Stepping out of the alcove, Lyre activated the defensive spells embedded in the chain around his neck: one for magical defense, one for physical. At the same time, he untucked a three-fingered archery glove from his belt and pulled it on.

As the rain poured down in sheets, he turned to face the dark street where Ash waited—except the street was empty.

Oh hell.

He grabbed his bow off his shoulder and pulled three arrows from his quiver. As he set the first one, frigid panic hit him like an ocean wave. The terror clawed at his mind, freezing his body as though chains of ice had formed around his limbs.

If this had been his first experience with a draconian’s manufactured panic, he would have died right then.

He wrenched free of the paralysis and spun, bringing his bow up. From out of the rain and darkness, huge curved wings spread wide as Ash plummeted out of the sky.

Lyre loosed his arrow with a dozen feet between them. Ash twisted and the arrow shot past his throat with an inch to spare. He slammed down beside Lyre, the monstrous blade in his hand already swinging. Lyre sprang out of reach and snapped his second arrow into place.

Faced with a point-blank shot from an archer, every opponent Lyre had ever encountered had backpedaled as fast as they could.

Instead, Ash lunged closer. He grabbed the bow, the arrowhead grinding against his armored glove, and shoved it upward, forcing Lyre’s guard wide open. Ash swung that damn sword again, the blade shining in the rain.

Lyre activated the weaving on the arrowhead. The spell exploded as Ash’s sword slammed into Lyre’s chest.

They both flew backward. Lyre crashed down on the pavement, lungs locking from the impact. His shields had protected him from the weapon’s sharp edge and deflected some of the force, but it couldn’t deflect the entire blow—and Ash had hit him hard.

Not waiting for his lungs to recover, Lyre lunged up, his arrow still nocked and ready to shoot. Ash had kept on his feet, his damp clothes smoking from the explosion. He shifted his stance, his steely stare the color of dark thunderclouds. Cold, emotionless.

Fear pounded in Lyre as the draconian’s false terror infected him, and Lyre understood why draconians, like incubi, stayed in glamour even in their own world.

Black dragon wings rose off Ash’s back, balanced by a long whiplike tail that ended in a black tuft. Obsidian scales edged his cheekbones, and six horns, three on either side of his head, curved back from behind his ears, giving his face a malevolent cast.

The same black scales ran down the tops of his arms, and armguards protected the bare undersides. Weapons were strapped across his body, but he moved with easy grace, unrestricted by the weight. A black wrap covered the lower half of his face, and the only thing familiar about his appearance was the red tie braided into his dark hair on one side.

Ash’s hand clenched and his sword—a long, curved weapon designed solely to kill—twitched. Power rippled down the blade and black fire lapped at the steel like it had been dipped in oil.

Lyre yanked the bowstring back and shot his second arrow. Ash sprang aside, wings tucked close to avoid the bolt, then darted toward Lyre. He snapped his third arrow up and loosed it.

With a flick of his sword, the draconian cut the arrow out of the air. His blade whipped up and Lyre lurched back. The flat of the blade hit his bow, ripping it out of his hands. It spun through the air and clattered on the pavement ten feet away.

Ash rammed his shoulder into Lyre and his sword came right after. It hit Lyre’s torso and raked sideways across his shield, dark flames surging over it.

This time, Lyre felt his flesh part beneath the lethal edge.

The sword swung free and Lyre staggered, disbelief fogging his thoughts. Blood soaked into his shirt. His shield had failed? Ash had cut through it? How?

Ash snapped the sword toward him once more.

Wrapping his hands in tight shields to double their protection, Lyre caught the blade and grunted as the force shoved him back. Wings flaring, Ash drove into Lyre, forcing the blade down.

The fire coating the sword scorched Lyre’s shields, eating through them. Jaw clenched, Lyre sent magic spiraling into the draconian’s blade. Faster than he ever had, he wove a simple spell that would survive the consuming flames. Then he shoved the blade up and let go.

Golden light burst over the steel. A blast of electricity surged down the blade and into Ash. The draconian’s legs buckled and Lyre raced for his bow.

Crackling power that had nothing to do with Lyre’s spell infused the air. Black magic exploded out of Ash—a detonation of power and force that tore apart the paralysis weave. The concussion slammed into Lyre’s back and threw him down. He landed two feet away from his bow.

He grabbed the bow with one hand and an arrow with his other as he rolled onto his back. He was armed again, but the pieces were in the wrong hands—his bow in his right hand instead of his left.

Ash charged him, magic surging over his body. He didn’t shield or evade, certain Lyre didn’t have time to switch hands and get a shot off.

On his back, Lyre snapped the arrow onto the bow and shot point-blank at the draconian.

Ash jerked sideways. The shield-piercing arrow missed his chest and hit just above his bracer, lodging in his forearm.

Wings pulling in and tail snapping, Ash sprang backward a few steps. He grabbed the arrow sticking out of his arm, broke it, and tossed the point away. As the draconian yanked the other half out, Lyre switched his bow to the correct hand and grabbed the chain around his neck. Finally, he had the time and space he needed to turn this fight in his favor. He broke off a gem, activated the weaving, and threw it into the space between him and Ash.

