“If I compromise her will, she’ll notice.”
“Not if you do it right.”
Lyre dropped his arms and the collar hit the floor with a clank. “I don’t like doing that kind of thing.”
“You can’t be so soft,” Reed said quietly. “Weak daemons don’t survive long in Asphodel.”
From anyone else, Lyre would have taken those words as a threat, but Reed sounded concerned. “If she were a different sort of woman, I would. But she’s …”
“She’s what?” When Lyre didn’t answer, Reed rubbed his face. “This is dangerous, Lyre. You can’t sympathize with a client, especially an Overworlder. Our father and Andante are barely tolerating your … lack of commitment.”
A polite way of referencing what Andante had called Lyre’s “petty rebellions.”
“Once things are sorted out from Viol’s moronic weaving,” Lyre said, “I’ll finish my consultation with the girl and that’ll be that. It doesn’t matter why she’s here. All I have to do is sell her some magic and send her home.”
“I suppose.” Reed pulled a metal disk from his pocket. “I need some help with this one.”
Rolling off the sofa, Lyre joined his brother at the table and Reed explained the weaving he was working on. Of all his brothers, Reed was probably the most talented when it came to pure technical skill. He could weave anything, no matter how complex, intricate, or finicky the spell was. Basically, he excelled where Lyre tended to fall on his face.
Reed’s talent, however, ended with technical skill, and he had almost no ability to improvise, adapt, or invent. And that’s what Lyre was good at. So they often worked together, with Lyre figuring out the problem and its solution, and Reed doing the actual work of weaving it. Lyre enjoyed their tandem approach primarily because it meant fewer spells exploding halfway through the weaving.
Their father appreciated the results of their teamwork too, but when push came to shove, Reed’s superior weaving skills trumped Lyre’s slapdash ingenuity. Lyre was still the loser in his family’s race for their father’s approval.
They spent an hour going over Reed’s project before he was satisfied with the solution. After thanking Lyre, Reed wandered out again with the same apparent lack of direction as he’d appeared.
Lyre sat alone at his table, tapping his fingers on the sheets of paper covered in scribbled notes from their brainstorming, most of it his own scrawl with only a few additions in Reed’s neat print. The solution hadn’t been difficult to puzzle through, but figuring out how to arrange the weave had taken longer.
He leaned back in his chair and stared around his house. The open-concept room combined a small kitchen with the table and chairs, and a living area with the single couch and way too many bookshelves. They were overflowing with texts, everything from spell-weaving theory to ancient histories. A few different styles of bows and several quivers leaned in the corners.
It was a mess, but it was a comfortable mess. His mess. Aside from Reed, he didn’t allow any of his brothers—or his father—in his home. Or, at least, he tried to keep them out. If they wanted to push the issue, there was nothing his elder brothers or father couldn’t do to him.
Weak daemons don’t survive long in Asphodel.
Reed’s words repeated in his head, burrowing into his thoughts until he couldn’t dislodge them. Lyre had already survived surprisingly long, but he knew, as Reed did, that the tipping point was drawing near. His father’s wellspring of tolerance was drying up. Sooner or later, Lyre would cross a line and that would be it. The well would run dry, and his family would kill him.
He couldn’t survive in Asphodel for much longer. He needed to either change who he was—to assimilate properly into the family—or get out.
A grim smile pulled at his lips. Get out. If only it were that simple, that easy.
Abandoning the table, he stalked into his bedroom and changed clothes, donning fitted black pants that resembled the jeans so popular on Earth, a long-sleeved shirt of soft navy fabric that clung to his torso, and of course his chain of defensive spells, tucked out of sight. He loaded a few more spells into his pockets, just in case, and strode to the door.
The cool night air filled his lungs as he stepped outside, but nothing short of a serious distraction would calm the simmer of dark dread that kept growing stronger. It was a warning that his time was running out.
