The Shadow Weave (Spell Weaver Book 2) Read online

  Her eyes widened.

  With an extra enthusiastic gust of wind, the clouds opened up. Icy rain swept over them and he grimaced. Lovely. He pulled Clio into the sheltered alcove of a boarded-up doorway. The rain fell in sheets, carried on the sporadic wind.

  As she huddled beside him, the vine trembling with her shivers, he was secretly grateful the weather had interrupted him. Where exactly had he been planning to go after the part about not letting anyone steal her away from him? He closed his eyes. Only a few hours had passed since he’d assaulted her in a blind, lust-fueled rage. Why couldn’t he keep his damn mouth shut?

  If he kept spouting stupid shit like that, she might think he was pretending to be in love with her or something. And that would only shatter her trust in him—whatever trust might remain—because no one would believe an incubus might be in love. Not even a naïve nymph.

  Incubi couldn’t fall in love. Only in lust.

  “Lyre? Are you okay?”

  His eyes flew open to find her gazing up at him in concern. Shit. What expression had been on his face?

  “I’m fine,” he said quickly. When she frowned, unconvinced, he cast around for a change of topic. “You never explained about the plant.”

  “Yes, I did. I bought it to butter up Sabir.”

  “No, I mean, why that plant? Surely he had something more useful for sale.”

  “Well … yes, I suppose he did.”

  “So why buy that one?”

  She looked down at the plant. “I just thought …”

  He canted his head, her hesitant tone surprising him. “Thought what?”

  “Nothing.” Her shoulders curled inward. “I picked it randomly.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I figured it would be cheap. Would you just drop it?”

  He almost did as she asked—but then he saw the pink tinge to her cheeks. She was blushing?

  “Why won’t you tell me? Your reason can’t be that bad.”

  She shook her head. “It was … just a silly …” She trailed off into an unintelligible mutter, the wrinkle in her forehead deepening.

  “A silly what?” he coaxed. “I won’t make fun of you.”

  “Yes, you will,” she mumbled.

  “I won’t, I promise.”

  He waited as the rain poured, filling the streets with dark puddles and washing away the persistent reek of the city. She stared at the ground, clutching the plant as she chewed on her lower lip.

  “I picked this plant because …” She tried to start again, stopped, then spoke in a bare whisper. “I thought you might like it.”

  He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that.

  “Me?” His voice cracked on the word.

  She hunched over the plant, her cheeks glowing. “I thought … I don’t know what things will be like for you after … but you’ll probably be living in cities like this, and they’re ugly with no grass or trees, so I thought … it’s medicinal and you can treat scrapes and cuts with it, and it’s a really hardy plant, so you won’t have to worry about it dying, and it’s small, so you can take it with you and … and I thought, you might have to move around a lot while you figure things out, and it would be comforting to have something familiar to bring with you … something to bring a little life to your … new …”

  The rain continued to fall, the gurgling patter filling the silence between them. He stared at her, speechless, unable to form words. Unable to respond. He had no idea what to say.

  No idea what to feel.

  She peeked at him, then hunched a little more. “I know it’s stupid. You’ll have way too many important things to worry about and carrying a plant around will be a needless burden. It was a silly—”

  “You picked it for me?” He hadn’t meant to interrupt her. The question had slipped from him, confusion and disbelief thick in his voice.

  She looked at him properly, her brow furrowed. “Yes?”

  He focused on the small vine as though seeing it for the first time. Its stem coiled elegantly around the supporting stick and pointed green leaves shimmered blue in the faint light. Small, plain, but with a quiet beauty.

  He couldn’t quite take a real breath. Why did his chest hurt? What was this heavy weight rolling through him? She had picked out a plant to give him. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a plant—a living memento, a bit of life and warmth to take with him wherever he went. A gift that was special and meaningful to her and she hoped he would treasure.

  Except she had convinced herself he wouldn’t want it, and she watched him with vulnerable eyes and a crease in her forehead, expecting rejection.

  It took everything he had to hold still, to keep his hands at his sides, to resist the urge to reach for her. Because he didn’t know what he would do if he touched her. Because he wanted to touch her more than he’d ever wanted to do anything in his life.

  He wanted to touch her, but not for his pleasure or hers. He wanted to touch her because something hot and painful had tightened in his chest and it hurt to breathe. He wanted to kiss her slowly, gently, to taste her and know her and forge a connection between them so he could understand this strange pain. He wanted to hold her and never let go.

  He wanted her so badly, but in a way he’d never felt before. And he was afraid.

  Without his conscious instruction, his hand rose toward her as though drawn by an invisible force—drawn as inexorably as if she could wield aphrodesia and he was caught under her spell.

