Armageddon Special Edition

1 In my dream, I’m enveloped in total darkness. Terrified weeping echoes in my ears. The voices are shrill, soul-numbing, and relentless. They’re also oddly familiar. Could that be my igni? My igni make me the Great Scala, the only being who can move souls to Heaven or Hell. They’re also my personal alarm system, chattering mostly-unintelligible advice in times of danger. That said, they only babble warnings when I’m wide awake, and they always answer me when I call to them. Not in this nightmare, though. Whenever I call to the voices here, no one answers me. It’s irritating and not a little bit freaky. Steeling my shoulders, I decide to try once more. “Are you crying, my little ones?” My words echo strangely in the heavy dark. I hold my breath, anxious for any reply. None comes. The weeping only grows louder, until the voices gain the sharp, panicky edge of screams. That’s it. No one’s going to answer me, yet again. My eyes prickle with tears of frustration and grief. Why won’t these dreams stop? And if it’s my igni crying, then why don’t they speak to me? At last, I wake with a gasp. Beads of cold sweat drip down the small of my back, making me shiver. Man, that nightmare was rough. My husband Lincoln leans over me, his body weight propped onto his right arm. “Is everything okay?” His mismatched eyes are wide with worry. “You were thrashing around in your sleep.” I force my breathing to slow. Calm down, Myla. It’s early morning and you’re safe in bed at Arx Hall. Everything is fine. “I had another bad dream, that’s all.” Lincoln gently kisses my forehead. “That’s the third time this week. You’re working way too hard.” “So are you, Your Highness.” “You know what I mean. I’m King of the Thrax and father to the most rambunctious three-year old in the after-realms. That’s already a lot. But you’ve got all that and Soul Processing to manage.” He pins me with a worried look. “You don’t take care of yourself, Myla.” Unfortunately, I know exactly where the ‘take care of yourself’ conversation goes. Doctors. Physicals. Needles. Not good. I slap on what I hope is an über-healthy smile. “I’m part demon. I don’t have to take care of myself and I still look fabulous.” A long pause follows in which Lincoln’s frown stays firmly in place. “If that was a joke, I didn’t find it humorous.” “Hey, it was just another bad dream. No big deal.” Total lie. These nightmares are driving me crazy, not that I’ll admit the truth to Lincoln. When I got pregnant with Maxon, I went through months of painful physicals that involved tons of needles, potions and prodding. At the end, the doctors decided they didn’t know d**k about a pregnant Scala and all the hullabaloo was for nothing. I have avoided the entire medical community ever since. I intend to keep on doing so for the foreseeable future. Lincoln glides his fingertips along my temple. “Did you have the same dream as last time?” “All darkness and screaming, yeah.” A shiver rolls across my shoulders as I recall the terrified howls that overwhelmed my sleep. “I think it’s my igni.” “Igni? But they never contact you in your dreams.” “I know, right? At first, I thought they were so upset, they couldn’t wait for me to wake up or something. Like it’s easier to reach me asleep.” Lincoln nods. “That makes sense. A good amount of magical communication—like dreamscaping—can only happen when you’re sleeping. I’d imagine your igni might find it easier to talk in dreams, especially if they’re overwrought.” “That’s what I thought, too. Only, in my dreams, the voices don’t answer me when I call to them. And my igni always answer me, even if I can’t understand most of what they say.” I let out a frustrated huff of breath. “Maybe something else is going on.” “Oh, like stress, perhaps?” The look in his eyes says ‘and you know what that means.’ Doctors. Part of me knows that he’s right. I can’t avoid physicians forever. But another part of me wants to keep ignoring the problem, and that part’s winning out in a big way. I decide to brainstorm other reasons for the dreams. It takes me a few minutes, but eventually I come up with something. “Hey, it could be a spell, too. I’ve been joining demon patrols a lot these days. Maybe someone chucked an enchantment on me by mistake.” “Only one way to know for certain,” says Lincoln slowly. