Scala (16 page)

I take her hand and smile, but inside, my warrior sense still screams.

Danger, Myla. Danger, Danger.

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 voice 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.

Wish I could say the same for me.

No question. This is the secret mission that Adair's ghoul buddies were talking about before. She's crashing my Ball of Welcome in order to…Do what, exactly?

I automatically go into battle stance. Feet set wide apart, tail arched high. Whatever's coming, it can't be good.

Adair raises her arms high above her head. “My people! I've been cleared of all charges!” She parades slowly down the staircase. “I come to you today as the True Scala.”

A collective gasp rises from the crowd. I let out a low groan. How can I wonder what she's up to? It's the same thing she's wanted all along: to be the Great Scala, Lincoln's bride and Queen of the thrax. I square my shoulders, ready to march over and kick her ass. After all, that's what I do best.

Octavia beats me to it. Fast as a heartbeat, she pushes through the crowd to stand at the base of the stairs. “Knights! Take her back to jail, immediately.”

The red-armored Knights don't even flinch.

My upper lip curls with a mix of disgust and dread. The Knights not acknowledging Octavia? That's so not-good for our side.

Undeterred, Octavia steps closer to Adair. “What's the meaning of this? You should be in prison, not breaking into someone else's Ball of Welcome.”

Got to hand it to Octavia. She doesn't miss a beat.

I speak to Lincoln in a low voice. “Should I go over there?”

“No, give Mother a chance. This is better coming from one of our own.”

“Understood.” If anyone commands respect in Antrum, it's Octavia.

“My poor, sweet Queen,” coos Adair. “My confession was forced by demon magic. That's why the Dungeon Knights have set me free. Please, don't believe what that demon girl has told you. I am the True Scala. I can prove it.” With a snap of her fingers, Adair makes a handful of igni appear, their tiny bodies hovering about like fireflies. The crowd gasps again, but this time with awe.

Octavia quickly scans the audience, the wheels of her mind turning at super-speed. The slightest droop sets into her stance, and I know she's come to the same conclusion that I have. It isn't going to be easy to get rid of Adair. I may be the Great Scala, but I'm also a quasi-demon. Adair's thrax. The people want to believe her.

Frustration makes me clench my fists so hard, my fingernails bite into my palms. I shouldn't let it bother me that the thrax judge me based on my tail, but damn it, it totally does bother me.

Adair walks across the ballroom floor, making a beeline for Lincoln and me. The Dungeon Knights march stiffly on either side of her. I remember how badass and agile the Knights were when we captured Adair. Now, they move with the same clunky movements as the Durus.

Huh.

Adair must be puppeteering folks, but it looks like her control skills are rather clumsy. A happy-sneaky feeling lightens my tummy, like the day I snagged two of my ghoul-teachers making out on the sly and thought…This little bit of info may come in handy one day.

As Adair saunters closer, more and more thrax part before her. Some even bow. Others whisper True Scala in reverent tones.

My sense of frustration boils over into outright anger. Heat pools behind my eyes; my irises flare demon red. There's only one True Scala, folks, and she has a tail. Get over it.