Angelbound THRAX

by Christina Bauer

  “It does, thanks.” How very like Lincoln to know how much I value my meals. Maybe things will look different once I’ve showered and eaten. I slide out of bed. “I’ll start getting ready.”

  “Awesome. I can’t wait to see my beautiful wife in her Scala robes.”

  He seems so kind and honest that I can’t find the words to reply. Instead, I leave the room, pad down the outer hallway, and feel a heavy sense of guilt tumble in my stomach. What is happening to me? Did I really just lie to Lincoln? This supernatural pregnancy has me all kinds of whacked out. What if I’m remembering my made-up nightmares as real? What kind of person lies to her husband about something like that? I ponder that for all of twenty seconds before coming to a firm decision.

  No way am I questioning myself on this one. I’ll stay true to my warrior instincts. Something is definitely wrong here. I just need to figure out what.

  Fortunately, I do some of my best thinking in the shower, and this honeymoon palace has an amazing one. It’s all white tile, burnished steel fixtures, and—best of all—it holds an enchanted mini-waterfall. Most of the time when I wash up in Antrum, the servants fill a tub for me. But in this palace, the experience is just like back home in Purgatory, only better because a waterfall in a shower stall is just that cool. The moment I turn the handle, the perfect temperature of liquid cascades from the top of the stall.

  Now, I like to putter around a little before getting into the water. So I check the drawers and pull out my toothpaste. Meanwhile, the bathroom quickly fills with heated vapor. Stepping over to the sink, I find the mirror covered in condensation. I wipe away the mist with my sleeve. My face looks as it always does: full lips, blue eyes, amber skin, and auburn hair.

  All of a sudden, my reflection disappears. In its place, I see Lincoln. He’s bare-chested and pounding against the opposite side of the mirror with bloodied fists. Worst of all, he’s screaming with rage.

  I slap my hands over my mouth. It takes all my strength not to scream as well.

  The image is gone as quickly as it appeared. But the vision of Lincoln—my Lincoln—trapped and enraged still fills my mind.

  For a long moment, I can only stare at my own reflection. The igni had warned me about the Mirror Man. That must have been their way of saying that this would happen to Lincoln. He somehow got trapped in another dimension or something. I shoot a wary look at the closed bathroom door.

  I don’t know who’s out there, but one thing is for certain.

  That’s not my husband.

  Chapter Five

  I march out the bathroom door and enter the main hallway. Steam billows in behind me from the shower. I shudder, remembering the image of the real Lincoln screaming in the mirror. He looked hurt. In agony. Bands of worry tighten around my head.

  Where is my husband?

  An image appears in my mind: the smarmy creepster I woke up next to this morning. I decide to give him a new name, Evil Lincoln, mostly because Douchebag Lincoln is too much of a mouthful. All my anxiety instantly transforms into white-hot rage. How dare someone kidnap my guy? I head off in search of my fake husband and some real answers. The last time I saw Evil Lincoln, he was in our—excuse me, my—bedroom. I kick open the door. “Howdy, honey.”

  No one is there.

  “Lincoln? Sweetums?”

  Still no answer.

  That’s a bit of a bummer, but it’s a big palace, after all.

  With that, I hunt through the rest of the honeymoon castle. Room after room, closet after closet. I leave no area unexamined. There’s no one around. Not unless you count the guards, in any case.

  Fine. Evil Lincoln took off. I’ll still track him down.

  I don’t memorize the guard rotations like my Lincoln, but I do know the captain will be hanging out by the front gate.

  That’s my next stop.

  I march up to the main entrance. It’s basically a huge stone room sporting a massive oak door with one of those iron grates over it. A small red door sits to the right of the main gate. I try the handle.

  Locked.

  I pound on the door. “Hey there, it’s your Royal Me-ness out here. Open up. I need to speak with the Captain of the guard.”

  There’s a bunch of rustling and whispering, but finally the door swings open. An older guy stands on the threshold. I can tell by the extra jewels sewn on his Rixa tunic that he’s not only the Captain, but he’s also one of Lincoln’s private guards. I scan him carefully. This Captain’s a lean guy with brown hair that holds flecks of gray at his temples. He’s named…uh, something.

