Baculum: Book Four of the Angelbound Lincoln Series Page 2

  “You need to understand the rules of the Norse Universe,” states Kell. “Come see my Viking Games for yourself. I’ll even give you free tickets.”

  I rub my neck and consider Kell’s offer. If there is a chance to find a safe zone for my people, then I need to look into it.

  “What do you say?” asks Father. “Will you check it out?”

  I nod. “Definitely.”

  Kell grins. “Then I’ll see you at 8 p.m. tonight.”

  Raising his arms, the ringmaster sets loose a fresh round of mist. Within seconds, another green haze appears. This time, the cloud is so heavy, I can only see a few inches in front of me.

  Kell’s voice echoes in my mind. “Maybe you’ll join the games yourself as one of our warriors. Think upon it.”

  The haze slowly fades. When it’s completely vanished, Ringmaster Kell is gone as well.

  I look to Father. “Did you hear what Kell said?”

  “Yes, the games start at 8 p.m.” Father frowns. “I can’t join, sadly. I have a solid waste committee meeting. Being king isn’t all fun and games, you know.”

  “So you didn’t hear Kell say anything else?”

  Father shakes his head. “Why, did you?”

  “He asked me to join the games as a warrior.”

  “Oh, he’s just being showy, I’m sure. When you attend tonight, be sure to check if it’s a suitable refuge for our kind. If you like the idea of a safe zone in the Purple Salient, then I’ll start negotiations.”

  “Will do.”

  As I think upon the encounter with Kell, I’m left with the unsettling feeling of having just lost a competition that I didn’t notice having joined.

  Not a pleasant sensation at all.

  3

  Myla

  Fifteen

  It’s not my birthday, but it might as well be.

  Case in point. For my last actual birthday, my biggest gift turned out to be early onset curves. Turns out, having extra boobs certainly helps me during arena battles (let’s just say male opponents get easily distracted) but there are negatives as well. For instance, try finding a good bra in Purgatory. Total pain in the tits.

  But back to my most recent birthday. Mom gifted me some not-so-gently-used sweatpants along with a card that read:

  I love you, but I hate how our ghoul overlords make you fight in Purgatory’s Arena.

  * * *

  Don’t die, birthday girl!

  Mom wishes that I not-die daily, so that bit was no shocker. As for the sweatpants, I was amazed Mom found used stuff at all. So it wasn’t the crappiest birthday ever. That said, what’s happening tonight is sooooooo much better. I’m about to enjoy the most amazing gift: an evening of me, my buddy Walker, and the Viking Games.

  Can’t wait.

  I even borrowed a cute outfit from my best friend Cissy for the occasion. This is huge stuff. I am not Dressy Girl.

  By the way, you’d think Cissy would beg to join me at the games, but my bestie is totally disinterested. She says she doesn’t like watching stuff die. Whatever. I offered to cover her eyes during the gross parts, but that didn’t help.

  To each their own, I guess.

  Cissy aside, there’s still one major hurdle standing between me and tonight’s fun. In order to reach the games, I must first get past my uber-anxious mother.

  That won’t be easy.

  Over the years, I’ve mastered the over-protective parental mind. Mom thinks that if I attend the Viking Games, it’ll only encourage my so-called reckless nature. Meh. There’s not much more ‘reck’ for me to get ‘less’ of, if you know what I mean.

  Long story short, I told Mom that I’m fighting in Purgatory’s Arena tonight. Not a word has been said about Vikings and Norse whatnot. With any luck, Mom won’t remember that Purgatory never even has night matches… Or notice how I’m wearing a cute outfit instead of my usual sweats… Or-or detect my crappy lying skills.

  Am I proud of myself for fibbing to Mom? Absolutely not. Will I do it for the Viking Games? Hells, yeah. Half my class at Purgatory High has already seen them at least once.

  Which brings me to the present moment. I sit at my chipped Formica kitchen table in our dingy ranch house in Lower Purgatory. Like most meals, it’s just me and Mom. I don’t have siblings, and my father’s identity remains a big question mark. Mom knows who he is, but she insists that I never ask.

