Nizam folds his stocky arms over his full chest. “That’s right. Very cool.” He seems so grown-up for five years old. Then again, I forget that the other boys really are all around five or six, while Maxon only looks that way. Being the Mom of a supernatural can be tricky like that.
Uther rolls his eyes. “Why do you need a bodyguard? You’re a kid.”
“All the really important people have a monopsyche to guard them,” says Nizam. “It’s tradition.”
“Well, I don’t have one,” moans Uther.
Ty twists the beads on his braid with his right hand. “You’re not even a prince, Uther, let alone a high prince. You don’t need a bodyguard.”
An angry flush crawls up Uther’s neck. “I’m fifth in line to be Prince of Acca, I’ll have you know.” He raises his fists high. “Put ‘em up.”
Hildy presses the door open with her left hand. “Anyone who’s fighting isn’t getting a snack.”
At these words, all thoughts of animosity disappear. The boys charge out the door with Hildy close behind.
Once they’re well and gone, my father’s the first to speak. “Hildy’s good.”
“Father sought her out,” explains Lincoln.
Dad exhales a long sigh. “I suppose you’re here to discuss why Connor hired a monopsyche for my grandson?”
“Yup,” I reply. “We need some advice.”
“Connor hiring bodyguard babysitters,” repeats Dad in a low voice. “I don’t like it.” He leans against the wall, kicking his right ankle over his left. “Not one bit.”
A long pause follows as my father’s eyes glow blue with angel fire. “Now, tell me everything.”
Chapter Eight
I stand beside Lincoln and Dad, tossing wooden practice swords into equipment bins. With each new item I find on the floor, my head shakes in amazement. Hard to believe how much mess five little boys can make in one afternoon.
For some time now, the three of us have been cleaning up while discussing the latest news about Maxon and Armageddon. As we turn over each bit of information, an electric sense of alarm charges higher up my spine.
Keep it together, Myla. Panicking won’t help.
Dad hauls the fighting dummy back into a closet. “So, we’ve got Armageddon, Aldred, Connor, and Hildy. What do you think’s happening, Myla?”
I lean against a nearby wall. Man, do I ever need some extra support to admit this out loud. “Armageddon wants to abduct Maxon.”
Dad’s face becomes a mask of calm. I know that look. It’s his ‘thinking things over’ face.
It feels like a hundred years eke by as my father considers everything we’ve told him. Hope sparks in my heart. Maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps there’s another explanation for all that’s happened, other than Maxon being at risk. Dad always comes up with a new way of seeing things.
Finally, my father speaks. “Yes, that’s the most likely scenario, I’m afraid.”
My skin tingles with shock. Somehow, Dad confirming the scheme to abduct Maxon makes everything too real. Part of me was hoping he’d say there was nothing to worry about.
Not this time.
“What about Connor?” asks Dad. “Do you think he’s in league with Armageddon?”
“Not in a direct sense,” replies Lincoln. His voice drips with contempt as he adds: “That would require taking a stand. Choosing a side. It’s not his thing.”
Dad nods, his eyes filled with sympathy and understanding. “Are you taking him to see the Striga Elders?”
“Yes,” I reply. “We’re going right after tonight’s Anointing.”
“And Connor joins you willingly?” The way Dad asks the question, he already suspects the answer.
Lincoln’s face is still as stone. “No.”
“I can accompany you, if you like.”
“No, Myla and I will handle it.” Lincoln meets my father’s gaze, and all the resolution in the world is there. “This is our rule and our responsibility. We’ll get the truth out of him, you can count on it.”
“It’s your choice,” says Dad. “However, a bigger question remains. When do we start preparing for war?”
My mouth falls open with surprise. The moment I heard the words ‘Helen of Troy,’ I knew Armageddon wanted to lure armies onto his doorstep. However, I didn’t think we had to play along. “Come on, Dad. No need to worry about that yet, right?”
My father stalks the floor like a caged animal. “Armageddon’s the most power-hungry ruler in a thousand years. He won’t stop until all the after-realms are under his thumb, and everyone knows it. Heaven, Purgatory, Antrum, the Dark Lands…they’re all looking for an excuse to wipe out the King of Hell. And now he threatens my grandson? If Armageddon wants a war, he’ll get one.”
“Fighting Armageddon on his turf?” Lincoln tosses his wooden sword across the floor; it lands in one of the bins with a loud thwack. “The young Lords would love it, but the older Earls and Duchesses? They won’t support a pre-emptive invasion. Not a chance.”
“Don’t be so certain,” says Dad. “Aethelwulf’s war on Hell was five hundred years ago. Surely, they’ve forgotten.”