By the time Lyre reached the bunker door, cold calm flowed through him, sweeping away fear and doubt.

Humans thought daemon “shading” was a state akin to madness, where the daemon was so angry or afraid or aggressive that they lost control, but shading wasn’t a weakness or a liability. It was a tool. And while they could be provoked into shading, often daemons chose to trade the restraint of logic and reason for the faster reflexes, ruthless pragmatism, and aggression of their deepest instinctive nature.

It became a problem when the daemon’s life wasn’t in danger or when instincts that weren’t crucial to survival took the reins—like an incubus’s inherent drive to dominate females. Sometimes they killed innocent people. Sometimes they hurt friends or loved ones.

But a shaded daemon wasn’t incapable of judgment or decision-making. They were simply using a different part of their brain.

It was a dangerous tool, but one Lyre needed tonight. He examined the door and the faint shimmer of the ward layered across it. His skin prickled as he picked out runes and constructs he knew, as well as other unfamiliar shapes. The deeper layers of the ward blurred, and he stretched his senses out instead, feeling for the shape of the magic—an ability rooted in thousands of hours of practice and experience.

No way to disarm the weave without touching the door, and touching it would kill him first. No other way in. He could destroy the entire entrance, but that might injure Clio.

His eyes narrowed, and he crouched. Near the bottom of the door was the edge of a rune set Lyre knew well—a construct based in illusion weaving. Rising, he walked away from the door.

Because it wasn’t a door at all. It was a trap.

Taking his time, knowing better than to rush despite the pounding urgency at the back of his head, he circled the entire bunker at a distance. On his second round, he found it—the glimmer of a weave. Here. This was the real door, hidden behind another illusion.

He studied it, then snapped his fingers out. His magic sliced through a single rune, and the illusion dissolved in a shadowy ripple. The actual door was made of heavy steel without a handle or lock.

Lyre stepped closer. With the illusion gone, he should have been able to see the protective wards and lock spells. And he could … but the threads were dark. The spells were inactive.

He pushed on the door and it swung open without resistance. So … his brother was expecting him.

The dark interior should have felt spacious, but it was jammed full of junk—boxes, crates, shelves, and, near the back, an assortment of person-sized cages. Empty, at least. He paused again to consider his options, then dipped his hand into his shirt. He activated three different shield and defense spells, then popped off a handful of gems from his chains and slipped them into his pockets for easier access.

He didn’t need to look for the stairs to the lower level. He could feel the throb of power that had bled into the walls, the magical residue calling him toward it. Dulcet had disarmed the wards on the basement door, saving Lyre what could have been an hour of tinkering to get through them alive.

At the bottom of the steps, he turned to face his brother’s “evil laboratory.” Metal shelves lined one side and a long steel counter ran along the other. Several trollies on wheels held various tools, and in the center, a metal table that belonged in a morgue awaited its next victim.

Dulcet stood at the head of the table, wearing a lab coat, his face appearing more gaunt than usual in the harsh shadows. “Welcome, brother.”

Lyre’s upper lip curled. “Where is she?”

Dulcet tilted his head toward the door along the back wall. “In there. But she doesn’t matter right now.”

“No?”

“It’s such a tragedy that you can’t control your temper.” Dulcet hummed a sad note. “Why did you have to come charging down here in a rage, blindly determined to kill me for revealing your indiscretions to our father?”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh, I know.” Dulcet smiled widely. “But that’s what I’ll tell everyone after I kill you. Sounds good, doesn’t it?” He pulled his features into a mournful expression. “I didn’t want to, but I had to defend myself. He was mad with fury. I couldn’t reason with him.”

“Do you think anyone will believe that bullshit?”

Dulcet shrugged. “Since you’ll be dead, who will prove me wrong?”

Lyre scrutinized his brother. So that’s why Dulcet had made it so easy for him to get down here. “You seem awfully confident you can kill me.”

Dulcet blinked, then threw his head back in a laugh. “Really, Lyre. You’re too funny.”