  So I bug her about it all the time.

  One of these days, Mom will crack and give me a name. I have massive amounts of faith in my ability to nudge someone into submission.

  But now is not the time for a who’s my daddy battle. Instead, I pretend to be interested in the ghoul-made pile of slop on my plate. Mom stands by the sink while pinning me with a worried stare.

  Basically, I’m a younger version of her. We both have long auburn hair, lots of curves and a long tail that’s covered in dragonscales. Sadly, we’re total opposites in the personality department. Mom’s capacity for adventure falls somewhere between a large rock and your average house plant. Meanwhile, I kill demons for fun and avoid school like a boss. It’s a recipe for drama, especially at mealtimes.

  Speaking of which, Mom keeps staring at my plate. “You’re not eating,” she says.

  To look busy, I push little chunks of mystery meatloaf around until they make a smiley face.

  “Don’t play with your dinner,” warns Mom. “This is a new type of frozen meal from our gracious ghoul overlords.” She steps closer. “How does it taste?”

  “Not sure yet.” I lift my fork to my nose and inhale. The scent of dead fish fills my nasal cavity. “Smells nasty.”

  “Walker will be here soon. You must eat something. ”

  Walker is both a ghoul and my honorary older brother. I fight in Purgatory’s Arena and—lucky me—it’s Walker’s job to transport my butt around. Tonight, he’ll sneak me off to the Viking Games.

  Mom sighs. “Just one bite, Myla.”

  “But there’s something in this.” I take a closer look at the gray slop on my fork and, dammit, I’m totally right. “Check it out.” I lift my utensil. “Is that an eyeball or what?”

  Mom shoots a quick glance my way. “That is not an eyeball.” The words come out as more of a question, though.

  “Sha.” I raise the fork even higher. “That could totally be a little fish eyeball. Plus, I saw the package before you tossed it in the trash. How can you trust something called Mystery Loaf Supreme?”

  On a side note, I don’t believe that the words baby, back or loaf should ever be used in conjunction with naming a meal.

  Mom lets out another sigh. “You must eat, honey.”

  “I’ll be fine. Besides, I can grab something at the games.”

  The moment I speak the words grab something at the games, I want to face-palm myself.

  Mom pales. “What do you mean, grab something? They don’t serve food at Purgatory’s Arena.”

  In my mind, I picture a big red light flashing just above Mom’s head, along with a computerized voice saying, ten seconds to maternal meltdown. I slap on a smile and try to redirect the conversation.

  “Demons enjoy meals sometimes,” I begin. “Like last month, I killed this slimy globulus monst—”

  “And another thing,” interrupts Mom. “Purgatory has matches, not games. You fight evil souls to keep them out of Heaven. That is not entertainment.” Mom rounds the table to stare at me face-on. “What are you really up to?”

  At this moment, I reach a crossroads. There are three ways I could work this.

  One, I could make up a lie. That’s a crap choice because I am supremely awful at fibbing.

  With door number two, I jam this gray goop into my head and pretend my mouth is full. Mom will then wait a full two minutes so I don’t choke while I eat.

  Still. Eyeballs. Eew.

  Which leaves option number three. This selection involves moving more eyeball slop around on my plate. Sadly, this is a crap plan because it only buys me about three s
econds before the aforementioned Momular meltdown.

  “Myla,” says Mom in a warning tone. “I know when you’re scheming. Tell me everything.”

  Suddenly, a low hum sounds. I block the desire to cheer my lungs out. This particular noise means that a ghoul portal is about to open.

  Walker is almost here.

  Unlike me, my honorary older brother is a totally smooth liar. He’s also the one with tickets to the Viking Games, so there’s that, too.

  Sure enough, a tall rectangular shape appears by the far wall. A man in dark robes steps through the portal.

  Yay, Walker!

  As a ghoul, Walker’s appearance froze at the moment he died. He now looks to be twenty-something with pale skin, a brush cut and sideburns. Like all ghouls, Walker wears long black robes with loopy sleeves.