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but that means visiting a magical healer.” Yuck. Those Striga nut jobs are worse than regular doctors. Maybe I should go back to my theory that it’s my igni screaming. At least, that didn’t involve the magical medical community. If I keep calling to igni in my nightmare, maybe they’ll explain everything, no doctors involved. Sure, they haven’t answered me yet, but that’s got to be better than getting a physical. I purse my lips, making a great show of contemplation. “You know, come to think of it, I’m absolutely positive it was my igni.” I slap on my biggest, toothiest grin, the one I know that Lincoln adores. “No need for any check-ups, here.” “For a badass warrior, you’re a baby when it comes to your own health.” “Guilty as charged.” Lincoln rubs his chin for a minute. “Last night in your dream, did you talk to your igni while you were still asleep?” “Sure.” “You haven’t done that before. Well, not successfully anyway. Maybe they only hear when you’re awake.” “Huh, I hadn’t thought of that.” Another shiver rattles my spine as I recall the shrieks that filled my nightmares. “Well, whoever or whatever it was, their cries kept getting worse and worse. It was heartbreaking.” Lincoln studies me for another long minute before nodding to himself. “My Queen, I believe you could benefit from a royal distraction.” Royal distraction? The morning’s looking up. A smile tugs at my mouth. “I could, huh?” Under the crisp white bed linens, Lincoln slides his left hand up my bare stomach. I close my eyes, lean back into my pillow, and enjoy the delicious sensation of his touch. “For the record, I like where this distraction is going.” “Well, it’s the least I can do, considering you’re heartbroken and all.” Lincoln’s fingertips slowly circle around the base of my right breast. My inner lust demon stirs, sending heat to my core. “Is this where it hurts?” he asks slowly. “Your heart?” I mock-pout. “Oh, terribly.” A mischievous smile sounds in Lincoln’s voice. “Want me to kiss and make it better?” “You know, that could totally help.” Moments like these are why I’m so very-very glad that Lincoln and I don’t believe in pajamas. Bit by bit, Lincoln pulls the sheet down, exposing my bare breast. Cold air teases my skin; heat spikes through my bloodstream. Leaning forward, he presses a gentle kiss at the very top of my breast, aka the farthest you can get from my n****e and still technically be on my chest. He does so love to torture me. “So, how worried are you about these nightmares?” Lincoln’s voice is all low, sexy and growly. My favorite. “About medium-worried.” At this point, it’s obvious that Lincoln’s using his classic s****l-distraction maneuver, the one where he gets me all hot and bothered so he can talk me into doing something practical. And in this case, practical means doctors. But the joke’s on him this time. I’m not some mindless lust demon who he can manipulate with kisses. I’ll simply walk away. Kiss. This time, Lincoln’s lips move lower, a sweet inch closer to my n****e. More heat pulses in my core. Walk away, Myla. Walk away. Kiss. This time, Lincoln’s hand glides down my stomach, too. I don’t walk away. “Have your igni said anything else to you since the dreams started? During the daytime, maybe?” “Yeah, well…” I try to focus on the question, but I’m having issues because Lincoln’s fingertips have reached my thigh. Damn, that’s good stuff. “Uh, Myla?” He flashes me a sneaky smile. “I asked you a question.” “Right. A question. What was it, again?” “Any daytime messages from your igni?” “Oh, that. No, nothing during the day.” I slip my fingers into his messy mop of silky brown hair. “I know what you’re doing, by the way.” Kiss. His lips reach my areola, which puckers under his touch. A lovely ache rolls through my center. “And what is that, my Queen?” “Using s****l torture to learn more about my nightmares. Next, you’ll get me to agree to all sorts of junk I’d never consider unless I was under the influence of my lust demon.” “s****l torture? Manipulation?” He wears a look of mock-shock. “Really?” “Really-really.” Lincoln moves in for another kiss, but then pauses just above my n****e, where his warm breath feels especially yummy. I might hate him a little, right now. “Although, a visit from the royal physician is probably in order, don’t you think? We’re anointing a new Earl of Acca tomorrow, and I don’t want to take any chances. Plus, you never know, there could be