ANGELBOUND ORIGINS COLLECTION

BOOKS ONE THROUGH THREE

CHRISTINA BAUER

COPYRIGHT

Monster House Books

Brighton, MA 02135

ISBN 9781946677358

Third Edition

Copyright © 2022 by Monster House Books LLC

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Collected Works

1 - Angelbound

2 - Scala

Scala Epilogue

3 - Acca

Also By Christina Bauer

Sample Chapter - THRAX

Appendix

DEDICATION

For All Those Who Kick Ass, Take Names

And Read Books

COLLECTED WORKS

Angelbound Origins

About a quasi (part demon and part human) girl who loves kicking butt in Purgatory's Arena

1. Angelbound

2. Scala

3. Acca

4. Thrax

5. The Dark Lands

6. The Brutal Time

7. Armageddon

8. Quasi Redux

9. Clockwork Igni

10. Lady Reaper

11. Angry Gods

12. Phantom Corsairs

Angelbound Lincoln

The Angelbound experience as told by Prince Lincoln

1. Duty Bound

2. Lincoln

3. Trickster

4. Baculum

5. Angelfire

6. Rixa

7. Mordred

Angelbound Offspring

The next generation takes on Heaven, Hell, and everything in between

1. Maxon

2. Portia

3. Zinnia

4. Rhodes

5. Kaps

6. Mack

7. Huntress

8. Gage

* This is a completed series.

Angelbound Xavier

Xavier’s story

1. Archenemy

2. Archnemesis

3. Archangel

Fairy Tales of the Magicorum

Modern fairy tales with sass, action, and romance

1. Wolves and Roses

2. Moonlight and Midtown

3. Shifters and Glyphs

4. Slippers and Thieves

5. Bandits and Ball Gowns

6. Fire and Cinder

7. Fairies and Frosting

8. Towers and Tithes

9. Mirrors and Mysteries

Pixieland Diaries

Sassy pixie Calla loves elf prince Dare. Too bad he hasn’t noticed her. Yet.

1. Pixieland Diaries

2. Calla

3. Dare

*This is a completed series.

Dimension Drift

Dystopian adventures with science, snark, and hot aliens

1. Scythe

2. Umbra

3. Alien Minds

4. ECHO Academy

*This is a completed series.

Beholder

Where a medieval farm girl discovers necromancy and true love

1. Cursed

2. Concealed

3. Cherished

4. Crowned

5. Cradled

*This is a completed series.

1 - ANGELBOUND

Eighteen-year-old Myla Lewis is a girl who loves two things: kicking ass and kicking ass. She’s not your every day quasi-demon, part-demon and part-human, girl.

For the past five years, Myla has lived for the days she gets to fight in Purgatory’s arena. When souls want a trial by combat for their right to enter Heaven or Hell, they go up against her, and she hasn’t lost a battle yet. But as she starts her senior year at Purgatory High, the arena fights aren’t enough to keep her spirits up anymore. When the demons start to act weird, even for demons, and the King of the Demons, Armageddon, shows up at Myla’s school, she knows that things are changing and it’s not looking good for the quasi-demons.

Myla starts to question everything, and doesn’t like the answers she finds.

What happened seventeen years ago that turned the quasi-demons into slave labor? Why was her mom always so sad? And why won’t anyone tell her who her father is? Things heat up when Myla meets Lincoln, the High Prince of the Thrax, a super sexy part-human and part-angel demon hunter. But what’s a quasi-demon girl to do when she falls for a demon hunter? It’s a good thing that Myla’s not afraid of breaking a few rules. With a love worth fighting for, Myla’s going to shake up Purgatory.

CHAPTER 1

It’s been one month, three days, and six hours since I last ‘got my gladiator on’ and battled in the Arena. Not that I’m obsessing or anything. Sure, I can sneak in and watch someone else fight, but that’s a snore.

I roll over on my dingy bed, scooch under the drab covers, and watch the gray drizzle outside my window. Mondays are the pits.

Mom’s voice echoes into my bedroom. “Time to get up! You don’t want to be late for school, do you, honey?”

I roll my eyes. Of course, I want to be late for school.

Raising my head, I open my mouth to say just that, and then decide against it. Instead, I bite my lower lip, yank the pillow over my head and groan. Loudly.

“Don’t make noises at me, young lady.” Mom rustles papers in the kitchen. “I’ve a letter right here. You’re on something called the Official Watch List for Unreasonable Tardiness.” Her footsteps echo down the hall and pause outside my room. “You’ll be suspended from high school at this rate. What do you think about that?”

I peep out from under my pillow. Mom looms in my doorway, her fist set on her hip. She’s a quasi-demon like me, so she resembles a lovely human with a curvy figure, amber skin, chocolate-brown eyes, and chestnut hair that falls in waves over her shoulders. All quasis have a tail; Mom and I both sport the long and pointed variety. The big differences between us are laugh lines, some grey hair and our opinion of what’s ‘dangerous’ for eighteen-year olds.

I fluff the pillow and slide it under my noggin. Being suspended means no school. Maybe even catching a few Arena matches on the sly. I wag my eyebrows. “And suspension would be bad because?”

“I’d make it that way.”

Ugh. She would, too.

Off go my covers. “This is me getting up.”

“Good.” Mom stomps away.

I shower, pull on some sweats, and sleepwalk into the kitchen, seeing the familiar lime-green appliances, mismatched furniture, and peeling linoleum tile. Everything looks peaceful, quiet, and empty. Another typical Monday morning before another average day at school. BO-ring. I’ll have to charm Walker into taking me to the Arena later. Until I’m called to fight again, it’s better than nothing.

A thick white envelope sits at the center of the kitchen table. I scoop up and read: “To the Quasi-Demon, Miss Myla Lewis, 666 Dante Row, Purgatory.” I lick my thumb and run it over the loopy calligraphy. Real ink. My long black tail flicks in a nervous rhythm.

Frowning, I tap the unopened letter against my palm. No one sends me fancy stuff like this. In a blur of motion, my tail darts across my torso, grips the envelope with its arrowhead-shaped end, and tries pulling it from my fingers.

“Hey now!” My tail’s always had a mind of its own. For some reason, it’s decided this letter is dangerous. I jerk the envelope out of reach, but not before one corner gets totally shredded. “Now, look what you did.” My tail slinks behind me to curl guiltily about my ankle.

I reread the outside of the letter. Nothing here to worry about. I am a quasi-demon (mostly human with a little demon DNA). I’ve spent all eighteen years of my life in Purgatory (where human souls get judged for Heaven or Hell, aka the most boring place in the history of ever). This letter’s like dozens of others that hit our doorstep each week. Why’s my tail on a mission to trash this thing?

I stare at the words again, feeling like they should read: “Open this to turn your life upside-down and your heart into mush.”

Clearly, I’m having an off-morning.

I slip the envelope-slash-time-bomb into my mangy backpack. I’ll read it later at school.

Mom steps into the kitchen. “How’s my sweet baby, Myla-la?” Yes, I’m eighteen years old and Mom still uses pet names from when I was three.

“I’m good.” I open a cabinet and pull down a box of Frankenberry cereal.

Mom eyes my every movement, her forehead creasing with worry.

“Did you sleep well last night, Myla?”

Oh, no. Here it comes. I square my shoulders and mentally prepare my ‘I’m so very-very caaaaaaalm’ voice. “Absolutely.” Nailed it.

“Any bad dreams?”

“Nope.” The ‘calm voice’ isn’t working so well this time.

“Hmm.” She taps her cheek. “Met anyone lately? Made any new friends?”

I grit my teeth. All my mornings start off with maternal interrogations like this one. I find it’s best to give soothing, one-word answers. “Negative.”

“No friends at all?”

“Only the same one since first grade.” I raise my spoon for emphasis. “Cissy.”

“That’s good.” She offers me a shaky grin. “You’re safe.”

I shoot her a hearty thumbs-up. Today’s cross-examination ended relatively quickly; maybe Mom’s getting less overprotective. A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth.

“More than safe.” I speed-chop the air, karate-style. “I’m a lean, mean, Arena-fighting machine.” Wincing, I freeze mid-chop. How could I be so dumb? Mom loses her freaking mind whenever I say the word ‘Arena.’

There’s a pause that lasts a million years while Mom stares at me, her face unreadable. Finally, she moves. But, instead of jumping around in hysterics, she flips about and rifles through cabinets in search of a coffee mug.

Wait a second.

This morning Mom cut her interrogation short and she didn’t panic when I said the word ‘Arena.’ I wind my lips into an even-wider grin. Sweeeet. Things could be changing, after all.

Leaning back in my chair, I watch Mom pour coffee. I know she goes overboard because it’s just me, her, and this nasty gray ranch house. I have no brothers, sisters, or straight answers about who my father is, except that he’s some kind of diplomat. Add it all up and Mom’s a wee bit clingy.

Or, at least, she used to be. I drum my fingers on the Formica. A less overprotective Mom opens up all sorts of possibilities. I could watch more matches. I could fight in more matches. I could develop interests in things other than the Arena.

Eh, maybe it’s a ‘no’ on that last thing.

Mom slides into the chair across from mine, her large brown eyes watching me through the wisps of steam curling from her mug. “Want a ride to school today? I don’t mind waiting outside the door.” A muscle twitches at the corner of her eye. “You know, in case anything happens.”

My heart sinks to my toes. Then again, maybe Mom’s worse than ever.

“Uhhhh.” My mouth falls so far open, some Frankenberry rolls off my tongue and onto the tabletop. Did she really offer to stand outside school all day long ‘in case anything happens?’ Cissy told me how parents get extra-twitchy during senior year. A shiver rattles my spine. My Mom plus ‘extra-twitchy’ equals a huge nightmare.

I force a few deep breaths. “Thanks for the offer.” It’s getting really hard to keep my ‘calm voice’ handy. “I’ll pass this time.”

Suddenly, the air crackles with energy. A black hole seven feet high and four feet wide appears in the center of the kitchen.

Out of the void steps a ghoul.

My fingers twiddle in his direction. “Hey, Walker.” Technically, he’s named WKR-7, but I’ve called him Walker for as long as I can remember.

“Good morning.” Walker nods his skull-like head. If he were a few inches taller, the movement would knock his cranium through ceiling, and he’s on the short side for a ghoul. It’s a mystery how Walker and the rest of the undeadlies handle an eternity of being so crazy-tall.

Walker pulls back his low-hanging hood, showing pale, almost colorless skin and a strong bone structure. He sports the same hairstyle from the day he died: a brush cut with sideburns and no beard. Great black eyes peep at me from deep sockets.

I grin. It’s nice to have Walker around. Most ghouls are obsessed with rules and act irritating as Hell. But Walker? He pushes boundaries like a pro, especially when it comes to sneaking me into the Arena. Having him around is like having a cute and somewhat sneaky older brother, only one without a pulse.

“Be careful, Myla.” Walker’s thin lips droop into a frown. “That’s no way to greet your overlords. I don’t mind, but other ghouls could send you to a re-education camp.”

I roll my eyes. Purgatory is one massive bureaucracy with the charm of suburbia and the fun of a minimum-security prison. All the work’s done by unpaid quasis like me (we’re not allowed to call ourselves ‘prisoners’). Ghouls keep us in line and make sure we’re–cough, cough–super happy in our service.

I’m ready to complain about all this to Walker for the millionth time when Mom pipes into the conversation.

“Greetings, my beloved overlord.” She’s laying it on thick to make up for my sloppy hello. “Want some decaf?” She bows.

Walker nods; ghouls love java.

Mom picks up one of Walker’s loopy sleeves, rubbing the fabric between her fingertips. “This is a little threadbare. Are you here for a new one?” All quasis must perform a service; Mom sews and mends robes. It could be worse. My friend Cissy’s mom is a ghoul proctologist.

“No, thank you.” Walker eyes the coffee pot greedily.

Mom hands him a full mug marked ‘Afterlife’s Greatest Ghoul.’ Her chocolate eyes nervously scan his face. “What service do you require then?”

Walker frowns. “Myla must battle in the Arena today.”

A huge grin spreads across my face. When human souls reach Purgatory, they’re given a choice: trial by jury, or trial by combat. Based on the result, they end up either happily floating around Heaven or having their souls consumed in Hell. If the human selects a trial by jury, then it’s someone else’s problem. But if they choose combat–and the combatant in question is totally evil–then someone like Walker ends up in the kitchen of someone like me. I’m one of a few dozen quasis who kick butt. Literally.

I jump to my feet and clear off my bowl. “Now, this is what I call a Happy Monday.”

Mom steps back. “You’re sending Myla off to fight today? You can’t.” She leans against the countertop for support. “Every time she goes, she risks her life.” A muscle twitches by her mouth. “Those battles are to the death.”

I stifle a moan. Mom always focuses on the whole ‘to the death’ thing like it’s the first time she’s learned how matches work. Hell, I’ve battled in the Arena since I was twelve and have yet to get a scratch. You’d think the drama would tone down over the years.

Panting, Mom points to a tattered calendar by the door. “My little one fought a month ago. She serves once every three months, right?”

I raise my hand. “It’s not a problem. I’m up for this. Totally.”

Mom flashes me a desperate look. “I know that.” She grips the countertop like she’ll pull it out of the wall. “Please, Walker, tell me it’s a mistake.”

Walker’s black eyes fill with understanding. “Myla must serve today. There’s a spike in Arena matches; all fighters have extra battles.”

Mom stares at Walker, her jaw grinding out silent rebuttals. After a few moments, she presses her palms to her face, a low sigh escaping her lips. I frown. She’s hitting a new level of drama this morning.

Walker shoots me the barest wink. I fight the urge to smile, knowing it means one thing: there’s no across-the-boards spike in Arena matches. Purgatory must have an uber-evil soul on their hands, the worst of the absolute worst, and they need their best fighter on it.

That would be me.

Mom shakes her head from side to side. “All those demons and angels. Promise me, you’ll keep her away from ‘danger.’” She puts special emphasis on the word ‘danger.’

“I always do, Camilla.”

Mom releases her death-grip from the counter. “Of course.”

My back teeth lock. Mom’s always going on about protecting me from angels and demons. The demons I understand, but angels? Come on.

I zip up my gray hoodie. “Time to trash some evildoers.” Stepping to Walker’s side, I wait for transport to the Arena.

Mom’s hand lightly touches her throat. “Be safe!”

“I’ll be super-safe, don’t you worry.”

“And don’t be late for school.”

I slap on a smile. “On it, Mom.”

Walker bows his head. “Stand back, I’ll summon a portal.” A new black hole appears in the center of the kitchen. I glance into the darkness, feeling the Frankenberry in my belly come up for a repeat performance. Using a portal feels like tumbling through empty space with a killer case of the stomach flu. Helpful safety tip: hold a ghoul’s hand or you’ll fall forever.

Taking a deep breath, I grab Walker’s chilly fingers so tightly, I’d cut off his blood flow, if he had any. Together, we step into the portal, topple through nothingness, and walk out again onto the sandy earth of the Arena floor. I try my best to look ready-for-battle instead of ready-to-puke.

Walker offers me a sympathetic glance. “Shall we find a place to sit?”

“Nah, I’m fine, thanks.” I scan the open-air stadium around me. The Arena’s a nasty old ruin, all chipped gray rock and busted sandstone columns. How the place stays upright is a total mystery. The fighting floor is one huge uneven clod of dirt, the bleachers are basically rubble, and the entire top level looks ready to collapse.

I freaking love it here.

The stands lie open and empty, except for a few quasis. They’re all fighters like me, trying to catch someone else’s match. Mom used to attend too, but all the moaning and gasping got so out of hand, she was banned ages ago. I can’t say I was bummed. Nothing like having your Mom yell ‘Baby, don’t diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie’ when you’re twelve and fighting a demon for the first time.

A gravelly voice echoes through the air. “Greetings, slave.” The word ‘slave’ is said with particular venom.

Every muscle in my body goes on alert. I’d know that voice anywhere, and I absolutely loathe its owner. I scrape lint from under my fingernails and pretend not to notice the seven-foot tall ghoul looming behind me.

Walker steps between us. “Greetings, SKE-12.”

My mouth winds into a mischievous grin. “Hey, Sharkie.’” SKE-12 hates his nickname, so I work it into every encounter.

Sharkie frowns. “My name is SKE-12, slave.”

Walker sets his hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me so I stand face-to-navel with Sharkie, master of Arena ceremonies and all-around dickhead. He hasn’t changed a bit since my last match, not that ghouls often do. He’s gray-skinned with large coal-black eyes, a skull-like hole for a nose, and teeth that have been filed to tiny points. His long silver robes hang in tatters; a tall black staff is gripped in his bony hand.

Walker gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Myla was just about to greet her ghoul overlord properly, weren’t you, Myla?” Standing next to Sharkie, even Walker looks vertically challenged.

“My bad.” I bow extra-low. “Greetings, SKE-12.”

His buggy black eyes narrow into slits. Sharkie always knows when I’m making fun of him, and it drives him crazy. “I’ll have no mischief from you today.”

I bow again, even lower this time. “Yes, I’m fresh out.”

Sharkie turns to Walker, his black eyes flaring bright red. “Control her.” His gaze swings back to me. “We’ve an especially evil human soul fighting today. I hope to watch you die at last.”

I pick something off my molar with my pinky. “I’m sure you do.”

Sharkie steps closer, his pointy teeth click-clacking as he speaks. “The soul you fight today is so evil, the angels have begged the Great Scala to stand by, ready to transport him to Hell the moment he’s defeated. Which will never happen.” He leans in closer. “You. Are. Doomed.”

My brows pop up. Normally, the Scala migrates tons of souls at once in what’s called an iconigration. For this guy to get solo treatment, he must be a SUPER nasty. Fun. “Bring it on, Shar–.”

Walker grabs my elbow. “Look, Myla! Your friends are here!” He points across the stadium floor. “We must depart.” He bows once more to Sharkie. “Excuse us.” As we speed-walk away, Walker whispers in my ear. “If I weren’t already dead, I’d have had a heart attack just now.”

“Eh, Sharkie’s harmless.”

“Because I placate him for you.” He shoots me a sly look. “Why must you always taunt him?”

“Not sure.” I shrug. “It’s a hobby.” A few yards ahead stands a ghoul named XP-22, and a hovering green blob that’s Sheila, the Limus demon.

I shoot Sheila a friendly wave. “Hey Shiel, how are the kids?” Sheila’s nice, so long as you don’t stand close enough for her to swallow you whole. XP-22, on the other hand, is a total drip. I don’t even glance in his direction.

