Angelbound (12 page)

I smile under the layers of my mask. With my last ounce of energy, I move in for the kill. Raising my tail shoulder-high, I stab it straight through my attacker’s
heart.

And you’re not the only one with a weapon.

Deacon’s face falls slack. His body slumps to the floor, lifeless. Lurching forward, I unwind his whip from my throat, then yank my tail from his chest. Blood gurgles from his fresh wound. Air floods into my lungs in huge gulps. My vision clears; I give my tail a feeble high-five.

Sharkie rushes to my side. Grabbing my wrist, he pumps my arm into the air. “The winner!”

I tug my hand downwards, but he won’t let go. “Thanks.” Hunching over at the waist, I gasp for breath. “Want…To…Leave.”

Sharkie swivels his skull-like head in my direction, his grip tight as iron. “Not yet. Before you depart, guests from the entourage of Angel Verus wish to praise your valor in battle.”

I blink a few times to clear my head, then pant out one word: “Sure.” Hell, at this point it’s faster to get the thanks and go home.

Finally dropping my hand, Sharkie turns to face the Arena’s main archway. “Angels and demons, the Arena fighter will be congratulated on her victory.”

An ocean of people pour onto the Arena floor, all of them dressed like they fell out of the Middle Ages. I slow my breathing and inspect the crowd. Who in blazes are these characters? They aren’t angels, demons, or ghouls. Why would they be hanging out with Verus?

A line of heralds with silver trumpets step onto the Arena floor, creating a make-shift entryway. Delicate women in brocade gowns step through, followed
by sturdy men in long tunics.

Whoever these folks are, they sure take their time to do anything.

I roll my eyes. Enough ceremony. Let’s get with the congratulating so I can go home and talk Mom into making me some brownies. That fight was a bitch.

Moving past the line of heralds, two figures step onto the Arena floor, both wearing chain mail covered by formal tunics. First, I see a sturdy older man with white hair to his shoulders, a silver crown glistening on his head. Beside him walks someone younger with wavy brown hair, a muscular frame and square shoulders. Every inch of my body goes on alert.

I know exactly who these two are:
Lincoln and his father.

Crap. These oddballs in medieval get-ups are all thrax. No wonder I’d never seen them before. Thrax only run around earth fighting demons. I feel like Verus is moving more playing pieces around her game-board with Armageddon, and these thrax are part of some masterstroke. My mind wheels with all the implications, but after such a crazy morning, I can’t quite process what it means.

The last herald in line lowers his trumpet, announcing in a booming voice: “King Connor and his son, the High Prince!”

My stomach swaps places with my mouth. Lincoln’s the freaking High Prince of the thrax? Thousands of eyes stare as the two men approach; a million years crawl by as the pair march across the floor.

Finally, they stand before me.

Sharkie’s voice lowers to a hiss. “Remove your mask, slave.”

Pulling the mesh away from my face, I shake my head so my auburn hair
flows down my back. My gaze locks with Lincoln’s, his eyes widen the slightest fraction. The Prince speaks one word. “You.”

I start staring at his mouth again. Maybe I need therapy of some kind. “Yes, me.”

The King eyes us both for a moment, and then turns to Sharkie. “What is this girl’s name?”

I’ve never heard Sharkie call me anything but ‘slave.’ How he’ll hate answering
that
question. The emcee’s voice comes out a low rumble. “It’s Myla Lewis, your Majesty.” Yup, he hated that, alright.

“You fought bravely, Myla Lewis.” Up close, I can see that the King’s face is pale with lightly veined skin and deep laugh-lines around his mismatched eyes. “Part of our mission here is to build better relationships with quasis such as you. Please accept this sword in congratulation.” He holds up a long silver sword with a red pummel, then pauses, turning to Lincoln. “Perhaps you should give her this, my son. I believe I saw the two of you talking at the ball.”

Hell, no. Don’t let that asshat give me the sword. I raise my hand quickly. “We don’t know each other.”

Lincoln takes the weapon firmly in his hands. “Let me think.” His gaze slowly runs over my body. Suddenly, I’m very aware that my dragon-scale cat suit leaves zero to the male imagination. Even worse, it’s really-really cold in the Arena today. Great.

The Prince sets the point of the sword onto the Arena floor, his hands rest atop the red pummel. “I believe we had one conversation. About pets, as I
recall?” His heavy-lidded eyes lock onto mine, one slate-blue and one wheat-brown. A challenge lurks behind them.

