Lincoln: Angelbound Book 2 with bonus novella, Duty Bound

by Bauer, Christina;

  “All right.” The earl forces another laugh. “No need to get sensitive.”

  I glare at Aldred with a look that says, I’m done here. “The dungeons, Aldred. I mean it.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I storm past the earl and out of the stables. Hunting quasis? Outrageous!

  Suddenly, I wish my parents weren’t away on a demon hunting excursion. I’d like nothing better than to open a formal inquest, find out who’s threatening quasis, and then fill our dungeons to overflowing. But starting an inquest is serious business. For the process to have teeth, my parents must sign off. And they won’t return for at least four days.

  Ah, well. Better to wait and do this correctly, much as I hate that fact.

  All the way back to my cabin, my thoughts race through everything I’ve just learned: that Aldred is still pressing my marriage to Adair … the fact that my own people might be targeting quasi warriors … and how the entire situation could place Myla in danger. It all adds up to one terrible conclusion.

  If I’m not careful, Myla might end up dead. That’s not an option, so I take a silent oath.

  With all my mind and body, I vow to protect the woman who already holds my heart.

  2

  I spend a restless night brainstorming ways to punish Aldred and therefore, I can’t sleep. The fact that I’m about to see Myla again doesn’t help, either.

  Finally, early morning arrives. I slip out of my cabin, mount up my horse Nightshade, and slip away from camp. We ride across rolling hills of yellowing grass, eventually ending on the back parking lot to Purgatory’s Arena. Like most things here, it’s a little run down.

  Fine. A lot run down.

  Lines of weeks poke up through the asphalt. A few lonely car hulks sit at odd places. The arena itself is little more than a pile of ruined bricks. Moss and weeds peep out between the gray stones that make out the building’s outer facade. Honestly, the place looks held together with popsicle sticks and glue. All I know is that a ghoul named IK-3 is meeting me at a back access door.

  From there, I get to sneak in and see Myla. The thought is a little distracting, I suppose. Night’s swings her silver head back in my direction. She glares at me with big round eyes as if to say, are you paying attention here?

  Night was around the evening Myla fought the doxy demons. I think my horse is as obsessed with Myla as I am.

  “Yes, yes,” I reply. “That way.” I gesture and click my tongue. Night takes off around the back of the huge Arena. Sure enough, there is a boarded-over door marked No Admittance. My contact, a night guard named IK-3 waits outside. He’s my contact for all things Myla and battle-related.

  Ike (he hates his ghoul name) waves as we approach. “Hey, glad you could make it.” He’s tall and lanky, with incredibly pale skin, which is appropriate considering he’s undead and all. Ike also has a heart-shaped face complete with freckles that somehow survived the ghoul-conversion process. He looks more like a skateboarder human than an undead ghoul.

  “Thank you for your help, Ike.”

  “Hey, just happy for the worms, you know.” Ghouls love worms. I sent Ike a case. Yes, he’s been that helpful.

  Ike pushes open the blocked door. “This hallway has been under construction for years. You can watch from here and no one will know. Best-kept secret in the arena.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ike stares at Night. “You need help with your horse?”

  “Night can take care of herself, right girl?”

  My horse sniffs, and a plume of purple smoke comes out of her nostrils. Night casts minor spells, and this is one example. One moment, Night is there. The next? Gone.

  “Whoa,” says Ike. “Cool.”

  “Horses from the House of Striga are all like that.” Striga is home to our most powerful witches and warlocks. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  I step into the hallway and the first thing that strikes me is the scent of stale cigarette smoke. Seems like the best secret in the arena is rather well known. The floor is littered with cigarette butts, empty coffee cups and drained containers of cough syrup. Add in a worm farm and this would be the ideal spot for a ghoul rave.

  The corridor winds a bit before opening out onto the arena proper. Pausing at the end of the passage, I lean against a stone arch that leads directly to the arena floor. Before me, tiers of stone benches loop around an oval battleground. Like the exterior, the inside of this place is a mishmash of mold, cobwebs and cracked stone. Nothing fancy, but it could be Hell itself and I’d still sneak in here. I grin.

