Sharkie sniffs from his nose-holes. “No.”
Deacon turns to the Arena audience. “This girl is clearly part demon. I’m a man. Don’t I deserve the means to defend myself?” The demons screech and howl with delight; the angels sit in anxious silence.
Sharkie slams his staff onto the ground. “The rules of trial by combat are not open to negotiation. The soul may choose their opponent but no weapons. This was decreed by the Spectral Treaty of–”
A slick voice echoes through the arena, silencing Sharkie. “I like him. The man’s got sass.” It’s Armageddon. The demon raises his black hand, snapping his fingers. “Here’s your weapon, friend.” A long coiled whip appears before Deacon’s feet.
Unholy Hell.
I glance at Verus on her white throne; her blue eyes gleam. She quickly rises to her feet. “What say you, SKE-12? Is this how the match should proceed?”
Everyone holds their breath as Sharkie considers his reply. A droplet of black sweat trickles down his gray cheek. There’s more at stake here than a weapon, but I can’t put my finger on it. My fingers twitch anxiously at my sides.
Sharkie’s knobby Adam’s apple flicks up and down as he swallows. “The ghouls shall allow a single weapon for this fight only.”
Verus quirks her eyebrows. “Such a surprise.” Her glance flicks to me with a look that says ‘this turn of events is anything but a shock’. I feel like that’s meant to comfort me somehow, but it doesn’t.
My mind whirls through everything that happened this morning: Deacon choosing me so quickly, Armageddon conjuring a weapon for him, and Verus giving me a fighting suit. It all adds up to one fact.
Verus wasn’t the only one who noticed when I killed the Choker.
Clearly, Armageddon’s taken an interest in me as well. In his mind, I must be the only thing standing between him and a purely evil soul in Heaven. I pull my suit’s protective mask over my face, feeling new waves of adrenaline course through me. Of course, this was no surprise to Verus; she’s an Oracle. I grit my teeth in frustration. Would have been nice to get more of a heads-up than a new suit, lady.
Sharkie slams his staff on the ground. “Let the match begin!” Deacon turns from misty ghost into solid human. He picks up the whip, shaking out its length before him. My breath catches. Fighting hand-to-hand? No problem. Battling an armed opponent? I am so fucked. For the first time since I was twelve, the thought flashes through my mind that I might actually die here. Terror zings through my nervous system.
Deacon flicks his wrist; the coil unfurls. Red hellfire erupts along the weapon’s length. The human’s face twists into an evil grin. Fast as a heartbeat, my opponent brings his arm up, snapping the whip down with a loud CRACK.
The next thing I know, I’m choking to death, a fiery whip wrapped about my neck. Terror courses through my nervous system, causing my inner demon to cower with fright.
Pulling up my tail, I try slicing the cord around my throat, but it’s no use. I have precious seconds of consciousness left. Turning to my enemy, I jump into the air, crouching my boots beneath me. I slam my feet into Deacon’s chest. My body jolts backwards as my heels connect with his ribs. Deacon stumbles, fumbling with the handle of his whip. I land beside him, trying to keep the cord as slack as possible.
This is my chance. Grab that whip before he regains control of it.
The world drips by in slow motion as the whip wobbles in Deacon’s hands. Lunging, I try grabbing the weapon from him, but at the last possible millisecond, his fingers grip it firmly again.
Oh, no. I watch helplessly as my last chance to steal away the whip disappears. My lungs burn for air, turning my body numb with fear. Frozen with terror? Not the way to win a battle.
Deacon slams his arm down once more, bringing the whip along with it. The fiery cord around my neck pulls even tighter; my lungs scream for oxygen. At least, my new suit protects my skin from burning. Small comfort amid a huge panic.
The roar of the demon crowd rattles through my head. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware of Armageddon leaning forward in his dark throne, watching the match with glee, his eyes burning bright red. A horrible thought flashes through my mind: If I die here today, some demon like him could end up consuming my soul. The thought turns my muscles slack with shock.
Deacon runs into me full throttle, ramming his shoulder into my belly. He drags me along a few paces; my body slams against the Arena wall. I’m dimly aware of demons howling ever louder with pleasure. Pinned in place, I heave up my legs for another kick, but this time, my feet miss the mark. My limbs feel oddly heavy, my mind strangely calm as I realize an important fact: