“The weather is perfect for flying,” he said.
“Oh?”
“That valley with the waterfall is beautiful.”
“Is it?”
“It is.”
“And is it … private too?”
His eyes darkened and his arms tightened around her, making her suck in a breath. His mouth closed on hers mid-gasp, a fierce, hungry kiss that made her heart pound.
“We should go see the waterfall,” she said breathlessly.
His mouth curved in a dangerous sort of smile, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He turned and stepped backward, putting himself right on the edge, a deadly fall directly behind him. She hung in his arms, her alarmed stare flashing toward the drop.
“Hey, wait, you aren’t thinking of—”
Zwi jumped off a nearby rock and landed on Piper’s back, chittering excitedly.
His arms tightened around her and he boosted her up until her feet no longer touched the ground. His wings pulled in, tucked against his back. Oh hell no. She knew exactly what he was planning.
“Ash, don’t you dare—”
He grinned and leaned back. They plunged off the ledge.
She screamed, clutching his neck as his laughter rang in her ears. The free fall carried them halfway down the mountain before his wings snapped open, catching the warm updraft, and they swept effortlessly toward the valley. The magnificent vista of mountains whirled past them but she hardly noticed. She knew only the wonder of flight in his arms, a freedom more beautiful than anything to be found or seen in any of the worlds.
The End
(Though Piper and Ash’s story has concluded, keep reading for a preview of a new book in the Steel & Stone universe …)
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Excerpt
Return to the Steel & Stone universe
in an upcoming new novel by Annette Marie
Lyre jammed his hands deeper into his pockets. Shoulders hunched, he trudged down the corridor. Like most of the building, white dominated—white tiled floors, white walls, white ceilings. He didn’t know why they’d chosen white of all colors. He would have chosen something that hid the blood better.
His gaze flicked up to check each door number as he passed. The higher the numbers grew, the slower his steps became. By the time he reached the correct door, he was barely moving. Scowling, he glanced up and down the long hall. Empty. She was late.
Cursing under his breath, he stood silently, counting the seconds in his head, then sighed. Reluctantly, he turned to the window in the door and peered in.
The tiny room on the other side was barren but for a simple wooden cot with white sheets—white everything, of course. But its occupant was not white, unless Lyre counted his ghostly pale face. He lounged on the cot, leaning back in an almost sulky slouch—his posture at complete odds with the torn, gore-splattered clothing he wore. Black material hung in shreds from one shoulder, his arm smeared with drying blood.
Lyre’s chest tightened. The kid was young, just a youth. How could a kid be sitting there so calmly when it looked like he’d just walked off a battlefield? Leaning in a little closer, Lyre squinted at the youth. Dark hair that gleamed deep red in the fluorescent lights, braided along one side of his head. He had to be in glamour, which in itself was unusual. Lyre was in glamour too, but that was because no one liked dealing with an incubus without it. He angled his head for a better look and his shoulder bumped the door.
The boy’s eyes snapped up, locking on Lyre. Grey irises cut through him, burning with barely controlled rage that was at complete odds with his relaxed pose.
Lyre jerked back from the door, then shook his head. The boy couldn’t see him; it was one-way glass. But damn, it sure felt like their eyes had met.
“Lyre!”
He jumped, stumbling back another step as he turned.
A woman strode down the hall toward him, her long ponytail swinging behind her with each step. The heels of her black, thigh-high boots clacked loudly, an ominous beat in the otherwise noiseless corridor.
“Eisheth,” he grumbled.
She stormed up to him and stopped too close. Her dark eyes flashed over him, ire radiating off her. She planted one hand on her leather-clad hip where a thin, shiny black rod—a sobol—hung from her belt.
He cleared his throat, avoiding her glare. “You summoned me?”
“I did.” She jerked her thumb at the door. “Do you see that boy in there?”
“I saw him.”
“That child has broken every collar I’ve put on him.”
“Broken?” he repeated, straightening from his slouch and grudgingly looking at her. “What do you mean, broken? The physical collar or the weaving?”
“Both.”
“After it’s on him and activated?”
“Yes,” she snapped. “I have no idea how. No one has any idea how.”
He flicked a glance at the door, the boy beyond it out of his line of sight. “Who is he?”
“A draconian. That’s all you need to know.”
