Angelbound

by Christina Bauer

  Sighing, I pull out my textbook and try to focus. I’ve been reading the same sentence six times when someone clears his throat. Barf. I know the sound of that particular someone anywhere. Bit by bit, I turn my head and glance across the row.

  That’s when I realize the awful truth: I’ve made the worst seating decision in the history of the universe. I’m parked right beside Zeke Ryder, Cissy’s mega-crush and my personal stalker.

  Zeke’s power is all lust. He’s tall, pale, and handsome, every inch packed with muscles and pheromones. His caramel eyes, chiseled features, and messy blonde hair are perfectly matched with a monkey tail. Every girl’s knees turn to Jell-O before him, except for me, making me a challenge-slash-target since the third grade.

  “Hello, kitten.” Zeke waves in my direction. He’s wearing standard issue sweats, a black t-shirt, and his trademark come-hither stare.

  Pointing to the teacher, I make my ‘shh’ face.

  Zeke arches his eyebrow. “You coming to my party Friday night?”

  “No.” His last ‘party’ consisted of two cans of beer and the back seat of his limo. The black eye I gave him lasted for weeks. What a bust for my first attempted kiss. At least, I had fun punching him.

  My back teeth lock as I glance around the room. Every girl within pheromone-smelling distance aims goo-goo eyes at Zeke. Why am I the only one who thinks his Mister Romance routine is annoying? I’m probably the only senior at school who’s never had a crush, never been kissed. What’s up with that?

  I straighten my shoulders and angle my body away from Zeke. I’ve got more important things to worry about than boys, THAT’S what’s up with that. I pretend to be very interested in my textbook. Hopefully, he’ll get the hint.

  “Not so fast, babe.” He points to the envelope half-hanging out of my backpack. “It’s not that kind of party. Take a look.”

  “This was from you?” Pulling out the letter, I turn it over in my fingers. “I was going to read this today anyway.” I pause. My tail tries to shred the rest of the envelope. I smack the arrowhead end and reset the letter into my backpack.

  Zeke flashes me a white-toothed smile. “Why don’t you read it right now?”

  Miss Thing stares out the window, monologue-ing on how quasis sent too many souls into Heaven, which was super-unfair to the poor demons. I could samba down the aisle right now and she probably wouldn’t notice me.

  Zeke has the same idea. “Miss Thing won’t see you. Go ahead. Take a look.”

  I pull the envelope out of my backpack and set it on my lap.

  Zeke arches another eyebrow. “I can’t believe this. Is the fearless Arena fighter too scared to open one ittle-wittle envelope?”

  That did it. I tear open the letter with a vengeance. Inside I find an embossed invitation that reads: You and a guest are cordially invited to attend a diplomatic gala in honor of our ghoul overlords and their noble allies, the demons. Friday, the 13th, The Ryder Mansion, Upper Purgatory. Formal dress only. Doors open at 8 PM.

  I run one finger over the embossed letters. “Is this for real?”

  “Absolutely. You can bring a friend too, if you want.” Cissy’s crush on Zeke is nothing less than monstrous; she’ll never forgive me if I pass this up. Maybe he’s not as dumb as he looks.

  After the last ‘party’ Zeke invited me to, I should be skeptical. But there are four good reasons to attend this one. First, Zeke’s dad really is a wealthy diplomat known for hosting delegations of ghouls and demons. Second, the party’s at his parent’s mansion where he’s less likely to get nasty. Third, I’ll bring Cissy (with her crush she’s better protection than parents). And fourth, the single fact I know about my own father is that he was a diplomatic something-or-other. I can’t miss the chance to learn more.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Zeke’s mouth arcs into a satisfied smile. “That’s all I ask.”

  I forget about the invitation until the end of the school day. Cissy and I sit in the back row of Lessons in Servitude class. It’s taught by OT-42–we call him the Old Timer–who’s known for his huge handlebar moustache, broken teeth, and blazing hatred of talking in class. His receding head of gray hair is tied back into a teensy ponytail at the base of his neck. Other than that, he’s pretty standard ghoul material: tall, dark, and gruesome.

  “We have an important lesson today.” The Old Timer stalks around the classroom, his thin frame setting his long robes swaying. He pulls back his black hood and scans the rows of desks, twiddling his handlebar moustache.

