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.”
Lincoln takes the weapon firmly in his hands. “Let me think.” His gaze slowly runs over my body. Suddenly, I’m very aware that my dragon-scale cat suit leaves zero to the male imagination. Even worse, it’s really-really cold in the Arena today. Great.
The Prince sets the point of the sword onto the Arena floor, his hands rest atop the red pummel. “I believe we had one conversation. About pets, as I recall?” His heavy-lidded eyes lock onto mine, one slate-blue and one wheat-brown. A challenge lurks behind them.
My inner demon sparks to life, not with anger this time, but with something just as powerful. My tail strokes my shoulder, as if warning me to stop. I slap the arrowhead end and lean in closer to Lincoln.
I’m always up for a challenge.
I plaster on a fake smile. “Now, I remember the conversation. You were a true Prince.” I turn to the King. “I am grateful for the sword, your Highness.”
Lincoln swings the weapon until the pummel rests in his right hand, the deadly end against his left palm. The Prince and I start a kind of staring match in the middle of the Arena floor. I pass the time picturing ways to knock him to the ground.
King Connor clears his throat. “Perhaps if you said a few words, son.”
Lincoln’s upper lip curls. “Sure, father.” He takes a deep breath. “This quasi girl–”
“Myla. My name’s Myla.” Anger hums through every bone in my body.
The Prince’s jaw falls open a moment. I don’t think he gets corrected very often. I glance at the King; laughter dances in his mismatched eyes.
“Yes, Myla.” If Lincoln could spit my name out, I think he would have. “You showed some basic ability in the match this morning, certainly enough to warrant an honorary sword. Of course, if you fought a true demon hunter then–”
“Just name the time and place, buddy.” My body buzzes with rage.
I pause. My every word has been echoing throughout the Arena. Really, really loudly. I inspect the crowd. The angels sit still, their mouths contracted into an ‘o’ shape. The demons have actually stopped their ongoing battles for the best seats; they all face the Arena floor. Thousands of eyes fix in our direction. Part of me knows I should be humiliated right now, but the rest of me is too jacked up on rage to care.
My gaze flips between Lincoln and Connor. “Okay, how do we end this?”