“The kids are good, Myla, getting bigger every day…Just like you.” Sheila’s entire body shivers, which is a little scary since she’s six feet tall, three feet wide, and has fourteen red eyes the size of tennis balls. “It seems like yesterday you were twelve and about to fight your first demon.” Her huge gaping mouth twists into a grin. “How old are you now, honey?”

“Eighteen.”

A blob-like arm stretches out from Sheila’s side, lengthening into a gooey hand with eighteen long fingers. “Almost grown up! Have you been assigned your service yet?” ‘Assigning your service’ is ghoul-speak for locking a quasi into a life-long job after high school. We’re not allowed to call it ‘prison labor.’ I shiver. There are some mighty foul careers out there too, like the infamous anal probe development lab.

Before I can reply to Sheila’s question, Sharkie thumps his staff against the ground.

“Attention!” Sharkie raises his arms, his ragged gray robes swaying in slow, ghostly motions. Beneath his huge hood, his eyes shine as two points of red light.

Sheila waves her eighteen-fingered hand in my direction. “Well, what’ll your service be? Port-a-Potty Squad? Greeter at Ghoul-Mart?”

Pointing to Sharkie, I make a ‘sh’ face to Sheila. It’s rude to talk once the ceremony starts, plus I hate answering the whole ‘what’ll your service be’ question. Sheila nods and oozes away. Bonus.

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. Sharkie thumps his staff four more times. “I bring you the Oligarchy!”

Four ghouls in scarlet robes appear along the top tier of the stadium, one at each point of the compass. Called the Oligarchy, they rule Purgatory as one collective mind, and a not-so-creative mind too, based on how they name ghouls.

In one motion, the Oligarchy close their eyes, bow their gray heads, and open a series of massive portals around the lip of the stadium. Angels and demons appear in the dark openings, and then stream down the uneven stone steps in one great wave.

The angels take their seats in an orderly line, their bodies coming in many shapes, sizes and colors. All have massive white wings, floor-length linen robes, little open-toed sandals, and eyes that glow with an unearthly blue light. They can hide their wings if they want to, but they keep them out for important occasions, like watching Arena fights.

In other words, angels are cool.

On the other side of the stadium, the demons move in a frenzied pack, roaring in a mad rush for the best seats. Large, furry creatures stomp along next to small and slimy monsters. Tiny, spiked demons zoom above their heads. Eye color is all they share in common: black stands for ‘neutral’ while red means ‘run for the hills.’

As I watch them scramble over each other, my head shakes from side to side. Demons are cool too, but only when I get to kill them.

The lively hum of stadium chatter collapses into anxious silence.

She is coming.

I scan the top level of the Arena. The four great portals stand empty and dark. Acting in unison, the Oligarchy ghouls lower their heads. A low hum fills the air. Pale yellow light glimmers in the eastern portal; all eyes turn in that direction. A figure in white appears in the darkened entryway. My breath catches.

This is Verus, Queen of the Angels.

She stands willowy and tall with long black hair, high cheekbones, and exotic, almond-shaped eyes. She’s timeless, beautiful, and more than a little bit frightening. Sometimes she watches me so carefully during matches, it gives me the creeps.

Beside her stands a short-ish ghoul with a handsome face, square jaw, and large black eyes.

I elbow Walker in the ribs. “That guy could be your brother.”

He looks up, smiles. “You don’t say.”

“I did say.” I glance at him out of my right eye. “So, is he?”

“You know your mother doesn’t allow me to share personal information.” He shoots me a sympathetic smile. “Take it up with her later.” He clears his throat and rocks a bit on his heels. “When I’m not around, if you don’t mind.”

My ‘why don’t you tell me anything’ fights with Mom are nothing short of legend. I stick out my tongue at Walker. “Fine. I will.”

Verus steps onto her balcony, a small entourage behind her. As she slips into a white stone throne, the stadium’s silence is ripped apart by howls and screeches. A new outline appears in the western portal: Armageddon, the King of Hell. He’s tall and lanky with black onyx skin that’s smooth as polished stone. A blade-like nose divides his long face, ending in a pointed chin. He scans the stadium, his eyes blazing as two searing points of scarlet light. A shiny black tuxedo hugs his wiry frame.

Unholy Hell. Every nerve ending in my body goes on alert. While Verus is a wee bit scary, Armageddon gives off a ‘greater demon’ aura. If you get too close (which has happened to me more than once), every cell in your body shudders with terror. But that’s not what really gets me about the King of Hell. Most demons are short-term thinkers. They want to kill your body and eat your soul, end of story. Not Armageddon. He planned for years to take over both Hell and Purgatory. That kind of craftiness brings evil to a new level.

Armageddon saunters away from the portal, a large entourage of gorilla-like Manus demons behind him. The Oligarchy collapse onto their knees as he passes by, their movements reminding me of marionettes whose strings are cut. Their deep voices echo through the stadium. “We praise thee, Great King.” The ghouls may rule us in name, but everyone knows who really runs the show.

Without so much as a glance toward the Oligarchy, Armageddon speeds onto the balcony across from Verus, his entourage close behind him. The King of Hell slips into his own black stone throne.

Sharkie thumps his staff again. “Ghouls, demons, and angels!” The stadium falls silent.

I glance at my watch and grin. Right now, I should be in homeroom.

With a flourish of his bony arm, Sharkie gestures to the four scarlet-robed ghouls standing along the stadium’s top level. “Today, the Oligarchy bring you a spectacle of governing efficiency: an Arena battle to the death witnessed by the magnificent leader of our joint troops in the Ghoul Wars…The acclaimed liberator of all Purgatory…Armageddon!”

The demons positively lose their freaking minds in a deafening cheer. My upper lip twists. Screw Armageddon and his fake liberation of Purgatory. He handed us over to ghouls so we’d send more souls to Hell, pure and simple. It’s only when demon DNA mixes with a human that you get different powers. On their own, demons are mindless soul-munchers. My eyes flare red. I start to make a lewd hand gesture in Armageddon’s direction, but Walker snags my wrist before I get too far. He shoots me a stern look, mouthing the words ‘put a lid on it, Lewis.’

Nodding, I grip my hands behind my back. I’m enough of a warrior to know he’s right: taunting Armageddon is a B-A-D idea. I focus on the ground, force myself to breathe slowly, and try to keep my cool. My inner demon has a mind of its own with more than my tail. When my eyes flare red, it’s my demonic side getting rowdy. Sometimes, it’s a struggle to keep it in check.

From his great stone throne, Armageddon watches the frenzied demon crowd, his thin red lips curling upwards. He scans every face, soaking in each expression and nuance, weaving them all into some complex and dark plan.

I shiver. He’s being crafty again, and damn, that makes my skin crawl.

Raising his hand, Armageddon quiets the crowd. “Today’s soul was a favorite of mine on earth. Unbelievable strength. No capacity for conscience. Pure untainted evil. When he wins this battle—which he will, make no mistake—then we’ll finally have one of our own inside the gates of Heaven.” The dark seats howl with glee while the angels collectively shiver. Grinning, Armageddon retakes his seat.

All faces turn to the Angel Verus. She slowly rises to her feet, her white wings spreading regally behind her. She shouts one word: “NEVER!” The force of her yell sets columns rattling and rubble tumbling to the ground. Her gaze turns to me, eyes flashing bright. Armageddon follows suit, his irises glowing red as he scans me from head to toe. A satisfied smirk winds the corner of his mouth. I’ve seen that look on other faces; it’s the one that says ‘that little girl? Maybe she’s won before, but against this opponent? Are you serious?’

Which pisses me off, big time.

Sharkie thumps his staff again; a human soul appears nearby. In life, this ghost was a man about six feet tall with broad shoulders and two-hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle beneath them. Now he appears as a spectral version of his mortal self: a ghostly hulk whose pale body looks ready to burst from his faded jeans and dirty white t-shirt.

Sharkie addresses the spirit. “Vincent Francis Morris, you’ve chosen trial by combat, is this true?”

“The Choker. My name’s…The Choker.” Squinting his piggish eyes, the ghost flicks a fat tongue over his full lips.

“I will ask again.” Sharkie’s irises flare bright red. “Have you chosen trial by combat?”

The ghost curls his hands into fists. “Yes, combat.”

“Select your opponent.” Sharkie grins, his knife-like teeth glimmer in the pale light. “First, we offer XP-22.”

The Choker eyes our ‘fighting ghoul.’ With barely-there skin and the muscle tone of toilet paper, anyone could crush XP-22. In fact, the Choker would probably snap him in three seconds or less, but I don’t think he’ll choose to. Ghouls look mighty terrifying, even the weak ones. Most humans avoid them.

The Choker is no different. “I’ll pass.”

Sharkie moves his thin arm to the next figure in line. “Second, we offer Sheila, the Limus demon.”

Sheila’s fourteen red eyes whip about her upper body, finally stopping to glare at the ghostly human. She stretches wide the black hole that serves as her mouth, letting out a gurgling roar. When that girl puts her game on, she’s terrifying.

“Hmm.” The Choker’s beady eyes give Sheila a long stare; the entire Arena seems to hold its breath.

I glance at Sheila and shake my head. Limus demons are almost as easy to kill as XP-22. The trick is, they’re super-flammable. One match and you turn a six-foot monster into a puddle of harmless goo. But like XP-22, they look worse than they actually fight.

The Choker frowns. “Nope.”

“And third, we offer the quasi-demon, Myla.”

The Choker’s eyes slowly scan me from head to toe, his creepy gaze lingering on the curves under my t-shirt and sweats. Rage shoots up my spine. What a scumbag. If he stopped thinking with his pants for two seconds, he’d notice my demon tail instead of my boobs and butt. Some quasis get stuck with pig- or bunny-bottoms, but I hit the jackpot: the long and thin variety with an arrowhead end. Even better, it’s coated in dragon scales, so the thing’s nearly impossible to block or cut.

But the Choker isn’t being smart. He stares into my big watery brown eyes and long lashes; I shamelessly blink in fake-terror. For trial by combat to be valid, the soul must have a chance at winning. They get three options, two of which are relatively easy to defeat. Then, there’s me, the one nobody should pick. Except they always do.

“I choose her.” His thick mouth stretches into a vicious smile. “I’ll fight Myla.” In a low voice, he adds: “You’ll find out why they call me the Choker.”

I jam my hands in my pockets and fake-shiver. And you’ll find out why they called me to fight you, dickhead.

Sharkie thumps his staff on the ground again, and the ghostly Choker turns into two-hundred fifty pounds of real human. “So be it.”

“Here are the rules,” announces Sharkie. “Upon the count of three, you shall battle onto the death. If the Choker loses, he goes to Hell.” The angels look at me with encouraging glances. “If the Choker wins, he goes to Heaven.” The demons let out a deafening roar.

I watch the demons cheer, my hands balling into fists. Those freakies would love for a purely evil soul to enter Heaven. If a spirit has even a smidgeon of good in it, they ‘go angel’ once they cross the pearly gates. A purely evil soul could cause no end of trouble for the angels, and demons love trouble.

The crowd quiets into a nervous hush. Sharkie waves his hand; Sheila, Walker, and XP-22 make a hasty exit into an obliging archway. I hop from foot to foot and crack my neck. This will be a hoot.

Sharkie raises his arms. “The battle begins in 3, 2, 1!”

If your nickname is ‘the Choker,’ it doesn’t take a genius in battle strategy to predict your first move in a fight.

“I kiiiiiiiiiiiiiill you!” Sure enough, the Choker lunges for me with both hands outstretched, aiming directly for my throat.

That gets my demon up. Anger spikes along my spine as my attacker speeds toward me. Each step goes in what feels like slow motion. I look around helplessly as if I’m cornered instead of surrounded by an empty arena the size of a football field.

The Choker’s fingers brush my neck. My rage boils over. Jumping super-high, I haul up my knees, then kick my opponent squarely in the chest with both feet. The Choker falls flat on his back with a satisfying thud. Meanwhile, I use the momentum from my chest-kick to flip backwards into a somersault, landing right by his head.

Twisting my hips, I send my tail whipping toward my attacker’s boots, careful to loop the length around his ankles. Stepping backwards, I tighten my tail around the Choker’s feet and haul them up to his waist-level. The movement makes him curl his body so his hands rest right beside his ankles, which is exactly where I want them.

Shaking my hips again, I loop my tail around the Choker’s wrists, cinching together his ankles and hands.

I grin. This scumbag’s now hogtied.

The Choker’s face flushes red as he rocks on his back, trying to wriggle free from my tail’s grip. Not going to happen, buddy.

Tapping his boot with one finger, I whisper: “I beeeeeeeeeeat you.”

The Choker struggles in a losing battle against my tail. Sharkie raises his bony arms. “The human loses!”

The angels cheer while the demons act like someone knocked their collective ice cream cones on the pavement. Boos and hisses erupt from the dark seats. Turning to the angelic side of the stadium, I wave to my cheering fans.

Sharkie glares at me, his eyes flaring red. “How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t dawdle.”

Sharkie hates it when I get any positive attention, so I always drag my winning cheers out as long as possible. The emcee keeps glaring at me, his eyes glowing ever brighter. Meanwhile, I scratch my neck as the Choker struggles with my tail. I’m not ending this for another minute, minimum. Sharkie can kiss my butt.

Raising his staff, Sharkie brings the long handle down on the Choker’s chest, spiking it straight through his heart. The human twitches, then falls slack. A ghostly version of the Choker appears above his lifeless body.

Sharkie turns to me, his beady black eyes flaring bright red. “Next time, my staff skewers your heart, too.”

I open my yap, ready to tell Sharkie exactly what he can do with his staff, when the hairs on my neck prickle. Raising my head, I scan the stadium. Every face is focused on me. Verus’s eyes glow bright turquoise while a satisfied smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Armageddon watches me with a curious interest, his right eyebrow cocked.

Time to vamoose. I don’t need any attention from those two.

“Excuse me. It’s time to call the Great Scala.” I bow low, turn on my heel, and jog into a nearby archway.

Walker waits there for me in the shadows. “Nice work.” He winks. “Hogtied is new.”

I bow slightly. “I’m trying to mix it up a bit.”

“On behalf of your audience, I appreciate the creativity.” He rubs his hands together. “Shall we depart?”

“Hmm.” Right now, I fall into the category of ‘incredibly late for school.’ I might as well make it count. “Nah.” I peep around the edge of the stone archway. “I want to see the Scala move a soul.” We don’t get monster truck rallies or boy band tours in Purgatory, so this is the closest to a spectacle that I ever get. No way am I missing it.

A muscle twitches along Walker’s jaw. “I promised to keep you out of danger.”

I roll my eyes. “Every time I finish a fight, you pull out the old ‘I promised your Mom I’d keep you safe’ speech, and try to talk me into going home. And every freaking time I talk you into letting me stay.” I elbow him in the arm. “You need some new shtick, my friend.”

Walker chuckles. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Sharkie’s staff thuds on the ground, the noise echoing through the stadium. I peek toward the Arena floor. Sharkie stands alone on the grounds, his gray-skinned head bowed. “Bring him out.” In this case, ‘him’ is the Scala, the only creature that can permanently move a soul to Heaven or Hell. Otherwise, they can (and mostly do) escape.

The Arena falls silent, the air thickening with anticipation. My heart rate quickens. We’ve had the same Scala for hundreds of years now. He’s like the human’s Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and Tooth Fairy all rolled into one. Seeing him is a huge deal. Picture the oldest, most wrinkly guy possible, then add a hundred years, a white robe and mind-boggling levels of power. That’s the Scala.

The sandy floor trembles beneath my feet. In the center of the Arena, a group of eight ghouls appear through a large portal, carrying an old man on what’s basically a fancy stretcher. The dude is ancient, crinkly, and only five feet tall. His white beard winds around his entire body.

Armageddon leans back into his dark throne, his eyes narrowing. Pure hatred rolls off him in waves. The King of Hell fathered the Scala, but the child chose to embrace his mother’s heritage as a thrax demon fighter. Armageddon never got over it.

Bit by bit, the Scala opens his eyes. Angels and demons alike fall silent. In a reedy voice that somehow carries throughout the stadium, the Scala asks in Latin: “Qui turbat Scala?”

A ghoul beside the Scala translates: “Who disturbs the Scala?”

The ghostly Choker looks still and disinterested, although beads of sweat glisten on his spectral cheek.

Sharkie bows low. “This soul has been defeated in a fair fight.” He gestures to the Choker. “We ask he be sentenced to Hell.”

The handler translates the response. The Scala nods feebly, raising his hand. Small bolts of lightning dance about his three-knuckled fingers.

“Parare ad ad infernum,” whispers the Scala.

“Prepare for Hell,” comes the translation.

Dozens of tiny lightning bolts whirl about the Scala’s withered hand. Igni. Miniscule elements of power that only he can summon.

So. Badass.

I lean against the stonewall and hug my elbows. “I love this bit.”

A smile sounds in Walker’s voice. “Me too.”

More igni appear, whirling about into a shaft of light about two feet high. A soul column. The pillar of brightness slides off the Scala’s stretcher, growing wider as it spins across the Arena floor.

The soul column surrounds the Choker’s ghostly legs. The spirit stands stunned as igni slowly climb up his body, each tiny lightning bolt swirling and diving around its neighbors like so many silver fish. For a moment the igni flare bright about the Choker’s body, then they all disappear. The damned soul vanishes to Hell.

I brush-slap my hands together in a gesture that says ‘my work here is done.’

Walker taps my shoulder. I turn my attention away from the Arena floor.

“Time to get you home, Myla.”

“Not so fast, mister.”

Walker grins. “Is this the part where you won’t leave until I agree to sneak you in to see some matches?”

He’s got me there. “Why, yes it is.” I purse my lips. My encyclopedic knowledge of demons and the Arena comes in super-handy during conversations like this one. “Some Cellula demons are being brought to the Arena next week. Suuuuuper-rare. They’re supposed to be semi-transparent and lit from within.” I twiddle my fingers on my belly as a visual aid. Walker’s a really good artist. Sometimes, he lets me keep his demon sketches too.

“Cellula, you say?”

Pay dirt. He must never have drawn these before. “Yup.”

“Deal.” He offers me his hand. “Now, I should get you to school.”

“I need to go home, actually. I still have to change and grab my stuff.” Which means I have more time-suck to enjoy before I actually have to get to class. Nice.

Walker lets out a dramatic sigh. “I’ll get an earful about you and the Tardy List.”

“You and me both.” I take his hand. “Let’s hit it.”

