“Hmm. I have to say, it’s not a very patriotic story. I feel more sympathetic toward the ryujin.”
“Yes, I always felt that way too. I asked my mother, and she said the story’s message isn’t about patriotism, or morality, or greedy kings and tragic wars.”
“What’s the moral of the story, then?”
“That people do stupid things when they’re in love. The stupid ryujin showed the girl where he lived, and the stupid girl told her family about it to prove he loved her. That was my mother’s interpretation, anyway.”
Lyre snorted. “Aren’t mothers supposed to encourage their daughters to find strapping young men to fall in love with and marry?”
“My mother taught me to not fall in love because I might turn into a complete dunce,” she replied dryly. “But that lesson probably stems from her experience with—”
She abruptly broke off. He glanced at her, surprised to see her lips pressed together so tightly they’d paled. Seeing his questioning look, she flashed him a smile that he didn’t buy at all.
“What lessons did your mother teach you?” she asked.
“None,” he answered. “I never met my mother.”
She stumbled and he caught her elbow. Straightening, she gave him an incredulous look that softened into sympathy. “I’m sorry. Did she pass away?”
He shrugged. “No idea.”
Her lips quirked in a frown as she struggled with what to ask. “Don’t you have a younger brother? Is he your half-brother, then?”
“Two younger brothers—Dulcet and Viol—but, again, I have no idea. I don’t know who their mothers are.” He arched an eyebrow at her befuddled look. “There are no succubi in Asphodel. Incubi and succubi don’t get along, remember?”
“But then how do you … how did your father …”
He sighed, wishing he could go back in time and not introduce this topic. She didn’t need to know the ugly truth about incubi and succubi’s reproductive strategies. “Let’s just say that being a single parent is the universal preference for incubi and succubi both.”
Her frown deepened and he changed the topic. “Are there any other Overworld castes we need to worry about besides ryujin?”
She gave him a hard look, not fooled by his evasion. As the ridge broadened to a less precarious width, she linked her arm through his. The once-shallow valley beside the ridge had grown so steep that it resembled a cliff, and a mix of loose gravel and sparse shrubs clung to the precarious slope down to the wide river. The water was closer now, but the slope was far too steep to climb.
“Well,” Clio mused, “ryujin are powerful, though no one is sure how powerful. Enough to protect their territory. But they keep to themselves, so when Overworlders talk about the dangerous daemons of our world, the ryujin don’t normally come up.”
“Who does come up?”
“Ra griffins.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “The Valkyrs. And the jinns.”
He’d heard of all three, but he didn’t know much beyond the names. “That’s it?”
“Around here, yes.” Her eyes widened in emphasis. “Three is difficult enough. Griffins win by numbers alone. They have the largest territory and control a large portion of the continent either directly or through trade deals and other arrangements. The Valkyrs hold most of the western coast, and they’re always clashing with the Ras over trade ports and territory lines.” She smiled wryly. “The ryujin share a piece of their western border with the Valkyrs too. They really can’t catch a break.”
“Lucky them.” He took a swig from his waterskin, lamenting that it was nearly empty. “What about the jinns? Is that a caste or a ruling family?”
“A caste. Jinns don’t have a single ruling family but are broken into many smaller clans. They don’t have a territory either. They’re nomadic, traveling back and forth across the continents for their entire lives.”
He considered that revelation. “Small, nomadic clans would make them much weaker than a unified nation like the griffins.”
“Politically, yes, but no one messes with jinns. No one wants to tick them off.”
“Oh?”
“You know how everyone in the Underworld gets that nervous look whenever draconians come up in conversation?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s how Overworlders talk about jinns. They’re really dangerous.” She lowered her voice as though a jinn might be eavesdropping on her every word. “They’re the assassins of our world. Their caste ability is terrifying.”
Her eyes sparkled; she was having fun telling tales about the scary daemons of her world.
“What’s their caste ability?” he asked, amused but a little wary of the answer.
