Lincoln barely moves as he speaks. “That explains you and me. How about you and Myla?”
I eye him closely. Oooooooh, I get it. The Prince is never an easy guy to read, but I get the definite feeling he’s ticked off about something or someone. The short list of options are Walker, Walker, and Walker. “You didn’t know that Walker knew me?”
Lincoln’s gaze stays locked on Walker. “Not beyond the few messages I gave him.”
A muscle flickers along Walker’s jawline. “I’m under an unbreakable oath. Myla’s mother must approve anything I say about her.”
“How about I act as proxy for my mother?” I twiddle my fingers in Walker’s direction. “I release thee from thy oath.” I want to hear how Walker ended up in my life too. Besides, the mega-tension in this hallway isn’t helping an already-anxious morning.
“That should work.” Lincoln’s eyes narrow. “Speak.”
Walker inhales a long breath. “Xavier was my instructor ages ago, in the Citadel. He became like a father to me. When he left Purgatory, he asked me to watch over Camilla. I took an unbreakable oath. When Myla was born, I watched over her too.”
Lincoln’s hands ball into fists. “So, Myla’s the mystery girl you’ve been visiting all these years?”
My brows jet upwards. Who knew I was a topic of conversation between Walker and Lincoln? For years, no less.
Walker juts out his chin. “Yes.”
My mouth rounds into an ‘o.’ It took my anxious brain a bit, but I finally get what’s going on here. I move to stand directly in front of the Prince, cupping his face in my hands. His day-old stubble tickles my palms as he stubbornly keeps glaring at Walker. “It’s not like that between us. Walker’s basically my brother.” I guide his eyes to look directly into mine.
Rage simmers behind the Prince’s features. “So, you two never?”
“Sha!” I roll my eyes. “I appreciate the jealousy, but we’re burning up valuable goodbye kiss time.”
Lincoln finally grins and leans in closer. We share a slow kiss. It’s sweet, intense, and over way too soon.
The Prince presses his forehead to mine. “Be safe.”
My tail musses his hair. “I will.” I kiss him one more time, just because I can.
I pull my mask over my face, suck in a deep breath, and turn to Walker. “Let’s do this.”
Walker turns to Lincoln, setting his fist on his chest. “Goodbye, Shield Brother.” I’m guessing this is a traditional farewell for the Aquilinea, but the way Walker says it, it’s more of a question: ‘are we okay?’
The Prince pauses, then moves his fist in the same motion. “Until we meet again.” The way Lincoln says the words, it’s an answer: ‘We’re good.’
Walker smiles. Together, we step out onto the Arena floor, heading toward a group of quasis clustered around Sharkie. All of them have long black tails with arrowhead ends.
Arena fighters. All part-Furor. The best in Purgatory.
The last time we were all gathered together, it was the Scala initiation. My forehead creases with questions.
“Walker, is there a ceremony today?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Uh-huh.” My shoulders constrict with anxiety. Something about this feels off. Normally there’s only one kick-ass quasi on the Arena floor, along with a bunch of lesser demons. Why are all the part-Furor Arena fighters in Purgatory—every top warrior we have—gathering in the Arena today?
I scan the Arena grounds. More weirdness is afoot. Usually, there’s at least one extra ghoul on the stadium floor. Today, there’s only Walker and Sharkie. The exit archways sit empty as well, except for the one directly across from me. In there, Lincoln paces in the shadows, his body tense as a coiled spring. He turns in my direction. Our gaze meets. There’s no joy of lovers connecting, only the focus of two warriors waiting for…What?
Sharkie thumps his staff on the ground. At each of the four points of the compass, a member of the Oligarchy appears along the lip of the stadium. Turning as one, they open four massive portals along the Arena’s top tier. Angels and demons pour into the stands.
I catalog the crowd. The angels look as they always do: white wings, linen robes, and blue eyes. I inspect the demons and gasp. This group isn’t the usual grab bag of colors, shapes, and sizes. Today, the demons are all tall, bulky, and ripped with muscles. Great wings, as dark and angled as a bat’s, hang off many of their backs. Without making a sound, they take their seats with military precision. At least five thousand of them pack the towering stands.
I’m used to a howling jumble of demons. Over the years, I’ve stopped noticing them. But today’s silence sets my nerves on a knife’s edge.
I look to Sharkie. He’s panting out his nose-holes, black sweat dripping down his cheeks. Walker steps to my side, setting his hand on my shoulder. In the distant archway, Lincoln turns his baculum into a fiery broadsword.
Unholy moley. Whatever’s coming, it’s bad.
Chapter Twenty-Five