  “Today, we’ll learn how to prepare appealing meals for your masters.” The Old Timer’s thin indigo lips round into a demonic smile. “Exciting, eh?” He starts yapping about how happy we’ll make our overlords by preparing delicious dinners for them. I start doodling ‘Lessons in Stupid-tude’ over and over in my notebook.

  Cissy’s tawny eyes focus on the envelope that half-hangs out of my backpack. “What’s that?”

  I keep scribbling away. It looks productive and passes the time.

  Cissy clears her throat. “I asked you a question, Myla.” She points at the envelope again.

  I yawn. “Oh, that’s our invite for Zeke’s party Friday night.”

  Cissy starts hyperventilating. “That’s an invite to where Friday night?”

  I stop scribbling and realize my huge error. “Uh, I’ll tell you later.”

  The Old Timer finishes his speech on pleasing our overlords. Half the class chit-chat in little groups. One guy snores in the back row.

  “Impertinence!” The Old Timer stops twiddling his mustache so quickly, I think he’ll rip it off his face. “Pay attention to your master!” The room falls quiet; the sleeping kid raises his head. If the Old Timer were a cartoon, he’d have smoke coming out of his ears right now.

  “That settles it.” Our teacher strides over to his desk, jotting down a quick note. “To punish your lack of focus, we shall have tests all next week.” He slaps his bony fists onto the tabletop. “That means robe-cleaning, foot massage, and groveling etiquette, as well as our lesson for today, meal preparation.”

  A long groan erupts from the students; everyone sits straighter in their chairs. The dog-tailed kids stop wagging.

  “At last, I have your full attention.” The Old Timer rubs his gray hands together, explaining how ghouls like things spicy, drink cough syrup like wine, and are allergic to fish. Oh, they eat a ton of worms too. “Everyone follow me to the demonstration area.”

  The class steps over to a long metal table. Our teacher picks up a huge bowl of wriggling worms in his left hand and a tall bottle of Tabasco sauce in his right. “Who wants to prepare a delicious meal?” He looks like a cross between a black-robed scarecrow and Betty Crocker.

  Cissy pokes me in the ribs. “Zeke asked me to go too, didn’t he? Please tell me he did.” She really needs a hobby.

  I hip-check her. “Quiet, Cis. You’ll get us in trouble.”

  “Myla Lewis.” The Old Timer snaps his gray head in my direction. “Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of those in servitude?”

  “No, sir.”

  The Old Timer sets the worm-bowl and Tabasco sauce onto the prep table. “Perhaps you believe your special status as Arena fighter means you don’t have to follow class rules like everyone else?”

  I frown. The one thing that sucks about Arena matches is listening to everyone complain about my ‘special treatment’ afterwards. In all of Purgatory, there are only a few dozen Quasis across who fight in the Arena, and we’re all descended from Furor demons. The Furor are known for not one, but two deadly sins: lust and wrath. Clearly, I only inherited the wrath part, which is why I’m an especially good Arena fighter. And yeah, I do think I deserve special treatment. Hey, I kept an evil soul out of Heaven this morning. Where’s the love?

  Opening my mouth, I’m about to say something to that effect when I glance into the Old Timer’s oily black eyes. No love for me there, that’s for sure. I bite my lower lip. “
Whatever you say, sir.” Suck it, loser.

  The Old Timer lets out an indignant puff of air. “What does the rest of the class think? Should Myla have special treatment because she wrestles a few ghosts?”

  Thirty sets of eyes turn in my direction, everyone looking at me with a gaze that says ‘hey, I forgot about that freaky fighting girl.’ This attitude is an improvement, actually. Time was, they all teased me mercilessly. That ended when I put Billy Summers in hospital back in first grade. That’s when Cissy took pity on me too, wrapping me up in her little shoebox of friendship. I’ve cherished her ever since.

  The Old Timer taps his foot. “Well, class?”

  No one wants to get their ass kicked like Billy Summers, so they all keep their yaps shut.

  “I see.” The Old Timer eyes the bowl of worms. “Myla, since you seem to deserve special treatment, perhaps you’ll demonstrate how to make worm soufflé.”

  Oh my sweet evil. Not worm soufflé.