Light flashed from the stone in a complex spiderweb of lines and runes. They glowed as blades of magic burst out from the weave—an attack that would rip through Ash’s shields and impale him.

Ash raised his hand and cast, but it was too late to stop the weaving.

Flames spiraled out from the draconian in a violent maelstrom and collided with Lyre’s weaving. Golden light met ebony fire in a howling detonation of power, evaporating the rain into billows of hissing steam. With a final burst, the explosion died.

Lyre’s spell was gone, devoured by the draconian’s fire.

Snapping his wings down, Ash launched across the space between them. Lyre grabbed a handful of arrows and shot one at Ash’s face. The bolt sliced his cheek on its way past.

He slammed into Lyre. They tangled as Ash tried to hammer his fire-coated sword through Lyre’s shields. Lyre used a flash of magic and another arrow to break away, but Ash came after him, pressing hard, driving his sword in again and again, waves of black magic searing Lyre.

With each strike, his shield deteriorated. Which each hit, a new tear appeared in his barrier and the blade found his flesh. Ash aimed for the same spots, slicing into existing wounds.

Lyre ignored the pain, the blood, the chill in his body. An arrow caught Ash in the shoulder. Another nicked his thigh. One went through his right hand, but Ash simply swapped his sword into his other hand, as ambidextrous with his weapon as Lyre was.

They clashed again and the draconian flung a spell at his face. Lyre jerked away and Ash’s sword caught him in the back with the sound of splintering wood. His spare bow fell to the ground in pieces.

Landing hard on his shoulder, Lyre threw his hand up and cast a blinding flare. Ash flinched, shielding his face. Rolling to his feet, Lyre sped backward, keeping his eyes on the enemy as he pulled two arrows from his quiver. He couldn’t miss this time.

Ash dropped his hand, still squinting, then sprang into motion.

Lyre slapped the two arrows side by side on the string and activated one’s spell. With a single pull of the bow, he fired them both.

The spell unleashed in a burst of wire-like bands that shot ahead of the bolt. They spun around Ash, bringing him up short, and the two arrows came in right behind the magic.

Ash could only defend against one and he cut the spelled arrow out of the air before it struck his chest. The second one hit his thigh and lodged deep in the muscle. With a burst of fire, the draconian tore the binding weave apart. He yanked the arrow out of his leg and stepped toward Lyre.

His leg buckled.

He dropped to his knees and his sword hit the ground, the hilt in his grasp but its weight too heavy to lift. He pitched forward and caught himself on one arm to keep from collapsing entirely. His wings arched off his back, shuddering violently.

Lyre swallowed back his sick regret. A poisoned arrow wasn’t how he wanted to win this fight, but he had no other choice. Steeling himself, he withdrew one more arrow, activated its shield-piercing weave, and nocked it. He drew the string back to his cheek, aiming for Ash’s bowed head.

The poison worked quickly, but Lyre would give him a clean death. It was the only thing he could do to repay Ash’s mercy toward Clio. He let his fingers relax, and the bowstring snapped away with a soft twang.

Jerking up, Ash slapped the arrow out of the air.

Blood sprayed from his torn hand, the red droplets lost instantly in the rain. His sword scraped on the ground as he lurched to his feet with painful effort. Unable to believe his eyes, Lyre snatched another arrow.

Ash dragged his sword up with both hands, then slammed the point into the asphalt. Blades of ebony fire exploded out of the sword in an expanding spiral with Ash at its center. Lyre took one look at the lethal cast and bolted in the opposite direction, buying himself a few precious seconds to cast his strongest shield and reinforce it with as much power as he could.

The blast hit him in the back, ripping through his bubble shield, and hurled him forward. His defensive weaves, already weakened, tore under the onslaught and when he rolled to a stop, sprawled on the pavement with every nerve screaming, there was almost nothing left of either weaving.

Those defensive shields were the only things that had kept him alive this long. Without them, Ash would kill him with one strike of his sword.

Sucking in air, Lyre staggered to his feet and squinted through the rain and dust. Around him, the street was cracked—giant gouges torn into the asphalt by Ash’s attack—and chunks of concrete crumbled off the nearby buildings.

Lyre’s skill as a master weaver had always given him an edge over other daemons, and his power hadn’t mattered nearly as much as his skill. But for the first time, he understood just how wide the chasm of power between an incubus and a draconian really was. Incubi were at the bottom of the totem pole, and draconians stood alone at the top as the most powerful Underworld caste of all.

Through the rainy haze, a silhouette rose—Ash staggering to his feet. He lifted his sword and slowly turned toward Lyre. Impossible. The poison on that arrow was debilitating in seconds and lethal in minutes. Ash shouldn’t be able to stand. He shouldn’t be able to move.

He was too strong. He could rip apart Lyre’s best weavings with brute magical force, carelessly throwing around quantities of power that Lyre couldn’t wield and could scarcely grasp. Lyre could weave powerful spells, but he couldn’t unleash them instantly in the heat of battle. Even with fully charged lodestones going into this fight, he was already tiring, his reserves half depleted and draining fast.

