haven't heard the favor yet."

"Don't need to."

Lyre started to walk away, but Dulcet stepped in front of him.

"Brother, brother," he chanted. "Don't be that way. It's not a difficult favor."

Lyre rolled his eyes. "Fine, tell me. Then when I still say no, you can get lost."

"Lyre, why are you always like this? We have so much in common. We should be good friends—the closest of brothers."

"Wow, that sounds delightful. We can bond over all the mangled corpses in your secret lab."

Eyes gleaming, Dulcet tapped Lyre's chest. "Don't be silly. We have more than that in common. We're the nearest in age—I'm only two seasons younger than you."

"So?"

"And we're the smartest of our brothers. The true inventors."

Dulcet walked around Lyre, reaching out to tap his shoulder. Lyre stepped away and turned, not allowing his brother behind him.

"I'm better at weaving than you," Dulcet continued, "but you're just as gifted at creation as I am." He paused, as though waiting for Lyre to thank him for the compliment.

"Problem is," Lyre said instead, "you only create variations of two things. So, really, I'm the better inventor."

"I make more than two things."

Lyre held up a finger. "Weavings that hurt people." A second finger. "Weavings that kill people."

"I make more than that," Dulcet insisted.

"Give me an example."

Dulcet frowned, then shook his head and brightened again. "Why don't we work together, then? Imagine what we could weave."

"I'll pass."

"But Lyre?—"

"Forget it, Dulcet. I don't want anything to do with your inventions. Go back to your evil laboratory and leave me alone."

Dulcet rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "I still need to ask my favor."

Sighing, Lyre waved his hand. "What is it?"

"It's quite easy, like I said. I want you to give me the Iridian envoy."

Lyre quashed his sudden fear. "The envoy?"

"She's your client, yes? Give her to me. I'll finish her consultation."

"You've never done a consultation in your life."

"It's not a difficult job." Dulcet clasped his hands together like a pleased child. "You hate it, so I'll do it for you."

Lyre worked to keep his expression mildly surprised. Dulcet must have asked around about a blond girl until he connected the intruder in the basement with their Overworld customer. It seemed he didn't know Madrigal had taken over Clio's consultation from Lyre. And now, for reasons Lyre didn't want to think about, Dulcet wanted access to Clio.

"You terrify everyone you meet," Lyre told him bluntly. "I can't think of anyone more unfit to work with a buyer, especially an Overworlder."

"I'll make sure not to be terrifying."

"Forget it, Dulcet. Andante was clear he didn't want this transaction to go sour."

Dulcet's face hardened slightly. "Since when do you care about Chrysalis's success, Lyre?"

"Since it's my neck on the line this time."

Dulcet smiled, his expression soft and almost angelic, and the eerie gleam in his eyes intensified. "I would be very happy if you gave me the envoy."

Lyre tensed. "I said no."

"Are you sure you won't reconsider?"

"I'm sure."

"Hmm." Dulcet's sweet smile stretched into a grin. "But are you… really … sure?"

He snapped his fingers, and magic burned through Lyre's body. His muscles seized. He fell back against the wall, mouth open in horror but unable to make a sound as Dulcet grabbed the front of his shirt and pinned him in place before he could collapse.

"You forgot the third kind of weaving I specialize in," Dulcet crooned. "Bindings."

Why had he let Dulcet touch him? He should have activated his defensive weaves the moment Dulcet had appeared.

With his other hand, Dulcet pulled a sobol from beneath his lab coat. A small open hoop tipped the thin black rod, and in the center, blue light crackled. Sobols were the primary tools the bastille's jailors used to control prisoners, and it was universally feared—for good reason.

Dulcet jammed the end of the rod against Lyre's side. Fiery agony exploded into his core like lightning ripping through his muscles. Boiling oil seared his nerves. His limbs jerked weakly, unresponsive beneath the binding weave he'd stupidly allowed his brother to cast on him. He couldn't even make a sound.

Dulcet nonchalantly dug the weapon into Lyre for another few seconds before pulling it back. He pressed his other arm harder against Lyre's chest, keeping him upright while also compressing his lungs.

"I rarely ask for favors," Dulcet said pleasantly. "A considerate brother would agree to my request with good-natured grace."

He tapped the sobol against Lyre's lowest rib, sending a bolt of agony tearing through the bone and into his spine.

"Are you a considerate brother, Lyre? Will you agree to my request?" Dulcet leaned closer and dug the sobol in again, the blinding torment splintering through Lyre's body. "Or should we take this conversation downstairs, hmm? See if I can bring you around to my way of thinking?"

