Perched on the edge of the bed, Clio held Lyre’s hand. Every few moments, she stroked her fingers across his palm, his knuckles, his wrist, memorizing the subtle shapes and forms. His skin was warm to the touch—finally warm after hours of feeling clammy and chilled.

Behind her, he slept beneath every blanket she’d scrounged up in the tiny suite. She’d even thrown a few heavy bath towels across him for extra warmth.

Four broken ribs. A shattered shoulder and collarbone. A deep slice in his side. Half a dozen other cuts and slices over his body. Those were the injuries she presumed Ash had given him.

The final wound was a hole running through his back into his left lung, just missing his heart: the lethal blow the reaper had dealt.

She stared blankly at the wall, painful tension spreading through her body. Memories flashed through her mind. Ash’s sword. The shining blade. The reaper’s unprotected back. Her hands, as though belonging to a stranger, ramming that deadly length of steel into the reaper’s torso.

She’d never killed anyone before. As a race, daemons were violent creatures, but nymphs were a comparatively passive caste. They rarely devolved into the brutal violence of self-preservation that others were so prone to.

She’d never lost control like that before. She’d never felt that kind of bloodlust. Now, calm and composed once again, she kept returning to that moment where she’d teleported behind the reaper and stabbed him in the back just as he’d done to Lyre. And she couldn’t summon any remorse. Even with the shaded rage long behind her, she didn’t regret killing that daemon. Did that make her a terrible person?

She glanced behind her. Lyre slept the deep, silent sleep of the recently healed. It would be hours more before he stirred. She gently rubbed his hand, making sure his skin was still warm.

She couldn’t regret murdering the reaper who’d almost killed Lyre, but when it came to the other daemon who’d tried to take the incubus’s life, she was quietly relieved Ash had walked away.

She glanced at Lyre’s face again, at the dark tattoo marking his cheekbone. He hadn’t recovered enough to regain his glamour—which was why she had her back to him. She’d watched him at first, but she’d kept falling under the spell of his otherworldly radiance. She wanted to trace the design on his cheekbone, the delicate points of his ears, the fine braid that hung down the side of his face, adorned with a ruby at the end. Even while unconscious, his power over her was frightening.

On the riverbank, he’d seen her out of glamour for the first time, but she wasn’t sure he would remember. He’d been halfway comatose.

Releasing his hand, she rose to her feet and stretched. Exhaustion dragged at her limbs and aching hunger had settled deep in her belly, but there was no food in the apartment. Before Lyre woke, she’d have to venture outside to restock.

She’d never healed wounds as severe as Lyre’s before and the magic’s toll had left her weak and woozy. Healing magic required both training and natural talent, and daemons without an affinity for it were limited in what they could learn. Clio had inherited a gift for healing from her mother, but that didn’t make it any less exhausting.

Rolling her stiff shoulders, she turned to the suite’s main door and squinted her asper into focus. Tangled green lines and complex runes spanned the doors, the walls, and even the floor and ceiling: multiple wards layered one atop the other.

Not just any wards. Lyre’s wards. The same powerful, lethal spells he had used to protect his house in Asphodel.

Beneath her weaving, the faint golden shimmer of his original wards on the room glowed. They were good wards, but with Lyre helpless and her magic nearly depleted, she hadn’t trusted them to be enough.

She carefully examined the weavings, ensuring they were perfect and functional. After a quick circle around the tiny unit, she returned to the bed and looked down at him. So close. She’d come so close to losing him.

She saw it again: the blade in the reaper’s hand. Then she saw another blade in a different hand, shining with red blood.

Kassia’s blood.

Images flashed in her mind. Kassia falling. Lyre falling. Kassia’s blood. Lyre’s blood. Kassia’s eyes wide with shock, her hands clutching her chest. Lyre’s eyes, hazed with pain and fading consciousness, his hand stretched toward her across the muddy gravel.

A shudder ran through her. With jerky movements, she crawled onto the bed and tucked herself against Lyre’s side. Trusting the deep healing sleep to keep him unaware, she took his hand tight in hers, pressed her face into the blankets, and let the tears fall.

Tears of grief, of fear, of loss, of regret.

She’d saved Lyre. Why couldn’t she have saved Kassia too?

* * *

Rain splattered Clio’s face and she hunched her shoulders against the stiff breeze. Her new hat, a black courier-style cap with a short brim, did little to keep her head dry, but she’d hidden her hair under it. That was its most important job.

