Peeking around Lyre’s shoulder, Clio reminded herself to take a deep breath. She could do this. It was just a dance club, for crying out loud.

Tell that to her churning stomach.

Without the line out front and the pulsating dance beat leaking through the walls, she never would have guessed what the abandoned warehouse was. The street was filthy and otherwise abandoned, and she’d thought it was a weird location for a club. But as she stood in line, watching the other club goers, she began to understand how this place was different.

For starters, its patrons were the next level up from Altaire Avenue in terms of extreme outfits. Fishnet stockings and miniskirts were the standard. Hair in all colors, dark makeup—on men and women—lots and lots of bare skin. There were no average-looking people in t-shirts and jeans.

But there were a few very unaverage-looking daemons.

To her asper, their auras were obvious, and most daemons could sense their own kind. But, somehow, the humans recognized the daemons too. Each daemon was surrounded by half a dozen admirers, usually of the opposite sex, who couldn’t get enough of the daemon’s attention. It wasn’t something she was used to seeing.

As the line shuffled closer to the door, she nervously adjusted her hair. It fell down her back in loose waves. Before approaching the building, she and Lyre had made a few quick wardrobe adjustments. Her jacket and his sweater were tucked in a hidden nook in the alley, and she’d knotted the hem of her shirt so a hand’s width of her midriff was bare. Lyre had ripped the sleeves off his shirt—already damaged anyway, so no big loss. A simple illusion spell had darkened his hair to brown, which wasn’t quite as striking as his natural pale blond, but he was already attracting attention.

The bouncers, two daemons roughly the size of grizzly bears, waved her and Lyre forward. They followed a scantily clad couple down a long, empty hall. In a small room at the end, a smiling woman held a black velvet box. The first couple each took something from inside it before continuing.

“First time here?” the woman asked as Clio and Lyre walked up. “The Styx is for indulgence of all kinds. Leave your inhibitions at the door by donning a complimentary masquerade mask. Here, you can be whoever you want to be.”

“Is it mandatory?” Lyre asked.

The woman stared at him before recovering her composure. “No, and it would be a shame to cover a face like yours.” She cleared her throat. “Black masks are for humans, while silver masks are for our other guests.”

The woman held out the box and Clio took a black mask—not wanting to announce herself as a daemon—then she and Lyre walked into the main club. Red and blue lights flashed and zoomed all over, but they did little to illuminate the darkness. A long bar ran along one side, surrounded by a few tiny tables with stools, and in the center was a dance floor where hundreds of bodies writhed in time to the driving beat.

That part she’d expected, but she hadn’t anticipated the platforms with silver poles where women in their underwear gyrated against the metal. And she hadn’t expected the stage at the back where dancers in scandalous costumes were sinuously twisting either alone or up against each other, their hips moving ceaselessly.

Squinting, Clio scanned the room again, this time using her asper. Minimal spellwork around the perimeter—all in the golden magic she’d come to associate with incubi—and a smattering of colorful daemon auras throughout the space. No sign of succubi, though.

The daemon clubbers in shining silver masks were the center of attention wherever they went. Humans followed them in worshipful awe, and Clio understood why the club was so notorious. This sort of human/daemon mingling wasn’t exactly taboo, but daemons generally hid their true natures around humans. The Styx was a haven for humans to indulge in daemon fantasies and fetishes, and it was an open hunting ground for daemons who thrived on human attention.

Like a certain incubus.

Beside her, Lyre was fixated on the dance floor. Taking his arm, she pulled him off to one side so they weren’t blocking foot traffic. Tense and unblinking, he took it all in with dilated pupils and parted lips.

“Are you ready?” When he didn’t respond, she squeezed his arm and raised her voice over the music. “Lyre, are you ready?”

“Huh?” He finally looked at her but his gaze wasn’t quite in focus.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” His attention twitched away from her as though inexorably drawn to the dance floor. “This place is … off the charts.”

She didn’t know what charts he was talking about or whether being off them was a good thing. “Can you charge your lodestones?”

“Oh, yeah. In here? No problem.”

His gaze flashed around the room again, but when he turned back to her, his sudden somber concentration took her by surprise.

“Are you ready?” he asked. “Once I get out there, I won’t be able to sense a succubus approaching. If you see anything suspicious at all, you need to get us out—even if you have to drag me away.”