Walker bows his head, creating a portal nearby. My stomach turns queasy just looking at it. Together, we leave the Arena’s dirt floor, tumble through the portal’s darkness and then land on the ratty carpet in my living room. I stifle my puke reflex. Stupid portals.

Walker leans over, examining my face. “Are you alright, Myla?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I take a few deep breaths and clear my head. “Thanks.”

“Until next time.” He turns toward the open portal; I grab his sleeve.

“What?” My mouth winds with a crafty smile. “You won’t hang out with me and Mom while we discuss my awesome morning in the Arena?”

He shoots me a level stare. “Ah, no.”

“Chicken.”

“And proud.” He steps back through the opened portal and disappears.

I wish I could escape so easily. Straightening my shoulders, I prepare myself for the maternal inquisition, part deux. Usually, this flavor of interrogation starts with rapid-fire questions followed by slow hugs, sloppy tears, and loud exclamations of ‘I almost lost you, baby.’ If I’m lucky, I get homemade brownies out of it, too.

I grin. I’m feeling lucky.

CHAPTER 2

Rocking on my heels, I scan the empty living room. “Mom?” No reply.

That’s weird. Mom rarely leaves the house. Especially rare if she knows I’m going to an Arena match. Those days she stays glued by the front door.

I look around. Our one-story ranch is a long rectangle with a kitchen on the far left and a living room in the center. Two bedrooms and one bathroom make up the far right. There’s a creepy basement too, but I only go there to shove clothes into the washer and run like Hell. Everything’s empty and open, except for Mom’s bedroom.

I knock on her closed door. “Hello?”

Still no reply.

Bit by bit, I swing the door open. Mom sits at the foot of her bed, holding a purple robe. Her amber face glistens with tears. I sit by her side and wrap one arm around her slender shoulders.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

Her voice comes out low and quiet. “I was looking for sewing supplies and found this.” She twists the robe into a ball on her lap. Tears drip from her nose onto the delicate fabric.

The over-worrying Mom I can handle. Hysterical, nagging, dramatic? No problem. But this incredible, bone-crushing sadness? It makes me want to wrap her up in a blanket, then go out and kill whoever made her this miserable.

I gently squeeze her shoulders. “So, what’s that robe?”

Mom turns to me, her chocolate eyes bloodshot. “You don’t know?”

There’s a hidden knife in this question. If I answer incorrectly, I plunge it directly through her heart. My thumb moves in soothing circles on her shoulder. “No, Mom, I don’t.” I hold my breath, hoping that answer will comfort her.

It doesn’t.

Mom freezes. “I see.” All the color drains from her face.

My chest tightens. Somehow, I made her feel worse, and that makes me feel like the foulest daughter ever. If she’d only tell me what happened to her.

Mom rises to her feet, hugging the robe tightly against her belly. “I need some time alone.”

“No problem. If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.” She’s got to open up sometime.

Mom jams the robe into the bottom drawer of her dresser. “I won’t talk about it.” Her voice breaks. “Ever.”

The reality of her words slam into me like a fist. My bottom lip quivers. I never seriously considered that Mom wouldn’t eventually tell me everything about her past. But now, seeing the desperation in her bloodshot eyes, I know she never will. Whoever my father is, whatever happened to her in Armageddon’s war, those secrets will die with her.

I nod slowly, my eyes stinging. “Okay.”

She collapses on the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry, Myla.”

“It’s fine.” It’s not really, but I don’t want to say the wrong thing twice today. Closing the door behind me, I step into the living room and plunk onto the tattered couch. Knots of emotion tighten my throat. Whatever her secrets are, they’re choking the life out of us both.

I straighten my spine. The same Myla Lewis who fights incredibly evil souls can’t give up on finding out who I really am. Bit by bit, I rise to my feet, steel my shoulders and march toward my bedroom. Time to get ready for school.

After taking a quick shower, I hunt through my closet of black t-shirts and gray sweatpants. The Department of Avoiding Quasi Nakedness assigns everyone clothing; for teenagers, it’s sweats and t-shirts. My upper lip twists. What classic ghoul nonsense—like we’d all run around naked if they didn’t tell us what to wear. I throw on my least mangy sweats and t-shirt, then glance at my wristwatch. I can still catch a class before lunch with Cissy. Cool.

Swinging my backpack onto my shoulder, I head off to the nastiest, loudest and least reliable car in the universe: Betsy, our green station wagon.

Betsy’s a massive gas-guzzling masterpiece of awesomeness. She’s huge, green and filled with frayed upholstery accented by the smell of wet sneakers. Her radio doesn’t work, her engine’s unreliable, and someone glued orange pom-poms all around her windows. I love her.

I slip into the ragged front seat and rev the engine. Betsy bucks and thumps as her innards come to life. A heavy column of toxic black smoke rises behind us.

As we putter along the roads to school, I quickly give up on getting Betsy’s radio to work and scope out the landscape instead. Rows of gray tract houses stretch off in every direction. Gravel driveways divide weed-choked squares of yellow grass. Gray clouds fill the sky, as always.

Ahead, there appears a red brick building three stories high with an arched roof. The wooden sign on the yellowing lawn reads ‘DL-19 School for Quasi Servitude.’ I park Betsy in a remote corner of the parking lot. This is it, school. Yuck. It’s always an extra letdown to hit class after the adrenaline rush of the Arena.

Eh, no point delaying the inevitable any longer.

I tiptoe across the yellowing lawns. The rules state that students show up on time, and ghouls follow rules to the letter. Fighting evil souls in the Arena? Cuts me zero slack when it comes to the infamous Tardy List.

With maximum stealth, I step up to a small steel door on the side of the school. If I can sneak in here, I won’t get nailed for being late. Crossing my fingers, I jimmy the door open with my tail. Please let there be no one around. Grabbing the handle, I grit my teeth and slowly swing the rusted door open a crack. Time to peep inside.

Empty. Yeah!

I punch the air with my fist, slip through a few more doors and step onto the school’s main hallway. Students rush by. Everyone’s wearing the same standard-issue gray sweats and dark t-shirts.

Excellent, I caught the break between classes.

I scan the monochromatic crowd for Cissy. After this morning with my Mom, I really need to see her smile.

My best friend stands by her locker. While we’re both tall, I’m more on the curvy side with long auburn hair. Cissy is willowy, her blond hair hanging in shoulder-length ringlets. She has a golden retriever tail, which isn’t good in a fight but sure looks cute on her. Seeing me, her face brightens and her arms open wide. I melt into her hug.

“Good morning, Cis.”

“Hello, sweetie.” She air-kisses my cheek, then flips about to fuss with a mangy old shoebox on the top shelf of her locker.

I nod toward the strange box. “What’s that?”

Cissy closes her locker door with suspicious speed. “Nothing.”

I set my fist on my hip and smile. “What did you rescue this time?”

“Some little cocoons.” She shivers. “Dad’s redecorating our basement again and he was going to kill them all.” Cissy’s father runs our black market. Sure, the ghouls let quasis manufacture a few things, but mostly they foist earth cast-offs on us: huge black-and-white TV sets with wire bunny-ears on top, answering machines as large as a Buick, that kind of thing. Everyone goes nuts for new stuff, which is how Cissy’s family makes their money. It’s also why Cissy’s dad goes bat-shit crazy that his daughter’s more interested in saving strays than shopping. As an Arena-fighting anomaly, I definitely fall into the ‘stray’ category, in her parent’s minds anyway. We mostly hang out at my house.

Cissy pats the top of her locker door and beams. “I think one of the cocoons will open today.”

I stare at her closed locker, my mouth screwing onto one side of my face. We don’t get butterflies in Purgatory so those are… “Moths?” I wince. This is unbelievable, even for Cissy. “You saved moth larvae?”

“False! I saved cute little cocoon thingies.” She puffs out her lower lip. “They need me.” She sniffles.

Ugh, now I made her feel bad. “No worries.” I pat her shoulder with what I hope is a comforting grin. “I think it’s pretty cool.” Maybe. I yawn and scratch my neck. What a day and it’s not even noon yet. “Did I ever tell you about the time I fought the Mothma demon?”

Cissy rolls her eyes. “Only about four hundred times.” She steps back, scanning me from head to toe. “You look like Hell…In a bad way. Were you home sick all morning?”

“Nah, they sent me into the Arena.” I wink. “Took the guy down in less than a minute.” I get into battle stance. “Let me show you what happened.” I reach toward Cissy’s neck. “This guy came at me with a classic choker hold.”

My best friend raises her arms, palms forward. “Whoa, there!” She takes a giant step away. “Haven’t we talked about this?”

I stare at my toes and play dumb. “I don’t know. What do you mean?”

“I’m glad you enjoy killing things, but–”

“They’re not things. They’re super-evil souls.” Cissy’s not a fan of the Arena. Normally, that’s fine with me, but today? For some reason, it stings. Frowning, I stare at the floor. “We should get to class.”

Cissy tilts her head to one side. “Hey, honey. I didn’t mean to shut you down.” She points to her cheek. “But you did chip my tooth in fourth grade, remember? You just had to show me your screw driver.”

“Pile driver. It’s a wrestling move.”

“And that’s what I’m talking about.” She chucks my chin with her knuckle. “Why not join the rest of us in Teenager-land and talk about something other than the Arena?” Her tawny eyes twinkle as she smiles. “It would be good for you.”

Memories of this morning with my Mom flip through my mind’s eye: her trembling hands, red-rimmed eyes, and tear-stained robe. “I get that I’m different, Cissy.” My voice catches a bit. “I wish I knew why.”

My best friend lets out a long breath. “Did we have a close encounter of the Camilla-kind this morning?”

“Yup.” I frown.

“Well, then.” She sets her hand on my shoulder. “I know someone who gets to eat my brownie at lunch.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze; warmth fills my chest. Cissy knows just what to say to make everything right.

A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Really?” Cissy makes kick-ass brownies.

“Absolutely.”

Paulette Richards walks by, ruining the moment. “Hello there, lovelies!” She slowly waves her hand, careful to show off her glittering new watch.

Oh no.

“Hey, P.” I give her a limp wave in reply.

Brown-haired and cocoa-skinned, Paulette has a funky lizard tail and a talent for driving Cissy crazy. “Did you see my new watch?”

Cissy scans it with an expert glance. “Dad’s running a special on these this month.” She shrugs. “Who gave it to you?”

“Zeke! Can you believe it? He’s like the best boyfriend in the universe.” Her eyes twinkle with a red glow.

I fold my arms across my chest. “Really?” Everyone knows Zeke’s notorious for random hook-ups with gifts. Cissy’s even more notorious for being obsessed with Zeke. What a bitchy move from Paulette. My eyes narrow. “So, P. Have you met Zeke’s friends yet?”

Paulette’s lizard tail cracks behind her like a whip. “No, but I’m sure I will soon.” Turning on her heel, she almost skips down the hall.

I grit my teeth, knowing the shit-storm that’ll hit once Paulette’s out of earshot.

Cissy grabs my arm. “Zeke gave her that?” Her eyes flare red. “My. Zeke. Ryder.”

Here it comes. Every quasi has a bit of demon DNA aligned to one of the seven deadly sins: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. In my case, my deadly sin is wrath, which is why I’m such a good fighter. For Cissy, it’s envy, which is why she’s about to launch into an hour-long monologue on why Zeke should be giving her Rolexes, not Paulette. Over the years, I’ve learned to half-listen.

“…and if he hasn’t introduced her to his friends, then she’s just a fling.” Cissy sets her fists on her hips. “Plus, that boy gives pricey presents to anyone who shows him their tits.” Her gaze swings toward me, her eyes glowing red. “Myla, have you been listening to me?”

“Um, yeah.” I glance at my own watch. “Hells bells! We’ll have to catch up at lunch; class is about to start.” Unfortunately, this class might as well be on the other side of the planet. With a quick wave goodbye, I take off at a run for History.

I’m a sweaty mess when I reach the door. Inside, our teacher paces the room. She’s the hated MT-12, Miss Thing to her students. Like all ghouls, she’s tall and bony with chalky gray skin and a bald head. She’s always decked out in cherry red lipstick and matching high heels, which only make her look creepier in her long black robes. At least, she always wears her hood up.

From what I’ve seen on the human channel of our crappy public access TV, quasi classrooms are like their earthly counterparts. A teacher stands before rows of students; a single door is the only way in or out. The big differences are the Oligarchy glamour shots covering the walls and the modified desk-chairs with back-holes for our tails. Taking a deep breath, I open the door.

“Class, open to page 136 in Quasi Servitude Through the Ages.”

I tiptoe into the room. Miss Thing freezes. Her coal-black eyes bore into my back.

“Myla Lewis, you’re late.”

“Sorry. I was at the Arena for–”

“I don’t want excuses.” Miss Thing pounds the tabletop; I’m pretty sure she breaks an overly-long red nail. “Just because you’re called for servitude at the Arena does not give you special rights to break the rules.”

I race into my favorite seat, which is a corner desk in the last row, aka as far away from the teacher as possible. “Understood.”

Miss Thing glares at me for a full minute, then returns her attention to the opened book on her desk. “As we see on page 136, the quasis mis-managed Purgatory for eons, forcing Armageddon to liberate these lands twenty years ago. All of which was inevitable, since quasis are the weakest creatures in all the five realms.”

I grit my teeth and grip my desktop like I’ll snap it in two. I don’t need more ‘Armageddon is awesome’ talk today. Miss Thing taps her chin with her red pinky nail. “Who can name the five realms and their people?”

Paulette raises her hand, the better to show off her new Rolex.

“Paulette?”

“Heaven with angels, Hell with demons, ghouls in the Dark Lands, quasis in Purgatory and–” Paulette frowns.

Miss Things rolls her eyes. “Thrax in Antrum.”

Paulette’s face reddens.

Our teacher lets out a high-pitched giggle. “Don’t worry, you silly little fool. You just illustrated my point about your people being a lower form of life.” Miss Thing launches into a ‘lecture’ that’s basically a quasi-hating version of Armageddon’s war. The way she teaches history, the class should be entitled ‘Why Quasis Suck Through the Ages.’

Sighing, I pull out my textbook and try to focus. I’ve been reading the same sentence six times when someone clears his throat. Barf. I know the sound of that particular someone anywhere. Bit by bit, I turn my head and glance across the row.

That’s when I realize the awful truth: I’ve made the worst seating decision in the history of the universe. I’m parked right beside Zeke Ryder, Cissy’s mega-crush and my personal stalker.

Zeke’s power is all lust. He’s tall, pale, and handsome, every inch packed with muscles and pheromones. His caramel eyes, chiseled features, and messy blonde hair are perfectly matched with a monkey tail. Every girl’s knees turn to Jell-O before him, except for me, making me a challenge-slash-target since the third grade.

“Hello, kitten.” Zeke waves in my direction. He’s wearing standard issue sweats, a black t-shirt, and his trademark come-hither stare.

Pointing to the teacher, I make my ‘shh’ face.

Zeke arches his eyebrow. “You coming to my party Friday night?”

“No.” His last ‘party’ consisted of two cans of beer and the back seat of his limo. The black eye I gave him lasted for weeks. What a bust for my first attempted kiss. At least, I had fun punching him.

My back teeth lock as I glance around the room. Every girl within pheromone-smelling distance aims goo-goo eyes at Zeke. Why am I the only one who thinks his Mister Romance routine is annoying? I’m probably the only senior at school who’s never had a crush, never been kissed. What’s up with that?

I straighten my shoulders and angle my body away from Zeke. I’ve got more important things to worry about than boys, THAT’S what’s up with that. I pretend to be very interested in my textbook. Hopefully, he’ll get the hint.

“Not so fast, babe.” He points to the envelope half-hanging out of my backpack. “It’s not that kind of party. Take a look.”

“This was from you?” Pulling out the letter, I turn it over in my fingers. “I was going to read this today anyway.” I pause. My tail tries to shred the rest of the envelope. I smack the arrowhead end and reset the letter into my backpack.

Zeke flashes me a white-toothed smile. “Why don’t you read it right now?”

Miss Thing stares out the window, monologue-ing on how quasis sent too many souls into Heaven, which was super-unfair to the poor demons. I could samba down the aisle right now and she probably wouldn’t notice me.

Zeke has the same idea. “Miss Thing won’t see you. Go ahead. Take a look.”

I pull the envelope out of my backpack and set it on my lap.

Zeke arches another eyebrow. “I can’t believe this. Is the fearless Arena fighter too scared to open one ittle-wittle envelope?”

That did it. I tear open the letter with a vengeance. Inside I find an embossed invitation that reads: You and a guest are cordially invited to attend a diplomatic gala in honor of our ghoul overlords and their noble allies, the demons. Friday, the 13th, The Ryder Mansion, Upper Purgatory. Formal dress only. Doors open at 8 PM.

I run one finger over the embossed letters. “Is this for real?”

“Absolutely. You can bring a friend too, if you want.” Cissy’s crush on Zeke is nothing less than monstrous; she’ll never forgive me if I pass this up. Maybe he’s not as dumb as he looks.

After the last ‘party’ Zeke invited me to, I should be skeptical. But there are four good reasons to attend this one. First, Zeke’s dad really is a wealthy diplomat known for hosting delegations of ghouls and demons. Second, the party’s at his parent’s mansion where he’s less likely to get nasty. Third, I’ll bring Cissy (with her crush she’s better protection than parents). And fourth, the single fact I know about my own father is that he was a diplomatic something-or-other. I can’t miss the chance to learn more.

“I’ll think about it.”

Zeke’s mouth arcs into a satisfied smile. “That’s all I ask.”

I forget about the invitation until the end of the school day. Cissy and I sit in the back row of Lessons in Servitude class. It’s taught by OT-42–we call him the Old Timer–who’s known for his huge handlebar moustache, broken teeth, and blazing hatred of talking in class. His receding head of gray hair is tied back into a teensy ponytail at the base of his neck. Other than that, he’s pretty standard ghoul material: tall, dark, and gruesome.

“We have an important lesson today.” The Old Timer stalks around the classroom, his thin frame setting his long robes swaying. He pulls back his black hood and scans the rows of desks, twiddling his handlebar moustache.

“Today, we’ll learn how to prepare appealing meals for your masters.” The Old Timer’s thin indigo lips round into a demonic smile. “Exciting, eh?” He starts yapping about how happy we’ll make our overlords by preparing delicious dinners for them. I start doodling ‘Lessons in Stupid-tude’ over and over in my notebook.

Cissy’s tawny eyes focus on the envelope that half-hangs out of my backpack. “What’s that?”

I keep scribbling away. It looks productive and passes the time.

Cissy clears her throat. “I asked you a question, Myla.” She points at the envelope again.