  Note to self: get better with names.

  “Your Majesty,” says the mystery Captain. “Is anything amiss?”

  “Why yes, there is, as a matter of fact. Where is the guy who was here this morning?”

  His eyes widen, which make the crinkles around them smooth out a little. “You mean the High, uh, King?” Lincoln used to be the high prince. Now he’s King and I’m Queen. The staff still gets the titles mixed up sometimes. Hey, at least I’m not alone in forgetting stuff.

  “Whatever,” I say. “Where did that guy go?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you.”

  “No?” My tail arches menacingly behind me.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  The guy’s name appears to me in a flash. “Williamson.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you value your job?”

  “Yes.”

  My tail makes jabby motions at his head. “How about your life?”

  “Obviously, as do my wife and three children.”

  Okay, that tidbit of information takes some of the rage-wind out of my anger-sails. “Can you please tell me where the, uh, King has gone?”

  “He just stepped out for a few minutes. There are some matters of state that he didn’t want to burden you with. I’m instructed to get you anything you need. He’ll rejoin you in the main receiving room as soon as he can.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Please, Your Majesty. We have orders to restrain you if you try to leave.”

  “You do?”

  I go on tiptoe. Outside the palace, about a dozen guards are flanking the main entrance. I can take down that many, easy-peasy, but I really should lay low with the pregnancy and all. The reason? My fighting style is pretty physical. Normally, I give and receive body blows all the time. But that’s not something I want to risk while pregnant. Besides, most these warriors are from Lincoln’s private guard. It doesn’t feel right to hurt them for doing their job.

  At length, I let out a long breath. “Fine. I’ll wait in the receiving room. You’re sure that he’ll join me right away?”

  “That’s what the King said.”

  “Got it. I’ll get dressed and meet him there.” Not that I have much choice.

  I take off at a quick walk and try not to worry too much.

  Just a few minutes.

  I can handle that.

  A few minutes, my ass.

  After talking to Williamson, I changed into my Scala robes and hit the receiving room. Since then, three freaking hours have slowly ticked by while I’ve waited. I’m now overly familiar with every tapestry, floor plank, and porcelain knickknack in this stupid chamber.

  It’s making me crazy.

  At times like these, I wish we had telephones in Antrum. Why must absolutely everything stay stuck in the Middle Ages? I mean, this room doesn’t even have an old-time wall phone where you talk into a black cup. Outside of screaming from a window, I have no way of contacting anyone.

  And yeah, I’ve thought about screaming.

  Trouble is, the honeymoon palace is surrounded by acres of what’s called the Crystal Woods. Here the trees made from white stone, which make for a nice postcard (if the thrax used postcards). Still the place is mega-huge. I’d have to yell for a helluva long time before anyone would hear me. And although I could still attack the guards and make a run for it, I honestly don’t know where I am. Lincoln and I rode a carriage to get here. At the time, I wa
s too busy kissing my new husband to plan an escape route.

  That doesn’t mean I don’t have any options, though. I cross my fingers, close my eyes, and mentally call my igni. They haven’t responded all morning, but there’s always a chance this time will be different.

  Come to me, my little ones.

  A few seconds tick by as I wait for my supernatural buddies to reply.

  They don’t.

  Again.

  I grit my teeth with frustration. Why aren’t my igni answering? I’ve been calling them for hours without any response. And the worst part of this situation? There are two mirrors in this receiving room and—although I check them constantly—I have yet to see my Lincoln.

  What’s happened to him?

  For the umpteenth time, I yank open the door to the main hallway. Two warriors step onto the threshold, blocking my exit. The guards have taken to hanging right outside the receiving room door. Why? My many visits to the main gate were freaking them out. They didn’t want a woman “in my condition” to be traipsing around the palace any more.

