Angelbound (42 page)

I’d face-palm myself if it didn’t make me look dumber. That was about the worst speech in the history of ever.

Lincoln’s face is unreadable. “May I ask a question?”

I pretend that it’s very important to check for dust on my ghoul robes. Anything not to look in his eyes at this point. “Sure.”

“Do you love me?”

Holy cow! I did not see that coming, at all. “Um, well, I…”

Fuuuuuuuuuck
. I have no idea what to say right now.

“Alright, I’ll ask a different question.” His face stays still as stone. I have no idea what he’s thinking and damn, that’s annoying. “When did this happen?”

Okay,
that
question I know how to answer.

“It’s been happening for a while, but I didn’t know it. The ceremony at the Arena actually awakened me, not Adair. Then, I was angelbound last night when we—” I bite my lower lip.

Lincoln watches me for a long minute, then his mouth does something impossible: erupt into the biggest grin I’ve ever seen. He rushes toward me, wraps his arms around my waist, and pulls me against him. “That’s wonderful,
Myla.”

Wait a minute.

I look at Lincoln out of my right eye. This is unbelievable. “So, you’re not worried about what I just said?”

“No. Should I be?”

Although it’s not in my best interest, I’m not dropping this point for some reason. “But I have to go into hiding. Who knows when I’ll resurface? Don’t you want to, you know, move on?”

He grips my waist tighter, spinning me around in a circle. I can’t help but laugh. He kisses me once, gently. “Of course, not. You’ve made me very happy.”

At those words, the light bulb in my brain clicks to ‘on.’

“You just heard blah-blah-blah ‘getting angelbound means Myla loves me like crazy’ blah-blah-blah. Am I right?”

“Yes.” We’re so close, I can feel his heart beat against my chest. “And I love you too, Myla. Like crazy.” His mouth brushes along my jawline. Desire churns through me. “Now you say it back to me.”

I stifle a grin. He can be such a hot bastard sometimes. “I love you, Lincoln.”

“There now. The rest of it doesn’t matter.” His hand cups the back of my head, gently guiding my lips onto his. Our mouths meet in a slow kiss. My knees go all wobbly again.

“Ahem.” A voice sounds from across the room.

Lincoln frowns. “That would be Mother.”

Did he just say ‘mother?’
My face burns about a thousand shades of red. “I
didn’t hear anyone come in.” I pull my hood low and take a huge step away from Lincoln. “Does she always sneak around like that?”

“Pretty much.”

I pat my cheeks; my killer blush isn’t going away any time soon. This wasn’t how I pictured the Queen finding out about me and Lincoln. I was hoping for more of a ‘let’s meet up after battle practice’ scenario versus her catching us snogging in the dark. Ugh. Not to mention my new powers. Lincoln may not mind that I’m the Scala Heir, but who knows what his parents will say?

Octavia stands by the closed door, her body stiff and tall in a black velvet gown, her brown hair pulled back into a twist. “It seems we’ve much to discuss. This way.”

I stand in the center of the feasting hall, my body perfectly still. A knot of emotion forms in my throat. I keep telling myself to walk and my stubborn self keeps ignoring me. An official audience with the King and Queen? Right this very second? I’ve already had a ‘very special’ twenty-four hours as it is.

Lincoln steps up behind me, setting his firm hands on my shoulders. His mouth brushes the shell of my ear. “We can do this.”

I wrap my fingers with Lincoln’s, feeling the warmth of his skin.
Yes, we can do this.
Together, we open the door and cross the threshold, following Octavia to a massive tent made of black tapestry woven with silver eagles. Tall wooden poles hold the structure upright, each topped with a line of thin golden banners. A guard in black armor stands by the entrance flap.

Octavia wags a finger at him. “No one gets within twenty yards of this place,
no matter what.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

The Queen turns to me. “We use this for official audiences.” Flipping about, she disappears into the folds of the tent.

Once Octavia’s gone, Lincoln grips my hand. “Just a minute, Myla.” He pulls me out of earshot of the guard, stopping a few yards from the tent entrance.

I stare into Lincoln’s mismatched eyes, my head tilting to one side. “What’s wrong?”

He gently sets his hand on my shoulder, his thumb rubbing my skin in a soothing motion. “I don’t want you to be surprised. My father may be a little gruff with you.”

