I return my attention to the fighting grounds, where Nat checks the creature’s teeth. “The beast is four, maybe five years old, My Prince. Still a pup.”
Lincoln pats the beast’s hindquarters. “What would you say about these marks?”
Nat whistles through his teeth. “Stinging nettle, very painful. Would have driven the poor beast wild.”
Stinging nettle? That’s cruel stuff. Even some demon communities forbid it.
Lincoln raises his hands, addressing the crowd. “This beast is not yet of age and has been mistreated. Killing it would be dishonorable.” The crowd responds with a grumpy murmur. Lincoln passes the muzzle’s leash to Nat. “Take him back to the Menagerie. Tell the Master of Creatures I’ll speak with him shortly.”
I watch Lincoln march off the tournament green. Unlike the Earl of Acca, Prince Pompous knows there’s no glory in pummeling a weaker someone who’s not attacking you. Who would’ve thought?
Another touch brushes my shoulder. “Hey, Cissy.” Turning around, I see that it isn’t my best friend beside me, but Bera, Queen Octavia’s handmaiden.
“The Queen would like to speak with you.”
Shock explodes through my body. “The Queen wants to speak with me?” I shoot a startled glance at Cissy. Her tawny eyes stretch wide.
“Aye.” Bera grips my sleeve, yanking me away from the wooden fence. “Now.”
My hand wobbles at Cissy in a half-hearted goodbye. “Catch you later, I guess.” What in blazes does the Queen want with me? Anxiety zings through my nervous system.
Cissy’s voice comes out as a squeak. “Sure, see you.”
Bera turns toward the royal pavilion. “Follow me.”
The crowd parts for us as we walk along. My heart hammers anxiously in my chest. What in unholy hell is going on? I hike up the steps to the pavilion’s main platform. King Connor and Queen Octavia sit side by side in throne-like chairs. The Scala Heir lounges beside the Queen, a nasty scowl on her face.
“Come here, Miss Lewis.” The Queen snaps her fingers and glares at the Scala Heir. Adair scurries away. Octavia nods to the now-open chair. Her crown slips forward a bit with the movement.
I slip into the high-backed seat beside her. “Hello, your Highness.” I wave to the King. “And your Highness.”
The King nods his head slightly. “Miss Lewis.” He looks regal with his shock of white hair and silver crown.
The Queen’s mismatched eyes narrow. “You may call me Octavia.” Up close, I notice her porcelain skin, high cheekbones, and delicate laugh-lines. Her sandy-brown hair is wound into a braided bun at the base of her neck.
“Thanks. Call me Myla.” I scan the scene. The Great Ladies stand near the steps to the royal pavilion. They all cluster around Adair, pointing at me and giggling. Ugh. My hands ball into fists.
With long fingers, the Queen lifts a golden wine goblet from a nearby table. She looks out over the crowd. I can almost see the wheels of her mind spin. “The Great Ladies stare at you, Myla.”
I turn in their direction and glare, my eyes flaring demon-red. Their faces whiten. Quick as a heartbeat, they all turn away.
I smack my lips. “Now they’ve stopped.”
Octavia stifles a smile. “I wish I could do that trick.” She gestures across the tournament grounds to where Lincoln must be stalking around. “My son doesn’t look at you at all.”
I make a point of not gazing in the direction of her point. “That’s fine with me.”
“I see.” She sips her wine, watching me closely. “Are you enjoying the tournament?”
“Honestly, no. I knew the ghoul who fought the Earl of Acca. Killing him was not—” I clear my throat. “He wasn’t a worthy opponent, that’s all.”
A smile curls the queen’s lips. “Spoken as a true thrax.”
My back teeth lock with anger. “I’m a quasi-demon…As the Earl of Acca was quick to point out.” And your son, too, although I won’t say that to your face.
“I know. I’ve seen your tail.” I glance at her mismatched eyes. Behind them, mental gears whirl and spin even faster. I have the weird feeling she knows exactly what I was thinking about Lincoln.
I sigh. It’s bad enough sitting through another of these boring tournaments, let alone making small talk with Lincoln’s calculating and somewhat creepy Mom. I fidget in my chair and watch the gate swing open on the tournament green. An Arachnoid demon crawls out onto the field of battle. Arachnoids are ten-foot tall daddy-long-leg spiders with extra armor and a bad attitude. They have tiny bodies, thread-thin legs, and giant pincer mouths with a poisonous bite. Across the green, the Earl of Kamal marches onto the field, a tiger by his side.
I shake my head. “He should’ve brought a falcon.”
Octavia sips her wine. “And why’s that?”
“The tiger can fight the Arachnoid’s legs all day; it won’t make a dent. They have light armor that’s good as dragon scales. But the demon’s body is pretty unprotected, especially from the top. A bird could go after it pretty easily.”