Chapter Five
I march out the bathroom door and enter the main hallway. Steam billows in behind me from the shower. I shudder, remembering the image of the real Lincoln screaming in the mirror. He looked hurt. In agony. Bands of worry tighten around my head.
Where is my husband?
An image appears in my mind: the smarmy creepster I woke up next to this morning. I decide to give him a new name, Evil Lincoln, mostly because Douchebag Lincoln is too much of a mouthful. All my anxiety instantly transforms into white-hot rage. How dare someone kidnap my guy? I head off in search of my fake husband and some real answers. The last time I saw Evil Lincoln, he was in our—excuse me, my—bedroom. I kick open the door. “Howdy, honey.”
No one is there.
“Lincoln? Sweetums?”
Still no answer.
That’s a bit of a bummer, but it’s a big palace, after all.
With that, I hunt through the rest of the honeymoon castle. Room after room, closet after closet. I leave no area unexamined. There’s no one around. Not unless you count the guards, in any case.
Fine. Evil Lincoln took off. I’ll still track him down.
I don’t memorize the guard rotations like my Lincoln, but I do know the captain will be hanging out by the front gate.
That’s my next stop.
I march up to the main entrance. It’s basically a huge stone room sporting a massive oak door with one of those iron grates over it. A small red door sits to the right of the main gate. I try the handle.
Locked.
I pound on the door. “Hey there, it’s your Royal Me-ness out here. Open up. I need to speak with the Captain of the guard.”
There’s a bunch of rustling and whispering, but finally the door swings open. An older guy stands on the threshold. I can tell by the extra jewels sewn on his Rixa tunic that he’s not only the Captain, but he’s also one of Lincoln’s private guards. I scan him carefully. This Captain’s a lean guy with brown hair that holds flecks of gray at his temples. He’s named…uh, something.
Note to self: get better with names.
“Your Majesty,” says the mystery Captain. “Is anything amiss?”
“Why yes, there is, as a matter of fact. Where is the guy who was here this morning?”
His eyes widen, which make the crinkles around them smooth out a little. “You mean the High, uh, King?” Lincoln used to be the high prince. Now he’s King and I’m Queen. The staff still gets the titles mixed up sometimes. Hey, at least I’m not alone in forgetting stuff.
“Whatever,” I say. “Where did that guy go?”
“I’m not at liberty to tell you.”
“No?” My tail arches menacingly behind me.
“I’m afraid not.”
The guy’s name appears to me in a flash. “Williamson.”
“Yes?”
“Do you value your job?”
“Yes.”
My tail makes jabby motions at his head. “How about your life?”
“Obviously, as do my wife and three children.”
Okay, that tidbit of information takes some of the rage-wind out of my anger-sails. “Can you please tell me where the, uh, King has gone?”
“He just stepped out for a few minutes. There are some matters of state that he didn’t want to burden you with. I’m instructed to get you anything you need. He’ll rejoin you in the main receiving room as soon as he can.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Please, Your Majesty. We have orders to restrain you if you try to leave.”
“You do?”
I go on tiptoe. Outside the palace, about a dozen guards are flanking the main entrance. I can take down that many, easy-peasy, but I really should lay low with the pregnancy and all. The reason? My fighting style is pretty physical. Normally, I give and receive body blows all the time. But that’s not something I want to risk while pregnant. Besides, most these warriors are from Lincoln’s private guard. It doesn’t feel right to hurt them for doing their job.
At length, I let out a long breath. “Fine. I’ll wait in the receiving room. You’re sure that he’ll join me right away?”
“That’s what the King said.”
“Got it. I’ll get dressed and meet him there.” Not that I have much choice.
I take off at a quick walk and try not to worry too much.
Just a few minutes.
I can handle that.
A few minutes, my ass.
After talking to Williamson, I changed into my Scala robes and hit the receiving room. Since then, three freaking hours have slowly ticked by while I’ve waited. I’m now overly familiar with every tapestry, floor plank, and porcelain knickknack in this stupid chamber.
It’s making me crazy.
At times like these, I wish we had telephones in Antrum. Why must absolutely everything stay stuck in the Middle Ages? I mean, this room doesn’t even have an old-time wall phone where you talk into a black cup. Outside of screaming from a window, I have no way of contacting anyone.
And yeah, I’ve thought about screaming.
Trouble is, the honeymoon palace is surrounded by acres of what’s called the Crystal Woods. Here the trees made from white stone, which make for a nice postcard (if the thrax used postcards). Still the place is mega-huge. I’d have to yell for a helluva long time before anyone would hear me. And although I could still attack the guards and make a run for it, I honestly don’t know where I am. Lincoln and I rode a carriage to get here. At the time, I was too busy kissing my new husband to plan an escape route.
