Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

CLIO

Clio peeked at Lyre. Eyes closed, he slumped on the sofa. How badly was he hurt? What exactly had Dulcet done to him?

When the receptionist had come to get her, she'd looked down the corridor and spotted Dulcet pinning Lyre to the wall. She hadn't even stopped to think. She'd run toward them, knowing she had to help Lyre.

She glanced again at his bleeding side and wished she'd whammed that binder into Dulcet's head a few more times.

She finally found the first aid kit and carried it back to Lyre. He cracked one eye open as she sat beside him and flipped the box open. It was a basic kit, just bandages, gauze, and a few other odds and ends. She pulled out the gauze and lifted his shirt. He watched her mop the blood from his side, hardly flinching. Once cleaned, the wound didn't look too terrible—a few lacerations and some redness that would probably darken into a bruise.

"Would you like me to heal it?" she asked.

"Nah, wouldn't be worth the effort." He sat up. "It'll heal on its own in no time."

She nodded. Magical healing was exhausting for the healer and patient both, and generally reserved for serious injuries.

He reached for the bandages, and she swatted his hand away. "I can do it!"

He arched an eyebrow. "So can I?"

"Let me help." She pushed on his shoulder, and he leaned back again. Biting her lip, she took longer than necessary to cut a few pieces of gauze. "Should Ihave not hit Dulcet?"

"What?" Lyre blinked at her. "Clio, I will treasure that memory for the rest of my life."

"Huh?"

He smiled with deep satisfaction. "I've wanted to punch him in the face for years. Watching you crack his skull was the next best thing."

"Oh." She pressed gauze to his side. "It wasn't bad, then?"

"Well." He shrugged. "It wasn't smart of you to get involved, but…"

She glanced up.

There was no flippant humor in his expression as he murmured, "Thanks for your help."

Feeling another blush coming on, she could only nod. Leaving the gauze stuck to his side, she measured out a few pieces of white medical tape and fixed the bandages in place. Sitting back, she examined her work, proud of the neat job—and extra proud that she hadn't swooned over his sculpted abs or stroked his smooth golden skin.

As she shoved the supplies into the kit, he pushed off the sofa, crossed to the cupboards, and opened one, exposing a stack of fabric in muted colors. He pulled a piece out and shook it to reveal a clean shirt with crease marks from being folded too long.

Then he grabbed the back of the shirt he was wearing and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion.

Clio's stomach flip-flopped and she told herself to look away, but her eyes refused to shift. He tossed the bloody shirt into a corner, the muscles in his back flexing, and pulled the new garment on. He turned as the fabric fell into place, giving her a brief, mouthwatering view of his bare torso.

She swallowed hard and refused to think about what it would be like to touch him. "Are you all right? You're not injured anywhere else?"

He rolled his shoulders. "Only my pride."

"My pride has taken a hit too since coming here. These incubi, you know, they really go for the low blows."

Humor lightened his eyes. "They're a bunch of sneaky bastards, aren't they?"

"Especially those brothers."

"Definitely the brothers." He tilted his head questioningly. "How's it going with Madrigal?"

"Your tips have been a big help. I've been mostly staring over his shoulder, staying as angry as possible, and watching how much aphro—" She almost bit her tongue off, realizing she'd been about to reveal she could "see" aphrodesia magic.

"Glad you've got it under control," Lyre said.

"He seems really ticked off at me." A shiver ran through her. "Is there anything else he can do?"

Lyre walked to the long table at the other end of the room and dropped onto the spinning stool. "As long as you don't look into his eyes, he shouldn't be able to enthrall you unless he releases his glamour."

Enthrall her? That sounded more serious than mere seduction. What did incubi look like out of glamour? Were they more irresistible or less? She honestly couldn't imagine Lyre being any more alluring.

"Why does that make a difference?" she asked.

Shrugging, Lyre turned to the table and picked up a metal disk. Clio watched him for a moment, then peered around the room. A workroom, obviously, though it reminded her more of an artist's studio. Overflowing bookshelves, cluttered cabinets, and a long table buried under piles of… stuff .

She leaned closer to the shelves, scanning the technical weaving texts. Near the bottom, a variety of history and geography books were crammed into a corner, and their spines were noticeably more creased than the other texts.

Rising to her feet, she crossed the room to join him. "Lyre…"

He glanced up, his questioning amber eyes stealing her breath.

"Thank you for saving me from Dulcet," she said. "I'm sorry forhaving to…"

His gaze dropped back to the disk. "I'm sorry for making you do that."

