“Of course.” He releases my hand, and this time the loss of his touch hurts even more. “The Great Ladies of the court are organizing this event; it’ll be traditional thrax attire. Someone will be in touch about making you another gown.”
I wince. “I went through all that with the tournaments. I’m not really Ball Gown Girl. Maybe we can break-in somewhere again?”
Lincoln chuckles. “With the scrutiny I’m under, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. But I’d really like to see you at the ball.” Tilting his head, he looks at me from his slate-gray eye. He slowly runs his pointer finger down my jaw-line. “Say yes, Myla.”
A warm blush crawls up my neck. “Yes.”
***
The Old Timer paces the classroom, a massive set of nail clippers in his fingers. With his free hand, he twiddles what’s left of his handlebar moustache. Cissy sits nearby. A few days have passed since Lincoln invited me—plus Zeke and Cissy—to the thrax ball. They won’t shut up about it, which makes this nerve-wracking event wrack my nerves all the more. I’m starting to wonder if I should have invited them at all.
“Class, please note the proper equipment for overgrown cuticles.”
A few students glance in his direction. The rest are busy whispering.
“Have you sent your measurements in?” Cissy has appointed herself event manager for Lincoln’s going-away ball. She’s already bugging me about wearing thrax undies.
“Yes, Mom did it right away. I’m a guest of the House of Gurith, so I’ll be in red and gold.”
“I’m a single lady for the House of Rixa, so I’m in green and black.”
I drum my fingers on my desk. “It’s weird having your life color-coded. Do you think the thrax ever want to wear plaid and tell everyone else to stick to it?”
Cissy raises her eyebrows. “Ah, no. I think they’re really-really-really into their traditions, period.”
I sigh. Cissy’s right. And top of their list-of-traditions is forcing people to marry when they’re eighteen. Not that I’m bitter.
To demonstrate proper clipping techniques, the Old Timer peels off his black boots and tattered socks. His feet are green and bumpy with long yellow toenails. It’s beyond disgusting.
The PA system buzzes to life. The Headmaster’s voice blasts through a tiny speaker on the classroom wall. “All students report to the gymnasium immediately.”
Our Headmaster’s famous for hour-long announcements that go into painful detail about his youth on Earth in some place called Buffalo. It’s basically ghoul central and he misses the spicy chicken wings. For him to shut his yap after all of seven words is unheard of.
Something’s going on.
We file out of the classroom and into the gymnasium. Within minutes, the student body sits in neat rows on metal folding chairs, our multitude of tails poking through the back-openings. Before us, the faculty stands in a straight line along the gym’s front wall, their coal-black eyes staring blankly forward. It could be me, but they look especially gray and undead right now. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were scared.
Cissy sits next to me. “What do you think this is all about?”
“Nothing good.”
Our Headmaster steps up to a small wooden podium beside the line of faculty. He raises his long bony arms. He’s tall, skeletal and gray-skinned; a Neanderthal-style forehead hangs over his beady dark eyes. Although he wears standard-issue ghoul black robes, he always tops them with a red and slightly-cockeyed bow tie.
“Greetings to the DL-19 School for Quasi Servitude.” Lowering his hands, the Headmaster tries to straighten his bow tie. He makes it a wee more skewed instead. “I’d like to begin by introducing–”
“Me.” An unforgettable voice booms from the back of the gymnasium. Three hundred students turn around, all their faces twisted in confusion. All the faces, that is, except mine. I know exactly who’s entered the room: Armageddon.
The King of Hell looms seven feet tall and pencil-thin; his short torso, gangly arms, and long legs all fit into a perfectly-sized tux and tails. His pointed face scans the gym, two crimson eyes blazing over a blade-like nose. Beside him stand a pair of Manus demons, their bodies covered in shaggy black fur. Long yellow tusks hang past their chins.
Armageddon steps slowly down the gym’s main aisle. On either side of him, students cringe and huddle, their faces twisted in fear.
Wrapping my hands around Cissy’s, I speak in a low voice. “Remember, greater demons have an aura that causes fear and panic.”
She nods quickly. “The angels said that in class the other day.”
Armageddon steps closer to our aisle. I shoot Cissy what I hope is a calming look, but I’m not sure I’m ready for this, either. I’ve only been close to Armageddon a handful of times. And each one sucked. “Brace yourself.”