My inner demon sparks to life, not with anger this time, but with something just as powerful. My tail strokes my shoulder, as if warning me to stop. I slap the arrowhead end and lean in closer to Lincoln.

I’m always up for a challenge.

I plaster on a fake smile. “Now, I remember the conversation. You were a
true
Prince.” I turn to the King. “I am grateful for the sword, your Highness.”

Lincoln swings the weapon until the pummel rests in his right hand, the deadly end against his left palm. The Prince and I start a kind of staring match in the middle of the Arena floor. I pass the time picturing ways to knock him to the ground.

King Connor clears his throat. “Perhaps if you said a few words, son.”

Lincoln’s upper lip curls. “Sure, father.” He takes a deep breath. “This quasi girl–”

“Myla. My name’s Myla.” Anger hums through every bone in my body.

The Prince’s jaw falls open a moment. I don’t think he gets corrected very often. I glance at the King; laughter dances in his mismatched eyes.

“Yes,
Myla
.” If Lincoln could spit my name out, I think he would have. “You showed some basic ability in the match this morning, certainly enough to warrant an honorary sword. Of course, if you fought a true demon hunter then–”

“Just name the time and place, buddy.” My body buzzes with rage.

I pause. My every word has been echoing throughout the Arena. Really, really
loudly. I inspect the crowd. The angels sit still, their mouths contracted into an ‘o’ shape. The demons have actually stopped their ongoing battles for the best seats; they all face the Arena floor. Thousands of eyes fix in our direction. Part of me knows I should be humiliated right now, but the rest of me is too jacked up on rage to care.

My gaze flips between Lincoln and Connor. “Okay, how do we end this?”

The King rubs his chin, hiding a smile. “Perhaps if you set your hands like this?” He raises his arms to chest height, palms extended.

“Oh yeah.” I set my hands to match the King’s. Lincoln’s face is the model of calm as he balances the sword between my open palms. I let out a sigh. This nightmare of a morning is almost over. Then, Prince’s fingertips brush the skin between my gloves and sleeves. Where our bare skin touches, I feel an electric pulse of pleasure.

What. The. Hell.

I quickly pull my hands away, curling the sword against my chest. “Thank you.” I quickly glance into Lincoln’s face, seeing his façade of calm crack for a moment, revealing a look that mixes shock and desire.

So, he felt the connection too, but he still thinks I’m a disgusting demon. Great. My face burns with anger and humiliation.

The King and Prince bow slightly, then walk away. It takes forever for them to stride across the Arena floor. I pass the time picturing ways to kick Lincoln in the back of the head.

The next few minutes are a blur of marching heralds, blaring trumpets, and
smiling courtiers. At some point, Walker pulls me into the safety and shadows of a nearby archway. His voice is low and gentle. “Are you ready to portal home, Myla?”

My eyes burn with feelings I don’t know how to name. “Walker, I was ready an hour ago.” I’m seconds away from bursting into tears.
Some warrior.

“Don’t take it personally, Myla. Most thrax have never met a quasi. They don’t understand that you’re not a demon.”

“That didn’t bother me.” My voice breaks so much, I sound like I could be yodeling. Crap, I hate it when I do that. “Okay, that totally hurt like Hell.”

Walker wraps me into a hug. His body is warm and firm, not at all the chilly undeadly-ness that I expected. “Do you want me to beat him up for you?”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Not this time, Walker.” My head melts into his shoulder. “Thanks for offering, though.”

“Any time.”

With all the extra ceremonial blah-blah-blah at the match, I don’t get to school until lunch is almost over. I quickly fill my tray and scan the cafeteria, looking for my–and Cissy’s–favorite table for two. I quickly find it, but now it seats three.

Zeke has moved in. Resentment twists in my belly. Zeke gets all of Cissy’s attention after school, and I have to listen to her yammer about him non-stop during the day. Lunch is the last scrap of girl-time left in my life.

Gritting my teeth, I step up to the table and wait for some acknowledgement of my existence from Cissy and Zeke. It doesn’t happen.

“Do you want any more, Zekie?” Cissy holds a French fry in one hand. I’m pretty sure she’s been hand-feeding him. Gross.

“No thanks, honey bunches.” Zeke pats his stomach. “Have to stay in shape.” They share an Eskimo kiss (aka rub noses), and then I’ve had enough.

