Aldred grips Silvinio by the lapels. Again, I can’t hear a word, but knowing the earl? It’s most likely, what did you tell him?
Silvinio wriggles in Aldred’s grip. When the minister speaks, he winces. I told him you weren’t hunting anyone anymore.
Little by little, the two swivel their heads in my direction. For a long moment, they both stare at me. Aldred is clearly weighing how much trouble he’s in with me. Meanwhile, Silvinio’s probably wishing he just left the room without talking to the earl. I give them both a friendly wave. This event has gotten downright interesting.
Aldred’s jowls turn pink, which is a sure sign he’s enraged. The earl frog-marches Silvinio outside. That’s the last I’ll see of that pair for the evening.
One of my personal guards steps up. “A message for you, my prince.”
My interest perks up. Perhaps this is the letter I was looking for. Walker, watch out. I’m coming for you.
I take the envelope from him. “Thank you.” I nod toward the departing minister. “Place a secret watch on Silvinio. Report his conversations, especially if he starts talking to people who aren’t there. I want to know every word.”
“Yes, my prince.”
My guard walks away. I tear open envelope. Inside I find a note written in looping calligraphy.
* * *
From: GSBG-9002, the Honorable Ghoul Minister
To: Prince Lincoln Vidar Osric Aquilus
RE: WKR-7
Thank you for your kind letter. Walker’s new residence is at 1160 Inferno Avenue in Lower Purgatory. Please let me know if you require anything else as you put together your thank-you shipments!
Best,
GSBG-9002
* * *
I grin. The Ghoul Minister is proving to be an excellent source of information, provided I keep him waist-deep in gift baskets of worms. As I slip the note back into my tuxedo pocket, a familiar outline steps into the room. Every nerve ending in my body goes on alert.
It can’t be.
It is.
Myla Lewis.
Her lovely form is encased in a brightly colored dress. She smiles at a girl beside her—one with a golden retriever’s tail—before her companion leaves for the dance floor. Myla circulates the room, chatting with various quasi diplomats. Every so often, Myla shares a little wave with the girl on the dance floor. Clearly, they’re good friends.
My thoughts race. This is exactly what Walker warned me about. At some point, I might run into Myla. At least, Aldred is gone, so there’s no worry he’ll get interested in Myla as a new target.
Still, I should leave.
Now.
Trouble is, my feet seem locked in place.
Damn.
7
My world has stopped spinning. Or perhaps it’s simply whirling too fast. At this point, it’s hard to know.
Myla Lewis is here.
Father steps up beside me. “How was the chat with Silvinio, my son?”
“Not too productive. He volunteered that he’s no longer gambling.” I leave out the tidbits about the Tithe and Aldred, since Father thinks those two can do no wrong.
“Is he gambling the demon fighting circuit again?” asks Father.
“Most likely.”
Father then launches into a recap on the latest winners and losers on the circuit. At least, I think that’s what he’s talking about. It’s hard to pay attention.
Myla is crossing the room.
And she’s heading in my direction.
At some point, Father stops talking. Myla pauses a few yards away. Her back is toward me, but even so, I’m a hunter. There’s no missing the slightest twitch in her ears. No one else stands near Myla. Only me and my father.
Myla must be listening to us.
My thoughts race. What did Walker say before? Myla might find me intriguing, and Walker didn’t want Myla to turn heartsick. And now, she seems to be paying attention. This is bad. True, I could be imagining her interest. But even if it’s one chance on a thousand that I could hurt her, I simply can’t risk it. Having Myla in my life will cause her nothing but pain, one way or another.
That leaves only one thing to do. Follow Walker’s instructions. His words echo through my mind.
* * *
If you ever encounter Miss Lewis, you should play the haughty thrax. Look down on her demonic side. She’ll hate it—and you—forever.
* * *
Taking in a deep breath, I steel my spine. Here it comes. My anti-demonic tirade. I try to get the words out, but nothing happens.
