Angelbound

Chapter 12-2

I slip out of my room and tiptoe to the front door of my house, the keys to Betsy in the pocket of my hoodie. Holding my breath, I wrap my fingers around the door handle.

Mom pops her head out of the kitchen. I’m so snagged.

“Where are you sneaking off to?” She steps toward me, her shoulders slumping. “Are you going to meet other top Arena fighters?” Her tail wraps around her hand. “I know they’re all part Furor demon too.”

Meeting Furor fighters on the sly? Where does she come up with this cockamamie stuff to worry about?

“I’ve met the other Arena fighters.” I shrug. “They’re fine.”

She sets her hand on her hip. “So, you’re not sneaking off to meet them?”

“Why would I do that?” I spin the keys around my finger. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re okay fighters, but…”

“Not as good as you.”

“Something like that.” They’re actually a bunch of washed-up has-beens, in my humble opinion. Don’t get me wrong, they could kick anyone’s ass in Purgatory, just not mine.

“So, what are you up to?”

“Look, I’m not going to meet any Furor fighters.” But I am going to the thrax tournament. I’m such a bad liar, I was hoping to sneak out without a Maternal Inquisition.

Her chocolate eyes narrow. “So, where are you going?”

“Hanging out with Cissy.” At a thrax tournament, but I leave that part out.

Mom stares at me for a long moment, then nods. “Okay, have fun.”

“Thanks, Mom. I’ll be back soon.” Because once they see I’m wearing sweats instead of some stupid ball gown, I’ll get to leave. My grin stretches extra wide.

My plan’s so freaking awesome.

I drive Betsy to the thrax compound, park her on a dry patch of field, and follow the crowd. Everyone’s in traditional thrax dress and glaring at my ratty sweatpants and gray hoodie. I glance at my watch. If I leave in the next ten minutes, I can still catch reruns of I Love Lucy on the Human Channel. Sweet.

I follow the thrax crowd. We hike through the trees and onto a wide meadow covered in mud. By the forest’s edge stand five large tents. Each one’s bigger than my house and in a different color: yellow, bronze, purple, blue, or black. Beyond the tents lies an oval tournament green—it’s the only place around that is green—and it’s surrounded by a shoulder-high wooden fence. Two long spectator pavilions overlook the green, one on each side.

Squinting, I take a closer look at the pavilions. They’re raised platforms covered in stepped rows of seats. Wooden poles hold a cloth ceiling over the audience’s heads. Flags and lanterns hang everywhere.

Cissy stands near the tournament green, looking lovely in a simple medieval dress of emerald fabric with long loopy sleeves. I wave. “Hey, Cissy!”

Her jaw drops as she runs to my side. “Myla, you showed up.”

“That I did.” I gesture to my sweats. “And this is what I’m wearing. Who do I talk to so I can get kicked out?”

“You’re supposed to be in a traditional gown. Like me.”

“Drat.” I snap my fingers and make my ‘aw shucks’ face. “I guess I’ll have to go home.”

Cissy chuckles, her head shaking from side to side. “You’re not getting out of this so easily. They have emergency dresses around here.”

“They do?” I freeze.

“Oh, yeah. Unlike you, I did some homework on the thrax.” She sighs. “Why didn’t you call the dressmaker I gave you?”

I frown and kick the dirt with my sneaker. “Because I came up with this awesome plan.” Okay, maybe my plan isn’t that freaking awesome.

Cissy grips my hand and leads me to the Rixa tent. Bands of tension grip my shoulders. Lincoln could be in there. I grit my teeth, waiting for the familiar waves of rage to pour through me. They don’t appear. Instead, I feel charged with nervous energy, my stomach doing flip-flops.

What the Hell is wrong with me?

My friend pauses beside the fabric flap that serves as the tent’s door. My breath hitches.

Cissy clears her throat. “Hello!”

An elder woman’s voice sounds from inside. “Yes?”

“We’re two maiden guests for the house of Rixa. May we enter?”

