“Hmm. Well.” He hesitated, eyeing her as though she might bite him, then lifted his hand in invitation. “I’ll stay with you. If that … helps.”
She went still. When she didn’t respond, his eyes shuttered, but before he could lower his arm, she grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly.
He relaxed, his expression softening again. With a brief smile, he drew her to the platform’s edge and hopped down. She jumped after him, her feet crunching on what was either very fine gravel or an extra thick layer of dust. Stepping into the center of the tracks, he started toward the south tunnel.
She walked beside him, all too aware of his warm fingers around hers. It was the first time they’d touched since the succubus club, and she couldn’t figure out why her heart was drumming against her ribs. Either she was afraid of the dark tunnel, afraid of his touch, or afraid of what his touch was doing to her.
As they ventured deeper into the suffocating darkness, she was glad for the warm, solid connection between them. Without thinking, she turned her hand to twine their fingers together more comfortably.
Eventually, the pitch black defeated their night vision, and he cast a tiny light to guide them. The tunnel stretched on forever, empty and untouched except for the old graffiti scrawled across every wall.
“See?” Lyre remarked. “The underground thing isn’t that bad.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Of course it doesn’t bother you. You’re a night-realm ghoul who barely ever sees a sun.”
“Excuse me? A ghoul?”
“Nymphs, on the other hand,” she continued primly, “prefer to see the sun and sky. I’d take a cliff over a cave any day.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Heights are the worst.”
“You’re scared of heights?”
“Not scared. It’s just that, where the possibility of plummeting to my death is concerned, I maintain a healthy wariness.”
“I don’t mind heights at all.”
“Good for you.”
“Tell you what.” She grinned teasingly and raised their entwined fingers. “If we have to go somewhere high up, I’ll hold your hand.”
To her surprise, he didn’t return her smile. Instead, he glanced at their hands, then lifted his gaze to hers. “Deal.”
She stared into his somber amber eyes, dimmed by shadows of emotion she couldn’t identify, and forgot how to breathe. Then she tripped on a rail track tie.
She pitched forward. He caught her and she grabbed his sweater for balance.
It should have been a simple matter for her to straighten and resume walking, but she didn’t. And he could have casually released her, but he didn’t. Instead, she leaned against him, her cheek resting against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, engulfing her in his warmth and spicy cherry scent.
In the silent darkness, broken only by his flickering light, they stood like that, unmoving and unspeaking. His hand slid into her hair, his touch so gentle and careful that tears pricked her eyes. She hesitated, then lightly stroked his back.
“Why are you so different, Lyre?” The question escaped her before she could stop it. “You’re nothing like your brothers.”
“I don’t know.” He combed his fingers through the long loose waves of her hair to their ends. “They were always the talented ones. The favorites. They never had to fear someone else’s power.”
She exhaled slowly, controlling the surge of emotion rising in her. He was silent for so long she didn’t think he would say anything more.
“You’re the first person,” he whispered, “to ever put their life on the line to protect mine.”
Her arms tightened around him. In that dangerous, treacherous world, he’d been on his own from the start? No wonder he always had that sharp edge hiding beneath his easygoing exterior. It was the honed vigilance of a daemon whose survival had never been a guarantee.
He tensed. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” She went still, listening. A soft murmur was scarcely audible over the drip of water. “Douse your light.”
He flicked his fingers and his hovering spell blinked out. Darkness plunged over them, and stepping away from him, she squinted her asper into focus.
There. Faint, almost invisible but unmistakable, was the glow of magic far down the tunnel.
“Lyre,” she breathed, “I think we’ve found it.”
And now the real work—and the real danger—would begin.
Chapter Nine
They didn’t get far before a new obstacle brought them up short.
Clio stood beside Lyre, arms folded as she examined the ward that spanned the width of the tunnel. Runes and symbols formed complex geometric shapes, all glowing with an unfamiliar pale lavender light. Near the base of the spell, a red shade tinged the magic.