“They call it ‘shadow-step’ and—”
“How does this look?” Sabir called, cutting through Clio’s murmur.
Fifty feet ahead, a flat sheet of rock jutted from the ridge, forming a rough wall. Standing in the shelter it created, Sabir waited for them. Lyre grimaced. The rocky formation would block some of the chilly breeze, but it would still be a rough night.
As the last of the sunlight vanished below the mountainous horizon, they quickly set up camp and Lyre sat gratefully on his folded white wrap from their desert travels, using it as a cushion. Clio sat cross-legged on hers, fretfully glancing north where the river glinted under the light of the waxing planet, partially obscured by thick clouds.
Sabir ventured farther along the ridge and returned a few minutes later with an armload of tree branches. “What do you say to a fire and hot tea?”
Clio’s face brightened. “That would be lovely.”
Lyre said nothing, withholding his opinion that building a fire on an exposed ridge was a bad idea. The light would be visible for miles around. But it was that or freeze, he supposed.
Sabir made quick work of stacking the branches and lighting them with a spark of magic. As he pulled a metal pot from his pack and poured the contents of his waterskin into it, he asked Clio what kind of tea she liked. Their comparison of teas expanded into a detailed analysis of local botanical something-or-others and Lyre tuned them out. His day had been way too long for that kind of plant talk.
He was nodding off, the fire warm and the quiet pops of the burning wood familiar and soothing, when Sabir passed him a metal cup of steaming tea. He wrapped his hands around the warmth and inhaled the bittersweet smell.
Clio curled her hands around her own cup, still happily describing her favorite garden herbs with adorable animation. Lyre took a sip, not particularly impressed by the sweet berry flavor with a bitter undertone, and watched Sabir carefully scan the ravine on one side and the river valley on the other. Night had fallen, but the planet’s silvery light leaking through the clouds held the darkness at bay.
As Sabir dropped dried vegetables in the leftover hot water, Lyre drank more tea. The warmth was pleasant and relaxing. His head nodded forward again and he let his eyes close, listening to Clio’s voice rise and fall without really hearing it.
“What kind of tea is this?”
He started, jarred by Clio’s razor-sharp tone. She held her full cup of tea beneath her nose, inhaling the steam. Her stare was fixed on Sabir, her back rigid and mouth pressed into a thin line.
Sabir blinked at her, his mouth quirking down. “It’s greenberry leaf. Does it taste bad? I don’t think it could have gone off already. I dried the leaves myself only a few weeks ago.”
“It smells wrong,” she said, hostility radiating off her. If she were a cat, her hackles would have been standing on end.
Lyre looked down at his near-empty cup. Well, fuck. “Did you poison it?”
Despite his calm tone, Clio jerked like he’d slapped her. Her face paled.
Sabir smiled as though Lyre had made a funny joke. “Of course not. Moldy greenberry won’t hurt you. I’ll just make something else.”
“Did he drink any tea?” Lyre asked Clio.
Sabir held out his half-empty cup. Clio snatched it and lifted i
t to her nose. “Yours doesn’t smell bitter. Why is mine bitter? Greenberry is sweet.”
“Bad leaves?”
Lyre sighed. “What did you put in the tea?”
Sabir leaned back, propping himself up on one arm. “Hauling your pathetic ass this far only to poison you would be a complete waste of effort.”
A fair point. Lyre fixed a cold, calm stare on the daemon. “But you did put something in the tea.”
Sabir smirked.
“What did you do?” Clio demanded, clutching her cup as though it held the key to life or death. “Tell us!”
“Tell you what, exactly?” Sabir drawled, scanning the surrounding darkness. “I could explain all the reasons you two are the stupidest fools I’ve ever encountered, but …” He pushed to his feet. “But it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Lyre shot up, ready to fire a rapid cast into Sabir’s face—except when he called on his magic, nothing happened. A wave of sickening dizziness rolled over him when his power failed to manifest as commanded. He staggered sideways, the world spinning. In his wavering vision, Clio launched off the ground, her hands coming up defensively.