Still laughing, he flicked his hand up.

The blast of magic hit Lyre in the sternum and shoved him back, but most of the force deflected off his defensive shields. He flung his hand out and a band of golden light launched for Dulcet. It hit the incubus and shattered.

Lyre had expected Dulcet’s shields to be just as good, so his failed attack wasn’t a surprise. Any spell intended to affect Dulcet physically—from explosions to bindings—would produce limited results. Direct attacks weren’t going to work. Lyre shoved his hands in his pockets, grasping for gems.

Dulcet smirked and golden light flashed from his chest—a spell ready to go. A band of magic launched at Lyre like a battering ram, and he sprang aside. It blasted past, barely missing him. Dropping to the floor, he slammed a gem down on the concrete.

Golden light flashed out, the weave in the stone expanding into a circle large enough to encompass Lyre’s body. Runes glowed around it, spinning slowly as the tangle of geometric lines rotated in the opposite direction. A shimmering dome of light snapped into existence over him.

“Ooh,” Dulcet breathed as Lyre climbed to his feet again. “Pretty. I haven’t seen that one before. You’ve been hoarding your creations, haven’t you, dear brother?”

He tsked and tossed a steel marble at the shield. It hit the barrier and exploded in a screaming whirlwind of slicing blades. Ignoring it—his barrier was too powerful for any attack that wouldn’t rip the bunker apart—Lyre pulled out a second gem and sent a dart of magic into it. Whispering the incantation, he lifted the stone.

Light glowed from his fist, then golden wires shot in every direction. Dulcet cast an additional shield as the blazing lines anchored to the walls, ceiling, and floor like a tangled spiderweb spanning the entire room. Standing in one of the few open gaps, Dulcet analyzed the wires.

“Another new spell! How intriguing.” Grinning, he pointed at Lyre’s glowing hand. “You have to give that one a constant flow of power, don’t you? What do the threads do?”

“Touch one and find out,” Lyre suggested.

“Hmm. No, I don’t think so. It would hurt a lot if I touched a thread, wouldn’t it?”

“I thought you liked pain.”

“But do you, Lyre?”

He pulled out another gem, and Lyre’s eyes narrowed. Protected by his barrier, with his second spell’s threads trapping Dulcet, Lyre was essentially invulnerable—he hoped. But he trusted nothing where his psychotic and frustratingly brilliant brother was concerned. Dulcet had accused Lyre of hoarding his inventions, but all the brothers were equally bad at sharing.

Dulcet raised a green gem. Light flickered in the stone and he threw it upward. It hit the ceiling and stuck there.

Another flash and runes swept across the ceiling, spinning too fast to read. Tiny points of light fell from the rotating runes like golden raindrops. Lyre tensed as the spots hit his barrier—and fell right through the shield like it didn’t exist.

The first “drops” landed on him—and seared like acid on his skin. He gasped as the spell rained on him, each touch of light like a burning needle thrust into his flesh. In seconds, his entire body was on fire as though his skin was melting off.

His knees hit the floor and, with pain overwhelming his senses, his concentration on his spell faltered. The glowing threads of the spiderweb binding flickered and faded away.

Smiling, Dulcet sauntered forward and stopped just outside Lyre’s shield weave.

“How long, Lyre?” he crooned. “How long can you endure it?”

Shuddering and panting for air, Lyre braced a hand on the floor, still on his knees. The rain continued to fall on him and agony built. He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t think, couldn’t see. The shield protected him from physical attacks, but it prevented him from casting all but a few specific weaves outside it.

With a furious snarl, he thrust his hand upward. The wild blast of magic tore through his shield and hit the ceiling. The rain spell’s fragile weave shredded under the onslaught.

Dulcet lunged for him.

Lyre threw himself backward and slammed his foot into his brother’s ribs. Dulcet staggered back, then pulled out another spell. Lyre cast a bubble shield, but the bands of magic that erupted from Dulcet’s gem splintered it on impact. The tentacle-like arms swept around his chest and constricted until his ribs creaked under the pressure. It lifted him off the floor, squeezing tighter and tighter.