That doesn’t mean I don’t have any options, though. I cross my fingers, close my eyes, and mentally call my igni. They haven’t responded all morning, but there’s always a chance this time will be different.
Come to me, my little ones.
A few seconds tick by as I wait for my supernatural buddies to reply.
They don’t.
Again.
I grit my teeth with frustration. Why aren’t my igni answering? I’ve been calling them for hours without any response. And the worst part of this situation? There are two mirrors in this receiving room and—although I check them constantly—I have yet to see my Lincoln.
What’s happened to him?
For the umpteenth time, I yank open the door to the main hallway. Two warriors step onto the threshold, blocking my exit. The guards have taken to hanging right outside the receiving room door. Why? My many visits to the main gate were freaking them out. They didn’t want a woman “in my condition” to be traipsing around the palace any more.
Sheesh. Like pregnancy means I can’t walk five minutes to bug my own guards. Not for the first time, I wish I were back in Arx Hall. That place is lousy with secret passages. There’s no way I could be held in one room for long. This stupid reception chamber doesn’t even have more than one door in or out. That has to be a fire code violation of some kind.
Note to self: get this palace inspected as soon as possible. Install more doors.
All of which brings me back to the present moment. I’m now staring at the two young warriors who block my exit. Both carry the look of the House of Rixa: tall and lean with sharp cheekbones. They remind me a little of Lincoln.
Okay, they remind me a lot of him. My eyes sting with held-in tears.
My Lincoln. The love of my life is locked up somewhere, and I can’t help him. I don’t even know where he’s being imprisoned. I open my mouth, but no words come out.
“Yes, Your Majesty?” asks the first guard. I’m pretty sure his name is Manfred, but who knows? Memorizing guard rotation schedules was always firmly on the Lincoln-side of our relationship.
“I want to—” I begin.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” asks Maybe Manfred. The gentle way he asks the question, you wouldn’t think I’d been opening the door every two minutes for the last three hours, asking where my fake husband was.
But I have. And my naturally thin patience is almost completely worn out.
“Can we get you anything to eat, Great Scala?” asks the second guard. Unlike Maybe Manfred, I have no clue what this guy’s name is, nor do I have the internal bandwidth to retain that information right now. As a result, I’ve been thinking of him as Could Be Bob.
“No,” I say slowly. “What I want is to leave.”
“You know we can’t allow that,” says Maybe Manfred. “Your husband sent orders.”
“Would you like some demon bars?” asks Could Be Bob. “Our King said you could have as many as you want.”
Demon bars. The very mention of my one-time favorite snack makes my inner wrath monster growl with frustration.
“Come on. My Lincoln would never want me to have demon bars. You’re on his personal guard. He trained you. You know the man lives on carrots and raw nuts. Do you really think he’d send his pregnant wife demon bars?”
The guards stare guiltily at their feet. My warrior sense kicks in. I can tell when I’m gaining an advantage, and that foot-staring routine? It means these guards suspect something is wrong, too. I lower my voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Have you seen anything strange in mirrors lately?”
Both of their heads snap up. The guards stare at me like I’m insane. Okay, maybe the mirror-thing was a stretch to lead with. I decide to veer back onto firmer Lincoln ground. “Forget the mirrors. Look at me.” I gesture across myself. “I’ve been sitting around for three hours, and the King sends orders to you, but not a single word to me? You know that’s not Lincoln. So let me leave and go talk to him. Or at least, get the so-called King here, so I can confront him.”
The guards go back to staring at their feet once more. I decide that I hate Maybe Manfred and Could Be Bob. I need to try someone else.
“Get me Captain Williamson.”
“He’s busy,” says Maybe Manfred.
I lower my voice to a deep rumble and decide to call in the big guns. That would be my Scala powers. “Find him or you both will rot in Hell. I’m talking burning. With Armageddon. Forever.” With that, I slam the door.
Okay, the Hell thing was harsh, but I really need to get out of here.
A few minutes later, Williamson steps into the room. My heart lightens. Guess the Hell thing might have been rough, yet it was still pretty darned effective. Williamson gingerly closes the door behind him.
“You asked for me, Your Majesty?”
Now, I’ve been doing a lot of “Old Myla” stuff, which has involved attitude and threats. Hey, my husband got sucked into a mirror, and an impostor took his place, so sure, I lost it for a while. But outside of getting Williamson in here, the Old Myla hasn’t been too effective. It’s time to give my Queenly side a try.
