Voices echo in from the East Wing ballroom.
My fists loosen. Maybe I’m not too late.
With halting steps, I follow the sounds down the hallway. At the end of the corridor, the arched gateway to the ballroom lies open. I peer inside.
Lincoln stands at the center of the ballroom floor, a square of padded mats beneath his feet. He faces Nat, the man who inspected the Furor dragon at the Winter Tournament. The pair run through battle moves with wooden swords. Lincoln wears black knee-length spandex shorts and, well, nothing else. I watch the play of muscles across his back, arms, and legs. Damn, he looks tasty. My lust demon purrs inside me.
I raise my arm. “Hello!”
Nat pauses and waves. “Hello there!” He has a square face with a round nose, mismatched button eyes, and grizzled chin. Both his barrel-shaped chest and stocky limbs are firm with muscle. Like Lincoln, he wears compression pants, only his are paired with an olive green t-shirt.
With his opponent distracted, Lincoln drops onto his knee, swinging his free leg against Nat’s shins. The elder man falls, hitting the mat face-first with a thud.
Lincoln hops to his feet. “Always stay mindful of the battle, Nat. You taught me that.” He jogs to the edge of the mats, pulls on a white t-shirt and waves in my direction. “Hello, Myla!”
“Hi. Sorry I’m late.” To whatever weirdness this is.
“No problem. It gave me and Nat a chance to practice.” He gestures to the older man beside him. Nat’s back on his feet and smiling. “I don’t believe you two have officially met. Myla, I’d like to present Nathaniel Archer, my Master at Arms.”
“Master at Arms?”
Nat half bows. “That means I teach the young Prince how to fight demons, milady.” He has a gravelly voice with a cute cockney accent.
Lincoln winks. “And stay alive in the process.” He steps up to the edge of the mats, then pauses. Our gazes lock; energy zings in the space between us. We share a slow and warm smile. I missed you too, Lincoln. I ache to wrap my arms around him.
Nat steps between us. “I’m also here as royal chaperone.” He clears his throat. “In case any ladies should stop by what’s officially a boys-only work out.”
I tilt my head to one side. “You’ve never had a chaperone before, Lincoln.”
His smile droops. “We’ll get to that in a bit.”
“Good.” I’ve zero desire to hear about the Earl of Acca right now. There’ll be plenty of time for that nightmare. Later.
Lincoln rubs his palms together, his full smile returning. “I’ve a surprise for you first. Nat here will teach you how to fight with something besides your tail.”
My heart feels like a balloon about to float to the ceiling. “Really?” I race up to the edge of the mats and bob on the balls of my feet. I’ve never had actual combat training.
Best. Surprise. Ever.
Nat sets his hands on his hips. “Now, be fair, my Prince. I never agreed to attack the young Miss.”
“I told you, Nat. She’s not like the ladies of the court.” He picks up a wooden sword and flicks it straight at my head. I catch it in my left hand, an inch away from my nose. Lincoln grins. “It’s a shame that you missed her at the tournament. She was amazing.”
My skin flushes something fierce. “Thanks.” I turn to Nat. “I fought in the Arena since I was twelve.” I set the blunt point of the sword on my fingertip and balance it there. “Hand-to-hand combat, to the death.”
Nat points a meaty finger at Lincoln. “I won’t do it, no matter you’re the Prince and the young miss says it’s all fine and dandy. Ladies don’t stand a chance fightin’ a thrax and that’s the truth.” He stares at me and frowns. “Look at her, such a lovely young thing. You can’t be serious, my Prince.”
Humph. A lovely young thing that could snap your neck in four seconds or less. Showing this guy how girls can fight? Sounds like a challenge. My lips curl into a mischievous grin. I’m always up for a challenge.
Lincoln flips his sword into his right hand, his mismatched eyes finding mine. “Is that what you think, Nat?” He firms up his footing, his back arching into battle stance.
Nat crosses his heavy arms over his barrel-chest. “It’s not what I think, young Prince. It’s what I know.”
Peeling off my sneakers, I step onto the practice mats in my bare feet, the wooden sword gripped tightly in my hand. My heart thuds so hard, my pulse throbs through my throat and temples. At this point, I wouldn’t care if we were practicing open heart surgery, as long as I got closer to Lincoln. I hold the Prince’s gaze, giving him the barest of nods.