  Myla’s fight starts any minute.

  A low hum sounds in the corridor. Someone’s opening a ghoul transport portal. Moments later, a dark rectangular shape appears just within the passage. Out of it steps a ghoul who’s tall, lean and deathly pale. As always, the strong bone structure of his face is perfectly framed by a buzz cut and sideburns. His official name is WKR-7.

  I call him Walker.

  As my best friend, Walker takes it upon himself to help me avoid trouble. Today, that means using his ghoul powers to track me down. He’s well-intentioned, if a little intrusive.

  While Walker strides closer, the portal vanishes behind him. “How very odd,” he says.

  “And hello to you too,” I deadpan.

  Walker folds his arms over his chest. The long sleeves of his dark robes sway with the movement. “You’re not in royal gear this morning.”

  “True.” Usually I wear leather pants, tall boots, chainmail and a dark velvet tunic. Classic thrax gear. “Here’s the thing. Today I’m blending in with the general populace.” In this case, that means sporting jeans, hefty boots and a Purple Rain Tour T-shirt. I also keep a small assortment of weapons hidden on my person.

  Daggers. Don’t leave home without them.

  “Blending in?” repeats Walker. “You’ve the mismatched eyes of a thrax.”

  “And I’ve no tail. Don’t forget that part.” Like me, Myla is around eighteen years old. Unlike me, she has a long thin tail that’s covered in dragon scales. So intriguing.

  Walker narrows his eyes. “What are you really doing here?”

  I purse my lips, contemplating. Do I tell Walker about Myla? So far, I’ve avoided sharing anything with him. Not that I think my friend will be judgmental or share my secret. It’s more that my feelings for Myla are a bright spot in an otherwise grey life. Telling someone else might dilute the color. But as of yesterday, I can no longer stay silent. My own people may be hunting quasis, so Walker must know everything.

  In a minute.

  A little teasing is part of our bro code.

  “You know I’m stuck in Purgatory for a few months,” I reply. “Thought I’d catch an arena match.” Purgatory sorts souls into Heaven or Hell, either through trial by combat or trial by jury. As an arena warrior, Myla fights evil spirits who want passage to Heaven.

  “Arena fights are private events,” says Walker. “How did you discover this one?”

  “Would you believe me if I said it was a coincidence?”

  “Not at chance.” Walker sniffs. “You recently asked me about quasi girl fighters with dragonscale tails. Now I find you skulking around an access hallway to Purgatory’s Arena, right before one such fighter will do battle.”

  “Me? Skulking?” I open my mouth in mock-surprise. “I’m more of a sneak.”

  Walker doesn’t even crack a grin. “I repeat, how did you find out?”

  “You won’t drop this, will you?”

  At last, Walker smiles. “I can wait for all eternity, if you like.”

  He’s not kidding. Walker once followed me—silent and glowering—for three solid days because I wouldn’t tell him where I hid the cough syrup (ghouls love that stuff, along with coffee, worms and smokes.) Walker didn’t back down then; he definitely won’t now.

  “Well?” asks my friend.

  Time to fess up.

  “This morning’s match was revealed to me after—” I l
ook up, my mouth making silent calculations “—bribing eight different government officials, beginning with the Ghoul Minister and ending with an arena night guard called IK-3. Along the way, I even discovered a name.” I can’t help but smile as I speak this next part. “Myla Lewis.”

  Walker glares daggers in my direction. “Leave Myla-la alone.”

  A pang of jealousy moves through me. Walker has a nickname for her? When I next speak, my voice comes out far lower than I’d like. “How do you know her?”

  Walker’s features turn unreadable. “My people rule this land. Sometimes I help out.”

  “There’s more to it than that.” I step nearer. “Isn’t there?”

  “You know my kind. Lots of rules. Our regulations require that arena warriors travel via ghoul portal.” Walker gestures to the walls around him. “Between all the evil souls and demons running around this place, I’m one of the few ghouls who can handle themselves.”

  Logical enough. Like me, Walker is a descendent of the archangel Aquila and a well-trained fighter.

