Angelbound

by Christina Bauer

  Copyright © 2013 by Ink Monster LLC

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 9780989405003

  Ink Monster, LLC.

  34 Chandler Place

  Newton, MA 02464

  www.inkmonster.net

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  It’s been one month, three days, and six hours since I last ‘got my gladiator on’ and battled in the Arena. Not that I’m obsessing or anything. Sure, I can sneak in and watch someone else fight, but that’s a snore.

  I roll over on my dingy bed, scooch under the drab covers, and watch the gray drizzle outside my window. Mondays are the pits.

  Mom’s voice echoes into my bedroom. “Time to get up! You don’t want to be late for school, do you, honey?”

  I roll my eyes. Of course, I want to be late for school.

  Raising my head, I open my mouth to say just that, and then decide against it. Instead, I bite my lower lip, yank the pillow over my head and groan. Loudly.

  “Don’t make noises at me, young lady.” Mom rustles papers in the kitchen. “I’ve a letter right here. You’re on something called the Official Watch List for Unreasonable Tardiness.” Her footsteps echo down the hall and pause outside my room. “You’ll be suspended from high school at this rate. What do you think about that?”

  I peep out from under my pillow. Mom looms in my doorway, her fist set on her hip. She’s a quasi-demon like me, so she resembles a lovely human with a curvy figure, amber skin, chocolate-brown eyes, and chestnut hair that falls in waves over her shoulders. All quasis have a tail; Mom and I both sport the long and pointed variety. The big differences between us are laugh lines, some grey hair and our opinion of what’s ‘dangerous’ for eighteen-year olds.

  I fluff the pillow and slide it under my noggin. Being suspended means no school. Maybe even catching a few Arena matches on the sly. I wag my eyebrows. “And suspension would be bad because?”

  “I’d make it that way.”

  Ugh. She would, too.

  Off go my covers. “This is me getting up.”

  “Good.” Mom stomps away.

  I shower, pull on some sweats, and sleepwalk into the kitchen, seeing the familiar lime-green appliances, mismatched furniture, and peeling linoleum tile. Everything looks peaceful, quiet, and empty. Another typical Monday morning before another average day at school. BO-ring. I’ll have to charm Walker into taking me to the Arena later. Until I’m called to fight again, it’s better than nothing.

  A thick white envelope sits at the center of the kitchen table. I scoop up and read: “To the Quasi-Demon, Miss Myla Lewis, 666 Dante Row, Purgatory.” I lick my thumb and run it over the loopy calligraphy. Real ink. My long black tail flicks in a nervous rhythm.

  Frowning, I tap the unopened letter against my palm. No one sends me fancy stuff like this. In a blur of motion, my tail darts across my torso, grips the envelope with its arrowhead-shaped end, and tries pulling it from my fingers.

  “Hey now!” My tail’s always had a mind of its own. For some reason, it’s decided this letter is dangerous. I jerk the envelope out of reach, but not before one corner gets totally shredded. “Now, look what you did.” My tail slinks behind me to curl guiltily about my ankle.

  I reread the outside of the letter. Nothing here to worry about. I am a quasi-demon (mostly human with a little demon DNA). I’ve spent all eighteen years of my life in Purgatory (where human souls get judged for Heaven or Hell, aka the most boring place in the history of ever). This letter’s like dozens of others that hit our doorstep each week. Why’s my tail on a mission to trash this thing?

  I stare at the words again, feeling like they should read: “Open this to turn your life upside-down and your heart into mush.”

  Clearly, I’m having an off-morning.

  I slip the envelope-slash-time-bomb into my mangy backpack. I’ll read it later at school.

  Mom steps into the kitchen. “How’s my sweet baby, Myla-la?” Yes, I’m eighteen years old and Mom still uses pet names from when I was three.

  “I’m good.” I open a cabinet and pull down a box of Frankenberry cereal.

  Mom eyes my every movement, her forehead creasing with worry.

  “Did you sleep well last night, Myla?”

