The Night Realm

by Annette Marie

  “Annoying you isn’t reason enough?”

  Snorting in cold amusement, Lyre said nothing, waiting.

  Madrigal lifted one shoulder. “I merely came by to see if you had any visitors.”

  “Visitors like who?”

  “Hmm. Perhaps a certain luscious little envoy? She seemed disappointed to learn you weren’t working on her commission.”

  Lyre grimaced. He’d avoided all thoughts of Clio since their conversation on the rooftop. Though, if he didn’t like thinking of her, he had only his own stupidity to blame. He’d thought she was different. He’d thought she was like him—enduring the ugly side of magic and politics because she had no choice.

  But no. She had to have her own custom weaving of death and destruction to add to Chrysalis’s catalog. She’d rather enable the creation of more butchery spells than take what was available.

  He was angry at himself for getting caught up in a stupid fantasy about her being better than that. But most of all, he was disappointed that he’d been wrong.

  “I haven’t seen her,” he said flatly. “Why are you asking me where she is? You’re her consultant now.”

  “Hmm, well …” Madrigal shrugged. “I seem to have misplaced her.”

  Lyre straightened, hiding his tension. “Misplaced her? What the hell does that mean?”

  “I lost her.”

  “Lost her?”

  Madrigal pursed his lips. “A messenger arrived to see her, but she didn’t come back into the meeting room afterward. I have no idea where she went.”

  Dread fluttered through him. Clio was wandering around Chrysalis alone? “Why didn’t she finish her meeting with you?”

  Madrigal pouted, the picture of innocence. “How would I know?”

  A snarl ripped from Lyre’s throat. “What did you do to her?”

  Madrigal raised his hands placatingly but Lyre was already storming across the room. He got in his brother’s face, his teeth bared. “You fucking whore. You couldn’t hold it together for an hour?”

  “My, my. I can’t remember the last time I saw you this riled up over a girl.” Madrigal leaned toward Lyre until their foreheads almost touched and dropped his voice to an intimate whisper. “You couldn’t resist a taste of that delicious innocence either, could you?”

  Magic flashed across Lyre’s fingers, but Madrigal grabbed his wrist. The larger incubus jerked him around and slammed his back into the wall.

  “I had every intention of behaving until I walked in that door. Why didn’t you tell me, brother?” He dug his fingers into Lyre’s wrist, the violence a sharp contrast to his crooning, breathy tone. “So small and soft, all sweetness and spark and …” Inhaling deeply, he smiled. “And a virgin.”

  Snarling, Lyre ripped his arm from his brother’s grip and shoved him away. “You can’t do that to a client—”

  “When has a woman ever regretted giving in to me?” Madrigal smirked. “If anything, it would sweeten her mood for the negotiations. It’s a shame we were interrupted before I could have any fun.”

  “You twisted bastard—”

  “They want it, brother. All of them.”

  “It takes double the aphrodesia to affect a virgin.” Lyre clenched his hands as he fought to pull back his anger, to step back from the edge before he lost control. “Considering she bolted the moment she was away from you, I’d say it’s safe to assume she didn’t want it.”

  “Well, it’s good then that I can soothe all her worries during our next private meeting.” Madrigal shouldered past Lyre toward the doorway and flicked a finger against the barrier. The ward dissolved in a shower of sparks. “Now if you’ll excuse me, brother, I have an elusive little nymph to track down.”

  Lyre stepped away and jammed his hands in his pockets. “You’re an idiot, Madrigal. You terrified her with your pathetic forced seduction. She’ll have fled right back to the inn with her bodyguards. You’ll be lucky if she doesn’t immediately request an escort to the ley line.”

  “That would be quite the shame. I haven’t had a virgin in so long. They’re hard to find around here.” With a final smirk, his brother sauntered out of the room.

