Angelbound (23 page)

Her hands pop over her mouth. “Oh my goodness. I do suck.”

“Completely.”

“I don’t know what to say, Myla.” Her eyes are lined with tears. “I lost control.” She wags her head. “You don’t have to go to the tournament if you don’t want to.”

I scratch my neck and frown. “No, I’ll go to the stupid tournament.”

Cissy grins, bouncing on her heels. “Thank you, Myla, thank you!” She wraps me in a big hug.

I stand stone-still, allowing her to hug me but not returning the motion. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I want some serious apologizing for this totally unreasonable fit of extended jealousy.”

Cissy nods sagely. “You’re right. Way over the top.” She wags her eyebrows up and down. “How many, then? Two? Three?”

“Five.” I fold my arms over my chest. “You make me five pans of brownies. Different flavors. And no conning your Mom into doing it.”

“You got it. Thank you. So. Much.” She moves to give me another hug; I raise my palm, stopping her.

“And one last thing. If I’m going, I’ll do it my way.”

***

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.”