  Oh, no. Here it comes. I square my shoulders and mentally prepare my ‘I’m so very-very caaaaaaalm’ voice. “Absolutely.” Nailed it.

  “Any bad dreams?”

  “Nope.” The ‘calm voice’ isn’t working so well this time.

  “Hmm.” She taps her cheek. “Met anyone lately? Made any new friends?”

  I grit my teeth. All my mornings start off with maternal interrogations like this one. I find it’s best to give soothing, one-word answers. “Negative.”

  “No friends at all?”

  “Only the same one since first grade.” I raise my spoon for emphasis. “Cissy.”

  “That’s good.” She offers me a shaky grin. “You’re safe.”

  I shoot her a hearty thumbs-up. Today’s cross-examination ended relatively quickly; maybe Mom’s getting less overprotective. A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth.

  “More than safe.” I speed-chop the air, karate-style. “I’m a lean, mean, Arena-fighting machine.” Wincing, I freeze mid-chop. How could I be so dumb? Mom loses her freaking mind whenever I say the word ‘Arena.’

  There’s a pause that lasts a million years while Mom stares at me, her face unreadable. Finally, she moves. But, instead of jumping around in hysterics, she flips about and rifles through cabinets in search of a coffee mug.

  Wait a second.

  This morning Mom cut her interrogation short and she didn’t panic when I said the word ‘Arena.’ I wind my lips into an even-wider grin. Sweeeet. Things could be changing, after all.

  Leaning back in my chair, I watch Mom pour coffee. I know she goes overboard because it’s just me, her, and this nasty gray ranch house. I have no brothers, sisters, or straight answers about who my father is, except that he’s some kind of diplomat. Add it all up and Mom’s a wee bit clingy.

  Or, at least, she used to be. I drum my fingers on the Formica. A less overprotective Mom opens up all sorts of possibilities. I could watch more matches. I could fight in more matches. I could develop interests in things other than the Arena.

  Eh, maybe it’s a ‘no’ on that last thing.

  Mom slides into the chair across from mine, her large brown eyes watching me through the wisps of steam curling from her mug. “Want a ride to school today? I don’t mind waiting outside the door.” A muscle twitches at the corner of her eye. “You know, in case anything happens.”

  My heart sinks to my toes. Then again, maybe M
om’s worse than ever.

  “Uhhhh.” My mouth falls so far open, some Frankenberry rolls off my tongue and onto the tabletop. Did she really offer to stand outside school all day long ‘in case anything happens?’ Cissy told me how parents get extra-twitchy during senior year. A shiver rattles my spine. My Mom plus ‘extra-twitchy’ equals a huge nightmare.

  I force a few deep breaths. “Thanks for the offer.” It’s getting really hard to keep my ‘calm voice’ handy. “I’ll pass this time.”

  Suddenly, the air crackles with energy. A black hole seven feet high and four feet wide appears in the center of the kitchen.

  Out of the void steps a ghoul.

  My fingers twiddle in his direction. “Hey, Walker.” Technically, he’s named WKR-7, but I’ve called him Walker for as long as I can remember.

  “Good morning.” Walker nods his skull-like head. If he were a few inches taller, the movement would knock his cranium through ceiling, and he’s on the short side for a ghoul. It’s a mystery how Walker and the rest of the undeadlies handle an eternity of being so crazy-tall.

  Walker pulls back his low-hanging hood, showing pale, almost colorless skin and a strong bone structure. He sports the same hairstyle from the day he died: a brush cut with sideburns and no beard. Great black eyes peep at me from deep sockets.

  I grin. It’s nice to have Walker around. Most ghouls are obsessed with rules and act irritating as Hell. But Walker? He pushes boundaries like a pro, especially when it comes to sneaking me into the Arena. Having him around is like having a cute and somewhat sneaky older brother, only one without a pulse.

  “Be careful, Myla.” Walker’s thin lips droop into a frown. “That’s no way to greet your overlords. I don’t mind, but other ghouls could send you to a re-education camp.”