  Alone again, Lyre sucked in air, struggling for a semblance of calm. His rage surprised him, yet the thought of Madrigal touching Clio, of him fogging her mind with aphrodesia, of him pulling on her will like she was a puppet, just a body to use—

  Vicious, icy wrath slid through his veins. Magic crackled through him, awaiting command, and he craved to spill his brother’s blood.

  Jerking his shoulders, he pulled back from the bloodlust. Calm. He needed to be calm. He needed to think. He’d told Madrigal that Clio would have fled back to the inn, and his brother had accepted that as truth, but Lyre wasn’t so certain.

  Pushing into motion, he locked his workroom and strode down the halls. Other daemons scrambled out of his way, and he knew his eyes were too dark, his scent full of rage, the air around him electric with magic. But he couldn’t pull back. He needed to be sure first.

  When he reached the lobby and saw the two red-clad bodyguards sitting in chairs like nothing was wrong, his rage splintered into fear.

  That stupid girl. She wanted to see more of Chrysalis, to get her special nymph sight on all their deadly magic, so she’d gone off on her own to finish the “tour” Lyre had refused to complete.

  Stupid girl.

  Snarling softly, he turned in a slow circle, thinking fast. Where would she go? Had she wandered aimlessly? Or …

  His gaze snapped to the corridor he’d led her down earlier when he’d made the impulsive decision to show her the Underworld sun from the tower roof. She’d been fascinated with the heavily warded door into the restricted underground level.

  He was an idiot. He never should have taken her down there, never should have revealed it existed. There was only one place in Chrysalis that was more forbidden, but trespassing in any of the restricted areas would earn her a swift execution no matter who she was.

  And with her special caste ability, the ward on the door wouldn’t stop her.

  If she’d gone down there, he had to get her out before anyone found her. Rage simmering, he headed for the corridor and the basement where he knew, just knew, he would find that impetuous, overly brave, too innocent nymph—if he wasn’t already too late.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Clio reached the top of the stairs at the same time the incubus appeared at the bottom. She looked over her shoulder as he drew his arm back and threw something. A gemstone hit her in the back just as she shoved through the door into the corridor.

  Magic jolted through her body, and all her muscles went limp.

  She took one flailing step and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Instantly, she tried to push herself up, but her muscles felt weak, as if she’d run for hours. Arms straining, she rolled onto her back. Golden threads were glued to her arms and legs, a complex weaving that was draining her strength.

  She couldn’t see the full shape of the spell to remove it. Desperate, she dug her fingers into her chest and used her magic to rip at the intricate weave. The dragging weakness lifted a fraction.

  The incubus stepped into the threshold beyond her feet, blood trickling down the side of his face and a manic grin stretching his gaunt cheeks.

  She flung her hand up and cast a band of force. He didn’t bother to counter, trusting his shields to deflect it. But she hadn’t been aiming for him. Her spell hit the open door and hurled it shut—right into his face. The steel slammed closed and a crash followed as the incubus fell down the stairs.

  Rolling over, she scrambled to her feet. Her legs shook but she couldn’t stop to remove the weaving that had turned her muscles to jelly. She had to get to the lobby—back to Kassia and Eryx.

  She got three staggering steps down the corridor before a group of daemons in lab coats strode into sight. Their conversation died when they saw her. She spun and bolted in the opposite direction. At the first intersection of halls, she wheeled aroun
d the corner as the incubus burst out the door again.

  She half ran, half staggered down the corridor, recessed doorways flashing by on either side. He was coming. He was coming for her, and she was going the wrong way. She could barely run. Each step shuddered painfully through her weakened muscles, and her legs threatened to buckle.

  Another intersection in the labyrinth. She looked back and, far down the hall, saw the incubus striding after her, not even bothering to run, knowing she couldn’t get far. Choosing a direction at random, she whipped around the corner and—

  Arms reached out from a recessed doorway and snatched her in mid-step.

  She was yanked against a hard body, and panic exploded in her head. She writhed wildly, her enfeebled limbs shaking.

  A voice growled in her ear, “Clio.”

  She froze in disbelief, then her muscles gave out and she slumped into her captor.

