Lincoln Page 13

  Walker doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans against the closed door. My friend is in jeans and a very paint-spattered white t-shirt. The dry look on his face says, get it out of your system, Lincoln.

  “Did you know Myla lives at Dante Row?” I tap my chin in mock-consideration. “Hey, that’s within psychic distance of this very spot. She could scream for you and with your ghoul Group Think, you’d pick it up.”

  Walker exhales another sigh. “I can’t tell you anything, Lincoln.”

  I keep scanning the room. These drawings are a treasure trove of demonic information. Too bad there aren’t more images of Myla, though. I pause before the canvas on the easel. It shows two archangels in golden armor, their wings extended as they hover in a cloud-filled sky. Behind them stands the white Citadel of Heaven. It’s a massive tower-style castle that serves as the training base of the angelic army. I took my share of classes there over the years.

  Which means I can instantly identify this pair.

  “You’ve painted the archangels Aquila and Xavier,” I state. “I’d forgotten how they founded the Citadel together.” I look to Walker. “Were they both there when you went through training?” Aquila still shows up at random moments, but no one’s heard from Xavier in years. “I never saw them when I was at school.”

  “No comment.” Walker crosses the room and places a white sheet over the canvas. “Fine, I will say one thing. This is extraordinarily awkward.”

  “Clearly, you’re uncomfortable with me snooping around your stuff.”

  Walker fake-gasps. “It’s like you can read my mind.”

  “There’s a remedy for this situation. Transport me to New York harbor.”

  Walker slowly narrows his eyes. That means he’s thinking my statement through. “You want to speak with the mermaids, don’t you?”

  Walker really is clever. “Right.”

  “And you don’t want Aldred to know.”

  “Right again.” I cup my hand by my mouth and speak in a very low and sarcastic voice. “If you’d opened my messages, then you’d know that already.”

  Walker throws up his hands. “You got me. I’m interested. What’s the trouble?”

  “Aldred has taken it in his head to hunt quasis. I’m working to squash that effort.”

  Walker’s stance stiffens. “What gave him that idea?”

  “It’s a bit of a story, but the short answer is the Tithe told Devak to research Myla. After that, Devak asked around, and the earl overheard. Now Aldred is just being Aldred.”

  “Did you say the Tithe?” Walker frowns. “Isn’t that some nice old thrax warlock in a toga?”

  “He’s a bastard. The Tithe sent Devak to me and in ghost form, no less. Devak then passed along the request that I look away while the Tithe hunts Myla.”

  A glint of red shines in Walker’s eyes. “He is a bastard.” Ghouls are a bit demonic themselves, it’s how they stay alive after death. Walker is seriously enraged for his irises to glow red.

  “My feelings exactly. Most thrax wouldn’t agree with me, though. Most essentially worship the Tithe, including my parents.”

  “What do you know about this warlock?”

  “Not much. I’ve had my archivists scour everything. He began mortal life as a sculptor and uses an enchanted mallet and chisel to create his effigies. Beyond that, information is scarce.”

  Walker rocks on his heels for a moment before answering. He’s thinking again. At length, my friend focuses on me once more. “In that case, share every last detail of what’s happened with Devak, Aldred and the Tithe. Afterwards, I’ll take you to see the mermaids.”

  It’s unseemly to gloat, which is why I save it for special occasions, like this one. I bob my brows. “I knew you’d see things my way.”

  “I’m assuming you wish to visit after nightfall?” asks Walker.

  “Correct. Mermaids are nocturnal.”

  Walker winces. “In that case, my portal services will need to wait a bit. I have conflicting evening commitments on Earth.”

  “That’s fine.” With my friend, it’s always something. What’s key is that I pushed him into transporting me at all.

  Walker stares at me for a long moment. “You’re a bossy pain in my ass.”

  “It’s Prince Bossy Pain In My Ass to you, my friend.”

  And with that, I’m off on the next phase of my plan to protect Myla.

  With Walker.

