I wrap him in a tight hug. A feeling of love and warmth blooms through my chest. “Thank you.”
“Any time. I’m well-known for a good pep talk before battle.”
I gently kiss his cheek. “I can see why.”
The limo driver rolls down the partition between the front seat and back. “Where to?”
Lincoln leans forward to chat up the driver. As we pull away from the curb, I’m feeling mighty pleased with my bad self. Opening up tomorrow’s Grand Unveiling to the press really was a good call. The streets are indeed safe tonight.
That’s when I see it. A thrax reporter with glowing-red eyes. Demon-bright.
I grab Lincoln’s hand. “Come, look!”
He slips up beside me. “What’s wrong?”
“The reporter in the purple tunic. Do you see his eyes?”
He leans closer to the window. “Yes. Is something wrong with them?”
“Of course, there is.” I point at the window. “They’re…”
But the eyes aren’t red anymore. They’re the mismatched hues of every thrax.
“They’re what, Myla?”
I plunk back into my cushy seat and let out a long groan. “It’s been a super long-day. I might be seeing things.” I shake my head. “Mom said we should meet up at the warehouse. Let’s get over there.”
“How about we get you some java along the way?”
“I like that idea very much.” Once I start seeing things, it’s definitely time for extra coffee.
Chapter Twelve
6:14AM.
I pace across the warehouse floor, anxious energy zinging through my limbs. Three minutes from now, our Grand Unveiling of Lucifer’s Orb will begin. Yipes. Beside me, reporters from across the after-realms are packed along the back wall, seated on tiered risers that reach from floor to ceiling. All their gazes are glued onto the movement of a little tin bird.
At the far side of the warehouse, the enchanted bird in question flits above the aisles, landing one box, then another, continuing on in its mission to find Lucifer’s Orb at precisely 6:17AM. All last night, Lincoln and I packed this warehouse with every security precaution we could think of: alarms, guns, secret agents, obvious guards, you name it. Once that Orb is found, it’s staying in our control, end of story.
I quickly check the risers and my heart lightens. Two minutes to go and still, no sign of Adair. Maybe the extra precautions weren’t necessary, after all. The knots of worry in my neck loosen, making me feel more calm and optimistic. Not so chill that I stop pacing in front of the risers, though.
Lincoln waves me over. He stands on the left-side of the tiered seats, alongside my parents, Cissy, Walker, and the Alchemists. I’m feeling so good now; it takes an effort not to skip over to him.
“What’s up?”
“You might want to stop pacing in front of the reporters.”
“Why, I’m not bothering anyone, am I?”
“Far from it. The male members of the audience appreciate your parade in the extreme. I know I certainly am.” A mischievous gleam dances in his eyes. “It’s very-very cold in here, Myla.”
“Oooooooh.” I forgot that my Scala robes leave nothing to the imagination. “You know, that’s a pretty pervy thing to notice.”
He points to his face. “Uh, guy.”
“Fine. I’ll stand here by you, then.”
“Thought you might want to.”
Now that I can’t pace anymore, I segue onto obsessively checking and re-checking the wall clock. 6:16AM on the nose. One more minute and we’ll find that Orb and ship it out of Purgatory. Woo-freaking-hoo. My body fills with a mixture excitement and relief. We’re about to do it, for real. Fix Soul Processing without sentencing millions of innocents to Hell…Or burning down Purgatory in a new round of Ghost Riots.
I’m feeling mighty awesome indeed when Adair steps through the warehouse door.
Boo.
Yeah, I knew she’d probably show, but I was really-really-really hoping she’d find someone else to stalk today. Adair stands on the right-hand side of the risers, directly across from my family and friends. She brought a guest with her, as well: Gianna, the very same Striga witch who faked Adair’s igni powers at her pretend-initiation to become Scala Heir.
Anxiety corkscrews up my torso. Gianna is here? That is so not-good.
I turn to Lincoln. “Look who’s arrived.”
“I saw.”
“Do the Alchemists practice witchcraft?”
“Not in the way Gianna does, if that’s what you’re thinking. They’re more scientists than rapid-fire casters.”
“Can we get our own witch in from Striga, then? Someone who can counteract Gianna?” I’m so hyped up, I could carry whoever-it-is back from the Pulpitum myself.
“Not in the next sixty seconds,” explains Lincoln. “Which is undoubtedly why Adair arrived late.”
“Crud.” I’m so frustrated, want to face-palm myself or kill something. We put every security measure in the book into this dumb warehouse, except for an extra warlock or witch. Didn’t Dad suggest that ages ago, too? How could I forget?