A heavyset man bumped her and she cringed, clutching her paper bags of purchases. The weekly market was closing as the sun dipped behind the tall skyscrapers that surrounded the downtown square. When it had been Clio and Kassia, they’d usually shop in the afternoons when humans dominated the market. But now, with the shadows stretching across the square and the light fading fast, daemons appeared in numbers she wouldn’t have expected.

Glowing auras filled her vision, and she didn’t dare let her asper out of focus even for a moment. A headache throbbed in her skull from the strain, but there were too many daemons—including a smattering of red auras—for her to take the chance.

Being out in the open at all was a huge risk, but she and Lyre—especially Lyre—needed food. She hadn’t had a single bite to eat since that bun in the smugglers market. Their meeting with Sabir was still scheduled for that night, and she’d picked up supplies for their journey—or as many as she could find in a human market. Now she just needed something for them to eat.

Adjusting her heavy shopping bags, she approached a table with a few foil-wrapped packets still available. The aroma of pork and garlic made her mouth water. A shopper moved away from the table and the seller turned to Clio, one eye twitching nervously.

“I’m packing up,” he grunted. “What do you want?”

She held back her grimace. What was with the unfriendly merchants lately? Pointing to the four remaining meal packets, she said, “I’ll take them all.”

“Eighty dollars.”

“Eighty! That’s—”

Golden light blazed in her peripheral vision. She recoiled from the table, prepared to run for her life. But it wasn’t an incubus with a golden aura she’d glimpsed.

Four tall men walked past the booths. Their hair ranged from wheat-yellow to ashy cream, and their eyes were varying shades of green. Not Underworld incubi, but Overworld griffins. Almost as bad, seeing as the Ra family ruled the griffin caste and she considered them all her enemies. But unlike incubi, any griffins in this market weren’t likely to be looking for her. They were just passing by.

She turned back to the table, ignoring their pale yellow auras so similar to incubi’s golden magic.

“Fine, eighty dollars,” she agreed since it didn’t matter what she paid, even if the seller was ripping her off. “Pack them up, please.”

As the seller dropped the foil bundles into a paper bag, she fished out the money. They exchanged items and she tucked the new bag against her side, grateful for the warmth of the food. Turning, she hurried back across the market, dodging shoppers as she headed for a side street to make her escape.

Why did it seem like every daemon in the square was watching her?

It had to be her imagination. Three red auras were moving around at the other end of the square, but her path out of the market was clear. She hastened her steps and glanced over her shoulder. Her gaze passed across two indigo auras and a bright violet one.

Her steps faltered, but she forced herself to keep walking.

She’d seen those three auras while at the other booth. Now they were only twenty paces away: two men with beefy builds and one short, scrawny one, all with dark, nondescript clothes. Was it a coincidence, or had they followed her across the square?

Gulping down her fear, she made a sharp turn and headed along a new row of booths with fresh produce that was mostly picked over. As she dashed past the tables, she peeked behind her.

The three daemons had turned down the same aisle.

Shit. They were following her. Why? They weren’t reapers, draconians, or incubi, but she didn’t know what castes their colors represented.

Buying herself a moment to think, she stopped at a booth with a few scrawny carrots and potatoes displayed in worn baskets. Her stalkers conveniently paused to examine the vegetables at a different table, maintaining the same twenty paces between them. They didn’t want to get close yet. They were probably waiting for her to leave the public square and walk into a nice abandoned alleyway.

She picked up a potato and pretended to examine it as she fought down her panic. What should she do? She had to get back to Lyre without her new stalkers jumping her, and she needed to make sure they didn’t track her to their room.

Damn it all. She didn’t know how to prevent either outcome.

With rumbling voices, two of the griffins she’d spotted earlier ambled down the same aisle of booths. She focused on the potato in her hand, feigning obliviousness, but the daemon pair walked past her without so much as a glance in her direction. The wind gusted, whipping rain into her face.

A black umbrella appeared over her head, blocking the rain. She straightened in surprise and turned to the umbrella’s owner.

The potato fell from her hand and hit the table with a thud.

Amber eyes looked down at her, cool and expressionless. The daemon’s golden aura glowed brightly in her asper, and complex weavings wrapped his body from head to toe, layered around his neck and wrists where he carried heavily spelled chains and bracelets. A deep hood hid his pale hair, and dark clothes disguised the strong, limber body underneath.

“Reed?” she whispered, panic and confusion warring for dominance.

