This conversation is going off the rails and fast.
Best to step in.
“We must return to the main Purgatory station immediately,” I declare. “Prepare for transfer.”
“Yes, your Majesty.” There’s a palpable tang of disappointment in Leandra’s voice. She’ll live. If Myla started handing out used dental floss to random fans, then that’s all she’d do, 24-7.
“One minute.” A static hiss sounds as Leandra goes offline to set up the transfer.
Myla wraps her arms around my waist. “One last thing,” she says in her most sultry voice.
I do appreciate the sexy tone, but I also know my wife. She’s scheming.
“No need to thank me about Leandra,” I state.
“I do appreciate the help,” says Myla. “But that’s not what I meant. I want to go double or nothing on our bet. I’ll pick a trivia question for you this time. We’ll see who wins, smartypants.”
“Double or nothing?” I lift my brows. “Two kisses, whenever and wherever the winner calls for them? That’s what you’re betting?”
“Yup” Myla pops the ‘p’ on yup.
“I’ll take it.”
A static hiss sounds and Leandra returns. “Transfer confirmed and ready at your signal.”
“Excellent,” I call out. “Launch transfer on my mark. 3, 2, 1.”
With a jolt of movement, the circular platform whips downwards, hurtling through the ground. A minute later, the platform comes to an abrupt halt. We’ve stopped at another stone temple, only this time in Purgatory.
“What’s the wager then?” I ask Myla.
“You’ll just have to wait and find out,” she replies.
“More anticipation?” I ask.
“Of course, it does make everything better, after all.”
Which is absolutely true.
10
Myla
After Lincoln and I leave the transfer station, we hop into a limo and head back home.
A side note on limousines. I get that our ride’s all tricked out with extra protection, but honestly? I’d rather have my old station wagon, Betsy, back. I don’t like the idea of having to call someone every time I want to enter our mega-warded-up compound. But that’s the Scala life for you. Whatever I do, having magical security is key.
Soon Lincoln and I stride through our front door. The moment we’re across the threshold, Maxon bounds toward us.
“Pop Pops gave me a new sword!” Pop Pops is my father and maxon’s babysitter for the evening.
These days, Maxon looks like an oversized cherub, what with his big blue eyes and round face. What offsets his angelic cuteness is a dragonscale tail and the ability to summon lighting. My kid is not your typical four year old.
Dad races over to kiss me on the cheek. “Sorry, I have to run. I promised your mother I’d be at the Drizzle Festival already.”
I make my eek face. Just like the yard sale, I’d forgotten all about the Drizzle Festival. Technically, it’s called the Celebration of Spring, but over the years we locals gave it another name, mostly because this realm is always overcast.
“Sorry, Dad. We got caught up with Bedlam, a super evil and rare Titan of Chaos.”
This is a somewhat sneaky move on my part. My father loves fighting unusual baddies as much as I do. In fact, our best bonding moments are over sharing notebooks of unusual demon kills. Normally, dropping something like the Bedlam bomb would sidetrack Dad for hours.
Not so this time.
“Must run. Love you!” And with that, Dad rushes outside and is gone.
Once the door is shut, I turn to Lincoln. “What was that all about?”
“Tonight’s festival is a joint celebration with thrax and quasis.
A warrior tournament is taking place.”
“Oh, I forgot about that, too.” We’re trying to have more of these joint quasi-n-thrax thingies lately. “Still doesn’t explain why Dad ran off.”
“My guess? Xavier has one or two angelic warriors in the fight.
Your father trained all their best soldiers.”
“So Dad’s own fighters are about to take down demons for a crowd.” I lift my brows. “No wonder he ran off.”
All this time, Maxon has stood beside me and Lincoln while clasping his new wooden sword to his chest. “Can I keep the sword from Pop Pops with me always? Can I? Can I?”
Some kids snooze with a teddy bear. For Maxon, it’s a wooden sword. When Lincoln was a kid, I guess he did the same thing. All of which is why I now turn to my husband. He’s the sword sleeping expert in the family. Not that this weapon is anywhere near sharp, mind you. We’re warriors, not idiots.
When Lincoln next speaks, it’s with his most kingly voice. “You may keep the sword with you, but only if you put on your pajamas on right now.”
In reply, Maxon races off to the bedroom to change. These days, that process usually takes two songs and a story, minimum.
Lincoln just found a short cut.
“Well done,” I declare.
“Let’s just say I understand how things work between a boy and his sword.”
Thuds sound from down the hallway as Maxon gets ready. He rushes back into the living room wearing blue PJs and a leather sword belt. Our son pats the new wooden blade which hangs from his side.
“What will you name this one?” I ask.
“I’ll call it the Beast,” announces my boy.
I shoot him a thumbs up. “Good pick.”
Maxon rounds on Lincoln. “Can we watch the nice furry demon, Daddy? Can we? Can we?”
By asking for the nice furry demon , Maxon is requesting to watch a true classic of human entertainment, namely the animated version of Beauty and the Beast.
“Sure thing,” says Lincoln. Beast-time is a recent ritual for them.
While Maxon crawls up onto his favorite spot on the couch, Lincoln unlatches the top of his body armor and sets himself beside our boy. The scene is so cute, I’m pretty sure that I spontaneously ovulate.
For a long minute, I just soak in the sight of my son. Was it just a year ago that my baby was taken by Armageddon, the King of Hell? Maxon never talks about it. And other than a few nightmares, you wouldn’t know our kid was effected at all.
To figure out if Armageddon still bothers Maxon, Lincoln and I spoke to Verus, the oracle angel. According to her visions, Maxon will need to face his time in Hell one day. But it’s not something we can fix for him. As his parents, all Lincoln and I can do is provide him a home filled with love, support and safety.
Safety. The word reverberates through my soul.
I’m pretty sure Bedlam will return eventually. And my chance to interrogate my family on the subject of the Titan of Chaos is tomorrow morning. Which means I need to look through all those odd gifts on our front lawn. I want to spend the morning asking questions, not sorting through stuff.
By this point, Maxon leans against Lincoln. My son’s eyes are at half mast. Almost zonked.
This is the critical time for Maxon’s sleep ritual. If you can get him past this half-doze, there will be about twenty minutes where the kid is so conked out, you can set him into bed without any more of the water-story-song ritual. Some nights, all that extra time together can be fun, but not after the day Lincoln and I just had. The faster we’re all asleep, the better.