“Have you ever seen ribs shatter like glass?” Dulcet whispered.

Crushed and unable to breathe, Lyre squinted frantically over the spell. There! His bolt of power ripped through the weak point in the weave. The tentacles dissolved in a flash, and Lyre snatched a new spell from his pocket.

As Dulcet cast again, Lyre threw his gemstone onto the floor.

Darkness swept through the room—black and impenetrable, as all-consuming as the oblivion that was the Void between worlds. Lyre jumped aside as Dulcet’s attack tore through the spot where he’d been. He caught himself on the counter and used it as a guide, moving swiftly away.

The problem with this cast: he couldn’t see any more than his enemy could.

“An illusion?” Dulcet’s croon drifted out of the blackness. “Fascinating. I really wish we could have worked together instead of all this, brother. You have such interesting ideas.”

Lyre pulled out another stone and pinched it between his finger and thumb as he tried to guess where his brother was standing.

“Well …” Dulcet murmured thoughtfully. “I don’t need to see you for this spell.”

Orienting toward Dulcet’s voice, Lyre activated the gem and threw it. It clattered across the floor and hit something with a metallic ping. Damn it. Had he missed?

Light appeared in the unnatural darkness, visible but failing to illuminate anything in the room. Red rings spiraled across the floor, gliding aimlessly like huge wandering insects. Lyre backed up rapidly as the rings slid in his direction. His back hit the counter.

A ring glided inches from his feet—then whipped toward him. The glowing band slid beneath him and its interior flashed to crimson.

Agony shot into Lyre, exploding up through his legs and into his torso. He hit the floor as a cry tore from his throat. The other circles rushed across the concrete and locked on him as he convulsed. Torment like a hundred sobols stabbing deep into his flesh blazed through every nerve.

The darkness vanished as Dulcet picked up the illusion spell and crushed the entire stone to dust with a flicker of magic.

“Ah, brother, how lovely it is to hear you sing.” He raised his hand. “Cry for me some more.”

The glowing circles under Lyre flashed even brighter, and agony hit him all over again, a lightning strike that rebounded through his limbs. He screamed, muscles seizing, vision going black.

Then another light flashed, and the spell Lyre had thrown toward Dulcet a minute before detonated.

The blast threw Dulcet down, blew the metal table over, and tore half the shelves from the walls. The concussion whipped across Lyre, hurling him into the counter. Along with the physical force, blades of power cut through the weave in the floor, shredding the spell.

Rolling over, Lyre staggered to his feet, scarcely able to keep upright. Dulcet, who’d been much closer, struggled to his knees. Still gasping for air, Lyre lunged across the distance between them and smashed his fist into Dulcet’s face.

His brother’s head snapped back, astonishment splashed across his features.

Lyre’s grenade had done more than tear apart the weave in the floor. It had shredded Dulcet’s defensive weaves as well, meaning his brother was now vulnerable to physical attacks.

Lyre gripped the front of Dulcet’s shirt and punched him again. And again. Dulcet grabbed for Lyre’s arm, but Lyre snatched his wrist instead. A quick twist, followed by a crunch. Dulcet roared in pain, clutching his elbow.

Lyre had told Ash he couldn’t break bone with his bare hands. He’d lied.

He slugged his brother in the face once more—damn, that was satisfying—then shoved him over backward. Dulcet hit the floor, blood running from his nose and mouth, and Lyre rammed his elbow into his brother’s sternum.

Dulcet convulsed, then his lips pulled back from his teeth.

He flung a cast into Lyre’s face. Blinding pain drove into his skull and he staggered back. Withdrawing something small from his pocket, Dulcet thrust it at Lyre.

Lyre blocked with his forearm and slammed his palm into Dulcet’s chest. His swift cast exploded, hurling Dulcet back into the shelving with bone-breaking force. The contents of the shelves crashed to the floor along with Dulcet, and an unexpected sound echoed over the cacophony.