Too bad there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Asphodel was more of a small town than an estate, but for every two daemons that lived there, another was a visitor. As the rulers of the largest and most powerful territory in the Underworld, the Hades family attracted a nonstop parade of sycophants and ass-kissers. From political allies and opponents, emissaries, ambassadors, and petitioners to businessmen, traders, merchants, and gold diggers, there was a constant influx of visitors coming and going.
With so many “tourists,” Asphodel boasted an entertainment district so notorious Lyre wouldn’t be surprised to learn it was infamous in the Overworld. From high-class clubs where patrons were pampered and fawned over, to dive bars where a daemon could get plastered, every possible amusement was available for a price.
That’s exactly where Lyre was headed. He could walk into any establishment and be guaranteed endless distractions, mainly in the form of willing women. Some nights he went for easy marks, but most of the time he preferred to find a woman who thought she was immune to incubi charms. Then he would seduce her with his looks and charisma—and nothing more, because he wasn’t a complete degenerate. No magic needed.
Even without aphrodesia, he never went home alone.
Finding a beautiful woman to distract him from the persistent anxiety he couldn’t quite silence—that had been his plan. But halfway there, he found his mind lingering elsewhere. Lingering where it shouldn’t be at all.
All the more reason he should have lost himself in some womanly charms. Instead, he wandered away, walking the empty streets in aimless circles as his thoughts churned and churned.
Eventually, he found himself ascending the stairs inside an empty guard tower on the edge of the canal that demarcated the business quadrant of the estate. Though it didn’t look it, Asphodel was designed for defense as much as presentation. The canals running through the estate acted as moats. The bridges could be collapsed, cutting off invaders while soldiers rained attacks down on the enemy from the safety of the towers.
With no threats to worry about, the canal towers were hollow, unmanned structures. He climbed the stairs to the top, where he pulled open the panel walls to reveal the balcony that circled the upper level. From six stories up, he could see most of Asphodel, the lights sparkling and twinkling like golden stars.
He braced his forearms on the rail and stared across the vista until he found the dark line of the canal. He followed it a hundred yards, then traced another street, mentally following the familiar path. His gaze came to rest on a two-story building with its lights still glowing.
A disgusted sigh escaped him. He’d reached a new level of pathetic. He couldn’t stop puzzling over her, and now he was spying on her.
Not that he could see much from the tower. The inn where Chrysalis sent all their guests who stayed long enough to need accommodations was far enough that he could only make out the shapes of windows and balconies. This was stupid. He should go home and work on that damn collar weaving instead.
A prickle ran down the back of his neck. He wasn’t alone.
He strained his senses, searching for the source of the hunted feeling. A daemon was nearby. Someone powerful … someone dangerous.
He whipped around and looked up.
The tiled roof, jutting partway over the balcony, rose in a steep, curved pyramid to the peak. Leaning casually into the curve like it was a comfortable daybed was a man all in black—but his dark clothing wasn’t enough to disguise the shape of weapons. Two short swords strapped to his thighs, daggers and throwing knives, another longer blade sheathed across his back wit
h the hilt jutting above his shoulder.
A black wrap covered the lower half of his face, but when those piercing gray eyes flicked down, Lyre inhaled in recognition.
“Ash?” he blurted.
The draconian mercenary inclined his head in a casual, almost dismissive nod. Lyre stood frozen, unsure how to react. He hadn’t seen Ash since the exploding collar incident. The change in his appearance—the different clothes and array of weapons—from the previous times Lyre had seen him made it obvious: Ash was working tonight.
But what would a mercenary spy be doing on the job in Asphodel? Normally, they sent him out on missions, or so Lyre had heard.
“Uh.” Lyre raised an eyebrow. “Am I interrupting something?”
Ash shrugged, the gesture a scarce shift of one shoulder. Expressive guy.
Grimacing, Lyre glanced once more toward the distant inn. He wanted nothing to do with whatever job Ash was on, and coming up here had been stupid anyway. He was about to turn toward the stairs when movement on one of the inn balconies caught his attention. A small figure leaned on the railing, and light caught on long blond hair.