“Drag you?” she repeated with a frown.

A feverish light sparked in his eyes. “This place is a literal sauna of lust, and everyone here is basking in it. I’ll try to stick to the edge of the dance floor, but …” He smiled crookedly. “I’ll be very distracted.”

“Oh.” That sounded ominous. “Okay.”

His smile faded and he brushed his fingers across her hand. “I’m counting on you, Clio.”

Her breath caught. “I’ll watch your back, I promise.”

His smile bloomed again, stealing the last of the air from her lungs, then he was moving. She let him get ten steps ahead of her before pulling her silly black mask on and following him to the dance floor. Once there, she got a front row seat to just what an incubus on the prowl could do.

His natural grace multiplied as he swayed to the music, and each smooth movement embodied seduction. Even at a distance, Clio couldn’t control her racing pulse.

The female dancers didn’t miss his approach either. Within moments, he had one girl in front of him and one behind, both rubbing their bodies against his in the guise of dancing. In another few seconds, dancers swarmed him, but he somehow slid through the group, briefly falling into sync with one woman after another, his hands sliding over her hips or his eyes capturing hers until she couldn’t look away from him.

It was good Clio had more important things to focus on, because watching those girls hang all over him was causing her some unwelcome twists of jealousy. She kept her attention moving, her asper in focus. The bright, colorful auras of the daemons in the club were like glowing signs, easy to spot and track, but she kept scanning anyway. The dance floor, the bar, the tables, the doors, back to the dance floor, over and over.

Lyre moved along the edge of the crowd, slipping from one group of women to the next with practiced grace. She wondered why he kept moving. Why not stay in one spot and siphon energy from the women who came to him? Gold mist swirled around him: his aphrodesia, visible only to her. He wasn’t using much, probably because he didn’t need it. Everyone was riled up like the entire club was already infected with seduction magic.

Her eyes narrowed, and she again scanned the room. Was there a faint golden tinge to the air?

“Hey, baby.” Hot breath that reeked of alcohol washed over her ear. “You look lonely.”

A guy leaned over her, his buddies behind him. This, she did not need. Silently, she pointed to a random spot behind the men. Obediently, they all looked toward the other end of the room, and while they were turned, she cast a cloaking spell on herself—the same powerful one Lyre had demonstrated for her last night.

She walked away as the guys turned back, their bewilderment increasing when they discovered her gone. Cloaking spells weren’t true invisibility spells, but in a dark building full of drunk, unobservant humans … close enough.

On the dance floor, a willowy girl with long raven hair was undulating against Lyre as though she were boneless. His hands were on her waist, his hips moving in time with hers. Clio bit her lip, her cheeks heating. She wanted to look away, but the way he moved was mesmerizing and somehow thrilling.

A forbidden thought crept into her head: the wish that she was pressed against him, that his hands were on her hips and his body was moving against her like that. Not that she knew how to dance, or grind, or whatever that girl was doing.

The frenzied beat of the song changed, and the crowd swelled outward. Caught in the expanding horde of dancers, Lyre disappeared from her view.

She hurried to the spot where he’d vanished. Catching a glimpse of his shimmering gold aura, she pushed onto the packed dance floor. How many people were they going to jam in here? The club had grown more crowded since their arrival.

As she squeezed between writhing dancers, her cloaking spell lost its effectiveness and men tried to catch her eye. People bumped her, elbows and gyrating hips and swinging arms everywhere, and the frenzied movements pushed her around like violent ocean waves. Where was Lyre? She was shorter than almost everyone and all she could see were unfamiliar heads and shoulders.

His aura was nowhere in sight. Neither was the edge of the dance floor. All she could see was the crush of people, and the gap around her closed like a vise. Three dancers wedged her between them before shifting away. Someone’s sleeve caught on her mask and pulled it off her head, tearing out a few strands of hair with it.

She would never find Lyre in this insanity. She needed to get out.

She spun in a circle. Where was the edge of the dance floor? Where was the exit? She whirled around again, gasping in the hot air that smelled of human sweat.

Someone bumped her and she almost fell. Terror rocketed through her at a sudden vision of being trampled under the packed dancers. She lunged toward a gap between two women, desperate to escape.

Hands caught her around the waist and pulled her back into a hot male body. The scent of spicy cherry filled her nose.