I yawn. “Oh, that’s our invite for Zeke’s party Friday night.”

Cissy starts hyperventilating. “That’s an invite to where Friday night?”

I stop scribbling and realize my huge error. “Uh, I’ll tell you later.”

The Old Timer finishes his speech on pleasing our overlords. Half the class chit-chat in little groups. One guy snores in the back row.

“Impertinence!” The Old Timer stops twiddling his mustache so quickly, I think he’ll rip it off his face. “Pay attention to your master!” The room falls quiet; the sleeping kid raises his head. If the Old Timer were a cartoon, he’d have smoke coming out of his ears right now.

“That settles it.” Our teacher strides over to his desk, jotting down a quick note. “To punish your lack of focus, we shall have tests all next week.” He slaps his bony fists onto the tabletop. “That means robe-cleaning, foot massage, and groveling etiquette, as well as our lesson for today, meal preparation.”

A long groan erupts from the students; everyone sits straighter in their chairs. The dog-tailed kids stop wagging.

“At last, I have your full attention.” The Old Timer rubs his gray hands together, explaining how ghouls like things spicy, drink cough syrup like wine, and are allergic to fish. Oh, they eat a ton of worms too. “Everyone follow me to the demonstration area.”

The class steps over to a long metal table. Our teacher picks up a huge bowl of wriggling worms in his left hand and a tall bottle of Tabasco sauce in his right. “Who wants to prepare a delicious meal?” He looks like a cross between a black-robed scarecrow and Betty Crocker.

Cissy pokes me in the ribs. “Zeke asked me to go too, didn’t he? Please tell me he did.” She really needs a hobby.

I hip-check her. “Quiet, Cis. You’ll get us in trouble.”

“Myla Lewis.” The Old Timer snaps his gray head in my direction. “Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of those in servitude?”

“No, sir.”

The Old Timer sets the worm-bowl and Tabasco sauce onto the prep table. “Perhaps you believe your special status as Arena fighter means you don’t have to follow class rules like everyone else?”

I frown. The one thing that sucks about Arena matches is listening to everyone complain about my ‘special treatment’ afterwards. In all of Purgatory, there are only a few dozen Quasis across who fight in the Arena, and we’re all descended from Furor demons. The Furor are known for not one, but two deadly sins: lust and wrath. Clearly, I only inherited the wrath part, which is why I’m an especially good Arena fighter. And yeah, I do think I deserve special treatment. Hey, I kept an evil soul out of Heaven this morning. Where’s the love?

Opening my mouth, I’m about to say something to that effect when I glance into the Old Timer’s oily black eyes. No love for me there, that’s for sure. I bite my lower lip. “Whatever you say, sir.” Suck it, loser.

The Old Timer lets out an indignant puff of air. “What does the rest of the class think? Should Myla have special treatment because she wrestles a few ghosts?”

Thirty sets of eyes turn in my direction, everyone looking at me with a gaze that says ‘hey, I forgot about that freaky fighting girl.’ This attitude is an improvement, actually. Time was, they all teased me mercilessly. That ended when I put Billy Summers in hospital back in first grade. That’s when Cissy took pity on me too, wrapping me up in her little shoebox of friendship. I’ve cherished her ever since.

The Old Timer taps his foot. “Well, class?”

No one wants to get their ass kicked like Billy Summers, so they all keep their yaps shut.

“I see.” The Old Timer eyes the bowl of worms. “Myla, since you seem to deserve special treatment, perhaps you’ll demonstrate how to make worm soufflé.”

Oh my sweet evil. Not worm soufflé.

I take a deep breath. “Yes, sir.” Stepping up to the table, I eye the massive bowl of nasty, writhing, and greasy worms. Even for a quasi-demon, this is gross stuff.

The Old Timer grins, showing a mouthful of cracked and yellow teeth. “First, you must mush the worms into a pulp.”

I cringe. Okay, that’s totally repulsive. Scanning the room, I see every set of eyes still locked on me. I try twisting my disgusted sneer into a cool and casual grin, but I just end up looking constipated.

“Got it.” My stomach somersaults. “Is there a spoon or something?”

“Absolutely not,” says the Old Timer. “This must be done with your bare hands.”

“Oooooookay.” Bit by bit, my trembling fingers inch toward the wriggling mass of gray and brown nasties.

At that moment, Cissy lets out as yelp. “Angels! Angels!” She points to the window; the class runs to look. I follow, thrilled for the diversion.

Sure enough, a pair of angels walk the school grounds below, accompanied by the school’s Headmaster and Superintendent. The Old Timer stares through the glass, his black eyes wide as saucers. His voice comes out in a nervous whisper. “Ghouls and angels?”

Angels rarely visit Purgatory outside of Arena matches, let alone go for strolls with ghouls. My mind spins with the possibilities, returning again and again to the same thought: this little distraction puts worm soufflé time on hold! I can’t help but grin.

“What in blazes are angels doing here?” The Old Timer twirls his handlebar moustache with bony fingers, his ebony eyes lost in thought.

Cissy half-raises her arm. “Sir, class is almost over.” We’ve got fifteen minutes, but Cissy uses new math.

With his eyes still locked on the window, the Old Timer dreamily waves his hand. “You’re all dismissed.”

Cissy grips my wrist. “We’re going to your house after school.” She drags me toward the door. “This is an official emergency. We’ve got to talk.”

My upper lip curls. One guess what she wants to chat about.

CHAPTER 3

The entire ride home, Cissy fiddles with Betsy’s radio and grills me about every millisecond of my interaction with Zeke. It’s amazing how many details she thinks are important. ‘Did he look directly into your eyes when he asked that question?’ ‘Were his arms crossed over his chest like this?’ And, of course, there’s the ever-popular ‘Did he ask you about me?’ When I run out of answers, I start making stuff up. It’s easier that way.

Cissy’s eyes flare with a bit of red. “Did he give you his smoldering look?” She’s created an elaborate filing system for Zeke’s goo-goo eyes. Blech. This boy-crazy crap makes me a little nuts. Not only because it’s dumb, repetitive, and a total waste of time, but also because part of me wishes I’d felt that way. Maybe once.

“Smoldering look.” I smack my lips. “What do you mean?”

Her eyes blaze red. “You know exactly what I mean. He gives you that look all the time. Zeke so likes you and you could care less. It’s not fair.”

I grip the steering wheel tighter and brainstorm ways to change the subject. There are two Cissys. One is my sweet friend with a big heart who can’t help but take care of oddballs like me. The other’s an obsessive nut job who goes demon-eyed with envy over whatever’s the object of her desire. Like Zeke. “Put the brakes on your inner demon, Cissy girl. Do you want to miss this chance?”

“What chance?” Cissy slumps into the seat, kicking her foot onto the dashboard. “You’ll be at the party too. Let’s be honest. He won’t notice I exist.”

“Hey, now.” I can’t stand to see Cissy so down on herself. “This is like…like…”

Cissy frowns. “Like what?”

“Well, it’s like fighting a Cellula demon. Do you let its projectiles wrap around you until it squeezes you to death? NO!” I pound the steering wheel with my fist for emphasis. “You reach inside the membrane and pull out its nucleus!”

The edge of Cissy’s mouth quirks upwards; her eyes return to their regular tawny brown. “I’m not exactly sure what you just said, but I think it was something like ‘don’t give up?’”

“Yeah.” I whack the steering wheel again; I’m on a roll. “Who lives in the one house in Purgatory that can get any kind of dress, make-up, or hair goop in the five realms? YOU. If Zeke’s what you want, sitting in the car and moping isn’t going to get him for you. Get your Barbie on and knock his socks off.”

Cissy sits up, her mouth rounding into a full grin. “You know what? You’re absolutely right.”

“Damn straight, I’m right.” I pull the car into the driveway and kill the ignition. Betsy’s engine kicks with a loud thump. “Now, let’s chow down on some Demon bars.”

Cissy pumps her fist in the air. “Huzzah!”

I park the car, walk through the front door, and update Mom that Cissy will be here for the rest of the week, talking non-stop about Zeke’s party on Friday.

Mom perks up immediately. “A party in the Ryder mansion?” She opens different kitchen cabinets, pulling out ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. Whoa, that’s unexpectedly awesome.

“Yup.” Cissy twirls one golden lock of hair around her finger. “I don’t know what I’ll wear.”

Mom hauls the mixer out from its hiding place above the fridge. “I have an old contact at Versace. I’ll write the name down for your parents. They’re great at whipping up something special on short notice.”

I slide into my favorite seat at our kitchen table (the one with the perfectly-sized back-hole for my tail) and watch Mom putter around the kitchen, a rare smile on her amber face. Since when does she know anyone at Versace?

“Thanks so much, Momma Lewis.” Cissy draws circles on the tabletop with her finger. “Want me to get something for Myla, too?” She looks expectantly from me to my mother.

“Nonsense!” Mom juts out her chin. “I attended my share of diplomatic events back in the day; I saved all my dresses. I have the perfect one for you, Myla!”

My face stretches into a sly grin. “All this talk about diplomatic events must remind you of someone.” As in my father. I shoot her a look that says ‘this is me, not giving up.’

Mom gathers up my long auburn hair, piling it at different angles atop my head. “We’re not talking about that, Myla.” She lightly pinches my cheeks to turn them blush-red. “I know just what we’ll do with your hair and make-up too.”

I pause, biting my lower lip. Versace, diplomats, parties at the Ryder mansion…Do I push for the millionth time for information about my father?

Cissy sighs. “If you’re starting one of those ‘who’s my dad’ fights, I’m going home.”

Mom keeps fussing with my hair. “I’m not fighting.”

I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “Okay, you don’t want to talk about Dad. Maybe you can talk about your diplomatic work? What were the events you attended at the Ryder mansion?”

Mom hums a nonsense tune, twisting my hair in different angles. “I never answered these questions before and I won’t start now.”

I let out an exasperated gasp. “Come on, Mom! This is so unfair. Can’t you tell me one little thing?”

Cissy thunks her forehead onto the tabletop. “No way! This sounds like a ‘who’s my Dad’ fight plus a ‘what did you do before the war, Mom’ battle. Can I please save us all some time?” She sits upright, making her two hands talk to each other like puppets.

Cissy’s first hand ‘speaks.’ “Mom, I really want to know who Dad is.” Cissy gives me a very whiny voice. We’ll have a chat later about that.

Her second hands ‘replies.’ “No.” Her mom voice is totally grouchy and right on the money.

‘My’ hand: “What did you do before the war?”

‘Mom’s’ hand: “I can’t tell you.”

“Not one eensy beensy bit?”

“No.”

“But I really, really want to know.” Cissy’s puppet-Myla jumps up and down.

“No, no, no, no, no. Now, go to your room and ask your friend to go home.”

Cissy stands up, taking a bow. “Thank you, thank you! Show’s over.” She plunks back into her seat. “Now, can we talk about the party?”

I set my hands over my face. “No.” She’s not charming me off the subject this time.

Cissy gently moves my hand until I peep at her between my fingers. “That’s not my Myla.” She shoots me a sweet grin.

I try to pout, but I slowly smile instead. Once again, Cissy knows exactly what to say to get everything back on track. No doubt our school will be overrun with moths in a matter of weeks, too. I drop my hands. “Fine, let’s talk about the party.”

Mom grins as well. “Absolutely. I was saying I could do your hair and make-up.”

“I can do my own hair and make-up, Mom. But if you can find a dress for me, that would be awesome.”

“And shoes too,” adds Cissy.

“Of course!” Mom sashays from the room; I hear the pit-pat of footsteps in our attic crawlspace. The rest of the afternoon, Mom pores through old boxes while humming a tuneless song. Meanwhile, Cissy and I actively avoid homework by watching the Brady Bunch marathon on the Human Channel.

All in all, a good day.

A bony finger pokes my bare toe. I peep out from under my comforter, seeing Walker at the foot of my bed.

“You are called to serve.”

I glance at my alarm clock. “It’s 5 AM, Walker.” And tonight is Zeke’s party. “This makes it twice in one week.”

Walker shrugs, rubbing his sideburns with his bony hand. From the other side of our ranch house, I hear Mom nervously clunking around the kitchen.

I roll over and stare at Walker out of my right eye. I know there’s no way out of this (not to mention that there isn’t anything else I’d rather do with my morning), but that doesn’t stop me from giving him a hard time. “Couldn’t find anyone else, eh?”

A smile tugs at his mouth. “No.”

“In that case, I guess I could go.”

Walker steps toward the door. “Don’t worry, there’s another fighter that I could–”

I jump in front of him, blocking any exit from my room. “Don’t you dare!”

Walker smiles. He really is way too handsome for ghoul. “So, you will fight?”

I punch him in the upper arm. “You know it, slim.” I speed through getting dressed, stuffing my face with cereal, and passing my morning interrogation with the Maternal Grand Inquisitor.

Walker steeples his hands under his chin. “Time to go, Myla.”

“Finally!” I clear my throat. “I mean, let’s go.” I’m totally pumped to have two fights in one week, but I don’t want Mom to have an aneurism. I give her a quick peck on the cheek. “See you later.”

She grips my shoulders. “Be safe, Myla-la. You’re all I have in the world.” She sniffles. “If I lost you…”

“No worries. I’ll be super incredibly safe. Bye now.” I grab Walker’s hand and almost run through the portal. It doesn’t matter how many times I do this, it always makes me sick to my stomach. When I step out onto the Arena floor, my head feels a little loopy too.

Fighting the fog in my brain, I inspect the grounds around me. Beside me stands Walker, Sharkie, XP-22, and good old Sheila, the Limus demon. As I struggle to focus, my fuzzy mind misses the procession of demons and angels into the stands. By the time my head clears, Sharkie’s ready to announce the match.

“Demons and angels!” The emcee’s deep voice echoes through the massive Arena. “I bring you another spectacle of efficiency in ghoul administration of Purgatory.”

At this point, a roar would typically erupt from the Arena’s demon population. Instead, there’s perfect silence. I scan the stadium; Armageddon sits unmoving on his ebony throne. His red eyes glow brightly; his thin mouth is set into a frown.

Sharkie eyes the stands carefully, then gestures to the dark balcony. “I would ask the greatest general in history to say a few words before the match. Armageddon, if you please!”

The demon lord swings his leg over the arm of his black throne, his scarlet eyes scanning the crowd with pure malice. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Okay, that’s weird. Normally, these matches start with a mutual love-fest between Armageddon and the ghoul hierarchy. Things seem oddly icy today. I rub my neck and yawn. Or maybe my brain hasn’t woken up yet.

Verus rises to her feet. “I’d like to say a few words.”

Sharkie stares at Armageddon for a long moment, his jaw hanging open. Verus never speaks at these events. Sharkie bows to her. “Uh, yes. Please.” He snaps back into emcee mode. “Ghouls, demons, and angels! You all know Verus as the Oracle, the only angel with the gift for seeing the future. What would you like to share with us today? A prediction for the match?”

Verus takes to her feet, her great wings extending. “We angels can’t help but notice that the Scala is getting on in years.” Her gaze rounds on Armageddon, a sly look twinkling in her eyes. “It is time the Scala Heir was announced and brought to these matches.”

I gasp. There hasn’t been a Scala Heir for ages. I’ve heard the stories, of course: at any point in time, there’s one Scala and one Scala Heir. Of all the creatures across the five realms, only these two mortals have the blood of a human, demon, and angel. My tail arcs over my shoulder, ready to strike. Somehow, Verus bringing up the Scala Heir sets my warrior instinct on alert. Bad mojo.

Around the top lip of the stadium, the Oligarchy turn their heads in unison toward Verus. They speak in one voice, the sound a mix of low rumble and hiss. “We have no need of a Scala Heir.”

Verus slowly wags her head from side to side. “The Scala is powerful, but he is mortal. That’s why there’s always been a Scala and a Scala Heir. We haven’t seen an Heir since Armageddon’s War.” She folds her arms into her long white sleeves. “The angels appreciate these matches as a demonstration of efficiency, but how effective is your administration without an Heir?”

Armageddon snaps his long black fingers. A red-skinned demon with horns and a pitchfork steps up to the greater demon’s side. “Where’s the Scala Heir? The thrax we caught at the border to Hell?”

The red demon swallows. “Dead, my lord.”

Armageddon’s eyes flare red. “Why?”

“You thought him insolent, my lord.”

The King of Hell scratches his cheek. “Ah yes, I remember now.” His mouth curls into a sickening grin. “He died very well indeed.”

I shiver. ‘Very well indeed’ means he came up with something especially creative and painful. Oy.

Armageddon gestures to Verus. “There’s been no Scala Heir for nearly twenty years. Why question it now?”

Verus bows her dark head. “We deem the time ripe.”

“Whatever are you up to?” He drums his long fingers on the armrest of his throne. “Is there a prophecy involved?”

“To an Oracle, there’s always a prophecy.” Her eyes flare bright blue. “Answer my question. The Scala Heir.”

“We’ll find the poor sod.” He leans forward, setting his bony elbows on his knees. His eyes narrow as his stare locks with Verus’s steady gaze. The air becomes charged with strange, oppressive energy. My chest tightens.

Armageddon’s eyes flare bright red. “It’s about time I made another Scala Heir suffer.”

The word ‘suffer’ echoes strangely about my head. In my mind’s eye, I see a man with mismatched eyes and jet-black hair. He’s a burly powerhouse of muscle, covered in blood and screaming. I don’t know why, but I feel certain he’s the last Scala Heir. My knees turn watery beneath me. A heavy patch of clouds roll past the always-gray sky, darkening the Arena.

Somehow, Walker is at my side, his hand set about my shoulder. His arm is lean and roped with muscle, stronger than I would have expected. “What’s wrong Myla?”

The man’s screaming face fills my mind. “You don’t see it?”

“No, Myla. You’re catching energy from Verus and Armageddon. Sometimes, it causes hallucinations.” He scans the skies. “Just a few seconds more.”

Verus inspects the crowd with ice-blue eyes. “Let the games begin.” She wears a satisfied smile as she slowly resettles into her white stone throne.

“So be it.” Sharkie thumps his staff onto the ground. The sky lightens, my legs become solid beneath me again. What the Hell is going on?

Walker releases his hold on my shoulder. “Alright now?”

“Yeah, thanks.” I suck in a few deep breaths. “What was all that? I felt like I’d pass out.”

“Battle of wills between Verus and Armageddon. I felt it too, but not to the point of seeing any visions.” Walker wraps his hand in mine. His skin is warm and comforting. “You need to prepare yourself to fight, Myla. They’re about to summon the soul. Can you do that for me?”