He was too far to make out any other details, but he knew it was Clio, lounging on her balcony while she waited for Chrysalis to open again—in plain view of the mercenary reclined on the tower’s rooftop.
A slow, sickening sort of dismay trickled through him. This tower was the ideal location to monitor that inn—tall, isolated, no lights.
“Are you—” Lyre bit off the question. He couldn’t ask. His survival was already at risk, and if he pried into the business of a Hades mercenary, he’d be crippling his life expectancy.
But Ash was an assassin, among other things, and he was watching Clio’s inn. A very bad sign. Lyre couldn’t get involved. He shouldn’t. If Hades had decided she should die, there was nothing he could do to protect her.
Why was he even thinking about protecting her?
Ash rose to a crouch, then hopped off the rooftop. He landed easily on the railing beside Lyre, balancing on the balls of his feet and unconcerned by the six-story drop to the cobblestone road. He tugged the wrap off his face, letting it hang around his neck as he watched the balcony where a red-haired figure had joined Clio.
“An Overworlder,” Ash murmured. “Unusual visitor for Chrysalis.”
Lyre nodded cautiously. “It doesn’t happen often.”
Still crouched on the railing like he could perch there all night without tiring, Ash braced his forearms on his knees. “She’s your client.”
A statement, not a question. “You’re well informed.”
“Information is just another weapon.”
“So you’re well armed, then,” Lyre said with a halfhearted smirk, fighting his nerves. Ash’s predatory stillness wasn’t helping. “More so than was already obvious.”
Ash didn’t look amused. “Samael is well armed,” he corrected.
Lyre shivered at the mention of the Hades warlord. “I didn’t think he cared about Chrysalis clients.”
Ash gave another slight shrug. “Any Overworlder presence in Asphodel requires monitoring.”
Lyre relaxed. So it was just routine surveillance of an Overworlder. That made sense. A clever enemy could get a spy or assassin into Asphodel under the guise of a Chrysalis buyer.
He tipped his head toward the inn. “I don’t think you need to worry about that one.”
The draconian glanced at him questioningly.
“Did you hear what happened earlier? The weaver who blew himself up?” Lyre asked. “She almost fainted.”
Ash didn’t appear particularly skeptical—he didn’t show much expression at all—but Lyre could almost hear his doubt.
“Give me a little credit,” he added, folding his arms and leaning one hip against the railing. “An incubus can always tell when a woman is faking it.”
Ash snorted quietly. Now he was amused. It was a reaction, at least.
“Still,” the draconian said, “she’s a nymph.”
“So?”
Ash gave him a look like the answer was obvious, then sat on the railing with his feet hanging over the drop. “Their caste ability is troublesome.”
“Ah.” Lyre rubbed his jaw. “I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t know anything about nymphs, except that their territory is loaded with precious stones and metals.”
“You let her in your facility without knowing what she can do?”
“I couldn’t find anything on nymphs in our reference books,” Lyre admitted. “Their caste is small and weak, so information is scarce. And it was someone else’s job to approve their proposal. I’m just supposed to sell them shit.”
The draconian surveyed him a second time, his stare sending a shiver down Lyre’s spine.
“Nymphs are magically weak,” Ash said, “but their caste ability is dangerous. They can perceive magic in a different way than the rest of us. It affords them an intuitive understanding of how a cast or weaving works.”
Lyre remembered Clio confidently slapping her hand against the spelled door. “So a nymph could, hypothetically, see exactly how to disengage a defensive weaving?”
Ash nodded and Lyre whistled softly. “That is dangerous.”
With an ability like that, a nymph could walk through a town like Asphodel and undo any lock or defense spell they came across. They could escort a more dangerous foe—like an assassin—straight through the most heavily warded buildings.
Clio’s insistence on a tour of Chrysalis made more sense now, as did the way she’d examined the different weavings he’d shown her. She’d seen far more than he’d intended, but knowing how a spell worked and actually weaving it were two very different things. He could watch an artist paint a masterpiece, but that didn’t mean he could duplicate it. And most of Chrysalis’s spells were the equivalent of masterpieces.
