Lincoln: Angelbound Book 2 with bonus novella, Duty Bound

by Bauer, Christina;

“Well …. It’s like this …” Devak inhales a log breath. “I’ve been chosen by the Tithe.”

  My brows lift. Not what I expected to hear.

  The Tithe is an immortal thrax warlock who fulfills your greatest wish, assuming you’re both worthy and part-angel. Want a pile of gold? The Tithe will make it happen. Hope your enemies will disappear? No problem; the Tithe will handle it. In return, you agree to serve him through all eternity. The Tithe began life as a sculptor, so he places your ghost inside an effigy, which is a lifelike statue of your best self. You then spend forever as a happy resident in his so-called Tower of Wonders. In my mind, it’s too good to believe, but my people like the idea of a fairy godfather type who solves all their problems. Plus, in this moment, the Tithe really doesn’t interest me. Myla’s safety does.

  “Selected by the Tithe,” I repeat. “How nice.” Yet as I say these words, my tone is more ice than nice. “I understand you’ve been asking about quasi fighters.”

  Devak’s weathered face creases into a grin. “Yes, I was asking for information on behalf of my master. There’s a particular quasi he wishes to hunt. It won’t be easy, so none can intervene.” The ghostly Devak stares at me pointedly, as if there’s no question who he thinks will intervene. Me.

  Please, don’t let his target be Myla. It’s already bad enough that Aldred has taken an interest in my girl. I don’t need a supernatural warlock after her as well.

  “And who is his chosen target?”

  Devak grin widens. “The Tithe plans to hunt down the demon Myla Lewis. You must allow him to claim his quarry.”

  The way Devak speaks, it’s as if hunting a woman were nothing more than swatting a fly. His casual tone transforms my sense of worry into something else. Pure rage now heats my blood. When I speak again, my voice drips with menace. “Why Myla Lewis?”

  “She’s a, uh, great warrior. That is all.” Devak’s smile falters. I’ve negotiated with this minister for years. I know what it means when Devak stutters while his grin fails.

  I speak two more words, slowly and with barely controlled fury. “You’re lying.”

  Devak grips his hands under his chin. “Please. Name your price to step down. Whatever you want, it’s yours. My master must cleanse the after-realms, starting with Heaven.”

  “I’ve a scribe who does nothing but field messages from thrax who have ideas on how to cleanse the after-realms. Your friend can address his ideas to Lord Aethelgood.” I had to make the man a lord, by he way. It really is a horrid job. “What I care about is my original question.”

  To emphasize the risk here, I reach around my back to pull my baculum from their holster at the base of my spine. These silver rods can be ignited into any sort of fiery blade. I lift the bars high.

  Devak’s translucent eyes light up with alarm. Good.

  “Let’s try again,” I say slowly. “Why does the Tithe really wish to hunt Myla Lewis?”

  “My new master erased all my debts,” whines Devak. “Soon he’ll turn me into a powerful effigy. After that, I’ll live forever in comfort and ease. The Tithe asks that I secure your help here. Why won’t you agree? Just look away while the Tithe hunts one quasi. That’s a demon, my prince!”

  If that’s Devak’s closing argument, it’s downright awful.

  “Indeed, I am your Prince,” I state. “Before you ever met the Tithe, you vowed to serve my rule. Now I command you; share every last detail about the Tithe and Myla Lewis.” As I speak a final word, I ignite my baculum into a long sword made of white flame…

  “Now.”

  3

  Angling my body, I raise my fiery sword. Before me, the ghostly version of Devak shudders, but doesn’t say another word.

  “Last chance, Devak. Why does the Tithe wish to hunt Myla?”

  The specter of Devak hunches over, his face twisted with pain. His gaze focuses on a point behind me. “I hear you, my master,” the minster says in a rough voice.

  Devak is speaking to his master, but that’s not me. I quickly scan the hallway. There’s no sign of the Tithe, but that’s to be expected. Warlock only manifest to certain people. Not surprising I don’t make the list.

  Devak keeps his gaze locked on the point behind me. “I accept the change.”

