Scala by Christina Bauer Page A

announcing results from her investigation of the Ghost Towers tonight. What a very-very suspicious emergency, considering we’re slated to find Lucifer’s Orb tomorrow morning. Methinks she’s trying to steal our thunder.”
    The limo turns off the back roads and heads into more populated areas. Almost immediately, quasis start to fill the roadsides, holding up signs that say ‘quasi lives first’ and ‘iconigration now’. The crowd boos, shakes their signs, and screams obscenities as we drive by.
    I point to the window. “What’s up with this? I thought we were flying under the radar with the Ghost Tower risks.”
    Cissy shakes her head. “Adair’s been giving speeches around the Thrax Embassy for days. Local schools, coffee houses, that kind of thing. Now, the quasi population around here is in a full-blown panic.”
    My hands ball with frustration. “So, we focus on the warehouse for two days and this is what happens. Adair takes to the streets.”
    â€œIt totally sucks,” says Cissy. “But, we hardly have enough staff to cover regular Diplomatic work, let alone following around Adair.”
    â€œI know, Cissy.” I set my palms onto my eyes. This situation bites. So. Hard. “The biggest question is what to do now?”
    Cissy’s mouth thins into a determined line. “We have to nail this press conference, Myla. Otherwise, Adair will use the TV, radio and print coverage to spread that same panic all over Purgatory. Have either of you done damage control in a press conference before?”
    â€œAntrum doesn’t have an independent press,” explains Lincoln. “At least, not when it comes to royalty.”
    â€œAnd I’ve only had Scala-love interviews. Everyone’s been so thrilled that I’m from Purgatory, it’s been one fluff piece after another.” A pang of worry constricts my throat. How’s this press conference going to work, exactly? I’m the girl who causes damage, not controls it.
    We turn down onto a major street and the handful of quasis at the roadside turn into rowdy crowds. More signs. More screaming as my limo drives by. Some of my people actually hold clubs and guns above their heads. A new sign gets added into the mix: ‘Cursed Scala, Cursed Purgatory’.
    Hells Bells. For the first time, I’m very-very glad Purgatory doesn’t have any cell service or Internet. Otherwise, we’d already be in full-blown riot stage by now.
    The limo pulls up to the Thrax Embassy, a small stone castle whose even smaller front yard is crammed with people. I count three TV vans from Purgatory alone. Hundreds of reporters and photographers jostle for position. I see folks from Antrum, the Dark Lands and even Heaven. Thousands of protestors line the streets. My heart sinks to my toes. The situation’s already veering dangerously out of control.
    Cissy curls her fingers around the door handle. “Here’s the drill. Adair will make her announcement. After that, Myla will say a few words. Lincoln, Xavier, Camilla and I will be on-stage for backup.” She looks me over and frowns. “Maybe it’s better if Camilla spoke, instead. You’ve never done anything like this before, Myla.”
    â€œTrue enough.” I rub my chin, considering. Cissy’s right. Mom does damage control all the time. She could easily take this press conference, too. I picture myself standing at the back of the stage, looking goddess-like while Mom works the crowd. Some of the anxiety eases from my neck and shoulders. That could totally work.
    â€œYou really think Mom can do it?”
    â€œOh yeah,” replies Cissy. “I mean, she knows Soul Processing as well as you do, right?”
    Wrong. The tension returneth.
    â€œNo, Mom’s had enough to do without learning my job, too.” Worry settles back onto my shoulders, heavy as stones. “No, Cis. I’m the Great Scala