The Scala’s eyes pop wide open. Clearly, he picked up enough English to understand when someone says ‘Armageddon will kill you.’
The old thrax sits upright, his crinkled face trembling in terror. “Armageddon is here!”
Seeing his chance, Lincoln calls to the awakened Scala in Latin. “Thrax! Brother!”
Excitement rushes through my bloodstream. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the thrax, it’s that they loooooove their traditions. And there’s no bigger thrax tradition than to do whatever royalty tells you.
Hearing his native tongue, the Scala turns to Lincoln. He says two words in a reverent tone: “My Prince.”
Ha! Knew it.
The electric bonds around Lincoln’s hands and feet disappear. The Scala collapses back onto his stretcher. “Come here, my Prince.”
The Oligarchy’s stare snaps onto the Scala. “Maxon! Imprison him!” They point to Lincoln.
The old man’s gaze flips back and forth between the Oligarchy and Lincoln. His lower lip twitches. Anxious silence fills the room. One thought runs through every mind: Will the Scala honor Lincoln or the ghouls?
The old man sighs. “I cannot harm my Prince.” He reaches out a withered hand to Lincoln. “Come sit beside me, brother.”
The Oligarchy bare their teeth. “How dare you?”
The Scala raises his hand. “You want imprisonment too?” A few igni swirl lazily about his palm. “I can oblige.” He lets out a low cough. “Your people care for me and keep me safe, so I’ve been willing to follow your orders. But when it comes to my Prince, there can be no negotiation.” His eyes narrow. “Don’t rely too much that I rely on you.”
The Oligarchy stare at the Scala, the gears of their collective mind churning through scenarios and Group Think, trying to brainstorm how to bend the Scala to their will. A long minute ticks by before the four ghouls slowly lower their heads. “As you wish, Great Scala.”
My mouth rounds with a satisfied smile. Other than hand the old guy over to the King of Hell, they’ve got no other options here…And they won’t do any handing-over until Armageddon guarantees their safety. Long story short, Lincoln bought us a little time. I roll my shoulders and stretch, feeling a sense of calm seep into my body, despite my bindings.
Lincoln kneels beside the Scala’s stretcher. “I am ??Lincoln Vidar Osric Aquilus from the House of Rixa, High Prince of the Thrax. Release them all. Now.”
The Scala stares at Lincoln for a moment, then he flicks his hand. “I obey my Prince.” All our igni bindings disappear. I rub my wrists, feeling the blood flow once again into my fingertips. Nice work, honey.
The Scala grips Lincoln’s arm. “They say Armageddon is coming. I must escape!”
The old man looks so wild-eyed and desperate, I can’t help but feel sorry for him. Chances are, he’ll end up with daddy Armageddon in a matter of hours. A shiver runs across my shoulders. Poor guy.
Lincoln gently pats the Scala’s frail arm. “Yes, Armageddon attacks.” He turns to the Oligarchy. “I wish him portaled to safety. What do you want in exchange?”
The Oligarchy lower their heads and close their eyes. “Group Think is a jumble. It isn’t safe to portal anywhere.”
Lincoln shoots them a knowing look. “So, you haven’t thought of a suitable trade for his safety. Yet.” The Prince returns his attention to the Scala. “We’ll keep trying, brother. But we must stay here for now.”
The Scala’s papery hand grabs Lincoln’s arm. “Ignite your baculum. Give me an honest death, my Prince.”
I bite my lip, remembering the words of Armageddon in my vision: ‘I’ll drag you to hell to suffer.’ Honestly, if daddy Armageddon were beating down MY door, I’d beg for death too.
Lincoln shakes his head from side to side. “No, brother.” He turns away. The old man grabs a dagger from a holster on Lincoln’s thigh. Fast as a heartbeat, the ancient thrax buries the blade into his own chest, stabbing himself through his heart. His white cloak blooms red with blood.
Holy crap.
I’ve seen my share of blood on the Arena floor. Matches don’t always have a happy ending. A familiar set of emotions sweep through me: shock, pity, grief. But this time, those feelings are amplified by the tiny voices in my heart and mind. Igni mourn their friend’s injury with a child-like intensity. I bite into my knuckle, trying to stifle the sobs that swell in my throat.
Cissy’s the first to speak. “Lincoln! The Scala!”
Spinning about, Lincoln leans over the thrax, inspecting the wound. “No, brother!” The old man’s chest heaves and falls silent. His wrinkled hand tumbles off the stretcher.
Lincoln sets his fingertips on the old man’s neck. “He’s gone.”
The igni’s weeping grows louder in my mind. My legs go wobbly beneath me. He was all they knew for a thousand years.