  While Devak speaks, I stay in battle stance, making no other move to attack. By saying he ‘accepts the change,’ it’s likely that Devak is about to transform into an effigy, which will be a far tougher opponent. Of course, I could attack his ghost-self before he makes the switch to stone, but that’s not the thrax way. Devak has a right to a fair fight.

  And I wouldn’t mind some exercise myself. It’s hard to find decent opponents for battle.

  The ghostly Devak arcs his back in pain. For a moment, I see him.

  The Tithe.

  He a dusty figure in a filthy toga. Sandals cover his feet. His grey hair sticks out at odd angles. A similar-colored scruff lines his chin. In his left fist, he holds a chisel made of white crystal. A pale, luminous mallet is gripped in his right hand. A thin layer of fire and light encase the tools. Magic. The Tithe sets the chisel against Devak’s spectral chest. With a swoop of his right arm, the Tithe brings down the mallet, driving the chisel deep into the ghost’s body. A flash of white light bursts around the ghost. Tiny pale particles swirl in the brightness. The flare turns more bright, then vanishes altogether.

  The spell is cast.

  Devak’s spectral frame crouches to the ground. A moment later, bits of pale powder rise up from the earth to fill his translucent body. The white specks swirl throughout his ghostly form. Limbs, hair, eyes, tunic—every part of Devak fills with winding tendrils. The dry scent of plaster fills the air as more of Devak changes from translucent ghost into solid rock.

  Moments later, Devak slowly rises to his full height once more. By the time he stands completely upright, the minister appears to be made from white marble.

  It’s official. Devak is an effigy.

  This new Devak appears young and fit, with broad shoulders and limbs that are heavily roped with muscle. He still wears his loose tunic, only now he holds a scimitar and small round shield. The minister’s gaze locks with mine.

  “I’m sorry, my prince.”

  Devak lunges for me, his scimitar angled toward my throat. I block the attack with my fiery long sword. The minister isn’t familiar with his new and heavier body, so his movements are jerky and slow. The edge of his blade barely comes within a few feet of my neck.

  Out in the arena, the crowd roars, falls silent, and then roars again. That can only mean one thing. Myla’s fight has begun. That cheer means someone got in a good hit or two. My pulse speeds.

  Who is winning—Myla or her opponent?

  I kick Devak in his chest, sending him falling onto his back. The minister still find his bulky body hard to manage. As Devak struggles to stand up, I risk a quick glimpse into the arena.

  What I see isn’t comforting.

  A mountain of a human races for Myla, his hefty arms aiming for her throat. His rough cry echoes in from the Arena floor: “I choooooooke you!”

  Alarm rattles through my nervous system. He wants to choke Myla? Not on my watch. Moving my baculum so I grip one in each hand, I prepare to transform my fiery long sword into a bow and arrow. Just the thing to shoot a few blazing missiles into that human’s back.

  Unfortunately, Devak finally figures out how to stand once more. He rushes at me, his scimitar held high.

  Myla will have to wait.

  I ignite my baculum into a pair of short swords and block his attack. It’s quickly clear that speed remains Devak’s weakness. My blades connect with his shoulder and arm. Although Devak may be slow, his body is almost impermeable. I strike powerfully, yet all I do is send stone chips flying. As each hit connects, Devak doesn’t so much as flinch. Being made of rock, he seems to be beyond pain.

  Even so, his stone body gives me an idea. I adjust the grip on my short-swords, ready for a new battle plan. When Devak next attac
ks, I block his strike with one of my short-swords. With the other blade, I hack into the growing chip along the minister’s shoulder. We continue this cycle.

  Attack.

  Counter strike.

  Soon, there’s an inch-long line at the juncture between Devak’s shoulder and neck. A gentle popping sound fills the air.

  Perfect.

  Devak notices the pops as well. The new effigy steps backward, brushing his fingers along the break on his shoulder line. Devak knows I’m up to something, he just doesn’t know what that might be.

  Fortunately, I manage the stone mason’s guild, along with many others. Over the years, I’ve picked up a few tidbits of information. I know exactly what will happen next.

  While Devak checks his shoulder, I risk another look at the arena floor and grin. Myla got her massive opponent down onto his belly, and she’s used her tail to confine him. And by ‘confine,’ I mean Myla hogtied the human’s wrists and ankles behind his back.