  9

  Walker and I hang out for a time. My friend asks tons of questions. What exactly did Devak say? Why would thrax want to hunt quasis? How come Aldred gets away with everything?

  It takes a while, but I answer all Walker’s questions, except that last one about Aldred. Even I don’t know why Father always gives into the earl. By the time we’re done, it’s well past midnight. After taking my leave, I return to my cabin on foot. Too much nervous energy thrums through me. With any luck, a walk will be calming.

  It isn’t.

  By the time I reach my cabin, questions still buzz around my brain. In the end, it takes hours for me to fall asleep. When I do, I dream of Myla at the Ryder mansion. Every time I try to approach her, my girl disappears into the crowd.

  Even so, I never do give up on her, even in my dreams.

  Days slip by. I spend the time in more so-called battle practice with my top warriors. They say they appreciate the fact that I’m not holding back anymore, but I wonder. There are a lot of black eyes and stitches at camp these days. Then one morning, I wake up to the sound of a gentle but persistent knock at my cabin door. Only one person raps incessantly without any formal announcement.

  “Good morning, Mother,” I call.

  “Are you decent?” she asks.

  Mother knows I loathe wearing pajamas. Nevertheless, I roll out of bed, slip on some loose leathers, and open the door a few inches.

  “I am always decent,” I say. “Sometimes I just happen to be naked.”

  “Ha, ha,” she deadpans. As I spy her through the crack in the door, I can see that Octavia’s already in her full kit as queen, complete with a black velvet dress and silver crown. Mother arches her right brow. “May I come in?”

  “Sure.” I step back and allow her to enter.

  Mother steps around my chamber for a few seconds. “What are your plans for today?”

  I yawn and rub my neck. “I’ve a meeting with the Minister of Alliances from Horus.”

  “It’s been cancelled. Jali’s granddaughter remains ill.”

  That news wakes me up. Considering how we have magic to aid our healing, it’s rare for thrax to stay sick. “Anything serious?” I ask.

  “I should think not,” replies Mother. “Lucas has taken over Rashida’s care.”

  I nod. This is good news. Lucas is the Earl of Striga and a powerful warlock. If anyone can help little Rashida, he can.

  “In that case, my day is open. Tonight I visit Earth with Walker.”

  “How nice,” says Mother. And for the thousandth time in my life, the magical words ‘with Walker’ get me out of an uncomfortable discussion. In this case, it’s one about Myla and mermaids.

  I lean against the wall. “So, what am I doing today?” Clearly, Mother has a plan for the daylight hours. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be here.

  “Your father and I have a surprise for you. We’re all attending an event.”

  “One that I’ll like?”

  “Decidedly not.”

  This bodes ill. Last time Mother did something like this, I ended up hosting an all-day clown festival for thrax children. It was as terrifying as it sounds.

  “May I know where we’re going?” I ask.

  “Purgatory’s Arena.”

  Those two words send my pulse racing. It takes everything in me to stay calm. “And why would we do that?”

  “To help foster quasi-thrax relations. The entire thrax court visits the arena this morning.”

  “For what purpose?” If Mother says an arena battle, I won’t be able to maintain my calm.
At the very minimum, I’m going to cheer.

  “An awards ceremony.”

  A mixture of relief and disappointment move through me. I’ve attended hundreds of awards ceremonies in my life. It’s a lot of sitting around and listening to speeches before handing over an honorary sword. Prince life. Dull. I open my mouth, ready to ask specifics on the award in question, when Mother speeds toward the exit.

  “Be ready in ten minutes.” She slips out the door, almost fully closes it, and then reopens it a crack. “And wear your crown.”

  Now I could beg off this event. After all, a new pile of demon patrol reports just arrived, ready for review. One of my least favorite demons, the dissolus, has recently become a full infestation in North America. But I have to admit it. Some small part of me hopes Myla’s at the arena for some reason. Perhaps she left her wallet behind … or needs to inspect the grounds for some reason?

  A man can hope.

