Octavia gasps. “Connor!”
He slaps the tabletop with him palms. “Well, they are in trouble, aren’t they?” He turns to me. “Aren’t you?”
That does it. What a nasty, arrogant, and insulting dickweed! My eyes flare red with rage. “That would be no, your Disgustingness.” My tone drips with venom. “Keep your dirty mind to yourself.”
Lincoln turns to me, his face twisted with worry. “Myla, what are you doing?” He leans in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “No one speaks to my father that way.”
My teeth grind. So we’re back to requiring ‘special words of reverence’ when speaking with thrax royalty, eh? I did not fight about this with Lincoln for three months solid just to cave in with his dear old dad. He’ll show me some respect, too.
I nod to Lincoln. “Don’t worry. I got this.” Closing my eyes, I pull back my hood, raise my hand, and call out to the igni. They appear faster than ever before, their music and laughter quickly drowning out anything else in my head. Their tiny bodies whirl about my hand, almost blocking my view of the tent’s interior.
I watch their light swirl about my fingertips, then I order them to break free. Let’s show this King what trouble really is. With a burst of laughter, they obey.
Moving in a small knot of bodies, the igni zoom about the tent, knocking over candlesticks and upending chairs. Like a great pinwheel, they spin about in the center of the room, faster and faster. A high-pitched hum fills the air and then—POOF—they all disappear.
I grin. How’s that for trouble?
An icy chill freezes my skin; my eyes glow bright blue. Opening them slowly, I glare directly at the King, speaking in the nastiest voice I can muster. “I’m the Scala Heir, Connor. I’m not in trouble.” My eyes blaze with blue fire. “I am trouble.”
The tent’s interior comes back into focus. Lincoln stands beside me, his body rigid and his expression unreadable. Octavia sits beside Connor’s chair, her face a stony mask. The King stares at me for a long minute, his features blank. I have to consciously stop myself from sticking my tongue out at him. Nyah.
The King breaks the silence by slamming his fist onto the wooden table. My body snaps into battle stance, my tail arched over my shoulder. Want a piece of me? I’d like to see you try, big guy.
“Well, well.” Connor’s great head wags from side to side. “I’ll be damned.” He breaks into peals of loud, deep, and rolling laughter.
He’s laughing? Really?!
I squint at the King. The igni must have short-circuited my senses; that can’t be actual guffaws. I turn to Lincoln, my face wrinkled with confusion. “Are we good here?”
Lincoln nods. “Oh, yeah. He’s loving this.” The Prince leans in closer, satisfaction and pride shining in his eyes. “Well played, Myla.” My insides turn all happy and squirmy as he gently kisses my cheek. I didn’t know I was playing a game, but it looks like I hit the masterstroke.
Connor rubs his eyes with his meaty fingers. “Lincoln, my boy. What a treasure you are.” The King points to me. “And you! A spitfire.” He gestures to the empty chairs across from him. “Have a seat, both of you. Let’s talk a bit, see what we can do here.” He looks to his left. “Octavia, I’m sure you’re behind this. At least in part?”
A ghost of a smile lurks about the Queen’s mouth. “Always, Connor.” She’s a crafty one, that’s for certain.
The Queen seats herself next to the King; I slip into the high-back chair beside Lincoln. Connor drums the tabletop with his palms. “It seems we have the Scala Heir with us today. What does that make Lady Adair?”
Octavia frowns. “A fraud. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Adair only showed Scala powers when Gianna was whispering nearby; such spells are nothing for the House of Striga.” The Queen clicks her tongue. “Gianna’s witchcraft could have changed Adair’s eyes as well.”
“The Houses of Acca and Striga have quarreled for centuries. Now they team up.” The King sighs. “Dark news.”
Lincoln’s eyes take on a steely hue. I know that look: he’s preparing to give bad news. “Their treachery has worsened. Striga asked to abandon the Alliance against Acca.”
The King scowls. “And when did they make this request?”
Lincoln’s features stay stone-cold calm. “Two days ago.”
Connor grits his teeth. The jovial king from a few seconds ago disappears. “Interesting that you waited until now to tell me, boy.” Little bits of spittle fly from his mouth as he speaks.
I sink a little lower in my chair. Connor has serious mood issues. One minute he’s happy, the next? Spitting mad.