A small voice in the back of my head says there’s a lot more to being Queen than acting regal, but I push those thoughts aside. I need to find my husband. Tilting my head, I offer Williamson what I hope is a truly regal smile. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
“If you insist.”
“I do.” With that, I plunk my butt onto the same chair my mom used.
Williamson sits across from me. “How can I be of service, Your Majesty?”
I lower my voice to a whisper. “You must know something’s wrong with the King. I need your help.”
Williamson rubs his neck. “It’s not my place to do anything.”
I take care to keep my voice low. There’s no way I want the guards outside to hear us. This is the honeymoon palace, not Arx Hall, and my chambers aren’t soundproof. “If you won’t help me, who will? The summit with Ethan starts shortly. The supposed Supreme Leader will ask for more thrax warriors to protect him on Earth.”
Every line in Williamson’s body stiffens. “But none of the guards who go there ever return. Our King would never authorize more troops for Ethan.”
“The guy who’s calling himself the King is not my Lincoln. I must confront this impostor. It’s the only way to find the true King. But I can’t do that while I’m sitting in here alone. Again, I need your help. Please.”
Williamson runs his hand through his loose brown hair. “We’ve sent a number of runners asking for an update from the King in terms of when he’ll come back. His replies have been…odd.”
“Like what?”
“Ordering demon bars for you to eat. Keeping you locked up. Insisting we restrain you if you try to leave.”
“Exactly.”
Williamson bounces his knees in a nervous rhythm. “At first, I suspected the King had encountered something on his last demon patrol—perhaps he ran across an enchantment of some kind. But we have royal mages who check for such things. They’ve reported back.”
“And?”
“They say he’s clean. No enchantments.”
“But you’re still not convinced that everything is fine.”
Williamson doesn’t reply. In my book, that’s as good as a yes.
“Where is Octavia in all this?” I ask.
Lincoln’s mother is notorious for knowing everything that happens in Antrum, sometimes before it even takes place.
“All morning long, the King has been communicating with the major houses in Antrum. Most of the minor ones, too. All his messages say the same thing: you’re in a crazed mental state due to your pregnancy.”
It takes an effort to keep my voice calm as I ask my next question. “And what does everyone think about that?”
“With so many requests for your mother to help you, I’m afraid that the King’s explanation has been accepted by everyone, including the Queen Emeritus. To be honest, I might have believed it too, only I can see the truth with my own eyes. You’re perfectly fine.”
The door swings open. It’s Maybe Manfred. “The King is en route.”
Williamson exhales. “It seems you’ll be able confront him without my help.”
“It seems.” I force another smile and try to think of something Queenly to close off with. “You may return to your duties.”
Williamson bows before retaking his place in the outer hallway alongside the other guards. For a while, I pace around the receiving room. After that, I step out into the hall myself. At last, Evil Lincoln is coming.
This, I have to see.
A drumroll of footsteps sounds on the polished wooden floor as Evil Lincoln saunters toward me, all smiles. Along the arched ceiling, pennants with the Rixa crest sway slightly as Evil Lincoln strides beneath them. The sight makes my hands clench. Whoever this stranger is, he has no right to walk under the mark of Rixa. Plus, Evil Lincoln is now wearing the full kingly get-up. I’m talking tunic, crown, tall boots—the works. He has no right to that, either.
Evil Lincoln strolls past me and into the receiving chamber. There’s not even a fake hello; I’m just expected to follow. I shoot Williamson a glare that says, See? This is not my husband. A flicker of sympathy shines in Williamson’s eyes before he’s back to standing at attention against the wall. The other guards keep staring guiltily at their feet.
At least I have a possible ally in Williamson. That may be useful in the future.
However right now, I have a fake husband to deal with. Anger corkscrews up my spine. How dare Evil Lincoln march past me without a word? I take in a series of deep breaths, trying to soothe the rage monster inside me.
Calm down, Myla. This is about saving my Lincoln, not squashing an impostor. Well, actually it’s about both. But saving my Lincoln is the first priority.
I nod once to myself, my plan set. I’m still Queen Myla, and I’ll manipulate the truth from this impostor with my superior brainpower. With that resolution firmly in place, I saunter into the receiving room. Behind me, my tail gently closes the door.
Evil Lincoln turns to me, throwing his arms open. “Hello, gorgeous.” He gives me a smarmy grin, hikes up his tunic, and starts to loosen the waistline of his leather pants.
I point at his hands. “What’s that all about?”
“I’ve been gone for a while.” He gives me what’s supposed to be a sexy wink. “Thought you might want some alone-time with me.”
Of all the things I expected from Evil Lincoln, him waltzing through the door and looking for sex wasn’t on the list. At all. “Slow down there, bub. I do not want any alone-time with you. What I want is out of this freaking palace.”
