“You don’t know how to consult,” Lyre told him. “And, frankly, you terrify everyone. I can’t think of anyone more unfit to work with a buyer, especially an Overworlder.”
“I’ll make sure not to be terrifying.”
“Forget it, Dulcet. Andante was clear he didn’t want this transaction to go sour.”
Dulcet’s face hardened slightly. “Since when do you care about Chrysalis’s success, Lyre?”
“Since it’s my neck on the line this time.”
Dulcet smiled, his expression soft and almost angelic, and the eerie gleam in his eyes intensified. “I would be very happy if you gave me the envoy.”
Lyre tensed. “I said no.”
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”
“I’m sure.”
“Hmm.” Dulcet’s sweet smile stretched into a grin. “But are you … really … sure?”
He snapped his fingers, and magic burned through Lyre’s body. His muscles seized. He fell back against the wall, mouth open in horror but unable to make a sound as Dulcet grabbed the front of his shirt and pinned him in place before he could fall.
“You forgot the third kind of weaving I specialize in,” Dulcet crooned. “Bindings.”
Goddamn it. Why had he let Dulcet touch him? He should have known the bastard would slip a weave through his defensive wards.
With his other hand, Dulcet pulled a sobol from beneath his lab coat. A small open hoop tipped the thin black rod, and in the center, blue light crackled. Sobols were the primary tools the bastille’s jailors used to control prisoners, and it was universally feared—for good reason.
Dulcet jammed the end of the rod against Lyre’s side. Fiery agony exploded into his core like lightning ripping through his muscles. Boiling oil seared his nerves. His limbs jerked weakly, unresponsive beneath the binding weave he’d stupidly allowed his brother to cast on him. He couldn’t even make a sound.
Dulcet nonchalantly dug the weapon into Lyre for another few seconds before pulling it back. He pressed his other arm harder against Lyre’s chest, keeping him upright while also compressing his lungs.
“I rarely ask for favors,” Dulcet said pleasantly. “A considerate brother would agree to my request with good-natured grace.”
He tapped the sobol against Lyre’s lowest rib, sending a bolt of agony tearing through the bone and into his spine.
“Are you a considerate brother, Lyre? Will you agree to my request?” Dulcet leaned closer and dug the sobol in again, the blinding torment splintering through Lyre’s body. “Or should we take this conversation downstairs, hmm? See if I can bring you around to my way of thinking?”
Sparks flashed across Lyre’s vision from the relentless agony, and he knew he was about to pass out. If his brother got him into the basement, it would be hours or more before anyone came looking for them. Dulcet could do a lot of damage in a few hours.
A flash of movement from behind Dulcet.
Ponytail swinging, blue eyes blazing, Clio barreled down on them. She drew the thick binder in her hands back, then swung it with every ounce of her strength.
It slammed into the side of Dulcet’s head.
The blow hurled him sideways. As Lyre slumped down the wall, Dulcet landed on one knee and twisted to see who was attacking him. But Clio already had that binder raised over her head, and she brought it down right on top of his skull.
Crack. Dulcet hit the floor, stunned and gasping.
“Lyre!” Clio tossed the binder aside and dropped to her knees beside him where he was slumped against the wall, unable to move. “What did he do to you?”
If he hadn’t been in such agony from the sobol, he would have been mortified that she was seeing him so helpless. She swiped a hand across her face as though brushing invisible hair away, and her gaze flicked over him. She pressed her palms to his chest. Hot magic shot into him, and the binding released. He sucked in a breath as his lungs started working again—then he lunged forward to grab her.
Dulcet snatched her by the hair and wrenched her backward. Lyre got an arm around her middle and held on. She shrieked as they pulled her between them.
“Give her to me,” Dulcet snarled, still on his knees, blood dribbling down his face from his hairline. “She’s mine.”
Muscles quivering and nerves screaming, Lyre cast a burst of incandescence. Dulcet jerked backward, blinded, and Lyre yanked Clio out of his grip. He swung her behind him as he staggered to his feet.
Clutching a handful of gemstones from his pocket, Dulcet sprang up and hurled a stone. Lyre cast his best shield. The gem hit his barrier and exploded in a rain of lightning.
“Get a grip, Dulcet!” he shouted. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“You won’t give me the girl,” Dulcet snarled.
He lunged at Lyre, magic crackling over his fistful of spells. Shit. Lyre yanked out his chain of lodestones, though his usual array of defensive magic wouldn’t do much good if Dulcet was intent on committing murder.
