With each strike, his shield deteriorated. Which each hit, a new tear appeared in his barrier and the blade found his flesh. Ash aimed for the same spots, slicing into existing wounds.
Lyre ignored the pain, the blood, the chill in his body. An arrow caught Ash in the shoulder. Another nicked his thigh. One went through his right hand, but Ash simply swapped his sword into his other hand, as ambidextrous with his weapon as Lyre was.
They clashed again and the draconian flung a spell at his face. Lyre jerked away and Ash’s sword caught him in the back with the sound of splintering wood. His spare bow fell to the ground in pieces.
Landing hard on his shoulder, Lyre threw his hand up and cast a blinding flare. Ash flinched, shielding his face. Rolling to his feet, Lyre sped backward, keeping his eyes on the enemy as he pulled two arrows from his quiver. He couldn’t miss this time.
Ash dropped his hand, still squinting, then sprang into motion.
Lyre slapped the two arrows side by side on the string and activated one’s spell. With a single pull of the bow, he fired them both.
The spell unleashed in a burst of wire-like bands that shot ahead of the bolt. They spun around Ash, bringing him up short, and the two arrows came in right behind the magic.
Ash could only defend against one and he cut the spelled arrow out of the air before it struck his chest. The second one hit his thigh and lodged deep in the muscle. With a burst of fire, the draconian tore the binding weave apart. He yanked the arrow out of his leg and stepped toward Lyre.
His leg buckled.
He dropped to his knees and his sword hit the ground, the hilt in his grasp but its weight too heavy to lift. He pitched forward and caught himself on one arm to keep from collapsing entirely. His wings arched off his back, shuddering violently.
Lyre swallowed back his sick regret. A poisoned arrow wasn’t how he wanted to win this fight, but he had no other choice. Steeling himself, he withdrew one more arrow, activated its shield-piercing weave, and nocked it. He drew the string back to his cheek, aiming for Ash’s bowed head.
The poison worked quickly, but Lyre would give him a clean death. It was the only thing he could do to repay Ash’s mercy toward Clio. He let his fingers relax, and the bowstring snapped away with a soft twang.
Jerking up, Ash slapped the arrow out of the air.
Blood sprayed from his torn hand, the red droplets lost instantly in the rain. His sword scraped on the ground as he lurched to his feet with painful effort. Unable to believe his eyes, Lyre snatched another arrow.
Ash dragged his sword up with both hands, then slammed the point into the asphalt. Blades of ebony fire exploded out of the sword in an expanding spiral with Ash at its center. Lyre took one look at the lethal cast and bolted in the opposite direction, buying himself a few precious seconds to cast his strongest shield and reinforce it with as much power as he could.
The blast hit him in the back, ripping through his bubble shield, and hurled him forward. His defensive weaves, already weakened, tore under the onslaught and when he rolled to a stop, sprawled on the pavement with every nerve screaming, there was almost nothing left of either weaving.
Those defensive shields were the only things that had kept him alive this long. Without them, Ash would kill him with one strike of his sword.
Sucking in air, Lyre staggered to his feet and squinted through the rain and dust. Around him, the street was cracked—giant gouges torn into the asphalt by Ash’s attack—and chunks of concrete crumbled off the nearby buildings.
Lyre’s skill as a master weaver had always given him an edge over other daemons, and his power hadn’t mattered nearly as much as his skill. But for the first time, he understood just how wide the chasm of power between an incubus and a draconian really was. Incubi were at the bottom of the totem pole, and draconians stood alone at the top as the most powerful Underworld caste of all.
Through the rainy haze, a silhouette rose—Ash staggering to his feet. He lifted his sword and slowly turned toward Lyre. Impossible. The poison on that arrow was debilitating in seconds and lethal in minutes. Ash shouldn’t be able to stand. He shouldn’t be able to move.
