“Completely.”
“I don’t know what to say, Myla.” Her eyes are lined with tears. “I lost control.” She wags her head. “You don’t have to go to the tournament if you don’t want to.”
I scratch my neck and frown. “No, I’ll go to the stupid tournament.”
Cissy grins, bouncing on her heels. “Thank you, Myla, thank you!” She wraps me in a big hug.
I stand stone-still, allowing her to hug me but not returning the motion. “On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“I want some serious apologizing for this totally unreasonable fit of extended jealousy.”
Cissy nods sagely. “You’re right. Way over the top.” She wags her eyebrows up and down. “How many, then? Two? Three?”
“Five.” I fold my arms over my chest. “You make me five pans of brownies. Different flavors. And no conning your Mom into doing it.”
“You got it. Thank you. So. Much.” She moves to give me another hug; I raise my palm, stopping her.
“And one last thing. If I’m going, I’ll do it my way.”
***
I slip out of my room and tiptoe to the front door of my house, the keys to Betsy in the pocket of my hoodie. Holding my breath, I wrap my fingers around the door handle.
Mom pops her head out of the kitchen. I’m so snagged.
“Where are you sneaking off to?” She steps toward me, her shoulders slumping. “Are you going to meet other top Arena fighters?” Her tail wraps around her hand. “I know they’re all part Furor demon too.”
Meeting Furor fighters on the sly? Where does she come up with this cockamamie stuff to worry about?
“I’ve met the other Arena fighters.” I shrug. “They’re fine.”
She sets her hand on her hip. “So, you’re not sneaking off to meet them?”
“Why would I do that?” I spin the keys around my finger. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re okay fighters, but…”
“Not as good as you.”
“Something like that.” They’re actually a bunch of washed-up has-beens, in my humble opinion. Don’t get me wrong, they could kick anyone’s ass in Purgatory, just not mine.
“So, what are you up to?”
“Look, I’m not going to meet any Furor fighters.” But I am going to the thrax tournament. I’m such a bad liar, I was hoping to sneak out without a Maternal Inquisition.
Her chocolate eyes narrow. “So, where are you going?”
“Hanging out with Cissy.” At a thrax tournament, but I leave that part out.
Mom stares at me for a long moment, then nods. “Okay, have fun.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll be back soon.” Because once they see I’m wearing sweats instead of some stupid ball gown, I’ll get to leave. My grin stretches extra wide.
My plan’s so freaking awesome.
I drive Betsy to the thrax compound, park her on a dry patch of field, and follow the crowd. Everyone’s in traditional thrax dress and glaring at my ratty sweatpants and gray hoodie. I glance at my watch. If I leave in the next ten minutes, I can still catch reruns of I Love Lucy on the Human Channel. Sweet.
I follow the thrax crowd. We hike through the trees and onto a wide meadow covered in mud. By the forest’s edge stand five large tents. Each one’s bigger than my house and in a different color: yellow, bronze, purple, blue, or black. Beyond the tents lies an oval tournament green—it’s the only place around that is green—and it’s surrounded by a shoulder-high wooden fence. Two long spectator pavilions overlook the green, one on each side.
Squinting, I take a closer look at the pavilions. They’re raised platforms covered in stepped rows of seats. Wooden poles hold a cloth ceiling over the audience’s heads. Flags and lanterns hang everywhere.
Cissy stands near the tournament green, looking lovely in a simple medieval dress of emerald fabric with long loopy sleeves. I wave. “Hey, Cissy!”
Her jaw drops as she runs to my side. “Myla, you showed up.”
“That I did.” I gesture to my sweats. “And this is what I’m wearing. Who do I talk to so I can get kicked out?”
“You’re supposed to be in a traditional gown. Like me.”
“Drat.” I snap my fingers and make my ‘aw shucks’ face. “I guess I’ll have to go home.”
Cissy chuckles, her head shaking from side to side. “You’re not getting out of this so easily. They have emergency dresses around here.”
“They do?” I freeze.
“Oh, yeah. Unlike you, I did some homework on the thrax.” She sighs. “Why didn’t you call the dressmaker I gave you?”
I frown and kick the dirt with my sneaker. “Because I came up with this awesome plan.” Okay, maybe my plan isn’t that freaking awesome.
Cissy grips my hand and leads me to the Rixa tent. Bands of tension grip my shoulders. Lincoln could be in there. I grit my teeth, waiting for the familiar waves of rage to pour through me. They don’t appear. Instead, I feel charged with nervous energy, my stomach doing flip-flops.
What the Hell is wrong with me?