“This is Lincoln Vidar Osric Aquilus, activating Pulpitum transfer station.”
A young woman’s voice fills the small room. “Your Highnesses. What a surprise.”
“Hello, Juliana,” calls Lincoln. My guy knows all the Pulpitum operators names because of course he does. Lincoln reads and remembers everything.
Juliana’s voice lowers. “You’re not in an official station. I didn’t even know this place existed.”
“That’s funny,” I lie. “It should read Arx Hall.” That’s our official royal residence, and it comes complete with a built-in Pulpitum. Which doesn’t suck.
“It doesn’t say Arx Hall though.” Tapping sounds follow as Juliana fiddles with her controls. “The screen just reads unknown.”
“Has Lucas come to talk to you?” asks Lincoln.
Here’s the deal. Lucas is our secret weapon for sneaky Pulpitum travel. The Pulpitum systems are impervious, but the people? Not so much.
“The Earl has not visited me yet,” says Juliana. “Is he really coming by?”
“Yes, he’ll be there soon and fix everything.” What I don’t add is how Lucas will cast spells to wipe both her console and her memory.
Juliana exhales. “Excellent. Where would you like to go?”
“Pulpitum VII,” replies Lincoln.
That’s the main station in Purgatory. It’s also an unavoidable time suck. Worshippers hang out around that Pulpitum 24-7, waiting for a glimpse of their Scala Mother and her handsome Consort. Some even make up little dolls that look like me. It’s way gross. Plus, there’s no way my boobs and butt are that big.
“Activating Pulpitum,” I say. “In 3, 2, 1.”
With a lurch, the platform speeds deep into the ground. I hold on tighter to Lincoln because factor number one, my inner lust demon enjoys it. But there’s also factor number two, which is how dirt, magma, and geodes fly past us as we magically race underground. After my recent encounter with Inferno, I’ll keep my distance from lava, thank you very much.
Another heaving motion rocks the platform as we reach Pulpitum VII. The station looks as it always does: a round Roman-style temple that’s filled with nut jobs. Quasis are everywhere, but so is the Senatorial Guard, so Lincoln and I don’t get mobbed.
Keeping a regiment at this Pulpitum was Cissy’s boyfriend Zeke’s idea, since he runs Purgatory’s Guards these days. Cissy was the one who decided to always have a limo waiting outside, just in case. Right now, they both seem like freaking geniuses. We’d never get to my parents’ house if we had to deal with this crowd solo.
Even with the guards creating a makeshift path through the masses, there’s no missing all the cries of let me touch you, Scala Mother. For the record, I have a strict no touchie policy. Other small groups sing versions of Kumbaya with messed-up lyrics—that’s always a crowd favorite. Some older lady asks me to bless her toothbrush. And with that, I’m so done.
Get me out of here.
Normally, my parents’ house is not my favorite hang out. Mom and Dad’s place was built by ghouls back when they ran Purgatory, so the place is a cross between a Goth haunted house and a high-tech superstore. However, the way I’m feeling now?
Ghoul McMansion, here I come!
Even with the guards and limo, it’s a lot of drama to get through the crowds and downtown traffic. In the end, it’s 1:07 p.m. when Lincoln and I knock on my parents’ front door. I know this because I’ve been obsessively checking Walker’s watch. It’s still only telling the time—no countdowns yet—so that’s good. There’s bad news as well, though. Lifting my arm, I show Lincoln the device.
“Does this watch face look cockeyed to you?” I ask for the twentieth time. “Inferno did stomp on the thing. I hope she didn’t break it.”
Lincoln sets his hand gently over my wrist, covering the watch. On the ride over, I kept revisiting about telling the time versus giving a countdown. Lincoln has been Captain Calm about the whole thing.
“It does look strange,” says Lincoln soothingly. “However, there’s nothing we can do until Cissy arrives.”
“Right.” Cissy is a techie, or what passes for one in Purgatory.
At this point, the front door opens a crack, showing a slice of my mother’s face. Her pointer finger crosses her lips in the universal symbol for quiet. My eyes widen. In all the excitement about Walker, I forgot that it’s naptime for Maxon.
I mirror the shh face back to my mother. “Is Maxon asleep?” I whisper.
