Angelbound (26 page)

I eye the jack-o-lantern. The bald part is spot-on, but it needs red lipstick.

As Miss Thing goes through more items in her desk, Zeke leans over the aisle. “It’s so great that you’re finally being a grown-up about all this.”

“About what?”

“The thrax. You know, going to the winter tournament and taking Cissy along. It means a lot to my family. Thanks.”

“Well, it’s all about you, Zeke.” I smack my lips. “Per usual.”

Zeke taps his desktop with his pen. “Hey, it’s me.” Not sure if he’s ignoring my
sarcasm or not catching it. Either way, it
is
him. “So, you’ll order a regular gown this time?”

My upper lip twists. This isn’t my favorite subject. “Yup.”

“You’ll have to order soon. The event’s in three weeks.”

“My mom’s on it.”

“And you’ll get ready with Cissy so there’s no funny business?”

My blood starts to boil. “I’ll get ready with Cissy because she’s my
friend
.”

“And you’ll—”

“Excuse me, Zeke, but I’m missing a really important lecture right now on Zagnut Bars.” I point to Miss Thing. “Let’s just stop talking and start paying attention to Miss Thing, okay?” Otherwise you’ll end up with another black eye.

“Whatever.” Zeke turns to face our teacher. I watch him for a moment, wondering if I did the right thing to invite Cissy at all.

Oh, well. I’ll find out soon enough.

I step up to a typical-looking ranch house in Middle Purgatory and ring the doorbell. Outside, the place looks just like my home: a one-story gray ranch house on a bland street of other one-story gray ranch houses. A few seconds pass before a beautiful blonde couple opens the door.

A willowy-tall woman tilts her head to one side, setting her blonde ringlets jiggling. “Hello, Myla.”

Damn, Cissy’s mom totally hates me
. “Hi, Mrs. Frederickson.”

“I’m here, too.” Cissy’s dad’s handsome face droops into a frustrated frown. He hates me too. It’s the tail. Most quasis don’t see Furor as demons per se, since they have two deadly sins and all. We’re more like freaks of nature, which is how Mr. Frederickson is glaring at me right now.

“Hello, Mr. F.” No point using his full name; he loathes me anyway. I pop onto my tip-toes and peer over their collective shoulders. “Is Cissy home?” I look beyond her parents, seeing the familiar interior of oriental rugs, gilded furniture, and modern art.

“Myla!” Cissy bursts through the wall of her parents, grabbing my hand. “The gowns arrived last night!” She drags me past the parental gatekeepers and through their elaborately-decorated house. I’ve been here a hundred times, but I’m still shocked that any walls can hold so many tiny shelves, statues, and pricey knick-knacks. Cissy leads me into her bedroom and kicks the door shut behind us. “I had to empty half my closet to make room for them.”

Something colorful on the wall catches my eye. “Hey, you got a new painting.” I stare at it and wince. “What is it?”

“Some kind of human modern art thing my dad scared up. Jackson Polly-somebody. Dad got a deal on it.” She tilts her head, setting her blonde ringlets bouncing. “I think it may have fallen off a truck, if you know what I mean.”

I scan her room, looking for anything else that’s different. My bedroom’s standard ghoul issue: drab carpet, blah bed, and non-descript dresser. It hasn’t changed since I was two years old. Cissy’s room looks like a decorator show house from the old quasi republic days. There’s a matching bed-set, plush carpet, and line of funky paintings on her walls. Her dad is constantly adding new goodies from his black-market deals.

My best friend pulls the cover from her gown. It’s an emerald-green sheath with long looping sleeves that’s trimmed with black velvet.

I lean back on my heels and stare. “That looks lovely. What do the colors mean?”

“Green means I’m a single woman in a relationship. The black ribbon says I’m a guest of the House of Rixa.” She pulls the cover off my gown. It looks like the
first one, only it’s blood red.

“What does red mean?”

“That you’re a single lady who’s unattached.”

“Why don’t they have me carry around a price list too? Sheesh.” A pair of stacked boxes catch my eye. “What’s in there?”

“Shoes and stuff.” Cissy holds her gown against her torso and models in the mirror. “This is even nicer than what I wore to the autumn tournament.”

I step over to the boxes and pull out my matching shoes. Inside the box I also find a complex set of winding strips like mummy wrappings. I pick mine up with two fingers. “What the heck are these?”

Cissy glances over her shoulder at me. “Your underwear.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

She sets one hand on her hip. “See? If you’d gone with me to the tailor instead of having your mom send in measurements, you’d know all this stuff. Thrax are nuts about their traditions, and those are traditional thrax undies.”

