Scala (22 page)

I raise my right hand, ready to command the igni to cast her down. I can feel the dark ones chafing to send her into Armageddon's tender mercies; they really hate her guts.

“Think carefully, Adair. Give us information or get Hell.”

She looks down, seeing the fires of damnation lick up beneath her feet. Little by little, raw fear twists across her pretty features.

A pang of hope brightens my heart. Maybe she'll see reason, at last.

Adair looks up, opens her mouth, and then, her gaze runs across Lincoln and me, hand in hand. The look on her face changes from terror to a mixture white-hot rage and jealousy.

“I said Hell,” she cries. “Send me!”

I remember when I last hoped for Adair to see reason. It ended with her dead. This time, I really thought that the threat of Hell would change things.

A heavy sense of sadness settles onto my skin. She has no idea what she's asking for. I fought so hard to keep anyone I could out of Hell. For all Adair's faults, I hate to send her there.

I begin to issue the command to move her, but stop one last time. “I wish I didn't have to do this.”

“That's why the igni chose me as the True Scala,” says Adair with a sneer. “If I had to send a soul to Hell, I'd never hesitate.”

“Actually, they chose me because that's what I'll always do. Goodbye, Adair.”

Lowering my hand, I send her spirit through the Arena floor and into Armageddon's realm. A small flash of red light flares as Hell accepts its latest resident.

With Adair gone, there are no more souls to move. The two tornadoes recede into their original places, one rising into the clouds while the other collapses into the Arena floor. The stadium falls quiet. Thick mist still hangs heavily on the ground; the sky remains black with storm clouds. As I survey the filled stadium, one thought echoes through my mind…

The iconigration may be over, but with that little chat, our investigation of Acca has officially begun.

Once again, I stand on a high platform made of pale rock, staring down into a massive geode crammed with thrax partygoers. The Rixa Herald waits nearby, ready with a silver trumpet and pre-set speech about yours truly.

I scrunch and un-scrunch my fingers, trying to release some anxious energy. It doesn't work in the slightest. Long story short, there's no way to avoid high levels of adrenaline and excitement tonight.

This is my Ball of Welcome, Part Deux. Only this time around, the audience won't get puppeteered by a semi-demonic Adair. So, I've got that going for me.

The Herald plays a regal tune, makes my intro, and it's go-time.

I start the long trek down the crystal staircase to the ballroom floor below. Tonight, I'm wearing the golden over-gown that Octavia made for me. I'm not a dressy-dress girl, but this thing's sweeeeeet. The fabric's woven through with little dragons, the symbol of the House of Gurith. The front is cut wide open, showing my white Scala robes beneath, and I even have matching stilettos.
Unfortunately, I'm not too confident walking on them. With every step down the stairs, I'm sure I'll slip on my ass and-or break my neck. But once I hit the base of the staircase, the risk of sudden death soon becomes worth it. A look of ‘gee wiz' awe crosses Lincoln's face.

A soft blush colors my cheek. Now's when all the girly-girl effort pays off. This moment, that look, right here. I feel like the most beautiful woman in the after-realms.

Lincoln has gotten dressy, too. He wears a new flavor of royal get-up, namely a long, fitted coat of black velvet with a high collar and cool golden buttons that cross his chest at a funky angle. The coattails fall well below his knees, showing a hint of his black leather pants and tall matching boots. Delish. His golden crown mixes the Rixa eagle and Gurith dragon motifs, making me want to run my fingers through his wavy brown hair.

Lincoln offers me his hand. “Shall we greet your guests?”

I'm careful to keep my face calm and gracious. “Do we have to? There's plenty of booze and shrimp to keep them happy for ages.” I set my hand in his, feeling the warmth of his firm skin under mine. “Really, I only want to hang with you.”

Lincoln wraps my hand around his forearm. “We'll say our quick hellos and get right to the dancing-part of the evening. Soon after that, we can get to the sneaking-out-early part of the evening. How does that sound?”

I subtly hip-check him as we walk along. “Deal.”

He grins. “Those of us in stilettos shouldn't be pushing other people around.”

“Good point.” I click my tongue. “And look at you, knowing all about girly shoes.”

