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.