Angelbound

by Christina Bauer

“We’ve big news for you today,” says Tank. “OT-42 wanted to combine our classes for this special announcement because…” He looks down at the Old Timer. “Why are we doing this again?”

  The Old Timer pats the raw skin above his lip. “Security.” He scans the field nervously. “You never know who’ll stop by.”

  I hide a snarky smile under my hand. After the Papilio demon attack, the Old Timer hasn’t been the same ghoul, in a good way. The obnoxious lessons on ‘serving our masters’ have disappeared, replaced by study halls where we read demon self-defense books. He doesn’t even give tests anymore.

  Tank slaps the Old Timer on the back with such force that the rickety ghoul almost tumbles into the crowd. “That’s right,” says Tank. “Safety in numbers. Very important.” He presses his huge hands together. “As you know, quasis are tested Senior Year and assigned a lifetime service. Testing hasn’t yet started for this class.” A low groan rises from the group of students. Tank raises his arms. “Don’t worry. There’ll be no tests today.”

  The Old Timer wraps his cloak around him more tightly. “In fact, we’re here to tell you there won’t be any testing this year.”

  The groans change into happy chatter.

  No testing? I pump the air with my fist. That’s freaking awesome!

  Tank folds his huge arms over his barrel chest. “Now, quiet down.” The students instantly fall silent. “The Department of Quasi Learning has decided that this year, all students will be assigned the same service. Everyone will join the new Ghoul Protection League. Going forward, gym class will train you for this service.”

  In the back of my mind, I remember Cissy telling me something about gym class changing. Fighting in a Protection League sounds pretty cool.

  I raise my hand. “What battle skills will we learn?”

  The Old Timer wags his bald head. “None. The GPL teaches you how to best lay down your lives for your ghoul masters, giving us time to escape in case of attack.”

  A stunned silence falls over the group. No one moves.

  Holy Hades! Sure, I wanted ghouls to realize demons aren’t allies, but I assumed they’d do something logical with the information, like leave Purgatory or build up some kind of army. But asking us to lay down our lives while they portal their asses out of here? Incredibly lame.

  “OT-42 is exaggerating,” says Tank quickly. “You’ll learn other things too. Angel warriors will teach you some defense skills.”

  My brow arcs. Angel warriors? Battle skills? This class just got upgraded to somewhat lame.

  The Old Timer nods vigorously. “Angels have been giving us advice on how to prepare for, well, just to prepare in general. They’ll help with training.”

  A memory pops into my mind: the day the Old Timer asked me to make worm soufflé. Cissy pointed out angels on the lawn. Everyone was shocked, but I was too excited about avoiding squishing worms to think about it too much. My eyes stretch wide with understanding. So that’s why angels were hanging around school. They’re helping ghouls to—what did the Old Timer call it again—to ‘prepare in general?’

  Of course. The angels are here to help the ghouls prepare for another demon invasion. A shiver runs across my shoulders. Mom said Armageddon would never be happy with puppet-rule of Purgatory, and she was right. Again.

  Cissy raises her hand. I feel a pang in my chest; I miss her. There must be some way to snap her out of this demon envy thing. She clears her throat. “Who exactly are we protecting and preparing for? Demons?”

  The Old Timer sets his arms out, palms forward. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. Demons are our friends. Everyone knows that.” His eyes glow bright red.

  I roll my eyes. Suuuuuuuuure they are.

  “Let’s get started.” Tank blasts his whistle again. “I want you all to practice running around the yard, flailing your arms, and screaming ‘Take me! Take me!’ On my mark. Set. Go!”

  The other kids break up into small groups and start walking around the field. Some get into the exercise and really ham it up. Cissy and Zeke stroll nearby, chatting and smiling. My heart finally cracks.

  I walk over to Cissy and stand directly in her walking path. Our gazes meet. Her irises flare bright red.

  Zeke scratches his neck with his hand. “I’ll leave you two to talk.” He quickly slips away.

  Cissy keeps glaring at me, her eyes flaring brighter. This has so got to end, and much as I hate to do this, I think there is only one way to get her envy demon to go bye-bye.

  “I may possibly consider going to the tournament. Maybe.” I flip my finger back and forth between her eyes. “But I need to talk to my friend Cissy and not envy-demon girl.”

  Cissy inhales a long breath, her eyes slowly turning back to their original tawny brown.

  Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  She shakes her head from side to side. “That’s better, now.” She lets out a few breaths. “I think my envy demon got a little out of control there.”

  I plant my fists on my hips. Now it’s time to let loose. “A little out of control? You didn’t talk to me for two weeks. You’ve been a bitch on wheels. And about what? Some guy.” I waggle my finger at her. “I’ve been totally patient with you through the whole Zekie-poo lovey-dovey boyfriend festival. All I do is get into a few fights with a guy and you LOSE IT. For the record, you totally and completely suck as a friend right now.”

  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 p
art 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 t
o 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.