Angelbound (7 page)

“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.”

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!”

I slide off the bed and stand on my tiptoes, trying to peep into the box. “What did you pick out? I can’t wait to see it.”

“You’re going to love it. But close your eyes…I want this to be a surprise.” Her face looks so joyful I can’t say no.

“Okay.” I shut my eyes.

As the dress slips over my head, Mom asks the question all seniors dread: “How are your assessments going?” This is a grueling year-long process that ends with being assigned a life-long service.

“The tests haven’t started yet.”

“Have you thought about becoming a seamstress?” Mom gives my arm a gentle pinch. “We could work at home and be together all the time. Would be much safer than the Arena.”

Stop fighting in the Arena? No freaking way! I’m about to tell her that, but the hope glistening in her brown eyes stops me cold. I can’t burst her bubble yet. “Wow, that’s a really great offer.” I shift my weight from foot to foot. “But, you know, senior year started a few weeks ago. I’ve still got time.”

Mom zips up the back of my dress. “Don’t take too long. Graduation will be here before you know it, and Arena fights aren’t enough of a service on their own.”

“Uh, they aren’t?” My mouth falls open. “Are you sure?”

“What do you think?” She winks. She probably researched this years ago.

My body feels cold. “Uh, let’s not talk about that now.”

“Fine with me. But if you don’t start to advocate to be a seamstress, you could be assigned something awful like latrine duty.”

She may have a point.

“Okay, Mom. I promise I’ll think about it soon.” I fidget in my gown, dying to open my eyes a crack. The skirt feels a little weird, but then again I don’t wear dresses very often. “Can I look now?”

Mom claps her hands. “Yes!”

Glancing in my mirror, I see myself wearing an ankle-length gown with a massive hoop skirt. The entire monstrosity is covered in flounces, bows, and the color orange.

Hells bells, orange.
I so want to puke, die, or both.

At that moment, the doorbell rings. “Cissy must be here.” Mom clasps her hands beneath her chin. “I’ll go get her. I can’t wait for her to see you!”

Um, I can.

Mom walks to the front door, letting a giddy Cissy inside. There’s a lot of cooing and hugging, then footsteps pad toward my bedroom. Cissy pauses in my doorway, her hand covering her bow-shaped mouth. She’s wearing a slinky black dress that’s floor length and sliced half-way up her thigh.

I let out a low whistle. “Cissy, you look gorgeous.” All quasis are beautiful by human standards, but Cissy’s dress takes it to a new level. Why couldn’t Mom
have called Versace, too?

“Thanks, Myla. You look…” Cissy smacks her lips, searching for the right word.

“She looks amazing, doesn’t she?” Mom weaves her arm through Cissy’s. “Hard to believe I wore this gown twenty years ago.”

“I believe it,” says Cissy quietly.

Suddenly, I’d like nothing better than for the earth to open up and swallow me whole. I kill things; I don’t wear dresses.

“Just one second!” Mom rushes back to the box, pulling out a floppy orange hat with an enormous bow. “This goes with it.”

I picture Captain Hook’s hat, then realize Mom’s hat could eat that one and still have room for dessert.

“No, thanks,” say Cissy and I unison.

A knot of tension crawls up my spine; I can’t wait to get this dress off. “I’m not feeling too well, Cissy.” I fiddle with the zipper on my back. “You’ll have to catch the party without me.”

“You’re fine. It’s nerves.” Cissy turns to my mother, blinking her tawny eyes madly. “You wouldn’t mind if we made a few little alterations, would you? To bring the dress up to date a wee bit?”

“Of course. There are scissors in the box. Do you need anything else?”

Cissy smiles sweetly. “A little girl-time.” She stares pointedly at the door. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Still beaming, Mom almost glides out of my room. Cissy closes
the door firmly behind her, then grabs the scissors and goes to work. Within minutes, the flounces and bows lay on the floor, alongside the hoop. In the end, I’m wearing a very simple, very electric orange gown. I stare at my image in the mirror.

“I look like a nuclear carrot.”

Cissy grabs my hand. “No, you don’t, you look fine. Please let’s go to the party please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeease?”

I’m going to regret this. “Okay, let’s go.”

Cissy and I race toward the front door, but my mother’s too quick for an uneventful escape. “No, wait!” Mom holds up her hands. “I have an instamatic camera somewhere in the attic crawlspace. I want to capture this moment!”

Cissy pauses by the threshold, fluffing her blonde ringlets. “Sure.” Mom runs off, the sound of footsteps echo through the house.

I glare at my best friend. “No pictures, please. Besides, we’re running super-late.”

“Oh, yeah,” Cissy cups her hand by her mouth. “Gotta go, Momma Lewis!”

Mom’s muffled voice sounds from the attic. “Are you sure you can’t wait?”

I grab Cissy’s hand and lunge for the front door. “Absolutely positive.”

Cissy and I rush to the driveway and slide into Betsy. After Betsy coughs up a few clouds of toxic smoke, we putter along the route to the Ryder mansion, our gowns carefully folded around us. As I drive along, I watch Upper Purgatory slide by my windows.

What a bummer this place is. When I was a kid, this used to be the fanciest
spot around, filled with rows of overly-large houses on overly-small plots of land. The lawns were always green and fancy black sedans lined all the driveways.

That was before the ghouls took over.

Like all conquerors, the ghouls decided they deserved the best real estate. The same houses I remember slide by my window again, only now they’re filled with the undead. The lawns have been turned into open earth, the better for worm farming. Every window has been boarded up; each fancy sedan sits rusting in its driveway.

All the houses, that is, except the Ryder mansion. It slides into view, a white citadel of quasi-ness sitting atop a lush green hill. It’s a little patch of the old republic that survived, lovely and alive. We park Betsy and march up to the mansion’s front door. Cissy presses the bell, her face positively beaming. “We’re on!”

I suppress the urge to grab her hand and run for it.

Seconds later, the door swings open to reveal Zeke, who looks extra smarmy with his slick-backed hair, black tuxedo, and red plaid vest. His eyes me slowly from head to toe before saying: “Helloooo, Elmo!”