some sympathizers still running around, wanting to show their support for the former Earl by casting a bad spell on you or some such nonsense. I’ll have the Striga Elders send one of their healers over, too, just to be sure. Agreed?” “Ugh. I hate doctors.” But I love how you’re massaging my inner thigh. “You’ll still see them today, though. Am I right?” Lincoln accents this last point by gently brushing his bottom lip across the very tip of my n****e. My inner lust demon goes berserk. “Okay. I’ll see the doctors, just—” Finally, he takes me fully into his mouth and suckles. Pleasure spikes between my thighs. “Oh, yes.” Lincoln gives my areola another expert swirl with his tongue. A low moan escapes my lips. “I want you, Lincoln. Now.” “As you command, my—” A frantic pounding sounds at our bedroom door, interrupting us. Fuck-f**k-fuckity-f**k-f**k. Right when he reached my n****e, too. “Are you expecting anyone?” asks Lincoln. “Nuh-uh, are you?” “Nope, my schedule’s clear until lunch.” We share a frown. No one gets past the royal guard unless they have proper credentials and a damn good reason. “Open up!” A woman’s voice booms through the closed door. “I have important news for you.” She speaks in an operatic sing-song that’s hard to forget. “Is that Maxon’s new night nanny?” I ask. “Yeah, that’s Rowena. And if I were a betting man, I’d say she’s here to quit.” “But you only hired her yesterday.” “True enough. But you know our Maxon.” “That I do.” Our young son inherited my power to move souls to Heaven and Hell, which makes him the Scala Heir. When I was three, even my Mom couldn’t tell that I had supernatural skills. That’s not the case with our Maxon. He’s got all sorts of unusual powers, including an incredibly low need for sleep. That said, Lincoln and I do require our rest, so we hire someone to watch our little guy until morning. The infamous night nanny. “How many night nannies does that make this week?” asks Lincoln. “Four,” I reply. We had the same night nanny for ages but she left to start her own family. Now, we’re in an awkward in-between period. And by awkward, I mean angry-nannies-quitting-daily-type-awkward. “Ah, well,” says Lincoln. “We’ll get it right eventually. I’ll hire the next one. It’s the least I can do for leaving you all hot and bothered.” He kisses the tip of my nose and then rolls out of bed. I watch Lincoln’s naked backside as he saunters down the hallway and into the nearest bathroom. Mmm-mmmmm, my guy has a sweet butt. What a shame that royal playtime was cut short this morning. The pounding resumes, only louder this time. “Will you please open this door? It’s urgent.” “One minute.” Scooping my Scala robes off a nearby chair, I pull them on over my head. “Is Maxon okay?” “He’s fine,” calls Rowena. “However, his behavior is nothing less than monstrous, in my opinion.” “Monstrous?” That’s way too harsh. I speed across the room, whip open the door, and freeze. It’s a stupendous effort not to laugh my ass off. Okay, Maxon might have been a little monstrous this time around. Rowena stands in the outer hallway, a short, plump muffin of a woman in a simple black Rixa gown. But that’s not what has me almost cracking up. Yesterday, Rowena had a massive beehive of gray hair that added at least six inches to her overall height. This morning, that hair-do is a burnt-out mess. She looks like Mrs. Santa Claus with a char-broiled Mohawk. Yup. That’s Maxon’s handiwork, all right. I scan the hallway, but my boy’s nowhere to be seen. Most likely, he’s hiding around a corner or behind one of the larger pieces of gold-inlaid furniture. Rowena folds her ample arms over her even-more-ample chest. “I have something to say to both of Your Highnesses.” Lincoln steps up beside me wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. “What seems to be the problem?” “I came here to discuss your son, the High Prince. You can throw me in the dungeons if you wish, but his behavior is unacceptable.” Lincoln and I exchange a long, knowing look. Don’t worry, honey. If we chucked every night nanny who bitched about Maxon into the dungeons, we’d run out of dungeon pretty quickly. “Maxon,” says Lincoln in his best paternal-authority voice. “Come out here, please.” Our little guy sidles into view, a black-haired moppet wearing blue and white striped pajamas. He has mismatched eyes, a slender frame, and a s**t-eating grin on his face. “Yeeeeeeah?”