Chapter 4

Chapter Four

LYRE

Darkness lay thick and heavy over Asphodel. Scarcely glancing skyward, Lyre followed the winding streets. The buildings seemed to lean over the road, some windows dark, others glowing with yellow light. Coming to a deep, narrow canal, he crossed a wooden footbridge, the hollow thump of his steps the only sound besides the slosh of slow-moving water.

On the far side of the canal, the buildings changed from wood and stone to flat, unmarked concrete. They grew bigger and uglier until he rounded a corner and the largest structure yet sprawled across an entire block.

Chrysalis.

He ignored the official entrance and instead headed for a side door. A drum of his fingers across the metal unkeyed the defensive spells and he yanked the door open. Stale air that smelled faintly of blood replaced the cool breeze.

An unpleasant feeling of déjà vu hit him as he wove through the labyrinthian halls. The closer he got to his destination, the stronger the feeling of repetition—and the more his steps slowed.

Finally, he stood in the familiar white corridor, its floors covered in bleached tile, the ceiling equally colorless. A door waited, shut tight, the window reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights above.

Fidgeting with the drawstring of the cloth bag he carried, he glanced along the empty hall.

This was the sixth time in three seasons he'd stood in front of this door, waiting for Eisheth. He knew better than to hope it would be the last.

Bang .

Lyre jumped and almost dropped his bag. His eyes darted to the door.

Bang .

The door rattled from the impact—something striking it from within. Lyre's pulse drummed.

Bang .

Cautiously, he stepped up to the window.

Inside the small, barren room, a man lay on his back on the cot, arms tucked behind his head, one knee propped up, casual and relaxed. Dark hair with a wine-red sheen fell across his forehead, and one side was braided horizontally alongside his head, a scarlet ribbon woven into the plait.

His stormy gray eyes rose, locking on Lyre's. Still relaxed, the daemon lifted his other leg and slammed the heel of his boot into the door. Cracks webbed across the windowpane.

Lyre retreated from the door to lean against the opposite wall. Just like the first time he'd stood outside this room, the glass was still a one-way mirror, the door was still heavily spelled, and Lyre still hadn't figured out how that daemon always knew when someone was watching him.

The snap of heels hitting the tiled floor grew audible, and Eisheth rounded the corner, hips swaying and thigh-high leather boots gleaming. Four tall, black-clad guards followed her, walking in a line like obedient ducklings. All of them were in glamour, but it did little to lessen the oppressive air of danger they brought with them.

Lyre straightened from the wall and tried not to sneer.

Eisheth's lips thinned angrily before she even reached him. Oops. Guess he'd sneered after all.

"Lyre."

"Eisheth. How considerate of you to be late. Again."

She raised her dark, severe eyebrows. Her hair was braided, the long tail falling down her back. "I'm sure you didn't miss anything important."

He held out the cloth bag. "Here it is. Fixed the problem from last time."

Instead of taking it, she folded her arms over her curvaceous chest. "This is your sixth prototype now, isn't it?"

"About that, yeah." He jostled the bag, encouraging her to take it so he could leave.

"This project is supposed to be a priority, yet it somehow takes you half a season to produce a new version. It's amazing how regular your timing is."

"You can't rush genius. If you don't want it, I can bring it back in another half-season."

She kept her arms crossed. "Your last five spells all failed—spectacularly. Why should I believe this one is any different?"

"A new, complex weaving like this is a trial-and-error process. I can only test it so much without activating the spell on its intended subject." He rolled his eyes. "Maybe you haven't noticed, but I don't have access to Hades's most notorious mercenaries. I'm sure you get plenty of time with him down in your dungeon, though."

Eisheth glanced from the bag back to Lyre's face. "You believe this collar can contain that daemon's magic? That it will seal his power and he won't be able to break it off, as he has every other magic-dampening spell we've ever put on him?"

"Reasonably sure." Lyre shrugged. "Like I said, it still needs testing."

"But you're confident it's ready? That it won't mysteriously fail?"

Keeping his expression open and guileless, Lyre shrugged again. "Pretty confident."

Eisheth's answering smile was viciously sweet. "I'm glad to hear it. I was beginning to think you weren't applying yourself to this project. I even began to wonder if you might be engineering your prototypes to fail."

"That would be stupid." Very stupid. Epically stupid.

He should probably reconsider his decision-making process in the future.

"Excellent. In that case"—Eisheth grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the door—"you won't object to testing this one yourself."

"What?" He dug in his heels, but she'd already grabbed the handle. "Eisheth, I can't?—"

"Have fun, Lyre."

Opening the door, she shoved him inside. Lyre stumbled two steps, then tried to reverse direction. His back thumped against the door as Eisheth slammed it shut.

At his appearance, the daemon's gray eyes cut down Lyre and back up, clearly unimpressed. To Lyre's relief, the daemon didn't leap up to rip out his throat.

Damn that psychotic bitch. This was not his job.

"Um." He coughed awkwardly. "Hi?"

The daemon said nothing.

Lyre sidled away from the door, daring to approach a step closer. The daemon, had he been standing, would have been a couple of inches taller than Lyre, with broader shoulders and a more muscular build. Lyre wasn't a total lightweight, but the other daemon had enough of a size advantage for Lyre to keep a cautious distance between them.

The contrast from the boy Lyre had first seen in this room was stark. Over the past three seasons, the teenager had matured into a young adult—a deadly one. Gone was the fiery, defiant rage, replaced with a chilling, fearless calculation that was far more unnerving.