Sabir made a sharp waving motion, and Lyre expected the spell to strike him down. Instead, the daemon’s blast hit the campfire, knocking over the pot, extinguishing the flames, and scattering the glowing coals across the ridge. The darkness deepened.
A spell struck Lyre in the back. He hit the ground on his knees, arms bound against his sides.
“Lyre!”
As Clio sprang toward him, the shadows behind her bubbled upward like a thick, inky soup. One moment, she was lunging toward him. The next, a daemon had materialized out of the darkness like a ghost. He grabbed her arm and hauled her back, then casually pressed the shining blade of a dagger against her throat.
“You’re late,” Sabir said irritably.
A shadow moved beside Lyre and a second unfamiliar daemon stopped beside him. He grabbed Lyre by the hair and forced his head back. Lyre bared his teeth, glaring at the new brown-skinned daemon as he tried again to summon his magic and was met with more whirling dizziness.
“Is this him?” his assailant inquired.
“Yes,” Sabir answered as he stuffed his supplies back into his pack. “We should dose him with more Shade Rune before we get off the ridge.”
“What about this one?” the other daemon asked, pulling on Clio’s hair and forcing her onto her tiptoes. She whimpered and tried to shrink away from the dagger at her throat.
“The nymph slut? Who cares.” Sabir’s dark eyes flicked to Lyre. “It’s the spell weaver I want.”
Lyre snarled softly. That conniving bastard.
Sabir smiled with smug satisfaction, and without looking away from Lyre, he waved a hand carelessly at Clio.
“Kill her.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Kill her.”
Sabir’s emotionless command fired a bolt of panic straight into Clio’s heart. Her body tensed so much it hurt, but with a knife to her throat, she couldn’t move.
Lyre lunged up but the daemon beside him shoved him back onto his knees. Sabir smirked at the incubus, then glanced at her captor.
“What are you waiting for?”
“You sure?” her captor asked. “Seems like a waste.”
“She’s worthless. Just kill her. Unless you want me to do it?”
Her captor grunted, his arm around her shoulders tightening in preparation to slit her throat.
“Wait!” she cried. “You heard about the bounty, didn’t you? Are you planning to turn Lyre over to Hades?”
Sabir must have known Lyre was a spell weaver from the start; otherwise, he wouldn’t have had time to arrange this ambush. Her gaze flashed to Lyre. Shade Rune—a drug that numbed a daemon to their magic, making it impossible to cast spells. That was the bitter substance she’d smelled in their tea.
“You know, Clio, I sort of liked you when we first met.” Sabir pulled a long shining dagger from somewhere under his clothes. “If you’d only wanted me to take you to Irida—just you—I would have done it.”
“If the bounty is what you’re after,” she pressed desperately, “then turn me and Lyre over to the king of Irida instead.”
Sabir stepped toward her, a disparaging smile on his lips. “Why would I do that?”
“King Rouvin will pay you double the bounty.”
He paused, flicking a glance at his companions before refocusing on her. “He might buy the spell weaver, but why would the Iridian king pay for your life?”
“Because I … I’m his daughter.”
Silence.
Sabir threw his head back in a harsh laugh. “Do you think I’m an idiot? The Nereid princess is, what, nine years old? Ten?”
“Petrina is eleven, actually,” Clio said, struggling to keep her tone even. “She and Bastian are my half-siblings. I’m the king’s daughter, but not the queen’s.”
“Oh, a bastard princess, then.” He stepped closer and pressed the point of his dagger under her chin. “Why should I believe you, Clio?”
She held still, resisting the urge to lean away from the deadly point. “Because it’s true. The whole reason I’m with a spell weaver is because my father and brother sent me to Asphodel to spy on Chrysalis. When Lyre came back with me, Hades put a bounty out for our capture.”
Sabir’s gaze flicked back and forth between her eyes as though reading the truth in each one. He slowly stepped back. “Interesting. But then why do you need a guide to your own homeland?”