Sparks flashed across Lyre's vision from the relentless agony, and he knew he was about to pass out. If Dulcet got him into the basement, it would be hours before anyone came looking for them. Dulcet could do a lot of damage in a few hours.

A flash of movement from behind Dulcet.

Ponytail swinging and blue eyes blazing, Clio barreled down on them. She drew the thick binder in her hands back, then swung it with every ounce of her strength.

It slammed into the side of Dulcet's head.

The blow hurled him sideways. If his defensive weaves had been activated, the impact would've barely unbalanced him, but instead, he went down on one knee.

As Lyre slumped down the wall, Dulcet twisted to see who was attacking him. Clio already had that binder raised over her head, and she brought it down right on top of his skull.

Crack. Dulcet hit the floor, stunned and gasping.

"Lyre!" Clio tossed the binder aside and dropped to her knees beside him where he was slumped against the wall, unable to move. "What did he do to you?"

If Lyre hadn't been in such agony from the sobol, he would have been mortified that she was seeing him helpless. She swiped a hand across her face as though brushing invisible hair away, and her gaze flicked over him. She pressed her palms to his chest. Hot magic shot into him, and the binding released.

Lyre sucked in a breath as his lungs started working again—then lunged forward to grab Clio around the middle as Dulcet snatched her by the hair. Clio shrieked as they pulled her between them.

"Give her to me," Dulcet snarled, still on his knees, blood dribbling down his face from his hairline. "She's mine ."

Muscles quivering and nerves screaming, Lyre cast a burst of incandescence. Dulcet jerked backward, blinded, and Lyre yanked Clio out of his grip. He swung her behind him as he staggered to his feet.

Clutching a handful of gemstones from his pocket, Dulcet sprang up and hurled a stone. Lyre cast his best shield. The gem hit his barrier and exploded in a rain of lightning.

"Get a grip, Dulcet!" he shouted. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"You won't give me the girl," Dulcet snarled.

He lunged at Lyre, magic crackling over his fistful of spells. Lyre yanked out his chain of lodestones.

Then Clio popped up beside Lyre, a black rod in her hand—the sobol Dulcet had dropped. Teeth bared, Dulcet changed direction, reaching for her.

The three of them slammed together. Dulcet grabbed Clio's wrist, already casting. Lyre caught her from behind, his weave spinning over her in a skintight shield to counteract Dulcet's attack.

And Clio, mashed between them, jammed the sobol right into Dulcet's face.

His brother didn't even cry out. His eyes rolled up, and he went over backward, unconscious before he hit the floor.

Clio went limp too, the sobol clattering on the tiles and her dead weight almost pulling her from Lyre's grip. He heaved her up again, but she hung limply in his arms, her face slack.

He pressed a hand to her face. The remnant of Dulcet's leech ailment, the one Lyre hadn't had a chance to remove after getting her away from him last time, pulsed with renewed magic. Dulcet had reactivated the spell to incapacitate Clio.

Lyre relaxed. Not lethal. He could get the leech weave off her.

A tiny noise—a female whimper—brought his head up. A receptionist stood across the foyer, her jaw slack and face white as the walls. Lyre twitched his shoulders, uncomfortably aware of the lifeless nymph hanging in his arms and the unconscious incubus on the floor.

"You didn't see anything," he told her.

She nodded quickly.

"Go back to your desk."

She opened her mouth but only a squeak came out. Clearing her throat, she whispered, "I'm supposed to… take the envoyback?—"

"I'll take care of it."

"Yes, sir." The receptionist gestured hesitantly at the floor. "She… she took my binder."

Lyre looked down at the massive tome of papers at his feet, the binder's spine torn from the force with which Clio had swung it into a certain incubus's skull. He planted one foot on it and kicked. It slid across the floor to the receptionist.

She grabbed the binder and took off.

Lyre glanced at Dulcet, downed by a sobol to the face. He considered his options, then shrugged, scooped Clio into a bridal-style carry, and walked away. Someone else could deal with the unconscious incubus.

Lyre moved through the halls with a purposeful gait, ignoring the surprised stares of the daemons he passed. It was hardly the strangest sight any of them had seen in this building. On the upper level, he shifted Clio around to free one arm, tapped his door to unlock the wards, and pushed it open with one foot.

Inside his workroom, he locked them in, then carried Clio to the sofa and laid her across it. Her forehead scrunched and her eyes spun wildly around the room.

"You're conscious," he commented. "I wasn't sure."

She wheezed, unable to speak.

