Angelbound

by Christina Bauer

  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.”

  I turn in their direction and glare, my eyes flaring demon-red. Their faces whiten. Quick as a heartbeat, they all turn away.

  I smack my lips. “Now they’ve stopped.”

  Octavia stifles a smile. “I wish I could do that trick.” She gestures across the tournament grounds to where Lincoln must be stalking around. “My son doesn’t look at you at all.”

  I make a point of not gazing in the direction of her point. “That’s fine with me.”

  “I see.” She sips her wine, watching me closely. “Are you enjoying the tournament?”

  “Honestly, no. I knew the ghoul who fought the Earl of Acca. Killing him was not—” I clear my throat. “He wasn’t a worthy opponent, that’s all.”

  A smile curls the queen’s lips. “Spoken as a true thrax.”

  My back teeth lock with anger. “I’m a quasi-demon…As the Earl of Acca was quick to point out.” And your son, too, although I won’t say that to your face.

  “I know. I’ve seen your tail.” I glance at her mismatched eyes. Behind them, mental gears whirl and spin even faster. I have the weird feeling she knows exactly what I was thinking about Lincoln.

  I sigh. It’s bad enough sitting through another of these boring tournaments, let alone making small talk with Lincoln’s calculating and somewhat creepy Mom. I fidget in my chair and watch the gate swing open on the tournament green. An Arachnoid demon crawls out onto the field of battle. Arachnoids are ten-foot tall daddy-long-leg spiders with extra armor and a bad attitude. They have tiny bodies, thread-thin legs, and giant pincer mouths with a poisonous bite. Across the green, the Earl of Kamal marches onto the field, a tiger by his side.

  I shake my head. “He should’ve brought a falcon.”

  Octavia sips her wine. “And why’s that?”

  “The tiger can fight the Arachnoid’s legs all day; it won’t make a dent. They have light armor that’s good as dragon scales. But the demon’s body is pretty unprotected, especially from the top. A bird could go after it pretty easily.”

  In the edges of my vision, I see my tail straighten Octavia’s crown. That thing so needs a leash. Frowning, I give it a smack.

  Octavia arches her eyebrow. “I was about to thank you for doing that.”

  “It wasn’t me. My tail has a mind of its own sometimes.”

  Her lips purse. “Interesting.” She eyes me from head to toe. Suddenly, I understand how animals feel in the zoo.

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “Why’d you invite me here, Octavia?”

  She chuckles. “I wondered if you’d ask the obvious question. Would you believe me if I said it’s a matter of quasi-thrax diplomacy?”

  “No.”

  “That’s wise.” She sips her wine, examining my face, and then sets the goblet down. “I brought you here because I think my son finds you interesting.”

  My eyes almost pop out of my head. I look behind me. Someone else must have snuck into the pavilion. “Me?” I tap my ribcage.

  She nods.

  “You don’t know your son very well.” He’s a pompous jerk who would never be interested in a ‘demon’ like me.

  “Perhaps.” The corners of her mouth round up slightly. “I think I know you, however.” Octavia snaps her fingers. Bera rushes to stand before her.

  The handmaiden bows. “Your Highness.”

  “Escort Myla to my family’s tent.” She pats my hand. “I gave your measurements to my smithy. He’s made you a suit of armor. I’d like you to fight in the tourney under the crest of my homeland, the House of Gurith.” She gestures to the tournament field, where the Earl of Kamal battles the Arachnoid. “Whoever kills that demon first, wins the tournament and is named the greatest warrior in Antrum. I think it will be you.”

  My heart leaps in my chest. “Yes!” I jump to my feet and stand beside Bera, then pause. I scan the queen’s mask-like face. The wheels of her mind still whirl and churn. “Why’re you helping me?”

  “Bera, will you wait for Myla at the base of the stairs?” Her handmaiden nods and steps away.

  The Queen curls her finger in my direction. “Come closer.”

  I lean forward; Octavia whispers in my ear. “I’m helping you, my dear, because you and I are the only two females in this vicinity who aren’t nit-wits.”

  My face stretches into a wide grin. “I like you Octavia.”

  “Do you?” A smile dances in her eyes. “Go put on your armor.”

  I meet Bera at the base of the stairs. She leads me through the crush of the crowd to a small golden tent decorated with a Viking-style dragon’s head. Bera pulls up the entrance flap; we step inside. It’s an empty and snug space filled with small store of weapons. A great wooden trunk lays against one wall.