Lyre’s brother tilted his umbrella, keeping it over their heads and blocking them from her stalkers’ view. His free hand rose, and a gemstone between his fingers sparked. Invisible magic, discernible only to her, leaped from the stone to the human merchant on the other side of the table. A glowing weave wrapped around him and the man’s eyes went completely blank.

Clio’s mouth hung open. That spell had simultaneously immobilized the man and knocked him unconscious. He hadn’t moved, but he was no longer aware of anything around him.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Reed’s voice was soft, the words thrumming with that deep, irresistible timbre only incubi possessed.

“Why are you here?” she whispered back, her voice shrill with urgency. “How did you find me?”

“The same way they found you.” He tilted his head toward her three daemon stalkers. “You’re alone. Where is Lyre?”

“He’s … nearby.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.” Her eyes narrowed and she asked again, “Why are you here?”

Reed’s expression hardened. “To tell Lyre he’s a fool. He’s been here too long. You have to leave the city.”

“That’s our plan,” she snapped, unimpressed by his tone. “We just need to—”

“You have to leave now.” His gaze flicked across the square. “Samael’s best killer returned empty-handed and injured. Samael has put out a bounty for an incubus and a nymph, with descriptions of you both. You’re to be captured alive and presented in Asphodel for a generous reward.”

An icy shiver ran through her.

“Every bounty hunter affiliated with Hades is either here or on their way. It won’t take long for news of the bounty to reach other mercenaries.”

“We’re leaving tonight,” she whispered, gripping her shopping more tightly to suppress her shivering.

“Good.” Reed pressed closer, jostling her shopping bags as he brought his mouth to her ear. His breath warmed her skin as he whispered, “I’ll distract the bounty hunters while you escape.”

“But—but why are you—”

“I can’t stay here any longer.” He stepped back. “Get Lyre out of the city.”

“But—”

“Go.”

She stared at him helplessly, then ducked under the table. Popping out on the same side as the immobilized seller, she stayed in a crouch, hidden behind the rows of bulky booths, and raced toward the nearest dark alley.

As she dove into it, she glanced back. Reed stood with his umbrella resting on his shoulder, watching her. When their eyes met, he casually raised his hand in front of his chest. Light flashed from between his fingers.

In a silent whoosh, a golden cloud burst from the gem he held. The fog billowed outward, blanketing the entire square in seconds. Alarmed cries rose and colorful lights flashed as daemons tried to counter the unnatural mist with their magic.

Sucking in a breath, Clio turned and ran, leaving the square behind.

If Reed had found her so easily, that meant others could too. And with every mercenary from the Hades territory hunting them, their chances of evading capture had dropped to a terrifying new low.

Getting out of the city had never been more critical, and she desperately hoped their Overworld guide would be waiting for them in a few hours as promised.

* * *

Clio disarmed the wards on the door and slipped into the room, then reengaged them. Still catching her breath, she half-heartedly wiped her wet boots on the mat and crossed to the screen that separated the bed from the rest of the cramped unit.

Lyre lay under the patchy blankets. His skin had regained its usual warm tan, and he was back in glamour. He was staring at the ceiling, and when she stuck her head into view, his amber eyes dropped to hers.

“You’re awake,” she said with a sigh of relief as she hurried to the bed, fumbling with her shopping bags.

“Hmm,” he agreed, his gaze again lifting to the ceiling, a small wrinkle between his eyebrows.

She frowned worriedly at him, then glanced up to see what he was so focused on. The ceiling was blank and boring, marked with water spots and weird brown splatters. A faint shimmer of green magic hinted at the wards she’d embedded throughout the apartment, barely visible without her asper in focus.

Lyre squinted at the ceiling, his gaze shifting from one spot to another. There was nothing there but the wards.

Her stomach sank to the floor.

He finally looked at her, a strange blankness in his eyes. “My wards,” he murmured.

Swallowing hard, she nodded. When she’d cast his wards over their unit, she’d figured he would notice them before she could remove them. She just hadn’t expected he’d notice within minutes of waking up.

“How?” His question was calm, but something in its simplicity demanded an answer.

She sat on the edge of the bed and piled her shopping bags beside him. Breathe in. Breathe out. “All nymphs can use astral perception, but some of us … a very few nymphs possess an additional ability. It’s called mimicking.”

His expression went even more blank than before. He said nothing.

“I can mimic any magic I see with my asper. When I was at your house in Asphodel, I had to examine the wards to disable them. Since they’re the best wards I’ve ever seen—the best you’ve ever created, I’m guessing—I used them to protect us here.”

