The speeding arrow grazed the tree trunk and spun off into the shadows. Lyre swore.

Yanking the last arrow from the quiver on his shoulder, he nocked it on the string and pulled it back to his cheek. His arm trembled, muscles exhausted and barely able to hold the weapon at full draw. With the bow canted at a forty-five-degree angle, he raised it toward the distant tree and let the arrow fly.

It missed the trunk and skittered through the distant foliage.

Snarling under his breath, he slung the bow over his shoulder and trudged to the tree. Two dozen arrows were scattered up and down the bark, sticking out in an ugly mess that was a far cry from his usual neat rows. He yanked them out one by one and dropped them back into the quiver, then slunk through deep shadows beneath the trees, searching through the moss and leafy shrubs for the remaining arrows.

Shoving the last one in his quiver, he stalked back to the spot where he’d been shooting and glared at the offending tree two hundred feet away. He flexed his arm, feeling the weak shudder in the muscles. How many times had he emptied the quiver, collected his arrows, then shot them all again? He’d lost count.

A cool breeze slid through the narrow trunks and rustled the spiky, red-tinted leaves above. The patch of woods wasn’t much, but it was as close as he could get to peace and quiet without leaving Asphodel. And leaving Asphodel wasn’t an option.

He sneered at the tree, disgusted by his incompetence. He shouldn’t have a problem hitting anything at two hundred feet. His problem wasn’t skill. It was distraction.

Jaw flexing, he turned and walked away, counting each step. Fifty paces. A hundred. Two hundred. He stopped and turned. Through the woods, the target tree was a thin strip of darkness among the shadows, now almost a thousand feet away.

He leaned his bow against a nearby boulder of dark basalt, then pulled off his quiver and dropped it on the ground. He glanced around once more to ensure he was alone.

Then he released his glamour.

The magic that gave him a human body and human face slid away in a wash of tingles. Strength flowed through his limbs, rejuvenating muscles the glamour had weakened. He inhaled deeply, tasting the scents and messages in the air that were usually so muted.

Wearing glamour almost nonstop made it easy to forget what he was missing out on. But even though many other castes walked this world in their true forms, as an incubus he didn’t have that luxury. No one wanted incubi wandering around without glamour. Their magic was too insidious and was despised by both sexes.

He smiled grimly. So many daemons thought of incubi as pushovers. It was true they didn’t have as much magic to throw around as reapers or draconians, but that didn’t mean incubi weren’t dangerous.

Reaching over his shoulder, he pulled a sleek black bow from its place on his back. His fingers caressed the smooth, supple wood, heavier than the weapon he’d set aside. It had been too long.

Humans thought glamour was an illusion, but it was far closer to actual shape-shifting than any kind of superficial appearance. Each daemon had only one glamour—one alternate shape to don—and it was a full shift into that form. A daemon like Ash, who likely sported a nice pair of wings under his glamour, wasn’t simply hiding the appendages. Until he shifted forms, his wings didn’t quite exist. It was complicated and not well understood even by daemons.

Along with the change of shape, daemons could shift their clothes and a limited arsenal in and out of this reality. Beneath his glamour, in his true form, Lyre carried his real weapons. Clio’s all-seeing nymph eyes would pop out of her head if she ever saw the kind of magic he carried now. Even his brothers would be surprised by some of it.

Pulling a string from a pouch at his hip, he looped it on one end of the bow, then stepped over the slim wood and braced the grip behind his knee, with the lower limb curved across his other shin. Using his legs to hold it, he bent the bow with careful, even pressure and slipped the other end of the string into place.

He pulled the string a few times to warm up the wood, then reached for the arrows in his quiver. Most of the heads were spelled with various nasty weavings, but a few were mundane projectiles.

Selecting an arrow—the shaft longer and thicker than the arrows he’d been shooting—he laid it against the bow and curled his fingers over the taut string. He easily pulled it back to his cheek. His strength didn’t falter, didn’t hesitate, though the draw weight would have been a challenge in his glamoured form. A human would have struggled to draw the bow at all.

Calm eased through him as the churn of fury and shame that had plagued him for hours settled.

