First Published by Ink Monster, LLC in 2014
Ink Monster, LLC
34 Chandler Place
Newton, MA 02464
www.inkmonster.net
ISBN 9780989405041
Copyright © 2014 by Ink Monster 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.
ScreamQueen
Dedicated to Prince Lincoln Brezina, Heaven’s Sweetest Angel
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Ring, ring, ring. Five o’clock in the morning and my kitchen phone won’t shut the Hell up.
A dull ache of worry pulses through my drowsy brain. Someone calling at this hour? Most likely, it’s bad news.
I sleep-shuffle into the kitchen. Yawning, I pick up the receiver and set it to my ear. “Myla Lewis speaking.”
“Is this the Great Scala?” The voice is young, female, and borderline hysterical.
My anxiety level kicks up a notch. Based on that tone? Definitely bad news.
“Yup. That’s me.” I only gained my Scala powers a few months ago, but already, my old Myla Lewis self is fading into the background. People only want to talk to the Great Scala, the sole being who can move souls to Heaven or Hell. Most assume that Myla’s my nineteen-year-old secretary or something. It’s really weird.
I stifle another yawn. “What’s going on?”
“I’m calling about the eighteen million souls in Ghost Tower Six.”
“No, you’re not. There are 3,325,932 souls in Ghost Tower Six. 18,873,264 in all of Purgatory.” Give or take a few. Since it’s my job to move them all to Heaven or Hell, I like to keep tabs on these things. “Still, that didn’t answer my question. What’s the problem?”
“Code-red failure, Great Scala. Ghost Tower Six is ready to blow.”
Now, I’m wide-the-fuck-awake. Ghost Towers keep angry, confused and homicidal spirits off the streets while we sort them into Heaven or Hell. There hasn’t been a code-red failure in ten years. Electric jolts of panic course along every nerve ending I’ve got. I grip the receiver so tightly, I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in two.
“When did this start?”
“Thirty minutes ago. Your phone rang and rang.”
My mouth falls open with a mixture of rage and shock. “A half-hour ago? Why didn’t you send a runner to my house? I live two blocks from your Tower.”
“The rules say to call you on a code-red. Please don’t be angry with me. Please don’t—”
“Send you to Hell? No, I won’t.” Though, I’m sorely tempted. “I’ll be right over.”
“Thank you Great Scala, thank you, thank you. May I say how honored I am to have been able to—”
Thus begins the usual kiss-assery that comes with being a demi-goddess. For the first few weeks it was fun, now it’s a major time suck. And I have a Ghost Tower about to explode and release three million homicidal spirits all over Purgatory. I hang up without saying goodbye and high-tail over to the Tower.
The building is almost in my backyard, but even if it wasn’t, Ghost Tower Six would still easy to find. The place is massive, rectangular, windowless and made of concrete. I rush towards the only door, a round metal portal. A stocky guard in ninja-style body armor stands nearby. Like all natives of Purgatory, the guard and I are quasis, a mix of human and demon.
I shoot him a quick wave. “Hey, Harold.”
“Great Scala, thank Heavens you’ve come.” Harold sets his bare palm onto an input pad by the door. A series of clicks sound as the locks release. “It’s a code-red failure.”
“I know, buddy. I’m on it.”
A muscle twitches by Harold’s eye. “The Cloud Carriers are close to rupture. Maybe we should follow the ghoul-rules and—”
“If you say move the souls to Hell, I’ll kick you in the kneecaps.” Since I grew up fighting demons gladiator-style in Purgatory’s Arena, those kicks would hurt, too.
Harold’s face takes on a terrified look that I can only describe as ‘please don’t send me to Hell’. “I meant no disrespect, Great Scala.” He keeps standing there, cowering and not opening the door.
“You, open, portal, now.”
“Yes, Great Scala. Right away, Great Scala.”
Sure, I could scold Harold for even suggesting Hell, but it wouldn’t do any good. Twenty years ago, the King of Hell invaded our lands, toppled the Quasi Republic, killed off anyone with a brain or spine, and set up ghouls as puppet government. For the next two decades, the ghouls brainwashed quasis like Harold into mindless, submissive, rules-worshipping slaves. I kicked the ghouls out, but their brainwashing has stayed.
At last, the round portal swings open. I hurry inside.
The interior of the Ghost Tower is a concrete shell, noisy as Hell and empty of anything solid. There’s a Control Room about halfway up the wall. Wardens stand at each corner, all of them in simple white uniforms. It’s what fills this empty space that always takes my breath away. From floor to ceiling, the open air holds a shifting array of what look like clouds. They’re actually huge vessels that enclose souls in a misty containment field. We call them Cloud Carriers.
The Lead Warden, Celia, steps to my side, her lion’s tail twitching anxiously behind her. All quasis have an animal tail along with a power across the seven deadly sins. Celia’s is wrath. I have two deadly-sin powers—lust and wrath—as well as a long, thin dragon-scale tail. Totes badass.
Celia yells to me over the din of our power generators. “So sorry to drag you in here again.”
I shout back my reply. “No worries.”
Total Lie. In truth, there’s a ton to worry about. The Towers have had nine code-orange failures in the last week alone.