Mom lifts her brows to make her what are you, crazy? face. Which makes sense. Maxon has never been a good sleeper. Someone’s probably trying to get him to nap, and considering how Mom’s answering the door in her Presidential purple skirt-suit, that someone is likely to be my father.
This ought to be good.
Lincoln and I tiptoe into the main foyer. Like most of the house, it’s all gray wallpaper and black granite floors. One of these days, I’ll sneak in here with yellow paint and go to town. The current ghoul-created décor is just bleak.
Once Lincoln and I are inside, Mom silently closes the front door behind us. Not for the first time, I’m struck by how she and I look exactly alike—auburn hair, amber skin, long black tail, lots of curves—only Mom has more wisdom lines and a streak of white hair at her temple. Love that hair streak, by the way. I am so rocking that look when I get older.
Now that I know Maxon’s safe with my father, I return to my main obsession for the day.
“Mom, we have to tell you something.” It’s an effort to keep speaking in a whisper. “Lucas and Cissy are coming over. There’s trouble with Walker.”
Mom gently rests her hand on my shoulder. Suddenly, it strikes me that this touch is yet another in a long line of calm down, Myla style moves that I’ve been receiving lately. Normally, nothing gets me jittery. As in zero. If anything, I bypass whiny and go straight to all-out rage. What can I say? It works for me.
Not today.
Turns out, the very idea of losing Walker time-warps me back to the ripe old age of twelve, when the ghouls first chucked me onto the Arena floor to kill a demon. Back then, the pre-Presidential version of Mom sat in the front row, yelling ‘baby don’t diiiiiiiiie!’ at the top of her lungs. All I wanted to do was cry until snot strings came out of my nose. Then I saw Walker hanging out in a nearby access tunnel. He shot me a hearty thumbs-up. The urge to weep went right out of me.
In that moment, I realized something. Walker’s right. I’m about to kick ass. My inner wrath demon woke up; I made my first kill. Now, some deep part of my soul seems tied to Walker’s strength.
How can anyone survive losing a brother?
Mom gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Myla,” she whispers. “Are the after-realms about to implode right this very second?”
“This very second?” I whisper back. “No.”
“Good,” replies Mom. She then glances meaningfully between me and Lincoln. “You two need to learn to pace yourself. Take time to savor beautiful moments. Trust me, you have one right now.”
For the first time, I notice how Mom’s carrying her heels in her left hand. In her stocking feet, she tiptoes away down an access hallway. I frown. This passage leads to my parents’ offices, not Maxon’s bedroom.
I shoot Lincoln a confused look. The question is there, although it’s unasked: why are we sneaking over to my parents’ offices?
In reply, Lincoln winks, takes my hand once more, and nods toward my mother’s retreating form. He doesn’t need to say his answer, either. I can guess his reply: I have my suspicions but I won’t tell you. Don’t worry. This will be good.
One thing I’ve learned about marriage. Silent communication is awesome.
Mom peeps through the doorway leading to Dad’s office. Lincoln and I steal up behind her. Fortunately, the angle of the threshold means that we can easily see Dad, but he can’t see us.
What I witness in his office is so sweet, my eyes start to water.
My fa
ther has reorganized the room to have a military briefing. All his mismatched chairs face one wall. And on that wall, Dad has taped up a bunch of images cut from magazines or hand-drawn on sheets of notebook paper.
Maxon sits front and center, his pudgy little legs hanging off the edge of Dad’s favorite suede chair. My son may only be six months old, but he’s as large and smart as a toddler. Right now, Maxon wears nothing but his diaper and a goofy smile. He always reminds me of a cherub, what with his brown hair, huge eyes, and bow shaped mouth. Right now, Maxon looks especially angelic since he’s out of his mind with joy. Why? In his left fist, my boy grips a full and peeled banana.
Uh-oh.
Clearly, my parents have no idea what kind of havoc my child can wreak with nothing but a raw banana. They’re about to find out.
I nibble my thumbnail and consider the options. Sure, I could warn Mom about the impending banana-pocalypse. That said, wasn’t she the one who said to savor the moment?
Well, I’ll enjoy the Hell out of this.
My father paces a short line before Maxon. Dad wears a classic gray suit, blue tie, and starched white shirt. It sets off his cocoa-colored skin, brown hair, and bright blue eyes. Dad looks impeccable as he gestures to the various drawings on the wall.