  “Greetings.” Walker stares at my plate and gasps. “What are you eating?” The way he says the word what, it’s like my plate is covered in poison. Which, let’s face it, it probably is.

  “Ghoul mystery loaf,” I reply. Then I hold up my fork, taking care to angle it so the suspected eyeball is visible.

  Thus begins what I like to call a Dual Maternal Distraction. Not only has Walker appeared in our kitchen—which is a great way to derail Mom’s Worry Train—but he’s also circling the conversation back to my ghoul-made meal. Beautiful.

  “Help me, Walker,” pleads Mom. “Myla must eat something.”

  “Not. That.” Walker scoops up my plate. After crossing the room, he scrapes the eyeball-slurry into the trash. Next Walker reaches into the loopy sleeves of his ghoul robes, pulls out a handful of Demon Bars, and tosses them in my direction.

  Best honorary brother ever.

  I catch one bar in my right hand and the other in my left. Meanwhile, my tail pops up and grabs the third.

  Mom frowns at me. “Demon Bars are not a meal.”

  “Yeth they are,” I say through a mouthful of chocolatey goodness. I scan the wrapper to offer up a few helpful ingredients as evidence. “It says here that Demon Bars are packed with psychocholoro-something and monosodium superscience.”

  Mom gives me the side eye. “That’s not helping your case. At least, the ghoul eyeball loaf was a warm meal.”

  “Ha!” I point at Mom’s nose. “So you admit there was an eyeball!”

  Walker gives me the barest head shake. The meaning is clear. Drop the eyeball shtick, Myla. Let me get to work.

  I lean back in my chair and mime zipping my mouth shut. Make it happen, buddy.

  Walker refocuses on Mom. “What about you, Camilla? Where’s your dinner?”

  Like every ghoul, Walker has all-black eyes. Only unlike the rest of his fellow undead, Walker’s peepers are super big and soulful. Plus, the man knows how to work them like a pro. Take this moment, for example. Walker gives Mom a look that’s all concerned and watery. It’s as if the world will stop spinning if she doesn’t snack soon.

  And that’s how the magic happens.

  As Walker does his sad-eye routine, Mom’s worry about what I’m truly up to vanishes. I’d say it’s a coincidence, but there’s no such thing when it comes to Walker. The man is a maestro of manipulation.

  “I’ll find something to eat later,” says Mom. “Myla comes first.”

  Walker reaches into his other sleeve and pulls out a small cup that’s marked freeze-dried chicken and ramen. He offers her the container. “You always liked these.”

  Mom’s face brightens. “This is from before the ghouls took over Purgatory. I didn’t know any were left.”

  Walker winks. “I have my sources.”

  Once more, I hit a crossroads. In one direction, there’s the evening of warrior fun at the Viking Games. But the opposite path might be far more interesting.

  I’m talking about this ramen soup revelation.

  Mom never talks about her past… or who my father really is. The fact that she used to chow down on ramen noodles? That’s huge news. Freeze-dried stuff is the meal of choice for someone who’s knee-deep in work. I wasn’t around when Mom was a noodle hound, so what was she busy with, exactly? The undeadlies weren’t running things yet, so it’s not like she had her current job of mending ghoul robes.

  Every cell in my body wants to push for answers. Another key consideration is the fact that I’ve finished all my Demon Bars, so I can really drive my points home without worrying about stuff like chewing.

  I raise my pointer finger and open my mouth, ready to unleash my verbal Kraken.

  Walker glide-walks to stand right between me and Mom. The sneak now blocks my line of sight, which in turn throws off any Mom-related attacks.

  A heavy tension fills the air. In essence, Walker and I transform into gunslingers straight out of the human’s Old West. Both of us have ideas about what happens tonight, and there’s only room in this town for one of our concepts. Walker takes the first shot in our verbal battle.

  “Ready for the arena?” Walker puts extra emphasis on the word arena, which means he’s reminding me of our real goal for the evening, the Viking Games.

  I tap my chin. “I’ve been thinking.”