“I’m not wearing them.” Dropping the strips back into the box, I look at them out of my right eye. “I don’t even know how to get these things on.”

“You’re wearing them and I know exactly how to put them on you.” Cissy glares at me. “They look like typical underwear when they’re on, don’t worry. From what the Ryders told me, thrax are insane about this kinda stuff. If someone saw you in the bathroom wearing anything else, it could turn into a diplomatic horror story.”

My upper lip curls. “I don’t know, Cissy.”

“Oh, stop being a baby and put on your free gorgeous gown. We don’t want to be late.”

We slip on our dresses and I have to admit, I really like mine. The last two gowns I wore were the neon carrot and the marshmallow nightmare. This one’s simple, pretty and actually fits me.

And yes, I wear the traditional thrax undies. Whatever.

I drive Betsy over to thrax central. Cissy complains the entire ride how my beautiful green station wagon has barely-functioning air vents and sketchy radio. I remind her of Betsy’s loyalty and her own lack of car. Once we get to the thrax compound, it takes for-bleeding-ever to find a parking space. The winter tournament’s a much bigger shindig than autumn. I find a spot for Betsy, and then Cissy and I follow the crowd through a winding forest path that opens onto a large field.

Cissy shakes her head. “They must have cut down half a forest.” Compared to the autumn tournament, this field is huge and covered in fancy tents. There must be two dozen total, all in different colors.

I nudge Cissy’s arm. “There are five major houses, so the other tents must be the lesser ones.”

She smiles. “You’ve done some research.”

“Mom gave me some books.”

We approach the tournament green. It’s now surrounded by more and larger seating pavilions. A network of wooden walkways keeps everyone from sloshing through the mud. The thrax really went all-out this time.

With all the extra crowds and hassle, Cissy and I are really late. The pavilions are packed; there’s no chance to get a seat. We decide to stand by the tall wooden fence that surrounds the tournament green.

I settle into a spot, set my elbows atop the fence and scan the fighting field. The Earl of Acca stands in the center, his crossbow held high. He’s bashing it into a ghoul. My breath catches.

I tap Cissy’s shoulder. “I know that ghoul. It’s XP-22. I see him at Arena matches.”

Her pretty mouth sags into a frown. “Why’s the Earl fighting a ghoul?”

“I’m forced to fight in the Arena. It’s a job for XP-22. They must have paid him to appear.” I watch the Earl hammer away at XP-22 as he tries to run away. Anger careens up my spine. “This isn’t right. Even you could kick XP-22’s butt. And he clearly isn’t attacking the Earl.”

“Shh, Myla. It’s not our place to judge.”

“Fine.” I grit my teeth and look away. The crowd breaks out into wild applause. “Is it over?”

“Yes.”

“Is the ghoul dead?”

Cissy sucks in a breath. “Oh, yeah.”

The Earl of Acca struts off the field. Some thrax lackeys clear off the body. My eyes flare red with rage and horror. XP-22 didn’t deserve to end his afterlife that way.

Across the tournament green, the wooden fence swings open. A dragon
creeps onto the field of battle. Its body is large as a cow, with a tail twice as long. It has stubby wings, red eyes, a long thin snout, and black scales that glitter purple in the light. It’s a shadow dragon, a rare demon that’s incredibly hard to kill.

I let out a low whistle. I feel sorry for whatever sucker goes after that thing.

The sucker in question steps onto the field of battle: Lincoln. He wears black body armor with the Rixa crest, his baculum broadsword gripped in one hand. He marches toward the dragon, tossing his blade from hand to hand, eyeing up his opponent.

The dragon rears up on his haunches, arcs his head toward the sky and spits out a stream of red fire. With deliberate steps, Lincoln closes in on the beast’s mouth. Raising his baculum high above his head, he blocks the dragon’s stream of fire with his sword. A shower of red-hot sparks cloud the air. The dragon gags, shakes its head, and hops backwards. Its neck becomes level with the tournament green.

Lincoln crouches into a body roll and slides under the beast’s belly, reappearing by the beast’s tail.

My eyebrows pop up. That’s a pretty neat move.

Baculum sword in hand, the Prince scales the dragon’s back, the beast howling and flailing beneath him. I watch the play of muscle on Lincoln’s chest and legs as he climbs up the dragon’s body. My skin flushes with desire and heat. Damn, that’s one gorgeous man, even if he is a creep sometimes.

Cissy touches my shoulder. “Are you okay, Myla?”

“What do you mean?”

