Which reminds me I never finished that second demon bar. The great scala is hungry.
More crackling sounds as Gunnar drops the handheld microphone thingy in the front seat. He does that twice before he gets the thing firmly in his grip again. “But your followers might be there.” Gunnar’s voice starts wobbling so much, he might have been yodeling. He’s totally scared of my groupies. Not that I blame him, mind you. Some of them are pretty scary.
Lincoln shakes his head. “Your fans always camp out at the Pulpitums. There’s no way to avoid it. Besides, my parents were expecting us hours ago.”
I pat my messenger bag with the magic codex inside. “Plus, we still need to get this into the vault.” I hit the microphone button again. “Just keep going, Gunnar. We’ll be fine.”
“Yes.” His voice comes out as a peep.
As if on cue, a crowd of my quasi-demon fans spills over onto the roadway. There are about fifty of them in total. They quickly surround the limo and block the street. That’s quite an achievement, considering how there are clearly some quasi-sloth-demons in the mix. Gunnar slows down to a crawl. The crowd huddles closer, trying to peep past the tinted windows. Random shouts echo around us.
“Great Scala, come out where we can see you.”
“Promise me I’ll go to Heaven. I’ll do anything.”
“Bless me, Great Scala.”
A middle-aged woman steps up to my window. Her rat tail lashes behind her as she yells at the top of her lungs. “Marry a quasi!”
A demon growl rumbles through my chest. That kind of comment really ticks me off. I get that they need time to stop hating thrax, but my choices are just that. Mine.
The woman leans in closer. “Don’t turn your back on your own people!” It’s a good thing these windows are tinted, or this random chick would see a very unladylike hand gesture from yours truly.
Lincoln sets his hand over mine and guides my arm down. When he speaks, his voice is super-gentle. “Try not to let them bother you.”
He has a point. I inhale and exhale a few calming breaths. My inner wrath demon calms a little.
Lincoln gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Better?”
“Yes, thanks.” Lincoln really is a sweetie.
I straighten my shoulders and get ready for the nasty shouts that are sure to happen once we step out the limo door. So what if my people don’t want me to marry Lincoln? I can handle it.
As we close in on the Pulpitum, I’m starting to feel pretty good about my bad self. That’s when the crowd launches into “Save our Scala,” an awful song that goes with the tune of “Kumbaya.”
“Save our Scala now
Save her now
Save our Scala now
Save her now
Save our Scala now
Save her now
Oh, save our Scala
From marrying that evil, lying bastard.”
My tail lashes behind me in an angry rhythm. How dare they? I mean, I know my people don’t like Lincoln. But songs? Really?
I turn to my guy. “What the fuck? That doesn’t even rhyme. Or fit into the tune. They have to speed-sing the whole last part. It’s beyond stupid.” My tail punches a hole in the leather seat. That’s the fourth time it’s done that this week. I could not care less. Freaking quasis.
Lincoln seems positively serene for a man who was just called an evil, lying bastard. “Your people are very clear in their attitudes. I like that about them.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “How can you be so calm?”
Lincoln shrugs. “Years of practice.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “If you have any pointers, I’d appreciate them. What do you do? Meditate or something?”
“I remind myself of something Mother told me.”
Lincoln’s mom is Octavia, and she’s a cool piece of business. Calculating. Ruthless. Awesome. Whatever she has to say, it must be helpful. “Can you share those words of wisdom? Because as of this moment, I’m about a second away from calling my igni on these creeps.”
“Okay.” Lincoln’s leans closer to me. His body is all warm and comforting. “Who knows you, Myla?”
“Everyone.”
“I mean, who really knows you?”
Oh, that.
I tap my chin for a bit. “There are my parents. Cissy.” She’s my best friend. “Walker.” He’s a ghoul who’s my honorary brother. “And you.” That last thought makes me smile.
Lincoln gestures to the window. “So those people outside don’t know you, yet they are reacting because of how you live your life. Does that really have anything to do with you?”
I ponder that one for a full minute. “I guess not.”
“You’re a symbol for something inside those people, nothing more. You represent some corner of their own souls that they love or hate. You can’t take either their praise or their hated too seriously.”
I frown. “But I do like the praise part.”