My father and I share a smile. He has handsome features, a chiseled jawline, cocoa-colored skin, and bright blue eyes. His grey suit hangs a little loose on his once-buff frame. Armageddon imprisoned Dad in Hell for nearly two decades. I freed my father a few months ago, but Dad’s still not back to full strength.
“Let’s move onto more pleasant topics.” Dad rubs his palms together. “Anything in particular you two want to discuss tonight? Future plans, maybe?”
I roll my eyes. No question what Dad’s hinting around about. As an archangel, my father’s been alive since the beginning of time. Until I came along, he never had a child. Now that he’s got the hang of it, he wants me married and giving him a grandkid, pronto.
I’m having none of it. “We’re not talking about weddings right now.”
“Then, I’ll ask someone else.” Dad turns to Lincoln. “Anything you want to say?”
“If I were enacting the thrax betrothal ceremony for a High Prince,” says Lincoln. “I wouldn’t do it over pizza. To begin with, it takes time to get the betrothal jewels out of the Royal Vaults.” He sets his hand on mine. “And it all requires far more of a sense of occasion.”
Marriage. The thought buzzes through my nervous system, charging every inch of me with all kinds of happy. How awesome would it be to wake up next to Lincoln every day? Quite awesome, indeed.
Under the table, my tail twists lovingly around Lincoln’s ankle. He peeps over in my direction, his mismatched eyes alive with excitement. We’ll really do this one day. Get married and be together.
My pulse races with anticipation. Seems like Lincoln’s already got plans in the works, too. And a betrothal ritual? Jewels? Those thrax have ceremonies and sparkly stuff for everything. Not that I’m complaining. This is one situation where the extra falderal and romance would be much appreciated.
Dad’s grin gets larger, if that’s possible. “Fair enough.”
Mom kicks her feet up onto a nearby chair. “Mind if I talk shop for a bit?”
“Go ahead,” I reply. “What’s on your mind?”
“I received a message from Cissy’s office tonight. Adair’s launching an official investigation into the Ghost Towers. I’d heard about the trouble with Ghost Tower Six today. What’s the latest?”
I picture the fractured containment wall at the Ghost Tower, complete with that spectral hand reaching through the break. A shiver of dread twists up my spine. “The Tower’s now stable, but we’ve got a million new souls coming into Purgatory each month. I don’t know how much more storage we have.”
“We can’t stop souls from entering Purgatory, that’s for sure,” says Mom. “Besides, isn’t Walker close to finding the Orb anyway?”
I tear apart my pizza crust into small bits. “We’ve some bad news on that front. Turns out, the Orb is actually hidden in a huge warehouse filled with magical junk. Lincoln’s bringing in some specialists from Antrum to help us find it, but we’ve no idea how long it will take.”
“You’re bringing in the Alchemists, then,” says Dad. “That’s a first-class idea.”
“I agree, excellent thinking from both of you,” adds Mom. “You’ll get Soul Processing back on track in no time.”
“Thanks, Mom.” A sunny sense of pride radiates through me. “I certainly hope so.”
With that complement, I’m feeling downright awesome and in control. Then, my gaze runs across the old-fashioned phone set onto our kitchen wall. Any second now, that thing could ring again, not with a code-red failure this time, but with a full Tower meltdown. My chest tightens with worry and doubt. “Sometimes, though, I wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t stopped my first iconigration. I mean, the Old Scala would never have questioned sending everyone to Hell.”
“Nonsense,” says Mom quickly. “You know how your father and I feel about what you’re doing. It’s a very brave move to shut down Soul Processing. You have our full support. And we’ll help keep Adair’s investigation quiet for as long as possible. Don’t let the nay-sayers get you down, honey.”
Huh. Mom’s been warning me about the dangers of nay-sayers since I was two years old. Now, her words wrap around me once again, comforting as a blanket. “With you as my Mom, the nay-sayers don’t stand a chance.”
Dad’s features firm up. I know this look; he’s going into what I call Father-General-mode. “We’ve got you covered from the military side, as well.” His voice carries a note of grim determination. “If there’s rioting again, I’ll call in troops from Heaven, no problem.”
My father means for that statement to be reassuring, but it’s not. At all. Instead, I start thinking about Purgatory’s infamous Ghost Riots. The tightness and anxiety in my chest grows downright painful. Thoughts of those bloodthirsty mobs have been torturing me for weeks.