She looked across the table, then focused her astral perception. Every object scattered across the wooden surface glowed with golden weaves—everything except a steel collar. Blinking away her enhanced vision, she picked up the collar and turned it over. Fingerprints smudged the shining metal as though Lyre had handled it frequently, but no magic imbued the metal.

"Clio." Lyre propped one elbow on the tabletop, watching her with a serious stare. "You need to go home."

She looked up with a frown. "What do you mean?"

"You've worked out your commission with Madrigal, haven't you? You don't need to wait here while he weaves it. Return home and have him bring the spell to Earth for your approval."

"But isn't it easier if I wait here?"

"Easier but not safer. Dulcet knows who you are, and he wanted to get his hands on you even before you smacked him around." Lyre grimaced. "Dulcet likes to experiment, especially on interesting ‘specimens' like Overworld nymphs. He doesn't care much about what's allowed or not allowed. You need to leave before he can do anything else."

Ignoring a sharp stab of fear, she leaned her hip against the table. "I can't leave yet. We don't have the spells we need, plus I wasinvitedto this thing."

"What thing?"

"I'm not sure exactly. A dinner? A party? Some kind of political function at the Hades residence."

The way Lyre's face paled did nothing to help her nerves. "Samael's residence?"

"Is it that bad?"

He rubbed his forehead. "Probably not? If you stick to the main areas and don't let anyone—especially Samael—convince you to go off somewhere private. Are your bodyguards going with you?" At her nod, he relaxed. "You should be fine then. When is it?"

"At the eclipse."

"Almost a half cycle still," he murmured, glancing at the narrow window above the desk where only thick darkness was visible. "That's a lot of time for Dulcet to catch you alone. You need to stay close to your guards and avoid coming back here."

She didn't ask if Lyre would help her. His brother had already attacked him, and she couldn't ask for anything more. She didn't even know why he'd helped her as much as he had.

Needing a distraction, she waved the steel ring. "What's this?"

"A collar."

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously. But it doesn't have a spell in it."

"I haven't invented the spell yet."

"What will it be?"

He returned his attention to the disk he held. "Something unpleasant."

Lowering the collar, she studied him. "You don't want to make it, do you?"

"No."

"Then why not refuse?"

"If I could do that, I would have."

"Why can't you? Would you lose your job if you turned down a commission?"

He glanced at her, his expression incredulous, then refocused on the disk. "Something like that."

She set the collar on the table and pointed at the disk. "What's that spell, then?"

He shrugged.

Curious, she shifted closer to him and focused her astral perception on the disk. The weave glowed, showing her six layers of runes and circles. A communication spell, she realized. Something that could pass messages across distances. That would be useful if Irida ended up at war with Ra, wouldn't it?

"It doesn't work," Lyre said, the nearness of his voice startling her. She'd shifted closer to him than she'd realized. "It should work. The theory is sound. But I guess I messed something up. What do you think?"

When he held it up for her inspection, she pointed without thinking. "There."

"Where?"

"The second layer, with the six runes and the triangle? That spot is broken."

"It's not broken. It's supposed to look like that."

She plucked the disk from his hands and raised it toward her face. "Well, that's the spot that doesn't work. This here"—she traced a line—"flows like it should, but it hits that triangle thingy and everything gets kind of fuzzy."

"Fuzzy?"

"The weave is muddied. I've seen it before with spells that aren't properly balanced."

"Huh. So … wait."

He took the disk back and slid his fingers across it. She watched in amazement as the spell's layers shifted and twirled, and the triangle shape rotated ninety degrees. He lifted his hand and the threads settled again.

He held it up. "How about now?"

She leaned closer. "You fixed it! It's perfect now. I bet it will work just fine."

"Well, damn." He set the disk on the table. "That's been stumping me for three cycles. Those nymph eyes of yours are quite useful, huh?"

"They do come in handy some… times…" She trailed off, her mouth falling open in horror as she belatedly clued in to what he'd said—and what she'd revealed.

Lyre smirked, oozing satisfaction.

"You—I mean, I didn't— gah! " She pressed her hands to her face. "I am so stupid."

He chuckled. "Don't worry. I already knew."

"You did? But how did you—wait." She stiffened. "You set me up just now, didn't you? You tricked me into giving myself away!"

"Hmm. Yep, pretty much."

She spluttered, embarrassed and furious. "You knew how to fix that spell all along."

"I had no idea what was wrong with it." He smiled smugly. "Two birds, one stone."

