Walker steeples his hands under his chin. “Time to go, Myla.”
“Finally!” I clear my throat. “I mean, let’s go.” I’m totally pumped to have two fights in one week, but I don’t want Mom to have an aneurism. I give her a quick peck on the cheek. “See you later.”
She grips my shoulders. “Be safe, Myla-la. You’re all I have in the world.” She sniffles. “If I lost you…”
“No worries. I’ll be super incredibly safe. Bye now.” I grab Walker’s hand and almost run through the portal. It doesn’t matter how many times I do this, it always makes me sick to my stomach. When I step out onto the Arena floor, my head feels a little loopy too.
Fighting the fog in my brain, I inspect the grounds around me. Beside me stands Walker, Sharkie, XP-22, and good old Sheila, the Limus demon. As I struggle to focus, my fuzzy mind misses the procession of demons and angels into the stands. By the time my head clears, Sharkie’s ready to announce the match.
“Demons and angels!” The emcee’s deep voice echoes through the massive Arena. “I bring you another spectacle of efficiency in ghoul administration of Purgatory.”
At this point, a roar would typically erupt from the Arena’s demon population. Instead, there’s perfect silence. I scan the stadium; Armageddon sits unmoving on his ebony throne. His red eyes glow brightly; his thin mouth is set into a frown.
Sharkie eyes the stands carefully, then gestures to the dark balcony. “I would ask the greatest general in history to say a few words before the match. Armageddon, if you please!”
The demon lord swings his leg over the arm of his black throne, his scarlet eyes scanning the crowd with pure malice. “I have nothing to say to you.”
Okay, that’s weird. Normally, these matches start with a mutual love-fest between Armageddon and the ghoul hierarchy. Things seem oddly icy today. I rub my neck and yawn. Or maybe my brain hasn’t woken up yet.
Verus rises to her feet. “I’d like to say a few words.”
Sharkie stares at Armageddon for a long moment, his jaw hanging open. Verus never speaks at these events. Sharkie bows to her. “Uh, yes. Please.” He snaps back into emcee mode. “Ghouls, demons, and angels! You all know Verus as the Oracle, the only angel with the gift for seeing the future. What would you like to share with us today? A prediction for the match?”
Verus takes to her feet, her great wings extending. “We angels can’t help but notice that the Scala is getting on in years.” Her gaze rounds on Armageddon, a sly look twinkling in her eyes. “It is time the Scala Heir was announced and brought to these matches.”
I gasp. There hasn’t been a Scala Heir for ages. I’ve heard the stories, of course: at any point in time, there’s one Scala and one Scala Heir. Of all the creatures across the five realms, only these two mortals have the blood of a human, demon, and angel. My tail arcs over my shoulder, ready to strike. Somehow, Verus bringing up the Scala Heir sets my warrior instinct on alert. Bad mojo.
Around the top lip of the stadium, the Oligarchy turn their heads in unison toward Verus. They speak in one voice, the sound a mix of low rumble and hiss. “We have no need of a Scala Heir.”
Verus slowly wags her head from side to side. “The Scala is powerful, but he is mortal. That’s why there’s always been a Scala and a Scala Heir. We haven’t seen an Heir since Armageddon’s War.” She folds her arms into her long white sleeves. “The angels appreciate these matches as a demonstration of efficiency, but how effective is your administration without an Heir?”
Armageddon snaps his long black fingers. A red-skinned demon with horns and a pitchfork steps up to the greater demon’s side. “Where’s the Scala Heir? The thrax we caught at the border to Hell?”
The red demon swallows. “Dead, my lord.”
Armageddon’s eyes flare red. “Why?”
“You thought him insolent, my lord.”
The King of Hell scratches his cheek. “Ah yes, I remember now.” His mouth curls into a sickening grin. “He died very well indeed.”
I shiver. ‘Very well indeed’ means he came up with something especially creative and painful. Oy.
Armageddon gestures to Verus. “There’s been no Scala Heir for nearly twenty years. Why question it now?”
Verus bows her dark head. “We deem the time ripe.”
“Whatever are you up to?” He drums his long fingers on the armrest of his throne. “Is there a prophecy involved?”
“To an Oracle, there’s always a prophecy.” Her eyes flare bright blue. “Answer my question. The Scala Heir.”
“We’ll find the poor sod.” He leans forward, setting his bony elbows on his knees. His eyes narrow as his stare locks with Verus’s steady gaze. The air becomes charged with strange, oppressive energy. My chest tightens.