Without being asked, our horses stop on the stretch of sidewalk before my front porch. Lincoln and I dismount, telling Night and Bastion to return to the Ryder stables. Night stares at me, her over-large black eyes smooth and round as marbles, the look in them saying the horse equivalent of ‘no kidding, sister.’ Lincoln and I watch our mounts trot away, then stroll up to the front door, hand-in-hand. Mom opens it before we have a chance to knock.
“Myla! I’ve been worried sick.”
I inwardly groan. She has her ‘insanely overprotective and twitchy’ face on. Not that I totally blame her, but yipes. This could get ugly.
I shift my weight from foot to foot. “Hi, Mom. This is Lincoln.” I can’t help but smile.
Lincoln’s mouth warms into a shy grin. “Hello.”
Mom taps her foot. “You’re thrax?” She’s in rare form: worried and anxious with a side order of crazy. Here comes the ugly.
The Prince nods. “Yes.”
Mom eyes the heavy pack slung over Lincoln’s shoulder. “You brought armor and weapons?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Come in.”
My mother, the charmer.
We all step inside. Mom closes the door behind us, then points dramatically to the couch. “This is where you’ll be sleeping, Lincoln, the thrax.” She fixes him with the exact same stare Lincoln’s father gave me, the one that says ‘I know what’s on your oversexed little mind.’ And hey, that’s not untrue, but we’ve got it under control. Mostly.
He bows slightly. “Of course.”
Mom wraps me in a long hug. “I’m glad you’re safe, baby. Don’t stay up too late.” She glances at Lincoln and sighs. “Thank you for watching over Myla. It says a lot about your character.” She kisses him gently on the cheek. “Good night.”
I let out a long breath. That was a downright normal interaction between Mom and Lincoln. She’s been bouncing back from her overprotective mode into her old Senator Lewis self faster and faster these days. What a relief.
Mom pulls her threadbare robe tighter and walks into her bedroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Lincoln and I exchange a look that mixes shock and relief, the kind I normally reserve for near-miss accidents with Betsy. I half-smile. “I’m not sure who wins for weirdest parental interaction of the day.”
“Come on. Me, definitely.” He enfolds me in his arms. “I’m so sorry about that, by the way. Father should have focused on your safety, not a power play with the Earl. He used to be…Very different.” He gives my back a gentle pat. “But enough about my family for one day.” Leaning forward, the Prince moves to set his mouth on mine.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.” Frowning, I glance at Mom’s closed door.
Lincoln releases me and steps backwards. “I understand.”
We’re so close to goodbye. After tomorrow’s Arena match, Lincoln returns to Antrum and Walker portals me into the Gray Sea safe house. The weight I felt on the ride home grows heavier, settling into every cell of my body. My eyes sting.
I wrap my fingers around Lincoln’s hand and lead him into my room. Sadness hangs in the air like fog. Lincoln sits on my bed, his back against the headboard. I climb onto the mattress and curl up beside him. My cheek nestles onto his chest; his long arm wraps loosely about my back. My eyelids grow heavy.
***
That night I dream of an office decorated entirely in red. Crimson walls stretch off into the distance, with no end or windows in sight. My bare feet stand on a blood-red wooden floor dotted with small round carpets of the same hue. To my left, scarlet-colored leather chairs encircle a large table made of red crystal. At my right, there looms a massive cherry-red desk, and behind that desk sits Armageddon.
My breath catches. Armageddon is here! My body goes on high alert, preparing for a wall of terror to slam into me. It doesn’t. I feel frightened, sure, but nothing like how it felt at school when Armageddon walked by me and Cissy.
What kind of dream is this anyway?
Armageddon folds his three-knuckled hands neatly onto the desktop, his mouth slowly stretching into an impossibly-wide grin. His long pointed face holds a knife-straight nose and two fiery red eyes. “Welcome, Maxon.”
I say nothing, body frozen stiff. What the Hell is going on? Why does he think I’m his son Maxon?
The King of Hell drums his three-knuckled fingers on the tabletop. “Come now, boy. I’ve spoken to you in your dreams every week for the last thousand years. No need to be shy.”
My eyes widen with understanding. Like how Verus sends me dreamscapes of the past, Armageddon must speak with his son in his sleep. I nod. It makes sense; greater demons have all sorts of odd powers. But why does he think I’m Maxon?
Armageddon arches the right brow on his stone-smooth face. “No need to show yourself or speak this time. I can smell the stench of your igni from here.” He drops his palms onto the tabletop and leans forward. “You’re so very close, my son.”