I give his hand a squeeze and crack my neck from side to side. “Hells, yeah.” With each passing second, more strength pours back through me. “Bring it on.”

Walker grins. “That’s my girl.”

Sharkie thumps his scythe again. “We summon the soul for battle.” A ghostly woman materializes beside him. Wiry and thin, she has slightly hunched shoulders and frizzy gray hair down to her waist. A constellation of scars covers her swollen face.

The human woman quickly raises one arm, pointing to Sheila. “I choose her.”

Sharkie pauses. “So, you choose trial by combat?”

“Yes,” the woman says quickly. “And I choose the green demon.”

The emcee gestures toward me, Walker and the other ghoul. “You three must depart.” Turning to the woman, Sharkie adds: “And you must prepare for battle.” The human nods, bows slightly to the Limus demon, and crumples onto her knees. From the way her shoulders shake, I’m pretty sure she’s crying.

I follow Walker into one of the Arena’s archways, anxiety curling its way across my shoulders. That scene back there is just plain wrong in so many ways. Once inside the shadows, I stare at the ground, only vaguely aware of Sharkie reading the rules of combat.

I turn to Walker. “This has got to be my weirdest day in the Arena. First, there’s all that stuff about the Scala Heir and a weird power struggle between Verus and Armageddon. Second, I’m yanked out of bed to fight some old human who’s sitting there crying? I only go up against the worst of the worst.”

“There’s nothing I can say.” Walker’s gaze meets mine, his black eyes glistening in the pale light. “You’re precious to me, Myla.” He raises his hand and presses it to my cheek. His skin is warmer than I expected.

Realization slams into me. “You know what this is all about, don’t you?” I wrap my fingers around his hand. “Tell me.”

“I’ve watched Verus for years. I know how she thinks.”

“And how’s that?”

Walker frowns. I know Mom bullied him into telling me zero about himself. But he does more with his life than ferry me back and forth to matches. He must know something about what really happened today.

He drops his hand. “I’ve said too much already.” Turning on his heel, he starts to walk away.

I block his path. “Tell me what you were going to say. I promise I won’t press you for more. I know you made some kind of promise to my mother.” I stare into his liquid black eyes and hope with everything in me: please, tell me something.

Relief washes over Walker’s face. “I can say this. I believe you impressed Verus with your defeat of the Choker. She’s taken an interest in you now. She specifically requested you come to the Arena today, but I don’t think it was to fight.”

“Why then?”

“To hear about their search for the Scala Heir, perhaps. But definitely to see this.” He gestures to the open archway to the Arena floor. The human still crouches on her knees, sobbing quietly. Sheila closes the distance between them, green saliva dripping from her gaping mouth.

Waves of red-hot anger rip through my body. Every fiber of my being says that woman should not be killed and sent to Hell. I just know it. “That’s wrong, Walker.” My eyes flash demon red. “Why isn’t that woman going to Heaven?”

“Some souls believe they deserve Hell, even if a trial would send them to Heaven.” He shakes his head from side to side. “Under the old regime, quasis would never have allowed this human to choose trial by combat.”

And she’d be going to Heaven right now. A hollow feeling creeps into my bones. She’s purposefully losing the battle so her soul can be consumed in Hell.

On instinct, my back arches. My toes dig deep into the dirt, preparing to run. I scope out the distance from my spot to the woman’s. I could reach her in seconds. She doesn’t belong in Hell. I won’t let it happen.

I’m halfway out the archway when Walker yanks me back. “What are you doing, Myla?”

I shake him off. “It doesn’t seem right. Maybe I can grab her–”

“And get torn apart by a thousand demons.” He wags his head from side to side. “That would help no one.”

My voice catches in my throat. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“Not at this time, I’m afraid.” He scans the Arena, his gaze resting on Verus. “But soon, maybe. I believe our angel allies have a plan to give Purgatory back to your people.”

My heart kicks into overdrive. Purgatory free? Armageddon and his cronies gone? Count me in. “What will they want me to do?” I slap my palm onto my forehead. “Of course, that’s more than obvious. Fight.”

“Most likely.” He sighs. “But with angels, you never know for certain until it’s too late.”

CHAPTER 4

I try to focus in history class, but it’s no use. The human’s sobs haunt my mind. I draw her scarred face in my notebook, but the lines blur. My hand keeps shaking.

Across the room, Zeke stares in my direction, his blonde eyebrows wagging suggestively. He mouths four words: “You. Me. Party. Tonight.” And this actually works on other girls? Shifting in my chair, I angle my back toward him and keep scribbling.

Miss Thing’s voice breaks through my internal haze. “Class, today we’ll learn about the Scala.” I drop my pen and look up.

For once, school is getting interesting.

I’ve only seen the Scala a handful of times. With so many souls to move, he basically specializes in mass migrations, thousands of souls at once. You have to be pretty nasty badass to get a solo transfer. I picture the mysterious old dude on his stretcher, moving souls to Heaven or Hell with a wave of his hand. Coooooooool.

“Turn to page 402 in Purgatory Through the Ages.”

I open my book and stare at the page. Then, I close my eyes, blink three times to clear my head, and stare again. On the sheet before me is a picture of a young man, burly and strong. An ebony beard covers much of his smiling face. His arm is wrapped about a slender woman with mismatched eyes and long blonde hair. The caption under the image reads Maxon and Esme Bane.

“This is our current Scala when he was a youth.” Miss Thing smacks her cherry-red lips together. “Maxon Bane was born in 1157 on the realm of Earth in a place called England. Who can tell me what type of creature he is?”

Zeke raises his hand. “He’s thrax. They’re demon hunters.”

“Excellent, Zeke; you’ll make a fine servant one day. And how do we know he’s thrax?”

“The eyes.” Zeke points to the picture on the page. “One’s blue and one’s brown. Thrax are part human and part angel. The blue eye’s the angel part; the brown’s human.”

“Very good.” Miss Thing waves her hand dismissively. “None of you will leave Purgatory, but if you do, remember Zeke’s words. Anyone with different colored eyes are thrax, and thrax hunt demons. It doesn’t matter if you’re a quasi or greater demon. Anyone with demon blood will be murdered by these criminals.” She claps her hands. “Now turn to page 457.”

I fiddle with my book until a familiar face fills the sheet before me: one with shining black skin, a blade-like nose and glowing red eyes.

“Class, can anyone tell me who this is?”

My mouth answers on its own. “Armageddon.”

“That’s right. Who said that?”

I half-raise my hand. “I did.”

“Myla.” Miss Thing’s upper lip curls. “I see you’ve learned at least one useful fact in the Arena. Yes, that’s Armageddon, the King of Hell and the father of Maxon; his mother’s a thrax woman named Sara. Together, the blood of angel, demon, and human run in the veins of Maxon, turning a useless thrax into the one and only Scala.” With a flick of her fingers, she snaps shut the book on her desk.

I raise my hand.

“Yes, Myla?”

“Has the Scala ever decided not to process a soul?” I picture the woman with the scarred face. Maybe the Scala would refuse to move her.

Miss Thing’s huge eyes stretch even wider. “No, never. Every Scala does exactly as they’re told. Always, always, always. In fact, no Scala would never dream of doing anything other than what a ghoul tells them.”

The way she’s overdoing it, I’m guessing the Scala could be a real pain the neck if he wanted to be. Although, considering how old the current Scala is, he probably does exactly as ordered, as long as they take care of him. My heart sinks. That’s not good news for the woman at the Arena.

I stare at the picture of Maxon Bane again. I hadn’t thought about it before, but if the Scala stops processing souls, Purgatory grinds to a halt. I suppose it’s a good thing for the ghouls that the current Scala only cares about sleeping, eating mushy foods, and getting carried around on a stretcher.

Paulette lifts her hand, careful to flash her beloved Rolex in the process. “So, the only time a thrax and a demon got, um, together was in 1157?”

“Hardly.” Miss Thing rolls her buggy eyes. “But while a Scala lives, no other being can be born with the blood of an angel, demon, and human. The Scala is literally one of a kind, which is why Armageddon rescued him in the first place.” She grins, showing a smear of red lipstick on her yellowing front teeth.

Rescued or kidnapped? Miss Thing is the Mistress of Spin.

I raise my hand. “What about the Scala Heir?”

“An interesting point.” She narrows her eyes. “At one time, it was believed there was both a Scala and a Scala Heir. Both mortals had the blood of an angel, demon, and human in them. Many years ago, a thrax man claimed to be the Scala Heir. He was killed, and no one else has come forward to replace him. It’s been so long, many of us question if the Scala Heir ever really existed.”

Miss Thing folds her arms over her chest. “But whether or not it exists, the Scala Heir is nothing.” When she speaks again, her words echo strangely around the room: “Whoever controls the Scala, controls everything.”

The rest of the day zooms by. I drive Betsy back home, grab a snack and dive into my new issue of Quasi Life magazine. I plunk onto my bed, pick up the glossy journal and start skimming the pages. One story catches my eye: Ten Ways to Make Your Ghoul Love You. I scan the article. Number ten: try our new worms and jalapeno recipe.

Ack.

Gagging, I toss the magazine onto my bedroom floor.

Mom waddles into my room, a huge cardboard box balanced in her arms. “Hello, my little Myla-la!” She plunks the container onto my dresser and bounces on the balls of her feet. “Let’s get ready for the party!”

I slide off the bed and stand on my tiptoes, trying to peep into the box. “What did you pick out? I can’t wait to see it.”

“You’re going to love it. But close your eyes…I want this to be a surprise.” Her face looks so joyful I can’t say no.

“Okay.” I shut my eyes.

As the dress slips over my head, Mom asks the question all seniors dread: “How are your assessments going?” This is a grueling year-long process that ends with being assigned a life-long service.

“The tests haven’t started yet.”

“Have you thought about becoming a seamstress?” Mom gives my arm a gentle pinch. “We could work at home and be together all the time. Would be much safer than the Arena.”

Stop fighting in the Arena? No freaking way! I’m about to tell her that, but the hope glistening in her brown eyes stops me cold. I can’t burst her bubble yet. “Wow, that’s a really great offer.” I shift my weight from foot to foot. “But, you know, senior year started a few weeks ago. I’ve still got time.”

Mom zips up the back of my dress. “Don’t take too long. Graduation will be here before you know it, and Arena fights aren’t enough of a service on their own.”

“Uh, they aren’t?” My mouth falls open. “Are you sure?”

“What do you think?” She winks. She probably researched this years ago.

My body feels cold. “Uh, let’s not talk about that now.”

“Fine with me. But if you don’t start to advocate to be a seamstress, you could be assigned something awful like latrine duty.”

She may have a point.

“Okay, Mom. I promise I’ll think about it soon.” I fidget in my gown, dying to open my eyes a crack. The skirt feels a little weird, but then again I don’t wear dresses very often. “Can I look now?”

Mom claps her hands. “Yes!”

Glancing in my mirror, I see myself wearing an ankle-length gown with a massive hoop skirt. The entire monstrosity is covered in flounces, bows, and the color orange.

Hells bells, orange. I so want to puke, die, or both.

At that moment, the doorbell rings. “Cissy must be here.” Mom clasps her hands beneath her chin. “I’ll go get her. I can’t wait for her to see you!”

Um, I can.

Mom walks to the front door, letting a giddy Cissy inside. There’s a lot of cooing and hugging, then footsteps pad toward my bedroom. Cissy pauses in my doorway, her hand covering her bow-shaped mouth. She’s wearing a slinky black dress that’s floor length and sliced half-way up her thigh.

I let out a low whistle. “Cissy, you look gorgeous.” All quasis are beautiful by human standards, but Cissy’s dress takes it to a new level. Why couldn’t Mom have called Versace, too?

“Thanks, Myla. You look…” Cissy smacks her lips, searching for the right word.

“She looks amazing, doesn’t she?” Mom weaves her arm through Cissy’s. “Hard to believe I wore this gown twenty years ago.”

“I believe it,” says Cissy quietly.

Suddenly, I’d like nothing better than for the earth to open up and swallow me whole. I kill things; I don’t wear dresses.

“Just one second!” Mom rushes back to the box, pulling out a floppy orange hat with an enormous bow. “This goes with it.”

I picture Captain Hook’s hat, then realize Mom’s hat could eat that one and still have room for dessert.

“No, thanks,” say Cissy and I unison.

A knot of tension crawls up my spine; I can’t wait to get this dress off. “I’m not feeling too well, Cissy.” I fiddle with the zipper on my back. “You’ll have to catch the party without me.”

“You’re fine. It’s nerves.” Cissy turns to my mother, blinking her tawny eyes madly. “You wouldn’t mind if we made a few little alterations, would you? To bring the dress up to date a wee bit?”

“Of course. There are scissors in the box. Do you need anything else?”

Cissy smiles sweetly. “A little girl-time.” She stares pointedly at the door. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Still beaming, Mom almost glides out of my room. Cissy closes the door firmly behind her, then grabs the scissors and goes to work. Within minutes, the flounces and bows lay on the floor, alongside the hoop. In the end, I’m wearing a very simple, very electric orange gown. I stare at my image in the mirror.

“I look like a nuclear carrot.”

Cissy grabs my hand. “No, you don’t, you look fine. Please let’s go to the party please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeease?”

I’m going to regret this. “Okay, let’s go.”

Cissy and I race toward the front door, but my mother’s too quick for an uneventful escape. “No, wait!” Mom holds up her hands. “I have an instamatic camera somewhere in the attic crawlspace. I want to capture this moment!”

Cissy pauses by the threshold, fluffing her blonde ringlets. “Sure.” Mom runs off, the sound of footsteps echo through the house.

I glare at my best friend. “No pictures, please. Besides, we’re running super-late.”

“Oh, yeah,” Cissy cups her hand by her mouth. “Gotta go, Momma Lewis!”

Mom’s muffled voice sounds from the attic. “Are you sure you can’t wait?”

I grab Cissy’s hand and lunge for the front door. “Absolutely positive.”

Cissy and I rush to the driveway and slide into Betsy. After Betsy coughs up a few clouds of toxic smoke, we putter along the route to the Ryder mansion, our gowns carefully folded around us. As I drive along, I watch Upper Purgatory slide by my windows.

What a bummer this place is. When I was a kid, this used to be the fanciest spot around, filled with rows of overly-large houses on overly-small plots of land. The lawns were always green and fancy black sedans lined all the driveways.

That was before the ghouls took over.

Like all conquerors, the ghouls decided they deserved the best real estate. The same houses I remember slide by my window again, only now they’re filled with the undead. The lawns have been turned into open earth, the better for worm farming. Every window has been boarded up; each fancy sedan sits rusting in its driveway.

All the houses, that is, except the Ryder mansion. It slides into view, a white citadel of quasi-ness sitting atop a lush green hill. It’s a little patch of the old republic that survived, lovely and alive. We park Betsy and march up to the mansion’s front door. Cissy presses the bell, her face positively beaming. “We’re on!”

I suppress the urge to grab her hand and run for it.

Seconds later, the door swings open to reveal Zeke, who looks extra smarmy with his slick-backed hair, black tuxedo, and red plaid vest. His eyes me slowly from head to toe before saying: “Helloooo, Elmo!”

“Ha, ha, very funny.” I step inside. “And it’s orange, not red.”

Zeke rubs his chiseled chin. “Yes, Elmo’s not the right Muppet for you. Beaker maybe? Ernie?”

Cissy steps directly in front of me. “Hi, Zeke! Wanna dance?” She hitches one leg out to show the high slit in her dress. Damn, that girl looks like a million dollars.

I cross my fingers behind my back. Please, please, please let him notice her. Just once.

Zeke’s caramel eyes twinkle with a reddish glow. “I’d love to, uh…” He snaps his fingers. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

“Cissy.” She steps closer to Zeke. “My name’s Cissy.”

“Wow. Are you new in school?”

“No, we’ve been in the same class since Kindergarten. You broke my nose playing dodge ball in third grade, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Zeke nods slowly. “Sorry about that.” He brushes one finger down the bridge of her nose. “You look fine now, though.”

Cissy’s face turns about eight shades of red. “Thanks.”

I pull down my fist and whisper ‘yeah!’ Neither of them notice, which shows how far gone they both are. Finally.

“Follow me.” Zeke grabs Cissy’s hand and they disappear into the crowd.

I watch them go, wondering what it’s like to feel all blushy for a guy. I suppose that’s step one, while step two is actually kissing. Not that I know anything about either.

Ah, well. Back to the party.

I step around the ballroom floor. This must be the prettiest spot in all Purgatory. Great glass chandeliers hang from the ceiling. A line of balconies arch over the long wooden dance floor. A specially-designed stage perfectly fits the jazz band.

The floor is packed with ghouls and demons, but angels and thrax walk around too. I even spy the Oligarchy and Verus. Staring at the different faces, I smile from ear to ear. Maybe this is the angelic plan Walker was talking about. We may be nearing a new age of cooperation between angels, ghouls, thrax, quasis, and demons.

Then again, maybe not.

In one scrambling and biting mass, all the demons cluster into a corner, staring around the room with a look that says ‘yum, dinner.’ At the center of their group stands Armageddon, his long arms folded across his narrow chest. The human from today’s match flashes through my mind’s eye, and I have a mad desire to race across the room and give the King of Hell a piece of my mind. I take a deep breath and ball my hands into fists. Tonight’s probably not the night to lecture Armageddon.

The guests within twenty feet of Armageddon all whimper and sulk away. That’s his greater demon aura knocking into them, overwhelming them with terror. Combine that aura with my neon orange dress and heels, and tonight’s definitely not the night to take on the King of Hell.

I force myself to look away. My gaze finds Cissy and Zeke dancing up a storm. Cissy’s eyes glow with a bit of demon-red (which means half the room envies her and she knows it). Meanwhile, there are ruby sparkles in Zeke’s irises too (which means I cannot let him drive Cissy home, and I know it).

Considering how they’re dirty-dancing, I’m not driving Cissy home any time soon. I’m spending the next hour or so alone, but it’s worth it to see Cissy’s dream come true, such as it is. I decide to circulate through the crowd, sizing up the different faces. Which ones could tell me something about my father?

I spy an older quasi woman with oodles of silver hair and diamonds. Her long peacock tail perfectly matches her green gown. She’s eating a shrimp so slowly, I know her demon power is sloth.

Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders. You have to start somewhere.

I step up to the stranger. “Hello, I know we don’t know each other, but I was wondering if you went to any diplomatic events, say, eighteen years ago?”

Bit by bit, the woman sets the shrimp in her mouth and starts to chew. I take that to mean ‘yes.’