Growling wordlessly, she lurched away from the table, turning her back on him, but he caught her wrist. His firm tug spun her around, and she stumbled to a stop inches from where he sat on the high stool, her hands resting on his chest.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice deeper, his eyes darker.

She swallowed. "I'm going… back to the inn?"

"Not yet. We need to wait to make sure Dulcet is gone first."

"Oh." She couldn't move. She was falling into his eyes, lost in the shadowed amber. She wanted to lean closer. She wanted his lips on her skin again.

His warm hand curled over her hip. "I won't tell anyone about your nymph eyes."

"I'm not worried about that," she replied, breathless and barely aware of what she was saying.

"No?"

His fingers pressed into her hip, and he drew her closer until she was pressed fully against him. Now she definitely couldn't breathe. Their faces were so close. She was staring at his mouth, his lips parted slightly in invitation.

The disk on the table fizzed. Blinding light flashed.

Lyre grabbed her as the disk exploded. She hit the floor, Lyre landing on top of her. Light blazed wildly and sparks rained down on them. When the fireworks stopped, he propped himself up on one elbow and glanced at the smoking table.

"Guess the spell wasn't fixed after all."

"Guess not," she agreed weakly.

"I thought you said it looked good?"

"It did."

"Huh. Well, starting from scratch now, I suppose."

She nodded distractedly. He was lying on top of her, his body warm and hard. His darkening eyes met hers. That hungry stare. Just like in the alcove. Just like on the sofa.

For a moment that seemed to last an hour, he watched her, his face so close. Then his jaw tightened, and he pushed himself up. Rising to his feet, he offered her a hand.

She let him pull her upright, confused by his hot and cold responses. One minute it seemed like he wanted to "tear her clothes off," as Kassia had put it, but the next he was pulling back and acting like nothing had happened.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Whatever the reason, it was good he kept pulling back because she had consistently failed to resist him. Withstanding Madrigal's aphrodesia-fueled attempts to seduce her was straightforward, an exercise in willpower and diligence more than anything else. But with Lyre, she couldn't keep her head on straight—and he wasn't even using magic on her.

As he checked the spellwork on the table for damage, she focused her astral perception again. Dim wisps of golden magic eddied around him and clung close to his body. Having seen the thick swirls of aphrodesia that Madrigal could fill a room with, the magic around Lyre was almost nonexistent.

Either he was being exceptionally subtle, or that faint presence of aphrodesia was beyond his control. He might not even be aware of it.

He tossed the blackened disk into a waste bin in the corner, then threw a few charred arrow shafts in after it. She joined him at the table and wiped a finger through the layer of soot.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I should have realized it was unstable."

"My fault." He grabbed a ratty cloth and scrubbed away the worst of the stain. "Altering a weave after the fact is always risky."

"Your reflexes are excellent," she commented, wondering how much that blast would have hurt if he hadn't thrown her to the floor.

"Things blowing up is fairly routine around here, as you've seen." He smiled at her in a way that made her instantly wary. "Now that we aren't pretending you don't have mystical all-seeing eyes?—"

"They're not all-seeing . And it's called astral perception."

He grinned and scooped an arm around her waist. She squeaked in surprise as he swept her around and pushed her down on his stool. She was still mentally catching up when he plucked two arrows from the table and held them up.

"Which one is better?"

"Which arrow? They look the same."

"Which weaving ."

She crossed her arms. "I am not your spell-viewing monkey."

"I thought you wanted to see all the magic around here?" He waved the arrows enticingly. "Tell you what. Help me with these spells, and I'll teach you what the ‘triangle thingy' is and why weaves get fuzzy sometimes."

"You know why they look fuzzy?"

He raised an eyebrow. "There is literally nothing I don't know about how magic works."

" Literally nothing?" she repeated, trying to sound skeptical instead of amused.

"Okay, one caveat. There's literally nothing I don't know about magic that another weaver would know."

"Ah, okay."

He held up the arrows again. "So, deal?"

She couldn't help her smile. "Okay, deal. But I don't know how much help I'll be."

They worked on the arrows first, then another disk spell, then a few steel balls with different shielding spells. She examined the weaves, told him where she thought the problem was, and he either made notes on it, tried to adjust the weave—carefully, to avoid any more unplanned detonations—or wove an entirely new spell for her to check.

Watching him weave was an experience she wouldn't forget. It was art in motion—lines of golden light that swirled and danced beneath his dexterous fingers. Just watching him taught her how to refine her own weaving techniques and illustrated how far off her skills were in comparison. His abilities went beyond skill. He was truly gifted.

