“Brothers?” she wheezed. “You’re all brothers?”
“Not every incubus here is my brother. But we’re all related.”
“How many brothers do you have?”
“Six.”
“Holy crap.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “Wait, who’s number six? There’s the two from the spell shop on Earth—”
“Ariose and Reed,” he supplied.
“The younger one from my tour—”
“That was Viol.”
“Dulcet the Psycho, and Madrigal the Rapist—”
Lyre snarled, his eyes flashing to black. “He didn’t—”
She shook her head quickly. “No, he didn’t—he didn’t do … that. But I think he was planning to … do … something.”
He bared his teeth.
“So who’s your sixth brother?” she hurriedly asked.
Lyre took a deep breath and his irises lightened back to bronze. “Andante, the oldest. You’d be better off not meeting him.”
She shivered and let him go so she could wrap her arms around herself. “I’d like to not meet anyone else.” She swallowed hard. “What will happen now that Dulcet caught me in the basement?”
“Does he know who you are?”
“No … I don’t think so.”
“I doubt he’ll report you. He hates paperwork, and frankly, he doesn’t care about anything beyond his experiments. As long as you stick to the meeting rooms and lobby, and don’t wander around, you won’t see him again.”
She bit her lip. With no chance of finding the prototypes, she was stuck waiting for her custom weaving. And that meant facing Madrigal again. “Lyre, will you … will you do my commission?”
“No.”
She winced at his flat tone. “But Madrigal … I don’t want to … I can’t …” Unwanted tears welled in her eyes. “I couldn’t stop him.”
At her choked words, Lyre’s irises flashed right back to inky black. Rage slid across his features, and he strode away from her. Afraid to move, she watched him storm back and forth, hissing profanity and fighting for control with each step.
Where was the easygoing, teasing incubus from their last meeting? What had pushed him so close to savagery? The longer he hung on that edge, the more slippery his self-restraint would become.
He stopped and faced her. “Don’t look into his eyes. Stay focused. Pain is a good counter, so pinch yourself if you get distracted. Get angry—stay angry. Awareness of what he’s doing will keep your head clear, and you’re already naturally resistant to his aphrodesia. He shouldn’t be able to influence your will unless you let your guard down.”
“I’m naturally resistant?” she repeated. “Why?”
“You’re …” He raked a hand through his hair, gaze darting away as though he didn’t want to answer. “Aphrodesia doesn’t work as well on virgins.”
She gasped, her face flaming. “I—how—how did you—”
He grimaced. “It’s fairly obvious to incubi.”
“How?” she demanded, humiliated and wishing she could crawl into a hole and die.
“Inexperienced women react differently to us. It’s hard to explain.”
She pressed her hands to her face, groaning quietly. Had all of them been able to tell? All six incubi she’d encountered? Was she essentially walking around with a big flashing “virgin” sign above her head? Ugh.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Lyre said softly. “It’s your best defense.”
She shook her head. Her lack of experience in the bedroom had never bothered her before—it was tough to find datable guys while in hiding on Earth amidst a horde of unappealing human males—but being exposed as a virgin to a bunch of the most sensual and attractive daemons she’d ever seen was mortifying.
Lyre took her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face. She looked up at him in surprise, her stomach swooping toward the floor.
“If experience in bed is what you want, I’d be happy to help you out before you leave.” His dark eyes burned through her, stealing the air from her lungs. “For now, though, let’s get you out of here before anyone else sees you.”
Her heart lodged itself in her throat and she choked. He started toward the door, warm fingers still around her wrist. She staggered after him, dizzy from her conflicting emotions. How could she feel apprehensive, exhilarated, disappointed, and scared all at once?
They slipped out of the storage room. Lyre led her with slow, cautious steps, pausing every now and then to listen before continuing. Luckily, the corridors were deserted. He waited almost a minute at the last intersection before the final stretch to the lobby—the same hall with the door into the forbidden basement level.
