Lincoln

by Christina Bauer

This is a disaster on so many levels, I’ve lost count.

  Trumpets sounds as I step out onto the arena proper. A herald announces our presence. “King Connor and his son, the High Prince!”

  Father and I process forward. As we close in on Myla, my thoughts race. How should I handle this encounter? Certainly, I can’t act like I’ve been obsessing about her. In fact, she can’t even know that I recognized her from the moment she stepped into the arena. And most of all, I must maintain the pretense that I’m an awful fellow.

  That’s my vow. Protect Myla from everyone, even myself.

  Before I know it, Father and I stand before Myla and that awful arena emcee. Walker’s still here—not surprising since he transported Myla. My friend waits across the arena floor, standing just inside an exit passageway. Walker’s keeping at a strategic distance. Clever.

  The emcee rounds on Myla. “Remove your mask, slave.”

  At those words, my hands curl into fists. Every instinct I have tells me choke the life out of that ghoul. Before I get the chance to move, Myla pulls off her mesh hood. The movement seems to go extra slow, as if charmed by a speed spell. Myla shakes her head, sending her long auburn hair tumbling down her back.

  Our gazes lock. Energy and interest zing between us. I imagine reaching forward, brushing my fingertips along her jawline.

  My Myla.

  She takes in a quick huff of breath, and I realize my mistake. I can’t indulge in such fantasies. My people want to hunt Myla Lewis. I can’t be with her; I can only protect her. My gaze snaps over to Walker, who now stands with his arms folded over his chest, his face glowering with rage.

  I don’t blame Walker for being angry. I’m screwing this up.

  My plan clicks back into place. I must act as if I didn’t know this was Myla. With every ounce of princely training, I force on a look of alarm. “You.”

  Ok, that worked. It sounded both surprised and haughty.

  “Yes, me.” When Myla speaks, her voice comes out a bit husky. Even worse, we can’t seem to look away from each other. In my peripheral vision, I spy Walker over in the access passage, violently shaking his head ‘no.’

  Walker’s right.

  I must stop looking at her.

  And I will.

  In a minute.

  While I enjoy my staring contest with Myla, Father turns to the evil emcee. “What is this girl’s name?” Not a surprising comment from Father, by the way. He truly is horrible with names.

  “It’s Myla Lewis, your Majesty.” Clearly, this ghoul would rather have his pointed teeth removed than call Myla anything but a slave. The idea of pummeling him in the face returns with a vengeance.

  “You fought bravely, Myla Lewis,” says Father.

  At this point, a great and horrible thing happens. Myla looks away from me to focus on my Father. Our staring contest ends. From his hiding place in a nearby archway, Walker smiles broadly. I’m really starting to hate his involvement in my love life.

  Father continues. “Part of our mission here is to build better relationships with quasis such as you. Please accept this sword in congratulation.” He holds up the ceremonial sword. Then he stops.

  Father turns to me. I know the movement happens in regular time, but it seems to go extra slowly, like we’re all trapped under another time enchantment. “Perhaps you should give her this, my son. I believe I saw the two of you talking at the ball.”

  Myla’s eyes widen while her mouth contorts into a face one can only describe as ‘yuck.’ I should be devastated. I’m not. Everything about my girl exudes energy and life, even her hatred for me. I adore every scintilla of her.

  Myla raises her hand. “We don’t know each other.”

  I take the weapon from Father. “Let me think.” I peruse Myla’s form, as if trying to remember if I’ve seen her before. Big mistake. That dragonscale fighting suit will haunt me until the day I die.

  Focus, Lincoln.

  A thought hits me. It seems as if fate keeps throwing Myla and I together. Fine. If we’re going to hate each other, we might as well lean into it. Setting the sword’s point into the ground, I rest my hands rest atop the pummel. “I believe we had one conversation. About pets, as I recall?”

  My words are a challenge, and Myla jumps right to it.

  She plasters on a false grin. “Now, I remember the conversation. You were a true prince.” With a dramatic swoop of her head, she turns to my father. “I am grateful for the sword, your Highness.”

  Her gaze locks with mine once more. The staring match intensifies. Only this time, we’re both sporting smarmy grins.

  This is the most fun I’ve had in weeks.

  No, months.