“Well, I was wondering if you knew any of the diplomats from those days. The quasi guys in particular?”

The woman swallows, then slowly turns to face me. She eyes me carefully. “Are you…Are you?” My heart beats so quickly, I think it will explode.

I grab her wrist. “Do I look like someone? Who? A diplomat?”

“Are you the floor show?” She points to my dress. “What’s that Muppet’s name again? Fozzie Bear?”

“No, I’m not the floor show.” I bite my lips together. “Excuse me.”

Clearly, it’s time for a new party survival plan.

Setting aside the quest to find my father, I discover that if I stand under a balcony, the shadows hide my orange-ness. An extra bonus is that no one can see me and/or make Muppet comments. I’ve hoarded a pile of canned soda and sugary snacks on a nearby table. My night is full.

In fact, I’m having a sweet time when two figures step into the darkness beside me.

Squinting in the dim light, I size up the pair of strangers. The first man is older, tall and burly with long white hair past his chin. He wears a classic tuxedo that matches the one on the figure beside him. The second stranger is a boy with broad shoulders and a rigid military stance. His hair is shorter, earthy brown and loose. Since it’s super quiet under the balcony, I can’t help but listen in.

Okay, maybe I could help it, but I’m a little curious and a lot bored.

“I don’t understand why we’re here, father.” It’s the boy.

“More orders from the angels, son.” The older man has a deep and rolling voice. “They want closer relations between the realms.”

My heart thumps in my chest. Angels? Closer relationships between the realms? Maybe we really are on the edge of a new era. I smile, thinking about a ghoul-free life where I choose my own job, clothes, anything. The boy speaks, interrupting my thoughts.

“I understand. What should I do?”

“Try to socialize; meet some quasis in particular.” The father’s eyes glimmer in the shadows. His irises are mis-matched: one blue and one brown.

They’re thrax. High-fives to Miss Thing for actually teaching something useful.

“Quasis aren’t people,” snaps the boy. “They’re demons.”

What?! My hands clench into fists. Actually, we’re mostly human, thank you very much.

“Angels say they’re different. Try to keep an open mind.” The father points to the dance floor where Cissy shimmies up and down Zeke’s thigh. “Take that girl, for example. Why don’t you ask her to dance? She seems quite, uh, friendly.”

I roll my eyes. What an old-guy thing to say. Sure, Cissy’s a little over the top right now, but she’s been dreaming of this night since she was nine. I glance at my friend and smile. Cissy looks absolutely blissed out. Maybe a wee bit slutty as she paws Zeke’s abs during the mambo, but who cares? She’s eighteen; it’s her job to be stupid.

The boy folds his arms over his chest. “That quasi has a dog’s tail and acts like one in heat.”

My blood simmers with anger. What an ASSHOLE-GUY thing to say!

The boy grips his fist behind his back. “Besides father, you know I’m no diplomat.”

You think?!

“Where’s my best soldier?” The older man punches his son’s upper arm. “I know I can rely on you for this mission.”

The boy nods briskly. “Of course.”

“That’s my boy.” Grinning broadly, the father marches off into the crowd and starts glad-handing a pack of ghoul diplomats.

I sip the rest of my soda, glaring at the boy’s silhouette. My inner demon begins to stir. I imagine wagging my finger in his face, screaming the differences between demons and quasis. Or even better, I could leap beside him and land one good kick behind his kneecaps. I’m so distracted that instead of setting my empty soda can back on the table, I drop it to the floor with a crash.

Turning on his heel, the boy steps to my side. “Are you alright, Miss?” Up close, I can see that he’s my age with mismatched eyes, one wheat-brown and the other slate-gray. His face is square with a strong jaw and scooped-out cheeks. For some reason, I can’t stop staring at his full mouth, wondering what it would be like to brush my lips against his. He looks mighty tasty indeed.

Wait a minute. Me thinking about kissing anybody? When does that happen?

Pull yourself together, Myla. You downed too many candy bars, that’s all. Clearly, this is some kind of sugar-induced hallucination.

I take a deep breath, refocusing my sugary brain on how this dirt-bag insulted Cissy. “I’m fine.” My voice comes out low and sharp. “I dropped an empty can, that’s all.”

His mismatched eyes lock with mine. Our stare quickly turns intense, enveloping. “You look familiar.” He leans in a bit and I inhale his earthy scent, a mixture of forest pine and leather. “You don’t visit the Ryder stables, by any chance?”

Oh, you mean the Ryder stables where I break in all the freaking time to hunt demons? Little doxy monsters go there to pester the horses; I’ve appointed myself stable exterminator, on the sly, of course. But there’s no way can he know that, though. The question must be a weird coincidence.

I anxiously shift my weight from foot to foot. “Nope.”

A ghost of a smile rounds the boy’s mouth. “Ah, my error then.” He bows slightly. “My name’s Lincoln.” He scans me from head to toe, his gaze resting on my tail. “You must be a quasi, um, ‘demon.’” His voice lowers when he says the word ‘demon.’

“I’m ‘Myla.’” My voice lowers when I say ‘Myla.’ I have a name, creep.

“Pleasure to meet you.” Lincoln rakes his hand through his mop of brown hair. “Would you…” He has the look of someone about to force himself to do something disgusting. “Would you like to dance, Myla?” He glances toward the ballroom floor, locks his gaze on Cissy and Zeke, then sneers. “It seems to be something your kind enjoys.”

Rage boils through me. “Do you mean ‘our kind’ as in my friend with the dog tail?” I hitch my thumb to the dance floor, where Cissy and Zeke are mid-cha-cha. “You remember? The one in heat?”

Lincoln folds his arms across his chest. “What I said was true.” His upper lip curls with disgust. “I can hardly bear to watch.”

“So, you find quasis repulsive.”

“What do you expect?” His mismatched eyes open wider. “You’re part demon. I’m a demon hunter. Asking you to dance was a kind gesture on behalf of–”

“Kind gesture?!” I’m so itching to kick him. “I’ve got a gesture for you.” I turn on my heel and walk away, my tail waving good-bye to him from my backside.

Marching onto the dance floor, I grab Cissy’s arm. “The lust-a-thon ends. Now.” At this point, I’m in a full-blown rage tsunami. My eyes glow bright red.

Cissy knows my wrath-mode when she sees it. “No problem, Myla.” Frowning, she gives Zeke a quick peck on the cheek. “Later, sweetie.”

As we march from the room, I hear Zeke blah-blah-blahing about getting Cissy’s phone number. She gives my hand a little squeeze.

“That was the perfect exit.” She almost skips to the front door.

I speak through gritted teeth: “Glad I could help.”

We drive away from the Ryder mansion in silence. Cissy stares at her hands in what I call her ‘guilty mode.’

As we drive home, my fingers tap the steering wheel in a nervous rhythm. I can’t stop thinking about that thrax boy. It’s mega-irritating. “I’ve a question for you, Cissy.”

Cissy turns to me, her eyes large and watery. “I totally didn’t mean to desert you at the party. You had every right to drag me off the dance floor. But Zeke and I were dancing and I lost track of time.” She puffs out her bottom lip.

“No, it’s not that.”

“Really?!” Cissy sets her hand on her rib cage. “Because I totally feel bad about it.”

“Don’t worry, honestly. I’m happy for you, girlfriend. I’ve got another question for you.”

“Okay, whew.” Cissy leans back in the busted front seat, and props one knee onto the dashboard. “Shoot.”

“Hypothetical question. Suppose there’s a guy–”

Cissy holds up her pointer finger. “Is he hot?”

How I hate admitting this. “Yes.”

“Okay. I like this game already. Please continue.”

“So, this hottie guy is a total and complete dick. Yet you still think about kissing him and–”

“Stop right there.” Cissy raises her hand shoulder height, palm forward. “The answer is kiss him, kiss him, kiss him.”

“You didn’t hear the question.”

Cissy turns to me, her blonde ringlets jiggling. “What is the question?”

“Okay, you got me. What would you do in this situation?”

“As I said, kiss him.”

“That’s not very helpful.”

Cissy glances out the window. “I thought this was just a hypothetical.”

I grip the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles could pop out of my skin. “Of course, it is.” A hypothetical about that Lincoln guy.

Cissy stares out the window for another moment, then stops. “Hang on there, amiga.” Her head snaps toward me, her mouth pursed. “What’s this really about?”

“Nothing. A little girl talk on the drive home from the party.” I turn to her and wink. “Zeke looked mighty handsome tonight, by the way.”

Please take the bait and change the subject. Please, please, pleeeeeeease.

Cissy drums her manicured nails on the dashboard. “If you weren’t mad at me for ignoring you, why drag me off in a huff?”

“I didn’t huff.”

“Myla, your eyes were blazing bright red.”

“Okay, maybe I huffed a little bit.” In a lovely bit of kindness from the universe, Cissy’s house appears to my right. I pull over the car. “I’m fine, totally. I just wanted to ask a hypothetical question and say how handsome Zeke looked. That’s all.”

Cissy’s eyes narrow. “If you say so.”

I make a great show of checking my watch. “Oh, wow, look at the time. I gotta go or my Mom will freak!”

Cissy slowly exits the car. I can almost hear the rusty gears of her brain working overtime. I’m going to get a call later, you can bet on it. The moment she’s clear of the curb, I rev the engine and speed home (as much as anyone can speed in Betsy). I stomp through the front door.

Hopefully, the drama for the evening is over.

CHAPTER 5

I chuck my keys onto the kitchen table and march straight through the living room on the way to bed. I hardly register that Mom sits front-and-center on the living room couch, a pile of ghoul robe patterns beside her.

“You’re back early.” She pats the empty spot beside her on the couch, but I’m in no mood for a mother-daughter bonding session.

I stop and pretend that it’s really important to smooth out the folds of my neon orange dress. “It was time to go.”

“Was everyone wearing hoop skirts?” Mom eyes the hem of my gown. “In five minutes, I can sew that hoop back in for you.”

“No one was wearing hoop skirts, Mom.”

She leans forward on the couch. “What happened, Myla-la?”

I launch into a rare sharing session with my mother. This thing with Lincoln was just too strange. I really need some advice. “Well, there was this thrax boy at the party who–”

“Thrax at the party?” All blood drains from Mom’s face. “There can’t be any thrax at the party.” She races to a nearby table, picking up Zeke’s invitation. “It says right here; the event was for ghouls and demons. Even if they were invited, thrax wouldn’t be within a mile of that place.”

Great. I’ve set off her hair-trigger for worrying. Maybe I can give her some additional information and move onto my question. “I’m telling you, they were at the party. Angels were there too.”

“Angels were there too?!” Mom drops the invite, her hands visibly shaking.

This is not going well. “You do realize you’re repeating everything I say?”

“Angels and thrax.” Mom stumbles backwards until she half-falls onto the couch. “That can’t be right.”

“It’s all good. There’s some kind of alliance going on, I think. Thrax, angels, demons, and ghouls…Everybody’s one big happy family.” I give her a look that says ‘now, can we get on to my question?’

“Those four all in the same room.” Mom slowly shakes her head from side to side. “Did they fight? Did any of them touch you? Hurt you?”

“The thrax boy asked me to dance and–”

Whipping up from the couch, Mom races over. Her hands cup either side of my face. “Do you feel alright?” She stares into my eyes like my head will explode.

“Enough, Mom.” I step back, breaking contact with her. Anger and disappointment churn in my belly. I have so had it with her over-protectiveness about nothing. “Look, I get that I’m all you have. I get that you’re worried about me. But I’d appreciate some female advice on what happened with this boy and you’re not listening.”

“This boy?” Her chocolate eyes narrow. “Or, this thrax?”

Unholy moley.

“Forget it, Mom.” I take a few steps toward the front door, pause, and turn back. “You know, maybe I’d rather have latrine duty if it means I can be on my own. Because this–” I motion back and forth between us “–isn’t working.”

Mom’s eyes brim with tears. “Be safe, Myla. That’s all I ask.”

“I know, Mom. That’s the problem.” I storm outside, slamming the front door behind me. Tracking my orange gown through the mud, I pace around our backyard. Why does Mom always have to freak out about every little thing? Sighing, I slump against the back outer wall and stare up at the gray sky. For some reason, it really bothers me tonight that we never see the moon in Purgatory.

Voices echo in from the opened window above my head. It’s Walker and Mom.

“Camilla, we need to talk.” I crouch lower.

“Not if Myla’s here.” I hear rustling noises as she checks the house. “Okay, we’re fine. What’s going on?”

“You can’t hide her forever. Verus knows; she saw it in a vision ages ago. We need to figure out how to introduce Myla to her true heritage.”

I pop my hands over my mouth. True heritage? I may actually get some useful intel about who I am tonight. My heart kicks in my chest; excitement pours through me. Yes, yes, YES!

Mom’s voice quivers as she speaks. “It’s not the angels I’m worried about, it’s the ghouls. You know them. If they knew who her father really was, they’d try to own her.”

Whoa, there. The ghouls would own me because of my father. My stomach turns sour. That must mean my dad’s a ghoul. A nasty, rule-loving, worm-eating loser of a ghoul. I grip my elbows. That’s not something I’d ever considered before.

“We can’t change how ghouls react to what they see as theirs,” says Walker. “But we can control how the truth comes out.”

Hold the phone. ‘We’ can control? As in Mom and Walker? I knew Mom was always holding out on me, but Walker knows? My jaw falls open, my fists plant onto my hips. Okay, he hinted around that he had some intel during my last match, but the bloodless bastard knows exactly who I am and he’s never given me a clue.

Mom sucks in a gasp of air. I listen so intently, my head hurts. “What do you mean? Do you think Verus will tell Myla on her own?”

“Yes, I do.”

So, Verus knows too? Is there anyone in Purgatory who doesn’t know who I really am? I am so cornering her at my next match, right after I tackle Walker. I want me some answers.

Mom gasps. “I’ll reach out to Verus right away. In the meantime, please keep Myla close to her own people: quasis and ghouls.”

I slump so low against the house, my bum almost hits the mud. Ghouls are my people? Blech.

“Verus is at the Ryder party right now. Perhaps we can seek her out together?”

“Yes, Walker. I’d like that very much only–”

“Myla can take care of herself for a bit. It won’t take long.”

Mom sighs. “Alright then.” I hear the hiss of a portal being opened, followed by silence.

Leaping to my feet, I pace the muddy backyard for a while, grumbling every expletive I can think of. It’s a good twenty minutes of letting off swear words and steam. Freaking Mom! Lying bastard Walker! Not to mention that sneaky Verus and my mystery deadbeat-ghoul-Dad. My hands curl into fists at my side. Wearing my Fozzie Bear dress, yelling at that pompous thrax, finding out my father’s a lousy ghoul and discovering how everyone around me are a bunch of lying liars…I so need to kill something right now.

That’s when I hear the voice. Her voice.

“Hello, Myla.”

Verus is standing behind me right now. Hells freaking bells. Bit by bit, I swing about to see her hovering above our muddy lawn, a soft glow surrounding her long linen robes and white wings.

I say the first thing that comes into my head. “Hey. I’m Myla.”

Her almond-shaped eyes flare blue. “I know who you are. I’ve wanted to talk to you for some time. Your mother and I just agreed that I would.”

She’s standing right there. Verus. Holding all the answers I seek. Every nerve ending in my body goes on alert. This is it. “You have to tell me.” My mouth opens, searching for the words.

She raises her arm. “No, you have to sleep.” She gently taps the center of my forehead with her pointer finger. Instantly, the word turns to darkness.

After that, I dream of white fire.

In my vision, I stand in the Gray Sea of Purgatory, a stretch of charcoal-colored desert that ends in a wall of black stone. Silvery sand dunes ripple and swell around me. Overhead, the sky rolls with storm clouds; silent cracks of yellow lightning strike the horizon. A bitter wind whips through my long brown hair, stinging my cheeks. The scent of sulphur sears my lungs.

Without knowing why, I fall onto my knees and set my palms against the gray sand. A line of white fire erupts on the grains between my hands and then spreads into a giant circle. I stand again, watching the flames crackle by my toes. There is warmth from the fire, but no pain.

Inside the circle of fire, one spot in the sand starts to bubble and churn. A figure rises from that point: a tall woman with great white wings arched behind her shoulders. Her eyes are an exotic almond shape; her hair falls straight and black past her shoulders. All the breath leaves my body.

It’s Verus.

She rises until she hovers above the sands. The wind whips her long white robes and straight black hair. Her blue eyes glow softly, two pale points of turquoise in a gray desert landscape. Her eyes glow brighter, turning into two sharp points of searing blue light. I wince, but can’t turn away. I want to run, but my body won’t budge.

Verus slowly raises her arms, her wings expanding with the movement. The sound of her voice sets the Gray Sea rumbling.

“It is time you knew the identity of your father. I will send you visions of the past.”

I want to say ‘yes’ or ‘thank you,’ but the words won’t come. I guess my agreement to this plan isn’t necessary.

Suddenly, the circle of flame swells, transforming into a wall of white fire that towers over my head. Waves of heat sear my cheeks; my body drips with sweat. I want to run, move, duck, but all I can do is stand perfectly still. The fire crackles brighter; the flames grow larger.

Within seconds, fire surrounds my entire body. That last thing I remember is being consumed by white flame as the world dissolves into darkness.

I open my eyes, waking up not in the backyard but in my own bed. It’s early morning. My orange gown is gone and I wear standard-issue sweats and a tee. I re-fluff my pillow under my head and stare out of my window, trying to process everything that happened. The sky is calm and gray, unlike the rolling thunderheads in my dream. Verus’s words echo through my brain: ‘It is time you knew the identity of your father. I will send you visions of the past.’

My tail grips the edge of my threadbare covers. My body burns with righteous wrath. Enough is enough; I want me some answers now. Whipping off the covers, I race into the kitchen.

I find Mom at the kitchen table, hand-sewing the hem of a robe. She doesn’t look up as I enter. “Good morning, my little Myla-la. How’d you sleep?”

I freeze in place. Chilly realization washes over me, cooling my wrath. These random, annoying morning interrogations may not be so random and annoying. “That question.” I set my hands against my rib cage, feeling the cool prickle of gooseflesh under my fingertips. “Is that your way of asking me if an angel has visited me in my dreams?”

Mom looks up from her sewing, her brown eyes glistening with tears. “Yes.” Her voice cracks. “Did one visit you last night?” Desperation hangs about her like a dark cloud. “Please, say yes.”

At her words, all my frustration and anger melts away. This may be as hard for her as it is for me. “Yeah.” I plunk down into the chair across from her.

