Angelbound (2 page)

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.