Before I know it, Lincoln has me wrapped in a warm embrace. “I worry about the same thing, Myla.”
I nuzzle into his neck. Nothing smells better than Lincoln. Forest pine and leather. “And what’s that?”
“Being parted from you. This isn’t a very princely of me to say, but I worry more about our separation than another invasion from the King of Hell.”
I can only smile. “It isn’t princely. I totally appreciate it, though.” I fold my arms around his waist. “Can’t we let the after-realms go to Hell for once? I mean, this room isn’t so bad. We could claim sanctuary, maybe get some furniture. A few throw rugs. A mini-fridge. We could be happy here.”
Lincoln chuckles, and I love that sound. “But then we’d miss out on an opportunity to kill demons on Earth.”
My inner mope-fest ends instantly. I forgot about the opportunity to go after demons. The Earth’s surface is crawling with them. And unlike the Arena and Purgatory, there will be no one to stop me.
“You have a point.” And he totally does. I glance out the window and watch the sun dip toward the horizon line. “Let’s go kick some ass.”
“That’s my Myla.”
I kiss the tip of his nose. “No, that’s just us.”
And even though all Hell is about to break loose—literally—I still feel like everything is all right with the world because right now? Lincoln and I are together.
12
Dad speeds his Bugatti Veyron convertible around another curve in the road. He and I are following the coastline of Nova Scotia on our way to the drop-off point for the Wheeler Institute. We should arrive in the next five minutes or so, which is when I’ll meet Headmaster Prescott. The last headmaster I had was a ghoul, so whoever this dude is, he’s bound to be a step up.
I lean back in the convertible, close my eyes, and let the sunlight warm my face. It’s late September here in Nova Scotia, and the air has some of the sizzle of summer with the crisp undertones of fall. The ocean surf pounds onto the rocks along the shoreline. It’s beautiful, but in a lonely kind of way.
I miss Lincoln.
Dad takes another turn at high speed. As an angel, he really doesn’t see speed limits as applying to him. He’s also decided to be Mister Quiet this morning. I keep asking questions without getting answers. Finally, he breaks the silence. “How did things turn out with you and Lincoln? Have you moved the wedding date?”
On second thought, maybe Dad’s decided to be Mister Busybody.
“No.” The way I snap off the word, it should be clear that the subject is closed. Besides, we went over this a million times after Aldred somehow maneuvered our court date to right before the wedding. Lincoln and I didn’t move our big day then, and we won’t move it now. Aldred would see that as a win. Besides, there’s the fact that our moms and my bestie, Cissy, have been working their asses off on this ceremony. I mean, getting tens of thousands of people into one place? That’s huge. Long story short? We’re not canceling dick.
“So your mood is more than the stress of the wedding,” says Dad. “You hate being apart from Lincoln.”
“You got that right. It bites. Big-time.”
Dad glances at me over his shoulder. He’s wearing some super-fancy sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes. Still, I know him well enough now to realize that he has his “I’m wiser than you” face on. I know exactly how this will go. He’ll say something that will make me rethink everything, and I’m not in the mood. I decide to try and stop the whole conversation before it starts.
“You are not wiser than me, Dad.” There, that ought to do it.
“I’ve been alive since the dawn of time. I suffered in Hell for twenty years because I traded my life for your mother’s. I believe I know a thing or two about situations like this.”
And there, he did it. Put everything in perspective. “Okay, maybe you do know a few things.”
“You and Lincoln are true partners. That’s what’s most important. Whatever happens, he’ll be there with you at the end of eternity.”
Now, I liked the first part of what Dad said, but the whole “end of eternity” comment makes me think that we won’t meet up again until we’re dead. And that a thought makes my mope-o-meter start to rise again. Still, Dad’s trying to be, well, a Dad. I should encourage it. “Thanks. That means a lot to me.”
“Glad to help.” Dad doesn’t say anything more, and that’s fine with me. Besides, I need to get into the headspace that I’m a high school senior again, not the great scala. Sure, that was my life six months ago. Yet it feels like I’ve lived about three lifetimes since then.