"Don't worry, it's just that leech spell. I'll get it off you properly this time." He sat on the edge of the cushion and tapped his fingers against her middle, squinting to bring the weave's shape into sight. The outer layer was, as expected, a complete nightmare. Dulcet's weavings never followed logical patterns.

Closing his eyes halfway, Lyre stretched his senses out, feeling the shape of the weave, finding the familiar constructs, angles, and threads buried in it. He moved methodically from Clio's throat to chest to arms and legs, plucking apart the threads with touches of magic. The weave dissolved piece by piece.

With her body freed from the paralysis, he shifted off the sofa and knelt in front of her. She pushed herself up and turned to face him, her cheeks flushed and lips pressed tight.

Studying the final remnant of the spell, Lyre traced a line across her jaw. Magic could be woven through bodies as easily as through stone or metal, but the former didn't hold the weave as well. Spells tended to muddy and tangle and turn into a big mess inside a body.

Turning her head, he followed the line down the side of her neck and found the knot where Dulcet had buried the "switch" part of the spell, which allowed him to turn it on and off without dissolving the entire weave. A dart of magic unraveled the runes and circles, and with that, the last of the weave broke apart and faded to nothing.

With the spell taken care of, Lyre's attention shifted back to Clio—and he remembered he was supposed to be keeping his distance from her.

She watched him with huge eyes, a pretty pink blush still staining her cheeks. Her lips were parted and her hand hovered in the air, fingers almost touching his arm. His hand was curled around the side of her neck, her skin warm under his fingers, her hair brushing his knuckles.

Cautiously, almost like she wasn't sure it was a good idea, she closed her fingers around his wrist, pale porcelain against his golden-brown skin. He expected her to yank his hand away. He expected her to recoil from him. But she didn't.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

He was fine. Totally, absolutely fine—except for the part where he couldn't pull his hand away from her warm skin.

No doubt about it: she destroyed his self-control. The moment she got close, he forgot the meaning of the word.

He didn't decide to slide his other hand up the outside of her thigh to her hip, or to curl his fingers around her waist, or to pull her closer, drawing her forward on the cushion until her lean thighs straddled his hips.

Her soft gasp of surprise was almost too much for him. She stared into his eyes, surprised but lacking even a hint of fear. Trusting. Expectant. Innocent.

He slid his thumb along her jaw. Her lips were so close. He wanted her mouth.

The slightest pressure from his hand guided her face closer to his. Her breath came faster, her cheeks flushed. She wanted this. She wanted what he could give her.

They want it, brother. All of them.

The memory of Madrigal's voice cut through him, and he crashed back to reality. He jerked backward, snatching his hand away. Shock splashed across Clio's face at his sudden recoil. He stood, trying not to look guilty. Had he used aphrodesia on her? He didn't know, couldn't be sure.

Perched on the edge of the sofa, she stared up at him. He searched her face for signs of enthrallment, but all he saw was confusion and a hint of hurt at his rejection.

Her gaze dropped from his, and she gasped. "You're bleeding!"

"Huh?" He looked down, surprised to see the dark stain on the side of his gray shirt. Dulcet must have done more damage with the sobol than Lyre had realized. "What do you know? I am."

Before he could check the injury, Clio sprang to her feet, grabbed his arm, and forced him down onto the sofa. Crouching beside him, she peeled his shirt from his side and pulled it up to reveal the oozing lacerations where his skin had split. Lovely.

He started to stand again but she shoved him back.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"Getting the first aid kit?"

"I can do that. Where is it?"

"I can?—"

"You can sit right there! I'll do it." She glared at him. "Where's the kit?"

"Umm…" He gestured toward the cabinets along the wall. "Somewhere over there?"

She hastened in that direction and started pulling cupboards open. The second one disgorged an entire box of charcoal pencils over her feet, and he grimaced. Well, if tidiness wasn't high on his priority list, who could blame him?

He leaned back on the sofa, watching Clio urgently sift through the piles of junk. Was she that concerned over a little blood? His side hurt like he'd been kicked in the ribs, but the wound wasn't serious. Yet, every few seconds, she glanced over as though expecting him to collapse from blood loss.

A tiny smile tugged at his lips, but he quashed it. He didn't need her thinking he was laughing at her on top of rejecting her.

He let his head fall back, sighing soundlessly. She had a sinful talent for shattering his self-restraint. And now she was in his workroom, and they were alone. Until he knew Dulcet was back in his favorite dark basement, it wasn't safe for her to leave.

He closed his eyes. Shit.