  I roll my eyes. Purgatory is one massive bureaucracy with the charm of suburbia and the fun of a minimum-security prison. All the work’s done by unpaid quasis like me (we’re not allowed to call ourselves ‘prisoners’). Ghouls keep us in line and make sure we’re–cough, cough–super happy in our service.

  I’m ready to complain about all this to Walker for the millionth time when Mom pipes into the conversation.

  “Greetings, my beloved overlord.” She’s laying it on thick to make up for my sloppy hello. “Want some decaf?” She bows.

  Walker nods; ghouls love java.

  Mom picks up one of Walker’s loopy sleeves, rubbing the fabric between her fingertips. “This is a little threadbare. Are you here for a new one?” All quasis must perform a service; Mom sews and mends robes. It could be worse. My friend Cissy’s mom is a ghoul proctologist.

  “No, thank you.” Walker eyes the coffee pot greedily.

  Mom hands him a full mug marked ‘Afterlife’s Greatest Ghoul.’ Her chocolate eyes nervously scan his face. “What service do you require then?”

  Walker frowns. “Myla must battle in the Arena today.”

  A huge grin spreads across my face. When human souls reach Purgatory, they’re given a choice: trial by jury, or trial by combat. Based on the result, they end up either happily floating around Heaven or having their souls consumed in Hell. If the human selects a trial by jury, then it’s someone else’s problem. But if they choose combat–and the combatant in question is totally evil–then someone like Walker ends up in the kitchen of someone like me. I’m one of a few dozen quasis who kick butt. Literally.

  I jump to my feet and clear off my bowl. “Now, this is what I call a Happy Monday.”

  Mom steps back. “You’re sending Myla off to fight today? You can’t.” She leans against the countertop for support. “Every time she goes, she risks her life.” A muscle twitches by her mouth. “Those battles are to the death.”

  I stifle a moan. Mom always focuses on the whole ‘to the death’ thing like it’s the first time she’s learned how matches work. Hell, I’ve battled in the Arena since I was twelve and have yet to get a scratch. You’d think the drama would tone down over the years.

  Panting, Mom points to a tattered calendar by the door. “My little one fought a month ago. She serves once every three months, right?”

  I raise my hand. “It’s not a problem. I’m up for this. Totally.”

  Mom flashes me a desperate look. “I know that.” She grips the countertop like she’ll pull it out of the wall. “Please, Walker, tell me it’s a mistake.”

  Walker’s black eyes fill with understanding. “Myla must serve today. There’s a spike in Arena matches; all fighters have extra battles.”

  Mom stares at Walker, her jaw grinding out silent rebuttals. After a few moments, she presses her palms to her face, a low sigh escaping her lips. I frown. She’s hitting a new level of drama this morning.

  Walker shoots me the barest wink. I fight the urge to smile, knowing it means one thing: there’s no across-the-boards spike in Arena matches. Purgatory must have an uber-evil soul on their hands, the worst of the absolute worst, and they need their best fighter on it.

  That would be me.

  Mom shakes her head from side to side. “All those demons and angels. Promise me, you’ll keep her away from ‘danger.’” She puts special emphasis on the word ‘danger.’

  “I always do, Camilla.”

  Mom releases her death-grip from the counter. “Of course.”

  My back teeth lock. Mom’s always going on about protecting me from angels and demons. The demons I understand, but angels? Come on.

  I zip up my gray hoodie. “Time to trash some evildoers.” Stepping to Walker’s side, I wait for transport to the Arena.

  Mom’s hand lightly touches her throat. “Be safe!”

  “I’ll be super-safe, don’t you worry.”

  “And don’t be late for school.”

  I slap on a smile. “On it, Mom.”

  Walker bows his head. “Stand back, I’ll summon a portal.” A new black hole appears in the center of the kitchen. I glance into the darkness, feeling the Frankenberry in my belly come up for a repeat performance. Using a portal feels like tumbling through empty space with a killer case of the stomach flu. Helpful safety tip: hold a ghoul’s hand or you’ll fall forever.