I get lost in my thoughts until I realize the car has stopped. Dad has parked us near a small cluster of wooden buildings that hug the shoreline. Beyond the shore is a pretty sizable lake. And in the middle of the lake?
Hemlock Island.
Way to name it something creepy, Nova Scotia. To my mind, the lake looks dark despite the early morning light. And the island itself seems overrun with trees and shrubbery and who knows what else? We don’t have a lot of nature in Purgatory. It’s mostly old concrete and grubby strip malls. And honestly, I like things that way. Rundown cities I get, but the forest? That’s Lincoln’s world.
Just thinking about my guy has me bummed out, so I try to focus on the mission instead.
I’m in high school, I’m in high school, I’m in high school.
“This way, Myla.” Dad has his sunglasses off, and his face is all sympathetic and smiley. I really wish he would lecture me again. Lecturing I can handle. The sympathetic thing makes me want to cry.
Tamp it down, Myla. Focus.
“I’m right with you, Dad.”
We head toward an old wooden dock. An ancient dude in a heavy fisherman’s jacket stands at the far end. With his blue pea coat and huge gray beard, the guy looks like he belongs on a box of fish sticks. Next to Fish Stick Grandpa (as I’ve decided to call him), there stands a middle-aged man with pale skin, a skinny-ish frame, and golden-blond hair. If the other guy looks like he fell off a fish sticks box, this guy could be an illustration in the Preppy Handbook.
Dad and I step out of the car and march along the dock, our footsteps beating a quick rhythm. I’m wearing jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt. From what I’ve seen on human TV shows, this is standard stuff for a regular human high school student. But it feels really strange not being in my Scala robes or dragonscale fighting suit.
The headmaster smiles broadly at us as we approach. He’s wearing khaki pants, a white shirt, and a blue jacket with some kind of insignia on the pocket. He’s even got one of those cravat thingies at his throat. I decide that if humans ever made a country club edition of their Ken dolls, then that would be this man.
The headmaster extends his hand toward Dad. “Greetings, Mister Cross.” Humans don’t know my father’s real last name, so there was no need to come up with a fake one. I had to leave the name Myla behind, though. That’s a bummer. “I’m Headmaster Prescott.” He then focuses on me. “And you must be Miss Mysteria Cross. How are you, Missy?”
“Mysteria.” I took a long time making up that name. I wanted something close to Myla that didn’t sound girly. I am so not happy with the Missy thing that Prescott’s working here. “Everyone calls me Mysteria. Pronounced Miss-TEER-ee-ah.” That ought to make things clear.
“You look like a Missy to me.” Prescott grins, and there’s something predatory in his smile. Every instinct I have is telling me to pile drive this asshole into the dock. I hold off, though. I need to get that codex to court by tomorrow.
I slap on what I hope is an innocent face. “Hey, all I want to do is fit in.”
“You’ll do well here, then.”
“Yup.” I try to keep working my innocent vibe. It’s not an easy task with all the ruckus from my tail. Sure, humans like Prescott can’t see it. That doesn’t mean it isn’t screwing around with my center of gravity, though.
Thanks for nothing, boy.
This is the situation. S
ometimes, my tail takes an instant shine to a person, like it did with Lincoln. In other cases, my backside hates someone so badly it makes a big scene and acts like a total baby right off the bat.
Like now.
My tail hooks its arrowhead-shaped end into the dock and burrows in. Clearly, it doesn’t want to go anywhere with Prescott. I twist my hips and try to break free, but I only end up making myself look like I’m twerking.
“Are you quite all right, Missy?” asks Prescott.
Way to make a great first impression, Myla.
“I’m fine.” I shake his hand. Since my tail has me anchored in place, I have to lean way forward to meet his grip. “I’m really excited to start school here. Thanks so much for making a place for me. I know summer camp started weeks ago.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Prescott eyes me warily. And even if Prescott were really an angel or demon, he wouldn’t see anything because I’m wearing the amulet from Lucas. Still, it must look like I’m standing at an angle that defies gravity. Not good.
