Cissy shakes her head. “Adair’s been giving speeches around the Thrax Embassy for days. Local schools, coffee houses, that kind of thing. Now, the quasi population around here is in a full-blown panic.”
My hands ball with frustration. “So, we focus on the warehouse for two days and this is what happens. Adair takes to the streets.”
“It totally sucks,” says Cissy. “But, we hardly have enough staff to cover regular Diplomatic work, let alone following around Adair.”
“I know, Cissy.” I set my palms onto my eyes. This situation bites. So. Hard. “The biggest question is what to do now?”
Cissy’s mouth thins into a determined line. “We have to nail this press conference, Myla. Otherwise, Adair will use the TV, radio and print coverage to spread that same panic all over Purgatory. Have either of you done damage control in a press conference before?”
“Antrum doesn’t have an independent press,” explains Lincoln. “At least, not when it comes to royalty.”
“And I’ve only had Scala-love interviews. Everyone’s been so thrilled that I’m from Purgatory, it’s been one fluff piece after another.” A pang of worry constricts my throat. How’s this press conference going to work, exactly? I’m the girl who causes damage, not controls it.
We turn down onto a major street and the handful of quasis at the roadside turn into rowdy crowds. More signs. More screaming as my limo drives by. Some of my people actually hold clubs and guns above their heads. A new sign gets added into the mix: ‘Cursed Scala, Cursed Purgatory’.
Hells Bells. For the first time, I’m very-very glad Purgatory doesn’t have any cell service or Internet. Otherwise, we’d already be in full-blown riot stage by now.
The limo pulls up to the Thrax Embassy, a small stone castle whose even smaller front yard is crammed with people. I count three TV vans from Purgatory alone. Hundreds of reporters and photographers jostle for position. I see folks from Antrum, the Dark Lands and even Heaven. Thousands of protestors line the streets. My heart sinks to my toes. The situation’s already veering dangerously out of control.
Cissy curls her fingers around the door handle. “Here’s the drill. Adair will make her announcement. After that, Myla will say a few words. Lincoln, Xavier, Camilla and I will be on-stage for backup.” She looks me over and frowns. “Maybe it’s better if Camilla spoke, instead. You’ve never done anything like this before, Myla.”
“True enough.” I rub my chin, considering. Cissy’s right. Mom does damage control all the time. She could easily take this press conference, too. I picture myself standing at the back of the stage, looking goddess-like while Mom works the crowd. Some of the anxiety eases from my neck and shoulders. That could totally work.
“You really think Mom can do it?”
“Oh yeah,” replies Cissy. “I mean, she knows Soul Processing as well as you do, right?”
Wrong. The tension returneth.
“No, Mom’s had enough to do without learning my job, too.” Worry settles back onto my shoulders, heavy as stones. “No, Cis. I’m the Great Scala and this is my responsibility.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure.” Total lie.
“Okay,” says Cissy. “We’re on.” She pushes the door open and steps out first. The crowd on the Embassy lawn goes crazy. Two lines of Purgatory police in black riot gear hold back the mob on either side of us, creating a makeshift aisle to the front door. Dozens of flash bulbs go off in my face. Everyone yells questions at once. It’s an assault without weapons, and that awakens my inner wrath demon. I snap into battle-mode, my mind quickly running through strategies galore. My next step instantly becomes clear.
Get your goddess on, Myla.
Taking a deep breath, I step out into the fray. Lincoln walks beside me, taking my hand in his. Together, we stroll through the thin aisle made by the Purgatory police. I scan the crowd in a way that says: I can send you to Hell in an instant, so back the fuck off.
It works. The aisle becomes less crowded, fewer flash bulbs go off and the questions die down.
So far, so good.
Lincoln and I follow Cissy through the Thrax Embassy until we reach a small auditorium in the back of the castle. Cissy’s told me about this place. It’s where Dignitaries run free seminars for quasis on topics like ‘why the thrax are color coded’, ‘how to make sure we won’t kill you on sight’, that kind of thing.
Today, the small auditorium is crammed with reporters, all of them jostling for position. Up front, a tiny stage holds a podium decorated with the crest of Rixa, Lincoln’s House. Along the back of the platform stand Mom, Dad and Adair. The crowd is a sea of strange faces, except for Walker. Seeing his encouraging smile makes me feel better. It means a lot that he hustled over here on short notice.