“Here’s what I know, Nat.” Raising his sword level with his shoulder, Lincoln lunges straight for me.
My mind clears as the Prince’s sword streams toward my head. Battle mode clicks into my brain. Lincoln’s no longer the guy I wanna kiss, he’s six feet of solid muscle streaming at me with a weapon and a plan.
Fortunately for me, his plan kinda sucks.
I lean over at the last second. Once his body slams into my side, my tail grabs Lincoln’s neck, flipping him over. He spins 360 degrees through the air, landing flat on his back with a thud. He looks up at me, raising his right eyebrow.
“You’re using wrestling moves in a sword fight, Myla.”
I sniff. “Says the guy on the mat.”
Arching his back, Lincoln springs onto his feet. My mind calculates the possible moves from this stance. The Prince lunges at me again with his wooden sword; I block his strike with an upward thrust. As he slices from different angles, I keep blocking.
No matter what I do, I stay stuck on the defensive. Grr. I need to break through his hits and get on the attack.
When Lincoln spins around for another strike, I see my chance. For the millisecond his back is turned to me, I leap into the air and kick out feet-first, looking to connect with his shoulders and slam him face-first onto the mat.
Lincoln senses my move, dodging before I strike. Instead of pummeling into Lincoln’s shoulders, I kick empty air and tumble onto the ground, landing flat on my back. Lincoln springs forward, pinning me to the mat, his hands holding mine immobile.
“I warned you about wrestling moves, Myla.”
“And I should have warned you about my tail.” With all my focus, I will the arrowhead end to curl, giving Lincoln a good punch in the gut.
But my tail has a mind of its own. Ignoring my commands, the arrowhead end slides up Lincoln’s arm and begins mussing his hair. Long brown strands fall over the Prince’s slate-blue and wheat-brown eyes. Half his mouth quirks with a grin.
“Some secret weapon you’ve got there.”
I groan. “My inner demon and I don’t always see eye-to-eye.”
Suddenly my brain slips out of battle mode, entering into the very pleasant sensation of Lincoln’s body atop mine. I twist my wrists; he holds me firmly to the mat. Damn, that’s hot. I stare at his mouth. Kiss me.
Nat steps up beside us. “You’ve proved your point, my Prince. I’ll fight the young Miss.” He nervously scans the room. “The pair of you need to be getting up.”
My eyes stay locked on Lincoln’s. “No.” My voice comes out a low whisper. “Just one.” I shift my hips so my leg brushes between his thighs. Come on.
Lincoln grins, then he leans in closer. His mouth presses onto mine and damn, he tastes better than I remember. Our tongues slide and explore while he holds me firmly to the mat. Desire burns through me, body and soul.
Somewhere on the mansion grounds, a lightning bolt strikes the earth, followed by a deep roll of thunder. I actively ignore the fact that this is the second time lightning has struck the moment I feel strong emotion for Lincoln. Kissing him is just too good.
Nat leans over, pulling on Lincoln’s shoulder. “That’s quite enough, you two.”
The Prince rolls to the side, then we both slowly rise to our feet. Damn, damn, damn. After feeling his touch, being this far away from him almost hurts.
Nat guides Lincoln off the
practice mats. “Let’s begin the lesson.” He picks up a wooden weapon from the floor, tossing it between his hands. He pauses, eyeing me closely. “You’re a little bit of hellfire, aren’t you, young Miss?”
I grin. “I hope so.”
Nat and I shift into battle stance. He shows me some basic moves, and then we slide into a rhythm of thrusts and parries with our wooden swords. After a few minutes of lusty thoughts about Lincoln, my head clicks back into battle mode. There’s nothing but challenge and counter-challenge, dodge and strike. Lincoln watches from the sidelines, his arms folded over his chest. The hours fly by.
Nat pats me on the shoulder. “That’s all the time we have, little Miss. You done well.”
“Thanks, Nat. That was great.”
He raises his meaty pointer finger in my direction. “Don’t forget to practice. An hour with the sword, every day.”
“I won’t.” Stepping across the floor, I sit with my back to the ballroom wall, panting for breath.