The string slipped smoothly from his fingers with the deep thrum of release. The arrow shot away. He drew another arrow from the quiver, nocked it, and released. Another crack as it struck the distant tree. He selected a third arrow, settled it in place, and pulled the string back to his cheek. With the knuckle of his thumb touching the corner of his mouth, he held the position, letting his focus sink into the burn of muscle and pull of tendons and the strength of the bow beneath his hands. Finally, he acknowledged the source of his rage.

He had lost control.

He. Had. Lost. Control.

The shame surged again but he didn’t move, holding the bow at full draw, shoulders aching in protest as he waited for the emotions to fade.

He had lost control. There. He’d admitted it. He’d acknowledged the humiliation of falling prey to his instincts, of becoming a puppet to his darkest nature. It was foolish to let it bother him so much. It was normal. It was expected, even, for incubi. Their magic, their aphrodesia, was a double-edged sword. It was a weapon to use against others, but also a weakness.

They could make others desire them. But sometimes their own desire was too much to control. Too powerful. Too seductive and easy to give in to.

And Clio. She was the sweetest nectar, an irresistible wine he yearned to drink.

A tremor ran through his limbs and he tightened his stance, solidifying his hold on the bow and keeping the draw steady.

He’d had a taste. Just the faintest tease, the slightest sip. Not even a kiss, just the sweetness of her skin on his tongue. He had wanted more. He had needed more. And with her body pressed into him, her chest heaving against his, her sweet scent in his nose, he couldn’t stop himself.

Before he could follow those thoughts too far, he let the ache in his arms and shoulders pull him back.

He should have tried harder to calm down before looking for her. He shouldn’t have let Madrigal goad him into a rage. When he’d found Clio, he’d already been on the edge, his restraint weakened and vulnerable.

And then he’d pinned her to the wall to hide her—the only option he could think of. Under those circumstances, most incubi would have lost it. He still couldn’t forgive himself.

She had seen him lose control. Did she think he was pathetic and weak? Or a would-be rapist like Madrigal? Was she afraid of him? If she was, he couldn’t fault her for it.

Hissing through his teeth, he focused on his target and loosed the arrow. It whipped away. He lowered his arms, and they shook from the strain of holding the bow at full draw for so long. Sighing heavily, he walked back to the tree, his feet noiseless on the mossy ground.

Two arrows protruded neatly from the bark, one an inch above the other, dead center in the tree. The third was an inch below the first two, but three finger widths off center. Grimacing, he pulled them free and slipped them back into his quiver, then unstrung his bow and replaced it in the sling on his back. With another sigh, he closed his eyes and pulled glamour back over his body. Tingles rushed across his skin and instant weakness dragged at his limbs. The ache in his muscles doubled.

Wincing and rolling his shoulders, he collected his other bow and quiver. At the edge of the trees, just before the winding streets of Asphodel took over again, he paused and tilted his head back. The first stars dotted the deep blue sky. Twilight in the Underworld was a long, drawn-out transition, with sunset fading into a murky semi-darkness that would last for hours before true night settled over the land. The planet that filled part of the sky was waxing like a moon, half of its massive sphere lit by the unseen sun, the other half invisible.

In another cycle or two, Clio would return to her world, and he wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore. Short of repeating the circumstances of their last encounter, he was sure his self-restraint would be sufficient. But he couldn’t forget the driving hunger that had overwhelmed him, so demanding it had been all he could do to contain his aphrodesia so he didn’t harm her. He didn’t want to test his willpower around her a second time.

He wasn’t like Madrigal. He didn’t want to be like Madrigal. And he didn’t want to hurt Clio.

For now, he’d keep his distance. She would have to handle Madrigal on her own, but considering she’d blasted Lyre off her like a total pro, not to mention her escape from Dulcet, he wasn’t too concerned. She wasn’t as helpless as she’d first appeared.

So, he would maintain his distance while keeping an eye on her—and on Madrigal and Dulcet. No need to take chances. Soon enough, she would leave his world and return to hers, where she would be safe.

Then he would figure out why the safety of a random Overworlder was so damn important to him all of the sudden. Why Madrigal seducing her had enraged him. Why he’d chased after her and risked a confrontation with Dulcet to protect her. And why he was planning to watch over her like she was somehow his responsibility.

But for now, he didn’t want to think about it.

* * *

Clio sat at the table in the inn suite. Kassia and Eryx stood on either side of her. Together, they stared at the invitation lying open on the tabletop.