“There’s a blood magic element to this,” Lyre said before she could speak. “But it isn’t an offensive ward. It won’t stop anyone from walking through, but—”
“But if you don’t meet the criteria of the ward, it’ll sound an alarm,” she finished for him.
He knelt to study the ward’s base. “This weaver’s work isn’t half bad. He has some clever arrangements.”
She crouched at his side. “By my best guess, this ward is keyed to specific daemon castes. If you don’t belong to a caste set in the spell, the alarm function will trigger.”
“How much do you want to bet that ‘incubus’ isn’t among the acceptable castes?”
“I think that’s a safe bet.”
On the other side of the ward, the train tracks curved around a bend, and somewhere beyond that, light and sound trickled down the tunnel. Voices rumbled in a steady jumble of conversation. They’d definitely found the right place.
She glanced curiously at Lyre. “How would you get through this ward?”
“Me? Well.” He shrugged. “I’ve already found a dozen weak points that would be easy to break.”
“Ah,” she said, just a little smug. “But it’s woven to—”
“To trigger an alarm if it’s broken,” he said just as smugly. “Which is why I would first isolate and shut down that portion of the weave, which is, all things considered, poorly hidden.”
She puffed out a breath and he flashed her a grin. Her stomach flipped.
“Well, I can do one better,” she told him. “I can disable it without breaking it.”
“Oh?” Interest sparked in his eyes. “Where? How?”
She’d expected him to be annoyed or defensive about her asper giving her an advantage over his years of experience and training, but his genuine curiosity made sense. If he didn’t love to learn, he wouldn’t have accomplished so much at a relatively young age.
She showed him that part of the weave, then stuck her hand into the ward and cut off the flow of power through one of its main arteries. The threads went dark, and Lyre walked through it to the other side. She crossed as well, then pulled her hand out. The ward lit up again, unaware that an Underworlder had bypassed its defenses.
“So,” he murmured as he pulled his hood over his head. “I can either use an illusion spell, which an observant daemon might notice, or I can try to blend in and let you do the talking.”
“I’ll do the talking, I guess.” Nervousness fluttered in her stomach. “Just keep your head down.”
Following the bend in the tracks, they rounded the wide corner into another metro station, and it couldn’t have been more different from the last one.
Interconnecting arches formed elegant domes above the platform, and soft light shone through the stained-glass mosaics—except it was the middle of the night. Squinting, she spotted the illusion spell that mimicked sunlight streaming through the stained glass.
The colorful light sparkled across the long platform, which flowed in a gentle curve that was interrupted by an arched exit where a wide staircase led to the upper level. The nearer half of the platform was filled with clusters of fat, round cushions in colorful patterns, placed on woven rugs, some surrounded by fab
ric screens for privacy. Daemons sat on the cushions or milled around, chatting casually with the owners of each little sitting area.
The platform’s other half, on the far side of the exit, was a colorful line of booths. It looked like a flea market had been dropped into the station, except the wares were nothing a human would ever expect to see. All in all, there were probably a hundred daemons present, with about a quarter clustered around a booth at the far end of the market.
“This closer side,” Lyre murmured, “is probably for networking and negotiating. The other side is for commerce.”
“I don’t even know where to start.” How would she find someone to take them to Irida? Talking to the wrong daemon could get them in trouble. “Let’s check out the market. If anyone is selling Iridian goods, I can talk to them first.”
“Good idea.”
Lyre trailed after her as she climbed onto the platform and strode into the clustered cushions with all the confidence she could muster. A few daemons glanced curiously at her and Lyre, but everyone was in glamour, casually dressed as humans, and enough people had their faces hidden that Lyre didn’t stand out.
She tried to keep her pace and body language casual as they meandered through the gatherings. Some of these daemons did not look like people she wanted to mess with. She passed a trio sitting around a bowl of smoke with a sweet, tangy smell, their narrow faces hard and humorless. Snippets of conversation flowed all around her, some in languages she recognized and some she didn’t.