Mom glances over her shoulder and winks. “Battle briefing,” she whispers. “Fourth try.”
I smile my face off. Dad is General of the Angelic Army. This is getting waaaaaaay good.
Nodding, Lincoln leans against the wall, a grin on his face to match Maxon’s. My husband is definitely settling in for the show. I scooch closer to Lincoln; he wraps his hands around my waist.
What a moment indeed.
Damn, I wish we had a video camera. Or at least, one that didn’t weigh a hundred pounds and need a fork lift to bring into the room.
Note to self: charm Cissy into getting us some decent tech to record our kid.
Pausing before Maxon, Xavier clasps his hands behind his back. “Now, soldiers, I mean, baby Maxon. Today’s target is a nap.” Dad turns to the wall of images. “Let’s begin with some context. You may wonder—why do we have naptime?” Dad points to a taped-up picture of me and Lincoln. “You must rest so you can grow up healthy and strong like your parents. Do we understand each other?”
After jamming banana into his mouth, my son then sets the half-eaten remainder atop dad’s favorite—and very expensive—suede chair. Having set aside his snack, Maxon slides off the chair and toddles over to my father. His little voice rings out. “Pop Pops.”
My father’s eyes glisten. “Oh, Maxon.”
Maxon lumbers up to Dad. My little boy raises his arms as if asking to be carried, but I’ve seen this move before. Maxon does not want to be picked up. Nope.
Instead, my boy wipes off his banana-covered hands on Xavier’s new Armani suit pants. It’s a really good hit, too: mid-thigh right down to his knees. That crap won’t come out. I’ve tried.
Le sigh. I’ve lost three outfits that way myself.
His work done, Maxon then toddles back to his chair. Leaning over the cushion, my boy tries hauling himself back up to sitting. That doesn’t happen. Maxon only manages to grind more banana into Dad’s custom-made furniture.
Lincoln and I share a sly smile. We lost pricey chairs this way, too.
Sighing, Dad scoops up Maxon and resets him on the chair. With his little soldier back in place, Dad returns to pointing at the wall.
“Now,” announces my father. “Let’s review our plan of attack. First, we’ll finish our snack. That would be your banana.”
Maxon mushes some of said banana into his ear. “Pop Pops.”
“Second, we’ll read a book.” Turning away from Maxon, Dad points to various hand-dawn book covers taped to the wall. Our choices today are Goodnight Moon or Why We Poop. But our reading selection doesn’t need to be finalized at this time. That can be a field call. Are you still with me, Maxon?”
Dad turns back around. Maxon is now smooshing banana into his hair. And his diaper. And more deeply into the expensive chair.
Guilt finally gets the better of me. I tap Mom on the shoulder. “Sorry about your chair.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Are you kidding?” she whispers. “I love this.”
Back at the briefing, Dad points to a cutout image of a rocking chair. “After we accomplish book time, you and I will rock while singing a song. This can be The Battle Hymn Of The Republic or Row, Row, Row, Your Boat. I don’t know other tunes. Although…” Dad taps his chin for a moment. “I do know Rock-A-Bye Baby. Maybe that’s been the missing part of our plan.” Pulling a pen from an inner pocket of his suit coat, Dad adds the words Rock-A-Bye Baby onto the sheet with other songs.
While my father’s scribbling away, Maxon slides off the chair yet again. This time, he toddles out a side door. My son hasn’t noticed me, Lincoln, or Mom yet. I figure I’ve got about twenty seconds before Lincoln or I need to chase after Maxon. My son has a gift for destroying things.
Dad finishes his writing. “Fourth and finally, you will go to sleep. Do we all understand the plan?” Dad turns around, but Maxon is gone. My father scans the room and his gaze lands on me. His face brightens into a white-toothed smile. “Myla! Lincoln!”
I give him a little wave. “Hi, Dad!”
Maxon now toddle-runs back into the room. “No seepie, no seepie.” To translate from Maxon-speak, that means no sleeping, no sleeping. The phrase is really cute until it’s three o’clock in the morning.
The doorbell rings. Mom slips on her heels. “That must be Cissy and Lucas.” She steps off to answer the door.