I suck in a fast breath. That little factoid was a shocker. Suddenly I’m very happy about the mini-shoulder massage I’m getting. “Why? He doesn’t know me.”

Lincoln smirks. “You’re the greatest warrior in Antrum, everyone knows you.”

I mock-frown. “That’s not what I mean.”

He glances about, searching for the right words to say. “My father’s looking for a reason to give in to Acca.”

Meaning he wants Lincoln to marry Adair…And me out of the way.
Oh, he’ll be a little gruff, alright. My upper lip curls. “Do we
have
to do this?” My voice came out a little whiny there.

Lincoln winds his arm around my back, the other wraps about my shoulder. Drawing me to him, he sets his mouth on mine.
Oh, yes.
His lips are everything
soft, warm, and delicious. We kiss slowly, deeply. The rest of the universe disappears. Lincoln’s hand pushes into the small of my back, then slowly slides around my waist to my belly. My mind goes blank. What was he was asking again? Why wasn’t I saying yes?

Hey now, Myla.
Way to think with your hormones.

I break the kiss and do my best to frown. “Is that your way of talking me into this?”

He eyes me with that sly grin. “Yes.” His palm slides up the side of my torso, almost-just-maybe touching the swell of my breast.

Damn, damn, damn. He just talked me into this.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

He kisses the tip of my nose. “You won’t regret it.”

I try to swallow past the knot of emotion that just formed in my throat. “Can I get that in writing?”

I stand inside a large square space filled with sturdy wooden chairs and tables. Iron chests and oriental rugs cover the floor. King Connor sits on a high-back chair in a black tunic, a sheet of parchment in his hand. His white hair hangs neatly to his shoulders. Octavia stands beside him.

The King rises to his feet, his face creasing into a smile as he greets his son. Connor’s basso voice rings out: “Hello, hello!” He lumbers over to Lincoln, wrapping him in a bear hug. It feels like a million years eke by as the King slowly turns to me. I grit my teeth and try to plaster on a smile.

“What’s this?” The King sets his meaty fists on his hips. “I wasn’t informed of any strangers coming to visit.” His voice drips with irritation.

Here it comes. The gruffness.

Lincoln grips my hand. “This is Myla, father. She’s the girl I’ve been telling you about.”

Telling you about?
My heart kicks in my chest. Lincoln’s been chatting me up
with his parents. My fake grin turns into a real one.

Connor leans back on one heel. “Yes, I remember.” His eyes narrow as he takes me in from head to toe. “You’re the quasi-demon.”

I open my mouth to correct him, but Lincoln gets there first. “Her name is Myla.” His tone has a protective edge. My grin grows wider. His protective side is hot.

The King lumbers back to his table, and then plunks his burly frame into a high-back chair. Octavia slides into the empty seat beside him. Lincoln and I stand a few yards away, hand in hand.

Connor lets out a long breath. “If you’re here, I assume the two of you are in
trouble
.” The way he says ‘trouble,’ I know he’s thinking one thing: I’m carrying Lincoln’s child.

Anger shoots through my body. Whoa there, asshole! I’m a lot of things. Pregnant isn’t one of them.

Octavia gasps. “Connor!”

He slaps the tabletop with him palms. “Well, they
are
in trouble, aren’t they?” He turns to me. “Aren’t
you
?”

That does it. What a nasty, arrogant, and insulting dickweed! My eyes flare red with rage. “That would be no, your Disgustingness.” My tone drips with venom. “Keep your dirty mind to yourself.”

Lincoln turns to me, his face twisted with worry. “Myla, what are you doing?” He leans in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “No one speaks to my father that way.”

My teeth grind. So we’re back to requiring ‘special words of reverence’ when speaking with thrax royalty, eh? I did
not
fight about this with Lincoln for three months solid just to cave in with his dear old dad. He’ll show me some respect, too.

I nod to Lincoln. “Don’t worry. I got this.” Closing my eyes, I pull back my hood, raise my hand, and call out to the igni. They appear faster than ever before, their music and laughter quickly drowning out anything else in my head. Their tiny bodies whirl about my hand, almost blocking my view of the tent’s interior.

I watch their light swirl about my fingertips, then I order them to break free.
Let’s show this King what trouble really is.
With a burst of laughter, they obey.

Moving in a small knot of bodies, the igni zoom about the tent, knocking over candlesticks and upending chairs. Like a great pinwheel, they spin about in the center of the room, faster and faster. A high-pitched hum fills the air and then—POOF—they all disappear.

