Angelbound (43 page)

“The Scala Heir must excuse my temper.” The King clears his throat. “Now that your powers are active, do you wish asylum with the thrax?”

Asylum with the thrax? It’s a tempting idea at that, what with all the yummy Lincoln access. I glance around the table. Sadly, I don’t know if these folks can protect themselves, let alone the Scala Heir. No, I have to go where Verus sends me. I shoot the King an appreciative smile. “I came here to see Lincoln. Mom and I have other plans for what happens next.”

Octavia nods to Connor. “You remember Senator Lewis from the era of quasi
rule?”

“Absolutely. Very capable. The only one who predicted Armageddon’s rise, as I recall.”

Octavia points to me. “This is her daughter.”

My back straightens. So freaking cool to hear people talk about the awesomeness that is Senator Lewis. My mouth rounds into a proud smile.

“Interesting.” Connor folds his hands onto the tabletop. “Very interesting.”

The Queen eyes me and smiles. “Do you know how Connor and I met, Myla?”

The King lets out a lively chortle. “Not this story, Octavia.” Clearly, he’s back to a good mood. I feel like I need a scorecard to keep track.

Lincoln turns to me. “It was at the ball to celebrate the spring equinox.”

“That’s the
official
story,” says Octavia. “It was actually at the winter tournament. I used to fight in those, you know.”

I grin. “Yes, Bera told me.”

I picture the golden breastplate Bera gave me to wear at the last Winter tournament. She’d said the Queen had one like it when she competed. I picture Octavia at that age, all spritely, wired with muscle, and absolutely lethal. Man, I would have loved to see that.

The Queen mimes shooting an arrow. “My skill lay with the bow. The tournament beast that year was a Manus demon. I shot it full of arrows—and was within seconds of winning—when I ran out of time. Connor waltzed onto the field of battle, ran the monster through with his sword, and won the tournament.”

The King laughs his head off. “It was quite a bit more than that, Octavia.” He
shoots me a conspiratorial smile. “This was two hundred years ago and she still carries a grudge.”

My eyes bulge. “Two hundred years?”

Lincoln nods. “Thrax live a long time.”

I chew my lower lip, considering. The Scala lives a long time, too. I look at Lincoln’s square jaw, scooped-out cheeks, and full mouth. He’s so freaking awesome I can’t stand it. If we can get through this nasty Scala-Acca-Armageddon stuff, we could have a very long and amazing time together. Lincoln seems to read what I’m thinking (with my skill for hiding emotion, it doesn’t take a genius) and he rubs his foot against mine under the table. Pretending to scratch my nose, I hide my grin under my palm.

Connor curls his hands into mock-claws. “Never was there a worse tournament beast, and never a greater warrior to fight it than Octavia.” His mouth winds into a cunning grin. “Afterwards, I went to visit my lady in her family’s tent. I wanted to commend her valor on the battlefield, but I failed to announce myself formally.”

Octavia smirks. “He walked in while I was alone and half-dressed. Appeared behind me out of nowhere.”

Whoa. I know what I would do—what any warrior would do—in a situation like that. I wince. “What did he get? Elbow to the gut?”

Octavia arches her eyebrow. “Knee to the groin.”

I grit my teeth. “Yowch.”

Lincoln’s shoulders rock with laughter. “You never told me that, father.”

Connor chuckles as well. “It’s not a memory I like to recall.” He wraps his hand around Octavia’s. “But after that moment, no one else would do. You see Myla, for the thrax, everything is about strength in battle.”

I shoot Lincoln a knowing glance. “I’ve noticed.” He starts another game of footsie with me under the table. I blush.

The King nods in my direction. “This, my dear, is why I’m willing to take a chance on you. You’ve some strength in you.” He leans back on his chair. “But I get ahead of myself. If you’re the Scala Heir, you need angel blood. Who’s your father then?”

Lincoln’s eyes positively twinkle. This would be his ‘I’m about to drop a bomb of good news’ face. “The archangel Xavier.”

I think the royal couple’s eyes almost blast out of their collective heads. The King lets out a low whistle. “You’re first-generation archangel, then.” He rubs his palms together. “And not just any archangel, Xavier!”

I frown, confused. “Why is first generation important?”

“More angel blood, more power,” says Lincoln. “The current Scala is fifth-generation common angel. I’m third-generation archangel. Father’s second. We descended from the archangel Aquila. Have you heard the story?”

“Yes, Mom told me how she founded the House of Rixa.”