  Taking a deep breath, I grab Walker’s chilly fingers so tightly, I’d cut off his blood flow, if he had any. Together, we step into the portal, topple through nothingness, and walk out again onto the sandy earth of the Arena floor. I try my best to look ready-for-battle instead of ready-to-puke.

  Walker offers me a sympathetic glance. “Shall we find a place to sit?”

  “Nah, I’m fine, thanks.” I scan the open-air stadium around me. The Arena’s a nasty old ruin, all chipped gray rock and busted sandstone columns. How the place stays upright is a total mystery. The fighting floor is one huge uneven clod of dirt, the bleachers are basically rubble, and the entire top level looks ready to collapse.

  I freaking love it here.

  The stands lie open and empty, except for a few quasis. They’re all fighters like me, trying to catch someone else’s match. Mom used to attend too, but all the moaning and gasping got so out of hand, she was banned ages ago. I can’t say I was bummed. Nothing like having your Mom yell ‘Baby, don’t diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie’ when you’re twelve and fighting a demon for the first time.

  A gravelly voice echoes through the air. “Greetings, slave.” The word ‘slave’ is said with particular venom.

  Every muscle in my body goes on alert. I’d know that voice anywhere, and I absolutely loathe its owner. I scrape lint from under my fingernails and pretend not to notice the seven-foot tall ghoul looming behind me.

  Walker steps between us. “Greetings, SKE-12.”

  My mouth winds into a mischievous grin. “Hey, Sharkie.’” SKE-12 hates his nickname, so I work it into every encounter.

  Sharkie frowns. “My name is SKE-12, slave.”

  Walker sets his hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me so I stand face-to-navel with Sharkie, master of Arena ceremonies and all-around dickhead. He hasn’t changed a bit since
my last match, not that ghouls often do. He’s gray-skinned with large coal-black eyes, a skull-like hole for a nose, and teeth that have been filed to tiny points. His long silver robes hang in tatters; a tall black staff is gripped in his bony hand.

  Walker gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Myla was just about to greet her ghoul overlord properly, weren’t you, Myla?” Standing next to Sharkie, even Walker looks vertically challenged.

  “My bad.” I bow extra-low. “Greetings, SKE-12.”

  His buggy black eyes narrow into slits. Sharkie always knows when I’m making fun of him, and it drives him crazy. “I’ll have no mischief from you today.”

  I bow again, even lower this time. “Yes, I’m fresh out.”

  Sharkie turns to Walker, his black eyes flaring bright red. “Control her.” His gaze swings back to me. “We’ve an especially evil human soul fighting today. I hope to watch you die at last.”

  I pick something off my molar with my pinky. “I’m sure you do.”

  Sharkie steps closer, his pointy teeth click-clacking as he speaks. “The soul you fight today is so evil, the angels have begged the Great Scala to stand by, ready to transport him to Hell the moment he’s defeated. Which will never happen.” He leans in closer. “You. Are. Doomed.”

  My brows pop up. Normally, the Scala migrates tons of souls at once in what’s called an iconigration. For this guy to get solo treatment, he must be a SUPER nasty. Fun. “Bring it on, Shar–.”

  Walker grabs my elbow. “Look, Myla! Your friends are here!” He points across the stadium floor. “We must depart.” He bows once more to Sharkie. “Excuse us.” As we speed-walk away, Walker whispers in my ear. “If I weren’t already dead, I’d have had a heart attack just now.”

  “Eh, Sharkie’s harmless.”

  “Because I placate him for you.” He shoots me a sly look. “Why must you always taunt him?”

  “Not sure.” I shrug. “It’s a hobby.” A few yards ahead stands a ghoul named XP-22, and a hovering green blob that’s Sheila, the Limus demon.

  I shoot Sheila a friendly wave. “Hey Shiel, how are the kids?” Sheila’s nice, so long as you don’t stand close enough for her to swallow you whole. XP-22, on the other hand, is a total drip. I don’t even glance in his direction.