Damn.
My mind whirls through more options. Perhaps I should start small and work my way up.
Yes, that could work.
With my new plan in place, I shoot my father a frustrated glance. “I don’t understand why we’re here, Father.”
Perfect. That’s testy but not committing to anything horrible.
“More orders from the angels, son. They want closer relations between the realms.”
“I understand. What should I do?”
The moment those words leave my lips, I want to punch myself. Hard. That wasn’t the horrid statement I’d been working toward.
“Try to socialize,” replies Father. “Meet some quasis in particular.”
A few yards away, Myla arcs her head ever so slightly. As a hunter, I know what that movement means. She’s listening. The realization steels my nerves.
“Quasis aren’t people,” I declare. “They’re demons.” To my own amazement, my words sound both smooth and believable. Even so, they seem to burn my tongue like acid.
“Angels say they’re different,” retorts Father. “Try to keep an open mind.” He gestures to the dance floor. “Take that girl, for example. Why don’t you ask her to dance? She seems quite, uh, friendly.”
My heart sinks. That’s Myla’s friend. Which means there’s no way I can give a kind reply. This is my chance to break things off with Myla before they even begin.
I must take it.
“That quasi has a dog’s tail and acts like one in heat.” Even if I can almost hear my heart crack as I speak the words. “Besides father, you know I’m no diplomat.”
“Where’s my best soldier?” Father punches my upper arm. “I know I can rely on you for this mission.”
“Of course.”
“That’s my boy.” Which is his way of saying, I’m done here.
As Father walks off, I keep my gaze locked in Myla’s outline. She still seems alert, but isn’t fidgeting or clenching her fists. A wave of relief moves through me. Maybe I was imagining the connection between us. Every hunter makes mistakes. All this time, I may have been torturing myself over nothing.
Clang. Myla knocks over a can onto the floor.
Now I could leave, but my feet move toward Myla on their own. “Are you alright, Miss?”
She turns to face me and I could cheer for joy. Up close, she’s lovelier than I imagined. Life and light glitters in her brown eyes. My arms ache to envelop her. She smells of cinnamon and sunshine.
“I’m fine,” she says simply. “I dropped an empty can, that’s all.”
We pause. Lines of energy and interest flow between us, connecting our hearts. No, no, no. This isn’t supposed to happen. And it means I should definitely leave.
And I want to.
Yet I can’t.
“You look familiar,” I say. “You don’t visit the Ryder stables, by any chance?”
Her eyes widen. “Nope.”
I fight the urge to smile. She remembers the doxy demons. That’s good, considering how I contemplate that night constantly.
“Ah, my error then.” I bow slightly. “My name’s Lincoln.”
Our gazes lock. The energy between us intensifies. The room melts away until only she and I remain. With all my heart, I want to tell her how I admire her … that she transformed every assumption I ever held about what a woman could be … and vow how I’d do anything only for the chance to talk an hour more.
All hope burns to ash in my soul. My life isn’t a fairy tale. I sacrifice for the greater good. In this case, that means keeping Myla safe from both me and my people. Walker’s advice ricochets through my mind once more.
* * *
If you ever encounter Miss Lewis, you should play the haughty thrax. Look down on her demonic side. She’ll hate it—and you—forever.
* * *
When I speak again, it’s an effort to keep my features level. “You must be a quasi, um, ‘demon.’”
“I’m ‘Myla.’”
Her voice goes even lower. That demon line struck home. Damn.
“Pleasure to meet you.” I need to say something else terrible. Think. “Would you … Would you like to dance, Myla?”
Not what I planned to say.
Clearly, I’ve having some conflicts here.
You can do this, Lincoln.
It’s an effort, but I force more disgusting words from my mouth. “It seems to be something your kind enjoys.”
Myla’s eyes flash red with demonic rage. “Do you mean ‘our kind’ as in my friend with the dog tail?” She juts her thumb toward the pair on the dance floor. “You remember? The one in heat?”