  I take a deep breath. “Yes, sir.” Stepping up to the table, I eye the massive bowl of nasty, writhing, and greasy worms. Even for a quasi-demon, this is gross stuff.

  The Old Timer grins, showing a mouthful of cracked and yellow teeth. “First, you must mush the worms into a pulp.”

  I cringe. Okay, that’s totally repulsive. Scanning the room, I see every set of eyes still locked on me. I try twisting my disgusted sneer into a cool and casual grin, but I just end up looking constipated.

  “Got it.” My stomach somersaults. “Is there a spoon or something?”

  “Absolutely not,” says the Old Timer. “This must be done with your bare hands.”

  “Oooooookay.” Bit by bit, my trembling fingers inch toward the wriggling mass of gray and brown nasties.

  At that moment, Cissy lets out as yelp. “Angels! Angels!” She points to the window; the class runs to look. I follow, thrilled for the diversion.

  Sure enough, a pair of angels walk the school grounds below, accompanied by the school’s Headmaster and Superintendent. The Old Timer stares through the glass, his black eyes wide as saucers. His voice comes out in a nervous whisper. “Ghouls and angels?”

  Angels rarely visit Purgatory outside of Arena matches, let alone go for strolls with ghouls. My mind spins with the possibilities, returning again and again to the same thought: this little distraction puts worm soufflé time on hold! I can’t help but grin.

  “What in blazes are angels doing here?” The Old Timer twirls his handlebar moustache with bony fingers, his ebony eyes lost in thought.

  Cissy half-raises her arm. “Sir, class is almost over.” We’ve got fifteen minutes, but Cissy uses new math.

  With his eyes still locked on the window, the Old Timer dreamily waves his hand. “You’re all dismissed.”

  Cissy grips my wrist. “We’re going to your house after school.” She drags me toward the door. “This is an official emergency. We’ve got to talk.”

  My upper lip curls. One guess what she wants to chat about.

  Chapter Three

  The entire ride home, Cissy fiddles with Betsy’s radio and grills me about every millisecond of my interaction with Zeke. It’s amazing how many details she thinks are important. ‘Did he look directly into your eyes when he asked that question?’ ‘Were his arms crossed over his chest like this?’ And, of course, there’s the ever-popular ‘Did he ask you about me?’ When I run out of answers, I start making stuff up. It’s easier that way.

  Cissy’s eyes flare with a bit of red. “Did he give you his smoldering look?” She’s created an elaborate filing system for Zeke’s goo-goo eyes. Blech. This boy-crazy crap makes me a little nuts. Not only because it’s dumb, repetitive, and a total waste of time, but also because part of me wishes I’d felt that way. Maybe once.

  “Smoldering look.” I smack my lips. “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes blaze red. “You know exactly what I mean. He gives you that look all the time. Zeke so likes you and you could care less. It’s not fair.”

  I grip the steering wheel tighter and brainstorm ways to change the subject. There are two Cissys. One is my sweet friend with a big heart who can’t help but take care of oddballs like me. The other’s an obsessive nut job who goes demon-eyed with envy over whatever’s the object of her desire. Like Zeke. “Put the brakes on your inner demon, Cissy girl. Do you want to miss this chance?”

  “What chance?” Cissy slumps into the seat, kicking her foot onto the dashboard. “You’ll be at the party too. Let’s be honest. He won’t notice I exist.”

  “Hey, now.” I can’t stand to see Cissy so down on herself. “This is like…like…”

  Cissy frowns. “Like what?”

  “Well, it’s like fighting a Cellula demon. Do you let its projectiles wrap around you until it squeezes you to death? NO!” I pound the steering wheel with my fist for emphasis. “You reach inside the membrane and pull out its nucleus!”

  The edge of Cissy’s mouth quirks upwards; her eyes return to their regular tawny brown. “I’m not exactly sure what you just said, but I think it was something like ‘don’t give up?’”

  “Yeah.” I whack the steering wheel again; I’m on a roll. “Who lives in the one house in Purgatory that can get any kind of dress, make-up, or hair goop in the five realms? YOU. If Zeke’s what you want, sitting in the car and moping isn’t going to get him for you. Get your Barbie on and knock his socks off.”

  Cissy sits up, her mouth rounding into a full grin. “You know what? You’re absolutely right.”