Connor grins. “I’ve heard of the Archangel Xavier. Amazing warrior turned diplomat. Led the final battle to drive demons from Heaven.”

His words send an image into my mind’s eye: the King of Hell twisting my father’s broken arm. Pangs of grief and anger move through me.

Octavia’s eyes narrow. “But he disappeared after the Wars, I believe.”

I pick invisible lint off my robe. “I don’t want to talk about that.” I grit my teeth. Unholy moley. I sound exactly like Mom.

“Of course, of course.” Connor folds his arms over his chest. “Now, what are your plans exactly?”

“I have an Arena match tomorrow morning. Right after that, I go to a safe house until we hear from the angels.”

“I see.” The King drums his fingers on the tabletop, his face lost in thought. All of a sudden, the atmosphere in the tent zings with tension. Both Lincoln and Octavia look particularly unreadable, which means something big is definitely going on.

I roll my eyes. I’ve had enough staring-and-not-talking for one day. “You’re clearly debating something, Connor. What is it?”

He looks at me, his furry brows arching. “If you must know, it’s whether to endorse Lincoln’s plan to gather together the lesser houses.”

My mouth starts speaking on its own. “I’ll help him.”

The King lets out a puff of breath. “And how will you do that from hiding?”

“I’ll find a way.” I bow my head. “Strength in battle, your Highness. If the Earl doesn’t like it, I’ll pull some strings and send him to Hell.”

The King nods slowly. “I believe you’d do it, too.”

I snap my fingers. “In a heartbeat.”

“Fine, we’ll wait.” He points at Lincoln. “You’ve got a month, boy. Bring together the minor houses.” His face droops. “I’ll stall the Earl.”

Lincoln’s mouth curls into a satisfied smile. “Thank you, father.” He gives my hand an especially long squeeze. Warmth and love bloom in my chest. Together, Lincoln and I can do this. We can do anything.

Octavia taps the tabletop with one fingernail. “We have other matters to discuss.” She turns to me. “This match tomorrow morning. How will you compete without exposing your identity?”

“My fighting suit has a face-mask that hides my eyes.”

The thought of my fighting suit is somehow calming. That thing is so freaking awesome.

“Very good.” Octavia turns to her son. “And you’ll be there as well?”

“It’s not an official thrax event, but I’ll contact the minister. I’m sure I can watch from an archway.”

I turn to him with the biggest smile ever. “You’ll be there?”

He winks. “Nowhere else.”

I feel a weight lift from my body. Sweet.

Connor’s brow furrows. “Will you bring extra soldiers with you?”

Lincoln leans back in his chair. Our joined hands slide off the tabletop to swing casually between us. “No, that would only attract unnecessary attention.”

Octavia wags a finger at her son. “Be sure to wear full demon patrol gear: body armor, baculum, daggers…”

Lincoln nods. “I’ll be safe, Mother.”

I stifle a grin.
Glad my Mom’s not the only one with an over-protective streak.

The King rubs his chin. “And stay with her tonight.”

Octavia gasps. “Connor!”

My jaw drops. “Whoa!” First, the King thinks I’m preggers. Then, he assumes Lincoln’s sleeping in my bed? I so want to clobber this guy, it isn’t funny. I may be part lust demon, but that doesn’t mean I’m a slut. Sheesh.

The King wags his head. “I mean in a separate room, but ready for trouble.”

I close my mouth into a scowl. So, I won’t clobber him. Maybe. My blood still boils with anger.

Octavia clears her throat, trying to re-steer the conversation onto safer ground. “After the match, Lincoln will join our procession to Antrum.”

Lincoln leaves tomorrow.
That thought is one massive rainstorm on my angry parade. Suddenly, I no longer think about clobbering the King. Instead, I focus on how Lincoln and I will be separated, and for who knows how long? And Antrum’s locked down so tightly, I don’t even know when or how we can connect. A heavy sadness sets into my body.

My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “That’s the plan.”

Lincoln gives my hand a squeeze. “Let’s get you back home. Did you ride Nightshade here?”

“Yes.”

“Good. She’s probably outside waiting for you now, along with Bastion.” He gently kisses my cheek. “I’ll meet you there in a minute. I have to get my stuff.”

The sadness in my heart lightens a bit. At least I’ll have Lincoln nearby until it’s time for us to part.

I say my goodbyes to Connor and Octavia, giving her an extra-long hug. This
may be the last time I see her for a long while. The Queen eyes me carefully, her mental gears spinning away.

