Angelbound (36 page)

Stepping over to the boxes, I pull out my matching shoes and thrax undies. Mine look like mummy wrappings with thick black lines sewn onto them. “These look even weirder than last time. Do I
really
have to wear this?”

“Do you
really
think you’re leaving my room in anything else?”

Well, that’s the truth.

There’s a flurry of makeup brushes and hair spray, then we both slip into our gowns.

Cissy sets her hand on her hip, scanning me up and down. My dress is red and gold brocade with a fitted bodice that leaves my shoulders bare; the low pointed waist has a hole in the back for my tail. The gown’s skirt is floor-length and cut into sections that shimmer as I move. My long auburn hair hangs loose about my shoulders.

I suck in a shaky breath. I’m a curvy girl, and usually I wear sweats that pretty much hide that fact. But in this dress, I’m all hourglass. In fact, the bodice has this corset thing inside it that gives me a waspish waist. Add it all up and I’m feeling mighty awkward. I turn to Cissy. “Okay, what do you think?”

“Myla, you look stunning.”

I exhale. She may be exaggerating, but I need it right now. “Thanks.” I gesture to her dress. “Let’s see yours.” Cissy spins about, showing a shimmering black under-gown with a green velvet overdress and long looping sleeves. The velvet is loosely tied up her chest with long green ribbons, then it falls open at her skirts to reveal the black gown beneath. Her hair hangs in golden ringlets to her shoulders. Her tail swings happily behind her. I grin. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you.” She curtsies. “We better get going. We’re already cutting it close on time.”

We say our goodbyes to Cissy’s parents and take our seats in my green station wagon, careful not to crinkle our new gowns. Betsy’s especially cranky today, spewing out extra smoke and noise before the engine finally starts
humming. Finally, we start the short trip from Cissy’s to the Ryder mansion. With every passing mile, my blood pressure ratchets up a few points. Can’t. Wait.

“Why don’t you get that car fixed?” Cissy pulls down the rear view mirror, checking her make-up.

“Are you kidding?” I steer Betsy down the back roads to the Ryder mansion. “Filling out paperwork for an official maintenance request takes weeks.” I pat the dashboard. “As long as Betsy moves, she’s fine.”

Squinting, I stare through the windshield. Off in the distance, the Ryder mansion lays perched on its gray-green hill, its white bricks glittering in the haze of twilight. All around lay a sea of dark and boarded-up houses. Excitement blooms inside me.

Myla and Lincoln…Partners in crime on a new mission to rain trouble onto tight-assed thrax everywhere.
Yay.

We drive closer, seeing hundreds of horses lining the cobblestone path to the mansion. Each beautiful animal carries a lovely lady in a flowing gown. Velvet bridles hang from all the horse’s heads; colored ribbons are woven into their lady’s hair. Beside every rider stands a man in brown leather pants, silver chain mail, and a velvet over-tunic with a colored crest.

“Wow.” I slow the car to a crawl.

“I know, thrax are nuts about horses. The Ryders say they built all those cabins and stuff in the woods so they could have their four-footed friends close-by.”

The station wagon nears the driveway. Its exhaust system kicks, letting out a
huge puff of black smoke. Some horses whinny, causing their riders and escorts shoot me the evil eye.

I scan the roads. No other cars are around for miles. “Are we the only non-thrax at this shindig?” My heartbeat kicks into overdrive.

“Yup. This isn’t a diplomatic event; they basically asked to use the house for a private party.” She flips down the visor, checking her make-up. “I thought Lincoln would have told you all this stuff.”

What do I say here? It took Lincoln two weeks to figure out how to sneak off and wrestle me for a few hours; long chit-chats and party planning are out of the question. I frown. “I said sexual tension, Cissy, not besties.”

The station wagon spits out another mushroom cloud of smoke. More stares follow. We putter past the main parking lot. It’s been corded off to make room for make-shift stables.

Where am I supposed to park this monster?

“Tell me there’s another way to park than driving this clunker past every member of thrax nobility.”

Cissy frowns. “Do you want me to tell you that…Or do you want the truth?”

“Ugh.”

“The lot’s your first right after the main entryway. We’re almost there.” The exhaust system kicks again; I wince. Another horse whinnies, rearing slightly on its back feet. I get even more glares this time. “Drive slowly, Myla. I think you’re scaring the horses a little.”

