Deacon just made the strategic error of the century.
My inner demon roars to life, my limbs flail with rage. As I writhe under the human’s grip, Deacon presses his face closer to mine. My vision turns fuzzy, the tattoos on his skin blur. Deacon’s knee makes contact with my stomach as he grunts: “You’re not the only one with a kick.”
I smile under the layers of my mask. With my last ounce of energy, I move in for the kill. Raising my tail shoulder-high, I stab it straight through my attacker’s heart.
And you’re not the only one with a weapon.
Deacon’s face falls slack. His body slumps to the floor, lifeless. Lurching forward, I unwind his whip from my throat, then yank my tail from his chest. Blood gurgles from his fresh wound. Air floods into my lungs in huge gulps. My vision clears; I give my tail a feeble high-five.
Sharkie rushes to my side. Grabbing my wrist, he pumps my arm into the air. “The winner!”
I tug my hand downwards, but he won’t let go. “Thanks.” Hunching over at the waist, I gasp for breath. “Want…To…Leave.”
Sharkie swivels his skull-like head in my direction, his grip tight as iron. “Not yet. Before you depart, guests from the entourage of Angel Verus wish to praise your valor in battle.”
I blink a few times to clear my head, then pant out one word: “Sure.” Hell, at this point it’s faster to get the thanks and go home.
Finally dropping my hand, Sharkie turns to face the Arena’s main archway. “Angels and demons, the Arena fighter will be congratulated on her victory.”
An ocean of people pour onto the Arena floor, all of them dressed like they fell out of the Middle Ages. I slow my breathing and inspect the crowd. Who in blazes are these characters? They aren’t angels, demons, or ghouls. Why would they be hanging out with Verus?
A line of heralds with silver trumpets step onto the Arena floor, creating a make-shift entryway. Delicate women in brocade gowns step through, followed by sturdy men in long tunics.
Whoever these folks are, they sure take their time to do anything.
I roll my eyes. Enough ceremony. Let’s get with the congratulating so I can go home and talk Mom into making me some brownies. That fight was a bitch.
Moving past the line of heralds, two figures step onto the Arena floor, both wearing chain mail covered by formal tunics. First, I see a sturdy older man with white hair to his shoulders, a silver crown glistening on his head. Beside him walks someone younger with wavy brown hair, a muscular frame and square shoulders. Every inch of my body goes on alert.
I know exactly who these two are: Lincoln and his father.
Crap. These oddballs in medieval get-ups are all thrax. No wonder I’d never seen them before. Thrax only run around earth fighting demons. I feel like Verus is moving more playing pieces around her game-board with Armageddon, and these thrax are part of some masterstroke. My mind wheels with all the implications, but after such a crazy morning, I can’t quite process what it means.
The last herald in line lowers his trumpet, announcing in a booming voice: “King Connor and his son, the High Prince!”
My stomach swaps places with my mouth. Lincoln’s the freaking High Prince of the thrax? Thousands of eyes stare as the two men approach; a million years crawl by as the pair march across the floor.
Finally, they stand before me.
Sharkie’s voice lowers to a hiss. “Remove your mask, slave.”
Pulling the mesh away from my face, I shake my head so my auburn hair flows down my back. My gaze locks with Lincoln’s, his eyes widen the slightest fraction. The Prince speaks one word. “You.”
I start staring at his mouth again. Maybe I need therapy of some kind. “Yes, me.”
The King eyes us both for a moment, and then turns to Sharkie. “What is this girl’s name?”
I’ve never heard Sharkie call me anything but ‘slave.’ How he’ll hate answering that question. The emcee’s voice comes out a low rumble. “It’s Myla Lewis, your Majesty.” Yup, he hated that, alright.
“You fought bravely, Myla Lewis.” Up close, I can see that the King’s face is pale with lightly veined skin and deep laugh-lines around his mismatched eyes. “Part of our mission here is to build better relationships with quasis such as you. Please accept this sword in congratulation.” He holds up a long silver sword with a red pummel, then pauses, turning to Lincoln. “Perhaps you should give her this, my son. I believe I saw the two of you talking at the ball.”
Hell, no. Don’t let that asshat give me the sword. I raise my hand quickly. “We don’t know each other.”