“Thank you so much for the offer,” I say. “But that’s not possible.”
“You see, we thrax have our traditions,” says Lincoln. “And only thrax and other parties who are directly involved in the lawsuit can come into one of our courts.”
Mrs. Pomplemousse purses her lips. “That seems odd.”
It’s no shocker that Mrs. Pomplemousse knows dick about the thrax. Purgatory used to be run by ghouls, and ghouls turned everything into a learning opportunity on sucking up to—wait for it—the ghouls! Television, libraries, magazine, schools…It all centered on the ways to make our overlords happy. There was never any information shared about other realms. As a result, most quasis know very little about the thrax, other than the fact that they’re demon hunters. And since quasis are part demon, they’re convinced all thrax want to kill them. Long story short, my people don’t have a lot of thrax love.
Plus, ever since our engagement was announced, my people seem to really hate Lincoln. In fact, I spend an inordinate amount of time explaining to the Purgatory media how Lincoln doesn’t actually kill quasis on sight. That said, the quasi worries aren’t totally unfounded. To tell the truth, if Lincoln and I had first met in a dark alley—instead of at a formal ball—then, yes he might have taken out his baculum and challenged me to a fight. So there’s that.
Still, the Lincoln-loathing does seem to be getting a little better. I had an interview last week where they didn’t only focus on the fact that Lincoln might murder me any minute.
Baby steps.
Mrs. Pomplemousse fidgets with her pillbox at and veil. Based on the suspicious gleam in her eyes, she still isn’t buying the whole story about thrax and their odd traditions.
“Let me explain—” begins Lincoln.
“I’ll take this one,” I say. “I am a quasi, after all.”
“As my lady commands.”
For the record, I’m making a huge sacrifice here to explain things to Mrs. Pomplemousse. Why? More talking means I cannot stuff another fudge thingy in my mouth. What I do for love. “You see, Lincoln’s people are demon fighters who live deep underground on Earth. Demonic forces would like nothing better than to break into Lincoln’s homeland and kill everyone. As a result, the thrax must be very careful about who goes in and out, especially in court.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” Mrs. Pomplemousse gestures to the book in Lincoln’s hands. “In that case, how do we proceed?”
“This device will magically record your words,” says Lincoln. “It’s the only evidence that’s admissible in thrax court. Once I officially start the interview, you’ll answer the questions, and everything that we say and do will be captured in the codex. The Arbiter in Antrum will review all the evidence and decide the case. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, young man. I’m ready. Begin your questions.”
“Thank you.” My guy looks regal and smooth a lot of the time, but never more when he’s sitting in some random grandma’s living room and conducting magical interviews. He makes the place seem as important as a palace.
Did I mention that he’s also a good kisser? That, too. Although, Hell knows when I’ll get to enjoy that again.
Stupid bets. Stupid demons.
Lincoln grips the codex in his palms. “I, Lincoln Vidar Osric Aquilus from the House of Rixa, High Prince of the Thrax and consort to the Great Scala Myla Lewis, do hereby begin this interview of evidence.”
The codex rises from Lincoln’s hands and then hovers in the center of the room. A flare of white light pulses across its cover.
Mrs. Pomplemousse eyes the book warily. “So it will just hover up there?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much it,” I say.
“No more surprises,” adds Lincoln.
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “Let’s begin with the easy stuff. Please tell us your name and where you used to work.”
“I’m Dolly Pomplemousse. I used to work at Ghost Tower Six.”
Here’s why that’s an important job. Souls come to Purgatory to get judged for either Heaven or Hell. As the great scala, I’m the only one that can send them to their final destination. While the spirits are awaiting trial, they are housed in Purgatory, using what we call Ghost Towers.
“And what were your duties there?” asks Lincoln.
“At the end of every day, I would fill out form 793-BDG for our ghoul overlords.” She lowers her voice. “It was a very long form that recorded all the day’s activities.”
I let out a low whistle. “I’m sure it was.” Ghouls adore paperwork. “And did anyone interesting ever visit your tower?”
“Yes. One day, a thrax named Lady Adair came by for an inspection. She said she was a diplomat.” Mrs. Pomplemousse folds her arms over her plump chest. She totally suspects that Lady Adair was lying. But the truth is, Lady Adair did get a job as a diplomatic envoy to Purgatory. Not that she did any actual work. Mostly, Adair used the role to try and cause trouble.