She points to the wooden fence. I’ve gripped it so hard, there’s now a crack in the wood. I loosen my grip and shrug. “Yeah, I’m fine. That’s just a really cool demon.”

“You and demons.” Cissy sniffs. “Well, be careful with that fence. It doesn’t look too sturdy.”

“Sure.” My gaze sweeps the crowd. Queen Octavia sits in the front row of the largest pavilion, her mismatched eyes fixed on me. I shiver and return my focus to the fighting grounds. The Prince still rides the dragon’s back as the beast twists and rears.

“Nat!” Lincoln waves to a sturdy thrax at the sidelines. “Toss me a muzzle!”

The man throws at Lincoln what looks like a thick leather net. The Prince slips it over the dragon’s mouth and pulls on the attached leash. The animal quiets. Shaking his head from side to side, Lincoln slides off the dragon’s back, the fire-sword still firmly in his grip.

A cry rises up from the pavilions. “Kill! Kill!”

Lincoln steps around the dragon, checking its jaw and hind legs. He raises one hand; the crowd goes quiet. “Nat, come here!”

The barrel-chested man jogs onto the tournament green. Sturdy and fit, he wears black body armor like Lincoln’s.

The Prince nods his head to the dragon. “Nat, how old do you say this beast is?”

Squinting, I take a closer look at the dragon’s body as well.
He’s right
. That dragon’s way too young for tournament fighting. No true warrior takes on
anything but a fully-grown opponent who’s in attack mode. A lesson the Earl of Acca should learn, pronto. I tilt my head to one side. It takes a lot of control to stop in the middle of a battle. I almost hate to admit it, but I’m impressed.

I return my attention to the fighting grounds, where Nat checks the creature’s teeth. “The beast is four, maybe five years old, My Prince. Still a pup.”

Lincoln pats the beast’s hindquarters. “What would you say about these marks?”

Nat whistles through his teeth. “Stinging nettle, very painful. Would have driven the poor beast wild.”

Stinging nettle? That’s cruel stuff. Even some demon communities forbid it.

Lincoln raises his hands, addressing the crowd. “This beast is not yet of age and has been mistreated. Killing it would be dishonorable.” The crowd responds with a grumpy murmur. Lincoln passes the muzzle’s leash to Nat. “Take him back to the Menagerie. Tell the Master of Creatures I’ll speak with him shortly.”

I watch Lincoln march off the tournament green. Unlike the Earl of Acca, Prince Pompous knows there’s no glory in pummeling a weaker someone who’s not attacking you. Who would’ve thought?

Another touch brushes my shoulder. “Hey, Cissy.” Turning around, I see that it isn’t my best friend beside me, but Bera, Queen Octavia’s handmaiden.

“The Queen would like to speak with you.”

Shock explodes through my body. “The Queen wants to speak with me?” I shoot a startled glance at Cissy. Her tawny eyes stretch wide.

“Aye.” Bera grips my sleeve, yanking me away from the wooden fence.
“Now.”

My hand wobbles at Cissy in a half-hearted goodbye. “Catch you later, I guess.” What in blazes does the Queen want with me? Anxiety zings through my nervous system.

Cissy’s voice comes out as a squeak. “Sure, see you.”

Bera turns toward the royal pavilion. “Follow me.”

The crowd parts for us as we walk along. My heart hammers anxiously in my chest. What in unholy hell is going on? I hike up the steps to the pavilion’s main platform. King Connor and Queen Octavia sit side by side in throne-like chairs. The Scala Heir lounges beside the Queen, a nasty scowl on her face.

“Come here, Miss Lewis.” The Queen snaps her fingers and glares at the Scala Heir. Adair scurries away. Octavia nods to the now-open chair. Her crown slips forward a bit with the movement.

I slip into the high-backed seat beside her. “Hello, your Highness.” I wave to the King. “And your Highness.”

The King nods his head slightly. “Miss Lewis.” He looks regal with his shock of white hair and silver crown.

The Queen’s mismatched eyes narrow. “You may call me Octavia.” Up close, I notice her porcelain skin, high cheekbones, and delicate laugh-lines. Her sandy-brown hair is wound into a braided bun at the base of her neck.

“Thanks. Call me Myla.” I scan the scene. The Great Ladies stand near the steps to the royal pavilion. They all cluster around Adair, pointing at me and giggling.
Ugh.
My hands ball into fists.

With long fingers, the Queen lifts a golden wine goblet from a nearby table. She looks out over the crowd. I can almost see the wheels of her mind spin. “The Great Ladies stare at you, Myla.”