An image flashes in my mind. The look on Octavia’s face when she first spied me on the battle practice grounds in Purgatory. “Me and Lincoln teaming up against Acca. You’ve been planning this all along, haven’t you?”
“Of course, child. I should’ve thought that obvious.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Not that obvious.”
“Give it time, you’ll learn the chess game that is statecraft in Antrum. Besides, the two of you are so well suited. I can’t imagine a better match for my son.”
“Wow. Thanks.” My blush returns, a little deeper this time. Octavia’s never said sweet stuff like this before. Makes me feel all squishy inside.
“By the way,” adds Octavia. “Any luck getting your powers returned?”
“Not yet, but I’m not worried. It looks like Adair has to agree to give me my igni back, but I’ll wheedle them out of her. I still have plenty left to do the iconigration tomorrow, and that’s the important thing.”
“As long as you’re confident, then I’m pleased.” She kisses my cheek. “See you in the ballroom.”
A nervous twinge rolls up my belly. That’s right. The ballroom. I need to finish getting ready and how.
“I’ll see you there, Octavia. And thanks for throwing the Ball in the first place.”
Laughter hides in her mismatched eyes. “Liar. You hate formal events. But I appreciate a well-intentioned fib, same as the next woman. You can come out now, Clover.” Octavia whips through the door; it closes behind her with a soft click.
My ladies’ maid peeps her head in from the bedroom. “Your Highness?”
“She’s gone.”
Clover lets out a visible sigh of relief. “Our Queen is not a little frightening.”
“Oh, she’s pretty cool when you get to know her.”
“My, my. I’ve lost track of time. We don’t want you to be late.” Clover rushes to stand behind me again. “Where were we? I’m afraid the royal visit has me a little flustered.”
“That’s fine, Clover.” I scan the dressing table in front of me and its overwhelming landscape of bottles. There can’t be much left to do. I check off my beauty-accomplishments on my fingertips. “First, make-up’s finished. Second, hair’s done. Third, my Scala robes are on. All I need is my over-gown, am I right?”
More knocks sound. Clover frowns. “Now, who can that be?” She rushes over to the door. “Who calls upon the Great Scala?”
No answer.
“I said, who calls upon the Great Scala?”
Still, no reply.
A creepy feeling makes the hairs along my arms stand on end. Something about this feels off.
Clover pauses a moment longer, and then shrugs. “Ah, well. There’s always a new servant getting lost in the Arx. Where were we?” Clover claps her hands together at her waist. “Ah, I have it now. Your over-gown. I’ll fetch it.” She disappears into the walk-in closet, followed by much rustling of fabric. “I know they delivered it earlier today. One minute, please.”
“No worries.”
To kill time, I step to the window and look out on the Rixa lands beyond. Nothing less than gorgeous. I pictured Antrum as a series of tiny and dark caves, but that’s not true when it comes to Rixa territory. The caverns here are massive and filled with white light. Columns of opaque crystals scale up the walls at funky angles. The ceiling’s lined with the hexagon-ends of those same glassy white stones, making an artsy, uneven pattern. A loose forest of white crystal trees extends below my window.
I watch the scenery another minute before I get bored. Looking out windows isn’t my thing, really. Besides, I do need to get ready. I change my focus from the external Rixa lands, looking instead at the reflection of my room’s interior.
What I find mirrored in the windowpane surprises me to the core.
There, reflected in the glass, I see Clover still standing by the closet door. But that’s not what truly astounds me. It’s her eyes. Moments ago, they were the classic-thrax mismatch of brown and blue. Now, they glow bright red. Demon eyes.
A mixture of terror and shock press in on my lungs, making it hard for me to breathe. This can’t be happening. Impossible.
Clover speaks to me in a creepy, monotone voice. “Don’t you look pretty?” With every lifeless word she speaks, a fresh chill rolls through my belly.
Spinning around, I face her once again, only to find that her irises have returned to their mismatched state. No demonic light at all. Shock squeezes the air from my chest once again.