The tent flap opens. A portly woman in a simple black gown peeps her winkled face at us. “No one’s in here but me. Come on in.”

My body relaxes a bit. No close encounter with Prince Pompous. Whew.

Cissy guides me inside. “My name’s Cissy and this is Myla. She needs a gown of welcome.”

The woman sets her plump hands on her hips and looks me over. She has brown hair streaked with gray, a round face, and mismatched eyes of ice-blue and wheat-brown. “Is she the one who’s Lincoln’s, ah, guest?”

I raise my pointer finger. “Technically, I’m more of a prisoner.”

“Behave, Myla.” Cissy stifles a smile. “Yes, she’s the one.”

“I’m Queen Octavia’s handmaiden, Bera.”

Cissy curtsies. “Nice to meet you.” She elbows me softly in the ribs.

“Nice to, uh…” I scan the tent’s interior. My mouth opens wide with surprise. This place is packed with every sort of armor and weapon you can imagine, including baculum. I point to a line of silver swords with zigzag blades. “Those are for killing Viperons, aren’t they?” I bounce on the balls of my feet. “I wasn’t sure they really existed.”

Bera’s plump cheeks round into a smile. “Actually, they kill Viperons and Simia demons.”

Okay, I’ve heard rumors of these blades but I thought they were legends, like a flying carpet or Excalibur. I watch the weapons glimmer on the tent walls, my fingers itching to touch them. “Wow. Can I hold one?”

“No, you can’t,” Cissy shoots me a look that says ‘focus, Myla.’ “We just need a gown of welcome and we’ll be out of your way.” She glances meaningfully to the tent entrance.

She’s right. Lincoln could walk through any second. “Yes, a gown would be great.”

Bera nods. “I think we have something.” She waddles over to a large trunk along the back wall of the tent. Cissy follows her and releases my arm. Bera pulls up the trunk’s heavy wooden lid and sorts through layers of fabric. She pulls out what can only be described as a big pile of white pouf. “Here you go.”

Cissy grabs the garment. “Thank you.”

Bera bends into the trunk again, pulling out a pair of white heels. She eyes my feet. “These should fit.”

Cissy holds up the gown. It’s a huge marshmallow of a dress covered in layers of puffy lace.

My upper lip curls. “I am not wearing this.”

“You have no one to blame but yourself, Myla.”

A voice sounds from outside the tent. “I am a warrior for the House of Rixa. May I enter?”

My body freezes. Damn. I’d know that voice anywhere: Lincoln. The tension-bands cinch around my spine and creep their way up my neck.

Wearing sweats today? Officially my least-most awesome plan, ever.

Bera waddles over to the tent entrance. “Just a moment, your Highness.” She holds the flaps of fabric together and turns to me. “Be quick about it now. The tournament’s about to begin.”

There’s no point arguing. If I’d done a little research, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I whip off my sweats and slip on the marshmallow monstrosity. My tail quickly punches a hole through the back and whips around the dress, patting the fabric like it’s a strange beast. I slip my feet into the white heels and shoot a glance at Cissy. “I’m not even going to ask you how I look.”

She winces. “Don’t.”

I wave to Bera. “I’m all set. Is there another way out of here?”

“No.” Bera releases the flap of fabric and whips open the tent door. She holds up her hand. “Just one moment, your Highness. A few maidens need to leave first.”

I’ve only one option: smile and work the gown like it’s the best thing ever. I plaster on a huge grin, saunter up to the tent flap, and step outside. Lincoln stands there wearing black body armor with an eagle crest insignia on his chest. Our eyes meet; the air around us crackles with some kind of energy. He looks me over from head to foot, his face unreadable.

“Miss Lewis.” He bows slightly.

“Your Highness.” I try to curtsey and end up dragging the gown through the mud. Behind me, Cissy steps outside.

“Excuse me.” Lincoln disappears into the tent, closing the flap behind him.