“My escort was killed in Asphodel and I’ve never traveled the ley lines on my own.”
Rocking back on his heels, Sabir nonchalantly tapped his dagger against his cheek. “Interesting.”
“King Rouvin will pay double the bounty for my safe return—and Lyre’s.” She looked into Sabir’s brown eyes and wondered why she’d never noticed their soulless emptiness before. “You don’t want to deal with Hades, do you?”
Sabir smirked. “I never intended to deal with Hades for their pitiful bounty. A spell weaver like him is worth far more on the auction block.”
“A-auction block?” she stammered.
Sabir sheathed his dagger. “And you, if you really are a Nereid, will be worth almost as much. Mimics are rare.”
“B-but the king—”
“He’d probably love for his illegitimate child to disappear forever, and either way, he won’t pay as much as I can make off the two of you.” Sabir gestured at his companions. “Bind her and put her over there with the incubus. I want to dose them before we move on.”
The daemon holding her lowered his dagger, grabbed her arms, and bound them behind her back with magic. Hauling her by the elbow, he shoved her onto her knees beside Lyre, then joined Sabir as he dug around in his pack for more Shade Rune.
She couldn’t let Sabir drug her, but what could she do? She couldn’t take on all three of them; she didn’t even know what caste they were. Blinking her asper into focus, she looked at the second daemon. Like Sabir, he had a mysterious sparkly silver aura.
She flexed her arms and glanced anxiously at Lyre. His dark eyes turned to her, his expression taut. If he was upset to learn about her lineage, he wasn’t showing it. They had more pressing matters to worry about. With a daemon standing right behind them, she couldn’t even whisper to Lyre. Fixing an intense stare on him, she mouthed two words.
His brow furrowed in confusion.
“Distract them,” she mouthed silently, exaggerating the shape of the words.
Understanding flashed across his face and he turned to Sabir and his pal, who was measuring water into a cup. Sabir held a small vial of dark powder.
“So, Sabir,” Lyre began mockingly, “are all jinns vile slave traders, or just you?”
Clio, waiting for the others to focus on Lyre, started in surprise. A jinn? Sabir? Had Lyre figured out something she hadn’t, or was he guessing?
“Are you an Overworld caste expert now?” Sabir asked with a snort. He s
hook powder into the cup of water.
“Not an expert,” Lyre shot back. “And, just so you know, you’re not making a great impression on behalf of your caste.”
Sabir corked his vial. “Do you think knowing my caste will help you?”
“Who knows.”
“You have no idea what we can do, do you?” Sabir weighed the cup of drugged water in his hand. “Why don’t I demonstrate?”
Sabir’s silver aura sparked violently. Before Clio’s eyes, his body melted into dense, inky darkness. The black shape dispersed like smoke in the wind, disappearing entirely from her senses.
No, not smoke. Shadows. The jinn caste ability: shadow-step.
She frantically scanned the ridge but even his aura had vanished. Then light sparked in her peripheral vision and a shape bubbled out of the darkness behind Lyre. Sabir’s body solidified as the shadows fell away.
Holy shit, Sabir was a jinn. Three jinns had captured them. Clamping down on her rising panic, she focused on the binding around her wrists.
Sabir grabbed Lyre by the hair and bent his head back, and the other jinn forced his mouth open. Lyre snarled, jerking away, but the daemons were too strong. Sabir poured the drugged water into his mouth, spilling it over his face.
“Swallow or drown, incubus,” Sabir told him.
Clio contorted to see her wrists and bent her fingers painfully until she could touch a knot of glowing silver. A spark of her magic snapped the binding spell and she launched at Lyre and the jinns.
She crashed into Lyre, wrenching him out of the jinns’ grasp. Their auras sparked and they melted into shadows. Lyre hit the ground on his side and spat out the tainted water. She reached for his binding, but silver sparks flashed beside her. Out of instinct more than conscious thought, she sprang away.
Sabir reformed from the shadows, grabbing for the empty space where she’d been.
The Shadow Weave Page 19