  Translation: I really want to yell at Mom about ramen noodles.

  Walker steps closer. He’s crazy-tall and uses that height to his advantage. “But I’m the one portaling you around.”

  Translation, part two: I hate being in the middle of your father fights. And without me, you’d never leave this house to go anywhere.

  Needless to say, the tumbleweeds roll by, I reset my verbal six shooter, and Walker wins this standoff in a big way.

  I hop up. “Let’s hit it.”

  Walker sighs. “Thank you.”

  4

  Lincoln

  After Kell leaves, Father and I hike to the nearest Pulpitum transfer station. The after-realms are made up of Heaven with angels, Hell with demons, the Dark Lands with ghoul-kind, Purgatory with quasis, and Antrum with thrax. Our home lies deep beneath the Earth’s surface. Pulpitum are a secret network of magical platforms that move my people around.

  As we hike to the station, I ask Father about the Viking Games. Sadly, he’s more interested in discussing how the Earl of Acca wants me to marry one of his daughters. Needless to say, I’ve become an expert at ignoring these betrothal talks.

  So I don’t listen as we march to the transfer station.

  I continue to tune out the wedding pleas as we make the magical ride to Antrum.

  And once the journey is over, I act as if Father has stopped blabbing about possible brides altogether. I say my goodbyes and simply walk away. Over the years, I’ve found that when Father gets in a marriage-mood, the best approach is to make a quick exit.

  And once again, the move works like a thrax charm.

  On a side note, one serious perk of being royal is that we have a private transfer station right inside our palace of Arx Hall. Talk about convenient.

  Once Father is far enough behind me, I make a beeline for my private chambers. Along the way, I ask a messenger to request that our royal librarian, Clara, send me everything we have on the Viking Games.

  Just thinking about Clara makes me smile. The woman is an exceptional bundle of gray hair and mad skills.

  Thrax life is divided into Houses. Clara’s father is from my house, Rixa. Her mother hails from the House of Striga. The latter bloodline means that Clara is a rather talented witch. Chances are, she’ll have a pile of books waiting in my library before I even reach the room myself.

  In my experience, nothing is more important than knowing an excellent librarian.

  Arx Hall is a maze of passages. It takes a little while, but I finally reach my private chambers. Like the rest of the palace, my rooms are a medieval-style mixture of tapestries, stone walls, and heavy wooden furniture. I debate about catching some sleep—midnight hunts can take a toll—but I’m curious if Clara has literally worked her magic.

  So I head straight for my personal library. Sure enough, there’s already a shelf packed with fr
esh titles about the Norse Universe.

  How does she do that, exactly?

  To prep for this evening, I spend the rest of my day reading. Of particular interest are the many unique monsters of the Norse Universe. As I do my thing, servants come and go with messages and meals. A few say happy birthday, but those words are always accompanied by a pained look. They don’t say anything out loud, but I can sense their thoughts easily enough.

  You carry too much responsibility for one so young.

  * * *

  There’s more to life than duty.

  * * *

  Why don’t you ever smile?

  These pitying looks have been coming my way for years. Time was, I’d respond by sharing how Emperor Augustus took power at eighteen. These days, I simply avoid the sad stares and focus on my work instead.

  Yes, I’m lonely.

  And no, there’s nothing to be done about it.

  In my world, duty always comes first.

  Eventually, it’s time to get ready for the Viking Games. Normally, I’d wear the traditional outfit for thrax royalty. By this I mean leather pants, chain mail and a velvet tunic with my house crest of an attacking eagle. But I’m not looking to advertising my noble status tonight. Instead, I plan to blend in with the ghoul population. Since the undead wear dark robes, I choose to wear a black leather duster.

  With that, I’m ready for the Viking Games.

  5

  Myla

  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

  I stare at the kitchen clock and try not to lose my cool.

  Walker and I never do make a fast exit for the Viking Games. Instead, Mom launches into her greatest hits of anxiety. Sure, Walker and I could just take off anyway, but that would be hella mean. No way can I leave Mom alone and freaking out while I slip away for some fun.