  10

  An hour later, I stand on Verus’s balcony at Purgatory’s Arena, along with much of the thrax nobility. Below me, angels and demons stream onto their seats on the tiered benches surrounding the battle floor. Across the space, Armageddon settles onto a terrace that matches this one.

  Soon the ceremony will begin. Giving out awards. Honestly, I’d rather be punctured with quills from a hystrix demon. And those are tipped in poison.

  While we wait, Mother and Father chat up Verus. The Queen of the Angels isn’t wearing her crown today. Even so, there’s no missing her aura of authority. Somehow, her straight black hair, intelligent eyes, and graceful bearing all scream, I’m in charge here. At the moment, no one seems to require my attention. As a result, I’ve taken to one of my favorite activities at formal events.

  Waiting by the back wall, well out of sight.

  Over the years, I’ve perfected the art of appearing interested in a ceremony while I mentally refine battle plans and whatnot. Not as easy as it sounds.

  In this case, I internally plan questions for the mermaids. Conversations with sea folk tend to be short. Mermaids can only focus for a minute or two. After that, their urge to drain your life force turns overwhelming. Therefore, I decide to gather information about the Tithe, first and foremost. My royal archivists still have turned up nothing on him.

  Down on the arena floor, Walker opens a ghoul portal. My blood freezes. Could this Myla? A figure steps out from the darkened doorway.

  A woman.

  With a dragonscale tail.

  And she’s wearing a skin-tight battle suit that appears to be made from dragonscales.

  Yes, the woman wears a hood over her face, but there’s no missing the truth.

  It’s Myla.

  My blood heats. I thought this was an awards ceremony, not a battle. My gaze flickers to Mother. Sure enough, Octavia gauges my reaction with interest. Keeping my features level, I mask my shock. It’s too late, though. I couldn’t have appeared more interested if I’d drooled.

  At this point, I’d normally spend some quality time wondering what Mother’s up to. Why isn’t Octavia concerned about my interest in Myla? If anything, Mother wears the starry-eyed expression she get right before her and Father make out at the dinner table. Yet try as I might, I can’t focus on Mother right now.

  Instead, all I can see is how Myla practices kicks and leaps on the battle floor. Meanwhile, here I am, essentially trapped on this balcony, unable to do anything but watch her. Desire rockets through me.

  Who’s idea was it to give her a dragonscale fighting suit? So unfair.

  Next Verus sneaks a quick peek in my direction. The Queen of the Angels is almost as conniving as Mother, and I mean that as a complement. Verus gives me the smallest of approving smiles. In other words, Verus likes the fact that I’m riveted by Myla. Once more, this situation should launch some logical thought on my part. How exactly does Verus come into play here? What’s her interest in me and Myla?

  And I try to contemplate Verus’s actual motivations, but…

  Dragonscale fighting suit.

  Curves.

  Hair.

  Myla.

  In this moment, the higher-functioning parts of my brain don’t stand a chance.

  While Myla continues her graceful warm-up, Verus and Armageddon begin a formal—and rather loud—conversation across the arena about the importance of the Scala Heir. Armageddon seems particularly upset that the heir has not yet been found. Our spies say Verus is in fact hiding the heir. Even my people don’t know where this person could be. Which is a wise move. Being the official Scala Heir hasn’t been conducive to a long life span. Not that it’s a serious worry, in my opinion. He may be on a stretcher, but Maxon Bane has centuries before he’ll pass away.

  While the King of Hell and Queen of the Angels continue their banter, I work hard to contemplate the Scala Heir and inter-realm politics. My thoughts don’t go far, though.

  That really is a lovely fighting suit.

  And Myla’s an acrobatic fighter. I’ve rarely seen a woman lift a sword, let alone twist in the air while practicing kicking someone’s face in. It’s hypnotic.

  At some point, the chatter stops. The arena emcee announces a new match between Myla and some thug named Deacon. Which is fine. It’s Myla’s job to stop evil souls from entering Heaven. She kicks ass and the big bads go to Hell. I look forward to seeing her fight once more.

  That’s when Armageddon pipes up.