  “Lyre?” she whispered.

  He pulled her tighter to his chest, his arm strong and unhesitating, and opened the door behind him. He dragged her inside, then shut it and rekeyed the lock spell. She didn’t have the breath to question him, to ask where he’d come from or what he was doing here. He hauled her through a dark, dusty room of library-like shelves filled with small wooden boxes and into the shadowy gap between two shelves.

  With an arm around her middle, he dropped to his knees and pulled her down. As she crouched across from him, he reached under the neck of his shirt and pulled out a chain. Colorful gems were attached to the silver links, and a small skeleton key with a ruby embedded in the bit hung in the center like a bizarre pendant. He slid his fingers down the chain and stopped on a pink stone.

  The door at the end of the room rattled, then popped open. Light flooded in.

  Lyre caught the pink stone in his teeth and broke it off the chain. As footsteps drew closer, he set the stone on the floor and whispered an incantation. A weaving unwound from the stone, visible to her asper but not to anyone else—probably not even to Lyre. Not that he was even looking at it. He was staring intently at the blank wall in the opposite direction. The circles and runes of the weaving shifted, expanding with his voice, guided by unfamiliar words in a language she didn’t know.

  The spell flashed outward to fill the gap between the shelves just as her hunter strode into sight.

  Clio didn’t dare breathe as the pursuing incubus turned, his dark eyes sliding across the runes, Clio and Lyre in plain sight on the other side. Lyre still stared unblinkingly at the wall with the gemstone under his fingers. His other hand gripped her arm, squeezing warningly as though commanding her not to move or make a sound.

  The incubus from the basement kept walking. He checked the other shelves for anyone hiding in the aisles, swore, then stomped back the way he’d come, passing right by Clio and Lyre as though they weren’t there.

  The door opened, then swung shut with a bang.

  Lyre let out a heavy breath and the weaving flickered and faded. Clio squinted at the spot where it had been, puzzling through its purpose. Something about mirroring … something. She opened her mouth to ask—and instead pitched face-first toward the floor from the strength-draining spell still webbed over her body.

  He grabbed her and eased her down, one hand under the back of her head to support her neck.

  “A leech ailment,” he muttered. “I can get it off you. Hold on.”

  She lay limp, chest heaving as he touched her skin between her collarbones. The room was so dark she could hardly make out his face.

  “You hid me from him,” she whispered. “You protected me.”

  He grunted, his touch lifting from her throat, then pushed the hem of her shirt up and pressed three fingers to the spot just above her belly button. She squeaked in alarm, weakly pushing her shirt back down. He caught her wrists and pulled them out of the way, her diminished strength useless.

  “Stop that. I’m trying to remove the spell.”

  She dropped her hands to her sides. His attention was fixed on her middle, his fingers lightly prodding her. Soft washes of magic tingled over her skin.

  “How did you find me?” she murmured.

  “Madrigal was looking for you.”

  “But … how did you know I would be here?”

  “I asked myself, ‘If I was a nymph with a death wish, where would I go?’”

  She flinched. “I didn’t … I mean, I—”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses.”

  His flat tone cut right through her. She cringed, trying to ignore his fingertips sliding from her middle to her left hip. In the darkness, his expression was invisible and not even his eyes gleamed bright amber like usual.

  Her blood chilled as she realized his eyes weren’t amber at all. They were as dark as the shadows. His temper was burning hot and he was one small slip away from losing control.

  “You know this area is restricted,” he continued harshly. “If you’re caught here, they’ll kill you. If I’m caught helping you, my fate won’t be much better.”

  Her blood went from moderately chilled to arctic ice. “But they—they wouldn’t kill an envoy, would they? The political consequences—”

  “They’d call it an accident,” he snapped. “Lots of apologies, a few expensive ‘so sorry’ gifts, and everyone would move right on with their greed and ambition. But you’d be dead.”

  His hand shifted across to her other hip, gentle and careful despite his anger. “Did anyone besides Dulcet see you?”