  “So you take Myla to her matches,” I recap.

  “Precisely. We barely say much beyond hello and goodbye.”

  Which could be true, except for the fact that Walker never uses nicknames. Point of fact: he still calls me Lincoln, and I’ve known him my entire life.

  My friend is definitely hiding something.

  I scan Walker carefully. “If that’s true, then why not tell me about Myla before? I specifically asked you about quasi arena fighters who were women.”

  “It’s not that easy.” Walker’s gaze locks with mine. When he next speaks, all the seriousness in the world is etched into the lines of his face. “I’d tell you everything if I could.”

  Some history on Walker: He’s forever getting involved in tricky situations. Binding oaths, soul saving, magical contingencies … Walker has his undead hands in everything. Plus, I know this particular look of his; my friend is telling the truth. He can’t share when it comes to Myla.

  I give him a solemn nod. “I understand.”

  Even so, there’s no way Walker barely knows my girl. There’s more to the story and I intend to uncover every last detail. After all, hunting beings and information is what I do best.

  “Most appreciated.” Walker pauses for a long moment. “And since you snuck in to watch Myla’s fight, I’m guessing you haven’t met her formally.”

  “That’s correct.” And I loathe that fact.

  “Myla’s part demon, so I’ll also assume you won’t introduce yourself either.”

  A weight of sorrow settles into my soul. “Correct again.” Considering the situation with my people wanting to kill her, having any kind of relationship seems far from reasonable.

  Walker eyes me for a long moment, then he shakes his head. “Still, I don’t like this. From the little I know about Myla, she could easily be taken with you. The fact that you’re lurking anywhere near her? That’s simply inviting disaster. What if she falls for you and gets her heart broken? I can’t allow that.”

  If I felt a small flare of jealousy before, that emotion now blazes into full, white-hot envy. “And why would you care?”

  “Again, not answering that.”

  My hands curl into fists. Clearly, my friend knows Myla far more than he lets on. Does he want her for his own? Closing my eyes, I force my mind to calm. Getting green-eyed over Walker will accomplish nothing. My vow is to protect Myla, even from me.

  When I next speak to Walker, I work hard to act neutral. “You seem to know Myla well.”

  Walker shrugs. “I know the quasi people.”

  “If Myla and I were ever to meet, how would you suggest I ensure she doesn’t…” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to find the right words.

  “End up like you?” asks Walker.

  I level him with a dry look. “Precisely.”

  Walker rocks on his heels, setting his long robes fluttering. I’ve seen this move before; my friend is in deep contemplation. At length, Walker speaks once more. “You’re excellent at containing or faking emotion when necessary. If you ever encounter Miss Lewis, you should play the haughty thrax. Look down on her demonic side. She’ll hate it—and you—forever.”

  The words slam into my heart. Myla will hate me forever. How could I act in such a foul manner, even if it is for Myla’s benefit? My shoulders tighten with worry. When I first saw Myla, I was surprised she was a quasi demon. I’d never met one before. But after learning more about her, things have changed. Now I don’t see Myla as anything but her beautiful self.

  All of a sudden, that memory appears again.

  The Vantys.

  A bloody head stuck on a pike.

  Bands of worry tighten around my throat. It doesn’t matter that Myla is an excellent warrior; no one can fight off an entire mob of thrax. Taking in a deep breath, I force my spine to straighten. This isn’t about me. It’s about what keeps Myla away from harm. And considering the recent news from Aldred, safe is where I’ll ensure she stays, no matter what.

  Walker tilts his head. “Is that possible, Lincoln? If it comes to it, can you play the villain to keep her away?”

  “I can and will.” Turning from Walker, I stare off into the empty arena. Pain radiates through my chest, sharp as a blade driving though my rib cage, and I’d know the sensation. I’ve been stabbed no less than thirty seven times. Even so, none of those cuts reached this level of agony.

  Why does caring for someone have to hurt so much?