He was one of Hades's top mercenaries. A trained killer. And based on how badly Eisheth wanted a way to control him, he was equal parts "deadly weapon" and "dangerous liability."

A long minute passed during which neither of them moved.

"What do you want?" the daemon asked.

Huh. As an incubus who continuously appraised the sex appeal of pretty much everyone—targets and rivals both—Lyre had to admit he'd never heard a voice quite like that. The daemon's deep tones got under his skin somehow. Interesting.

As for how to answer the question …

Lyre sighed. "Look, I don't want to do this, but orders and all that." He pulled open the drawstrings and reached into the bag. "I'm supposed to put this on you, just to make sure it works."

The moment he withdrew the steel collar, the daemon was on his feet, menace emanating from every inch of him.

"Seriously," Lyre said, "I just need to test it, nothing more."

He held up the collar hopefully, and the daemon smiled. It wasn't a friendly expression. It was a brutal promise—probably to break as many of Lyre's bones as possible.

Lyre glanced at the door, but Eisheth wouldn't be letting him out anytime soon. She was probably enjoying the show.

He heaved another sigh and dropped his hand to his side, still holding the collar. The daemon didn't relax, too practiced a warrior to believe that sign of surrender.

Lyre slipped his other hand into his pocket. Gems clinked softly as he selected one and pinched it between his forefinger and thumb. The daemon's gaze snapped toward the sound. Lyre pulled out the stone, added a spark of magic, and tossed it at the daemon's feet.

The daemon jerked back, but there was nowhere to go.

The embedded spell activated and crackling golden light burst from the gem. Thin bolts of power surged over the daemon, paralyzing him where he stood. Popping the collar open so the two halves swung on a hinge, Lyre lunged forward. He shoved the thick metal ring against the daemon's neck, clamped it shut, and sent a shot of magic into it to activate the weaving.

A hand closed around Lyre's throat. The daemon lifted him off the floor and slammed him into the wall, his pitch-black eyes locked on Lyre's.

The door opened and Eisheth sauntered in. "Now, Ash. I have to advise against killing a master weaver."

The daemon released him. Lyre's feet hit the floor as he gasped for air.

"I'm pleased, Lyre," Eisheth continued. "This collar didn't shatter upon activation. And it appears to be dampening his magic."

Lyre didn't respond, too busy counting down in his head and wondering if he could squeeze past Eisheth and out the door in the next thirty seconds.

She studied her victim. "Well, Ash? Can you break this collar? Why don't you give it a try?"

"I can't break it," Ash replied flatly. "Congratulations."

"You haven't tried. I would like you to try. Do you need extra motivation?" Eisheth's eyes brightened eagerly as her hand drifted toward the black rod hanging from her belt, the hooplike tip crackling with blue light.

Realizing he couldn't get past Eisheth, Lyre backed into the farthest corner of the small room, still counting. Nine, eight, seven …

"Just imagine how much fun we could have, Ash," Eisheth cooed, stroking the weapon at her hip.

Four, three, two …

"Without your magic, you're as helpless as?—"

Lyre cast a bubble shield over himself, and the collar around Ash's neck exploded.

The force hit Lyre's shield so hard it shoved him into the wall for a second time. Eisheth was blasted right out the door and into the hall. Ash, having been at the center of the concussion, stood unharmed.

Shouting furiously, the four guards charged into the room. Ash lunged to meet them. He had no weapons and he didn't use magic, and it still only took him twenty seconds to bring down all four guards. Ash straightened, rolled his shoulders, and turned around.

He and Lyre stared at each other. Then, without a word, Ash walked out of the room.

Lyre stepped over the moaning, bleeding, or unconscious guards and into the corridor where Eisheth's limp form was sprawled. Ash stood a few feet away, watching Lyre with critical eyes that had lightened from black to storm-cloud gray.

Lyre nodded toward Eisheth. "She's alive."

"I know."

"Are you sure you don't want to fix that?"

Ash raised an eyebrow. "I'll finish her if you take credit for the kill."

"Ah. I think I'll pass."

Ash rubbed his neck where the steel ring had been. "Your collars don't last long."

"Well, you know, spell weaving isn't the easiest thing."

"She called you a master weaver."

Lyre shrugged.

Ash gave him a long look. "Your collars explode quite well."

"Faulty weave, I guess."

"Yet you knew exactly when to shield."

Lyre kept his expression neutral. Ash obviously suspected, but Lyre wasn't about to confirm he'd been sabotaging his own work.

After another long silence, Ash walked away.

Lyre watched him stride down the hall and disappear around the corner, then glanced at the collapsed guards. Was a rogue mercenary allowed to wander around unescorted?

Oh well. It wasn't like Lyre could stop him. At least, not without wasting perfectly good magic he'd rather save for a real emergency.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, wincing at the ache in his spine. When he'd engineered the collar weaving to explode, he hadn't intended to be standing three feet away. He needed to plan these things better.

Dropping his hand, he considered the carnage, then shrugged and followed Ash's path down the corridor. A smart man would have stayed to check on Eisheth and the guards. A smart man would have summoned healers and alerted someone that Ash had taken off. A smart man might even have pretended the blast had knocked him unconscious.

He pushed the side door open, stepped into the crisp night air, and smiled grimly.

There were many things a smart man would have done, but had he been a smart man, he wouldn't have woven the spell to explode in the first place.