  Sheesh. Like pregnancy means I can’t walk five minutes to bug my own guards. Not for the first time, I wish I were back in Arx Hall. That place is lousy with secret passages. There’s no way I could be held in one room for long. This stupid reception chamber doesn’t even have more than one door in or out. That has to be a fire code violation of some kind.

  Note to self: get this palace inspected as soon as possible. Install more doors.

  All of which brings me back to the present moment. I’m now staring at the two young warriors who block my exit. Both carry the look of the House of Rixa: tall and lean with sharp cheekbones. They remind me a little of Lincoln.

  Okay, they remind me a lot of him. My eyes sting with held-in tears.

  My Lincoln. The love of my life is locked up somewhere, and I can’t help him. I don’t even know where he’s being imprisoned. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

  “Yes, Your Majesty?” asks the first guard. I’m pretty sure his name is Manfred, but who knows? Memorizing guard rotation schedules was always firmly on the Lincoln-side of our relationship.

  “I want to—” I begin.

  “Are you certain you’re all right?” asks Maybe Manfred. The gentle way he asks the question, you wouldn’t think I’d been opening the door every two minutes for the last three hours, asking where my fake husband was.

  But I have. And my naturally thin patience is almost completely worn out.

  “Can we get you anything to eat, Great Scala?” asks the second guard. Unlike Maybe Manfred, I have no clue what this guy’s name is, nor do I have the internal bandwidth to retain that information right now. As a result, I’ve been thinking of him as Could Be Bob.

  “No,” I say slowly. “What I want is to leave.”

  “You know we can’t allow that,” says Maybe Manfred. “Your husband sent orders.”

  “Would you like some demon bars?” asks Could Be Bob. “Our King said you could have as many as you want.”

  Demon bars. The very mention of my one-time favorite snack makes my inner wrath monster growl with frustration.

  “Come on. My Lincoln would never want me to have demon bars. You’re on his personal guard. He trained you. You know the man lives on carrots and raw nuts. Do you really think he’d send his pregnant wife demon bars?”

  The guards stare guiltily at their feet. My warrior sense kicks in. I can tell when I’m gaining an advantage, and that foot-staring routine? It means these guards suspect something is wrong, too. I lower my voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Have you seen anything strange in mirrors lately?”

  Both of their heads snap up. The guards stare at me like I’m insane. Okay, maybe the mirror-thing was a stretch to lead with. I decide to veer back onto firmer Lincoln ground. “Forget the mirrors. Look at me.” I gesture across myself. “I’ve been sitting around for three hours, and the King sends orders to you, but not a single word to me? You know that’s not Lincoln. So let me leave and go talk to him. Or at least, get the so-called King here, so I can confront him.”

  The guards go back to staring at their feet once more. I decide that I hate Maybe Manfred and Could Be Bob. I need to try someone else.

  “Get me Captain Williamson.”

  “He’s busy,” says Maybe Manfred.

  I lower my voice to a deep rumble and decide to call in the big guns. That would be my Scala powers. “Find him or you both will rot in Hell. I’m talking burning. With Armageddon. Forever.” With that, I slam the door.

  Okay, the Hell thing was harsh, but I really need to get out of here.

  A few minutes later, Williamson steps into the room. My heart lightens. Guess the Hell thing might have been rough, yet it was still pretty darned effective. Williamson gingerly closes the door behind him.

  “You asked for me, Your Majesty?”

  Now, I’ve been doing a lot of “Old Myla” stuff, which has involved attitude and threats. Hey, my husband got sucked into a mirror, and an impostor took his place, so sure, I lost it for a while. But outside of getting Williamson in here, the Old Myla hasn’t been too effective. It’s time to give my Queenly side a try.

  A small voice in the back of my head says there’s a lot more to being Queen than acting regal, but I push those thoughts aside. I need to find my husband. Tilting my head, I offer Williamson what I hope is a truly regal smile. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.” With that, I plunk my butt onto the same chair my mom used.

  Williamson sits across from me. “How can I be of service, Your Majesty?”

  I lower my voice to a whisper. “You must know something’s wrong with the King. I need your help.”

