“Hmm.” The Choker’s beady eyes give Sheila a long stare; the entire Arena seems to hold its breath.
I glance at Sheila and shake my head. Limus demons are almost as easy to kill as XP-22. The trick is, they’re super-flammable. One match and you turn a six-foot monster into a puddle of harmless goo. But like XP-22, they look worse than they actually fight.
The Choker frowns. “Nope.”
“And third, we offer the quasi-demon, Myla.”
The Choker’s eyes slowly scan me from head to toe, his creepy gaze lingering on the curves under my t-shirt and sweats. Rage shoots up my spine. What a scumbag. If he stopped thinking with his pants for two seconds, he’d notice my demon tail instead of my boobs and butt. Some quasis get stuck with pig-or bunny-bottoms, but I hit the jackpot: the long and thin variety with an arrowhead end. Even better, it’s coated in dragon scales, so the thing’s nearly impossible to block or cut.
But the Choker isn’t being smart. He stares into my big watery brown eyes and long lashes; I shamelessly blink in fake-terror. For trial by combat to be valid, the soul must have a chance at winning. They get three options, two of which are relatively easy to defeat. Then, there’s me, the one nobody should pick. Except they always do.
“I choose her.” His thick mouth stretches into a vicious smile. “I’ll fight Myla.” In a low voice, he adds: “You’ll find out why they call me the Choker.”
I jam my hands in my pockets and fake-shiver. And you’ll find out why they called me to fight you, dickhead.
Sharkie thumps his staff on the ground again, and the ghostly Choker turns into two-hundred fifty pounds of real human. “So be it.”
“Here are the rules,” announces Sharkie. “Upon the count of three, you shall battle onto the death. If the Choker loses, he goes to Hell.” The angels look at me with encouraging glances. “If the Choker wins, he goes to Heaven.” The demons let out a deafening roar.
I watch the demons cheer, my hands balling into fists. Those freakies would love for a purely evil soul to enter Heaven. If a spirit has even a smidgeon of good in it, they ‘go angel’ once they cross the pearly gates. A purely evil soul could cause no end of trouble for the angels, and demons love trouble.
The crowd quiets into a nervous hush. Sharkie waves his hand; Sheila, Walker, and XP-22 make a hasty exit into an obliging archway. I hop from foot to foot and crack my neck. This will be a hoot.
Sharkie raises his arms. “The battle begins in 3, 2, 1!”
If your nickname is ‘the Choker,’ it doesn’t take a genius in battle strategy to predict your first move in a fight.
“I kiiiiiiiiiiiiiill you!” Sure enough, the Choker lunges for me with both hands outstretched, aiming directly for my throat.
That gets my demon up. Anger spikes along my spine as my attacker speeds toward me. Each step goes in what feels like slow motion. I look around helplessly as if I’m cornered instead of surrounded by an empty arena the size of a football field.
The Choker’s fingers brush my neck. My rage boils over. Jumping super-high, I haul up my knees, then kick my opponent squarely in the chest with both feet. The Choker falls flat on his back with a satisfying thud. Meanwhile, I use the momentum from my chest-kick to flip backwards into a somersault, landing right by his head.
Twisting my hips, I send my tail whipping toward my attacker’s boots, careful to loop the length around his ankles. Stepping backwards, I tighten my tail around the Choker’s feet and haul them up to his waist-level. The movement makes him curl his body so his hands rest right beside his ankles, which is exactly where I want them.
Shaking my hips again, I loop my tail around the Choker’s wrists, cinching together his ankles and hands.
I grin. This scumbag’s now hogtied.
The Choker’s face flushes red as he rocks on his back, trying to wriggle free from my tail’s grip. Not going to happen, buddy.
Tapping his boot with one finger, I whisper: “I beeeeeeeeeeat you.”
The Choker struggles in a losing battle against my tail. Sharkie raises his bony arms. “The human loses!”
The angels cheer while the demons act like someone knocked their collective ice cream cones on the pavement. Boos and hisses erupt from the dark seats. Turning to the angelic side of the stadium, I wave to my cheering fans.
Sharkie glares at me, his eyes flaring red. “How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t dawdle.”
Sharkie hates it when I get any positive attention, so I always drag my winning cheers out as long as possible. The emcee keeps glaring at me, his eyes glowing ever brighter. Meanwhile, I scratch my neck as the Choker struggles with my tail. I’m not ending this for another minute, minimum. Sharkie can kiss my butt.