But if he didn’t meet Ash’s power with equal force, he wouldn’t survive the draconian’s next attack.

Open space. He needed open space.

Slinging his bow over his shoulder and pressing his hand to his bleeding side, Lyre sprinted down the street, praying the poison and Ash’s injuries would slow him down enough.

Ahead, the buildings ended abruptly. The road continued across a dark river, its surface dancing under the pouring rain.

Lyre ran onto the bridge and stopped in the center. Whirling around, he put his chain between his teeth, a gem resting on his tongue for the physical contact he needed to activate it. Then he reached over his shoulder, fingers brushing across his arrows, the nocks embedded with tiny weaves that told him which arrow held what spell.

He pulled out an arrow, its black fletching standing out harshly against his drenched skin. Wetting his fingers in the blood leaking from one of his many wounds, he wiped it on the arrowhead, then nocked the arrow and lifted his bow, ready to draw.

But he didn’t activate the weaving. Not yet.

Eyes narrowed, he watched the street, waiting for Ash to appear—waiting for the moment he would unleash his second greatest weapon. The KLOC was his most powerful creation, but he’d never intended to use it as a weapon. This arrow held his second most powerful invention: the same spell he’d used to kill Dulcet.

And now he would use it to kill Ash.

The draconian couldn’t evade this one. He couldn’t counter it with his power. He couldn’t consume it with his black fire. The blood arrow was too devastating. It was unstoppable once unleashed.

Teeth gritted, Lyre waited. Ash would come. Unless the poison had done its work, he would come. And Lyre would end this once and for all—before he bled out from his wounds.

Seconds ticked by.

Fear slithered along his nerves, intensifying into shuddering terror. As panic constricted his throat, he realized his oversight.

He whipped his gaze toward the sky.

Out of the rain, black wings flashed. Ash dropped out of the darkness, diving toward the bridge deck with black power rippling off him. Lyre swung his bow up but it was already too late. Ash was too close. If Lyre fired the blood arrow, it would kill them both.

He activated the gem between his teeth. His best dome barrier snapped around him—and Ash plunged into the golden light. The draconian’s power ripped through the weave before it could solidify, and he slammed into Lyre with bone-breaking force.

His bowstring snapped and the blood arrow flew out of his grasp. He hit the bridge’s railing so hard the metal bowed with the shriek of tearing bolts. Ash drove into him with the momentum of his dive and pinned him against the rail.

Lyre hung in his grip, dazed and in too much pain to move. His ribs were broken. Bones in his shoulder and left arm were broken. His bow was gone, knocked from his grip.

Ash lifted his sword with one hand, the blade shining in the rain, the point aimed at Lyre’s chest. Lyre met those eyes, darkened to the same ebony as his fire, and could read nothing in them. Just blank emotionlessness.

Just a mercenary following orders. Just an assassin making the kill.

But Lyre wasn’t ready to die.

With no defenses and no time to cast, he used the only weapon he had left. In the instant Ash’s sword began to move, Lyre unleashed his aphrodesia—the full, awful power of his seduction magic.

The sword faltered, Ash’s hand stuttering with the point inches from Lyre’s torso.

Lyre grabbed Ash’s face. Agony tore through his body but he ignored it, focused on pumping aphrodesia into the draconian. Pushing Ash’s face wrap down, he pressed his hands against the draconian’s skin, unfamiliar scales under his fingers. His voice wrapped around his victim in hypnotizing harmonics. Words flowed from him in a constant stream, but he had no idea what he was saying. He only knew he had to keep speaking or risk losing control.

Ash stared at him, his eyes wide and blank. His sword wavered. He wasn’t naturally attracted to the male body, and most men thought that made them immune to incubi’s power.

No one was immune.

Lyre’s magic flooded Ash, overwhelming his mind and will. The draconian’s sword wavered again, then fell from his hand and hit the concrete with a metallic bang.

His will belonged to Lyre now.

Ash was helpless, his superior strength useless. His presence pulsed in Lyre’s mind. The draconian was his to control, to command … to kill.

He stared into Ash’s blank eyes. Saw the flicker deep in their depths. Felt the shudder in his mind—Ash resisting. Ash fighting for control. Ash struggling desperately to regain his will, just as Lyre had struggled against the succubi.

Weave the death spell. That’s all he had to do.

If he’d hated the thought of winning with a poisoned arrow, the idea of killing Ash like this was a hundred times more revolting. They’d spent their lives struggling under someone else’s power, and now Ash would die under Lyre’s power.

Weave the death spell.

Why had it come to this? Why did they have to kill each other? Why couldn’t they have found a way to keep this from happening?

Weave the death spell!

A tremor ran through him. With a shuddering breath, he pulled Ash’s head closer, shifting against the bent railing.

Metal creaked. With a clanging snap, the railing broke.

He fell backward, dragging Ash with him. They pitched off the edge, plummeted fifty feet, and plunged into the icy river.