Dad steps around back of me and casually pulls my tail free from the dock. I exhale a relieved breath.
Thank you, Dad.
My father strides over to Prescott and shakes the headmaster’s hand. “Well, I have to run for a meeting at the clubhouse.” He wraps me in a big hug. “Have fun, darling.” I don’t know where the “darling” comes from, but it sounds totally authentic. Dad really is a cool liar.
“I’ll have loads of fun, Daddums.” There, that sounded preppy and convincing. I hope. Prescott stops scowling at me, so I take that as a good sign.
Dad kisses my cheek, says his goodbyes to Prescott, and walks away. Once Dad is safely inside the Bugatti, Prescott rubs his hands together. I notice he has a manicure. Lincoln’s hands are all calloused from holding a sword all day long. Manicured man-hands give me the creeps. Reason number two to dislike Prescott. “Well, Missy? Shall we go?”
Aaaaaaand thanks for reminding me that calling me Missy was reason number one to hate your preppy ass.
“Sure thing, Headmaster.” I hoist my backpack onto my shoulder.
“Is that all you’re bringing?” Prescott gestures to my pack.
“Yes, my parents are sending up a trunk with my other stuff in a few days.” I shrug my backpack higher on my shoulder. “This is fine for now.” I’m not planning to stay here past a few days, either. Not that I’ll volunteer that fact.
“Don’t you have more girl-things you need? Makeup? Formal dresses?”
Nunchuks?
“Ah, no. I’m more of a sporty type.” He doesn’t seem convinced, so I quickly add on more detail. “Also, I do my own laundry.” This is totally true, by the way. For whatever reason, that seems to convince him.
“In that case, let’s be off.” Prescott gestures to the Fish Stick Guy. The man has been so quiet I’d forgotten he was here. “Jeeves, if you don’t mind?”
My lips purse. Jeeves? Really? I am so sticking with Fish Stick Grandpa as his name. FSG for short because, what else should I do with my time other than make up nicknames? Pay actual attention to my new headmaster?
After Prescott asks the same thing two more times, FSG finally ambles into the boat and grabs the oars. I’m pretty sure that he heard Prescott fine and is just being an ass, which is totally cool with me. Prescott looks young and fit. It takes balls to ask some wrinkly old dude to row your fat ass around when you’re totally capable of doing it yourself, even if you are wearing a cravat.
Once FSG settles into the rowboat, it’s my turn to climb aboard. It isn’t easy getting in, especially since I have to hold my struggling tail with one hand while keeping my balance with the other. Combine that with the water, and I’m wobbling all over the place. What fancy-ass preppy school uses an old rowboat anyway? It seems like they’d tool back and forth in one of those sporty James Bond wooden powerboat thingies. Something to ponder for later.
Prescott takes my free hand and helps me settle in, which is cool. Perhaps I misjudged him for wearing a cravat and everything. Then, my scummy headmaster somehow manages to brush my boobs a few times as I sit down, which is way uncool.
Reason number three to hate the man.
Eventually, we’re all settled into the boat, and FSG rows us across the lake to Hemlock Island. My warrior sense goes on alert. This is my life now. Really? Who goes in a rowboat with a pervert to a sketchy-looking island?
Myla Lewis, that’s who.
I’ve had some crappy ideas, but this is starting to feel like one of my worst.
13
FSG huffs and puffs as he hauls us across the lake. From here, Hemlock Island looks like a panel of green trees surrounded by a calm sheet of dark water. A weight of foreboding settles into my bones.
Looks like I’m in for some nature-time. Yuck.
I grew up in Purgatory, so I dig the whole rundown industrial scene. Take me to a cracked-up parking garage and—BAM—I feel right at home. To me, forests are a whole lot of irritating. In my experience, the woods are basically packed with bugs and nameless goo.
Oh, well. Anything to find that codex and get this over with. Not to mention stopping Lucifer’s coin from unleashing unholy Hell.
FSG heaves on the oars once again. The dude looks wrinkly, sweaty, and ready to keel over. I tap his shoulder gently. “Would you like some help, uh…” I barely stop myself from calling him Fish Stick Grandpa. “Jeeves?”
