Mom’s face is colorless; her bottom lip quivers. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. I find my voice, though. Sob after sob break free from my throat.

My father’s body arches in pain as new wings sprout from his back. Small buds appear on his shoulder blades, tearing at his flesh. He screams again as huge golden wings burst from his shoulders. The self-healing power of archangels, used to torture him through eternity. This is so wrong.

I stare at my father’s broken body. Anger flows down my neck and shoulders, tightening every muscle. My wrath demon spews fire in my belly, filling me with white-hot rage. I turn to Lincoln, ready to explain what I’m about to do. Once I see the fury in his eyes, I know I won’t have to.

I rise to my feet, my tail flicking behind me in a predatory rhythm. Lincoln stands at my side.

Armageddon’s head snaps in my direction. “Look, who we have here. The little Arena girl and the thrax High Prince.” His eyes sparkle. “You’re King Connor’s boy.” His gaze flips back and forth between me and Mom. “And that girl’s your daughter, isn’t she, Camilla?”

Xavier slowly lifts his ragged head. His blue eyes glow with a soft light. He looks to Mom and rasps out one word: “Daughter?”

Mom offers him a gentle nod. Part of me knows I should see the love in her face and feel some kind of pain. But nothing can drown out the howls of rage inside me. I am tearing those chains off my father if it’s the last thing I ever do.

He swallows. “Is she–”

“Yes, Xavier.” Her eyes brim with tears. “She’s yours.”

The archangel strains to twist his head. He gaze rests on me. “She’s lovely, Camilla.” He forces his broken voice louder. “You’re lovely.”

They are soft words, and something inside me wishes I could feel their tenderness. But right now, all I know is fury. This ends, now. “That’s not all I am, father.” I raise my hand and call to the igni. Their voices chatter angrily in my brain as they whip around my palm. These are the dark children, the ones who send souls to Hell. They look the same as the good igni. Huh. I wasn’t calling the right ones before.

I grin. Well, I’ve got the hang of it now.

Armageddon leans back on his heel, folding his arms over his lean chest. “So, you’re the true Scala Heir. Interesting.”

I summon more igni around my palm. Their voices take on a harsh edge, like razor blades scraping across metal. “You almost have that right.” The igni multiply into a white column that’s seven feet tall. “I’m not the Scala Heir. I’m the Great Scala.” Beside me, Lincoln ignites his baculum.