She pressed her hands together and waited for him to respond. The silence stretched between them, crackling with things unsaid.

“A mimic,” he echoed flatly.

“Yes,” she whispered, staring at her lap. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

The painful quiet was broken only by the rain drumming on the roof. Then, out of nowhere, his laughter rang out.

Head jerking up, she gaped at him. He laughed for half a minute before gulping back his amusement and pushing up into a sitting position, one hand pressed to his side where his ribs had been broken.

“A mimic,” he gasped, catching his breath. “Oh man. I can’t believe it.”

Merriment danced in his eyes and she clenched her hands, wanting to check if he was feverish but afraid of insulting him. “What’s so funny?”

“It explains everything. Your tour. Your obsession with those damn prototypes.” He barked another laugh. “How much did you see? All our best wards. All our—damn.” He leaned against the wall at the head of the bed, grinning at her. “You were never going to buy something, were you? Damn that scheming prince.”

“Um.” She blinked at him. “You’re not … angry?”

“Angry? Hell no.” He squinted at the ceiling. “Okay, I’m annoyed that you’ve been pilfering my weavings, but ripping off Chrysalis—I would love to be a fly on the wall if my father ever finds out what you were up to.”

She blinked a few more times, struggling to reconcile his reaction with her fears about how he would respond.

He tensed. “You said you can mimic anything. Does that include the KLOC?”

“No,” she answered quickly. “That’s the only spell I’ve ever seen that I can’t copy. With the moving parts, I couldn’t even figure out how to activate it.”

He relaxed again, his amused grin returning. She stared at him. All this time worrying about his reaction, and he thought it was funny?

His eyebrows rose. “What’s that scowl for?”

She hastily cleared her expression. “Nothing.”

“That was a mean scowl.” He leaned forward and his bright eyes captured her. “Are you angry with me?”

“The only thing I’m upset about is you almost dying on me.”

“Oh, right.” He glanced around the room. “Didn’t I get stabbed in the back? How am I alive?”

“I healed you.”

“But how did we get back here? You couldn’t have carried me.”

“We walked.”

“We did?”

She nodded. “It took a shock of magic to wake you up. I also got your bow and as many of your arrows as I could find. You don’t remember any of that?”

As he scrunched his face, struggling to remember, she glanced at his bow and quiver leaning in the corner. While collecting his arrows, most damaged with their spells spent, she’d found one on the bridge that hadn’t been used. At least, its spell hadn’t. Later, she would ask him about the terrifying blood-magic weave embedded in that black-fletched bolt.

The irony was painful. After all her life-risking efforts to search Chrysalis for a weapon powerful enough to terrify Irida’s enemies, he’d been carrying one all along.

“I can’t remember anything after getting stabbed.” Lyre frowned. “What happened to Ash?”

“He was injured, though not as badly as you. I threw a few spells at him and he took off.”

“I shot him with a poison-tipped arrow. Not sure why it didn’t kill him, but it must have had some sort of effect.” His attention fixed on her shopping bags. “Is that food I smell?”

Amused, she opened the food bag and lifted out a tinfoil packet. Warmth seeped into her skin and she passed it to him before pulling out a second one for herself. She stared at it for a moment.

“Actually,” she said abruptly, “I am angry with you.”

He paused halfway through ripping open the wrapper, his expression wary.

“You made me run away from Ash.”

His gaze dropped from hers and he pressed his lips together. “I didn’t have time to explain or argue about it.”

“You forced me to leave with aphrodesia.”

“I didn’t have a choice. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I only did it to—”

“You almost died.” Her hands clenched, crushing her dinner. “Why didn’t you let me help? We could have fought him together!”

His eyes darted up, surprise flickering across his face. “Against Ash? He would’ve killed us both. You had a chance to—”

“To run away and leave you to die?” She glared at him. “That is not an acceptable outcome. Not for anything. We’re in this together, Lyre.”

“Together?” he repeated, his voice oddly quiet.

“We escaped Asphodel together, and we’re going to the Overworld together to get your clock back. So do not ever send me away like that again. If I want to leave, then I’ll decide. You don’t get to decide for me.”

He nodded, his attention returning to his food, but he didn’t resume opening the foil. She pursed her lips, then reached out and smacked him upside the head.

“Hey!”

“That was for using aphrodesia on me. Again.”

He rubbed his ear, casting her a flinty look. “I was saving your life.”

