Chapter 36

LYRE

Aching pain dragged Lyre back to consciousness. He groaned and forced his eyes open, squinting. The air tasted different.

It tasted like Earth.

Soft light glowed through the gray overcast. Pine trees struggled for life in the rocky soil, and leafy ferns covered the small clearing. Behind him, the ley line's smooth power rushed by, whispering to his senses.

Earth. He had made it to Earth.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, he looked down at Clio, sprawled underneath him where he'd fallen after exiting the ley line.

They had made it to Earth. Together. He would never have escaped on his own.

Drawing in a shaky breath, he sat up and pulled Clio's head and shoulders into his lap. Closing his eyes, he used the lightest touch of healing magic to ascertain her injuries. The cut on her arm, blood loss, and a lot of bruising, but otherwise, she was okay.

He checked her arm to make sure the bleeding had stopped. Later, when he'd recovered enough power, he would heal the wound as best he could. Almost all the magic he had drawn from his lodestones was gone—consumed in his battle with Dulcet, in the triggering of his blood-magic arrow, and in the passage through the ley line. With his lodestones depleted, his power would be slow to rejuvenate.

He climbed to his feet, frowned at the second quiver, then shrugged it onto his shoulder beside the one he always carried beneath his glamour. Until he shifted back to his human form, which he didn't dare do while this weak, he was stuck carrying both. Same for his two bows.

He scooped Clio into his arms, groaning faintly with the effort even though she hardly weighed anything. With a final glance at the ley line, he walked into the trees.

The best thing about ley line travel was its untraceable nature. There was no way anyone could identify his destination without blindly checking every line they thought he might have used. Eventually, his brothers would investigate this one for signs of his passage, but he'd be long gone by then.

He pushed through the foliage until he found the road, its pavement cracked and sprouting weeds. Pausing at the edge of the asphalt, he stared gloomily at the long, straight highway that stretched all the way to the horizon. This was going to suck.

Heaving a sigh, he started forward, arms already tired from carrying Clio. But what other option did he have? If he had to walk, then he would walk all day.

The sun was blazing low on the horizon when Lyre finally felt it: the quiet pulse of magic calling to him.

He trudged onward, Clio's dead weight in his arms, his muscles burning with exhaustion. Shadows bathed the uneven pavement, and he stumbled often in the uncertain light.

Ahead, the silhouettes of skyscrapers jutted toward the orange and pink clouds. The city beckoned, but that wasn't where he was headed. Not yet. He was too exhausted, too unprepared, and not ready to face the dangers that came with a large populace of humans and daemons.

Following the familiar pulse of magic, he located a dirt road obscured by overgrown bushes that veered off the highway. Gravel crunched underfoot as he followed the road—a driveway, actually—into the trees. He passed the beacon, a metal ring around a tree trunk woven with a spell that any daemon who visited Earth had learned to recognize.

A few minutes later, he walked out of the trees and onto the sprawling lawn of a huge manor house. He blinked in surprise. It was larger than he'd expected.

Like the hundreds of others scattered across the continent, this was a Consulate—a sanctuary for daemons visiting Earth. With a strict policy against bloodshed, free accommodation and food, and well-trained Consuls to prevent conflicts between "guests," it was the safest place for him and Clio to recover their strength.

Closing his eyes, he pulled his glamour back into place. The last of his strength vanished, and his knees almost buckled. Steadying himself, he climbed the front steps.

When he shoved through the large front door with his shoulder, he was met by a grand foyer with a reception desk nestled beside a curved staircase that swept up to the second level. Sitting behind the desk was a man with a shaved head and neat goatee. He glanced up at the sound of the door opening.

Lyre took one step inside, and his legs gave out.

He crashed to the floor, barely keeping Clio's head from smacking against the wood. The Consul launched over his desk, shouting for help, and rushed to Lyre's side. He tried to find the strength—and the dignity—to get up again, but his abused body refused to obey.

An hour later, he was still mourning his lost dignity as the Consul left him in a small bedroom. Lyre limped to the door and wove two wards into it—one to seal it shut, and one to kill anyone who broke the magical lock. He trudged to the room's opposite end and gave the window the same treatment, then turned to the bed.