He was too strong. He could rip apart Lyre’s best weavings with brute magical force, carelessly throwing around quantities of power that Lyre couldn’t wield and could scarcely grasp. Lyre could weave powerful spells, but he couldn’t unleash them instantly in the heat of battle. Even with fully charged lodestones going into this fight, he was already tiring, his reserves half depleted and draining fast.
But if he didn’t meet Ash’s power with equal force, he wouldn’t survive the draconian’s next attack.
Open space. He needed open space.
Slinging his bow over his shoulder and pressing his hand to his bleeding side, Lyre sprinted down the street, praying the poison and Ash’s injuries would slow him down enough.
Ahead, the buildings ended abruptly. The road continued across a dark river, its surface dancing under the pouring rain.
Lyre ran onto the bridge and stopped in the center. Whirling around, he put his chain between his teeth, a gem resting on his tongue for the physical contact he needed to activate it. Then he reached over his shoulder, fingers brushing across his arrows, the nocks embedded with tiny weaves that told him which arrow held what spell.
He pulled out an arrow, its black fletching standing out harshly against his drenched skin. Wetting his fingers in the blood leaking from one of his many wounds, he wiped it on the arrowhead, then nocked the arrow and lifted his bow, ready to draw.
But he didn’t activate the weaving. Not yet.
Eyes narrowed, he watched the street, waiting for Ash to appear—waiting for the moment he would unleash his second greatest weapon. The KLOC was his most powerful creation, but he’d never intended to use it as a weapon. This arrow held his second most powerful invention: the same spell he’d used to kill Dulcet.
And now he would use it to kill Ash.
The draconian couldn’t evade this one. He couldn’t counter it with his power. He couldn’t consume it with his black fire. The blood arrow was too devastating. It was unstoppable once unleashed.
Teeth gritted, Lyre waited. Ash would come. Unless the poison had done its work, he would come. And Lyre would end this once and for all—before he bled out from his wounds.
Seconds ticked by.
Fear slithered along his nerves, intensifying into shuddering terror. As panic constricted his throat, he realized his oversight.
He whipped his gaze toward the sky.
Out of the rain, black wings flashed. Ash dropped out of the darkness, diving toward the bridge deck with black power rippling off him. Lyre swung his bow up but it was already too late. Ash was too close. If Lyre fired the blood arrow, it would kill them both.
He activated the gem between his teeth. His best dome barrier snapped around him—and Ash plunged into the golden light. The draconian’s power ripped through the weave before it could solidify, and he slammed into Lyre with bone-breaking force.
His bowstring snapped and the blood arrow flew out of his grasp. He hit the bridge’s railing so hard the metal bowed with the shriek of tearing bolts. Ash drove into him with the momentum of his dive and pinned him against the rail.
Lyre hung in his grip, dazed and in too much pain to move. His ribs were broken. Bones in his shoulder and left arm were broken. His bow was gone, knocked from his grip.
Ash lifted his sword with one hand, the blade shining in the rain, the point aimed at Lyre’s chest. Lyre met those eyes, darkened to the same ebony as his fire, and could read nothing in them. Just blank emotionlessness.
Just a mercenary following orders. Just an assassin making the kill.
But Lyre wasn’t ready to die.
With no defenses and no time to cast, he used the only weapon he had left. In the instant Ash’s sword began to move, Lyre unleashed his aphrodesia—the full, awful power of his seduction magic.
The sword faltered, Ash’s hand st
uttering with the point inches from Lyre’s torso.
Lyre grabbed Ash’s face. Agony tore through his body but he ignored it, focused on pumping aphrodesia into the draconian. Pushing Ash’s face wrap down, he pressed his hands against the draconian’s skin, unfamiliar scales under his fingers. His voice wrapped around his victim in hypnotizing harmonics. Words flowed from him in a constant stream, but he had no idea what he was saying. He only knew he had to keep speaking or risk losing control.
Ash stared at him, his eyes wide and blank. His sword wavered. He wasn’t naturally attracted to the male body, and most men thought that made them immune to incubi’s power.
No one was immune.