  Brilliant.

  “I beeeeeat you,” she calls out.

  My smile widens. This woman.

  In my own battle, Devak lowers his hand from his shoulder. Clearly, the minister is giving up on figuring out my plan. Instead, Devak rushes at me again. Evidently, his idea is to wear me down with attack after attack. Not bad. Eventually, I should tire while Devak will remain stone. Then once that happens, all the minister needs is one good strike and it could all be over.

  Only Devak doesn’t understand stone mason’s guild. Big miss.

  This time, when Devak attacks, I allow him to press his blade closer to my neck.

  Six inches.

  Three inches.

  Two.

  All Devak’s concentration stays locked on the distance between his scimitar and my throat. What I do next only takes seconds, but each movement is crucial. Fast as a heartbeat, I extinguish my second short sword, setting the silver rod into the waistline of my jeans. After that, I pull a dagger from its holster on my thigh and jam the blade into the tiny break on Devak’s shoulder. Now that blade has become a make-shift splitting wedge. Using my unlit baculum as a hammer, I slam onto the dagger’s hilt, driving the weapon deep into Devak’s stone body.

  The minister lurches back a few yards. More popping sounds fill the air. Devak stares at me, his all-white eyes wide with confusion.

  “What’s happening?” he asks.

  Honest questions deserve accurate replies, even in battle.

  “The pops are internal breaks.” One might think rock would split with a loud boom. Not always. The strongest material can give out the tiniest noise before breaking apart.

  Sure enough, long cracks fan out from Devak’s shoulder, spreading across his body.

  “You’re lying,” says Devak. Raising his sword, the minister runs toward me once more. He doesn’t get more than a few steps before his body shatters. One moment, there’s a stone Devak. The next, a pile of white rocks line the ground. I nod once to myself, a decision made.

  I really do need to increase the wages for the stone mason’s guild. They certainly are handy.

  One large rock rolls down from the top of the pile. Devak’s head. The minister’s eyes open and focus on me once more.

  “The ultimate countdown has begun,” intones Devak. “I am forth. Three more after me, and we are done.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I must now return to my master. Look for me again.”

  Did he say to look for him? I’d rather the minister fully answer my questions for once. The pile of rubble trembles in place, including Devak’s head. After that, everything transforms into white particles that cascade into the ground.

  Battle over.

  With Devak out of the way, I can return my attention to what’s really important. Namely, Myla Lewis. Turning, I scan the arena once more. Sadly, Myla’s no longer visible. The Great Scala, Maxon Bane, has now appeared. I wonder if my girl has moved to another access passageway like mine. I’d like to think she’s still near, even I can’t see her directly.

  Ah well, it gives me a chance to watch the Great Scala at work. Maxon Bane is the only being who can transfer souls to heaven and Earth. He’s also thrax, so my family keeps tabs on him. Not that there’s much to do. Maxon Bane’s had the same ghoul guards for eight hundred years now. They keep us informed on the Great Scala’s health as well as the fact that Maxon Bane also hates visitors. In fact, this is the first time I’ve seen Great Scala at all, let alone witness his work.

  Maxon Bane summons igni, which are tiny lightning bolts of power that move souls. The small streaks of light whirl into a massive column that reaches into the ground. Seconds later, the igni’s brightness turns red. That can only mean one thing. The soul of Myla’s opponent is being sent to Hell.

  Sounds about right.

  The evil soul vanishes along with the igni column. More ceremony follows as the Great Scala departs the arena. I try to focus on the details, but my thoughts keep returning to Devak. Only three more before the Tithe does … something? What? And why is Myla Lewis part of this plan? I’m not sure how long I stand there, but eventually my thoughts become broken up by a familiar sound.

  Another ghoul portal is opening.

  Soon Walker stands beside me again. Like always, he jumps into news without any greetings. “Minister Devak is dead. Your parents had to cut their trip short and request your immediate return. I’m here to offer transport.”

  “And I’ll take you up on that offer. I’d like to see my parents. I’ve news of my own.”

  Walker tilts his head. “Anything you want to share?”

  “Can you tell me everything you know about Myla Lewis?”

  “Regretfully, no.”