Mom pulls her thread taut. “Was it Verus?”

“Yes.”

“I spoke to her last night. We knew each other before the war.”

“When you were doing what exactly?” Forcing a smile, I motion my hand in small circles, encouraging her to finish the thought.

Mom sighs. “I know you’re frustrated that I don’t discuss my past.” She stares at the fabric in her hands for a time, then sets it onto her lap. “After we argued last night, I went to speak with Verus. She’s seen you in the Arena and wants to help. She has a gift for seeing both the past and future. We agreed that she’ll send you dreams of what happened to me.”

I lean back in my chair. “The way she described it in my dreams, the whole thing seemed a little more dramatic than that.”

“It’s called dreamscaping. A handful of angels and demons have the power to show you visions of the past or future while you sleep. Other times they can talk to you, communicate with you while you dream. The morning after a dreamscape from Verus, you can come and ask me questions.” She lets out a ragged breath. “That’s the best I can do.”

I work hard to keep my voice low and calm. I’m so close to the answers I need, why all the drama? “Please, Mom. Why not just tell me?”

“Perhaps after Verus shows you some things, you’ll discover the answer to that question on your own.” Her lower jaw quivers.

I liked it better when she fought me on this. A guilty weight settles onto my shoulders. Whatever happened to Mom during the war, it must have been pretty awful. I force another smile. “Look, the dream thing is fine. Thanks for reaching out to Verus.” I reach across the table, wrap her hand in mine. “When will she send me the dreamscapes?”

“I don’t know. Just promise you’ll find me right after they happen.”

“Sure, I will.”

The phone starts to ring. And ring. And ring. Purgatory only gets washed up, ancient technology. In this case, our phone is a heavy brick of a base adorned with a rotary dial and topped by a handset so large, you could use it as a weapon. I watch the contraption vibrate with each deafening ring and grimace. Cissy must have woken up.

Mom dries her eyes with her fingertips. “Are you going to answer that?”

My upper lip curls. “I’d rather not. I have a pretty good idea who it is.” The answering machine kicks on. This thing is a contraption as large as shoebox that records our missed calls. I’m not sure humans even use crap like this anymore. I never see answering machines on the Human Channel unless I’m catching reruns of Golden Girls or Murder, She Wrote.

Beep. The answering machine turns on with a loud click. “Hey Myla, it’s Cissy. I want to talk about the party! Wasn’t it just so magical? Did you see Zeke and me dancing? Call me. We so have to talk.” Beep.

The edge of Mom’s mouth curls with a grin. “Zeke took an interest at last, eh?”

“Oooooh yeah.” I set my chin on my palm. “I didn’t realize you knew Cissy had a thing for Zeke.”

“Honey, everybody knows Cissy has a thing for Zeke.”

The phone rings again.

Beep. “Myla, it’s Cissy. Sorry to call again so soon. I know this is my third message–”

Mom picks up her sewing, her smile growing a bit larger. “Actually, Myla, it’s her fifth. She left three last night while you were sleeping.”

I roll my eyes. Great.

Cissy’s voice keeps blaring through the answering machine. “I really-really-really need to talk to you about the party. I have so many questions for you. Love you, sweetie!” Beep.

I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “Cissy’s a little boy crazy and I can’t handle her right now. Mind if I unplug the machine for the rest of the weekend?”

Mom full-on grins. “Nope.”

The weekend decays into a blur of bad reruns from human television, good sugar cereals, and dreading seeing Cissy at school. Monday morning arrives way too soon. Before I know it, I’m slogging through the front doors at Purgatory High. I barely set foot inside the main hallway when Cissy skip-walks toward me, a huge smile on her face.

Hells Bells. When you’re miserable, there’s nothing worse than someone else’s happiness.

“Gooooooood morning, Myla!” Her little golden curls bounce by her shoulders. Even her hair looks chipper.

“Hey, Cissy.”

“Did you get my messages? I tried to get in touch a million times. Then your answering machine was busted or something.”

I press my palms into my eyes. “Mom and I had a fight and–” What do I say here? I fought with a thrax, my dad might be a ghoul, and an oracle angel is sending me visions of Mom’s past? I sigh. “I’ve been a little down, that’s all.”

Frowning, Cissy places her hand on my shoulder. “Oh, that’s too bad.” I can almost hear her counting to three under her breath, giving my misery a bit of air-time before we move onto the marquee subject. “Okay, then! Let’s talk about Zeke.”

I debate about feigning illness—a sudden bout of the plague might get me out of this morning’s Zeke love fest—but then I remember Cissy’s been obsessing about this guy for at least a decade. Let her have her moment. I plaster on a grin. “Can’t wait to hear all about it.”

I half-listen to her love-babble until she starts demonstrating Zeke’s best dance moves down the hallway. The girls stare with a sneer, the guys with open mouths. I’m seriously debating what would happen if I accidentally tripped her when I get the bright idea to check my watch.

“Gosh Cissy, I have to run. Can’t be late for History!” Wow, I never thought I’d say that out loud.

For once, I arrive early to History, slipping into my favorite back row seat. All the students mill about, chit-chatting about the weekend. Miss Thing puts on lipstick using a small compact. Amazing how she can use a mirror and still not notice the huge red smear across her front teeth.

Miss Thing claps her hands twice. “Everyone, pay attention.”

I sit straight in my chair, ready to work. I’m feeling mighty proud of my Cissy management strategy when I realize my massive error: class is starting and Zeke’s just now walking through the door. I swing my long hair in front of my face, hoping that will hide my identity (not my best plan.) He heads straight for me anyway.

I almost face-palm myself. What’s the first rule of avoiding someone at school? Arrive late to class so you pick the seat farthest away from them.

Miss Thing paces the front of the room, her red stilettos click-clacking with each step. “Class, turn to 542 of Purgatory Through the Ages.”

I whip out my book as Zeke slides into the empty seat next to mine.

“Morning, Myla.”

Flipping through pages, I pretend not to hear him. Maybe he’ll get the message and pay attention to the lecture.

“I said, good morning, Myla.”

No such luck. I grind my teeth and low out a low ‘grrr.’ I’d expected the love-fest from Cissy, but I truly counted on never speaking to Zeke again. Now, I’m trapped next to him in history class and Mister Smarmy wants to talk. This sucks, big time.

Be nice to him for Cissy, Myla. Don’t ruin it for her.

I let out one last ‘grr’ and whisper “Hey, Zeke.”

Miss Thing stops pacing. Her black eyes carefully scan the room. “Class, we’re about to start a very important lesson. This month marks the twentieth anniversary of Armageddon’s liberation of Purgatory. To celebrate, we’ll learn all about how clever and merciful your new overlords are. Who wants to begin the reading?” No one raises a hand. “Paulette, why don’t you start us off? Page 542.”

Paulette carefully repositions her Hermes scarf on one shoulder, then begins to read: “Armageddon’s War, Episode One, Quasis Mismanage Purgatory. For thousands of years, quasi-demons mismanaged–”

As Paulette keeps reading, Zeke whispers across the aisle. “Myla, I know why you were so angry at the party.”

My throat tightens. Zeke knows Lincoln?

“You do?” Picking up my pen, I start doodling on my notebook. “It’s one thing to be treated that way by a ghoul, but not…You know.”

Zeke nods. “I understand.”

Setting down my pen, I take a good look at Zeke. Of all the people in my life, I never expected to confide in him, let alone during history class. But here he is, caramel eyes wide with understanding.

I fidget in my seat. “I guess it caught me off guard.” Taking a deep breath, I feel my limbs loosen.

“It could happen to anyone.” Zeke folds his hands neatly on his desk. “Why did you keep it a secret?”

Why didn’t I tell anyone I was insulted by a thrax? “I guess it was embarrassing.”

Zeke sighs. “You should have confessed your major crush on me years ago. I would’ve been cool about it.”

My mouth falls open. “My major crush on who?”

“Come on, Myla. You’ve been crushing on me for ages and now everyone knows it. A bunch of kids saw you lose it when Cis and I were dancing.”

Anger zooms through my body. I scan the room; half the class stares at me and Zeke, their eyes filled with pity. Unholy Moley. Zeke’s version of Friday night is all over school. Rage smolders up my spine.

“You’re wrong, Zeke.” My eyes glow red.

“Don’t go all demon-iris on me. It’s not a bad thing. I was starting to wonder if you were like those single cell thingies we learned about in Biology. You know, the ones that don’t need a mate? What are they called again?”

My hands clench into fists. “Amoebas?”

“I was going to say paramecium.”

My eyes flare brighter. “Well, now you don’t have to say that. Ever. Again.”

Leaning across the aisle, Zeke speaks in a low voice: “All I want to know is this: are you okay with Cissy and I dating? I mean, can you actually handle seeing all this–” he gestures across his chest “–with someone else?”

It takes all my strength not to howl and rip the room apart. Three-fourths of the class stares at us now. The scene perfectly matches what Zeke told them: I had a massive obsession with him, not the other way around. I grip the edges of my desk so tightly, I think my knuckles will pop.

Zeke eyes me carefully. “Well?”

“I was never interested in you, Captain Ego.”

“That’s not what I asked you, Myla.” He makes tut-tut noise in his throat, and I have to stifle the urge to punch him. “Look, Cissy and I talked about this over the weekend.” He takes a deep breath. “Unless you say you’re okay with us, she won’t see me anymore.” The color drains from his face.

I stare at him out of my right eye. Guys like him don’t change overnight. “Why isn’t Cissy asking me this?”

“She will.” He scrapes at the desktop with his thumbnail. “I didn’t want to take a chance, so I brought it up with you first.” His voice goes low. “Actually, I promised her I wouldn’t bring it up at all.”

“So, you lied to my best friend.” My inner rage monster lets out a protective roar. “Let’s set aside my so-called ‘obsession’ with you for a moment.” I make little quotation marks with my fingers when I say ‘obsession.’ “You’ve been nothing but a mindless lust monkey for years. Why should I agree to let you near someone as sweet as Cissy?”

Zeke lets out a long sigh. “My family has power, money.” He leans back in his chair, rubbing his neck with his hand. “It makes me a target.”

My upper lip curls. Screw him and his fake problems. “Boo hoo.”

Zeke chuckles, but there isn’t any humor in his laugh. “And that’s what I’m talking about.” He shakes his head from side to side. “Cissy doesn’t see me as this privileged dickhead.” His shoulders slump. For the first time, I see him as a different person: a warrior, but not someone who battles with rage, like me. More like someone who fights with despair.

“You have to understand, Cissy sees someone else in me.” His caramel eyes find mine, and for the first time there’s something and real behind them. “I want to be that guy for her, Myla.” His jaw sets into a firm line. “Please give us a chance, that’s all I ask.”

My rage cools. I never thought of Zeke as acting the playboy to hide something else. But all those overly-expensive gifts and one-time hook-ups? The pattern’s kinda obvious, come to think of it.

Closing my eyes, I picture the first time I talked to Cissy. It was in first grade, and I was trying to avoid trouble on the playground. It didn’t work. Billy Summers was giving me crap for my ‘weird tail’ for the millionth time. I snapped, flattened him, and then everyone—teachers and kids alike—looked at me like a criminal-slash-freak. That’s when Cissy walked up to me and took my hand. She saw something different in me, too. My heart warms at the memory.

I inhale a slow breath. “I’ll give you a chance, Zeke. But so help me, if you hurt her…” My eyes flare red. “I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands.”

Zeke’s mouth winds into a relieved smile. “Thank you.” He slumps back in his chair, his blonde eyebrows arching. Within seconds, his Mister Smarmy act returns with a vengeance. “That’s big of you, kitten.” He shoots me with his pointer finger gun. “Really big.”

You have no idea.

CHAPTER 6

I stare at my lunch tray: some kind of mystery pasta (green mac and cheese, maybe?) and a diet coke. Man, do I wish I hadn’t forgotten to shove some Demon bars in my backpack today. Ah, Demon bars. Eight ounces of candy disguised as granola-based nutrition. Yum. Meanwhile, the school cafeteria’s idea of food is nothing less than terrifying.

Cissy slips into the empty chair across from me. Like always, it’s just the two of us at our favorite corner table. Her tawny eyes sparkle. “We need to talk.”

The room turns strangely quiet. I scan the nearby faces, noting how everyone’s actively avoiding looking in my direction. Dread and bile twist my stomach. My conversation with Cissy is today’s lunchtime theater, and no one wants to miss a word.

I poke at the greenish pasta with my fork. “Sure.”

“I wanted to talk about it over the weekend, but you didn’t pick up your phone.” Cissy sighs. “We were all a little surprised about the party.”

“We?” My back teeth lock with rage.

“You know Zeke, his friends, everyone at school who was at the party.” Cissy sips her can of diet soda. Then, she pauses. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I’m not embarrassed.” I force myself to drop my fork; I think I dug a hole through the plastic plate.

“Come on, Myla. I can see you’re still upset.” Cissy reaches across the table, wrapping her hand around my own. “Listen to me. Say the word and it’s over with Zeke. I mean it.” Tears bead in her tawny eyes; my anger slowly melts. “Your friendship means so much to me.”

Cissy’s been my best friend since first grade, and a true one. She taught me how to twist my hair into an envy-worthy braid; I showed her how to trip people with her tail. How could I not be happy for her? I open my mouth, trying to speak through the knot of emotion in my throat. I let out a few garbled words that sound like “Ree roo.”

Cissy frowns. “Um, what was that?”

I clear my throat. “Me too. Your friendship means a lot. I’m happy for you and Zeke.” Leaning back in my chair, I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “Look, there was another reason I lost it at the party.”

Cissy gives my hand a pat. “Sure there was. That’s why you asked me your hypothetical question on the car ride home.”

“What hypothetical?”

“You know. About wanting to kiss someone?” She rolls her eyes.

I inwardly groan. She thought that conversation was about Zeke, not Lincoln. Is there really any point to telling her the truth? I’m not going to get honest advice anyway.

Zeke chooses that moment to sashay up to table. “Hello, lovelies. Are we ready to go?”

Cissy holds up her pointer finger. “Not yet. Myla wants to tell me something.”

My gaze shifts between Cissy and her new beau. There is zero point in discussing Lincoln right now. They aren’t going to believe it, and I’ll never see the creep again anyway. “No, I’m good.”

“Are you sure there isn’t anything else?” Cissy taps her chin. “Your Mom, maybe?”

Damn, she’s good. “What makes you say that?”

“I know my Myla-la.”

Hmm. Maybe I should spill my guts about Verus, the dreamscapes, and how Dad’s a ghoul. Hey Cissy, you know how I’m a part-Furor, freaky-tailed, wrath-filled Arena fighter? Now we can add part-ghoul to the list, with an oracle Angel Queen stalker.

Ah, no. “There’s some stuff going on, but I’m just not ready to talk about it yet.”

Cissy frowns. “Okay. Whenever you’re ready.”

Zeke rubs his hands together. “Great, that’s all settled.” He hitches his thumb over his shoulder. “Want to meet the guys?”

I just about fall out of my chair. Zeke wants to take Cissy to meet his friends? He never takes anyone to meet his boys, at least not during daylight. Zeke hangs with the most notorious hotties in school and everyone knows there’s an invisible ‘no girls allowed’ sign over their lunch table. The fact that he’s inviting her to visit is nothing less than monumental.

“We’re ready.” Cissy grips my arm like she’ll rip it out of the socket. “Like I told you, Myla wants to go too.”

“I do?” Wow, I have zero desire to expose myself to Zeke and his lust-bunny brigade. Plus, I’m not one of those ‘I can’t eat by myself’ types. I can live without Cissy at lunch for one day. “Are you sure you want me to go?” Translation: can I stay here, please?

Cissy hauls me to my feet. “Yes, I’m absolutely, positively sure.”

My upper lip curls. Clearly, I hadn’t thought this whole ‘Cissy and Zeke’ thing through. Their dating changes me from ‘the star of the Cissy show’ to a sideline actress who gets hauled around to fill out the stage. My heart fills with a combination of severe depression and a sudden desire to kick Zeke’s ass.

This. Sucks.

Cissy shoots me a pleading glance. “Come on, sweetie?” I stare into her tawny, innocent eyes and feel my resistance melt away.

I straighten my shoulders. “Of course, let’s go.”

“You’re the best.” Cissy loops her arm around mine. Together, we walk across the lunchroom to a table filled with very handsome guys who have names like Chip, Tripp, and Bif. All of them have smirky smiles, muscle-bound chests, and no need for demon lust in order to attract the opposite sex. Yet, they can’t seem to get a word out without working their thang. The conversation’s boring stuff, like school and the weather, but these guys say every word with a sultry voice while their eyes flare red. Every other girl within a twenty-foot radius peeps at them and blushes.

Except me.

I shake my head. Maybe I just inherited the wrath side of the Furor ‘lust and wrath’ combo. Another thought slams into me, this one far, far worse. Since I’m part ghoul, I might only be attracted to ghoul guys. That realization is depressing, repulsive, and, unfortunately, all too possible.

Eew, eew, eew.

“Myla, you’ve been called to serve.”

Yawning, I open my eyes. Two weeks have passed since I last fought in the Arena. Since that day, Cissy and Zeke have become the poster children for public displays of affection, Mom’s stepped up her morning interrogations, and I haven’t gotten a single new dreamscape from Verus. Life has certainly taken a nosedive.

Man, do I ever need to kill something.

Walker stands at the foot of my bed. I roll over, stretch, and peep at my Darth Vader alarm clock. 5 AM on the nose.

“Hey, Walker.” I sit up straight. “How pumped am I that you’re here?”

Walker’s mouth winds into a grin. “Very pumped, obviously.”

“I’ve been itching for a match for weeks.” I throw back the covers and hop to my feet. “Wait. You don’t think this’ll be another match like the last one, do you? If I see another good human sacrifice herself to Hell, I swear I won’t be able to stop myself from doing something.”

“I’ve been assured you have a suitably awful opponent today.”

“Sweet!” I pause, folding my arms over my chest. “Wait a second. I have a bone to pick with you.”

“A bone? Oh my.” He winks.

“Stop being cute and sarcastic.” I waggle my finger in his face. “I have it on good authority that you know exactly who I am. You’ve been holding out on me, Walker.”

“The night of the Ryder party.” He tilts his head to one side. “You were listening under the window, weren’t you?”

“Damn straight I was.” My inner demon starts to stir. Anger pools in my blood. “Now, spill your guts. Exactly what do you know about who I am?”