  Father clears his throat. “Perhaps if you said a few words, son.”

  That’s right. I’m playing the rogue and handing out an honorary sword. Back to work.

  “Sure, father.” I inhale a dramatic breath. “This quasi girl–”

  “Myla. My name’s Myla.”

  Her smile vanishes. Instead, she looks ready to punch me in the throat. Does it makes me a twisted fellow that I love the defiance in her eyes? Probably. More seconds pass before I realize I’ve staring at her, open mouthed.

  The award, Lincoln.

  “Yes, Myla.” I make a point of pretending that I’m learning her name. Now, I just need to lean into being a total flaming douchebag. If it gets me more fiery looks from Myla, I can handle it. “You showed some basic ability in the match this morning,” I add. “Certainly enough to warrant an honorary sword. Of course, if you fought a true demon hunter then–”

  She leans in closer. “Just name the time and place, buddy.”

  Fresh waves of attraction flow through me. This woman. She’d really pound me in front of everyone. I press my lips together, unsure of what to say next. If I open my mouth now, I’ll certainly spout out something revealing like, I worship you, my goddess.

  That wouldn’t land well, on multiple levels.

  Fortunately, Myla speaks next. “Okay, how do we end this?”

  At this point, Father’s trying to hide his grin. And doing a horrible job of it, too. “Perhaps if you set your hands like this?” Father demonstrates how to correctly receive an honorary sword.

  “Oh yeah.” Myla sets out her hands, palms up. As I place the sword on her palms, my fingers brush against the bare skin by her wrist. The connection sets my flesh on fire.

  Myla pulls the sword—and her touch—far away from me. “Thank you.”

  I catch her gaze once more. Desire blazes there, same as with me. This is good. I mean, bad. Or rather, a catastrophe. After all, I took such care to be an insensitive oaf.

  Callous.

  Cruel.

  Anti-demonic.

  And even with all that, Myla and I still have a connection.

  Where did I go right?

  Father bows low and I follow the motion. Unfortunately, it’s time to leave.

  With the ceremony done, Father and I must turn and march toward an exit archway. Myla’s gaze bores into my back as I depart. Not sure how I managed it, but that was another marvelous disaster. I’m supposed to protect Myla, even from me. But between our angry banter and lusty gazes, I’m fairly certain I failed at my task.

  Sadly, this can’t happen again. I won’t allow it.

  11

  “Too slow, my lad.” That’s Nat speaking, although the words are a little slurred with his mouth guard in. Nat’s my Master at Arms and latest sparring partner today. Again, we’re at the tourney grounds (or what’s been built of it so far). We both wear shorts and t-shirts. Nat comes at my chin with a left hook, which I dodge.

  Nat scowls. “Don’t hold back.” He knows I’m not giving him everything. Mostly because I’m not.

  Today’s another day I’ve spent in practice matches with all eligible guards and warriors. After Myla’s awards ceremony this morning, I’ve had nothing but excess energy. In fact, Nat insisted on doing a second practice round with me today, even though the man i
s panting and clearly winded.

  I follow up with a quick series of jabs followed by a left hook. I’m not really putting all my fire in it, but I still land a solid hit to Nat’s face. Ouch.

  “Maybe hold back a little,” laughs Nat. He’s an older man, barrel chested and fit. Only at this moment, he’s red faced and panting. Meanwhile, I’ve barely broken a sweat. It’s not the thrax way to keep fighting a tired opponent in practice.

  I take a quick glance at my surroundings. Before, some young lord were waiting for their turn to spar with me. Now, no one remains. That’s a shame.

  I lower my arms. “Let’s call it quits.”

  “If you insist.”

  “Absolutely, just stay alert for what we talked about.” In this case, what we talked about refers to any chatter regarding Myla from yesterday’s arena award. Mostly, I’m worried about Aldred.

  “I will, my prince,” says Nat. He’s already assured me there’s been no talk about Myla, either good or bad. Which is worrisome. If Aldred were openly planning a hunt, then I could raise the question of an inquest once more. Or if word was that Aldred has sworn off quasis—a reasonable change now that he’s seen Myla fight—then that would be most welcome news. But silence? Evil things hide in the quiet.

  Aldred has a plan, I can only wait until he springs it.