Ah. The draconians were one of Asphodel’s biggest secrets. Hades wanted everyone to believe that they were just a few more mercenaries earning their pay, but Lyre had heard the rumors. He’d seen the signs. It wasn’t any of his business and he knew better than to dig into Hades’ secrets, but whatever the truth was, he suspected it was ugly.
He shrugged at Eisheth. “Magic-dampening collars only last a few years before the spells begin to deteriorate—”
“Do you think I’m a fool?” She jabbed a finger into his chest, pushing him back a step. “Of course I thought of that. I’ve had new collars made, tested them on other daemons first, everything. He breaks them all.”
He tugged at one sleeve of his lab coat. “Why did you summon me? I haven’t woven a collar in years. You should talk to—”
“The collar weavers only know how to make collars—and clearly the regular ones won’t work on this brat. I need something else. I need something better.”
“You want a custom weaving?”
“Yes. I want …” Her eyes slid to the window and she licked her lips, the small movement somehow obscene. “I want something completely new … not a collar that will control him. I want something that will break him.”
Revulsion crawled up his throat. “If you want that kind of custom work, you need to submit a—”
“Do you really think the regular procedures apply to me?”
He folded his arms and curled his lips in a sneer, done with cowing to her temper. “You might be the bastille’s chief bully—I’m sorry, queen of torture or whatever your title is—but I’m not one of your underlings. I don’t have to obey your orders. In fact, I don’t even have to humor your ego trip.”
“You’re not one of mine, no.” She smiled sweetly. “But Chrysalis belongs to Samael and you belong to Chrysalis. The warlord has already given me permission to commission this new weaving.”
He flexed his jaw. “Why me? My brothers are better.”
“I’m perfectly aware of your limitations.” She pa
tted his cheek and he jerked his face away. “But you’re the most creative. The most inventive. I want you to put that vision of yours to good use and develop a new collar … something utterly devastating. Something that will teach that boy true respect.”
“I’ll pass.”
“You don’t have a choice. I’ve chosen you and you will complete this project for me … or you can take your refusal to Samael.”
He sneered, failing to come up with any plausible grounds to refuse.
She tapped one long fingernail against his chest. “Remember, something that will break that disgusting defiance of his. I’ll check on your progress in a few weeks.”
With a mocking wave of her fingers, she sauntered back down the hall, hips swaying seductively. Swallowing the urge to gag, he stuffed his hands back in his pockets. A collar to break the spirit of a child. How delightful.
Hesitating, he stepped toward the door and peeked in one more time. The boy’s grey eyes stared straight into him. He sucked in a breath but didn’t recoil this time. The draconian couldn’t see him. The soundproofing, aided by weavings, was impenetrable, so he hadn’t heard a sound either. But the way the boy looked at the window, it was like he knew someone was there—and he wanted to rip out that someone’s throat.
With a shiver, Lyre turned away. Perhaps the boy wasn’t such a child after all. Those eyes were too old for his face. Not all daemons aged in predictable ways; he would know, wouldn’t he? But still, a youth nonetheless. Hades played a dangerous game. Who would believe a teenager was a hired mercenary killer?
He strode back down the hall, leaving the draconian’s cutting stare behind. He walked aimlessly, passing through doors and down halls without a thought. His mind spun as his feet carried him through the maze of the facility without any input required. He didn’t focus until he found himself standing in front of the door to his workroom.
He stroked a finger over the smooth steel of the door, his touch unlocking the complex weavings that bound the door closed—weavings that would extract a hefty price from any trespassers. With a hiss, the door cracked open. He shoved it aside and strode in, kicking it shut behind him.
A long steel table dominated the far end of the room, buried in a haphazard collection of crafting and weaving materials. The shelves covering the other walls were equally buried in junk. He crossed the room and dropped into the chair in front of the table. Behind it, a narrow horizontal window offered a limited view of the black mountains beyond Asphodel.
A weapon to destroy the boy. A collar to break a child.
His eyes slid across the table, from the metal discs and round gems to the steel marbles and arrows with dark fletching. Papers, books, tools, dials and compasses, contraptions that measured magical signatures—everything he needed to weave magic, to weave ugly, lethal spells for a greedy, warmongering caste.
A weapon to destroy a child. His lips contorted, disgust rising in him until he could almost feel it oozing out of his pores. How had his skin not turned black from the filth he wove?