  “I see.”

  Walker doesn’t know it yet, but my friend will share his secrets about Myla. And I’ll solve this mystery of the Tithe as well. If it could threaten Myla, then one thing is certain.

  I will track it down.

  4

  Seconds later, I step out of Walker’s portal. Around me stretches a small clearing that’s encircled by thin trees. The scent of stale rain and moldy grass fills the air. Brown and yellow leaves speckle the earth. Ah, the Alighieri woods. From here, it’s a short walk to my parent’s reception tent.

  Walker steps out behind me. “Should I join you?”

  “No, this is better on my own.”

  “Good luck.” A moment later, my friend steps back through his portal and disappears.

  Time to face my parents.

  After a short and muddy march, I stand before the royal tent. As always, it strikes me how this place differs from our reception chambers in Arx Hall. That room is all gilded furniture and carved marble. Here the Master of Tents has done what he can, building a sizable square of black tapestry decorated with silver eagles. A guard stands by the entrance flap, his black metal armor gleaming without a single scratch.

  Must be the new guy.

  “Hello, Nelson,” I say.

  “Greetings, my prince.” His helmet muffles his voice.

  “Do I need to be announced?”

  “No, your parents are alone and expecting you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Pulling back the entrance flap, I march inside. The layout has changed since I last visited. Small oriental rugs now line the floor, a patchwork of rectangles that fan out from the room’s center. In the middle of it all, my parents sit on heavy wooden chairs behind a small round table.

  As I approach, Mother inclines her head slightly. “My son.”

  My mother Octavia may be a tiny woman, but she wields a massive personality. Too many thrax get fooled by her prim dress, dainty features, and hair pulled back into a tight bun. In her youth, Octavia was a lethal warrior on the battlefield. Today Mother still fights to the death, only now she uses her mind instead of a sword.

  Father rises, crosses the space, and wraps me in a bear hug. He’s a mountain of a man with a barrel chest and chin-length white hair. “Lincoln, thanks f
or rushing over.”

  I lean into the embrace. “Good to have you back, though I regret the circumstances.”

  “It was Devak’s time.” Father sighs. “And your mother and I can reschedule our hunt.” He claps me on the shoulders before returning to his chair. Like Mother, my father wears his formal gear today. In this case, that’s a tunic, pants and boots. He eyes me carefully. “You’re in human clothes.”

  “I was taking a break with Walker.” One thing I learned growing up: I can say just about anything, assuming that statement is followed by the words, ‘with Walker.’ Some examples …

  I was out all night with Walker.

  My black eye came from battle practice with Walker.

  I adopted that lion cub when I was hanging with Walker.

  You get the idea.

  “The nobles of the House of Kamal just left,” says Mother. “The Duchess Chaya was devastated about her brother’s death. Although, there remains one bright spot in this dismal day.” Her mismatched eyes glisten with joy. “Devak was chosen by the Tithe.”

  I fight the urge to groan. I’d forgotten how Mother and Father adore the Tithe.

  “Devak had no head for business,” adds Father. “He almost singlehandedly bankrupted the entire house of Kamal. Thanks to the Tithe, Devak’s now left behind a sizable fortune.” He looks up to the Heavens. “Great thanks to the Tithe.” Lowering his gaze, Father looks to me expectantly. I know well enough what he wants. I’m to dutifully agree that the Tithe is a marvel.

  Not about to happen.

  I fold my arms over my chest. “The Tithe is a scoundrel who wishes to harm innocents.”

  Mother and Father stare at me for a long moment. After that, they break into peals of laughter. Mother pats under her eyes. “Oh, that was rather funny.”

  Father lets out a ‘hoo’ noise. “You really had us going there.”

  Mother claps with joy. “We’ll need to update the portrait gallery,” she gushes.

  I fight the urge to wince. In my worry about Myla, I’d forgotten about Mother’s portrait galley project. So far, Mother has one hundred and twenty-seven portraits made of thrax that were honored by the Tithe. It’s in the east wing of Arx Hall. In the past, I’ve never seen any harm in the endeavor. It gives our royal artists something else to do. But now? The entire concept seems a little sordid. Who else has been fooled by the Tithe?