Then Clio popped up beside Lyre, a black rod in her hand—the sobol Dulcet had dropped. Teeth bared, Dulcet changed direction, reaching for her.
The three of them slammed together. Dulcet grabbed Clio’s wrist, already casting. Lyre caught her from behind, his weave spinning over her in a skintight shield to counteract Dulcet’s attack.
And Clio, mashed between them, jammed the sobol right into Dulcet’s face.
His brother didn’t even cry out. His eyes rolled up and he went over backward, unconscious before he hit the floor.
But Clio went limp too, the sobol clattering on the tiles and her dead weight almost pulling her from Lyre’s grip. He heaved her up again, but she hung limply in his arms, her face slack. He’d blocked Dulcet’s weave—he knew he had. So why …
He pressed a hand to her face. The remnant of Dulcet’s leech ailment, the one Lyre hadn’t had a chance to remove after getting her away from him last time, pulsed with renewed magic. Dulcet had reactivated the spell to incapacitate Clio.
He relaxed. Not lethal. He could get the leech weave off her.
A tiny noise—a female whimper—brought his head up. A receptionist stood across the foyer, her jaw slack and face white as the walls. Lyre twitched his shoulders, uncomfortably aware of the lifeless nymph hanging in his arms and the unconscious incubus on the floor.
“You didn’t see anything,” he told her.
She nodded quickly.
“Go back to your desk.”
She opened her mouth but only a squeak came out. Clearing her throat, she whispered, “I’m supposed to … to take the envoy … back to—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Yes, sir.” The receptionist gestured hesitantly at the floor. “She … she took my binder.”
Lyre looked down at the massive tome of papers at his feet, the binder’s spine torn from the force with which Clio had swung it into a certain incubus’s skull. He planted one foot on it and kicked. It slid across the floor to the receptionist.
She grabbed the binder and took off.
Lyre glanced at Dulcet, downed by a sobol to the face. Man, that would hurt. He considered his options, then shrugged, scooped Clio into a bridal-style carry, and walked away. Someone else could deal with the unconscious incubus.
He moved through the halls with a purposeful gait, ignoring the surprised stares of the daemons he passed. It was hardly the strangest sight any of them had seen in this building. On the upper level, he shifted Clio around to free one arm, tapped his door to unlock the wards, and pushed it open with one foot.
Inside his workroom, he locked them in, then carried Clio to the sofa and laid her across it. Her forehead scrunched and her eyes spun wildly around the room.
“You’re conscious,” he commented. “I wasn’t sure.”
She wheezed, unable to speak.
“Don’t worry, it’s just that leech spell. I’ll get it off you properly this time.” He sat on the edge of the cushion and tapped his fingers against he
r middle, squinting to bring the weave’s shape into sight. The outer layer was, as expected, a complete nightmare. Dulcet’s weavings never followed logical patterns.
Closing his eyes halfway, he stretched his senses out, feeling the shape of the weave, finding the familiar constructs, angles, and threads buried in it. He moved methodically from her throat to chest to arms and legs, plucking apart the threads with touches of magic. The weave dissolved piece by piece.
With her body freed from the paralysis, he shifted off the sofa and knelt in front of her so she could sit up. Studying the final remnant of the spell, he traced a line across her jaw. Magic could be woven through bodies as easily as through stone or metal, but the former didn’t hold the weave as well. The spells tended to muddy and tangle and turn into a big mess inside a body.
Turning her head, he followed the line down the side of her neck and found the knot where Dulcet had buried the “switch” part of the spell, which allowed him to turn it on and off without dissolving the entire weave. A dart of magic unraveled the runes and circles, and with that, the last of the weave broke apart and faded to nothing.
With the spell taken care of, his attention shifted back to Clio—and he remembered he was supposed to be keeping his distance from her.
She watched him with huge eyes, a pretty pink blush staining her cheeks. Her lips were parted and her hand hovered in the air, fingers almost touching his arm. And his hand—his hand was curled around the side of her neck, her skin warm under his fingers, her hair brushing his knuckles.
Cautiously, almost like she wasn’t sure it was a good idea, she closed her fingers around his wrist, pale porcelain against his golden-brown skin. He expected her to yank his hand away. He expected her to recoil from him. But she didn’t. She just stared at him … waiting.
Waiting to see what he would do.
Damn. Damn damn damn. The word circled in his head, but he was already sinking past the point of caring. No doubt about it. She destroyed his self-control. The moment she got too close, he forgot the meaning of the word.