  Stepping to my side, Walker sets his hand on my shoulder. For a long minute, my friend’s all-black eyes carefully scan my face. “Oh, Lincoln,” my friend says at last. “I’ve never seen you this miserable. You’ve become deeply attached, haven’t you?”

  For a long moment, I can’t find the words to explain. Then, the truth falls from my lips on its own. “There’s no one else in the world like her. Seeing Myla?” I throw my hands apart and make an explosion noise. “She blew apart everything I thought I knew. A woman fighter who laughs while taking down demons? I’d no idea someone like that even existed. Thoughts of her simply consume me.”

  Walker gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Perhaps you should skip this morning’s match.”

  “And miss torturing myself?” I smile, but there’s no joy in it. “Not a chance.”

  My friend gives me the side eye. “You won’t drop this, will you?”

  “As a wise ghoul once told me, I can wait for all eternity. Or long enough to make you late transporting Myla.” Like the rest of his people, Walker loathes missing schedules.

  At last, Walker lowers his hand. “In that case, I’m off for transport duty.”

  “Be safe. You carry precious cargo.” My voice warbles a bit when I say that last part, and I don’t care.

  “I will.”

  Another hum sounds as Walker opens a fresh ghoul portal. Within seconds, my friend is gone. Long minutes tick by. Eventually, the arena’s emcee takes to the floor, along with a handful of workers. I count quasis, demons and ghouls in the mix. Still, there’s no sign of Myla.

  A realization hits me. I became so jealous, I forgot to tell Walker about the threat to Myla from my people. I pause, wondering if I should chase after Walker. Probably not, at least for now. The conversation should wait until I’m perfectly calm and rational. And that’s not now.

  Finally, a rectangular hole appears at the arena’s center. My heart thuds at double speed.

  This is it.

  A moment later, Walker steps through the dark portal. After that, she walks out behind him.

  Myla.

  I devour every aspect of her. Long auburn hair. Soulful brown eyes. Amber skin. Lovely, feminine curves. Predatory tail. Perfection.

  Once Myla steps away from the portal, her face pales. It makes sense—ghoul transport can make anyone nauseous. Every instinct I have screams for me to approach her, making sure she’s all right. Gripping the uneven stone wall, I force my body to stay put. It isn’t easy.


  Across the arena, Walker checks on Myla. I can’t hear the words he speaks, but the effect is clear. Within a few seconds, Myla stands upright again. Color returns to her luscious skin. As she recovers herself, an aura of energy seems to pulse around her.

  Light.

  Power.

  Confidence.

  She’s magnetic.

  The emcee must sense it too, since the ghoul decides to approach her. This master of ceremonies is an especially awful-looking character with pointed teeth and a bad attitude. Once again, my protective instincts soar. My heart demands that I place myself between the two of them. My intervention isn’t needed, though. Myla’s full mouth quirks with a smile as she faces off against the emcee.

  I shake my head and grin. This woman. She’s fearless. Intelligent. Passionate. Just watching her awakens something inside me—a corner of my soul which craves that same ferocity for life. All the while, her presence also soothes me in ways I hadn’t even known I’d been hurting. All of it adds up to one conclusion: my waiting and scheming has been worth it.

  Here she is. My Myla.

  The wisp of a breeze strikes up behind me, interrupting my reverie. That’s odd. This tunnel is a sealed off behind a heavy wooden door. What could start any wind? Turning away from Myla, I scan the darkened corridor. The reason for the change of air becomes clear.

  The ghost of an elder thrax now hovers in the shadows. An ethereal breeze twists around him, making his formal tunic flutter against skeletal form. A long white beard cascades to his waist. The specter is instantly familiar.

  “Minster Devak?” I ask.

  “Yes, my prince,” replies the ghost. “It’s me.”

  As Minister of Alliances for the House of Kamal, Devak is my contact for the anti-Acca treaty. To be honest, it’s not surprising that he’s a ghost. The man as rather up in years, even for a thrax.

  Devak shifts his weight from foot to foot. It’s what he does when nervous. “My earl has signed the latest version of our anti-Acca treaty.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” One house down, two more to go. “Though I doubt you’re visiting me from the dead in order to share that information.