  “Damn straight, I’m right.” I pull the car into the driveway and kill the ignition. Betsy’s engine kicks with a loud thump. “Now, let’s chow down on some Demon bars.”

  Cissy pumps her fist in the air. “Huzzah!”

  I park the car, walk through the front door, and update Mom that Cissy will be here for the rest of the week, talking non-stop about Zeke’s party on Friday.

  Mom perks up immediately. “A party in the Ryder mansion?” She opens different kitchen cabinets, pulling out ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. Whoa, that’s unexpectedly awesome.

  “Yup.” Cissy twirls one golden lock of hair around her finger. “I don’t know what I’ll wear.”

  Mom hauls the mixer out from its hiding place above the fridge. “I have an old contact at Versace. I’ll write the name down for your parents. They’re great at whipping up something special on short notice.”

  I slide into my favorite seat at our kitchen table (the one with the perfectly-sized back-hole for my tail) and watch Mom putter around the kitchen, a rare smile on her amber face. Since when does she know anyone at Versace?

  “Thanks so much, Momma Lewis.” Cissy draws circles on the tabletop with her finger. “Want me to get something for Myla, too?” She looks expectantly from me to my mother.

  “Nonsense!” Mom juts out her chin. “I attended my share of diplomatic events back in the day; I saved all my dresses. I have the perfect one for you, Myla!”

  My face stretches into a sly grin. “All this talk about diplomatic events must remind you of someone.” As in my father. I shoot her a look that says ‘this is me, not giving up.’

  Mom gathers up my long auburn hair, piling it at different angles atop my head. “We’re not talking about that, Myla.” She lightly pinches my cheeks to turn them blush-red. “I know just what we’ll do with your hair and make-up too.”

  I pause, biting my lower lip. Versace, diplomats, parties at the Ryder mansion…Do I push for the millionth time for information about my father?

  Cissy sighs. “If you’re starting one of those ‘who’s my dad’ fights, I’m going home.”

  Mom keeps fussing with my hair. “I’m not fighting.”

  I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “Okay, you don’t want to talk about Dad. Maybe you can talk about your diplomatic work? What were the events you attended at the Ryder mansion?”

  Mom hums a nonsense tune, twisting my hair in different angles. “I never answered these questions before and
I won’t start now.”

  I let out an exasperated gasp. “Come on, Mom! This is so unfair. Can’t you tell me one little thing?”

  Cissy thunks her forehead onto the tabletop. “No way! This sounds like a ‘who’s my Dad’ fight plus a ‘what did you do before the war, Mom’ battle. Can I please save us all some time?” She sits upright, making her two hands talk to each other like puppets.

  Cissy’s first hand ‘speaks.’ “Mom, I really want to know who Dad is.” Cissy gives me a very whiny voice. We’ll have a chat later about that.

  Her second hands ‘replies.’ “No.” Her mom voice is totally grouchy and right on the money.

  ‘My’ hand: “What did you do before the war?”

  ‘Mom’s’ hand: “I can’t tell you.”

  “Not one eensy beensy bit?”

  “No.”

  “But I really, really want to know.” Cissy’s puppet-Myla jumps up and down.

  “No, no, no, no, no. Now, go to your room and ask your friend to go home.”

  Cissy stands up, taking a bow. “Thank you, thank you! Show’s over.” She plunks back into her seat. “Now, can we talk about the party?”

  I set my hands over my face. “No.” She’s not charming me off the subject this time.

  Cissy gently moves my hand until I peep at her between my fingers. “That’s not my Myla.” She shoots me a sweet grin.

  I try to pout, but I slowly smile instead. Once again, Cissy knows exactly what to say to get everything back on track. No doubt our school will be overrun with moths in a matter of weeks, too. I drop my hands. “Fine, let’s talk about the party.”

  Mom grins as well. “Absolutely. I was saying I could do your hair and make-up.”

  “I can do my own hair and make-up, Mom. But if you can find a dress for me, that would be awesome.”

  “And shoes too,” adds Cissy.

  “Of course!” Mom sashays from the room; I hear the pit-pat of footsteps in our attic crawlspace. The rest of the afternoon, Mom pores through old boxes while humming a tuneless song. Meanwhile, Cissy and I actively avoid homework by watching the Brady Bunch marathon on the Human Channel.