I lock my back teeth and focus on the road. The horses aren’t the only ones
getting a little scared.

I park the car in the empty lot beside the mansion. “That sucked.”

Off in the distance, trumpets sound. Cissy whips open the car door. “Introductions have started. We’re going to be late!”

Cissy and I rush to the mansion’s front door. A few thrax linger by the entryway, their footmen leading the last of the horses down the cobblestone drive. We line up behind the final partygoers, smoothing out our dresses and trying to slow our breathing.

A male voice bellows from inside the reception hall. “Miss Cecilia Frederickson, escort to Mister Ezekiel Ryder.”

Cissy gives my hand a squeeze. “That’s my cue.” She steps through the opened doorway and into the reception hall. The room is packed with thrax in their colored outfits. Cissy glides to the center of the room and waits. Zeke saunters out from the crowd, wearing a black velvet tunic over chain mail and leather pants. He takes Cissy’s arm; they march off into the ballroom to the trill of silver trumpets.

I hover in the doorway and watch them leave, a nervous stitch eating into my side. The trumpets grow silent, followed by a pause that lasts a million billion years, minimum. My heart beats so loudly, I’m sure all of Upper Purgatory can hear it.

The herald lowers his silver trumpet. “Miss Myla Lewis without escort.”

I stifle the urge to groan. Without escort? Really?! How about
with
the ability to kick ass? They need to leave the Middle Ages, STAT.

Straightening my shoulders, I step through the doorway and head to the center of the reception room. Maybe it’s me, but it seems like the hall suddenly turns super-silent. Each click-clack of my heels on the tiled floor sounds deafening. Although hundreds of eyes stare at me, I only focus on two: one slate-gray and the other wheat-brown.

Lincoln stands within the sea of faces, his body flanked by a group of beautiful young ladies. He’s wearing black leather pants, silver mail, and a black velvet over-tunic. A glimmering eagle is sewn onto his chest; a silver crown glistens atop his mop of brown hair. He stares at me with fire in his eyes, his full mouth slightly open.

A minute passes before I realize that I should do something other than stand in the reception hall looking like a dumbass. The guests pass anxious looks and giggles. I scan for Cissy and some direction on what to do next, but she’s already disappeared into the ballroom.

The herald blares his trumpet once again. “Miss Myla Lewis
without escort
.” My brain freezes. I have a feeling he’s hinting at something, but can’t guess what.

The giggles grow louder, the stares more disbelieving. I glance toward the front door, calculating how long it would take to sprint to my car.

Lincoln steps out from the crowd, offering me his arm. If I thought the giggles were loud, that’s nothing compared to the outright gasps that now echo through the room. Smiling, I grip his arm tightly, feeling the warmth and solid muscle under my palm. We step into the ballroom.

“I think we shocked your nobility.”

Lincoln grins. “They need to be shocked every so often; keeps them on their toes.” He nods toward the dance floor. “Speaking of which…”

I stare at the synchronized lines of dancers on the floor. While a violinist plays a jig, the thrax all jump about in a medieval hoe-down of complex movements.

“I don’t know that dance, Lincoln. I’ll sit this one out.”

“Let’s see what we can do about that.” Lincoln snaps his fingers at the violinist. The musician instantly looks our way. The Prince makes a slicing motion across his throat. The lively jig transforms into a sultry tune.

“Ah, a slow dance.” Lincoln leads me toward the floor. “Anyone can do that.”

I stifle a grin. “That’s a neat little trick.”

He arches his brows. “It’s good to be the Prince.” We reach the center of the dance floor. “Shall we?” Bit by bit, Lincoln pulls my hands up to his neck; I weave my fingers through his wavy brown hair. Sliding his fingertips down my back, his hands settle about my waist. I shiver, remembering his touch in the stables, his kiss in the botanical gardens. My skin flushes. Our bodies sway to the slow tune.

A new sea of faces stare at us, but I only see the Prince’s eyes and the play of light on his high cheekbones and strong jawline. The room feels empty, only us two. A smile tugs at Lincoln’s full mouth. “I have a secret for you, Myla.”

“Really? What is it?”

“I can’t whisper it when you’re all the way over there. Come closer.”

I move my body nearer to his; we’re almost touching. “How’s this?” I tilt my head so he can speak in my ear.

“Closer.”