“Appreciating a beautiful woman in stilettos is common guy territory, Myla. We'll have a talk about that later.” He slides his hand to the base of my back, guiding me to talk to some Earl or other who I couldn't care less about. We yammer on for ages about nothing. Every so often, I jump in with non-committal comments like ‘surely' and ‘you don't say'. Lincoln keeps rubbing the base of my spine with his very warm and firm hand, which is super-distracting.

This goes for an eternity: Lincoln introducing me to important thrax, me smiling, him rubbing the very top of my butt in a way that makes my lust demon get rowdy. After a while, my tail takes matters into its own hands and sneaks under Lincoln's coat, doing who-knows-what under the long velvet. The Prince doesn't send my tail packing, or show any reaction, really. Except every so often, he'll answer a question with a ‘yes' where his voice turns a little too husky while his hand slides a little too low on my butt.

All in all, I'm having a grand time.

After the greeting-and-groping part of the evening is over, we decide to take a break before dancing. I head over to my parent's table at the feasting side of the ballroom. This'll be fun. Not only haven't I seen them yet tonight, but they also got clutch seating right by the roast beast and dessert display. Yummy. I don't get within a yard of their long, mead-hall style table when Mom hops to her feet.

“Don't move a muscle!” She whips her camera out of her bag. “I want a picture.” She takes about twenty shots until we pass the line from Cute-Mom-Land into Awkwardville. I reach for the camera.

“Hey, I should take some pictures of you and Dad.” The pair of them look awesome. Mom's in a black sheath dress accented by her purple sash of office; Xavier wears silver dress armor with his golden wings on display. I reach for the camera. “Get up and pose already.”

Sliding the camera out of my grasp, Mom steals closer. She makes a great show of whispering in my ear. “Your father doesn't like having his picture taken when he's in archangel-form.”

“Why? He looks great.”

She's careful to keep her voice low. “He says archangel-form brings out the wing-nuts, as he calls them. He doesn't want pictures to get around and make things worse.”

I peep over at their table. Sure enough, every seat's filled with a pie-eyed thrax, breathless to be sitting next to a real-life archangel. “Oh, I can see what he means. No wonder he liked you from the get-go. Everyone else kisses his butt.”

A satisfied gleam appears in Mom's brown eyes. “As he puts it, I out-Generaled him.”

Dad steps up and pops his head between us. “What are we whispering about?”

“You.” I stick out my tongue and make a silly-face. “And all the angel-loving wing-nuts.”

“Please, don't remind me. The next time you have one of these thrax galas, I'm wearing my grey suit.”

Mom lets out a long sigh. “That's so drab, Xav.”

“For a reason.” Dad raises his pointer finger, pauses, and looks over his shoulder. “Please stop petting my wings, ma'am.”

A crinkly woman who's about a thousand years old lifts her papery hand from Dad's feathers. “Sorry, your worshipfulness.” She stares at his back, mesmerized. “You're so very-very sparkly.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “What did I tell you?”

“Myla agrees with me.” Mom wags the camera before resetting it into her purse. “We should have at least one picture of you looking so handsome.”

My father bows slightly at the waist. “All the more reason to enjoy my handsome-ness live and in person.” He pauses, pressing his lips together. “Is she touching me again?”

I lean back and take a quick look. “Ooooooooooh, yeah.” I wince at the weirdness. “It's really nasty.”

Across the ballroom floor, the orchestra strikes up a slow tune.

Mom takes Xavier's hands in hers. “How about we dance?”

“Love to.”

I watch them step away and feel the comforting awwwwww that only happy parents can deliver. My Mom and Dad, two crazy-cute lovebirds off for a waltz. It's a mighty cool thing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Walker steal up beside me. It takes a supreme act of control not to jump up and down and scream ‘Waaaaaaalker!' at the top of my lungs. After all, I haven't seen him all night.

But Walker's been trying to sneak up on me since I was nine, and he sucks at it in a big way. It would be breaking with our tradition for me not to call him out at the last second.

Walker tiptoes up behind my left shoulder and raises his hand to tap me on the back. When I speak, I make a point of not looking at him. “Only Lincoln can do that, you know.”