“Gotcha,” Lyre crooned in her ear as he lifted her off her feet, bringing her eyes level with his. She could see over the dancers’ heads and fresh air washed over her.

The crowd closed in even tighter. At least a dozen women pressed into him, shouting garbled words over the music to reclaim his attention. Clio wrapped her arms around his neck, afraid she might get knocked from his grasp.

“Dance with me!” a girl shrieked, red splotches all over her pale cheeks. She pushed into him, inadvertently mashing her breasts against Clio.

Lyre staggered forward, and when grasping hands fumbled against Clio’s legs, she realized people were grabbing him from behind. The women—and a few men too—pushed closer, crushing Lyre and Clio.

Now she understood why he’d kept moving when he was working through the crowd. The mood of these women was rapidly shifting from excitement to desperate aggression—like a mob turning violent. Keeping his encounters short had allowed Lyre to stay in control of his interactions … and that control was gone.

No sooner did she realize they were in big trouble than someone grabbed her hair and tore her out of Lyre’s arms.

She slammed down on the floor. Lyre dove after her, shouldering two dancers away before they stepped on her. He scooped her up and launched forward. A woman grabbed his shirt to drag him backward. With a loud tearing sound, the seam of his shirt ripped and he pulled out of her grip.

Not bothering with subtlety, he rammed through the crowd with his daemon strength. As they burst into the less crowded bar area, Clio cast the same cloaking spell on him before any women could chase him down.

He headed for an abandoned corner, and in the relative safety of the shadows, he set her on her feet. Wobbling a few steps, she leaned against a pillar to catch her breath as adrenaline faded from her system.

“Holy shit,” he said on an explosive exhale. “That was intense. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She squinted at him, taking in his rumpled hair and ripped shirt. “Are you?”

He grinned, his eyes overly bright. “I’m good.”

“Your pupils are the size of dinner plates.”

“Oh? Huh, well, I might …” He raised his hands in an innocent shrug. “I might be just a liiiiiittle drunk.”

“Drunk?” She blinked. When had he had a chance to drink anything? “Wait, you mean … drunk off the energy in here?”

“Mhmm.” He leaned closer, still grinning, but it was more goofy than sexy. “Not the first time it’s happened, but this—this is something else. I like this club.”

“And the women here like you—a bit too much,” she replied, shaking her head. How long would his high from the lustful energy last? She wasn’t used to seeing him so … relaxed. “Did you charge your lodestones?”

He blinked. “Did I … what?”

Her amusement vanished. “Charge your lodestones. You know, the whole purpose of this trip.”

He stared at her.

“I don’t believe it.” Her hands balled into fists. “Do not tell me you got so distracted by those women rubbing all over you that you forgot to—”

His befuddled expression cracked into a grin and he threw his head back in a boisterous laugh. Her face blanked. Okay, the drunken silliness was no longer overriding his hotness factor.

In fact, it was adding to his appeal—not the inebriation, but the way it softened him. Even when he teased her, there was always a subtle edge to him—a certain caution as though he were considering the repercussions of every word he spoke. But that edge was gone.

“Of course I charged them.” He chuckled. “All taken care of. We can leave any time now.”

She sucked in a deep breath and let it out through clenched teeth. “Then why did you—”

“Because,” he drawled, stepping closer. His fingers brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “You’re sexier than usual when you’re pissed off.”

She froze, her back pressed against the pillar. “I’m … not …”

“Oh, you are.” His voice shifted to a purr and he braced his hand on the pillar beside her head. “Like when you got all jealous over that female daemon in the Consulate and shaded for a second. Mmm.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks. “I—I wasn’t jealous.”

“No? Are you jealous now?”

“No.”

“It didn’t bother you,” he crooned, his heat all around her, his amber eyes darkening to bronze, “that they were touching me? That I was dancing with them?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Hmm. That’s too bad.”

She swallowed hard, unable to look away from him. “W-why is that?”

Braced against the pillar with one hand, he lightly ran his thumb along her jaw. “Because you were the one I wanted to dance with.”

Her lungs deflated and refused to expand again.

“You,” he purred, his dark gaze drifting over her face, “are the one I want touching me.”

He caught her wrist and pressed her palm against his hot skin, exposed by the torn seam of his shirt.

“Are you sure”—he guided her hand over the muscular planes of his stomach—“you aren’t a little jealous?”

