Angelbound

My fingers twiddle in his direction. “Hey, Walker.” Technically, he’s named WKR-7, but I’ve called him Walker for as long as I can remember.

“Good morning.” Walker nods his skull-like head. If he were a few inches taller, the movement would knock his cranium through ceiling, and he’s on the short side for a ghoul. It’s a mystery how Walker and the rest of the undeadlies handle an eternity of being so crazy-tall.

Walker pulls back his low-hanging hood, showing pale, almost colorless skin and a strong bone structure. He sports the same hairstyle from the day he died: a brush cut with sideburns and no beard. Great black eyes peep at me from deep sockets.

I grin. It’s nice to have Walker around. Most ghouls are obsessed with rules and act irritating as Hell. But Walker? He pushes boundaries like a pro, especially when it comes to sneaking me into the Arena. Having him around is like having a cute and somewhat sneaky older brother, only one without a pulse.

“Be careful, Myla.” Walker’s thin lips droop into a frown. “That’s no way to greet your overlords. I don’t mind, but other ghouls could send you to a re-education camp.”

I roll my eyes. Purgatory is one massive bureaucracy with the charm of suburbia and the fun of a minimum-security prison. All the work’s done by unpaid quasis like me (we’re not allowed to call ourselves ‘prisoners’). Ghouls keep us in line and make sure we’re–cough, cough–super happy in our service.

I’m ready to complain about all this to Walker for the millionth time when Mom pipes into the conversation.

“Greetings, my beloved overlord.” She’s laying it on thick to make up for my sloppy hello. “Want some decaf?” She bows.

Walker nods; ghouls love java.

Mom picks up one of Walker’s loopy sleeves, rubbing the fabric between her fingertips. “This is a little threadbare. Are you here for a new one?” All quasis must perform a service; Mom sews and mends robes. It could be worse. My friend Cissy’s mom is a ghoul proctologist.

“No, thank you.” Walker eyes the coffee pot greedily.

Mom hands him a full mug marked ‘Afterlife’s Greatest Ghoul.’ Her chocolate eyes nervously scan his face. “What service do you require then?”

Walker frowns. “Myla must battle in the Arena today.”

A huge grin spreads across my face. When human souls reach Purgatory, they’re given a choice: trial by jury, or trial by combat. Based on the result, they end up either happily floating around Heaven or having their souls consumed in Hell. If the human selects a trial by jury, then it’s someone else’s problem. But if they choose combat–and the combatant in question is totally evil–then someone like Walker ends up in the kitchen of someone like me. I’m one of a few dozen quasis who kick butt. Literally.

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.”

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