Maxon runs around in a small circle, continuing his chant. “No seepie, no seepie.”
Dad rakes his hands through his hair. “Who am I kidding?” He slouches onto one of the nearby, banana-free chairs. “This is the fifth suit I’ve changed into today. The others got whacked with chocolate, yogurt, applesauce, and sharpie.” Dad gestures toward the wall. “My briefings are a failure. I have no idea how to raise a child.”
When you have a badass archangel general for a father, it’s more than a little endearing when he admits he can’t do something. I slip into the open briefing seat beside my father’s (also banana free).
“You’ll get it,” I say. “Maxon’s a little too young for the soldier routine, but you’ll figure it out.”
My father gestures between me and Lincoln. “You both seem to know what to do.”
“I’m glad we appear competent,” says Lincoln. “In reality, Myla and I are making it up as we go.”
Dad sits up straighter. “Really?”
“Oh yeah.” I shrug. “We tried baby books and stuff, but there’s no book for Maxon.”
Dad rubs his forehead slowly. “So, you got into the field and improvised. I’ve had missions like those.”
“That’s the idea,” says Lincoln.
Maxon stops running in a circle to plunk onto the floor. This is our cue to step in. I give Dad a reassuring smile. “For now, why don’t Lincoln and I put Maxon down for his nap?”
“And maybe give him a quick bath,” adds Lincoln.
Dad brightens. “That sounds like a great idea. I’ll put on another suit.”
Twenty minutes and one bath later, Lincoln and I are in the baby room that Mom and Dad set up for Maxon. Our child appears absolutely manic with alertness as he grips one edge of his crib and jumps in time with his favorite chant.
“No seepie! No seepie!”
“How long do you give him?” I ask.
Lincoln purses his lips. “About 47 seconds.”
Maxon stops jumping and reaches for me. “Momma boo.”
In Maxon-speak, boo stands for beautiful. Momma boo means my mommy is beautiful. That is so freaking adorable, I think one of my ovaries just exploded.
Maxon turns to Lincoln. “Daddy boo.”
Lincoln pulls me against his side. I lean my head against my husband’s shoulder. Mom is right; we need to savor these moments.
&
nbsp; “Maxon boo,” says Lincoln in a gentle voice.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaand I just ovulated again.
Gripping the crib once more, Maxon resumes his baby Cirque Du Baby performance. “No seepie! No seepie! No—”
And with that, my kid falls over into a dead sleep. Beautiful. In fact, the moment is so lovely, I can’t imagine anything but good stuff happening from now on.
“You know what?” I ask.
Lincoln kisses the top of my head. “Do tell.”
“By now, I figure Walker has already saved Drayden. Plus, I bet Walker has those magical gauntlets in his possession and has gone off to his so-called disappearing place. But now Lucas and Cissy will pull every last bit of information out of my watch. We’ll find out where Walker is hiding. Everything will be fine.”
Lincoln kisses the top of my head once more. “I bet you’re right.”
Purple light pulses from my watch. This is no normal tech light, either: it’s bright enough to make me wince. A small poof of violet smoke follows. The mini cloud twinkles with supernatural light as it wafts up from my wrist. No question about it.
My watch just launched another magic spell.
Please, don’t let it be the countdown.
It takes a major force of will, but I make myself lift my arm and examine the watch face. Sure enough, the time is gone. Instead, new letters and numbers appear on the device.
Twenty one hours, fifty-nine minutes, twenty-two seconds.
The countdown has begun.
Chapter 11
A few minutes later, Lincoln and I step into my parents’ kitchen. The room is wall-to-wall gadgets and stainless steel. Like I said, ghouls love technology. Everyone’s seated around our long table, including Mom, Dad, Lucas, and Cissy. My bestie is still in her Senatorial robes; we must have pulled her out of an official function. Lucas is in his long wizard robes. He’s an older dude with olive skin and long gray dreads.
Lincoln and I say our hellos—including an extra-long hug for Ciss—and then we take our seats at the metal table. A long pause follows. For a second, it’s like I’ve time-warped back to the Arena again. I’m twelve and frightened. Then I picture my honorary older brother shooting me that encouraging thumbs-up. Maybe I can’t save Walker and Drayden, but I can keep trying.
The Dark Lands Page 6