“There’s nothing I can say.” Walker’s gaze meets mine, his black eyes glistening in the pale light. “You’re precious to me, Myla.” He raises his hand and presses it to my cheek. His skin is warmer than I expected.
Realization slams into me. “You know what this is all about, don’t you?” I wrap my fingers around his hand. “Tell me.”
“I’ve watched Verus for years. I know how she thinks.”
“And how’s that?”
Walker frowns. I know Mom bullied him into telling me zero about himself. But he does more with his life than ferry me back and forth to matches. He must know something about what really happened today.
He drops his hand. “I’ve said too much already.” Turning on his heel, he starts to walk away.
I block his path. “Tell me what you were going to say. I promise I won’t press you for more. I know you made some kind of promise to my mother.” I stare into his liquid black eyes and hope with everything in me: please, tell me something.
Relief washes over Walker’s face. “I can say this. I believe you impressed Verus with your defeat of the Choker. She’s taken an interest in you now. She specifically requested you come to the Arena today, but I don’t think it was to fight.”
“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.”
Chapter Four
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?”