He blinks innocently. “You do?”
And with that, the “New Queen Me” starts to fade under a barrage of Old Myla fury. “You just locked me up. Do you seriously think I want to fool around with you right now?”
Evil Lincoln shakes his head. “Your mouth is saying no.” He eyes me slowly from head to toe. My Scala robes are made of skin-tight white fabric. “But your body’s saying yes.”
That does it.
Whatever Queenly sanity I had? It vanishes into thin air. Using my mind, I command my Scala robes to change into heavy white body armor and kickass boots. This is a major perk of being the Great Scala, by the way. Instant battle readiness.
Once the change is complete, I lunge straight for Evil Lincoln. Sweeping his leg, I knock him onto the ground. Once Evil Lincoln is flat on his back, I take a seat right on his sternum. My tail arcs over my shoulder so its arrowhead-pointed end is aimed right for Evil Lincoln’s jugular.
He gasps. “What’s the problem, babe?”
“If you so much as flinch the wrong way, my tail will take you down. It hates you.” To emphasize the point, my tail does its scary snake-slither move, where it shimmies in a zigzag.
By the way, my tail normally has a thing for Lincoln. In fact, it’ll sometimes do stuff for my husband that it’d never do for me. So the fact that my backside has gone straight for the jugular? It’s even more proof that I’m dealing with an impostor.
“Call off your tail. I’m your husband. You don’t want to kill me.”
“You are not my husband and we both know it. Death is the least you deserve.”
Honestly, I wouldn’t really murder Evil Lincoln at this point. Even so, I don’t want him to know that. A frightened enemy is a blabby enemy. This impostor simply must tell me where my real husband is hidden. To emphasize the amount of danger, I force my irises to glow demon red. “Tell me where my real husband is being held, and I won’t kill you.”
Evil Lincoln’s eyes go even wider. “I don’t know, I swear.”
I press my tail more firmly against Evil Lincoln’s throat. It’s not enough to break the skin, but it does show that I mean business. “Talk.”
“No, no… Don’t hurt me.”
The tip of my tail slides farther down my fake husband’s jugular. The muscles in his neck twitch. I decide to use Evil Lincoln’s line right back at him. “Your mouth says no, but your body says yes.”
At that moment, the door swings open, and Lincoln’s parents step into the room. Both are in their thrax medieval best, so Connor is tall and barrel-chested in his velvet tunic. His white hair hangs gracefully to his chin. Octavia wears a long black gown with her silver hair curled into a neat bun. The two stare at Lincoln and me.
“What’s going on here?” asks Connor.
“Foreplay,” I say. At the same time, Evil Lincoln shouts: “She’s crazy!”
Connor and Octavia share a long look. The pair of them do this a lot. It’s like they have entire conversations without saying a word. After nodding to each other, they stare pointedly at my stomach.
“How are you feeling today?” asks Octavia.
I refuse to move from the throat-threatening situation I have going with the impostor. “This is not Lincoln.”
Connor takes a cautious step backward. Wise move on his part. I’m already not a fan of his.
Octavia gives me a calm and regal smile. “Of course it’s Lincoln. You’ve been rather unbalanced lately. Don’t you remember? The doctors say that you must live here in Antrum, even after the baby is born.”
My brows lift. “They did?” I look down at Evil Lincoln, who starts over-blinking. I’m guessing this is his default I’m so innocent face.
Not buying it.
“Don’t you remember, Myla?” asks Evil Lincoln. He twists his neck to get farther away from my tail, but the arrowhead end just follows his every move. “We asked the physicians over last night after your mother left. They told us how your pregnancy’s at risk due to your moods. They want you to stay here with Octavia and Connor. Forever.”
Now, it’s true that my mother wants us to live in Purgatory, but she’s got nothing on Octavia. Lincoln’s mom is on a mission to have us in Antrum. And yes, forever is the timescale she’s pushing for.
I hate to admit it, but telling Octavia that we’ll always stay in Antrum? That’s a brilliant move from Evil Lincoln. Octavia has a gift for ignoring unpleasant realities when it concerns someone she loves. Just look at her marriage to Connor.
Octavia steps closer. If she’s shocked that I’m still restraining her son, the Queen Emeritus doesn’t show it. And since Evil Lincoln still isn’t talking anyway, I decide to stand up and release him. As Evil Lincoln sits there, dumbfounded, my tail gives the impostor a little smack across the kisser. Good tail.
Turning to Octavia, I greet her with a little wave. “Hello.”
“So good to see you, my dear.” Octavia air-kisses my cheeks.
Lincoln huffs as he slowly stands up. “She threatened me, Mother.”