I force myself to speak, despite my panting breaths. “What did you just say to me?”
“Did I say something?” Clover’s face looks so round and innocent, it’s hard to imagine the demon-red eyes I saw a moment ago. I wish I could find that comforting, but the realization only rockets my anxiety higher.
“So sorry,” gushes Clover. “I must have daydreamed there for a moment. The Queen’s visit has me all a-flutter. Where was I, again?”
Remember to breathe, Myla. Stay calm.
I watch her carefully, like she’ll burst into demon-from at any second. “The over-gown.”
“Right, right. Won’t be moment.” She disappears into the closet.
I pace in front of the window, my mind trying to process this latest turn of events. Clover eyes turned red while she spoke in a strange monotone. That reminds me of something—maybe more than one thing—but with so much going on, I can’t place the memory. My warrior sense rails through me, strong as an electric current.
Danger, Myla.
A fresh knock sounds from across the room, followed by a familiar-but-muffled voice. “You’re late, my dear.”
I rush over and open the door, finding a portly woman in a simple black gown. It’s Bera, Octavia’s handmaiden. I haven’t seen her since the last thrax tournament, when she helped me with my armor.
“Bera. So nice to see you.” Actually, it’s not all that nice. I’d rather have a few minutes of quiet to sort things out, but the look in Bera’s mismatched eyes says that won’t happen. My hands ball into frustrated fists. After what I just saw, I can’t rush off to the Ball. “I need a few minutes.”
“You need to leave. Queen’s orders. Can’t be late.” Bera pats her grey hair, checking that it’s all in place. “They only play the fanfare once, and tonight, it’s for you. If you miss that trumpet music, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Right.” Octavia’s only warned me about the fanfare a hundred times. I rise to my feet and head towards the door. “We better go.”
“You wearing them robes tonight? I thought the Queen made you an over-gown.”
A queasy feeling settles into my stomach. Clover’s eyes plus the missing betrothal jewels add up to trouble. Somehow, Antrum is unsafe. And if I have to face trouble, then I don’t want to do it in a fancy over-gown. No, I want my Scala robes only, so I’m ready to transform them into armor at a moment’s notice. Resolve steels through me, straightening my back and shoulders.
“No, I’m going Scala traditional tonight.”
Bera eyes me for a long moment. “Fair enough. They’ll be plenty of other Balls for you.” She reaches her plump hand towards me. “Let’s go.”
I take her hand and smile, but inside, my warrior sense still screams.
Danger, Myla. Danger, Danger.
Chapter Seventeen
I stand on a high platform, staring down into the Crystal Ballroom of Arx Hall. A thousand thrax partygoers fill the floor below me. And the rest of the chamber? When they say crystal, they aren’t kidding. This ballroom is one giant geode made of luminous white stone. Crystal clusters jut down from the ceiling, serving as chandeliers. Subtle beams of light dance through everything.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, anxiety zooming through me. Any second now, I’ll be announced as the guest of honor for tonight’s Ball of Welcome. Unfortunately, thoughts other than the Ball keep popping into my head. Like the weirdness back in my chambers with Clover. What was that, anyway? Why do her
red eyes and strange voice keep triggering something in my mind?
Searching for a distraction, I scan the thrax below me. The men are in velvet tunics and their ladies wear long matching gowns. They’re all so prim, proper, and color-coded by House. If I were about to fight them, I’d be totally calm. But coming here to dance and make small talk? It’s way overwhelming.
I come to a quick decision. I’m having a mega case of the jitters, which is why I keep thinking about Clover. Mystery solved.
A blare of trumpet music interrupts my thoughts. A few yards away, a Herald in a black Rixa tunic plays on his silver instrument. No question what that means. The Ball has officially begun.
Hells Bells.
My stomach and heart decide that now’s a great time to swap places. As a result, I can’t decide if I want to puke or have a coronary.
The Herald lowers his trumpet and launches into a lot of ceremonial blah-blah-blah before ending with: “Please join me in welcoming our guest of Honor, Myla Lewis, the Greatest Warrior in Antrum, and the Great Scala of Purgatory.”
