Angelbound

by Christina Bauer

  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 Four

  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!”