Mom’s hand leaps to her mouth. “My word!”
“Isn’t it awesome?” I twirl around. “It’s a gift from the angels.” I karate kick the air to demonstrate the suit in action. A bubble of new-garment happiness surrounds me.
Stepping to my side, Mom runs her hands over the fabric on my arm. “This isn’t Kevlar, it’s something else. Maybe–”
Walker finishes her thought. “Dragon scales.”
“Hells bells, what do they think you’ll be doing?” A muscle twitches along her jaw. “Is it safe?”
My happy-bubble bursts with a vengeance. Oh no, we’re back to the ‘what’s safe for Myla’ conversation. I stop mid-karate kick. “It’s totally safe-rrrr, Mom. This suit is the bomb.”
Mom rubs her neck with one hand. “Don’t you worry why they’re giving you this thing?”
“No, I don’t.” Anger lathers up my throat, turning my voice harsh. “I’m sure they have their sneaky reasons, and honestly, I don’t care.” I step up to her, wrapping my hands around hers. Her fingers tremble beneath mine. “Whatever it is, I can handle it.” My anger tightens into desperation. “I need you to have a little faith in me. Please.”
Mom sucks in a few deep breaths. “Have a good match, Myla.” I can tell it’s taking everything she has not to lose it.
I let out a long breath. Not-losing-it is as good a start as any. The knot of emotion in my throat loosens ever so slightly.
“Thanks, Mom.” We share an awkward smile. After that, I release her hands and step over to Walker. “Ready?”
His button-eyes twinkle. “Always. You?”
“Battling an evil soul?” My inner demon roars to life inside my belly. Excitement zings through my nervous system. “Bring it on.” Reaching out, I wrap my hand around his.
Together, he and I disappear from the kitchen, tumble through empty space, and emerge on the Arena floor.
***
I blink my eyes, adjusting to the stadium’s brighter light and my now-woozy stomach. I so hate portal travel. Around me, there stands Walker, Sharkie, and XP-22. A new face skulks nearby as well: a Crini demon, which is basically a seven-foot tall monster octopus. I shrug; I’ve killed my share of Crini in my time. This one has stumpy tentacles; Cissy could even take it out pretty easily.
Sheila must be out sick.
As the angels and demons enter the Arena, I practice lunges, spins, and kicks in my new suit. The rest of the world melts away. Pulling down the hood, I leap in front of XP-22 and growl. He almost jumps out of his robes. It’s beyond awesome.
Sharkie thumps his staff, snapping me out of my garment love-fest. I glance around the Arena; all the angels and demons are in their seats and ready to go.
Our emcee raises his staff. “To begin the match, we ask for a few words from our fearless leader Armageddon–”
Verus rises to her feet. “I shall begin by saying a few words.” She turns to the King of Hell. “Have you found the Scala Heir yet, Armageddon?”
Armageddon’s upper lip twists into a sneer. “No.”
Verus’s wings stretch wide. “I see. Such inefficiency in government. We need to–”
Armageddon leaps to his feet, his eyes blazing red. “WE WILL FIND THIS FOOL, I PROMISE YOU!” Bits of spittle fly from his mouth as he speaks. His three-knuckled fingers ball into fists. Taking a deep breath, he resettles into his chair, eyes still blazing red. He dismissively waves one hand. “Let the games begin.”
Smiling, Verus retakes her seat as well.
Long moments of silence, heavy as stones, fall about the Arena. What in Hell was that all about? Armageddon almost lost his marbles. Adrenaline pumps through my veins by the gallon; my tail arcs by my shoulder. Something is wrong here, very wrong. These two are in the middle of some kind of power play, and everyone in this Arena is another piece on their game board. A shiver of fear rattles my spine.
Sharkie thunks his staff on the Arena floor, interrupting my thoughts. The emcee’s voice echoes through the Arena. “I call forth the soul.”
A spirit appears beside Sharkie. This time, the ghost is a powerhouse of a man with a barrel chest over stout arms and legs. Skull tattoos cover his body. I let out a sigh of relief. Finally, an opponent worth the effort.
Sharkie turns to the human soul. “Deacon Lee, have you chosen trial by combat?”
The spirit’s misty eyes scan the Arena. “Yes.”
“You have three opponents to choose from. First–”
“I choose the girl.”
Huh. I’ve been in matches since I was twelve, and the souls always need to have it explained to them who they can choose and why. Sometimes, twice. It’s totally sketchy this guy not only knows the rules of the game, but who he wants to play with. On instinct, I scan Verus and Armageddon. The lead angel’s face is unreadable, but the King of Hell? He looks mighty pleased with himself.
A fissure of unease opens inside me. This is so not good.
Tilting his skeletal head to one side, Sharkie’s eyes glow bright red in their sockets. “So be it.” He waves to the exit archways. “All others, depart.”
The Crini demon is first to slink away, its eight puny legs creeping in an odd rhythm. Walker and XP-22 follow closely behind.