  The King of Hell demands that Deacon use a weapon during the battle. My spine stiffens. That’s not acceptable. I’ve studied how these fights work. This is hand-to-hand combat, no weapons allowed. The only reason Armageddon’s pushing this idea is because he desperately wants a purely evil soul in Heaven, which would give the King of Hell an easy means for causing all sorts of trouble.

  I watch the events on the arena floor, my attention locked on the ghoul emcee. They can’t give Armageddon what he wants. Yet that’s exactly what happens. Myla must go into the fight without a weapon, while Deacon can bring one.

  Protective energy streams through my blood. This isn’t right. Myla could get hurt.

  Before I know it, Mother stands at my side. “Don’t worry,” she says in a soothing voice.

  “About what?” I mean for my tone to sound smooth, but I end up biting off each word.

  Mother keeps her voice carefully low, so only I can hear her. “That girl’s a fine warrior. She’ll defeat Deacon, mark my words.”

  “And why would you think that worries me?”

  “You’re about to ignite your baculum, my son.”

  “I am?”

  Sure enough, I’d pulled my baculum out from the holster on my spine. Both rods are now gripped on my right hand, ready to be ignited. I didn’t even realize I’d done it.

  Ugh. Caught in the act.

  I make a quick scan to see if anyone other than Mother noticed. The answer is no, considering how everyone focuses on the fight. I quickly reholster my baculum.

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “Any time, my son.”

  What follows are ten of the longest minutes of my entire life. Deacon’s weapon turns out to be a long whip made of Hellfire. He wraps it about Myla’s throat, choking her. No less than three times do I retake my baculum from their holster, but with each instance Mother sets her hand on my arm, calming me.

  “She can do this,” Mother repeats.

  At last, Myla stabs Deacon through the chest with her tail. I join the angels in a hearty cheer. Needless to say, the demons are less than pleased.

  Once the battle is over, Father approaches us. “An entertaining fight, don’t you think?”

  “Exceptional,” replies Mother.

  I’m glad Mother has the sense to answer. It takes all my strength not to groan. Entertaining? Honestly? Watching that battle years off my lifespan.

  Across the balcony, Verus rises and turns toward our group of thrax. “It’s time to visit the arena floor.” Is it my imagination, or is she staring straight at me?

&
nbsp; “Of course,” says Mother. “Let’s begin the awards ceremony.” She turns to Father. “Do you have the sword, Connor?”

  “I do,” replies Father.

  All of a sudden, the full panorama of today’s nightmare comes into focus. This is both an arena match and an awards ceremony. Somehow, Mother put this together. Which means…

  I round on Mother. “Am I right to assume I’ll be handing out this award?”

  “Directly to Miss Lewis,” says Mother smoothly.

  “What gets me out of this?” I ask. Mother must want something. She always does.

  She chuckles. “Nothing.”

  Damn.

  Father’s gaze switches between me and Mother before focusing on Myla down on the Arena floor. Oh, no. He’s figuring things out at last. Father nods toward Myla. “That’s the girl you insulted at the diplomatic ball.”

  “And who told you that?” I ask.

  “Your mother.” Father grins. “Now how she knows is anyone’s guess. Come along, son. If I know your Mother—and that I do—then she wants to you make nice with the quasi girl.”

  The fact that Father calls her quasi girl sets my protective urges spiking again. “Her name is Myla Lewis.”

  “Perfect.” Father claps his hand on my shoulder. “Glad you’ve got that part down, considering how you’re giving her the award and all. You know how I am with names.”

  My thoughts race through ways to escape this situation. Feign illness like Silvinio? Pretend to receive an emergency message? Not going to happen.

  Honestly, there’s no way that I’ll miss another chance to see Myla.

  With that, Father and I process down the steps to the Arena floor. I can’t help but notice how Mother walks with the nobles, as if she’s not part of the royal party proper. It’s something she often does when scheming: hang back and observe. The court notices, of course. Whispers erupt. No doubt, the nobles will connect Octavia’s actions with my handing out the award to Myla.