I steel myself. “What I said was true. I can hardly bear to watch.”
“So, you find quasis repulsive.”
“What do you expect? You’re part demon. I’m a demon hunter. Asking you to dance was a kind gesture on behalf of–”
“Kind gesture?!” She purses her lips and it’s all I can do not to kiss her. “I’ve got a gesture for you.” She turns and walks away; her tail waves good-bye in my direction.
For a moment, my nervous system is overloaded with elation. She’s safe. I sent her off. Then follows the inevitable crash. What was I thinking? I just acted like the worst kind of rogue. And I probably ruined my chances with Myla.
Not that I had any to begin with.
Which means this is for the best.
So why is this the worst I’ve ever felt?
A weight of sorrow settles into my marrow. Once Myla is well and gone, I take my leave as well. Myla may hate me, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop protecting her. Now that I know Walker’s true address, I must track down my friend and convince him to transport me to the mermaids. That way, I can get answers about the Tithe. After all, keeping Myla safe is my only option for bringing something good into her life.
So I’m taking it.
8
“Wow, you’re fast.” That’s Nelson speaking. He’s the new guard and my latest sparring partner today. After last night’s disaster at the ball, I’ve spent all day in battle practice. Nelson’s my latest victim. We’re both in fitted shorts, and I just dodged his attempted elbow strike to my chin.
“Focus on the battle, Nelson.” To emphasize my point, I deliver a roundhouse kick to the side of his head. I don’t use as much force I could. Nelson’s a newbie.
“That was even faster.” Nelson wobbles a bit, so I give him a few moments to recover. Today, my new guard and I are practicing on what will eventually be the autumn tournament green. It’s an open space surrounded by wooden frameworks that will soon become seating pavilions.
“Can you do that kick again?” asks Nelson.
Nothing says ‘I’m getting punch drunk’ more than asking for another roundhouse to the head. “Let’s call it a day.”
“Sure, whatever you want.” Nelson grins. He’s a lanky lad of sixteen with short brown hair that sticks up along the center of his head, Mohawk style. I’d say it’s a fashion choice, but I believe it’s more an unfortunate cowlick.
“Do you need another sparring partner?”
To keep my mind off Myla, I’ve been in non-stop matches with my personal guards. Then my master at Arms. After that, I moved on to top contenders for the tournaments. The fact that I’m now practicing with newbies like Nelson shows how much bottled up energy I have. Eighteen fights today and I’m still wired. “It’s a thought at that.” If there’s anyone left to fight.
“I simply must say something,” Nelson gushes.
“Go on.”
“What an honor this has been. I mean, you’re … you.”
I chuckle. “Not sure what that means, but this fight has been my pleasure. We both have warrior mothers. Best for us to stick together.” Nelson’s father is from Rixa. His mother is a human MMA fighter that his dad met while on demon patrol.
Nelson’s smile widens. “I must ask. What’s it like?”
“Like?”
“Being prince? Having people hang on your every word. Standing at the center of all ceremonies. I can’t imagine.”
Now, there are two answers to this question. First, there’s the true one. People pay attention to me because I wield power and can change their lives. That’s a responsibility, not a job perk. And ceremonies? Painfully boring. But that’s not the answer I give. I choose the second option—a generic response that doesn’t ruin Nelson’s starry-eyed belief in what it means to be royal. “It’s my honor to serve.”
Nelson steps closer. “What about the ladies? You’re so handsome. Powerful. Everyone loves you.”
One thing I’ve learned about being heartsick. Thrax said such things to me before, and it never resonated. Now, every comment about love feels like a blow. Having someone fawn over your power or looks isn’t the same as true intimacy. That only comes after seeing the best and worst in another and still loving them. It’s the kind of connection I’ll never have. Knowing that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
I want to give Nelson ‘option two’ gentle reply, but it isn’t in me. “Thank you again for your time today.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No, it’s almost sundown. I have an appointment this evening.” With Walker, although the ghoul doesn’t know that yet.