“The Carriers are unstable again,” explains Celia quickly. “It’s never been this bad.”
“How do the reports look?”
“Fine.” Celia pulls an electronic tablet from her pocket. “Perfect, even.” Her features turn wide-eyed and pleading. “Are you sure you won’t follow the ghoul-rules? Our old Masters were often very wise. Maybe the ghouls left the Orb here for a reason.”
At the very mention of Lucifer’s Orb, my hands ball into angry fists. I kick the ghouls out of Purgatory and what do they do? Hide the ultimate source of demonic magic in my homeland so I can only send souls to Hell. Screw them.
“We’ve been through this before,” I reply. Celia opens her mouth, but I shut off her standard speech before she starts. “I know what you’re about to say. A million new souls enter Purgatory each month. We’re running out of places to put them. That’s why the Towers are ready to burst. But once I send a soul somewhere, even I can’t take it back. No innocents to Hell.”
“Yes, Great Scala. As you say, Great Scala.” Celia starts rapid-fire bowing, which is a new and somewhat cringe-worthy move.
“We need to
stop rehashing old territory and focus on the code-red. Which Carrier’s at risk this time?”
Celia points to a cloud that’s resting on the floor. “That one.”
I scan the Tower from floor to ceiling. “No, I don’t think so.” Lately, I can tell at a glance if a Carrier’s at risk. Halfway up the walls, one cloud vibrates ominously. “Show me number thirteen.”
Celia pulls up her tablet and starts pressing buttons. Above me, the clouds shift places until a new one takes up the entire mile-long concrete floor. Number Thirteen. Celia presses more buttons and the puffy structure solidifies into a rectangular shape, ready for inspection.
I walk up to the closest wall of mist; Celia follows right behind. We could easily step inside the Cloud Carrier itself, but that’s not a safe thing to do. Purgatory isn’t exactly happy-fun-time for these souls, and angry ghosts can kick some major ass.
“What level are we on?” Carriers are like cruise ships, only with levels instead of decks.
“A-Level.”
“And how many levels are at risk in this Carrier?”
“All of them.”
Yipes. “That’s not good.”
Our Carriers are driven by quantum theory. Dozens of levels jammed into different dimensions of the same cloud, that kind of thing. Saves us room, but it makes everything dangerously interconnected.
I move in closer until my nose almost touches the containment wall. The interior of the Carrier comes into view. It’s a semi-transparent dream world. Soft grass, rolling fields, sunny sky. Spirits are sleeping under trees or curled onto blankets. Inches of space separate them from each other.
I exhale a satisfied breath. The field’s crowded, sure, but the souls are calm, comfortable and safe. This is the way it’s supposed to work. Unfortunately, A-Level doesn’t tell me why this Carrier was moving so strangely. A memory appears in my mind’s eye. We’ve had trouble on this cloud before.
“Show me K-Level.”
Celia clicks more buttons and a new scene appears. This time, it’s a group of men and women, all ghosts, and all losing their freaking minds. Punching, clawing, pulling hair, tearing shirts, hanging from trees. Screaming incredibly inappropriate crap at each other. I can’t hear what they say, but I read lips well enough to get the gist. Rough stuff.
An anxious weight settles onto my back. All these folks should be sleeping peacefully, like the souls on A-Level. Instead, they’re wide-awake, crowded on top of each other, and pissed.
Before me, a pair of ghost fighters slam into the containment wall. The exterior of the whole Carrier shakes with the impact, sending shock waves through the rest of the clouds. If the ghosts break out here, it can cause a chain reaction across the whole Tower. At this point, my only consolation is that they’re fighting with each other, and not trying to break out of the Carrier itself.
“What’s the spirit density on this cloud, anyway?”
“Four hundred thousand souls.”
I let out a low whistle. “That’ll do it.”
It’s the same story everywhere, though. All the Carriers are packed-to-bursting, and the dead don’t like being crowded any more than the living. It only takes one ghost to wake up, flip out, and start fighting. After that, the whole Carrier’s at risk.
The battle inside the cloud gets vicious. Spectral bodies are hurled into the misty walls. The hazy barriers of the Carrier shake more violently.
Another body hits the containment wall. This time, a spider-web of white lines spread out from the impact point.
My breath catches. The walls are starting to break apart. It’s never been this serious before. My mind races through ways to stop the damage. “Did you try lowering the charge on the containment field? The electricity might be zapping them awake.”
“We tried that. No effect.”
Another blow strikes the wall before me. The fracture lines spread. Some of the nearby Carriers start to vibrate as well. My pulse shoots through the roof.
“How about the concentration of mist?” That’s what keeps the souls sedated and calm.
Celia taps on her tablet. “They look fine.”
“Have a testing rod?”
Celia pulls what looks like a long silver nail from inside her jacket. “Sure.”
I take the rod from her hands and gently move it into the cloud. Meanwhile, the ghosts inside get even more out of control. Bodies smash along the length of the Carrier wall. More fractures appear. Tension spreads up my neck and around my temples.