I grin. How’s
that
for trouble?

An icy chill freezes my skin; my eyes glow bright blue. Opening them slowly, I glare directly at the King, speaking in the nastiest voice I can muster. “I’m the Scala Heir, Connor. I’m not
in
trouble.” My eyes blaze with blue fire. “I
am
trouble.”

The tent’s interior comes back into focus. Lincoln stands beside me, his body rigid and his expression unreadable. Octavia sits beside Connor’s chair, her face a stony mask. The King stares at me for a long minute, his features blank. I have to consciously stop myself from sticking my tongue out at him. Nyah.

The King breaks the silence by slamming his fist onto the wooden table. My body snaps into battle stance, my tail arched over my shoulder.
Want a piece of me?
I’d like to see you try, big guy.

“Well, well.” Connor’s great head wags from side to side. “I’ll be damned.” He breaks into peals of loud, deep, and rolling laughter.

He’s laughing? Really?!

I squint at the King. The igni must have short-circuited my senses; that can’t be actual guffaws. I turn to Lincoln, my face wrinkled with confusion. “Are we good here?”

Lincoln nods. “Oh, yeah. He’s loving this.” The Prince leans in closer, satisfaction and pride shining in his eyes. “Well played, Myla.” My insides turn all happy and squirmy as he gently kisses my cheek. I didn’t know I was playing a game, but it looks like I hit the masterstroke.

Connor rubs his eyes with his meaty fingers. “Lincoln, my boy. What a treasure you are.” The King points to me. “And you! A spitfire.” He gestures to the empty chairs across from him. “Have a seat, both of you. Let’s talk a bit, see what we can do here.” He looks to his left. “Octavia, I’m sure you’re behind this. At least in part?”

A ghost of a smile lurks about the Queen’s mouth. “Always, Connor.” She’s a crafty one, that’s for certain.

The Queen seats herself next to the King; I slip into the high-back chair beside Lincoln. Connor drums the tabletop with his palms. “It seems we have the Scala Heir with us today. What does that make Lady Adair?”

Octavia frowns. “A fraud. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Adair only showed Scala powers when Gianna was whispering nearby; such spells are nothing for the House of Striga.” The Queen clicks her tongue. “Gianna’s witchcraft could have changed Adair’s eyes as well.”

“The Houses of Acca and Striga have quarreled for centuries. Now they team up.” The King sighs. “Dark news.”

Lincoln’s eyes take on a steely hue. I know that look: he’s preparing to give bad news. “Their treachery has worsened. Striga asked to abandon the Alliance against Acca.”

The King scowls. “And
when
did they make this request?”

Lincoln’s features stay stone-cold calm. “Two days ago.”

Connor grits his teeth. The jovial king from a few seconds ago disappears. “Interesting that you waited until now to tell me, boy.” Little bits of spittle fly from his mouth as he speaks.

I sink a little lower in my chair.
Connor has serious mood issues.
One minute he’s happy, the next? Spitting mad.

“You know why I waited, father.” Lincoln positively oozes cool. “If I told you two days ago, you’d have done something rash. Now, we can consider the news about Striga in the context of what’s
really
important.” He laces his fingers through mine, and then sets both our hands on the tabletop with a thunk.

Whoa. Up until now, Lincoln and I have kept a friendly distance from each other in his father’s presence. With that particular move, Lincoln couldn’t have marked his territory more clearly than if he’d peed on a shrubbery.

The Prince’s voice sounds with a low and dangerous edge. “I thought you wanted to talk about me and Myla?” Under my palm, his skin is slick with sweat. Poor guy. He puts up a good face but this must be killing him inside. I give his hand a little squeeze.

The King growls out one word. “Perhaps.”

I hate to admit it, but I get how the King goes from happy to miserable to enraged to loving in sixty seconds or less. I know someone like that; I look at her in the mirror every morning.

The Prince and King launch into a mini-staring contest that lasts two excruciatingly long minutes. Octavia spends the time looking placid and Queenly. My face droops into an anxious frown as I rub my thumb in little circles on Lincoln’s hand. After a lot of shifting in seats, huffing of breath, and staring, staring, staring, the King finally looks away. I’m no ace at playing these games of state, but I consider that a ‘big win’ in the Lincoln column. Connor turns to me, his manner turning gentle.