“Hello, there!” Forcing a smile, I give my lunch tray a little shake. “Any room for a third?”

“Myla!” Cissy twists in her chair. “Where have you been?”

“Another Arena match.” I slide into an empty chair, grab a fork and dive into my monster-sized salad.

“That’s a lot of fighting lately.” Zeke rubs his dimpled chin. “Anything special going on?”

I freeze, my fork half-way to my mouth. How much should I say?

Cissy smiles sweetly. “You know you can tell us anything.”

I glance at their eager faces. Maybe Cissy’s right. These are my friends; I should trust them. Plus, it’s been a long time since the whole ‘Myla is obsessed with Zeke’ thing happened. They’ve probably forgotten all about it.

Dropping my fork, I take a deep breath and start babbling. “At Zeke’s party I met a thrax guy who insulted quasis and said Cissy looked like a dog in heat, so I’m not gonna dance with that! But today at the match, he turned out to be the crowned Prince of the thrax. He gave me a sword, but then he said I wouldn’t last against a
real
demon hunter.” I slam the tabletop with both hands. “Hells bells, I want to knock his block off.”
And maybe kiss him a little bit, but I’m not telling them that
. I let out a low whistle. “Honestly, what am I worrying about anyway? I’ll probably never see him again, right?”

There’s a long pause where Cissy and Zeke stare at me; their eyes ready to pop out of their heads. They both burst into peals of laughter.

So much for telling the truth. I set my face into my palms and moan. It’s been that depressing of a day.

“Come on, Myla. Be serious.” Cissy wipes a tear from her cheek, her tail wagging up a storm behind her.

“If you’re not ready to confide in us, it’s fine.” Zeke hides his smile under one hand. “We get it.”

Cissy and Zeke exchange a sympathetic look. Then, with a series of loud squeaks, Cissy scooches her seat closer to mine, while Zeke moves his farther away. “Is that maybe…Better?” She gives me a tentative grin.

Hells bells, they both think I’m still acting weird because of my supposed mega-crush on Zeke. I pause, taking a long sip from my can of diet soda.
Actually, if it stops all the cuddling and pet names, they can think whatever they want.
I give her shoulder a little pat. “That
is
better.” I sniffle, loudly. “Thanks so much.”

Zeke runs his palms over his blonde head. “By the way, I heard you talked to Aunt Cecily at the party.”

Lifting my fork, I spear a new bite of salad. “Aunt who?”

“Cecily. You know: old lady, gray hair, peacock tail?”

“Oh yeah, she was–” I search for the right words “–a good listener.”

Zeke kicks his legs onto a nearby chair. “She said you were asking about diplomatic stuff.”

I drop my fork again. “Yes, I was.” I wanted any information on who my father could be, not that I’m telling Zekie that.

“My house has all the old diplomatic archives from quasi rule. It’s in the main library.” He taps his plate with one finger, looking at me expectantly. “You could check it out.”

Cissy nods, setting her golden curls bobbing. “What a great idea! Doing some
research would give you something else to think about besides…”

My lost love for Zeke. Riiiiiight. I swallow down some frustration with another bite of salad.

Zeke puts on his Mr. Smirky grin. “There’s more to do than the library, though.”

“Oh, yes.” Cissy blinks her tawny eyes madly. “The mansion has a hedgerow maze, a fountain, and a huge greenhouse with botanical gardens inside.”

Wait a second. I’ve known Cissy long enough to recognize her eye-blinking routine when I see it.

“This is a great offer and all, but I’m wondering one thing.” I fold my hands neatly on the tabletop. “Is there is something in particular you want from me in all this?”

Leaning forward in her chair, Cissy speaks in a hushed tone. “Since you mention it, if you’re at the house and all, I should probably be there too.”

My eyes narrow. “I see. You’ll be at the Ryder mansion to keep
me
company, not just to hang out with Zeke.”

Cissy smiles so hard, I’m shocked her face doesn’t crack. “Yes, that’s absolutely right!”

I smack my lips once. Okay, I can see where this is going.

Cissy gazes at the ceiling, her mouth screwing to one side of her face. “And if my parents ask what happens at Zeke’s house, you could say we’re together all the time. The
three
of us.”

I exhale a long breath. “But the two of you will really be doing
what
exactly?”

Zeke holds up his hands in the universal sign of surrender. “Just watching television and hanging out, I swear. My parents will be around too.”