“You were being a self-sacrificing idiot. I’m not useless, you know.” When he smirked, she gave him her meanest glower. “Whatever you’re thinking about saying, I suggest you reconsider.”

He snickered and ripped his dinner open to reveal a thick bun loaded with shredded pork and strips of roasted vegetables. In the time it took her to eat her bun, he ate the other three.

He crumpled the foil wrappings into a ball and tossed it in the direction of the kitchen. “What else did you buy?”

“Supplies for the Overworld,” she replied, pulling the nearest bag toward her. “A change of clothes, water bottles, a blanket, dried food—”

As she moved the first bag, the second one tipped over, and the clank and clatter of metallic objects accompanied the expected sound of crinkling paper. Clio went still, staring at it in confusion. Cautiously, she reached for the paper bag, pinched the bottom corner, and upended it. A pair of khaki pants and a gray shirt fell out, along with a black cloth bag with a drawstring—a bag she hadn’t purchased.

Before she could warn him, Lyre picked it up. The contents clinked energetically as he untied the drawstring, pulled it open, and poured a mixture of uncut gems, steel marbles, and arrowheads into his palm.

“What the hell?” he growled.

“I didn’t buy that,” she stammered.

“I know. These are my spells. This is everything … everything I left behind. All the spells I had stashed in my house, my workroom, and a few other locations.”

“Reed,” she whispered.

His sharp stare snapped up. “What?”

“I didn’t have a chance to tell you yet. Reed found me at the market. He came to warn you that Samael put a bounty on us.” She looked at the bag in disbelief. “I had no idea he’d slipped that in with my shopping.”

Lyre’s terse suspicion morphed into surprise. “Reed came to warn me? Did he say anything else?”

“Just that he couldn’t stay here any longer.”

He nodded slowly. “He must have snuck out, but his absence won’t go unnoticed for long. I doubt he’ll be able to get away a second time.”

“What’s your relationship like with Reed?” she asked, hesitating over the question. “He seems different from your other brothers.”

Lyre poured the bag’s contents into his lap and sorted through it. “Reed and I worked together a lot since our talents are complementary. He isn’t competitive like the others, so he never had a problem with me.”

Reed seemed to care a lot more than just “not having a problem” with Lyre. She nibbled on her lower lip. “Is he like you? Is he trapped by Chrysalis too?”

“He …” Lyre’s hand paused above a ruby shard. “Reed just likes to weave. He doesn’t care what, or why, or for who. Chrysalis is exactly where he wants to be—the one place where he’ll never run out of weaving projects.”

“He doesn’t care if he’s making evil spells?”

“How the spell is used doesn’t matter to him. He’s all about the weaving—the process of it.” He selected three steel marbles and lined them up on his palm. “Coming all the way here to warn me … it’s more than I would have expected from him.”

“Do you think it’s a trick?”

“Doubt it. Reed is the least deceptive daemon I know.” He arched an eyebrow. “He makes you look like an outright con man.”

“Me? A con man?”

“Con woman,” he corrected with a smirk as he shoveled the spells back into the bag. “Either way, his warning about the bounty means—” A yawn overtook him. “The bounty means we need to—” Another jaw-popping yawn.

She pulled the bag from his hands and stood. “We’re safe here for now. You should sleep for a few more hours.”

He nodded, his eyelids already drooping, and slumped back onto the limp pillow. She cleared off the mattress and tucked their new belongings in the corner. By the time she returned to the bed, he was asleep again, his body shutting down to conserve strength as he recovered from the toll his battle and healing had taken on him.

She hesitated, then brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. He’d used his aphrodesia to make her flee from Ash, proving once again he could control her mind whenever he wanted to. Yet he hadn’t done it to hurt her, to take advantage of her, or to betray her.

He’d done it to save her life. And he’d done it expecting she would never forgive him.

Her fingers slid down his cheek and brushed across his lips—the lips that had kissed her with fierce lust and soft passion. The latter made her heart race, but the former sent a thrill of fear running down her spine.

His soft, sweet charm was one side of him. The brutally aggressive lust was the other side. Gentle and fierce. Charmer and seducer. He was both, and she kept forgetting that.

She brushed her fingers across his lips one more time, memorizing the zing of fear, the terror of his aphrodesia sweeping through her mind and erasing her will. She had to hold on to that fear or she would have no shields left to barricade her heart.

Charmer, seducer … and, if she wasn’t careful, heartbreaker.