I carefully pick my way down the slippery crystal steps, trying to look regal and cool. A chorus of whispers sound from the ballroom floor. I hear the words Soul Processing, Purgatory, High Prince and Angelbound. There’s also a lot of repetition in there, namely Demon, Demon, Demon, and Demon.
Not a shocker.
When we first met, Lincoln had some serious issues about my quasi-demon heritage. Most thrax are trained to kill anyone with a drop of demonic blood on sight. It took a while for us to move past my quasi side. Looks like his people still have a lot of moving left to go.
The staircase isn’t nearly as tricky as it looks, and I make it to the floor without tumbling. There, Lincoln stands, wearing his traditional Rixa tunic, chain mail, and crown. For a moment, and I soak in every aspect of his face. Strong bone structure, full mouth, firm jawline, and mismatched eyes that glisten with excitement. No one’s ever looked at me the way Lincoln does. Like I’m the most beautiful, intelligent, sexy, kick-ass warrior chick in the after-realms. My tummy gets all fluttery.
I cross my fingers on my right hand. Demon-phobes or not, I can’t help but hope that his people like me, just a little.
“Shall we say our hellos?” asks Lincoln. It’s so obvious that he can’t wait to introduce me around. My tummy-flutters grow more intense.
“Sure thing.”
He wraps my hand around his forearm. “The Earls and Duchesses are anxious to meet you.”
I vaguely remember that I was worried about something before, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what it was.
As we walk along, I inspect the audience for any sign of Mom and Dad. Nothing. Octavia’s been hounding them about when to show up and what to wear. Actually, I was pretty surprised when they weren’t standing at the bottom of the staircase, snapping pictures while telling embarrassing stories about me to random passers-by.
Where are my parents, anyway? They live for crap like this.
I keep watching the crowds, hoping to pick out Mom and Dad. They keep not being here at all. A gloomy weight settles into my bones. Maybe they aren’t coming.
“Have you seen my parents?”
“Not yet. They might have gotten held up.”
“Could be.” Knowing my parents are MIA, I scan for the other key members of my personal life. “I don’t see Cissy or Walker, either.”
There’s the slightest catch in Lincoln’s stride. I know my guy well enough to realize that means he’s concerned. “Neither do I.”
A group of ghouls step by, all of them wearing long black robes, the cowls drawn low over their faces. I can tell that one of them is Adair’s Diplomat buddy because of his pronounced limp. I so wish that creep had been at the warehouse when we arrested Adair. Would’ve been great to lock him up, too.
One of the ghouls steps off in our direction. Judging by the height and frame, it could be Walker, only he never wears his cowl down.
The mystery ghoul steps up to our side. “Glad I could catch you two.”
I exhale a sigh of relief. That particular voice is unmistakable. “Walker, it’s you. Why don’t you pull up your cowl?”
“Don’t say my name, no one knows I’m here.” Walker speaks in an urgent whisper. “Listen closely, we don’t have much time. The transfer stations are on lock-down.”
All the oxygen seems to get sucked out of the ballroom. Transfer stations on lock-down? That means no going in and out of Antrum.
“How did the stations go on lock-down?” Lincoln’s careful to keep his voice low. “I didn’t approve that.”
“I thought as much,” says Walker.
“Did Mother or Father sign off on this?”
“No, I don’t know how it happened,” explains Walker. “That’s the problem. The ghouls that I’m following around, they keep babbling on about a secret scheme that launches tonight. I’m trying to find out what it is. As long as they think I’m an average ghoul, they may open up.”
Everyone knows Walker and Lincoln are friends. He can’t keep talking to us, or the ghouls will get suspicious…And we’ll miss any chance to learn about this secret scheme.
“Are Mom, Dad, and Cissy alright?”
“They’re fine, but they’re getting the runaround at the Purgatory transfer station. Camilla’s about to call in the military. I snuck off and got in through my back-doors.”
