Lyre lay upside down on his sofa, feet propped on the back, head hanging off the seat cushions. Eyes half closed, he gazed absently at the inverted view of his workroom. A heavy steel table, buried in crafting and weaving materials, filled the other side of the room, almost as big a mess as the overflowing shelves that lined the walls. The long horizontal window let in a narrow sliver of light from outside, where the dark mountains surrounding Asphodel pierced the sky.

Directly in front of his nose on the small coffee table, the steel collar glinted harmlessly, empty of magic. He still hadn’t started weaving Eisheth’s spell. What was he waiting for? If he delayed too long, he’d end up down in the bastille, getting intimately acquainted with every nuance of the word “torment.”

On the other hand, if he did the weaving, he’d be condemning Ash to equal torment. Could he do that? Could he save his own pathetic skin at someone else’s expense?

What a stupid question. He’d been doing exactly that his whole life.

He never should have talked to Ash. Now Lyre wasn’t weaving an instrument of torture intended for a nameless, voiceless stranger. One conversation didn’t count for much, but he couldn’t forget the way Ash’s gaze had dropped when Lyre had asked him about regret. That wasn’t the reaction of a stone-cold killer, no matter how tough Ash seemed. How young had the draconian been when Hades first started molding him?

In the Underworld, draconians were known as mercenaries—thugs for hire. Powerful, lethal thugs that no one wanted to talk to, let alone get to know. But in Asphodel, anyone with half a brain could see that the “mercenary” label was an ugly mask that hid an even uglier truth. Pay a little attention and holes appeared in the story. Like the fact the Hades family had wiped out the majority of the draconian caste five centuries ago, eliminating the reapers’ primary rivals in political and magical power. Or the fact that draconians hated all reapers with a vicious passion, yet still “worked” for them.

Or how about the fact that some of these “mercenaries” were still teenagers, like Ash had been when Lyre first saw him three seasons ago? Or the fact these “mercenaries” were locked up, restrained, and tortured for defiance?

That sure as hell didn’t sound like any kind of paid mercenary-employer relationship he’d ever heard of. He was almost positive that Ash was about as willing a mercenary as Lyre was a willing “employee” of Chrysalis.

Except Lyre’s family wasn’t torturing him—yet—so he supposed he had it better.

Unable to think about the collar anymore, he rolled off the sofa and crossed the room, wobbling as the blood rushed out of his head. He stood at the table, looking from the metal disks and round gems to the steel marbles and arrows with dark fletching. Everything he needed to weave death was scattered across the surface—diagrams and textbooks, weights and dials, compasses and protractors, contraptions that measured magical signatures. He picked up a sheet of paper filled with someone’s neat handwriting. A custom weaving request for a death spell that would simulate a natural heart attack.

His hands clenched and he took a deep breath. Then he methodically shredded the paper, letting the pieces flutter to the floor like ugly snowflakes. No one was going to torture him for failing to weave that spell.

He glared at the floor for a minute longer, then crouched and reached under the table. He found the edge of a tile that hummed softly with his magic and drummed his fingers across it. The wards on it were some of his best, as undetectable as they were deadly.

Popping the tile off the hidden compartment, he dug into the hole, reaching around the quiver of arrows and bag of lodestones for the fine silver chains. Lifting one out, he sat on the floor and leaned back against the leg of the table, turning the chain in his hands. Gems sparkled in the harsh lights, but the spells in those stones were anything but harsh. Unlike the chain around his neck, these weavings were private, secret, and devoid of violence.

He rubbed his thumb across one of his favorites, triggering the embedded spell. A flurry of golden sparks erupted from the stone. They gathered together, condensing into the form of an eagle. It spread its glowing wings wide and soared a circle around the room, swooping and gliding with abandon while he leaned his head against the table, watching it with half-closed eyes.

This was the kind of magic he wanted to weave. This was what he wanted to create. Not death spells and torture collars. Not explosions and weapons.

The eagle illusion swept by him, its pure gold wings passing through the table of foul magic he was so practiced at weaving. With a sigh, he dispelled the illusion, dropped the chain back in its hiding spot, and rearmed the wards. Rising to his feet, he stared down at the shredded request form and wondered what the hell he was doing.

For three seasons now, since Eisheth had first requested he make a collar to torture a kid, he’d been asking himself one question over and over and over again.

Could he escape this place?

He pressed both hands to his face, fingers digging into his temples. He couldn’t survive here forever. Sooner or later, he’d lose either his life or his soul. How long would he keep staggering along, obeying when he had to, defying everything else with a smile and shrug that fooled his brothers into thinking he was an incompetent idiot?

Another season. Maybe two. His time was running out.

But … escape? He’d thought about it. He’d even sporadically planned it, weaving spells he thought he might need, stashing lodestones and other supplies, learning his way around a few Earth cities while visiting with his brothers.

But when he thought about what it would be like to escape this place, to start again, to rewrite his life entirely … he couldn’t imagine it. He couldn’t see it. Where would he go? What would he do? Would spending the rest of his miserable existence in hiding from Chrysalis and Hades be any better than what he was enduring now?

Maybe this was the only life he could have. Maybe this was all he was good for, all he deserved after so many years of weaving depraved magic. Assuming he could escape—a big if—he wouldn’t be running off into the sunset, cheering his newfound freedom. He’d be fleeing for his life, hiding in whatever dirty holes he could find, scraping by as he evaded capture for years on end. It was impossible. He’d be dead just as quickly as if he stayed.

He held out his hand, vaguely surprised he couldn’t see the figurative blood that should have coated his skin. Maybe he hadn’t tried to escape because he was afraid. Afraid to try. As much as he hated it, this was the only life he’d ever known, and even if it was slowly killing him, he knew there were far worse fates.

A ping in his head warned him that someone had crossed the ward on his workroom door.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

Madrigal stepped inside. “Someone’s in a bad mood. Weaving not going well today?” He glanced at the mess on the floor. “Never mind. Question answered.”

“What do you want?” he repeated.

His brother’s gaze swept around the room. “Oh, nothing.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Nothing,” Madrigal repeated. “I’ll just leave you be, hmm?”

He turned back toward the door. Lyre flicked his fingers, activating one of his wards. A golden sheen spanned the open frame and Madrigal halted in mid-step. His brother could break the barrier, but it would be annoying—and take at least a minute or two.

“Really, Lyre?” Madrigal sighed.

Lyre canted his head. “I have about a dozen of those embedded in the frame. If you want to spend the next hour breaking them down, feel free.”

Madrigal turned and leaned back against the wall beside the door, rolling his eyes. “So dramatic.”

“Why did you come here?”

“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.