Clio stood beside him. His grip on her wrist had shifted down, and she held his hand tightly as she stared at the wrinkle of concentration between his brows. She couldn’t believe he had risked his own safety to help her. She hadn’t asked him why. She hadn’t even thanked him.
He started forward at a brisk pace. She trotted after him, nerves clanging at the open stretch lined with recessed doorways. Her gaze fixed on the basement door, safely closed, and she hoped desperately it would stay that way.
She was so focused she didn’t notice the other danger until Lyre’s fingers clamped around hers. He yanked her sideways into the nearest alcove just as a pair of daemons appeared from the lobby, discussing a large schematic that one carried. There was no time to open the door beside them and nowhere to hide.
Lyre spun her around and pushed her back into the wall, bracing one arm beside her head. Then he pressed his body hard into hers.
She gasped, pushing him away, but he didn’t budge. His mouth pressed into her ear, soft lips moving in a whisper. “Don’t move.”
She clenched fistfuls of his shirt. Footsteps sounded, drawing closer—drawing level with them.
The conversation broke off, then as the daemons walked by, one of them snorted.
“Those incubi,” he muttered, sounding equal parts exasperated and admiring. “Nailing women right in the damn halls now.”
Clio didn’t move as the daemons passed. Lyre’s arm was beside her head, his face against her cheek—blocking her from view. The men could see only that she was female and wearing a lab coat, but nothing else that could identify her as a trespasser.
Lyre held as still as her, waiting as the footsteps receded toward the junction. He exhaled, his breath warm against her ear.
“Hey!”
She and Lyre tensed, but the hailing call was directed toward the other two daemons. Somewhere near the intersection, a third voice joined the original pair, and the trio began chatting about something in a rumble of conversation that wasn’t moving anymore.
“Shit,” Lyre muttered.
“Will they see us if we try to leave?”
“Probably.”
Meaning they had to wait here until the coast was clear. Lyre knew it too, and he shifted his weight uneasily—which shifted the press of his body against hers.
It was stupid. It was ridiculously inappropriate. But suddenly she wasn’t so worried about the daemons only a dozen paces away. Suddenly her heart was pounding loudly and her breath was coming quick. Suddenly she couldn’t ignore the heat of his body, the spicy cherry scent filling her nose, the feel of him against her.
His hand closed over her hip, fingers digging in—but not in a painful way. In a way that made her blood race even faster.
“Clio,” he hissed, her name heavy with warning.
“What?” she whispered, alarmed.
“You … need … to stop that.” It sounded like he was gritting his teeth.
She blinked in bewilderment. “Stop what?”
He pressed into her even harder, every line of his body molding against hers. And then his mouth caught her earlobe, hot and wet. Her eyes widened, her gasp dangerously loud.
“Stop being so goddamn irresistible,” he growled softly.
“I—I’m not—”
His hand gli
ded over her hip, his other arm still braced beside her head. She clutched his shirt, her mind empty. Should she be pushing him away? Should she be telling him to back off? Should she be doing something?
Down the hall, someone barked a laugh. She hardly noticed.
His lips brushed against the side of her neck and she shivered from head to toe. He made a soft noise that sent heat diving through her, then his mouth closed over her skin. She automatically arched her head back, and of their own accord, her hands slid up to his shoulders and curled over strong, sculpted muscle.
His mouth moved down her neck, then back up to the edge of her jaw, his tongue teasing her sensitive skin. She shuddered, unable to form a single coherent thought.
“Lyre?” She had no idea what she was asking.
His teeth grazed her jaw, then he pulled back enough so she could see his face—and his eyes.
Black, hungry, dangerous eyes.
His fingers slid into her hair, tilting her head back, and he leaned down, stopping with only a whisper of space between their lips. She couldn’t move, locked in place, heat spiraling deeper and deeper through her center.
“Clio,” he breathed. “Tell me to stop.”
“W-what?”