But still. He was irritated she’d manipulated him like that. She’d gotten to see more than she should have, including the spelled door. If she told anyone else how to disarm it …
“Damn,” he muttered. “Why didn’t someone tell me about her caste ability? Sure as hell would’ve been good to know before now.”
“It’s not common knowledge. Nymphs portray their ability as seeing ‘energy’ or seeing only the presence of magic.”
Lyre grunted, then peered at Ash. “Why did you tell me then?”
In the distance, Clio and her redheaded bodyguard went back inside. Ash turned away from the view and faced Lyre, his expression blank. But something dangerous flickered in his eyes.
“You’ve been making collars for Eisheth for a few seasons now.”
Lyre nodded cautiously. “Yes.”
“They’ve all failed.”
“I suppose they have.”
Ash’s face went even colder. “Do you expect something in return for that?”
Lyre stiffened in understanding. Shit. Forcing himself to relax, he slouched against the railing and rolled his eyes. “Something in return for me being a screw-up? Since you seem to know everything about everything, you must know I’m the most pathetic weaver my family has seen in generations.”
Ash’s lips curved in a faint smile that chilled Lyre. “I know a lot more about you than that.”
Lyre swallowed down an edge of panic. He might be five or six seasons older than Ash, but when accounting for different caste maturation rates and life experiences, the age gap got damn blurry. Underestimating this daemon would be a deadly mistake.
“And what you know,” Lyre said warily, “Samael also knows?”
“Not always.”
Interesting. Lyre debated how to respond. There was a latent threat in Ash’s tone, but also a hint of … promise. Though a promise of what, he wasn’t sure.
Secrets. Too many secrets—for both of them. Realizing that, he made what was probably his stupidest decision to date.
“I didn’t rig the collars to fail to spare you,” Lyre told the draconian. “I did it to spare myself.”
; A pause. “Meaning what?”
“Does it ever bother you?” Lyre asked him bitterly. “When you’re ordered to do something that kills a little bit of your soul?”
Something flashed in the draconian’s eyes and his gaze dropped—as good as an outright admission of pain and regret. His head snapped up again as he realized what he’d done, but it was too late. Anger tightened his features and his irises darkened to the color of storm clouds. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“No, you don’t.”
Ash slashed an aggressive look over Lyre, cutting across him from head to toe, then strode away. He crossed the width of the balcony in eight long strides, then grabbed the railing and jumped over it with easy grace. He dropped out of sight.
Lyre stared at the spot where the draconian had vanished, listening. No crunchy splat of a body hitting the ground sixty feet below. Hmm. So the rumors that draconians had wings under their glamour was probably accurate. It would explain Ash’s carefree attitude toward lethal heights.
He leaned against the railing, letting some of the tension out of his back muscles. Spying on clients. Having casual conversations with rogue mercenaries. He was living dangerously lately.
At the inn, Clio’s balcony was empty, the windows dark. She and her bodyguards must be taking a nap. Either that or they’d left the inn. He hoped not. Asphodel wasn’t a safe place at the best of times, but for an Overworlder …
His thoughts returned to the new revelation about his client. So nymphs could “see” magic. He mulled over the implications, then smiled. Ash might have insisted he didn’t owe Lyre anything, but it seemed the draconian was still appreciative. He’d had no other reason to share what he knew about nymphs.
If information was a weapon, then—thanks to Ash—Lyre would be heading into his next meeting with Clio significantly better armed than last time.
Chapter Twelve
Clio frowned at Lyre. He frowned back at her.
They sat across the table from each other, their poses almost identical—leaning forward, hands folded on the polished wood tabletop, staring the other down. Or, at least, she was staring him down. Despite his frown, she was pretty sure it was amusement making his amber eyes sparkle like that.
The Night Realm (Spell Weaver Book 1) Page 12
