One perk of being an incubus was supposed to be an immunity to heartbreak. Lyre still didn’t know how that had gone wrong for him.

He rubbed his hands together, then blew on them, his breath puffing white in the cold air. Soft white flakes drifted from the sky, twirling toward the snow-dusted ground. Heavy darkness lay over the abandoned park, broken only by a flickering pair of lampposts.

A couple weeks out of the Overworld and he was still moping. Then again, he didn’t have much to celebrate. But beneath the unpleasant gloom was a hot spark of hope. He would cling to Clio’s promise through however many shitty days, weeks, and months awaited him.

Ten years wasn’t that long compared to a lifetime.

In a decade, his family should have well and truly forgotten about him, and once Clio was out of the spotlight as regent, maybe it would be safe for her and Lyre to find their own little corner of the realms where his past couldn’t reach them. Maybe. He could hope. He was going to hope.

He blew on his hands again, wishing he could stomp his feet to ward off the cold. But making noise would defeat the purpose of standing in the deep shadows beneath the trees as he watched the little circle of empty pavement with a single rickety wrought-iron bench.

From what he’d carefully gleaned, the bounty on his head had been dismissed and most of the mercenaries who’d flocked to the city to hunt him had dispersed again. It was almost pleasantly quiet, and he was getting better at the whole anonymity thing.

He’d had a lot of practice pretending to be something he wasn’t. In Chrysalis, he’d encouraged his brothers to see him as careless and flippant, a sloppy smartass who didn’t care about anything. A few tweaks to that persona and he could easily fit into the role of a harmless flirt, rolling about the city with no purpose, picking up jobs here and there while hitting on every pair of pretty legs that passed by.

To the rest of the world, he would become an average incubus with average abilities. But first, he had one more loose end to take care of.

As he rubbed his chilled hands together again, a shadow slipped out of the trees. The daemon, wrapped in a warm coat with the hood pulled up, stopped near the bench and surveyed the spot.

Lyre stepped into the circle of light emanating from the lampposts. The daemon turned to him, and as he tilted his head up, the orange glow caught on jewel-like green eyes.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Lyre said.

Miysis pushed his hood back a bit, revealing glamour-short blond hair, cropped close to his head. “How could I resist an invitation from a dead man?”

Lyre arched an eyebrow in question.

“When I inquired about your fate,” Miysis explained, “the esteemed Regent of Irida informed me that you perished in a confrontation with Chrysalis weavers. Then she handed me your letter and gave me the sort of look that promised extreme and long-lasting punishment if I screwed up.” The griffin rubbed one gloved hand over his jaw. “What especially intrigued me was that, when she said you’d died, she wasn’t lying.”

“The incubus weaver who was running around Aldrendahar casting spells and blowing shit up did die. He’s gone for good.”

“Is that so? Who are you, then?”

“Someone else.”

Miysis’s expression smoothed into his unreadable princely countenance. “I see.”

“If another griffin asks you what happened to that incubus, what will you say?”

“I’ll tell them the only thing I know: Clio said he died and she was speaking the truth.”

Lyre nodded, managing not to flinch at Clio’s name.

“So, weaver whom I’ve never met, why did you summon me here?”

“I have a proposal for you.”

“What might that be?” Miysis asked, almost wary.

Lyre concealed his nervousness. He didn’t like this idea one bit, but he was at his limit. Broke, homeless, and straight up lacking in any resources or connections, he wouldn’t last through the winter without taking drastic steps.

“A dead man can’t sell his skills to just anyone.” He waited a beat for Miysis to catch his meaning. “Would you be interested in the services of a Chrysalis-quality spell weaver?”

The griffin’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What exactly are you offering?”

“I’m open to the possibility of making myself semi-regularly available to take commissions … at something of a discount compared to the usual rates.”

Miysis rocked back on his heels as he no doubt ran through the many possibilities.

“Caveats,” Lyre added. “I won’t weave anything designed to kill, maim, torture, etcetera. I can refuse to weave anything I don’t want to weave.”

Miysis nodded thoughtfully, well aware that Lyre’s arsenal was impressive even without those sorts of weaves. “On one condition. You will weave only for me. You’ll take no other paying clients, though obviously you can make and give away whatever magic you please.”

Lyre frowned. “That’s extremely limiting.”

Miysis’s lips curved into a cool smile and his eyes gleamed with sharp cunning that sent a chill through Lyre.

“I have more than enough work to keep you busy, if busy is what you want to be. I don’t know what Chrysalis charges for custom work, but I’ll pay to ensure you remain committed to my commissions alone.”

And by doing that, he would ensure none of Lyre’s weavings ended up in the hands of Ra enemies or political opponents.

“This arrangement will exist entirely between you and me,” Lyre said. “No one else can know about it. If we encounter each other outside our planned meetings—”

“We don’t know each other and have never met.” Miysis’s eyes darkened to the color of a twilight forest. “I can’t be known to associate with an Underworld weaver, especially one from Chrysalis. Depending on the circumstances, that could mean I would have to act against you—or kill you.”

Well, at least the prince was honest. “Noted.”

“It would be safer if you stayed clear of me otherwise.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult.” Lyre extended his hand. “Do we have an agreement?”

Miysis grasped his hand and shook it.

Lyre stuck his frozen fingers in his coat pockets. “I’ll see what I can come up with for how we’ll communicate and arrange meetings.”