Nat heaves the practice mats about, stacking one onto another. Lincoln sits down beside me, his hands gripping a water bottle way too tightly. My inner battle mode instantly ends. Worry, desire, and affection duke it out inside me.
I know what’s coming now. Bad news.
“Want some water?” Lincoln tilts the tall plastic bottle in my direction.
“Yes, please.” My tail slides the water from his hand. “And thanks for setting up training with Nat. He’s amazing.”
“I’m glad.” Lincoln drums his fingers on his knees. “I asked you here for another reason as well.” His voice is low.
My breath hitches. I won’t make him do this.
“I know what you’re about to say, Lincoln.” I take a swig from the bottle, hoping some water will steady my nerves. “Walker told me about the Earl of Acca. About Adair. It’s pretty obvious why Nat’s playing chaperone today.” Lincoln was only allowed off compound with some anti-Myla protection.
“Walker told you?” The muscles along his jaw tighten. “I’m gonna kill that guy. I told him to deliver a message, that’s it. He doesn’t even know you.”
Um, actually he does. Not that I’ll get into that right now. “He was only trying to help.”
Lincoln turns to me, his eyes stretching wide with disbelief. “And you still came here today?”
“Of course, I did.” I elbow him in the arm. “Besides, Walker said you had a master plan to defeat the Earl.”
He winks. “That I do.”
“See? Nothing to worry about.” If I lose Lincoln, it won’t be to some pompous windbag who shoots crossbow bolts at a Limus demon. Sheesh.
He stares at me for what feels like a million years. “Most people crumble in front of the Earl, my parents included.” He angles his head to one side. “How are you possible?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing about you.” I curl my finger toward him. Lincoln leans in for another kiss.
From across the ballroom, Nat clears his throat. “Come on, you two.”
Lincoln chuckles. “Nat’s taking his role as chaperone rather seriously.” His mouth thins to a straight line. “There’s one more thing you need to know. For my plan to work, my people must return to Antrum immediately.”
Sadness wraps around me, heavy as a blanket. “When do you leave?”
“Next Saturday.”
I nod, processing the news. “If these are our last days together,” I straighten my shoulders, “then I want to have fun.” I wag my brows up and down. “Maybe get into some more deep trouble.”
He laughs; the sound curls my toes. “More Reperio demons?”
“No way. That’s so two weeks ago.”
“I have it.” Lincoln rises to his feet. “There’s a party Thursday night, a kind of official send-off. We could be troublesome there.” He offers me his hand.
I slide my fingers into his palm. The warmth from his skin is yummy. “Sounds like a plan.” Lincoln pulls me to my feet.
Our bodies are only inches apart now. Our hands are still entwined; neither of us is letting go.
“Excellent. I’ll have you added to the guest list.”
“Can you add my friends Cissy and Zeke too?” If I go without her, I’ll never hear the end of it.
“Of course.” He releases my hand, and this time the loss of his touch hurts even more. “The Great Ladies of the court are organizing this event; it’ll be traditional thrax attire. Someone will be in touch about making you another gown.”
I wince. “I went through all that with the tournaments. I’m not really Ball Gown Girl. Maybe we can break-in somewhere again?”
Lincoln chuckles. “With the scrutiny I’m under, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. But I’d really like to see you at the ball.” Tilting his head, he looks at me from his slate-gray eye. He slowly runs his pointer finger down my jaw-line. “Say yes, Myla.”
A warm blush crawls up my neck. “Yes.”
***
The Old Timer paces the classroom, a massive set of nail clippers in his fingers. With his free hand, he twiddles what’s left of his handlebar moustache. Cissy sits nearby. A few days have passed since Lincoln invited me—plus Zeke and Cissy—to the thrax ball. They won’t shut up about it, which makes this nerve-wracking event wrack my nerves all the more. I’m starting to wonder if I should have invited them at all.
“Class, please note the proper equipment for overgrown cuticles.”
A few students glance in his direction. The rest are busy whispering.
“Have you sent your measurements in?” Cissy has appointed herself event manager for Lincoln’s going-away ball. She’s already bugging me about wearing thrax undies.
“Yes, Mom did it right away. I’m a guest of the House of Gurith, so I’ll be in red and gold.”