  His fingers brushed across her soft cheek, her skin warm from her blush and splattered with raindrops. His touch trailed lightly across the side of her face and his hand curled around the back of her neck. He ran his thumb along her jaw to the corner of her mouth.

  He was going to kiss her. Even though he knew he shouldn’t. Even though it was stupid and dangerous for both of them. He couldn’t stop himself.

  Before he could lean in, before he could capture her lips with his, a cold thrill ran down his spine and splintered into shards of ice. He stiffened, his instincts screaming at him.

  They weren’t alone.

  With his hand still cradling Clio’s neck, he strained his senses. The dark street stretched away on either side of them, obscured by the downpour, the irregular streetlights reflecting off the water and further obscuring his vision.

  “Lyre?” Clio whispered, alarm sharpening her voice.

  Focused on finding the threat, he didn’t answer. Fear skittered through him, growing stronger, edging into panic. He scanned the street again, searching for a sign of danger.

  Then he saw it. Not hidden, but in plain view. Watching. Waiting.

  At the end of the street, just within his reduced visibility, a dark figure stood. Feet set wide, the silhouette of weapons bulking his form, arms folded. Rain cascaded around the shadowed watcher, but he didn’t flinch. Waiting.

  Waiting to be noticed.

  Lyre’s heart hammered against his ribs. That silhouette was unmistakable, as was the arctic fear chilling his body.

  Ash.

  Ash had found them.

  When Lyre’s attention fixed on him, the draconian assassin moved. He reached over his shoulder and drew a long, curved sword. Faint light gleamed across the blade as the daemon brought it to his side in a ready position. And waited.

  Lyre’s fear cracked, crumbling away as his survival instincts took over.

  Why was Ash waiting? Why reveal himself? Why sacrifice the element of surprise? If he’d attacked instead, he could have killed Lyre and Clio in a single strike without any risk to himself.

  Why, Ash? He wanted to shout the words across the distance between them. He knew it wasn’t an invitation to talk or a truce—the drawn sword made that clear. Revealing himself wasn’t a meaningless gesture, nor was it misguided chivalry driving him to outwardly challenge Lyre instead of ambushing him.

  There was no such thing as a fair fight for those who had learned to do battle in Hades’s training grounds. So what,
then?

  “Lyre?” Clio whispered again and started to turn.

  Ash’s sword shifted, light flashing on the blade.

  Lyre tightened his hand on Clio, holding her in place as cold understanding cut through him.

  “Why do you need to find her?”

  “Everything here is foul. This town. The daemons in it. Us. We’re black with the filth of this place. But she isn’t. And I can’t let them ruin her. I don’t want to see her end up like us.”

  In his mind’s eye, Lyre could see the dark rooftop where they had exchanged those words just days ago. He remembered every word, every moment, and he knew Ash did too.

  He and Ash harbored souls blackened by Asphodel’s darkness. But Clio didn’t.

  Tightening his hold on Clio, Lyre steeled himself for the coming betrayal. He had no choice. He wouldn’t waste the chance Ash was giving him. Casting his weak emotions aside, he let instinct rule him. Sharp, calculating aggression swept through him.

  He dropped his glamour.

  As shimmers rippled over his body, Clio gasped. He caught her face with both hands, palms pressed to her cheeks. Touch.

  He locked his eyes on hers. Eye contact.

  “Clio,” he purred, using the hypnotic tones of his full incubus form. Voice.

  And then he unleashed the full scope of his seduction magic.

  She arched, mouth gaping open, pupils dilating. Touch, eyes, voice—the three conduits that heightened the power of his aphrodesia to their maximum level. His magic swept away her conscious will, leaving her helpless to his command.

  “Run,” he ordered, power thrumming through his voice, his eyes, his touch. “Run straight to the metro station. Don’t stop. Don’t come back.”

  She stared at him blankly, quaking beneath his magic.

  He released her and stepped back. “Go!”

  The flowerpot fell from her hands and shattered on the pavement. She launched into a breakneck run back down the street. She didn’t pause, didn’t look back, and in moments, she vanished around a corner, fleeing toward the metro station and the relative safety of the smugglers market.

  Lyre exhaled slowly. He had told Clio that Ash would show no mercy, but this … this was his mercy. He had given Lyre a chance to save Clio.

  Lyre glanced once at the vine, flattened by the rain, its broken pot scattered across the pavement and the downpour already washing the dirt away. He didn’t allow himself to feel, to hurt, to regret. He didn’t wonder if Clio would ever forgive him.

  In all likelihood, he’d be dead before his aphrodesia wore off enough for her to realize what he’d done—and why.

  Chapter Eleven

  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 bac
kward 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.