“You can’t not go,” Eryx said, breaking the tense silence.

“But she can’t actually go,” Kassia shot back. “That’s an invitation from Samael.”

Clio shuddered at the name. Samael, warlord of Hades, head of the foremost reaper family, ruler of the most powerful Underworld territory. And de facto owner of Chrysalis.

“I already agreed to go.” She propped her chin on her hands, elbows braced on the edge of the table as she gazed gloomily at the paper. “It will look even worse if I back out.”

“We’ll request to return to Earth immediately,” Kassia said. “Chrysalis might not know about this invitation or that you’re expected to attend. We’ll have them return us to the ley line before the eclipse.”

“And grievously insult the Hades family?” Eryx shook his head. “You’re overreacting, Kassia. It’s a political function, not an abandoned warehouse. There will be a ton of daemons there.”

“Underworld daemons. Hades allies.”

“As far as Hades knows, we’re well on our way to becoming another ally. They want to make nice.”

Clio craned her neck to look at the two chimeras. “Since there will be a bunch of unknown daemons there, I don’t think it’s unreasonable for you two to accompany me. That’s why you’re here, after all.”

Kassia frowned. “If we can come with you … it will still be risky, but we can make sure Hades doesn’t try anything aggressive.”

“Excellent.” Eryx dusted his hands together as though the matter was settled. “Now we just have to figure out how to find those prototypes in Chrysalis while we wait for our commission.”

Kassia folded her arms. “Clio isn’t going off by herself again. Not after that ‘Dulcet’ incubus almost captured her.”

Eryx nodded, his agreement surprising Clio. He strode the length of the small room, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Kassia hovered beside Clio’s chair, watching her cousin with narrowed eyes.

Clio massaged her temples to soothe her headache. She’d told them about sneaking off and getting caught by Dulcet, but she hadn’t mentioned Lyre. She also hadn’t mentioned what Madrigal had done—and tried to do—in the meeting room. Humiliation crawled under her skin. She couldn’t admit to Eryx that an incubus had so easily seduced her with his magic.

“Kass or I need to go with Clio,” he muttered, more to himself than them as he scrubbed at his shaggy red hair. “It’s too dangerous for Clio to wander by herself. She doesn’t have the training for stealth work. Maybe we should sneak in while they’re closed.”

Clio worried the hem of her shirt. “But if they catch us, we’ll have zero plausible deniability. If I’m caught where I shouldn’t be when I’m already there, I can claim I got lost.”

“Also keep in mind,” Kassia added, “we need their help to leave this world. If we’re implicated in anything, they could refuse to let us leave. It’s better to wait for the commissioned spell and leave it at that.”

Eryx stopped pacing and planted his hands on his hips. “But these prototypes are probably the best magic Chrysalis can create. It might be significantly better than what they’ll make for us.”

“Searching for them puts everything at risk, including Clio.” Kassia’s eyes blazed. “Her life is more important than any spell, and we’re already at a disadvantage. This isn’t like any mission you or I have done or trained for. There’s no way out of this place if things go wrong.”

Biting her lip, Clio looked back to the letter on the table without seeing it. Instead, she saw gleaming, deranged amber eyes. She felt cold fingers squeezing her neck, cutting off her air.

I know how to make you scream for me all night long.

She forcefully cleared her throat, dispelling the phantom pressure, and rose to her feet. “I need to lie down.”

Leaving Kassia and Eryx to argue, Clio retreated to the bedroom, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed on the bed. After a moment, she curled into a ball and hugged the blankets to her chest.

The bright day had passed and a strange semi-darkness lay over the land like a blanket of cool shadows, warning of the long Underworld night to come. But though it had been hours, the fear was still lodged in the base of her spine like a block of ice that refused to melt.

Dulcet throwing her into the shelves, choking her. Whispering reverently in her ear about his pain weavings. Hitting her with that weakening leech ailment and stalking her through the halls, a patient hunter confident he would capture his prey.

Delayed tears flowed down her cheeks and she wept into the pillow as the terror replayed in her head.

And then Lyre had saved her. His spell had hidden them. She was pretty sure the weaving had created an illusion that matched whatever he was seeing—the reason he’d stared so intently at the blank wall.