Deacon crosses his heavy arms. “And I want a weapon.”
My jaw just about drops off my face. Nobody gets a weapon. Not me, not the evil souls. Never. The sketchy quotient of this match just went through the roof.
Sharkie sniffs from his nose-holes. “No.”
Deacon turns to the Arena audience. “This girl is clearly part demon. I’m a man. Don’t I deserve the means to defend myself?” The demons screech and howl with delight; the angels sit in anxious silence.
Sharkie slams his staff onto the ground. “The rules of trial by combat are not open to negotiation. The soul may choose their opponent but no weapons. This was decreed by the Spectral Treaty of–”
A slick voice echoes through the arena, silencing Sharkie. “I like him. The man’s got sass.” It’s Armageddon. The demon raises his black hand, snapping his fingers. “Here’s your weapon, friend.” A long coiled whip appears before Deacon’s feet.
Unholy Hell.
I glance at Verus on her white throne; her blue eyes gleam. She quickly rises to her feet. “What say you, SKE-12? Is this how the match should proceed?”
Everyone holds their breath as Sharkie considers his reply. A droplet of black sweat trickles down his gray cheek. There’s more at stake here than a weapon, but I can’t put my finger on it. My fingers twitch anxiously at my sides.
Sharkie’s knobby Adam’s apple flicks up and down as he swallows. “The ghouls shall allow a single weapon for this fight only.”
Verus quirks her eyebrows. “Such a surprise.” Her glance flicks to me with a look that says ‘this turn of events is anything but a shock’. I feel like that’s meant to comfort me somehow, but it doesn’t.
My mind whirls through everything that happened this morning: Deacon choosing me so quickly, Armageddon conjuring a weapon for him, and Verus giving me a fighting suit. It all adds up to one fact.
Verus wasn’t the only one who noticed when I killed the Choker.
Clearly, Armageddon’s taken an interest in me as well. In his mind, I must be the only thing standing between him and a purely evil soul in Heaven. I pull my suit’s protective mask over my face, feeling new waves of adrenaline course through me. Of course, this was no surprise to Verus; she’s an Oracle. I grit my teeth in frustration. Would have been nice to get more of a heads-up than a new suit, lady.
Sharkie slams his staff on the ground. “Let the match begin!” Deacon turns from misty ghost into solid human. He picks up the whip, shaking out its length before him. My breath catches. Fighting hand-to-hand? No problem. Battling an armed opponent? I am so fucked. For the first time since I was twelve, the thought flashes through my mind that I might actually die here. Terror zings through my nervous system.
Deacon flicks his wrist; the coil
unfurls. Red hellfire erupts along the weapon’s length. The human’s face twists into an evil grin. Fast as a heartbeat, my opponent brings his arm up, snapping the whip down with a loud CRACK.
The next thing I know, I’m choking to death, a fiery whip wrapped about my neck. Terror courses through my nervous system, causing my inner demon to cower with fright.
Pulling up my tail, I try slicing the cord around my throat, but it’s no use. I have precious seconds of consciousness left. Turning to my enemy, I jump into the air, crouching my boots beneath me. I slam my feet into Deacon’s chest. My body jolts backwards as my heels connect with his ribs. Deacon stumbles, fumbling with the handle of his whip. I land beside him, trying to keep the cord as slack as possible.
This is my chance. Grab that whip before he regains control of it.
The world drips by in slow motion as the whip wobbles in Deacon’s hands. Lunging, I try grabbing the weapon from him, but at the last possible millisecond, his fingers grip it firmly again.
Oh, no. I watch helplessly as my last chance to steal away the whip disappears. My lungs burn for air, turning my body numb with fear. Frozen with terror? Not the way to win a battle.
Deacon slams his arm down once more, bringing the whip along with it. The fiery cord around my neck pulls even tighter; my lungs scream for oxygen. At least, my new suit protects my skin from burning. Small comfort amid a huge panic.
The roar of the demon crowd rattles through my head. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware of Armageddon leaning forward in his dark throne, watching the match with glee, his eyes burning bright red. A horrible thought flashes through my mind: If I die here today, some demon like him could end up consuming my soul. The thought turns my muscles slack with shock.
Deacon runs into me full throttle, ramming his shoulder into my belly. He drags me along a few paces; my body slams against the Arena wall. I’m dimly aware of demons howling ever louder with pleasure. Pinned in place, I heave up my legs for another kick, but this time, my feet miss the mark. My limbs feel oddly heavy, my mind strangely calm as I realize an important fact:
Deacon just made the strategic error of the century.
My inner demon roars to life, my limbs flail with rage. As I writhe under the human’s grip, Deacon presses his face closer to mine. My vision turns fuzzy, the tattoos on his skin blur. Deacon’s knee makes contact with my stomach as he grunts: “You’re not the only one with a kick.”
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?”
Angelbound Page 9