  “Come here, girl.” Bera pulls up the trunk’s lid. Inside sits a fitted suit of under-armor made from brown leather along with a golden breastplate. I brush my fingers over the dragon’s head insignia hammered into the metal. “It’s so beautiful.”

  Bera beams. “It’s like the one Octavia wore when she battled in these very games so many years ago. The House of Gurith’s one of the few that allows women warriors.”

  “Did she win the tournament?”

  “Second place. Connor took first.” She winks. “But you’ll win today, girl.”

  I gently pull the armor from the trunk. “If not, I’ll look great fighting.” I stare into my reflection in the shining gold and grin. I’m about to fight in the tournament. Me, demon girl. My tail swishes in an excited rhythm. I know exactly how to down that Arachnoid too.

  I quickly put on the armor. It fits perfectly. Bera ties back my long auburn hair with a golden ribbon.

  “There, now. You’re all set.” Bera gestures to the store of weapons. “What would you like? A blade? Crossbow?”

  “Nothing, just me.”

  The blood drains from Bera’s face. “What will you fight with?”

  My tail pops over my shoulder and waves in her direction. “One guess. Let’s go.”

  We march out of the tent and through the crowd. Stares and whispers surround me. It’s awesome. Bera guides me to one end of the tournament green. On the field, the Earl of Horus battles the Arachnoid. He’s going after the legs too. Dumbass.

  “Now, wait here, girl. The Earl has a few more minutes of time. If he doesn’t kill the demon by then, it’s your turn.”

  I watch the Earl of Horus hack away at the Arachnoid’s shin. It’ll be my turn.

  While I wait, I stretch and crack my neck. Cissy steps up beside me, her eyes big with shock.

  “Myla, what are you doing here? What’re you wearing?”

  “Armor.”

  “You’re supposed to wear traditional dress.”

  “I am following tradition. The Queen told me to fight the Arachnoid, and it’s tradition to do what the Queen tells you, right?” I wag my eyebrows up and down.

  Cissy grabs my upper arm. “You mean that nasty spider monster out there? You’ll get killed!”

  “No, I’ll have a good time.” I pinch her cheek. “You worry too much. Arachnoids are easy-peasy.”

&n
bsp; A silver trumpet blares. The Earl of Horus walks off the tournament green to encouraging cheers from the crowd.

  Bera steps forward, sets one hand on the wooden fence and swings it open. “Your turn, girl. Make Gurith proud.”

  I stride onto the tournament green. The crowd falls silent. Somewhere in the distance, a cow moos. Worried voices whisper that I’m not carrying a weapon.

  I smirk. That’s what they think.

  The Arachnoid charges at me, its long legs a flutter of movement. I wait until it’s a step away and jump high, gripping the upper half of its nearest leg. Arachnoids keep the top of their limbs level; you can use them like a gymnast’s parallel bars. I haul myself up until my belly rests on the spider’s upper thigh. Swinging my body 360-degrees, I spin about the spider-leg and into the air. I somersault upwards, landing on the demon’s tiny body.

  In the corner of my vision, I see Lincoln standing by the edge of the tournament ground, an empty muzzle in his hand. He stares at me intently, his face unreadable.

  What the blazes does he want?

  I lose my footing, slide straight off the demon, and land on the ground with a whump. A gasp sounds from the crowd.

  Focus, Myla.

  I hop back onto my feet and wait for the Arachnoid to make another pass. It scurries around to face me, its legs moving in an odd rhythm. The limbs are now angled so they aren’t level. Clever spider. I can’t vault onto its body anymore.

  I need a new strategy.

  The Arachnoid scampers toward me, two long pincers flexing in its hungry mouth. My inner demon goes into overdrive. Volts of anger shock my system. My tail flicks eagerly by my shoulder.

  As the spider scrambles nearer, I drop to the ground, rolling to the demon’s outer left side. My tail loops around two of its eight legs. Bounding to my feet, I run straight under the creature’s belly, flipping it onto its back. The Arachnoid lays stunned and immobile. I quickly step about the spider’s small body, weaving my tail around its eight limbs.

  With a swish of my hips, I cinch all the spider’s legs together.

  Gotcha.

  Trumpets blare. The crowd cheers. A chant of “Kill! Kill!” erupts from the pavilions.