Shoving his chair back, he stood and swept his arms across the table. Everything crashed to the floor, gems and marbles bouncing across the white tiles. He pressed his hands flat to the tabletop, head hanging between his shoulders as he breathed deeply. Dropping to his knees, he reached under the table for a tile near the wall.
He tapped a finger against it. The spells sealing it were subtler, and far deadlier, than the ones on the door. A foolish person could get himself killed if he came into this workroom and started messing with the works in progress. But if someone discovered this, it would be his own life on the line.
The tile popped up and he set it aside. Beneath, a hole in the floor was filled halfway with black-fletched arrows, various lodestones, and several fine silver chains holding assorted gems. He lifted one of the chains out and sat back on his heels in front of the table. The gems sparkled in the harsh white lights above, bright and innocent. He wore a similar chain around his neck, its gems loaded with self-defense spells—all having been studied and, where applicable, unapologetically copied by his siblings.
This set of spells was different. He brushed a thumb across a gem, imbuing it with a tiny touch of magic. Golden sparkles burst out from it, coalescing into the shape of an eagle. The glowing bird soared on silent wings above him, gliding around the room. He watched it, jaw clenched. Beautiful. Free. How he envied the creature.
He could have happily spent his entire life weaving beautiful, inspiring spells. He loved to create. He loved to face a problem and search for the answer, weaving and testing and failing and weaving again until he found the perfect solution. Instead, he wove weapons of war and torture. Each time he gave a new spell to Hades, he handed over a little more of his soul with it.
Touching the gem, he dispelled the eagle illusion and watched it fade with an aching heart. Now, as if anonymous weapons weren’t enough, he had to create a collar specifically to torture and destroy a draconian boy. It sickened him. This wasn’t what magic was for. This wasn’t what his magic was for.
His eyes lifted from the gems in his hands to the pile of half-completed work scattered over the floor. How far would he go to survive? Was he willing to destroy a kid guilty only of defiance to protect his own skin?
He didn’t have a choice. If he’d had a choice, he wouldn’t have been here in the first place. Desertion wasn’t an option. His brothers had seen to that.
His gaze drifted back down to the gems in his hands. You’re the most creative. He was, wasn’t he? His brothers were better, more gifted, but they were like brilliant mathematicians. He was the artist. He was assigned the most impossible weavings, the ones that required an unorthodox approach. He was good at the unorthodox and the unconventional. He had a gift for taking crazy ideas and turning them into functional spells.
Escaping this place was the craziest idea he’d ever considered. It was impossible … but so was breaking a magic-dampening collar. If that draconian boy could accomplish an impossible feat, perhaps he could too. Making the impossible happen … that’s what he was good at, wasn’t it?
His lips curved in a slow, frozen smile. Dropping the chain back into its hiding place, he replaced the tile, rekeyed the protective weavings, and stood. On one side of the table, an arrow lay half off the edge, balanced perfectly with the fletching hovering above the floor. He picked it up and twirled it in his fingers before closing his hand around the arrowhead.
He clenched his fist. Blood trickled over his palm as he closed his eyes and began to weave.
To be continued …
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Acknowledgments
I can’t believe the Steel & Stone series has come to an end! It’s been such a crazy ride from the release of Chase the Dark to today. The series could never have achieved the amazing success it has without the support of my fans. I offer my heartfelt appreciation to every reader who bought the books, who rated and reviewed on Amazon and Goodreads, who followed me on Facebook, who emailed or messaged me, who recommended the series to friends, who blogged, tweeted, or shared their praise with the rest of the world. Thank you!
Thank you as well to Breanna and Sever, for your unfailing support and encouragement, and for all your time that I monopolized when you probably could have been doing something more useful (or at least more fun).
Thank you to my editor Elizabeth, for your hard work, dedication, and insane levels of patience. Every writer has her weaknesses, and you’re a saint for putting up with mine—not to mention doing your best to fix them.
Lastly, thank you to my wonderful husband. I’m running out of ways to tell you how amazing you are, so let it suffice to say that I couldn’t do any of this without you. You really are the best.
About the Author
Annette Marie lives in Western Canada with her hu
sband and their adorable, hell-raising cat Caesar. She decided one cat is probably enough, but she did get some fish. They and the cat are coexisting peacefully … so far.
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