Cissy links her arm with mine. We walk forward a few paces, then she leans in, her voice barely a whisper. “So, how did it go back there? Any yelling, kicking, spitting?” She doesn’t need to add ‘with the Prince.’

“No, we said hello and that was it.”

Cissy frowns. “Humph.”

“What do you mean, humph?”

“I mean, if you want to keep my envy demon away, we should stop this conversation right now.” She pauses, and then rubs her eyes with her knuckles.

I wince, dreading what I’ll see when she pulls her hands away. I can’t handle a major envy meltdown right now. I move a bit closer to Cissy. “Are you okay?”

My best friend lowers her hands. Her eyes are their regular tawny brown, thank badness. “Let’s change the subject.” She gestures to my gown. “Can you move around in that thing?”

I place my hand on my heart, raising my other palm to shoulder level. “I hereby solemnly swear to listen to Cissy’s fashion advice from now on. This makes two monster dresses I could have avoided if I had taken help from you.” I look down at the muddy hem of my gown. At least the weight of the dirt is holding down some of the puffiness.

“Next time we have to go fancy for something, we’ll get ready together.” She winks. “We can still do some damage control today, though. I say we sit in the pavilion.” She eyes my gown again. “Back row.”

“Excellent idea. Lead on.”

We hike through the mud to the nearest pavilion. I pause by the stairs to the seats, seeing nothing available in the back row. My heart sinks. There is, in fact, only one open chair in the entire pavilion, and it’s next to the Great Ladies. Yuck.

I turn on my heel. “Maybe we should check out the pavilion on the other side.”

A whiny voice calls out. “Miss Lewis, come sit by us!” I look up to see the Scala Heir wearing white robes and waving in my direction. I squelch the urge to chuck my shoe at her head.

Seating etiquette at a thrax tournament is diplomatic stuff. Girly-girl stuff. Cissy stuff. I lean over and whisper in her ear. “Help?”

Cissy nods, speaking in a low voice that only I can hear. “I got this.” Turning to the Great Ladies, Cissy curtsies low. “We thank you for the kind offer, but Myla and I need to sit together. It’s a quasi tradition.” She whispers in my ear. “That should shut them up. Thrax have all sorts of rules about following tradition, theirs and those of other realms.”

Adair rises to her feet. “To our people, no tradition comes before the desire of the Scala Heir. And I very much desire to speak with Miss Lewis.” She snaps her fingers. Three blonde girls in yellow gowns appear by our side. “These are ladies of my House. They’ll accompany you to an excellent seat at the opposite pavilion. Miss Lewis stays here.”

My upper lip curls with disgust. I speak to Cissy out of one side of my mouth. “Options?”

Cissy lets out a low groan. “I got nothing.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Myla. I’m new to this diplomacy stuff. The tradition excuse was all I had.”

Panic rips through me. Sitting next to a bunch of girly-girls for who-knows-how long? I’ve lived this nightmare a few times at school. They’ll want to talk about stuff like eyelash extensions, panty liners, and cuticle cream. It’s torture.

Cissy tightens her grip on my arm. “Let’s make a run for it. This tournament is a whole lot of dumb, anyway.”

Run for it? That sounds like a great plan. I’m about to say ‘yes, yes, yes’ when I catch Adair’s gaze. Her mouth rounds into a self-satisfied smirk while her left eyebrow quirks with a look that says ‘I knew you’d crack, you lowly form of life.’

I freeze. A challenge lurks in her eyes, and I’m always up for a challenge. Straightening my shoulders, I plaster on a wide grin. “I’d love to join you, oh Scala Heir.”

Her nasty smirk collapses into a disgusted sneer. Nice. “How wonderful of you to join us.” Adair gestures to the open chair besides her. “Please, sit here.”

I turn to the trio of girls surrounding my best friend. “Take good care of her or I will hurt you.” I chuck Cissy on the shoulder. “See you after the match.”

Cissy grins. “Go get ‘em.” Her escorts guide her away; I watch her meld into the crowd. Taking a deep breath, I re-plaster on my smile, walk up the steps, and take my seat next to the Scala Heir.