This could be it. The day we release millions of angry ghosts into Purgatory, where they’ll do what all mobs do. Tear everyone and everything apart.
I pull out the testing rod and check the surface. One-third of it now glows. “The mist levels in this cloud are only at thirty percent.”
“That’s impossible.” All the blood drains from Celia’s face. “We cranked everything up to maximum.”
“The Towers were never designed to hold this many souls, Celia. I’ve seen it before. The systems get overloaded and downright glitchy.”
More ghosts pound into the wall. This time, they see the fractures, too. It gives them bad ideas, as in: ‘let’s not fight each other, let’s break out of here’. Long cracks form in the containment wall closest to us. Thin lines of mist leak out into the Ghost Tower.
Celia hugs her elbows. “What do we do?”
“Go to the Control Room. Have them call the Minister of Infrastructure. If anyone knows how to override whatever’s holding back the mist, he will.” The Minister’s my old friend Walker. A super-talented engineer, Walker can always get the Ghost Towers working.
“Yes, Great Scala.”
Celia races off to the Control Room. Meanwhile, I pace back and forth before the containment wall, thinking through my options. They aren’t good. More cracks appear, deeper and longer this time. If the ghosts escape, the protocol’s to flood the Tower with mist. Which probably won’t be possible, considering that we can’t fill the Carriers with enough mist. And if the ghosts get out, that’s a worst-case scenario for yours truly. I’ll be forced to move the escapees to Hell.
Come ooooooon, Walker.
Seconds drag by. The ghosts are hysterical now, clawing at the walls and crawling on top of each other. I start screaming at them, not that they can hear me.
“Calm down! Trust me, this isn’t what you want!”
The fight inside the Carrier takes on a new edge. Weapons are added into the mix. Someone’s broken off branches from the nearby trees, and the walls suffer a new level of pounding. One of the cracks opens wider. A misty hand pokes through and into the Tower beyond. A sense of heavy dread settles into my bones.
That’s it. I’ve run out of time.
In my mind, I summon igni. Instantly, little lightning bolts of power swirl and dive around my palms like tiny silver fish. I can feel their excitement. This is what they’re meant to do. Move souls. They form a whirlpool on the floor, the first step in creating a Soul Column that will send these spirits to their afterlife. Unfortunately, that afterlife will be in Hell.
My heart sinks. I’ve failed them.
Suddenly, the Cloud Carrier fills with mist, a thicker haze than I’ve ever seen before. The combatants drop their weapons, close their eyes, and slump over into a deep sleep. Exhaling a relieved breath, I command my igni to disappear.
At last. The mist levels are fixed. The souls are safe.
Wherever you are, Walker, I owe you one.
As Minister of Infrastructure, Walker does more than save my butt every time the Ghost Towers break down. He’s also searching for Lucifer’s Orb, and is pretty close to finding it, too. Once the Orb’s out of Purgatory, I’ll be free to move souls again. Whew.
Celia rushes back. “It worked.” She pauses before me, her mouth thinning to a fierce line. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but we should follow the ghoul-rules here, and the ghouls wanted to send these souls to Hell. Who cares about a bunch of dead people when live quasis are at risk? If
these ghosts escape, they’ll tear Purgatory apart.”
My eyebrows rise with surprise. My, my, myyyyyyy. What’s with the sassy mouth? Say what you want about ghoul brainwashing, it usually makes my people cower versus confront. Fighting with a newly-feisty Celia is the last thing I need.
I lower my voice an octave, just to show I mean business. “No good souls go to Hell on my watch. Not unless we’ve no other choice.”
Celia’s entire body quivers as she speaks. “Our choice was already made for us. By the ghouls. All we have to do is act on it.”
I watch Celia tremble; all the irritation drains right out of me. The ghouls spent twenty years brainwashing her. Her so-called Masters left only two months ago. I can’t expect to erase years of conditioning in a matter of weeks. “When was the last time you slept, Celia?”
“Two days ago, Great Scala.”
I rest my hand gently on her upper arm. “Go home. Take the day off. We’ll talk about this later.”
After a fast nod, Celia slowly walks away.
Suddenly, the power generators stop. Green lights flicker along the top of the Tower, showing that we’re now running on back-up energy from Upper Purgatory. Everything turns eerily quiet.
My body goes on alert. Shutdowns like this only happen if the containment walls crash or if there’s some serious diplomatic gunk going on. Maybe we’re about to get an emergency visit from my mother, who’s now Purgatory’s President.
I cross my fingers, hoping it’s Mom.
From across the concrete floor, my best friend Cissy appears in the doorway. She’s our new Senator for Diplomacy, so that puts things solidly into the ‘diplomatic gunk category’ of shutdown. I exhale a shaky breath. I don’t need any more adrenaline rushes today.
My best friend runs at me at full speed, her golden retriever tail wagging busily behind her. Cissy is tall and willowy with tawny brown eyes and blonde hair that falls in neat ringlets. Today, she wears purple Senatorial robes and a worried look on her face. She stops to a skid at my side.
“You’re in your Scala robes, good.”
Huh. Cissy wants me to look all official. Must be an ultra-important diplomatic thingy going on.
Scala Page 1
