“Good. I will.” Grinning, Lincoln clicks his tongue again. Nightshade and Bastion head off in a new direction.
We scale up a hilly path. The horses slow to a walk. The trail narrows, ending on a cliff that overlooks the Gray Sea. We dismount, guiding the horses to sip from a nearby pool. I plunk down at the cliff’s edge, letting my feet dangle off the rock lip. The desert stretches off to the horizon, its charcoal-gray ground touched by a silver sky. I feel like I live in this place, I see it so much in my dreamscapes from Verus.
I shield my eyes from the updraft of sand. “How often do you come here?”
Lincoln sits beside me on the ledge. “Whenever I need a break from court. Maybe once a week.”
“The Gray Sea is lovely in a…” I bob my head up and down, trying to find the right words.
“Bleak desert kind of way?”
“Exactly.” I smile softly. No one’s ever finished a thought for me before. It’s kinda cool. “So, what’s it like to hunt demons on earth?”
Lincoln winces. “A bit grisly. Most of the ladies in court ask that I skip the more gruesome bits, so I usually cut the description short and simply say that—”
“Well, if one of those ladies shows up, you can stop talking.” I shoot him a sly look. “It’s me here, Lincoln.”
“Right.” He jumps to his feet. “Let’s say I’m the demon. I’m on earth’s surface causing all sorts of trouble, only humans think I’m a storm or an illness breaking out or whatever.”
My jaw falls open. “Humans can’t see demons?”
“Nope.” He points to his blue eye. “Thrax only see them as part of our angel nature, and you probably see them from the demon part in yours. You be the thrax.”
I rise to my feet. “Grr.”
Lincoln chuckles. “And a ‘grr’ to you, too.” He gestures toward me. “So you find out demons are causing trouble somewhere, let’s say it’s a forest. You get your team together and suit up for demon patrol.”
“Do you wear those tunics to fight demons?”
“Nope. The one place thrax go high-tech is on demon patrol. We have the latest in body armor, night vision goggles, that kind of thing. The Rixa bring one traditional piece of equipment.” He pulls two small silver sticks from the belt of his jeans.
I break out into a grin. “I was hoping we’d get to this part.”
“They’re called baculum.” He tosses them to me.
“This I know.” I hold the two sticks in one hand, the way I saw Lincoln do at the tournament. I imagine the baculum turning into a broad sword made of white fire, they become one in my palm. I change the fire-sword into a net, spear, trident, and in general, have a jolly old time.
“These things are amazing.” I jump toward him, wagging a trident at his chest. “Taste death, evil demon!”
Lincoln shoots me a sly grin, his right eyebrow arched. “Did you just ask me to ‘taste death?’”
I blush. “I might have gotten carried away.”
He grins. “No need to blush, although it looks good on you.”
Fuuuuuuck. That comment only made me blush deeper.
“Taste death.” He taps his chin in mock-contemplation. “I can work with that.” Lincoln staggers about, clutching his heart. He falls onto his back, twitches dramatically, and lays silent.
“Excellent performance, your Highness.” I picture the fire-trident disappearing and it does. Leaning over Lincoln, I set the silver sticks onto his stomach. Light reflects off the intricate runes carved into the surface. “Thanks.”
He looks at me out of his right eye. “You’re welcome.” The Prince sits up, rubbing his chin. “How’d you do that? Only Rixa can use baculum.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Did you ever test these with quasis? Maybe we’ve always been able to.”
He nods slowly. “Sure, maybe.”
I sit down beside him, the dry grass scratching against my hands. We don’t speak for a time. Energy crackles around us. One thought keeps running through my mind: I reached my left hand out only a few inches, I could touch his thigh. My fingers twitch anxiously.
Whoa, there. Find something else to do with your hands, Myla. I pull up a fat, yellow blade of grass. Holding it straight between my thumbs, I blow through my palms. The blade lets off a blast as a make-shift trumpet.
Lincoln stares at my hands for a moment. After that, his gaze shifts to me. His look is heavy with desire, and my pulse goes through the roof. The Prince rounds his mouth into a sly grin, and I have the sinking feeling he knows exactly why I made a pretend trumpet: so I wouldn’t reach out and touch him. I decide my best move is to play it casual. I let out another blast from my make-shift trumpet.
Lincoln pulls up his own blade of grass. “I didn’t know grass could do that.”