He keeps hauling on the oars. “I’ve been pulling these oars…” Pant pant. “Every summer for forty years…” Pant pant. “There’s no one to help.”
I frown. “What do you mean no one?” I glance over at the village by the water. Now that I take a closer look, the houses have a fresh coat of paint. Even so, the windows do look mostly boarded up. “What happened to everyone?”
FSG opens his mouth, and I just know he wants to spill about why the town is deserted and he’s ferrying me around by rowboat. However, before he gets a word out, Prescott gives the old dude the stink eye. FSG shuts his yap and fast.
That is so not stopping me from getting an answer.
“Why did everyone leave the town?”
“No idea.” He keeps hauling and panting.
“But you stayed.”
FSG stops pulling on the oars and takes in a few breaths. “My family has always been here, young lady. We’re not like other people.”
My tail gives him a modified thumbs-up. It’s a nice gesture, even though FSG can’t see a thing.
Or can he?
FSG’s gaze flickers at my tail for a moment before he returns to his task.
My frown deepens. There is no way he could see my tail. Only Lincoln and my father can detect my supernatural side at this point. Lincoln can do it because he’s wearing an amulet that’s linked to mine. Dad can see me because his power is older than dirt. If FSG can see me, he’d have to be someone pretty extraordinary. His recent words echo through my mind.
“We’re not like other people.”
I lean forward. “How are you different, exactly?”
Prescott sighs. “Please leave Jeeves to do his work, Missy.”
“My name’s not Missy.” FSG is carefully avoiding my gaze now. “Your name’s not Jeeves, either. Is it?”
FSG cracks a super-wrinkly smile, and I know two things. One, the man does not visit a dentist regularly, and two, he’s totally not named Jeeves.
“What’s your real name, anyway?” I ask.
“Jeeves!” snaps Prescott. “Stop pestering my summer student. Missy and I have important things to discuss.”
“My name’s Mysteria.” Sheesh.
Prescott keeps ignoring when I correct him. It’s really getting on my nerves. “Now, Missy. I wanted to greet you personally in order to discuss any misconceptions you may have about summer camp at the Wheeler Institute.”
“Sure.” Misconceptions? This is getting good.
“What do you know about us?”
I shrug. “My father says you have the best su
mmer camp on the planet, so here I am.”
“Excellent. Indeed, we are a superb organization.” Prescott gestures to me. “Why, look at the caliber of student we’re now attracting. Your father is a renowned gold dealer.” He lowers his voice. “In secret markets, of course.”
“Something like that.” I told Dad that having gold wings didn’t mean he could pretend to be a human gold dealer. My father countered that he’d done something similar while riding a caravan along the Silk Road, whatever that involved. I find it’s best to change the subject when he starts talking about ancient times. Otherwise, he can and will go on for hours.
Prescott’s voice lowers to a hush. “My point is, I don’t want you repeating anything you may have heard about the Wheeler Institute. There have been some nasty rumors that the island is haunted, but that kind of fear-mongering is completely behind us. The last headmaster did his best. Now I’m taking things the final mile.”
Huh. That’s interesting. “So, how long have you been running this place?”
“About six months.”
I bite back a groan. Six months? That’s when I kicked Armageddon back to Hell. No way that’s a coincidence. “If you don’t mind my asking, where were you before this?”
“Before?”
“Like, what school did you run or whatever?”
“Oh, I never ran any school.”
“You didn’t?” That is so weird.
“I’m an expert in Archangology.” Prescott lowers his voice and starts speaking very slowly, like I’m a young child. “That’s the study of archangels.”
“I know.” My Dad’s one.
“In fact, the patron saint of the Wheeler Institute is an archangel.”
“I know that, too.” That would be my Dad again.
“And that’s how I got this appointment.” Prescott’s eyes glaze over in a way that somehow reminds me of when he groped my butt. It’s more than little creepy. “The Lady thought that only someone with my appreciation of the archangels would be fit to run this school.”
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