Clio lay across it, her face haggard but clean, the blood washed away. A fresh bandage was wrapped around her arm. He and the Consul had stripped off her ruined clothes and dressed her in an oversized shirt, donated by the Consulate. The man had helped Lyre care for her with amicable efficiency, never once remarking on their wretched state. Lyre didn't much like Consuls, but at least they never asked questions.

Lyre's clothes were almost as filthy as Clio's had been, but he would worry about changing after he rested.

The small room sported only a double bed, a dresser/desk combo with a wooden chair, and an attached bathroom. Sleeping in the chair wasn't happening, but the floor didn't hold much appeal either. Clio would just have to share.

He nudged her to one side of the bed then collapsed onto it. Fatigue rolled over him in painful waves, and his muscles ached after so much abuse. He wasn't sure he'd ever been this tired in his life.

The blissful oblivion of sleep called to him, but anxiety boiled in his chest. He had escaped Asphodel… and now the real hell began. The hunters would come, not just for him but for Clio too. There was no safe place for them to go. They would have to run, hide, run again. It would never end.

But his miserable future wasn't the only thing spurring the sick fear creeping through him. For the first time since its theft, he allowed himself to think about the KLOC. That bodyguard had stolen a spell he didn't understand. If he figured out how to trigger it without the key… if he unleashed it in the wrong place…

The KLOC was the biggest mistake Lyre had ever made, and he could never allow anyone to use it again. He'd told Clio some of its potential to inflict devastation, but he hadn't told her the worst of it.

Closing his eyes, he rolled onto his side and curled an arm over Clio, pulling her warmth closer. A soft sound slipped from her, a murmur that might have been contentment. He buried his face in her hair, filling his nose with her sweet scent, and a moment later, he was asleep.

Clio

Clio scrunched her eyes, trying to block out the light. Grumbling, she attempted to roll over, but a warm weight across her middle held her down. She opened her eyes.

Yellow light blazed across her vision. She squinted at a small window. Brilliant sunlight was shining through the window. Was she dreaming?

She glanced down and decided she must be dreaming because a gorgeous incubus was curled against her side, his arm across her middle and his face tucked against her shoulder. His breath warmed her skin, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm.

Although it looked like he'd washed his face, his clothes were splattered with blood and dirt, and she was glad he was on top of the blankets. Later, she would worry about how she'd ended up in an unfamiliar but clean shirt.

Her hand crept toward Lyre's face, and she brushed a tangle of hair away from his eyes. He didn't stir. Her fingertips slid down his cheek and traced his jaw where a dark bruise had formed. He was breathing easily, so she had to assume he wasn't badly hurt.

She remembered him falling into the underground river. She remembered Dulcet grabbing her, and she remembered desperately trying to break through his defensive weaves as he hit her with an agonizing spell. But she didn't remember anything else.

She and Lyre must have escaped. Lyre must have gotten them away somehow. Where were they? She scrutinized the plain bedroom, then blinked her asper into focus. Aside from Lyre's weapons leaning against the wall and the wards on the door and window, the room was devoid of magic. She had no idea where they were, but she knew one thing.

She was back on Earth. She could tell by the scent of the air—the familiar, unpleasant odors of the human world that she'd lived in for the past two years.

She had escaped the night realm, and she was never ever going back.

Tears welled in her eyes. She had escaped, but Kassia hadn't. Anguish roiled through her, abrupt and overwhelming. Sobs built in her chest, and she put her arm over her face, muffling her cries as they broke free. Her body trembled, and she sucked in air to get herself under control.

Lyre mumbled something unintelligible. His arm tightened, pulling her against him.

Startled, she didn't react—then she turned and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Huddled against him like he was her only shelter, she cried until the storm of grief finally abated. His arm was a heavy, relaxed weight around her. Despite pulling her closer, he hadn't woken.

Tucked against his side, she tilted her tear-streaked face toward the sun.

They had escaped, but now she was faced with a new problem: finding Eryx and stopping him from unleashing Lyre's magic-eating spell on Irida. It wouldn't be as simple as tracking down her rogue bodyguard—not after the way she'd escaped Asphodel.

Eryx had stolen a catastrophic spell from Chrysalis, but Clio had stolen one of their most gifted master weavers. Chrysalis and Hades would stop at nothing to get him back.