“Hello, I’m—”

“Miss Lewis,” finishes the Scala Heir. “We all know that part, silly.” She smiles and tosses her head, sending her long blonde hair in a perfect arc over her shoulder. “And you know me. I saw you at the ceremony.”

Yeah, when you were calling me a lesser form of life. What’s changed since then? My face warms into a genuine grin. That’s right. I held my own against all those Lords. Now I’m getting a little thrax respect.

“Let me introduce you to everyone else.” Adair gestures to a girl sitting next to her in a purple gown. She’s bone-thin with olive skin and a strong jaw. Her long brown hair is held back in a net of purple beads. “This is Lady Gianna from the House of Striga.”

A familiar blonde head waves to me from the end of the row. “Hi, Myla!” I shoot a friendly wave at Avery. She bounces a bit in her seat. “Isn’t it great how Gianna and Adair are friends now? Typically, Acca and Striga hate each other.”

The other Great Ladies share a knowing look while Adair grits her teeth, a muscle twitching along her jaw-line. “Quiet, Avery! I’ll get to you in a second.” The Scala Heir inhales a deep breath, and then gestures to the girl seated next to Gianna.

“This is Lady Keisha from the House of Horus.” Adair points to a girl in a bronze gown with ebony skin, large mismatched eyes, and dreadlocks down to her waist. Keisha sends me a smile that’s somehow warm and icy at the same time.

Adair nods to the next girl in line, who wears a blue gown. “Here we have Lady Nita from the House of Kamal.” She has creamy cocoa skin, striking bone structure, long brown hair, and nasty sneer on her face. Adair doesn’t bother to point to the girl at the end of the row. “I guess you already met Avery. She’s from the House of Acca, like me.”

Avery waves again. “Hello, Myla! So nice to see you again.”

I force on my best smile. “Hello, everyone.”

Adair turns her attention to my gown. She eyes me from head to toe. Twice.

I bite my bottom lip. Here it comes.

“You look very festive, Miss Lewis.” The rest of the Great Ladies snicker.

I’m about to cause another inter-realm incident when an older, plump man with receding red hair steps onto the tournament green, a crossbow in his hand. His barrel chest almost bursts out of his black-and-yellow tunic. Avery claps her hands and points. “Look, there’s father!”

The Scala Heir shares a snide glance with Gianna. “We can all see him, Avery.”

The Earl of Acca raises his thick arms high. “Welcome to the autumn tournament and exhibition! This display of fighting skill prepares us for the real event, the winter tournament, where the greatest warrior in Antrum will be named!” The crowd breaks out into wild applause. “Of course, I’m hoping it will be Acca’s honor this year.” The applause dies down.

The Earl lifts his crossbow. “I’ll begin today’s exhibition with a display of my own fighting skill against a dreaded Limus demon!”

I grimace. I sure hope it’s not Sheila.

The fence on one end of the tournament grounds swings open. A Limus demon floats through, its body a towering mass of green goo. I scan the face. Not Sheila, whew.

The Earl of Acca loads a metal bolt into his crossbow and starts firing. The missiles fly harmlessly through the goopy demon and thud into the wooden wall around the field.

I nudge the Scala Heir with my elbow. “He’s not really using a crossbow against a Limus, is he?”

“What’s a Limus?” She frowns. “Oh, that green thing. Father knows what he’s doing. He’s a thrax, Miss Lewis.”

The Limus speeds toward its victim. The Earl of Acca firms up his stance, shooting bolt after bolt through the demon’s body. I glance around me. A lantern hangs from one of the posts that hold up the pavilion’s fabric ceiling.

Yeah, that would do it.

The Limus slams into the Earl. Green goo encases the man whole. Inside the demon, the Earl of Acca flails, trying to whack his way out with the crossbow. Next to me, the Scala Heir and Gianna continue chatting. I nudge her in the ribs again.

“Your father’s in big trouble.”

