A long minute passes before Lincoln sets down his father’s bony hand. “He’s dead.”
I turn to Faustina, my heart beating double-time in my chest. “Please, tell me that helped you.”
The Elder witch nods slowly. “A blood oath means that you must kill Armageddon.”
My brain rushes through the implications of this. “My father’s been saying that we can invade Hell and get Maxon back.”
“Not until Armageddon is-a dead. Maxon will never cross the gates.”
“And what about the blood witch?” asks Lincoln. “Don’t we have to do anything about her?”
“Not in order to free your boy. But I think-a she find you, now that you know the truth. Your blood would add to her power.” Faustina snaps her fingers and the Pulpitum platform lights up once again. “Now, you go. I must rest.” She starts to hobble back to her point in the star-shaped room.
“Thank you, Faustina.”
“We owe you a great debt,” adds Lincoln. “What can we do to repay you?”
Faustina pauses for a long moment, and then turns around to face us. Her eyes glow with a purple light as she replies. “I tell you what you do,” she says in a low growl. “Kill that son of a bitch Armageddon.”
Chapter Twelve
I stand on the main stage of the Spires, the most beautiful complex of buildings in all the Dark Lands, aka ghoul central. Everything in the ghoul’s realm looks either like a Goth graveyard or a Brutalist concrete lump. Not the Spires. This complex of buildings is lovely with winding white towers that reach into the dark, lightning-filled skies like so many delicate fingers.
And I don’t say that simply because my favorite ghoul engineer and architect designed them, either. I’d adore this place even if Walker didn’t mastermind it all.
I lean into Lincoln’s body, feeling his warmth beside me. We spend about half our time standing on some stage or other. Somehow, this comforting routine almost makes me forget why we’re here.
Almost.
The image of Maxon’s screaming face appears in my mind. I shudder and glance at my wrist. My Looking Glass still shows Maxon awake, sitting upright and white-eyed. Still safe. “I wonder how Hildy’s doing.”
“I’m certain she’s fine.” Lincoln loops his hand around my waist. “Have you ever seen this chamber before?” That’s what he says, but I know him well enough to know what he really means. Don’t think about Maxon, Myla. Try to stay focused on the now.
“No, tell me about it.” I force a smile, which is my way of saying, I’ll try.
“We’re in Meeting Hall J-29. Walker just finished it six months ago.” He gestures above my head to the great sheets of gray concrete, each one several yards wide. They drip down the towering back wall like so many May pole ribbons. The different streams roll together by the floor, weaving themselves into the flattened stage where Lincoln and I now stand.
“Notice anything different?” Lincoln asks.
I glance around the hall. “Not in particular. Seems like a lot of Walker’s other stuff.”
“Look closely at the concrete beneath our feet.”
I focus on the floor. “I don’t see anything.”
“Sometimes it takes a minute for the magic to kick in. Be patient.”
Suddenly, a constant stream of scrolling text appears across the strips of billowing concrete. Ghoul minds are all connected in Group Think, and the concrete shows a live feed of what they’re saying. Right now, it’s a lot of talk about the Fealty Ceremony that’s due to start any second.
KLX-2849: Just portalled in the last visitors from Antrum.
WKR-7: Bring them to the Meeting Hall J-29 immediately. The ceremony will soon start.
OWB-0275: The Furor want to land in the main square of the Spires.
KLX-2849: What? Tell me they aren’t in dragon form.
OWB-0275: They couldn’t exactly land if they were in their human state.
KLX-2849: It’s against regulation to allow dragons to land in the main square.
WKR-7: Screw regulations. The Furor Emperor sees Maxon as his Heir. We don’t want him any angrier than he is right now. Let them land anywhere they want and please, stay out of their way, at least until they return to humanoid form.
“It’s amazing,” I whisper.
“It’s Walker.”
A hiss sounds from behind us. I don’t need to turn around to know the source of the noise. It’s the Oligarchy, the four craggy old ghouls in red robes who rule the Dark Lands. They march off the stage and down the center aisle, which is an undulating ribbon of concrete covered in scrolling text. The words streaming down it all read various versions of ‘the ceremony is starting.’