“I’m a single lady for the House of Rixa, so I’m in green and black.”
I drum my fingers on my desk. “It’s weird having your life color-coded. Do you think the thrax ever want to wear plaid and tell everyone else to stick to it?”
Cissy raises her eyebrows. “Ah, no. I think they’re really-really-really into their traditions, period.”
I sigh. Cissy’s right. And top of their list-of-traditions is forcing people to marry when they’re eighteen. Not that I’m bitter.
To demonstrate proper clipping techniques, the Old Timer peels off his black boots and tattered socks. His feet are green and bumpy with long yellow toenails. It’s beyond disgusting.
The PA system buzzes to life. The Headmaster’s voice blasts through a tiny speaker on the classroom wall. “All students report to the gymnasium immediately.”
Our Headmaster’s famous for hour-long announcements that go into painful detail about his youth on Earth in some place called Buffalo. It’s basically ghoul central and he misses the spicy chicken wings. For him to shut his yap after all of seven words is unheard of.
Something’s going on.
We file out of the classroom and into the gymnasium. Within minutes, the student body sits in neat rows on metal folding chairs, our multitude of tails poking through the back-openings. Before us, the faculty stands in a straight line along the gym’s front wall, their coal-black eyes staring blankly forward. It could be me, but they look especially gray and undead right now. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were scared.
Cissy sits next to me. “What do you think this is all about?”
“Nothing good.”
Our Headmaster steps up to a small wooden podium beside the line of faculty. He raises his long bony arms. He’s tall, skeletal and gray-skinned; a Neanderthal-style forehead hangs over his beady dark eyes. Although he wears standard-issue ghoul black robes, he always tops them with a red and slightly-cockeyed bow tie.
“Greetings to the DL-19 School for Quasi Servitude.” Lowering his hands, the Headmaster tries to straighten his bow tie. He makes it a wee more skewed instead. “I’d like to begin by introducing–”
“Me.” An unforgettable voice booms from the b
ack of the gymnasium. Three hundred students turn around, all their faces twisted in confusion. All the faces, that is, except mine. I know exactly who’s entered the room: Armageddon.
The King of Hell looms seven feet tall and pencil-thin; his short torso, gangly arms, and long legs all fit into a perfectly-sized tux and tails. His pointed face scans the gym, two crimson eyes blazing over a blade-like nose. Beside him stand a pair of Manus demons, their bodies covered in shaggy black fur. Long yellow tusks hang past their chins.
Armageddon steps slowly down the gym’s main aisle. On either side of him, students cringe and huddle, their faces twisted in fear.
Wrapping my hands around Cissy’s, I speak in a low voice. “Remember, greater demons have an aura that causes fear and panic.”
She nods quickly. “The angels said that in class the other day.”
Armageddon steps closer to our aisle. I shoot Cissy what I hope is a calming look, but I’m not sure I’m ready for this, either. I’ve only been close to Armageddon a handful of times. And each one sucked. “Brace yourself.”
Then, it hits. A wall of terror crashes into my body, freezing me in place. Cissy’s hands tremble violently under my own. Unable to turn away, I watch Armageddon speed to the front of the gymnasium, his legs and coattails a blur of movement. Behind him, the Manus demons lumber along on their stumpy gorilla-style legs, knuckles dragging.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. This is bad, very bad.
The Headmaster cowers to one side as Armageddon approaches the podium. Between us, there’s now enough distance that I no longer feel the terror of a greater demon’s presence. I scan the teacher’s stiff bodies. Some of their brows are pockmarked with black sweat. Their turn to feel the full force of Armageddon.
The King of Hell grips the edges of the podium. “This is a demon inspection.” He scans the room, his upper lip bent with a sneer. I might be imagining things, but he seems to find me in the crowd, his gaze glowing red with recognition. “I’m Armageddon.”
My terror-level kicks up a few notches. No way am I imagining this. Twice I’ve stopped Armageddon from getting a purely evil soul into Heaven—first, with the Choker and then Deacon—and he sure looks like the type to hold a grudge. The thought crosses my mind that I might not leave here alive. I grip Cissy’s hands more firmly. A thin sheen of sweat coats our skin.
Angelbound Page 27