Smiling softly, I press my body against his, sensing every firm contour of his chest and hips. We freeze. My breath catches. I scan Lincoln’s face, feeling the intensity of his stare. His palms stroke the small of my back and we sway to the music once again. It’s taking everything I have not to kiss him.

I tip my head to one side. “And now?”

Lincoln’s breath tickles the shell of my ear. “A girl like you…In a dress like that…Should always dance this close.”

I glimpse around the room, finding a lot of wide eyes, loud whispers, and not-so-polite pointing in my direction. The Earl of Acca looks red-faced and ready to burst with rage. Adair sits at a nearby table, her gaze locked on me and filled with loathing. “I’m not sure the thrax agree, Lincoln.”

The Prince slides his hand up my back. His fingertips brush the bare skin on my shoulders. I bite my lip, stifling the urge to make an ‘mmm’ noise. The Prince sets his lips by my ear. “Time to start causing trouble, don’t you–”

“Prince Lincoln!” It’s Gianna, rushing toward us in a purple gown. “It’s urgent! A demon patrol’s under ambush!” As soon as there’s an inch of room between us, Gianna inserts herself, grabbing Lincoln’s hand and trying to pull him from the dance floor.

A man with a purple-crested tunic steps up to our group. “If it pleases your Highness, I’ll keep the young lady company tonight.”

“Thank you, Aldo.” Lincoln turns to me. “If the patrol’s under attack, I’ll be unable to return.” His face turns stony and solemn. “Making the trip to Earth takes some time.”

“I understand.” My body and mind feel numb. “Protect your people, of course.” I watch him leave the room with Gianna, my forehead knit in confusion and not a little measure of shock. How did things change so quickly?

My skin prickles with awareness. Something about this doesn’t feel quite right. I scan the ballroom, finding the Earl and Avery standing nearby. Both look downright happy now. That can’t be good.

Before I can figure out what’s happening, the slow music kicks back up to a furious jig. Grabbing my hand, Aldo spins me around the dance floor. As I twirl and sway, I’m handed off to a succession of men with yellow, blue, purple, and pink crests. Adair, Nita, and Keisha always seem to be nearby. Either those Great Ladies are the worst dancers in Antrum, or they’re purposely stepping on the back of my dress every few seconds. This goes on for a while until I realize something.

It’s very chilly in the ballroom…But just on my backside.

I reach around to test the back of my dress, only to find out that it’s no longer there. I gasp. All the back panels of my gown are gone. Those little multi-colored creeps figured out how to pull out the stitches on my dress. No wonder they were playing around with it until a few hours before the ball. Adair, Nita, and Keisha stop dancing and start laughing their silly little heads off.

Twisting about, I try pulling the two side panels of my gown together to hide my bum, but there simply isn’t enough fabric. The entire dance floor starts laughing. My face turns at least eighteen shades of red.

Cissy appears out of nowhere. Standing behind me to cover my backside,
she sets her hands on my shoulders and shoves me toward a bank of windows along the far wall. Once there, she points to an arched panel of glass. “This is a door to the hedgerow maze. Flip up the lock and twist that handle.”

I do as she instructs; we quickly step outside. Grabbing my hand, Cissy leads me to the mansion’s opposite wing. There, in the safety of the shadows, she sets me onto a bench by one of the maze entrances.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t think.” Cissy frowns.

My body feels numb. Did that really happen? Who pulls out the backs of dresses, honestly? “Don’t beat yourself up. How could you have known they’d do something like that?”

“It’s not that part, it’s…” Cissy bites her bottom lip.

A chill crawls up my spine. “There’s more to the story, isn’t there?” I press my palms to my eyes, feeling my stomach tumble to my feet. “Lay it on me.”

“Well, you know how your thrax underwear had black lines on it this time?”

“Yeeeeeeeeah.”

“When yours were on, they spelled something in Latin.”

“Latin?”
That lying, sneaky, backstabby Adair and her doofus father.

“Yeah. I guess all thrax can speak it.”

I open my fingers to look at her out of my left eye. “And what exactly is written on my ass right now?”

“Cunnus. C-U-N-N-U-S. I heard the thrax talking. I guess it means…”

“I know what it means.” I rebury my head in my hands. “Cissy! You should have said something!”

“Okay, it totally looked strange. But you were so twitchy about the underwear. I didn’t want another diplomatic snafu.” Cissy crinkles her bottom lip.