“I know you’re like a sister to me, and I’d never do anything to hurt you.” He sighs. “If I don’t tell you things, it’s because I can’t.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “I’ve heard that one before.” I stare into his liquid-black eyes and, damn, he does look like he wants to tell me everything. My anger quiets. I really do think he’d spill his guts if he could.

Crap. It would be so much easier if I could just yell at him for a while.

“I do have some news I can share with you today.” He points to a large box by his feet. “This is for you, from Verus. She’s taken quite the interest in your welfare.”

I crouch to the floor and tear open the box; smooth black fabric shines inside. “A real combat suit!” I turn the garment over in my hands, it’s like a unitard made of flexible steel that’s topped with a mesh hood. “This thing is amazing.”

Walker rocks on his heels, grinning ear to ear. “Do you want to try it on?”

I grip the suit to my chest. “Are you kidding?” I leap to my feet. “You didn’t tell Mom about this thing, right?”

“Nope.”

“Then don’t say a word. I want to surprise her.”

“As you wish.”

I rush into the bathroom and slip on my new garment of awesomeness. The mesh hood is especially badass. My heart thumps happily in my chest as I tiptoe down the hallway and peep around the doorway to the kitchen. Mom’s back is to me as she rattles around the cabinets. Walker sips java at the table.

Perfect. Neither of them sees me.

Taking a deep breath, I pause outside the kitchen doorway, my back flattened to the wall for optimum stealthy-ness.

“Hey, Mom. Don’t move, okay?”

Mom’s voice sounds from inside the kitchen. “Why, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I swear. Can you close your eyes?”

“Sure, honey.”

I creep to her side. “You can look now.” Her chocolate eyes pop open. “Ta-daaaaa!” I whip the off the mesh hood for extra drama.

Mom’s hand leaps to her mouth. “My word!”

“Isn’t it awesome?” I twirl around. “It’s a gift from the angels.” I karate kick the air to demonstrate the suit in action. A bubble of new-garment happiness surrounds me.

Stepping to my side, Mom runs her hands over the fabric on my arm. “This isn’t Kevlar, it’s something else. Maybe–”

Walker finishes her thought. “Dragon scales.”

“Hells bells, what do they think you’ll be doing?” A muscle twitches along her jaw. “Is it safe?”

My happy-bubble bursts with a vengeance. Oh no, we’re back to the ‘what’s safe for Myla’ conversation. I stop mid-karate kick. “It’s totally safe-rrrr, Mom. This suit is the bomb.”

Mom rubs her neck with one hand. “Don’t you worry why they’re giving you this thing?”

“No, I don’t.” Anger lathers up my throat, turning my voice harsh. “I’m sure they have their sneaky reasons, and honestly, I don’t care.” I step up to her, wrapping my hands around hers. Her fingers tremble beneath mine. “Whatever it is, I can handle it.” My anger tightens into desperation. “I need you to have a little faith in me. Please.”

Mom sucks in a few deep breaths. “Have a good match, Myla.” I can tell it’s taking everything she has not to lose it.

I let out a long breath. Not-losing-it is as good a start as any. The knot of emotion in my throat loosens ever so slightly.

“Thanks, Mom.” We share an awkward smile. After that, I release her hands and step over to Walker. “Ready?”

His button-eyes twinkle. “Always. You?”

“Battling an evil soul?” My inner demon roars to life inside my belly. Excitement zings through my nervous system. “Bring it on.” Reaching out, I wrap my hand around his.

Together, he and I disappear from the kitchen, tumble through empty space, and emerge on the Arena floor.

I blink my eyes, adjusting to the stadium’s brighter light and my now-woozy stomach. I so hate portal travel. Around me, there stands Walker, Sharkie, and XP-22. A new face skulks nearby as well: a Crini demon, which is basically a seven-foot tall monster octopus. I shrug; I’ve killed my share of Crini in my time. This one has stumpy tentacles; Cissy could even take it out pretty easily.

Sheila must be out sick.

As the angels and demons enter the Arena, I practice lunges, spins, and kicks in my new suit. The rest of the world melts away. Pulling down the hood, I leap in front of XP-22 and growl. He almost jumps out of his robes. It’s beyond awesome.

Sharkie thumps his staff, snapping me out of my garment love-fest. I glance around the Arena; all the angels and demons are in their seats and ready to go.

Our emcee raises his staff. “To begin the match, we ask for a few words from our fearless leader Armageddon–”

Verus rises to her feet. “I shall begin by saying a few words.” She turns to the King of Hell. “Have you found the Scala Heir yet, Armageddon?”

Armageddon’s upper lip twists into a sneer. “No.”

Verus’s wings stretch wide. “I see. Such inefficiency in government. We need to–”

Armageddon leaps to his feet, his eyes blazing red. “WE WILL FIND THIS FOOL, I PROMISE YOU!” Bits of spittle fly from his mouth as he speaks. His three-knuckled fingers ball into fists. Taking a deep breath, he resettles into his chair, eyes still blazing red. He dismissively waves one hand. “Let the games begin.”

Smiling, Verus retakes her seat as well.

Long moments of silence, heavy as stones, fall about the Arena. What in Hell was that all about? Armageddon almost lost his marbles. Adrenaline pumps through my veins by the gallon; my tail arcs by my shoulder. Something is wrong here, very wrong. These two are in the middle of some kind of power play, and everyone in this Arena is another piece on their game board. A shiver of fear rattles my spine.

Sharkie thunks his staff on the Arena floor, interrupting my thoughts. The emcee’s voice echoes through the Arena. “I call forth the soul.”

A spirit appears beside Sharkie. This time, the ghost is a powerhouse of a man with a barrel chest over stout arms and legs. Skull tattoos cover his body. I let out a sigh of relief. Finally, an opponent worth the effort.

Sharkie turns to the human soul. “Deacon Lee, have you chosen trial by combat?”

The spirit’s misty eyes scan the Arena. “Yes.”

“You have three opponents to choose from. First–”

“I choose the girl.”

Huh. I’ve been in matches since I was twelve, and the souls always need to have it explained to them who they can choose and why. Sometimes, twice. It’s totally sketchy this guy not only knows the rules of the game, but who he wants to play with. On instinct, I scan Verus and Armageddon. The lead angel’s face is unreadable, but the King of Hell? He looks mighty pleased with himself.

A fissure of unease opens inside me. This is so not good.

Tilting his skeletal head to one side, Sharkie’s eyes glow bright red in their sockets. “So be it.” He waves to the exit archways. “All others, depart.”

The Crini demon is first to slink away, its eight puny legs creeping in an odd rhythm. Walker and XP-22 follow closely behind.

Deacon crosses his heavy arms. “And I want a weapon.”

My jaw just about drops off my face. Nobody gets a weapon. Not me, not the evil souls. Never. The sketchy quotient of this match just went through the roof.

Sharkie sniffs from his nose-holes. “No.”

Deacon turns to the Arena audience. “This girl is clearly part demon. I’m a man. Don’t I deserve the means to defend myself?” The demons screech and howl with delight; the angels sit in anxious silence.

Sharkie slams his staff onto the ground. “The rules of trial by combat are not open to negotiation. The soul may choose their opponent but no weapons. This was decreed by the Spectral Treaty of–”

A slick voice echoes through the arena, silencing Sharkie. “I like him. The man’s got sass.” It’s Armageddon. The demon raises his black hand, snapping his fingers. “Here’s your weapon, friend.” A long coiled whip appears before Deacon’s feet.

Unholy Hell.

I glance at Verus on her white throne; her blue eyes gleam. She quickly rises to her feet. “What say you, SKE-12? Is this how the match should proceed?”

Everyone holds their breath as Sharkie considers his reply. A droplet of black sweat trickles down his gray cheek. There’s more at stake here than a weapon, but I can’t put my finger on it. My fingers twitch anxiously at my sides.

Sharkie’s knobby Adam’s apple flicks up and down as he swallows. “The ghouls shall allow a single weapon for this fight only.”

Verus quirks her eyebrows. “Such a surprise.” Her glance flicks to me with a look that says ‘this turn of events is anything but a shock’. I feel like that’s meant to comfort me somehow, but it doesn’t.

My mind whirls through everything that happened this morning: Deacon choosing me so quickly, Armageddon conjuring a weapon for him, and Verus giving me a fighting suit. It all adds up to one fact.

Verus wasn’t the only one who noticed when I killed the Choker.

Clearly, Armageddon’s taken an interest in me as well. In his mind, I must be the only thing standing between him and a purely evil soul in Heaven. I pull my suit’s protective mask over my face, feeling new waves of adrenaline course through me. Of course, this was no surprise to Verus; she’s an Oracle. I grit my teeth in frustration. Would have been nice to get more of a heads-up than a new suit, lady.

Sharkie slams his staff on the ground. “Let the match begin!” Deacon turns from misty ghost into solid human. He picks up the whip, shaking out its length before him. My breath catches. Fighting hand-to-hand? No problem. Battling an armed opponent? I am so fucked. For the first time since I was twelve, the thought flashes through my mind that I might actually die here. Terror zings through my nervous system.

Deacon flicks his wrist; the coil unfurls. Red hellfire erupts along the weapon’s length. The human’s face twists into an evil grin. Fast as a heartbeat, my opponent brings his arm up, snapping the whip down with a loud CRACK.

The next thing I know, I’m choking to death, a fiery whip wrapped about my neck. Terror courses through my nervous system, causing my inner demon to cower with fright.

Pulling up my tail, I try slicing the cord around my throat, but it’s no use. I have precious seconds of consciousness left. Turning to my enemy, I jump into the air, crouching my boots beneath me. I slam my feet into Deacon’s chest. My body jolts backwards as my heels connect with his ribs. Deacon stumbles, fumbling with the handle of his whip. I land beside him, trying to keep the cord as slack as possible.

This is my chance. Grab that whip before he regains control of it.

The world drips by in slow motion as the whip wobbles in Deacon’s hands. Lunging, I try grabbing the weapon from him, but at the last possible millisecond, his fingers grip it firmly again.

Oh, no. I watch helplessly as my last chance to steal away the whip disappears. My lungs burn for air, turning my body numb with fear. Frozen with terror? Not the way to win a battle.

Deacon slams his arm down once more, bringing the whip along with it. The fiery cord around my neck pulls even tighter; my lungs scream for oxygen. At least, my new suit protects my skin from burning. Small comfort amid a huge panic.

The roar of the demon crowd rattles through my head. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware of Armageddon leaning forward in his dark throne, watching the match with glee, his eyes burning bright red. A horrible thought flashes through my mind: If I die here today, some demon like him could end up consuming my soul. The thought turns my muscles slack with shock.

Deacon runs into me full throttle, ramming his shoulder into my belly. He drags me along a few paces; my body slams against the Arena wall. I’m dimly aware of demons howling ever louder with pleasure. Pinned in place, I heave up my legs for another kick, but this time, my feet miss the mark. My limbs feel oddly heavy, my mind strangely calm as I realize an important fact:

Deacon just made the strategic error of the century.

My inner demon roars to life, my limbs flail with rage. As I writhe under the human’s grip, Deacon presses his face closer to mine. My vision turns fuzzy, the tattoos on his skin blur. Deacon’s knee makes contact with my stomach as he grunts: “You’re not the only one with a kick.”

I smile under the layers of my mask. With my last ounce of energy, I move in for the kill. Raising my tail shoulder-high, I stab it straight through my attacker’s heart.

And you’re not the only one with a weapon.

Deacon’s face falls slack. His body slumps to the floor, lifeless. Lurching forward, I unwind his whip from my throat, then yank my tail from his chest. Blood gurgles from his fresh wound. Air floods into my lungs in huge gulps. My vision clears; I give my tail a feeble high-five.

Sharkie rushes to my side. Grabbing my wrist, he pumps my arm into the air. “The winner!”

I tug my hand downwards, but he won’t let go. “Thanks.” Hunching over at the waist, I gasp for breath. “Want…To…Leave.”

Sharkie swivels his skull-like head in my direction, his grip tight as iron. “Not yet. Before you depart, guests from the entourage of Angel Verus wish to praise your valor in battle.”

I blink a few times to clear my head, then pant out one word: “Sure.” Hell, at this point it’s faster to get the thanks and go home.

Finally dropping my hand, Sharkie turns to face the Arena’s main archway. “Angels and demons, the Arena fighter will be congratulated on her victory.”

An ocean of people pour onto the Arena floor, all of them dressed like they fell out of the Middle Ages. I slow my breathing and inspect the crowd. Who in blazes are these characters? They aren’t angels, demons, or ghouls. Why would they be hanging out with Verus?

A line of heralds with silver trumpets step onto the Arena floor, creating a make-shift entryway. Delicate women in brocade gowns step through, followed by sturdy men in long tunics.

Whoever these folks are, they sure take their time to do anything.

I roll my eyes. Enough ceremony. Let’s get with the congratulating so I can go home and talk Mom into making me some brownies. That fight was a bitch.

Moving past the line of heralds, two figures step onto the Arena floor, both wearing chain mail covered by formal tunics. First, I see a sturdy older man with white hair to his shoulders, a silver crown glistening on his head. Beside him walks someone younger with wavy brown hair, a muscular frame and square shoulders. Every inch of my body goes on alert.

I know exactly who these two are: Lincoln and his father.

Crap. These oddballs in medieval get-ups are all thrax. No wonder I’d never seen them before. Thrax only run around earth fighting demons. I feel like Verus is moving more playing pieces around her game-board with Armageddon, and these thrax are part of some masterstroke. My mind wheels with all the implications, but after such a crazy morning, I can’t quite process what it means.

The last herald in line lowers his trumpet, announcing in a booming voice: “King Connor and his son, the High Prince!”

My stomach swaps places with my mouth. Lincoln’s the freaking High Prince of the thrax? Thousands of eyes stare as the two men approach; a million years crawl by as the pair march across the floor.

Finally, they stand before me.

Sharkie’s voice lowers to a hiss. “Remove your mask, slave.”

Pulling the mesh away from my face, I shake my head so my auburn hair flows down my back. My gaze locks with Lincoln’s, his eyes widen the slightest fraction. The Prince speaks one word. “You.”

I start staring at his mouth again. Maybe I need therapy of some kind. “Yes, me.”

The King eyes us both for a moment, and then turns to Sharkie. “What is this girl’s name?”

I’ve never heard Sharkie call me anything but ‘slave.’ How he’ll hate answering that question. The emcee’s voice comes out a low rumble. “It’s Myla Lewis, your Majesty.” Yup, he hated that, alright.

“You fought bravely, Myla Lewis.” Up close, I can see that the King’s face is pale with lightly veined skin and deep laugh-lines around his mismatched eyes. “Part of our mission here is to build better relationships with quasis such as you. Please accept this sword in congratulation.” He holds up a long silver sword with a red pummel, then pauses, turning to Lincoln. “Perhaps you should give her this, my son. I believe I saw the two of you talking at the ball.”

Hell, no. Don’t let that asshat give me the sword. I raise my hand quickly. “We don’t know each other.”

Lincoln takes the weapon firmly in his hands. “Let me think.” His gaze slowly runs over my body. Suddenly, I’m very aware that my dragon-scale cat suit leaves zero to the male imagination. Even worse, it’s really-really cold in the Arena today. Great.

The Prince sets the point of the sword onto the Arena floor, his hands rest atop the red pummel. “I believe we had one conversation. About pets, as I recall?” His heavy-lidded eyes lock onto mine, one slate-blue and one wheat-brown. A challenge lurks behind them.

My inner demon sparks to life, not with anger this time, but with something just as powerful. My tail strokes my shoulder, as if warning me to stop. I slap the arrowhead end and lean in closer to Lincoln.

I’m always up for a challenge.

I plaster on a fake smile. “Now, I remember the conversation. You were a true Prince.” I turn to the King. “I am grateful for the sword, your Highness.”

Lincoln swings the weapon until the pummel rests in his right hand, the deadly end against his left palm. The Prince and I start a kind of staring match in the middle of the Arena floor. I pass the time picturing ways to knock him to the ground.

King Connor clears his throat. “Perhaps if you said a few words, son.”

Lincoln’s upper lip curls. “Sure, father.” He takes a deep breath. “This quasi girl–”

“Myla. My name’s Myla.” Anger hums through every bone in my body.

The Prince’s jaw falls open a moment. I don’t think he gets corrected very often. I glance at the King; laughter dances in his mismatched eyes.

“Yes, Myla.” If Lincoln could spit my name out, I think he would have. “You showed some basic ability in the match this morning, certainly enough to warrant an honorary sword. Of course, if you fought a true demon hunter then–”

“Just name the time and place, buddy.” My body buzzes with rage.

I pause. My every word has been echoing throughout the Arena. Really, really loudly. I inspect the crowd. The angels sit still, their mouths contracted into an ‘o’ shape. The demons have actually stopped their ongoing battles for the best seats; they all face the Arena floor. Thousands of eyes fix in our direction. Part of me knows I should be humiliated right now, but the rest of me is too jacked up on rage to care.

My gaze flips between Lincoln and Connor. “Okay, how do we end this?”

The King rubs his chin, hiding a smile. “Perhaps if you set your hands like this?” He raises his arms to chest height, palms extended.

“Oh yeah.” I set my hands to match the King’s. Lincoln’s face is the model of calm as he balances the sword between my open palms. I let out a sigh. This nightmare of a morning is almost over. Then, Prince’s fingertips brush the skin between my gloves and sleeves. Where our bare skin touches, I feel an electric pulse of pleasure.

What. The. Hell.

I quickly pull my hands away, curling the sword against my chest. “Thank you.” I quickly glance into Lincoln’s face, seeing his façade of calm crack for a moment, revealing a look that mixes shock and desire.

So, he felt the connection too, but he still thinks I’m a disgusting demon. Great. My face burns with anger and humiliation.

The King and Prince bow slightly, then walk away. It takes forever for them to stride across the Arena floor. I pass the time picturing ways to kick Lincoln in the back of the head.

The next few minutes are a blur of marching heralds, blaring trumpets, and smiling courtiers. At some point, Walker pulls me into the safety and shadows of a nearby archway. His voice is low and gentle. “Are you ready to portal home, Myla?”

My eyes burn with feelings I don’t know how to name. “Walker, I was ready an hour ago.” I’m seconds away from bursting into tears. Some warrior.

“Don’t take it personally, Myla. Most thrax have never met a quasi. They don’t understand that you’re not a demon.”

“That didn’t bother me.” My voice breaks so much, I sound like I could be yodeling. Crap, I hate it when I do that. “Okay, that totally hurt like Hell.”

Walker wraps me into a hug. His body is warm and firm, not at all the chilly undeadly-ness that I expected. “Do you want me to beat him up for you?”