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 Two
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 g
rass. 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.
&nbs
p; 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.’
Angelbound Page 3