Dulcet was laughing. With blood covering his face and one arm twisted the wrong way, he threw his head back, jaw gaping as he cackled like the maniac he was.

A chill slid through Lyre, and he lifted his arm. Shimmering liquid was splashed over his wrist and forearm where he’d blocked Dulcet’s hand. Glistening, red-tinted silver.

A quicksilver spell infused with blood magic.

Dulcet was still laughing, his feverish black eyes fixed on Lyre with sick glee. The quicksilver’s weave crept through his flesh, a wintry cold moving up his arm toward his elbow. He lifted his other hand toward his brother, magic swirling over his fingers as he cast.

The mangled shelves creaked and Dulcet’s laughter died as he looked up. With a shriek of tearing metal, the whole structure collapsed. Dulcet vanished beneath the tangled metal shelves and their remaining contents. Silence fell, and the pile of steel didn’t shift or stir.

Lyre let his cast disperse harmlessly. He’d have to unbury Dulcet to kill him, and he didn’t have time. He glanced at the glimmering stain on his arm and panic stirred deep inside.

He lurched away from his brother’s metal tomb and rushed to the room at the back of the bunker. The ward had been destroyed during their fight and he pushed the door open without resistance.

In the square space within, Clio lay on the floor, her white outfit smeared with dirt and blood, her blond hair splayed across the damp concrete. The long sleeves of her costume were missing, and Dulcet had torn off the skirts at the knee—to make it easier for him to carry her, probably.

She didn’t react to the door opening. Unconscious, but it didn’t look like Dulcet had done anything else.

Lyre heaved her into his arms and carried her across the bunker, up the stairs, and out into the cool darkness. Weakness shivered in his muscles and the deadly chill in his arm spread into his shoulder. He had to get Clio away from Dulcet and the bunker. He had to make sure she was safe, but he couldn’t take her back to the inn. He didn’t have that much time.

Staggering every few steps, he pushed past the lines of houses to where his home waited, the windows dark. He stumbled to the door, unkeyed the spells, and half fell inside. Clutching her with one arm, barely able to support her weight, he activated all the locks and wards he had on the building.

More dragging than carrying her, he pulled her to the only bedroom and dumped her onto his bed with less care than he would have liked, but it was the best he could do. He pressed his hands to her face and found the weave keeping her unconscious. He plucked the threads apart, but the frigid ice crawling through his veins had reached his chest and it was hard to breathe.

His concentration dissolved and he could do nothing more. He’d damaged the weave enough that it would break apart on its own. She would be okay, protected by the magic he had spent years creating and perfecting to keep himself safe.

He backed away from the bed, his vision clouding. The cold was in his lungs now and climbing his spine toward his head. Claws of ice were wrapping around his heart and squeezing.

He didn’t realize he’d stumbled out of the room until he bumped into a kitchen chair. He fell into it and slumped forward, head pillowed on one arm on the table as he desperately sucked in air. How could he be breathing so fast but getting no oxygen?

He was dying. He could feel it in every bone, every muscle, every tendon and nerve and organ. The ice was spreading faster and it burned, pain that seeped through his entire being. Death’s arctic touch was inside him, pulling him down, crushing him.

And it was … so … damn … slow.

“Fuck you, Dulcet,” he groaned.

Trust his death-obsessed brother to invent a weave that forced its victim to suffer the slowest demise possible while keeping him aware enough to experience each moment in excruciating detail.

As the crushing ice closed over him, he lost all awareness of the room, trapped in Death’s agonizing embrace. His heart hammered wildly in his chest and his muscles twisted and shuddered as his entire body rebelled against the coming end.

His fingers dug into the tabletop, nails scraping the wood. His head spun. His throat rasped. Shuddering with pain, choking on regrets, he felt his body die. Felt his final breath escape his lungs. Felt his heart stutter and stop.

And with his last conscious thought, he cursed Dulcet to the depths of whatever hell waited for them after this one.