As every quasi citizen knows, the Lewis family has been instrumental in the development of afterlife diplomacy, which is why I’m pleased to write this preface to the tenth edition of…
“We’re here!” A strange female voice rings in my ears, but I’m too engrossed to call out to its owner. I pull the pages closer to my nose. The book has a ton of blah-blah-blah about giving people a second chance at a good afterlife, then the author writes:
I’m proud that my dear daughter Camilla has been elected to the traditional Lewis family seat as Senator of Diplomacy, an honor that…
My first real clue! Mom’s name is Camilla, so Grandma definitely wrote this before she died in the Wars. I grip the edges of the book tighter. And Mom was a Senator? My insanely over-protective and weepy mother? I shake my head and turn the page.
“Lincoln, don’t!” A shrill giggle fills the air. “You’ll muss my dress.”
I freeze.
Did she just say Lincoln? Can’t be the same guy.
“Apologies. It’s such a lovely dress too.” It is the same guy. Ugh.
I try to focus on my reading, but I can’t help but overhear them. Okay, maybe I could help, but I’m curious what Prince Pompous is up to.
Lincoln speaks again. “The minister said the Libra Scala would be over here.”
“Oh, I think I see it.” She makes little grunting noises. “Oh my, the shelf’s soooo high. Could you please pull the book down for me?”
Scrunching up my features, I mime the words ‘the shelf’s soooo high’ and stick out my tongue.
“Of course, Lady Adair.” A soft scraping sounds as the book slides down.
“Thank you, your Highness.” She giggles again.
My back teeth lock while my tail slices something nearby. Glancing about, I spy a sunny yellow pillow, now lying in two neat halves on the window seat. Anger and shock zing through my body. I just skewered a pillow without knowing it. I don’t do stuff like that, even during a Maternal Inquisition. Why does this random guy get my demon up in such a raw way?
A smile sounds in Lincoln’s voice. “You’re welcome.”
Lady Adair lets out a loud sigh. “While we have a moment, I want to say something. I was so honored that you invited me to join Verus at the Arena match.”
“My pleasure. I thought you’d enjoy the battle.”
“The fighting was fine, I suppose. But I really enjoyed seeing you act so graciously afterwards.”
There’s a long pause, then Lincoln speaks again. “You mean when I gave the demon an award?”
The demon? I’m a quasi with a name. Creep.
“Yes. That demon girl was so lucky you didn’t kill her.”
“Well, I–”
“Demons don’t stand a chance against real thrax warriors.” Her voice sounds extra-syrupy when she says ‘real thrax warriors.’ I’m pretty sure my tail just sliced another pillow into shreds. My hands ball into fists.
Lincoln chuckles. “It’s not really fair to compare a thrax and a demon girl, Lady Adair.”
“I don’t know if you’d think me too forward, but–” I can almost hear her eyelashes frantically batting from here.
“But what?”
“May I feel the muscle of your arm?”
I make a puke-face.
“I’m not sure, Adair.”
“Just for one second? Please.” A long pause follows. “Oooh! So strong.” I picture his arms and, yeah, he’s pretty ripped. But I kinda hate myself for knowing that.
She sighs. “How could any girl ask you to ‘name the time and place’ to fight?”
Lincoln’s tone turns cold. “We need to return to the others now, Milady.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean…That is, I didn’t think…” Footsteps sound toward the door. “Wait for me, your Highness!”
I listen to their voices and footsteps fade, rage boiling up my spine. It’s official. Prince Lincoln, I hate you more than anyone else in the universe. Someday I’ll show you what a ‘real warrior’ can do.
Pacing around the squeaky wooden floor, I imagine how awesome it would have been to trip them both down the stairwell. Hitching the book under my arm, I march straight out of the library, down the stairs, and into the first floor ballroom. As I stomp through across the dance floor, my eyes catch movement through the tall windows around me. Thrax mill about the hedgerow maze outside, all dressed up for some kind of formal shindig.
Grr.
I leave Cissy a goodbye note in the reception hall (including a not-too-believable story of how the two pillows got destroyed) and stomp off to my station wagon. I almost get in six accidents on the drive home, mostly because I’m practicing ‘you’re a jerk’ speeches instead of paying attention to the road. Once in my own driveway, I’m barely aware of parking the car, marching into the house, and slamming the door behind me. I make a beeline for my room.
I’m half-way there when Mom pops her head in from the kitchen. “Hi, Myla. I got us some frozen dinners. Yours is chicken, I think.” She shoots me a long stare. My eyes still flash red with rage.
Mom frowns. “Is everything alright?”