Her pulse raced frantically in her ears and it was hard to breathe. Slow heat rolled through her center, and without intending to, she focused on his mouth.

Those lips curved into a seductive smile. Her heart thudded as he leaned down, but he didn’t close the distance. His mouth hovered just above hers, barely any space between them.

“So, Clio? Which is it?”

“Which is … what?”

“I just told you I want you.” His lips brushed across hers like the touch of butterfly wings before he drew back again. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

She couldn’t help it. As he drew away, she leaned forward, chasing his retreating lips. “Like what?”

“You can’t think of anything?” He leaned in again, almost kissing her, before pulling back.

She lurched after him, stretching onto her tiptoes, but his mouth was still out of reach. “I—I don’t know what …”

His warm hands closed around her hips, then slid up to her exposed midriff, caressing her bare skin. She shuddered at his touch, still stretching toward his tauntingly close mouth.

“Lyre,” she gasped.

“Yes?” He raised his eyebrows as though he had no idea what she could possibly want.

“You—” Her brain refused to produce a single coherent word for her to speak.

“So you’d rather pretend you don’t want me?” His hands slid around her waist then down over her backside. He pulled her hips hard into his and his mouth dropped closer again, lips brushing against hers as he spoke. “Because I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

She gasped, one hand still pressed to his bare stomach and the other clutching his arm. He rocked his hips back and forth, matching the booming tempo as he held her against him, guiding her movements. She panted as the erotic rhythm teased her with sensations and longings she was desperate to explore.

His dark, scorching eyes held hers as he moved their bodies together, and it was sweet torture—hot and exciting and teasing. He slid his lips across hers in a feathery touch before pulling back again. Unable to take it anymore, she grabbed him by the hair to yank his head down.

He suddenly stopped moving.

His brow furrowed. He stepped back, pulling away from her hands, and looked her over with a frown pulling at his lips.

“Is that my cloaking weave?”

Her whole body flashed from hot to cold.

His confusion grew as he studied the spell she’d cast on herself then checked the one she’d cast on him. “This is my spell. How did you learn it so quickly?”

Frantic denials spun through her head. “I watched you last night with my asper, and I remembered how …”

“This spell is too advanced for your weaving skill.”

“I—I know a lot of advanced—”

His expression hardened. “I gave you a lesson in weaving. I know what level you’re at. How did you learn and cast my weave after only seeing it once?”

After their impromptu lesson back in Asphodel, he’d gotten a rough idea about her weaving knowledge. But for her, knowledge and skill didn’t correlate. She could duplicate any spell she saw, no matter how advanced.

How stupid was she? His cloaking spell was so much better than hers and she’d used it without considering the possibility that he might recognize it.

“Clio,” he growled. “I want an answer.”

“I … I don’t …”

“How did you cast my spell?”

She stepped back but he followed, his pupils constricting with focus.

“Clio.”

Her back hit the pillar. He towered over her, and all she could do was stare at him, her mouth open but her voice absent. What did she say? How could she explain without revealing she was a mimic—and therefore a Nereid?

He glared down at her, waiting for an answer.

“Clio,” he growled again—and this time there was a hint of power in his voice.

She grabbed the front of his shirt, her fist braced against his chest, preventing him from shifting any closer. Her other hand lifted, fingers curled.

“I blasted you once,” she said, her voice low and marred by a faint quiver. “Don’t make me do it again.”

His face went blank, then he stepped back. His shirt pulled from her grip, and she straightened, her pulse skittering from the adrenaline rush.

Before he could say anything, she marched away from him, walking the length of the bar before glancing back. He hadn’t moved, a mere shadow in the dark corner. Breathing harshly through her nose, she went into the women’s restroom and braced herself against the sink.

Had Lyre been about to force an answer out of her with aphrodesia?

She wasn’t sure. Power had touched his voice, easy to recognize after her recent incubus experiences, but sometimes he unintentionally leaked seduction magic.

She wanted to trust him, but maybe that was naïve. Maybe she was a fool. Mimicking his advanced weaves right in front of him certainly suggested she was an idiot. If she planned to keep her abilities a secret, she needed to be more careful.

Her blue eyes, vivid against her skin, stared back at her in the mirror. If she wasn’t willing to trust him with her most dangerous secrets, how could she trust his equally dangerous power?