I can hear the grin in Walker's voice. “Do what?”

“Sneak up on me. You're way too loud.” I turn to face him, encasing him in a big hug. “So good to have you here. I can't thank you enough for everything you've done.”

Walker purses his lips. “Actually, there is one way you could thank me.”

“Name it.”

“The Ghost Towers are running fine, but I think we can do better. New buildings for a new regime, that kind of thing. I have some engineering ideas that—”

“Say no more. Go for it.”

“Thanks, Myla.” He rubs his palms together. “This will be fun.”

A new voice sounds behind me. “Excuse me.” Turning around, I find Connor standing there. He wears a traditional thrax black tunic with chain mail and a silver crown. “Would you like to dance?”

This is the first time I've seen Connor since I read him the riot act back in my kitchen. “Are you sure you want to?”

Connor fixes me with an earnest and open look. “Very much, if you'll allow it.”

Okay, I haven't exactly been the leader of the King Connor Fan Club, but right now he's being very sweet, sad and honest. Plus, as Lincoln's father, I'll need to get along with him sooner or later.

“A dance would be nice, thank you.” I give my honorary brother a quick peck on the cheek. “Catch you later, Walker.”

Connor and I step onto the dance floor and begin a very slow, quiet and awkward dance. His mismatched eyes scan my face carefully. “I heard you're thinking of starting an investigation of Acca.”

Great. More Acca-love is coming from the Connor-quarter. What a shocker. I should've known better than to agree to dance with this guy. My tone turns to ice. “Word travels fast in Antrum.”

“I've thought a lot about what you said back in the kitchen.” He steels his shoulders. “You were absolutely right.”

I can't believe my ears. “I was?”

“People have been letting me get away with unacceptable behavior for far too long, even Octavia. I want to apologize to you for my actions. Sincerely.”

“I'm not the one you should apologize to.”

“I already spoke to Lincoln.”

“And?” I scan the dance floor, seeing Lincoln dancing with Octavia. He's smiling from ear to ear. My heart lightens. That's a good thing.

“My son seemed very pleased. I made a vow to him that I'd like to repeat to you, if that's acceptable.”

“Sure.”

“In this Acca investigation, I want to do whatever I can to help. I've spent far too long under their thumb. My heart's wish is for you and my son to have a strong rule, whatever that takes. Your happiness is what's really important to me. I see that now.”

My breath catches with surprise. Is this the same guy I yelled at before the showdown with Adair? I soak the open and earnest look in Connor's eyes. It's true. He's really changed. “Wow. I don't know what to say.”

“Say I can help you. That's all I ask.”

“Yes, we'd love the help. Thank you, Connor.” And I mean it.

Lincoln and Octavia waltz up to our side. “How's the world's slowest dancer treating you?” asks Octavia.

Connor eyes her from head to toe. A slight blush crawls into Octavia's cheeks. “You look lovely tonight, my Queen.”

Octavia steps aside from Lincoln, straightening the folds of her black velvet gown with silver silk overlay. With a simple, bell-shaped skirt and long loopy sleeves, her dress perfectly frames her lovely face and figure. “Wait until you see the bill from the royal tailor.”

“However much we paid, it's gold well spent.” Connor stops dancing with me and offers his hands to Octavia. “Still the loveliest girl in the room.”

“Flatterer,” she replies.

He tilts his head to one side. “Ah, but is it working?”

“Always.” Octavia wraps her arm around his. Together, they dance off.

Lincoln offers me his hands as well; I slide my palms against his. We stand a few feet apart, looking gawky and definitely not moving. I keep thinking about earlier tonight, when all we were supposed to do was meet some Earls and make small talk. Instead, Lincoln finds a way to get my lust demon all lusty. I don't even want to know what he'll do on the dance floor.

Well, I do want to know. I just don't want an audience of thrax to know, too. I'm not ready for their nobility to see my eyes red with demonic lust.

The Prince raises his brows. “What's with all the space between us?” His full mouth rounds into a sly grin. “Can I come closer by two inches?”

“Absolutely not. You stay over there.”