She looks at me and arches her eyebrow. “No, he’s not. And if you keep interrupting me, Gianna’ll put a hex on you.” She turns to face her friend, showing me as much back as possible.

On the tournament grounds, the Earl of Acca feebly kicks and punches from inside the Limus demon. Some thrax stand up in their pavilion seats, their faces twisted with worry. The Earl stops moving altogether.

That’s it.

I rip the lantern off the post and hurl it with all my strength. The fire slams into the demon’s skin. The Limus bursts into emerald flames. The thrax in the pavilions gasp. The fire dies down, leaving the Earl standing alone, wheezing and covered in green goop.

He points at me, slime dripping from his finger. “YOU! How dare you!”

For a few long minutes, there’s a lot of confusion, gasping, and cries of ‘how dare you’ from the Earl. It’s all a big blur until a familiar hand grips mine. I turn to see Cissy standing beside me. She tugs on my arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She pulls me past the tournament field, stopping behind one of the tents. Her eyes grow large with alarm. “What happened back there, Myla?”

“I saved that guy’s life.”

“Everyone said he was doing fine.”

“Everyone’s wrong. A Limus demon was about to digest him whole. He was not doing fine.” I fold my arms over my chest. “He’s just a pompous blowhard who didn’t want to get showed up by a girl, even if that girl saved his life.”

Cissy grinds her teeth. “The House of Acca is freaking out. I need to do some damage control.” She winces. “This could take a while.” Cissy’s forehead creases with concern, the same expression she wears when feeding stray cats or tending her shoebox of moth cocoons. She doesn’t want this blow-up to cause trouble for Zeke and his family. Which, since I’m associated with them and their house, it very well could.

I won’t let her face this alone. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, best if you stay scarce. Every Acca flunky within yelling range is screaming how you dishonored them for a second time.”

Dishonored, really? I pause, rubbing my neck with my hand. After hanging out with Adair, it’s not actually all that surprising. That House of Acca is bad news. I chuck Cissy gently on the shoulder. “No worries. I can just head back.”

She tilts her head to one side. “Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure.” If I can ever find my way back to the parking lot and Betsy. That was a hike.

Cissy gives me a peck on the cheek. “Thanks.” She lifts up her skirt a bit, spins about and speeds off. Once she’s gone, I scope out the grounds, trying to picture the long path back to Betsy. Not really sure how to begin.

That’s when I hear it. Angry Acca voices calling for the ‘foul demon,’ ‘scum fighter,’ and ‘quasi w***e’ who humiliated their Earl. I saved the guy’s life, and this is what happens? My throat tightens. Sadness and disappointment wind about my ribs. What have I been trying to prove by fighting these people? Did I think they’d realize a quasi girl has as much value as a thrax warrior? No matter what I do, they’ll never see me as anything but a foul demon.

My eyes sting. He’ll never see me as anything but a foul demon, either.

A bitter gloom settles into my bones. I need to head home, now. I try to slog my way back to the parking lot, but I’m not used to the puffy dress and heels. I slip in the mud, landing on my bum with a thump. Warm tears blur my vision.

Footsteps slosh up behind me. Even in the mud, I can’t miss the military precision of the owner’s walk. Lincoln.

I lift my hands, watching mud drip through my fingers. “Look, buddy. If you’re here to complain, I’ve already heard it. The House of Acca yells much better than they fight.”

Lincoln clears his throat. “On behalf of myself and my people, thank you for saving the Earl’s life.”

I shake my head, not sure if I heard him correctly. Was that actual niceness from the Prince’s mouth? I watch his outline as he walks away.

My head c***s to one side. “You’re welcome.”

I slowly haul myself to my feet. My gown’s so loaded with mud, it now weighs a ton. I frown. It’s going to take me forever to slog back to Betsy, even if I can figure out where I parked her.

A whinny sounds from a nearby line of trees. I scan the dim forest. Nightshade’s bluish-gray coat gleams in the shadows. I smile.

“Perfect timing, Night. I could sure use a ride.”