“I can’t …” His hand on the small of her back tightened, pulling her hips hard into him, and his voice roughened. “Tell me to stop. Make me.”
Those midnight-black irises … he’d lost control. He’d been too close to the edge already, and even though he knew he needed to step back—to restrain himself—he couldn’t do it.
She was trapped. He had her—a hand in her hair, another behind her back, holding her against him. His body pinned her to the wall, too strong and heavy to shift. A shiver ran through him and she knew what little willpower he retained was weakening. What would happen if he lost it completely? What would he do?
Part of her really wanted to find out.
His breath warmed her lips an instant before his mouth brushed across hers—a taste, a test. A promise of more. She almost moaned, her lips parting in anticipation. She slid her hands from his shoulders to his chest, fingers splayed over hard muscle beneath that silky soft shirt.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Then she slammed him with a magic-fueled shove.
The blunt blow threw him backward, and he hit the opposite side of the alcove. She glanced once into his black eyes burning with fiery hunger, then bolted from the doorway.
He didn’t follow her.
The intersection was empty, the chatty daemons having departed. She flew down the corridor, yanking the lab coat off as she ran. She dropped it behind her, leaving it for Lyre or someone else to collect, and didn’t slow until she’d reached the end of the hall.
She took a moment to compose herself, then strode into the bright lobby. It was empty except for the receptionists, who didn’t look up from their work.
Clio headed toward Kassia and Eryx, trying to calm the tremble in her limbs and hoping the flush in her face wasn’t too obvious. Halfway to them, she paused, simultaneously hopeful and worried that Lyre would appear.
He didn’t.
She exhaled shakily and touched her lips—the lips he had almost, almost kissed. And she reluctantly admitted that her relief wasn’t nearly as strong as her disappointment.
Chapter Sixteen
The speeding arrow grazed the tree trunk and spun off into the shadows. Lyre swore.
Yanking the last arrow from the quiver on his shoulder, he nocked it on the string and pulled it back to his cheek. His arm trembled, muscles exhausted and barely able to hold the weapon at full draw. With the bow canted at a forty-five-degree angle, he raised it toward the distant tree and let the arrow fly.
It missed the trunk and skittered through the distant foliage.
Snarling under his breath, he slung the bow over his shoulder and trudged to the tree. Two dozen arrows were scattered up and down the bark, sticking out in an ugly mess that was a far cry from his usual neat rows. He yanked them out one by one and dropped them back into the quiver, then slunk through deep shadows beneath the trees, searching through the moss and leafy shrubs for the remaining arrows.
Shoving the last one in his quiver, he stalked back to the spot where he’d been shooting and glared at the offending tree two hundred feet away. He flexed his arm, feeling the weak shudder in the muscles. How many times had he emptied the quiver, collected his arrows, then shot them all again? He’d lost count.
A cool breeze slid through the narrow trunks and rustled the spiky, red-tinted leaves above. The patch of woods wasn’t much, but it was as close as he could get to peace and quiet without leaving Asphodel. And leaving Asphodel wasn’t an option.
He sneered at the tree, disgusted by his incompetence. He shouldn’t have a problem hitting anything at two hundred feet. His problem wasn’t skill. It was distraction.
Jaw flexing, he turned and walked away, counting each step. Fifty paces. A hundred. Two hundred. He stopped and turned. Through the woods, the target tree was a thin strip of darkness among the shadows, now almost a thousand feet away.
He leaned his bow against a nearby boulder of dark basalt, then pulled off his quiver and dropped it on the ground. He glanced around once more to ensure he was alone.
Then he released his glamour.
The magic that gave him a human body and human face slid away in a wash of tingles. Strength flowed through his limbs, rejuvenating muscles the glamour had weakened. He inhaled deeply, tasting the scents and messages in the air that were usually so muted.
Wearing glamour almost nonstop made it easy to forget what he was missing out on. But even though many other castes walked this world in their true forms, as an incubus he didn’t have that luxury. No one wanted incubi wandering around without glamour. Their magic was too insidious and was despised by both sexes.