Lyre’s, and Dulcet’s, utter mastery of magic had left her feeling woefully incompetent. Clearly, their titles were well earned. How many years of study did it take to gain such skill? How much of it was natural talent? Seven brothers … seven master weavers.

With their unique astral perception, nymphs were considered excellent weavers in the Overworld, but she’d never seen anything like what Lyre and his brothers could do. And it wasn’t just weaving complex spells into disks or doors or collars. Dulcet had counteracted her attacks with laughable ease, his on-the-spot casting as strong as his advanced weaving. She’d studied thousands of casts and weaves, but the difference in their skill lay in ‘seeing’ versus ‘understanding.’ She could see magic in all its shapes and forms, but the master weavers understood those shapes and forms on a deep, intrinsic level.

A soft tap sounded on the bedroom door. Wiping her eyes, Clio called, “Yes?”

Kassia slipped inside and closed the door. She sat on the edge of the bed, looked Clio over head to toe, then leaned back against the headboard.

“Tell me what else happened,” she murmured.

Clio winced, then flopped onto her back. No point in denying it. In a tremoring whisper, she first told Kassia what Madrigal had done. Fear slithered through her at the memory, and in some ways, the seductive incubus frightened her more than Dulcet’s psychopathic violence. Dulcet she had fought, even if she hadn’t been effective.

But against Madrigal … she had been helpless. She hadn’t even tried to fight him. And if the messenger hadn’t interrupted, she probably wouldn’t have resisted whatever Madrigal had wanted to do.

“Bastard,” Kassia hissed when Clio had finished describing the meeting. “Slimy bastard to infect you with his magic like that.”

“I shouldn’t have let my guard down,” Clio mumbled.

Kassia squeezed her hand. “You’ll know for next time. Or you can insist Eryx and I come with you.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Lyre told me afterward that—”

“Lyre told you? When did you see him?”

“Um. Well.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and hid her face against them. “I didn’t escape Dulcet by myself.”

She explained how Lyre had saved her, and his pointers on how to defend against Madrigal. But she trailed off after that, memories flashing and heat rising through her body. Lyre pressing her into the wall. His warm, hard body, his hand on her hip. His mouth on her neck.

His ravenous black eyes.

“What else?” Kassia prompted. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Clio grimaced into her knees. She couldn’t hide anything from Kassia, could she? Haltingly, she described how Lyre had hidden her from the passing daemons … and what had happened afterward.

When she fell silent again, Kassia let out a long exhale. “I’m glad you escaped him as well.”

“But he … he saved me.”

“He did. But any daemon in that state is a danger. If he wasn’t an incubus, with an incubus’s nature, he might have been seconds away from tearing out your throat instead of tearing off your clothes.”

Clio flinched at that dramatic imagery—both parts.

Kassia stretched her arms above her head. “I know you nymphs are pacifists at heart, but trust me. He could have switched from lust to bloodlust at any moment.” She cast a hard look at Clio. “And even if it had been safe, you didn’t come here to sleep around with incubi. It’s dangerous no matter what.”

“I wasn’t going to—I never would have—” She spluttered into silence, then glowered at the bed covers. “Besides. Being a virgin is my best protection right now, according to Lyre.”

“You don’t want your first time to be with an incubus anyway. I’ve heard rumors, and it rarely goes well for the girls.” Kassia playfully tugged on Clio’s braid. “Those incubi are sex fiends, as you like to call them, and we can’t trust a single one—not even Lyre. Now get some sleep, okay?”

After Kassia had left, Clio rolled onto her side and hugged the blankets to her chest again. Not even Lyre.

In that alcove, pushing him away had been the right thing to do—it’s what he’d told her to do. He’d had enough restraint to realize how out of control he’d become, but he’d been dangerous, like Kassia had said. The line between violent passion and outright violence was a fine one, and it wouldn’t take much to push an incubus over it.

Even if he hadn’t been a danger to her, pushing him away had still been the right thing to do. It hadn’t been the time or the place for … for that. In fact, no time would ever be the right time to let an incubus pin her to a wall and—

She swallowed hard. He was her enemy. She couldn’t trust him, even though he’d saved her. Even though he’d risked his safety for her, for no reason she could guess.

He was her enemy.

She kept repeating that as she drifted into a broken, restless sleep. But in her dreams, he wasn’t an enemy. And in her dreams, she didn’t have to push him away.