She breathed easier once they’d moved into the open space between the two halves of the platform. Ahead, the first booth of the market was laden with clothing in a variety of styles. She paused in front of it, scanning the items while the seller watched her closely. Lyre lurked behind her, turned at an angle to keep his face hidden.
Seeing nothing from Irida, she moved to the next booth, this one scattered with weapons and mismatched leather gear. A few items bore splatters of dried blood. She walked right past that stall.
The next booth was all foods from the Overworld—buns, cakes, preserves, dried roots and vegetables, even some candies. Her mouth immediately watered at the sight. She hadn’t eaten real food in two years, and even the preserves looked delicious. Nothing was particular to Irida but she was familiar with almost everything.
The stand was popular. Six daemons stood around it, haggling with the seller or waiting their turn. She wasn’t the only one pining for a taste of home.
Lyre leaned over her shoulder, checking out the table with interest. Squeezing in beside a tall woman, Clio waved to get the seller’s attention and pointed at two meat buns. He held up three fingers and she dug platinum coins from her pocket and passed them over. He handed her the buns wrapped in brown paper. Backing out of the crowd, she gave one to Lyre and unwrapped hers as she moved down the line.
She bit into the bun and almost moaned. It was cold and a bit stale, but the flavor sent a thousand memories rolling through her. The pastry was flaky and sweet, the meat and vegetables coated in a savory cream sauce. As she took another bite, the noise of the market faded away and she wandered forward at a slow stroll, passing a handful of stalls while she savored the treat.
As she popped the last bite in her mouth, she realized she’d stopped entirely and Lyre was standing beside her. Holding his half-eaten bun, he looked at her with raised eyebrows from the shadows of his hood.
“What?” she muttered, crumpling the empty wrapper.
“Nothing.” He touched his thumb to the corner of her mouth. “You have crumbs on your face.”
His thumb slid lightly across her lower lip and her heart fluttered. Pulling back, she self-consciously wiped her mouth, but she didn’t notice any crumbs. He took another bite of his bun, watching her with an odd intensity.
Looking around, she discovered they had drawn close to the crowd gathered around the end booth. Just off from the fringes of the group, a small table caught her eye: a garden of bright leaves in a dozen shapes and sizes covered its surface. A few larger potted plants sat on the floor beside the booth.
Clio made a beeline to the booth and excitedly scanned the plants. One had thick waxy leaves with blue veins, one had thin blue leaves, and one had pink flowers the size of her outspread hand. All three grew in the mountains of her homeland.
As she examined the plants, a slight chill ran over her. Of the ones she recognized, most were plants her mother had taught her to avoid, the leaves or seeds used for poisons, narcotics, or hallucinogens.
The seller behind the counter was younger than she would have expected—early twenties, maybe—with dark brown hair pulled into a short tail, the fuzzy scruff of a few missed shaves, and square, black-rimmed glasses in front of brown eyes flecked with purple. Squinting, she brought his aura into focus—silvery-gray with an odd, sparkly outer layer. She had no idea what caste it signified.
“Is that ghalia thorn?” she asked, pointing to the plant with blue-veined leaves that could be brewed into a tea to make a mild stimulant, or eaten whole for a buzz that would keep a daemon wide awake even if they were exhausted.
He nodded.
“Is it wild-harvested or do you cultivate the plants yourself?”
“This one is from my greenhouse,” he said, and she had to lean closer to hear his low, husky voice. “But the cutting came from a wild specimen.”
“It’s in wonderful condition,” she complimented. “Outside the mountain forests, they’re finicky to grow at the best of times.”
He glanced over her as though sizing her up, but she had no idea what he was thinking. He wasn’t particularly forthcoming, and if she asked too many questions, she might put him off conversation entirely.