  A low hum sounds. I grin; Walker’s here. At last, he’s taking me to visit the mermaids of New York. I hadn’t realized it had gotten so late.

  Nat steps backward. “I’ll be going then.”

  “Thanks again.”

  After waving goodbye to Nat, I keep my senses on high alert. The chances that Walker will try a sneak attack are about one hundred percent.

  Sure enough, Walker goes in for the kill. Now, that’s a friend. He gets me in a choke hold. Breaking free, I slam my fist into his ribs. The good news is that I don’t have to hold back here. Walker’s fresh for a fight. Even better, he has the power to self-heal. I get into a quick rhythm.

  Twist.

  Clutch.

  Kick out Walker’s legs.

  Done.

  I pin him to the ground with my knee on his chest. For his part, Walker appears unconcerned. He stares at me, his all black eyes filled with sympathy.

  “I’m sorry about Myla.”

  I step away from my friend so quickly, you’d think he just burst into flame. Myla’ fierce eyes appear in my mind. I miss her. Still, I hold my emotions back.

  “Thank you,” I say solemnly.

  Walker stands. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. It’s the right thing.”

  A weight of sorrow settles into my heart. “I will.”

  “Now, how about we visit those mermaids?”

  Walker’s question brings the evening’s plans back to me. Excitement sparks in my chest. I’m much better with a plan and purpose.

  “Let’s do this,” I reply.

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  “One moment.” Patting down my chest and thighs, I check my pockets for demon patrol charms. Yes, they’re all here. I’m especially glad I grabbed ones specifically for mermaids. I find an anti-glamour ring, which I slip on my finger. “Ready now.” Taking out a matching band, I offer it to Walker. “Here’s yours.”

  Walker shakes his head. “Mermaid glamours don’t work on ghouls.”

  “Have you ever encountered one before?”

  “No, but as I said…” He points to his face. “Ghoul.”

  “You’re also part archangel. And these are very powerful mermaids.”

  Walker sniffs. “I’m in body armor; I’ll take the risk.”

  A low hum sounds, which means Walker isn’t open to further discussion. Within seconds, a portal opens. Walker and I step into the darkness and out onto a long concrete pier on Earth. A clear night sky arches overhead. Since Purgatory is always overcast, I’d forgotten the sight of the moon. Tall buildings loom behind us. Seagulls arch and dive over the harbor. All around us, the other piers are a hive of activity as humans load and unload cargo. A few coast guard boats patrol the nearby shore. A constant rumble of sound and energy surrounds us, even in this relatively desolate spot.

  Ah. New York is a wonder.

  Together, Walker and I march out onto Pier 34. It’s a massive affair with heavy cranes bolted to the cement. Piles of metal containers lay stacked nearby. There are no humans around, but that’s to be expected. We thrax have charmed this area. Humans either forget to visit this spot or, if they do stop by, they’re too frightened to linger for long. It’s one of the duties of demon patrols; separate humans and potential trouble-makers like mermaids.

  Walker scans the space. “Ike-3 will be so jealous. He loves the city.”

  And here is yet another example of how Walker knows everyone and everything. “Oh, I know Ike. He sneaks me into Myla’s arena matches.”

  Walker blinks. “You don’t say.”

  I roll my eyes. No wonder Walker knew I was watching Myla. Ike told him. “You’re so stealthy, they should call you Sneaker instead of Walker.” I pause. “That sounded better in my head.”

  “Let’s go, Shakespeare.”

  Walker and I march out to the pier’s edge. Dark water laps against the concrete ledge below. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out what looks like a peppermint. A charm from Striga. Sure, there are already magical protections on this pier, but you never can be too careful. The fact that this is a candy is no surprise. Most demon patrol charms look like common human stuff: coins, paperclips, you get the idea. IT’s only if you look closely that you see the tiny runes and random lines of the spell. I crush the mint in my hand; a puff of purple dust rises from my palm. Excellent. Now, Walker and I have extra protection from human eyes.

  With the additional magic in place, I summon the mermaids. A rusted steel ladder hangs over the side of the concrete pier. After climbing down enough steps, I can set my bare skin into the water. Icy liquid surrounds my fingers. A moment later, I pull my hand out again, scale back up the ladder, return to the pier, and wait.