Lyre’s magic flooded Ash, overwhelming his mind and will. The draconian’s sword wavered again, then fell from his hand and hit the concrete with a metallic bang.
His will belonged to Lyre now.
Ash was helpless, his superior strength useless. His presence pulsed in Lyre’s mind. The draconian was his to control, to command … to kill.
He stared into Ash’s blank eyes. Saw the flicker deep in their depths. Felt the shudder in his mind—Ash resisting. Ash fighting for control. Ash struggling desperately to regain his will, just as Lyre had struggled against the succubi.
Weave the death spell. That’s all he had to do.
If he’d hated the thought of winning with a poisoned arrow, the idea of killing Ash like this was a hundred times more revolting. They’d spent their lives struggling under someone else’s power, and now Ash would die under Lyre’s power.
Weave the death spell.
Why had it come to this? Why did they have to kill each other? Why couldn’t they have found a way to keep this from happening?
Weave the death spell!
A tremor ran through him. With a shuddering breath, he pulled Ash’s head closer, shifting against the bent railing.
Metal creaked. With a clanging snap, the railing broke.
He fell backward, dragging Ash with him. They pitched off the edge, plummeted fifty feet, and plunged into the icy river.
Chapter Twelve
Run.
Clio stood on the shadowed stairs, staring blankly at the familiar row of booths as merchants made their final transactions and began packing up their merchandise. No one glanced her way, too busy with their own things.
Run straight to the metro station.
Her lungs burned and she couldn’t catch her breath. A painful tremor shuddered through her leg muscles. She braced a hand on the dusty wall.
Don’t stop.
She looked from the merchants and their booths, to the sitting areas set up on the platform’s other side, to the interconnected domes in the ceiling filled with stained glass and the illusion of soft sunlight.
Don’t come back.
Why was she here? Where was Lyre? Hadn’t she been outside with him, heading to their rented room? Why had she run back here without him? She rubbed her face, wet with rain, and started to turn away from the platform.
Don’t come back.
Her muscles seized, refusing to obey, and she stumbled into the wall.
Don’t come back.
That hypnotic command spun around and around in her head. The weight of the words pulled her toward the metro station and she gripped the handrail, fighting the need to continue down the stairs.
Run to the metro station.
What was wrong with her?
Don’t stop.
Why was she here alone?
Don’t come back.
Don’t go back where?
She pinched the bridge of her nose. She remembered walking down the street with Lyre when it had started to rain. She remembered standing in the alcove with him and admitting that she’d bought the sea-shine vine as a gift for him.
He’d seen something in the street that had made his face pale and his eyes go black. And then—
His glamour falling away, the released power spilling over her body in a wash of tingles.
His black eyes locking on hers, his hands on her face, his aphrodesia pouring over her in a tidal wave of heat and need.
His mesmerizing voice wrapping around her, power vibrating through each command: Run. Run to the metro station. Don’t stop. Don’t come back. Go!
She’d run away. She’d left him alone to face whatever he had seen in the street that had sent fear crawling across his face. And she knew which hunter he feared most.
Shoving away from the wall, she charged back up the stairs, slammed through the doors at the top, and careened into the pouring rain.
Lyre, that idiot. That stupid, self-sacrificing incubus. Why had he sent her away? She could have helped. Ash’s magic might be difficult to see, but she was a mimic. She could have—
But Lyre didn’t know she was a mimic. She hadn’t told him.
She ran back the way she’d come, feet pounding on the pavement, heedless of the wind and rain. Whipping around a corner, she spotted the alcove where she and Lyre had sheltered from the downpour.
The sea-shine vine lay flat in a puddle, its pot broken. Nearby, ten-foot-wide gouges marred the pavement. Building walls crumbled and windows that had been intact a few minutes ago were shattered. An arrowhead, the shaft snapped in two, glinted in the middle of the street.
Standing motionless and holding her breath despite her screaming lungs, she listened. With her asper in focus, she scanned the street for a glimpse of golden magic. Where was Lyre? Where had he gone?
He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be gone, murdered and dragged off by his killer.