At this point, I feel like Evil Lincoln and I are a brother and sister who’re fighting over “who punched who” in the back seat. Again, something the real Lincoln would never do.
“She’s a warrior,” counters Octavia. “Of course, she’ll become physical. While I was pregnant with you, I once broke three of your father’s ribs.” Octavia used to be a fighter herself, and a good one.
Connor guffaws. “Don’t surprise your pregnant warrior wife with tickles, my son. I learned that one the hard way.”
Octavia refocuses on me. “We’re so pleased about the news that you’re staying. I’ve already got the royal carpenters fixing up a baby’s room right next to our suite.”
Wow. This sounds way too similar to the conversation I had with my own mother. Don’t get me wrong—I’m happy everyone wants to spend time with the baby. It’s just they can do that and then leave.
“I know this must be overwhelming for you,” adds Connor. “Months ago, you were a senior at Purgatory High School. Now, you’re the Great Scala, Queen of the Thrax, a wife, and a mother. It’s a lot for anyone, even without your demonic heritage. And now, all these baby hormones? It’s amazing you’re acting sane at all.” He gestures around the room. “And Antrum is so safe! I love this idea of you staying here twenty-four-seven.” He turns to Evil Lincoln. “Great thinking, son.”
“Thank you, Father.”
There are so many things I want to say to Connor at this point, starting with a critique of the whole “demonic heritage” crap and ending with his “amazing you’re acting sane at all” line. But I have bigger fish to fry. Instead, I round on Evil Lincoln. “Clearly, you’ve had a busy morning, my little lamb chop. It seems you talked to your parents and got everything lined up, eh?”
“That’s right.” He looks so smug when he says that, I want to punch him in the throat.
“So what am I supposed to do next, according to your plans, oh my dearest?”
This ought to be good.
“Well, the summit with Ethan starts in a few minutes. However, I figured that man-stuff might go right over your head. Plus, you haven’t been in—how do I put this?—the most sane condition. We need to show Ethan our very best selves. He’s a critical ally.”
“Huh.” The way Evil Lincoln speaks the word “ally,” he might as well say “co-conspirator.” Makes sense, really. Evil Lincoln showed up right after Ethan’s black magic took my guy away. All of a sudden, I want in on this summit and how. Ethan and I need to talk.
“I am attending the summit, end of story.”
“But you must understand—” starts Evil Lincoln.
Octavia jumps right in. “The King and Queen rule jointly in Antrum. If Myla wishes to attend the summit, then she should go.”
I can’t help but smirk. Okay, maybe I could help it, but Octavia is giving Evil Lincoln a smackdown. That’s just too awesome.
Evil Lincoln frowns. “It’s going to be terribly boring, though.”
“I can always play rock, paper, scissors with my tail.” My tail arches over my shoulder while rounding its arrowhead end into a fist-shape, just to make things clear.
Octavia’s mismatched eyes narrow. “What’s really bothering you, my son?”
For the first time since they walked in the room, I’m very glad that Lincoln’s parents are here. Or at least, that Octavia showed up. The fact that she’s seeing through Evil Lincoln in this moment is beyond sweet.
“It’s just…” Evil Lincoln sighs. “What if Myla attacks me again?”
“You’re a trained fighter.” Octavia sniffs. “That’s a ridiculous concern.”
I want to pump my fist in the air, but I’m trying to be more Queenly. Instead, I lift my chin in what I consider to be a most regal pose. “I’m Queen of the Thrax. I don’t shirk my duties. Let’s go speak with Ethan.”
Octavia grins. “Well said, my dear.”
Evil Lincoln steps closer. “If you’re sure.” His voice has a soft yet menacing tone.
Meaning: if you join me at this summit, you will regret it.
“Oh, I’m positive,” I reply.
Translation: bring it on.
I return my attention to Octavia. “Where are the negotiations taking place?”
“The Chamber of Reflection,” she replies.
That’s in Arx Hall, our main palace. I know where the room’s located, even though I’ve never been inside it before. And now that I have Octavia to back me up, I can get a carriage there, easy-peasy.
“Got it.” I whip open the door and call to the guards. “Send a runner to the stables. I want a fresh carriage outside in two minutes.”
Williamson steps forward. “Absolutely, Your Majesty.”
I return to the receiving room, make my goodbyes, and then march off for the main gate. Evil Lincoln run-walks to stay close. “Wait up, Myla. It’s unseemly for us to be apart.”
I don’t bother answering him. The most seemly thing in the world will be when I’m as far away from this creep as possible. I want my real husband back, and to do that, I need information.
In other words, it’s time to confront Ethan.