She perused the plants again, then pointed. “Could I see that one?”
“This?” He picked up a ceramic pot with a spindly vine coiling up a supporting stick, unremarkable except for the blue sheen of its tiny green leaves.
She took the pot and examined the little vine. Healthy, and with a few weeks of extra care, it would probably flower. Behind her, Lyre shifted away from the noisy crowd, tucking closer to Clio but keeping his back to the plant merchant.
“How much?” she inquired.
“Do you even know what it is?” he asked flatly.
“Sea-shine vine. The latex can be used to treat minor cuts and burns, and it makes a lovely decorative plant as well.”
His eyebrows crept up in either surprise or skepticism, and she had to work to keep her smile in place, befuddled by his attitude. Didn’t he want to sell his plants? She’d thought he might warm up to her if she bought something. And would it kill him to speak up? The boisterous gathering only a few paces away was growing noisier.
“How much?” she asked again, keeping her tone pleasant. Just her luck that she’d find a possible guide only for him to be completely unsociable. “I’d like to buy it.”
He looked from the pot to her face. “Two plat.”
She offered two coins. He took the money and she bit her lip, wondering how to broach the topic of his familiarity with Overworld territories—and most importantly, Irida. Straight up asking wasn’t smart. Daemons were suspicious by nature.
If Lyre had been doing the talking, he would have known exactly what to say. He was the smooth talker, not her. She was lucky if she could make it three sentences without stammering or blushing.
An animal shriek cut through the rumble of voices. The small crowd around the nearby booth jerked backward, bumping into Clio and Lyre, and a gap opened, revealing the popular table. It was triple the length of the other booths and stacked with cages of all sizes. Small creatures flitted or cowered behind wire bars, some colorful and feathered, some with shimmering wings, some with fur or scales. All creatures native to the Overworld.
The largest cage sat on the floor in front of the table, and it had drawn the interest of the gathered daemons. Inside it was a wolf-like creature with blue and black patterned fur, bright yellow feathers sprouting in a fringe across
its shoulders, and lean legs that morphed into birdlike toes and talons. Someone rapped their knuckles on the top of the cage and the creature ducked, mouth opening in another wail—a sound aching with fear and distress.
“What’s wrong?” Lyre’s warm breath brushed her ear, making her shiver.
She realized how tense she was and forced herself to relax. The trade of native Overworld creatures was restricted or forbidden in many territories, so it made a twisted sort of sense that poachers would bring their catches to Earth to sell. But seeing it herself made her chest tighten.
“That’s a lycaon—a baby one,” she told him. “They live in the mountains near Irida.”
“Do you want to talk to that seller instead?”
“I don’t want to deal with a poacher,” she muttered. “I think this plant merchant has been near Irida, but he doesn’t want to talk to me.”
Lyre leaned closer, ostensibly checking out her new vine, and his gleaming amber eyes caught the light from under his hood. “Flirt with him.”
“Huh?”
“Flirt with him,” Lyre repeated, his teeth flashing as he grinned.
She gawked, then shook her head. “No, I can’t—”
“Trust me, Clio,” he purred, nudging her around to face the plant booth again.
“But—”
He gave her a gentle shove in the back and she stumbled forward a step, clutching her vine. The plant seller glanced up, his eyes flat behind his glasses. Flirt with him? The guy could barely stand to look at her.
Trust him, Lyre had said. After a moment’s thought, she leaned forward and braced one hand on the tabletop, putting her breasts at eye level with the daemon. His gaze flicked down to her bosom then back up to her face, and she felt like a complete idiot. If their mission hadn’t been so serious, she might have thought Lyre was tricking her into making a fool of herself.
“I …” She smiled, mentally flailing. “I’m really impressed by your plant collection.”
Behind her, Lyre coughed. The sound was full of swallowed laughter. She gritted her teeth, almost ready to abandon ship before she humiliated herself.
The Shadow Weave Page 9