Octavia nods to Connor. “You remember Senator Lewis from the era of quasi rule?”
“Absolutely. Very capable. The only one who predicted Armageddon’s rise, as I recall.”
Octavia points to me. “This is her daughter.”
My back straightens. So freaking cool to hear people talk about the awesomeness that is Senator Lewis. My mouth rounds into a proud smile.
“Interesting.” Connor folds his hands onto the tabletop. “Very interesting.”
The Queen eyes me and smiles. “Do you know how Connor and I met, Myla?”
The King lets out a lively chortle. “Not this story, Octavia.” Clearly, he’s back to a good mood. I feel like I need a scorecard to keep track.
Lincoln turns to me. “It was at the ball to celebrate the spring equinox.”
“That’s the official story,” says Octavia. “It was actually at the winter tournament. I used to fight in those, you know.”
I grin. “Yes, Bera told me.”
I picture the golden breastplate Bera gave me to wear at the last Winter tournament. She’d said the Queen had one like it when she competed. I picture Octavia at that age, all spritely, wired with muscle, and absolutely lethal. Man, I would have loved to see that.
The Queen mimes shooting an arrow. “My skill lay with the bow. The tournament beast that year was a Manus demon. I shot it full of arrows—and was within seconds of winning—when I ran out of time. Connor waltzed onto the field of battle, ran the monster through with his sword, and won the tournament.”
The King laughs his head off. “It was quite a bit more than that, Octavia.” He shoots me a conspiratorial smile. “This was two hundred years ago and she still carries a grudge.”
My eyes bulge. “Two hundred years?”
Lincoln nods. “Thrax live a long time.”
I chew my lower lip, considering. The Scala lives a long time, too. I look at Lincoln’s square jaw, scooped-out cheeks, and full mouth. He’s so freaking awesome I can’t stand it. If we can get through this nasty Scala-Acca-Armageddon stuff, we could have a very long and amazing time together. Lincoln seems to read what I’m thinking (with my skill for hiding emotion, it doesn’t take a genius) and he rubs his foot against mine under the table. Pretending to scratch my nose, I hide my grin under my palm.
Connor curls his hands into mock-claws. “Never was there a worse tournament beast, and never a greater warrior to fight it than Octavia.” His mouth winds into a cunning grin. “Afterwards, I went to visit my lady in her family’s tent. I wanted to commend her valor on the battlefield, but I failed to announce myself formally.”
Octavia smirks. “He walked in while I was alone and half-dressed. Appeared behind me out of nowhere.”
Whoa. I know what I would do—what any warrior would do—in a situation like that. I wince. “What did he get? Elbow to the gut?”
Octavia arches her eyebrow. “Knee to the groin.”
I grit my teeth. “Yowch.”
Lincoln’s shoulders rock with laughter. “You never told me that, father.”
Connor chuckles as well. “It’s not a memory I like to recall.” He wraps his hand around Octavia’s. “But after that moment, no one else would do. You see Myla, for the thrax, everything is about strength in battle.”
I shoot Lincoln a knowing glance. “I’ve noticed.” He starts another game of footsie with me under the table. I blush.
The King nods in my direction. “This, my dear, is why I’m willing to take a chance on you. You’ve some strength in you.” He leans back on his chair. “But I get ahead of myself. If you’re the Scala Heir, you need angel blood. Who’s your father then?”
Lincoln’s eyes positively twinkle. This would be his ‘I’m about to drop a bomb of good news’ face. “The archangel Xavier.”
I think the royal couple’s eyes almost blast out of their collective heads. The King lets out a low whistle. “You’re first-generation archangel, then.” He rubs his palms together. “And not just any archangel, Xavier!”
I frown, confused. “Why is first generation important?”
“More angel blood, more power,” says Lincoln. “The current Scala is fifth-generation common angel. I’m third-generation archangel. Father’s second. We descended from the archangel Aquila. Have you heard the story?”
“Yes, Mom told me how she founded the House of Rixa.”
Connor grins. “I’ve heard of the Archangel Xavier. Amazing warrior turned diplomat. Led the final battle to drive demons from Heaven.”
His words send an image into my mind’s eye: the King of Hell twisting my father’s broken arm. Pangs of grief and anger move through me.
Octavia’s eyes narrow. “But he disappeared after the Wars, I believe.”
I pick invisible lint off my robe. “I don’t want to talk about that.” I grit my teeth. Unholy moley. I sound exactly like Mom.
“Of course, of course.” Connor folds his arms over his chest. “Now, what are your plans exactly?”