  Here’s what that was all about. Mermaids use kisses to gain energy from your life force. And that energy? It has a particular scent that moves through the water. Evidently my energy smells particularly yummy. I can almost always summon mermaids within a minute or two.

  Sure enough, two mermaids pop up from the water, resting their elbows on the edge of the pier while their tails sway below. I know this pair. Cordelia and Dwyn. Cordelia has green and scaly skin, gills that layer down her neck, and pointed peaks on her face that remind me of conch shells. Long tresses of seaweed hair fall down to her waist. Meanwhile, Dwyn is similar to her friend, only her coloring is blue.

  “Hello ladies,” I say smoothly. The trick with mermaids is to let them think their glamour works. In other words, I need to act as if two human supermodels just appeared.

  Cordelia winds a tendril of seaweed hair around her webbed finger. “We didn’t lure those frat boys off their cruise ship, if that’s why you’re here. They fell over the railing on their own, drunk. We put them right back on deck. After a few kisses.” She grins, showing off her needle-like teeth.

  Dwyn sniffs, a movement that makes her nostril-holes flare. “Nasty kisses.” Most chats with Cordelia and Dwyn fit this rhythm. Cordelia is the talkative one. Dwyn amplifies a few words. Mostly because Dwyn has focus issues. A few words is all she can say before she starts thinking about kissing again.

  “Thank you for volunteering that information,” I say. “But I’m not here in my capacity on demon patrol.”

  Cordelia gestures toward Walker. “That explains the ghoul.”

  My friend sighs dramatically. “We need information from you lovely ladies,” he intones. Walker is an excellent liar. Even so, he’s doing a better-than-usual job of acting like the mermaids have enchanted him.

  At least, I hope it’s an act.

  I make a mental note to keep an eye on Walker. I don’t need him getting kissed and having his life force sucked away. Sur
e, he can self-heal, but even that ability has its limits. I twist the band on my finger. This is why we use proper gear on demon patrol.

  “Let me guess.” Cordelia drums her webbed fingers on the pier. “You’re here about Silvinio?”

  “We call him Slimy,” adds Dwyn.

  “Yup,” agrees Cordelia. “Slimy’s been asking us to hustle tourists for kisses and jewelry. Demons don’t take American Express, you know.”

  “And do you aid him?” asks Walker.

  “We used to, years ago,” replies Cordelia. “But that was before he got old and disgusting.”

  Dwyn sighs. “He was young and tasty once.” Meaning his kisses gave a charge.

  “These days, Silvinio just asks us for help, we tell him no, and then he hits the Bash Bar.”

  Walker frowns. “What’s that?”

  “Magical fight club,” I explain. “Part of the earthly demon fighting circuit.” I return my attention to the mermaids. “We aren’t here about Silvinio. Right now, my friend and I require information about the Tithe.”

  “The Tithe?” Cordelia bares her needle-like teeth. The waters nearby turn choppy. Senior-level mermaids can control the seas. Clearly, Cordelia is both powerful and pissed off. “We hate that dickhead.”

  Mermaids also have foul mouths. My theory is that it comes from kissing too many sailors.

  “Ocean sea folk hate him too,” adds Dwyn. The waters turn so choppy by the pier, the crests peak with white foam.

  Interesting. This is the kind of reaction that happens if humans dump radioactive waste in their grazing grounds. “What did the Tithe do to you?”

  “There’s an oil rig a few miles offshore.” Cordelia lifts her arm. On her command, the waters still. The model of an oil right rises up from the harbor, only one that’s made entirely of water. It’s a square structure supported by four tall columns. The liquid model rises until it towers yards above our heads. “You know it?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not on any of our charts.” I look to Walker. “What about you?”

  “Never seen it before,” replies my friend.

  “That’s no oil rig.” Cordelia points at the liquid model. “It’s really the Tower of Wonders. Home to all the Tithe’s little statues.” The oil rig then transforms into a tall tower that spins up from the harbor. “All his effigies live inside. They go marching out over the ocean floor, tramping down the scenery and frightening our flocks.” Mermaids are shepherds of the ocean. They consider schools of fish to be their flocks. Outside of consuming the life force of other beings, mermaids eat tons of raw scaly things.