He smiled grimly. So many daemons thought of incubi as pushovers. It was true they didn’t have as much magic to throw around as reapers or draconians, but that didn’t mean incubi weren’t dangerous.
Reaching over his shoulder, he pulled a sleek black bow from its place on his back. His fingers caressed the smooth, supple wood, heavier than the weapon he’d set aside. It had been too long.
Humans thought glamour was an illusion, but it was far closer to actual shape-shifting than any kind of superficial appearance. Each daemon had only one glamour—one alternate shape to don—and it was a full shift into that form. A daemon like Ash, who likely sported a nice pair of wings under his glamour, wasn’t simply hiding the appendages. Until he shifted forms, his wings didn’t quite exist. It was complicated and not well understood even by daemons.
Along with the change of shape, daemons could shift their clothes and a limited arsenal in and out of this reality. Beneath his glamour, in his true form, Lyre carried his real weapons. Clio’s all-seeing nymph eyes would pop out of her head if she ever saw the kind of magic he carried now. Even his brothers would be surprised by some of it.
Pulling a string from a pouch at his hip, he looped it on one end of the bow, then stepped over the slim wood and braced the grip behind his knee, with the lower limb curved across his other shin. Using his legs to hold it, he bent the bow with careful, even pressure and slipped the other end of the string into place.
He pulled the string a few times to warm up the wood, then reached for the arrows in his quiver. Most of the heads were spelled with various nasty weavings, but a few were mundane projectiles.
Selecting an arrow—the shaft longer and thicker than the arrows he’d been shooting—he laid it against the bow and curled his fingers over the taut string. He easily pulled it back to his cheek. His strength didn’t falter, didn’t hesitate, though the draw weight would have been a challenge in his glamoured form. A human would have struggled to draw the bow at all.
Calm eased through him as the churn of fury and shame that had plagued him for hours settled.
The string slipped smoothly from his fingers wit
h the deep thrum of release. The arrow shot away. He drew another arrow from the quiver, nocked it, and released. Another crack as it struck the distant tree. He selected a third arrow, settled it in place, and pulled the string back to his cheek. With the knuckle of his thumb touching the corner of his mouth, he held the position, letting his focus sink into the burn of muscle and pull of tendons and the strength of the bow beneath his hands. Finally, he acknowledged the source of his rage.
He had lost control.
He. Had. Lost. Control.
The shame surged again but he didn’t move, holding the bow at full draw, shoulders aching in protest as he waited for the emotions to fade.
He had lost control. There. He’d admitted it. He’d acknowledged the humiliation of falling prey to his instincts, of becoming a puppet to his darkest nature. It was foolish to let it bother him so much. It was normal. It was expected, even, for incubi. Their magic, their aphrodesia, was a double-edged sword. It was a weapon to use against others, but also a weakness.
They could make others desire them. But sometimes their own desire was too much to control. Too powerful. Too seductive and easy to give in to.
And Clio. She was the sweetest nectar, an irresistible wine he yearned to drink.
A tremor ran through his limbs and he tightened his stance, solidifying his hold on the bow and keeping the draw steady.
He’d had a taste. Just the faintest tease, the slightest sip. Not even a kiss, just the sweetness of her skin on his tongue. He had wanted more. He had needed more. And with her body pressed into him, her chest heaving against his, her sweet scent in his nose, he couldn’t stop himself.
Before he could follow those thoughts too far, he let the ache in his arms and shoulders pull him back.
He should have tried harder to calm down before looking for her. He shouldn’t have let Madrigal goad him into a rage. When he’d found Clio, he’d already been on the edge, his restraint weakened and vulnerable.
And then he’d pinned her to the wall to hide her—the only option he could think of. Under those circumstances, most incubi would have lost it. He still couldn’t forgive himself.
The Night Realm (Spell Weaver Book 1) Page 17