“Don’t worry,” says Octavia. “We’ll meet again, my dear.”

I force a half-smile. “I’m sure we will.” However, if I’m being honest with myself, seeing any of them again is far from a sure thing.

***

It’s dark by the time Lincoln and I near my house. Nightshade and Bastion step in perfect rhythm down the quiet streets. Sadness seeps into the air and our hearts. The two of us haven’t spoken much since leaving the royal tent.

Without being asked, our horses stop on the stretch of sidewalk before my front porch. Lincoln and I dismount, telling Night and Bastion to return to the Ryder stables. Night stares at me, her over-large black eyes smooth and round as marbles, the look in them saying the horse equivalent of ‘no kidding, sister.’ Lincoln and I watch our mounts trot away, then stroll up to the front door, hand-in-hand. Mom opens it before we have a chance to knock.

“Myla! I’ve been worried sick.”

I inwardly groan. She has her ‘insanely overprotective and twitchy’ face on. Not that I totally blame her, but yipes. This could get ugly.

I shift my weight from foot to foot. “Hi, Mom. This is Lincoln.” I can’t help but smile.

Lincoln’s mouth warms into a shy grin. “Hello.”

Mom taps her foot. “You’re thrax?” She’s in rare form: worried and anxious with a side order of crazy. Here comes the ugly.

The Prince nods. “Yes.”

Mom eyes the heavy pack slung over Lincoln’s shoulder. “You brought armor and weapons?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Come in.”

My mother, the charmer.

We all step inside. Mom closes the door behind us, then points dramatically to the couch. “
This
is where you’ll be sleeping, Lincoln, the thrax.” She fixes him with the exact same stare Lincoln’s father gave me, the one that says ‘I know what’s on your oversexed little mind.’ And hey, that’s not untrue, but we’ve got it under control. Mostly.

He bows slightly. “Of course.”

Mom wraps me in a long hug. “I’m glad you’re safe, baby. Don’t stay up too late.” She glances at Lincoln and sighs. “Thank you for watching over Myla. It says a lot about your character.” She kisses him gently on the cheek. “Good night.”

I let out a long breath. That was a downright normal interaction between Mom and Lincoln. She’s been bouncing back from her overprotective mode into her old Senator Lewis self faster and faster these days. What a relief.

Mom pulls her threadbare robe tighter and walks into her bedroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Lincoln and I exchange a look that mixes shock and relief, the kind I normally reserve for near-miss accidents with Betsy. I half-smile. “I’m not sure who wins
for weirdest parental interaction of the day.”

“Come on. Me, definitely.” He enfolds me in his arms. “I’m so sorry about that, by the way. Father should have focused on your safety, not a power play with the Earl. He used to be…Very different.” He gives my back a gentle pat. “But enough about my family for one day.” Leaning forward, the Prince moves to set his mouth on mine.

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.” Frowning, I glance at Mom’s closed door.

Lincoln releases me and steps backwards. “I understand.”

We’re so close to goodbye. After tomorrow’s Arena match, Lincoln returns to Antrum and Walker portals me into the Gray Sea safe house. The weight I felt on the ride home grows heavier, settling into every cell of my body. My eyes sting.

I wrap my fingers around Lincoln’s hand and lead him into my room. Sadness hangs in the air like fog. Lincoln sits on my bed, his back against the headboard. I climb onto the mattress and curl up beside him. My cheek nestles onto his chest; his long arm wraps loosely about my back. My eyelids grow heavy.

***

That night I dream of an office decorated entirely in red. Crimson walls stretch off into the distance, with no end or windows in sight. My bare feet stand on a blood-red wooden floor dotted with small round carpets of the same hue. To my left, scarlet-colored leather chairs encircle a large table made of red crystal. At my right, there looms a massive cherry-red desk, and behind that desk sits Armageddon.

My breath catches. Armageddon is here! My body goes on high alert, preparing for a wall of terror to slam into me. It doesn’t. I feel frightened, sure, but nothing like how it felt at school when Armageddon walked by me and Cissy.

What kind of dream is this anyway?

Armageddon folds his three-knuckled hands neatly onto the desktop, his mouth slowly stretching into an impossibly-wide grin. His long pointed face holds a knife-straight nose and two fiery red eyes. “Welcome, Maxon.”

I say nothing, body frozen stiff. What the Hell is going on? Why does he think I’m his son Maxon?