Bit by bit, Walker’s news seeps into my brain. My parents and Cissy really aren’t coming, and it’s all part of some secret plan to ruin my big night. My gloomy mood deepens.
Lincoln lightly touches Walker’s arm. “You better go.”
Walker steps away and merges into the crowd.
“Well, that news is a whole lot of awful,” I say. “Some scheme to keep my family away. Nice.”
“I suspected something was off when we transferred into Arx Hall yesterday. All the non-Acca agents at Transfer Central seem to keep falling ill. No doubt, they’re trying to ruin tonight for you. My apologies, Myla.”
“Hey, it’s not your fault.” I decide that now is a really good time to stare at my sandals.
Suddenly, I feel very alone, lost in a sea of faces that don’t want me here. Sadness presses in around me. I hope the transfer stations open up soon, because at this point, I’d really like to go home.
“What’s wrong?” asks Lincoln.
“Nothing.”
“It’s a big something, your nothing.” He runs his thumb along my jawline. “Transfer stations got you down?”
“Maybe.”
“Come here, you.” Lincoln wraps me in his arms, kissing me in a way that’s slow, gentle, and all-around perfect. I open my eyes, feeling a blush crawl up my cheeks. Half the ballroom is staring at us.
“What was that for?”
“For you’re wonderful.” He cups my face in his hands, and all the love in the world rests in his eyes. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks or does. You’re meeting my nobility tonight and one day, I’m making you my Queen. Believe that, Myla.”
“You know what? You said that once before and yes, I totally believe it.” A tingly sense of joy shifts across my skin. What do I care about the rest of the world? Screw Acca. There’s Lincoln. He’s what’s important about tonight, and he’s right beside me.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Lincoln leans in close and whispers in my ear. “How about we start working the ballroom like we’re having the time of our lives? That’ll really frustrate Acca.”
“Oooooooh, I like this concept. A lot.”
At that moment, the Rixa Herald plays another tune from his post atop the stairs. Lincoln and I share a confused glance. As the guest of honor, I’m the only one who should get a fanfare. Octavia only drilled it into my head a thousand times.
The Herald lowers his trumpet, and for a second I see his irises glow red. I suck in a shocked breath. This can’t be happening. I grip Lincoln’s arm more tightly. “Did you see that?”
His voic
e takes on a menacing edge. “Yes, I did.”
Up on the platform, the Herald’s eyes return to a mismatch of brown and blue. He gazes at the trumpet by his lips, the lines of his face slack with confusion. For a full minute, he stares at the instrument as if he isn’t sure how it got by his mouth.
Unholy Hell. That’s the same thing that happened with Clover. Red eyes, weird behavior, and finally, confusion.
Seconds tick by as everyone stares at the top platform, waiting for someone or something to appear.
Before, I struggled to find the pattern in Clover’s red eyes and strange actions. Now, those mental connections quickly snap into place. There’s the thrax reporter whose eyes flashed demon red…Erik speaking in a creepy monotone at the warehouse…the Durus getting red eyes and turning from a killing machine into a lumbering dodo…and both Clover and the Herald having red eyes, creepy voices, and later, no memory of either happening.
Each time these odd things took place, Adair was either there or could easily have been lurking nearby. Plus, Dad once said that demon blood gives extra abilities. What if Adair has gained the demonic power of possession? If so, she must only possess demons and thrax. Otherwise, she could’ve walked away from our sting.
A chilly realization seeps into my stomach. Supposing all this is true, what’s keeping Adair in prison now? She could easily possess her thrax jailers.
My hands tremble as I grip Lincoln’s arm more tightly. “I know who’s behind all this. It’s—”
“Adair,” finishes Lincoln. He gestures towards the top of the staircase. What I see makes my jaw fall open with shock.
At the top platform stands Adair, wearing a smug grin and fake Scala robes. Two prison guards flank either side of her, the visors on their crimson armor pulled down to hide their faces. No doubt, under those helmets, the guards’ eyes are bright red. Possessed. Afterwards, the poor suckers don’t remember a thing that Adair made them do.
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