“Good, because I just ripped my last pair of clean sweats. It’s the fighting suit or nothing.” I turn to Mom. “And you’re totally okay with all this?” I haven’t had a Maternal Inquisition yet or anything. It feels downright weird.
Mom loads her coffee cup with cream and sugar. “I’ve known the angel Verus since before the Wars. She and I discussed this. You can attend.”
“Oh, I see.” If Mom says I can go, this must be totally boring. I eat my Frankenberry cereal one sugar puff at a time. It’s like my last meal before hitting the guillotine.
Walker hovers by my shoulder. “We must depart now, Myla.”
Anger burns through my belly. “If you gave me a little notice before these Arena visits, I’d be ready faster.”
Walker shares a sly look with my mother. “You never complained before.”
“Well, I’m complaining now.”
Mom turns another page in her magazine. “Just because you’re not fighting evildoers this morning doesn’t mean you can be grouchy with Walker.”
Ugh. I hate it when she’s right. “Sorry, Walker.”
“You’re forgiven.”
I swallow my last bite of cereal. “Okay, let’s hit it.”
Walker opens a portal in the center of the kitchen.
Mom blows me a kiss. “Have fun, sweetie!”
“I’ll try.” I give her a halfhearted wave. “See you after school.”
Taking Walker’s hand in mine, I steel my shoulders and step through the dark door. We tumble through space for what feels like hours. I almost puke at least twice before stepping onto the Arena’s dirt floor.
Around me stand a dozen quasis. Men and women, black and white, young and old…This group could not be more different, except for one thing: they all have long pointed tails like mine.
They’re all part-furor. Fighters like me. I can’t help but size up the other warriors. I could take anyone of these folks down, easily. And although most of them have fighting suits, none are as dragon-scale badass as mine.
Hey, it’s not a competition, but I’m winning.
Sharkie does his emcee-thing. The Oligarchy, angels, and demons all take their places in the Arena. An eternity ticks by while I stand near the other fighters. I pass the time playing rock-paper-scissors with my tail. My stomach growls. I must be missing lunch.
THUD. THUD. Sharkie sets his staff against the ground. “Angels, demons, and ghouls! We’ve a special announcement today from the fearless leader of our troops, Armageddon!”
The demon seats go ballistic. The angels clap politely.
Armageddon stands from his stone throne, his long black face twisting into an especially evil-looking grin. “We have found the Scala Heir.” His eyes glow with menace. “As promised.”
Verus takes to her feet. “Excellent. If this is indeed the Scala Heir, then we should be able to perform the Scala Initiation ceremony right now.”
Armageddon slowly reseats himself into his throne. “Of course.”
Verus points to our group of fighters. “Please line up along the base of the Arena wall. You’re witnesses to the changing.”
A Scala changing? That could be cool to watch. To be safe, I pick out a spot by an exit archway, the easier to duck out if things get really boring.
Verus raises her arms. “Let the initiation begin!”
All the angels take to their feet. The air echoes with the rustling of wings and robes. They speak in one voice. “Has the Scala Heir been found?”
Verus lowers her arms. “Yes. Among the thrax nobility.”
Thrax nobility? My stomach sinks to my toes. Yuck.
Moving as one group, the angels extend their white wings. Half the arena becomes blindingly bright. They speak again as one: “Let them bring the Scala Heir to us to be awakened and angelbound.” They all retake their seats.
“We will bring out the Scala Heir.” Verus smiles softly. “But first, the realm that produced the Heir will take the Arena floor. Today, this honor goes to the thrax. The thrax are divided into many Houses, the greatest of these being Horus, Striga, Kamal, Acca, and Rixa. All five will appear before us today. First is the House of Horus, the descendants of the Nubian Pharaohs.”
I exhale with relief. Nubian Pharaohs? That means Lincoln isn’t likely to take the Arena floor. At least, not yet.
I pick at the lint under my nails with my tail. Not that I care what he does, of course.
A trumpet call echoes through the air. The dirt floor shakes as the House of Horus does who-knows-what in the maze of hallways leading to the Arena floor. More trumpets blare as a dozen two-wheeled chariots barrel out of a nearby archway, each one driven by a pair of gray stallions.
The Arena floor rattles beneath my feet as the chariots charge around the stadium. My mouth bursts into a grin. These guys are so badass, it isn’t even funny.