A boom of unleashed magic erupted over the sound of the rain. The sheets of falling water shuddered and a shock wave of power rushed over her like an electrified breeze. She could taste dark, savage magic.
She launched into motion, racing toward the magic’s source.
Frigid water and pitch darkness closed over him. Lyre sank like a rock before kicking his feet. Fighting the pain in his bruised and broken body, he clawed his way to the surface and gasped in a frantic breath.
The current was sluggish and he was able to half float, half swim for the shore. His feet found the bottom and he crawled onto the gravel bank, his left arm useless. Halfway out of the water, his good arm buckled and he collapsed, his vision going white from the agony of his ribs hitting the ground. With icy water still tugging at his legs, he panted for air and tried desperately not to pass out.
Gravel crunched under heavy, uneven footsteps drawing closer. Lyre turned his head.
Ash stopped three long paces away. His face wrap hung around his neck, dripping water, and his mouth was pressed into a thin, furious line. His face was pale and blood streaked his limbs from arrow wounds. His wings were furled tight against his back and his long tail snapped from side to side.
He grasped the hilt strapped to his thigh and drew a katana-style short sword. “Get up.”
Lyre blinked. It was the first time either of them had spoken since Ash had revealed himself. “What?”
“Get up.” He pointed at Lyre with his sword. “Don’t make me kill you while you’re lying in the fucking mud.”
A wheezing breath slid from Lyre. He didn’t want to die on the ground. Gathering his strength, he got his good arm under him and pushed, but his trembling limbs weren’t cooperating.
“Get up!”
Lyre snarled in answer as he struggled to make his limbs obey. Agony ripped through his chest and he feared he might puncture a lung. Not that it mattered. Ash was going to put an even bigger hole through him in the next sixty seconds.
Ash grabbed the strap of his quiver and hauled him off the ground. Lyre had barely caught his balance before Ash skittered backward, wary of getting too close, but Lyre knew better than to use aphrodesia again. Without the element of surprise, Ash would kill Lyre before he could take control. He had nothing left. He was done.
Bracing his feet on the uneven gravel, arms hanging at his sides, he lifted his heavy head.
Ash’s jaw flexed.
“It was a good fight.”
Lyre smiled faintly as his vision shifted in and out of focus. Losing sucked. Dying would suck even more. “It was.”
Ash brought his sword up. A shimmer of black flames ran down it as he prepared it to pierce shields and flesh with equal ease. Lyre kept his eyes on Ash’s, unwilling to look away in this final moment.
The draconian’s weight shifted as he prepared to lunge in for the killing strike.
A ripple of cold, unfamiliar power sizzled in the air. Ash’s gaze snapped to a point directly behind Lyre and his dark eyes widened.
Something hit Lyre in the back, a punch to the ribs that sent agony flaring through his body. He stumbled from the blow—and felt the razor edges of a blade sliding out of his flesh.
He staggered forward, the blade in his back tearing free, then dropped to his knees. Ash stood before him, sword in hand, the steel shining in the rain. Lyre stared at the draconian, his thoughts too slow.
He’d been stabbed in the back. Someone had stabbed him in the damn back.
What a stupid way to die.
With no strength left, not even enough to spit a curse at whatever coward had snuck up behind him, he crumpled to the ground and his vision went dark.
Clio sprinted onto the bridge. Halfway across, the twisted, broken metal railing told the tale of a battle and she raced toward it, scanning for any sign of Lyre or his magic.
Her foot caught on something and she crashed to the concrete, skinning her hands and knees. Gasping, she twisted around to see her feet tangled in Lyre’s bow, the broken string hanging from one end. Her stomach turned to stone and she lurched up again.
Light caught on something half submerged in a puddle—a long, wickedly curved sword. Another weapon, but where were the warriors? She was alone on the bridge.
“Get up!”
The barked words rang out, carried on the wind, distant but audible over the rain. Clio threw herself at the railing and scanned the dark water and shorelines.
The Shadow Weave Page 12