“Yup.”
Lucifer was the King of the Angels; he even outranked Dad. Then, the guy went nuts and got imprisoned. His Crown holds angelic magic, while his Orb contains demonic power. Man, I want that thing out of my backyard.
I shake my head. “Walker’s been tracking down leads on the Orb for months. We really thought this crypt was the end of the line. But all Walker found inside was a coffin with a riddle carved inside.”
“What did the riddle say?”
“Walker’s working on it.” My voice lowers to a whisper. “I’ve no idea when we can restart Soul Processing. And in the meantime, the Cloud Carriers are getting more packed every day. I won’t send those innocents to Hell, though. I can’t.”
Lincoln examines me carefully. “There’s something else bothering you, though.”
Wow. He nailed that one, for sure. Despite my worries, a warm and happy feeling rolls down to my toes. No one reads me the way Lincoln does.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” His voice is low, soft and comforting.
“Adair is getting worse, too. Today, she launched an official investigation about the overcrowding in our Carriers. If Purgatory finds out those Towers could blow, my people will lose it.”
Lincoln rakes his left hand through his mop of brown hair. “This is all my fault. Adair’s been asking me to play King and Queen since we were kids. I should never have even considered a marriage contract with her. Mother warned me not to, but their damned army—”
“Don’t torture yourself over Adair. You were doing what you thought was best for your people.”
At the time, the House of Acca was threatening war. Marrying Adair seemed the easiest way to stop them. But once we fell in love, Lincoln called off the negotiations. Adair hasn’t exactly adjusted to the new reality.
Lincoln’s eyes cloud over with regret. “The minute Acca threatened war, I should’ve built the Alliance against them. After all, that’s what finally got the Earl to back down.”
“Hey, there’s more to the Adair-problem than just you. Look at Verus. She’s the Queen of the Angels and a freaking oracle. You’d think she’d have known better than to give Adair a sham initiation as Scala Heir. But she did, complete with Gianna using witchcraft to create fake igni. Now, Adair is saying that the ceremony was real.”
Lincoln’s quiet for a while, his eyes lost in thought. “Tell you what.” He tightens his grip around my waist. “I’m staying.”
“Here? In Purgatory?” Official visits are typically less than an hour. “How long?”
“As long as it takes. This is serious, Myla. We should tackle it as a team.”
That awesome warm-happy-tingly feeling rolls through me again, only even stronger this time. I wrap my arms around his neck. “You’re amazing.”
Lincoln whispers in my ear. “How about we go kill this thing, then head over to your house?”
“You and Cissy are spoiling me today.”
“Don’t say that. You’ve made a really brave choice to stand by those souls. You’re carrying a huge responsibility right now. This is the least I can do. Cissy feels the same way.”
A great roar echoes through the darkened factory, breaking the moment. The cry is so deep and powerful, bits of dingy wall-glass tumble from their rusted window-frames.
Hellooooo, Durus demon.
Battle energy careens through my muscles. “You’re right. Let’s go take down this Durus.”
I snap into fighting-mode, my mind zooming through different approaches and scenarios. “How about we start with long-swords, and then finish with a net?”
“Excellent.”
We take out our baculum, igniting the silver rods as long-swords made of angelfire. Once the flames begins to crackle, the threads of my Scala robes instantly realign into white battle armor. I have to admit, dynamic robe realignment is one of the cooler benefits of being the Great Scala.
Before us, garbage heaps scrape across the floor, combining into a larger shape.
“Guess someone’s decided to come to us,” says Lincoln.
“So thoughtful for a demon.”
On the ground nearby, the trash-pile shifts at a faster rate: melting, reforming, rising. The sour smell of burned rubber and engine grease fills the air. Within seconds, the metal refuse resolidifies as a massive man that’s eight feet tall and almost as broad.
The Durus is here.
The demon’s arms are a mash-up of jackhammers and belt riveters. It stands on legs made of massive steel beams; strange smokes and acids spew from its torso of engine parts. The head’s the nastiest bit of all, a crazy mix of punch-needles and round-saws with crushed-glass eyes and a huge, gaping mouth full of moving-piston teeth.
My breath catches. I have to admit, this thing is way cool.
The Durus speaks in a deep and rusty voice. “Leave my lair.”