Afterward, they ended up perched on the sofa, leaning over the coffee table with a reference book open and sheets of paper spread over the surface. At first, he'd just explained what the triangular construction was, but then she'd asked him about another shape she remembered seeing but didn't understand. And somehow that had evolved into a lesson on advanced weaving constructs.

He was a patient teacher, never making her feel inferior—despite his grandiose claims about knowing everything. Her education held up well, but his knowledge was so vast it left her speechless.

"How do you know so much?" she asked as he tossed another sheet of paper onto the table filled with scribbled shapes. "It should take a lifetime to achieve this level of skill. Why aren't you a grizzled old man with a beard down to your waist?"

He stroked his smooth jaw. "Incubi can't grow beards, for starters. And second, it all depends on when you start learning."

"When did you start studying advanced weaving, then?"

"Hmm." Looking thoughtful, he slouched back on the sofa. "I graduated to advanced training when I was… I don't know, seven or eight seasons?"

"Butisn't a season about a year?"

"Yeah, pretty close."

"You were seven or eight years old?"

He nodded.

"But that's …" She trailed off with a frown, trying to align this information with memories of her own childhood. "My mother started teaching me basic gardening and herbology at a young age, but I wouldn't call it an advanced education. Is that level of study typical here in the Underworld?"

"I wouldn't call it typical. My family takes a lot of things to the extreme." He nonchalantly plucked the pencil from her hands. "What about you? Your education is good for someone who doesn't weave spells for a living."

She recognized the deliberate shift away from the topic of his past. She had a hundred more questions about his childhood and family, but he obviously didn't want to discuss it.

Stealing the pencil back from him, she pointed it at his chest. " I didn't start learning until I was in my teens, and then it was more about understanding what I was seeing with my asper—astral perception—than how to weave the spells."

She didn't mention she'd needed little education on how to weave because of her natural—or unnatural, depending on who was talking—ability to mimic any magic she saw.

"I didn't start studying in earnest until after my mother died," she admitted. "Before that, I wasn't very motivated."

"Did her death change your attitude?"

His casual curiosity surprised her. He didn't seem to have registered her mother's death as a potentially painful topic.

"My mother and father weren't… together. Once she was gone, I realized I didn't have much to offer my father's side of the family, so I worked on getting better." Not wanting to talk about her family—and inadvertently reveal too much—she gestured across the reference books and papers. "Working with you is so much better than working with Madrigal. Why did you make me suffer with him instead of doing my commission yourself?"

She'd intended the question to be teasing, so she didn't expect Lyre's eyes to go flat.

"Madrigal will do a better job."

"But you're obviously as capable as he is, so why?—"

Lyre sat up and started tidying the books on the table. "Madrigal is a superior weaver. Be glad he's making your special spell."

She pressed her lips together at the hint of a sneer in his voice on the last two words. "I just watched you weave, Lyre. I can't imagine anyone superior to you."

"Well, he is. All my brothers are. You'd be waiting weeks for me to manage something that wouldn't blow up in your face."

"But—"

"Besides that, I don't want to make your spell." He slashed a look at her. "What does it do?"

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

"The spell Madrigal is making for you—what does it do?"

"It's…" She twisted the hem of her shirt. "It'ssupposed to…"

"It's so foul you can't even tell me, huh?"

Her shoulders wilted. "It was Madrigal's idea."

"And even though you think it's awful magic, you still want me to create it? You want me to be ultimately responsible for everything that's done with the spell and every life it destroys?"

Her head snapped up. She met his hard eyes, her blood suddenly chilled. "I hadn't thought of it like that."

"Well, I think about it all the time. I don't need another death spell on my conscience."

A sick weight pressed down on Clio. Lyre didn't want to be responsible for more deaths—but how culpable was she ? Did her role in coming to Chrysalis, commissioning a new spell, and bringing back the weaving blueprints for deadly magic make her responsible for every life lost when those spells were used against Ra?

Lyre rose to his feet and stretched, arching his back. "I'll check that the coast is clear, then take you back to reception."

As he crossed the room, she bit her lip. "Lyre?"

With one hand on the door, he glanced over his shoulder questioningly.

She hesitated, hanging on the words before forcing them out. "Why don't you leave?"

"What?"

"You don't like making spells that kill people, but isn't that what Chrysalis does? If working here conflicts with your morals, why stay?"

He turned back toward the threshold. "With the things I've seen, all the secrets I know… do you really think I can just leave?"

Then he walked out. She watched the door close behind him, her mouth open, but with no idea what to say.