The prince nodded. “Speaking of communication, I’ll request my first commission now.”

Lyre’s eyebrows shot up. That was fast.

“I need spells for coordinating teams over long distances … discreetly.”

“In what context, exactly?”

Miysis glanced around the empty park as though expecting to find spies hanging from the tree branches. “I’m searching for something … but some of my people are entrenched in such a way that they can’t report to me and I can’t track their movements.”

“Hmm. I already have a spell set that might work, but I’ll see if I can tweak it to be less conspicuous.”

“Excellent.” Miysis reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a pouch. “This is all I have on me, so consider it a down payment.”

Lyre accepted the bag and peeked inside. Controlling his expression, he slipped it into his pocket. With one “down payment,” his money woes were taken care of for, oh, the next six months at least.

Relieved he wouldn’t starve, he arranged to meet with Miysis in three months. After that, they would probably connect only once or twice a year—just often enough to swap completed work for new commissions.

Plans made, Miysis pulled his hood up again. “By the way, I heard an interesting rumor—a very expensive one obtained from an exclusive Underworld informant.”

“Oh?”

Green eyes gleamed from the shadows of his hood. “A couple months ago, the head of Chrysalis was killed—by his own son, apparently.” A moment of silence. “The son died too, or so I heard.”

Lyre raised an eyebrow. “Sounds terribly tragic.”

“Terribly.” Miysis smiled, pulled the collar of his coat up to block the wind, and walked off into the swirling snow.

Rolling his tense shoulders, Lyre watched him go. Damn. Well, keeping secrets from the griffin prince probably wouldn’t have worked in the long run anyway. He weighed the pouch of coins in his pocket, his thoughts shifting to other matters.

Miysis had mentioned Clio, but he hadn’t said how she was doing. Lyre hadn’t asked, and he hoped she wouldn’t come up in future conversations with the griffin. Ten years. He would never survive that long if he dwelled on her all the time. He needed to bury her deep in his thoughts, along with the rest of his past, and he would only think of her when he needed a reminder of what he was fighting for.

He watched the snow melting on the pavement. His financial problems were solved, but he still needed to figure out the rest—where to live, how to survive as a nobody, how to move around the city unnoticed. He didn’t know how to do any of that.

Funny thing, though. He happened to know someone who was well versed in surviving on the outskirts of society. And Lyre just so happened to be borrowing that particular daemon’s dingy apartment while he was otherwise homeless.

He hummed a quiet, thoughtful note. Hands in his pockets, he walked out of the park. Snow swirled quietly, muffling sound as he made his way through the downtown streets. Giving the Ra embassy a wide berth, he headed along a street that would take him to the neglected apartment complex.

A flutter of sound in the muted night.

Wings flapping, a small dragon swept out of the snowy darkness and landed on Lyre’s shoulder. He blinked in surprise as she folded her wings and trilled a quiet greeting. Her tail swished, thumping against his back.

Arctic panic slammed into him. Lyre managed not to stagger, keeping his pace steady. With a deep whoosh of displaced air, huge dragon wings swept wide as the draconian dropped out of the sky.

His wings shimmered out of existence as he landed lightly beside Lyre and fell into step without missing a beat. Lyre kept moving, their strides perfectly matched.

“You messed with my wards,” Ash said without even a greeting first, as though only days had passed since they’d last spoken.

“Your wards were terrible. I replaced them.”

“I can’t get into my apartment.”

“I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.” Lyre shrugged, accidentally dislodging Zwi. She chattered in annoyance as she hopped onto her master’s shoulder instead. “You weren’t using the place, so …”

“I don’t care if you use it, but get rid of the damn wards.”

“I have a better idea. I’ll just teach you my wards.”

Ash’s stride faltered slightly.

“Yours suck,” Lyre added, in case the draconian had missed it the first time.

Scowling, Ash brushed his snow-dusted hair from his face. “I don’t want your help, incubus.”

“Consider it a trade. You let me crash in your apartment, and I’ll upgrade your weaving skills.”

When Ash didn’t argue, Lyre quashed a smile. Though the draconian was under Samael’s command and could only visit Earth while on assignment, he and Lyre could learn a lot from each other. A mutual exchange of skills—and, for Lyre at least, an occasional friendly face among the masses of strangers he could never trust.

Well, almost friendly. Close enough.

As they passed beneath a glowing streetlamp, the only light source on the block, Ash slowed to a stop. “Did you destroy it?”

“Destroy what?”

The draconian’s stare turned steely.

Lyre smirked. Passing Ash, he ambled a few more steps down the street. “I took care of it.”

He turned to find Ash hadn’t moved, the crease between his dark eyebrows cast into sharp relief by the light above. The shadow weave’s fate wasn’t something Lyre intended to discuss with anyone. Along with the method of its creation, the secret would die with him.

“Before any weaving lessons,” he said seriously, slipping his hands into his pockets, “I think there’s something else we should figure out.”

Ash’s frown deepened. “What’s that?”

Lyre glanced at the snowy sky and sighed. “One of us should probably learn to cook.”

A snorting laugh escaped Ash, his eyes flashing to a pale gray Lyre hadn’t seen before. The draconian’s smile was brief but genuine, and Lyre grinned in response. The gloomy weight in his chest eased a little.

Ash started forward and Lyre fell into step beside him. Together, they strode into the night, leaving the lonely glow of the streetlamp behind.

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