“Sure, thanks so much.” Nelson shakes my hand vigorously before rushing off. I imagine him returning to his barracks, telling stories of his fight today with the prince he admires. That person isn’t me, however. I’m an illusion.
Chin up, Lincoln. You’ve work to do.
With Nelson gone, I return to my cabin and change into mortal clothes. With any luck, Walker will take me to Earth tonight, so I must be ready. Once in my jeans, I saddle up Nightshade for a ride to Walker’s secret hideout. 1160 Inferno Avenue. Night soon takes off at a trot. As we move along, scenery consists of sickly thin trees, brown leaves and mud. It’s not long before we reach the edge of the Alighieri Woods.
Interesting. Walker’s house is not only near the Alighieri woods. He’s also set up shop close to Myla’s home on Dante Avenue as well. I’d call that an odd coincidence, but it’s not.
My friend is keeping an eye on both of us.
I pull gently on Nightshade’s reins. “Ho.” Night stops. I slide off her barrel and pat her neck. “I can walk from here.”
Night swings her head around to face me. With grand movements, she arches her neck up and down. It’s her way of saying, why the Hell are you wearing that?
None of this is surprising, by the way. My horse has tons of opinions.
“Yes, Night. I’m in casual human clothes again tonight.” This time, it’s jeans and a Little Red Corvette Henley.
In reply, Night does that move where she whinnies while showing her teeth. This means, thanks for not answering my question.
“You’re such a busybody. I’m dressed casually because I’m on a mission for Myla.”
This time, Night tears at the ground with her front hoofs. She approves.
“Yes, I know you like her.” This isn’t our first conversation about Myla. I pat Night’s neck again. “Can you get back to the camp on your own?”
Night chuffs—a kind of snorting sound—which is to say, don’t be insulting. Without waiting for further instruction, she takes off into the forest. I shake my head and grin.
Of all the horse
s I’ve raised, Night really is the best.
With Night gone, I march over to Walker’s hideout. I soon locate my destination: a one-story ranch house that looks identical to all the others beside it, except for the number. 1160. The shades are drawn, but lights gleam inside. Someone’s home. Excitement streams through me.
Here we go.
After hiking up the short flight of cement steps, I knock on the front door. A nearby curtain rustles. I wave at the window. No doubt, Walker’s on the other side of that glass pane, staring at me in shock.
The front door opens a crack. A sliver of Walker’s familiar face becomes visible. In classic Walker style, he skips all the greetings. “How many bribes did it take to find me?”
“Only one. GSBG-9002 gave you up for one complimentary shipment of worms.”
“Of course.” Walker frowns. “Gasbag.”
“GSBG-9002 is nicknamed Gasbag? I love it.” I hitch my thumbs into the loops on my waistband. “May I come in?”
Walker shakes his head, followed by a dramatic glance toward Heaven. It’s his way of saying, give me patience with my crazy friend.
“We could also chat out here,” I say. “It might get awkward, though. You know how I tend to raise my voice in conversation.”
In truth, I can keep a tone low easily. But the statement is a not-so-veiled threat that I could get Walker in trouble with his neighbors. It works like a charm.
“Fine,” sighs Walker. “Come in.”
Walker fully opens the door and I step inside. The place is what I’d call generic Purgatory: chipped walls, cracked ceiling, and dirty carpet. The only difference? This place looks like a homeless artist decided to turn squatter. There’s no furniture, unless you count the painter’s easel set up in one corner. Scraps of drawings cover the walls. A lone coffee machine sits in one corner, unplugged. It’s like Walker meant to make himself some java but never got organized.
I step along the periphery of the room, scanning the drawings as I go. “Here’s a simia demon. And a limus.” I pause before an image of a girl in battle. “Oh, look. A drawing of Myla Lewis. The girl you barely know beyond saying, hello and goodbye.”
Lincoln Page 12