He didn’t decide to slide his other hand up the outside of her thigh to her hip. He didn’t decide to curl his fingers around her waist. He didn’t decide to pull her closer, drawing her forward on the cushion until her lean thighs straddled his hips, until their bodies were almost touching.
Her soft gasp of surprise was almost too much for him. She stared into his eyes without the slightest hint of fear. Trusting. Innocent. Expectant.
He slid his thumb along her jaw. Her lips were so close. He wanted her mouth.
The slightest pressure from his hand guided her face closer to his. Her breath came faster, her cheeks flushed. She wanted this. She wanted what he could give her.
They want it, brother. All of them.
The memory of Madrigal’s voice cut through him and he crashed back to reality. He jerked backward, snatching his hand away from her. Shock splashed across her face at his sudden recoil. He lurched to his feet, half panicked. Had he used aphrodesia on her? He didn’t know, couldn’t be sure.
She hung on the edge of the sofa, one hand stretched toward him. He searched her face for signs of enthrallment, but all he saw was pain gathering in her eyes—the sting of rejection. Shit.
Then her gaze dropped and she gasped. “You’re bleeding!”
“Huh?” He looked down, surprised to see the dark stain on the side of his gray shirt. Dulcet must have done more damage with the sobol than Lyre had realized. “What do you know? I am.”
Before he could check the injury, Clio sprang to her feet, grabbed his arm, and forced him down onto the sofa. Crouching beside him, she peeled his shirt from his side and pulled it up to reveal the oozing lacerations where his skin had split. Lovely.
He started to stand again but she shoved him back.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Getting the first aid kit?”
“I can do that. Where is it?”
“I can—”
“You can sit right there! I’ll do it.” She glared at him until he nodded. “Where’s the kit?”
“Umm …” He gestured toward the cabinets along the wall. “Somewhere over there?”
She hastened in that direction and started pulling cupboards open. The second one disgorged an entire box of charcoal pencils over her feet, and he winced. Well, if tidiness wasn’t high on his priority list, who could blame him?
He leaned back on the sofa, watching her urgently sift through the piles of junk. Was she that concerned over a little blood? His side hurt like he’d been kicked in the ribs, but the wound wasn’t serious. Yet, every few seconds, she glanced over as though expecting him to collapse from blood loss.
A tiny smile tugged at his lips, but he quashed it. He didn’t need her thinking he was laughing at her on top of rejecting her.
He let his head fall back, sighing soundlessly. She had a sinful talent for shattering his self-restraint. And now she was in his workroom, and they were alone. Until he knew Dulcet was back in his favorite dark basement, it wasn’t safe for her to leave.
He closed his eyes. Shit.
Chapter Eighteen
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—just a few lacerations and some redness that would probably darken into a spectacular 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 I … should I have not hit Dulcet?”
“What?” Lyre blinked at her. “Clio, I will treasure that memory for the rest of my life.”
“Huh?”
He smiled like a satisfied lover. “I’ve wanted to punch him in the face for years. Watching you crack his skull was the next best thing.”
“It was … oh,” she said breathlessly. The sex appeal he radiated was downright scandalous. 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 looked up and his smile grew sheepish.
“Thanks for your help,” he murmured.
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 some of that 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. Her stomach flip-flopped and she told herself to look away, but her eyes
refused to shift. He tossed the bloody shirt into a corner, muscles in his back flexing, and pulled the other one on as he turned, giving her a brief, mouthwatering view of his bare torso before the new shirt fell into place.
She swallowed hard and refused to think about what it would be like to touch him. After that moment on the sofa, where she was positive he’d been about to kiss her, she shouldn’t be thinking anything inappropriate about him.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “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 were 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. As far as Lyre knew, that was impossible.
“Glad you’ve got it under control.”
“He seems really ticked off at me.” A shiver ran through her. “Is there anything else he can do?”
“Hmm.” Lyre walked to the long table at the other end of the room and dropped onto the spinning stool. “Incubi have the ability to affect your will, but if you don’t look into his eyes, he shouldn’t be able to enthrall you unless he releases his glamour.”
She hadn’t thought much about what an incubus looked like out of glamour. More irresistible, or less? She honestly couldn’t imagine Lyre being any more alluring. “Why does that make a difference?”
He shrugged, turning to the table and picking up a metal disk. She watched him, 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.
The Night Realm (Spell Weaver Book 1) Page 19