  “Dulcet?” she mumbled.

  “The incubus chasing you.” He touched her left knee, then her right one.

  “Just a few daemons in lab coats coming into the corridor, but they barely spotted me before I ran away.”

  As he lifted his hand from her knees, warmth and strength flowed back into the limbs. He pushed her sleeve above her elbow and moved his fingers to her inner wrist. She focused her asper and watched in amazement as the tangle of glowing threads spun apart beneath his touch, the runes dissolving one by one. He slid his fingers up her arm, the weave pulling apart obediently beneath his guidance. When he reached the crook of her elbow, the rest of the spell on her limb faded to nothing.

  He reached across her and pulled her other arm closer. She mentally tried to counteract her increasing heart rate as his gentle touch drifted across her skin.

  Another section of the spell dissolved, and he reached for her face. She held her breath as he touched her jaw beneath one ear, then the other, then pressed each temple.

  “Hold on,” he muttered. “He’s woven something else into this.”

  She froze as he leaned over her and ran a fingertip over her cheekbone. She knew he was tracing a line of the spell. She knew that, but her skin still tingled and her heartbeat stuttered at the intimate touch.

  He brushed his fingers across her other cheek, a whisper of magic trailing in their wake, then sat back on his heels and frowned down at her. His eyes were dark, but closer to bronze now than black. “There’s still something there, but it will take too long to unravel right now.”

  Alarm flashed through her and she pushed up on her elbows. “What is it?”

  “I can’t tell without more study. It’s dormant, so he would have to activate it himself. Nothing to worry about if you stay away from him. It’ll fade in a cycle or two on its own.”

  After pocketing the used lodestone and tucking his chain back under his shirt, he rose and held out a hand. She took it, enjoying the warmth and strength of his grip more than she should have. He pulled her up, and she regained her feet for all of two seconds before her knees buckled.

  She grabbed his shoulders at the same time he pulled her into his arms. How many times was she going to fall into his embrace? It was becoming a habit.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “Did I miss part of the weaving?”

  “I’m fine,” she stammered in embarrassment, clutching him as he took most of her weight off her trembling legs. “Just … just too much adrenaline.”

&nb
sp; She leaned against him, carefully testing her strength. His body felt so good. His arms felt so good around her. She wanted to touch him more. She wanted to run her hands over him.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and pushed those thoughts away.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  His question was quiet, almost wary, as though he feared her answer—or perhaps his reaction to her answer.

  “No,” she whispered, though it wasn’t quite true. Dulcet, as Lyre had called the incubus, had thrown her around a bit. “He terrified me though.”

  She didn’t realize how tense Lyre was until she felt him relax—his body shifting subtly against hers and sending another blush raging into her cheeks.

  “Dulcet terrifies me too sometimes,” he admitted.

  “Who is he?” she asked in bewilderment, forcing herself to step back. This time her legs supported her, but she didn’t quite manage to let go of him, still gripping his upper arms. “Why are there so many incubi here who look like you?”

  “I wouldn’t say they look like me. We all look like our father.”

  Their … father? She blinked dumbly, then the realization struck her like a splash of water to the face.

  “Brothers?” she wheezed. “You’re all brothers?”

  “Not every incubus here is my brother. But we’re all related.”

  “How many brothers do you have?”

  “Six.”

  “Holy crap.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “Wait, who’s number six? There’s the two from the spell shop on Earth—”

  “Ariose and Reed,” he supplied.

  “The younger one from my tour—”

  “That was Viol.”

  “Dulcet the Psycho, and Madrigal the Rapist—”

  Lyre snarled, his eyes flashing to black. “He didn’t—”

  She shook her head quickly. “No, he didn’t—he didn’t do … that. But I think he was planning to … do … something.”

  He bared his teeth.

  “So who’s your sixth brother?” she hurriedly asked.

  Lyre took a deep breath and his irises lightened back to bronze. “Andante, the oldest. You’d be better off not meeting him.”