“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 shtic
k, 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.”
Duty Bound Page 9