  Williamson rubs his neck. “It’s not my place to do anything.”

  I take care to keep my voice low. There’s no way I want the guards outside to hear us. This is the honeymoon palace, not Arx Hall, and my chambers aren’t soundproof. “If you won’t help me, who will? The summit with Ethan starts shortly. The supposed Supreme Leader will ask for more thrax warriors to protect him on Earth.”

  Every line in Williamson’s body stiffens. “But none of the guards who go there ever return. Our King would never authorize more troops for Ethan.”

  “The guy who’s calling himself the King is not my Lincoln. I must confront this impostor. It’s the only way to find the true King. But I can’t do that while I’m sitting in here alone. Again, I need your help. Please.”

  Williamson runs his hand through his loose brown hair. “We’ve sent a number of runners asking for an update from the King in terms of when he’ll come back. His replies have been…odd.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ordering demon bars for you to eat. Keeping you locked up. Insisting we restrain you if you try to leave.”

  “Exactly.”

  Williamson bounces his knees in a nervous rhythm. “At first, I suspected the King had encountered something on his last demon patrol—perhaps he ran across an enchantment of some kind. But we have royal mages who check for such things. They’ve reported back.”

  “And?”

  “They say he’s clean. No enchantments.”

  “But you’re still not convinced that everything is fine.”

  Williamson doesn’t reply. In my book, that’s as good as a yes.

  “Where is Octavia in all this?” I ask.

  Lincoln’s mother is notorious for knowing everything that happens in Antrum, sometimes before it even takes place.

  “All morning long, the King has been communicating with the major houses in Antrum. Most of the minor ones, too. All his messages say the same thing: you’re in a crazed mental state due to your pregnancy.”

  It takes an effort to keep my voice calm as I ask my next question. “And what does everyone think about that?”

  “With so many requests for your mother to help you, I’m afraid that the King’s explanation has been accepted by everyone, in
cluding the Queen Emeritus. To be honest, I might have believed it too, only I can see the truth with my own eyes. You’re perfectly fine.”

  The door swings open. It’s Maybe Manfred. “The King is en route.”

  Williamson exhales. “It seems you’ll be able confront him without my help.”

  “It seems.” I force another smile and try to think of something Queenly to close off with. “You may return to your duties.”

  Williamson bows before retaking his place in the outer hallway alongside the other guards. For a while, I pace around the receiving room. After that, I step out into the hall myself. At last, Evil Lincoln is coming.

  This, I have to see.

  A drumroll of footsteps sounds on the polished wooden floor as Evil Lincoln saunters toward me, all smiles. Along the arched ceiling, pennants with the Rixa crest sway slightly as Evil Lincoln strides beneath them. The sight makes my hands clench. Whoever this stranger is, he has no right to walk under the mark of Rixa. Plus, Evil Lincoln is now wearing the full kingly get-up. I’m talking tunic, crown, tall boots—the works. He has no right to that, either.

  Evil Lincoln strolls past me and into the receiving chamber. There’s not even a fake hello; I’m just expected to follow. I shoot Williamson a glare that says, See? This is not my husband. A flicker of sympathy shines in Williamson’s eyes before he’s back to standing at attention against the wall. The other guards keep staring guiltily at their feet.

  At least I have a possible ally in Williamson. That may be useful in the future.

  However right now, I have a fake husband to deal with. Anger corkscrews up my spine. How dare Evil Lincoln march past me without a word? I take in a series of deep breaths, trying to soothe the rage monster inside me.

  Calm down, Myla. This is about saving my Lincoln, not squashing an impostor. Well, actually it’s about both. But saving my Lincoln is the first priority.

  I nod once to myself, my plan set. I’m still Queen Myla, and I’ll manipulate the truth from this impostor with my superior brainpower. With that resolution firmly in place, I saunter into the receiving room. Behind me, my tail gently closes the door.

  Evil Lincoln turns to me, throwing his arms open. “Hello, gorgeous.” He gives me a smarmy grin, hikes up his tunic, and starts to loosen the waistline of his leather pants.