Angelbound

I shower, change into my fighting suit, and walk into the kitchen, a smarmy smile on my face. Iconigrations are the best.

Mom sits at the table, holding a mug of steaming coffee. She takes one look at me and frowns. “What’s going on, Myla?”

I put on my best ‘innocent face’: eyes wide and blinking like mad. “Walker’s taking me to the Arena for another death-match. You know, the usual.” A pile of Demon bars sit on the counter. I grab one and dive in.

“Did you have any strange dreams last night?”

“Nope.”

“Make any new friends?”

Besides the thrax High Prince?

“Cissy’s still my best friend, Mom.” Misleading but true.

Mom rounds on Walker. “What soul is she battling this morning?”

“The CEO of a financial conglomerate back on earth. Nasty fellow.” Unlike me, Walker’s a really good liar.

Mom eyes me carefully for a full minute. Her fingers slowly drum the tabletop. “I suppose it’s all right.”

Sweeeeeeeeeet.

I swallow my last bite of breakfast. “Let’s get going.”

Walker lowers his head. A crackling sound fills the air as a portal opens by our fridge. I take Walker’s hand in mine.

“See you later, Mom.”

She looks at me out of her right eye. “Uh-huh.” After my little performance with the Reperio demons, she’s on constant sneak-alert for everything I do. Not that I blame her.

Walker and I step into the portal, tumble through empty space, and walk out again into a darkened archway off the Arena floor. I’m actually starting to like portal travel.

I lean against the stone wall and look out across the stadium. Everything’s deserted.

“There used to be great ceremonies before an iconigration,” says Walker. “Now the Scala shows up, creates soul-columns and leaves.”

A low hiss echoes through the air. A portal opens along the Arena’s top level. Through it steps the tallest ghoul I’ve ever seen and someone I never wanted to see again: Armageddon.

I turn to Walker. “What’s tall, dark, and demonic doing here?”

He shrugs. “He comes to see his son sometimes.”

My tail arcs over my shoulder. My body goes on full alert.

Another figure steps out from the portal: a tiny woman in a high-necked red silk gown with a bustle on the back. She looks like something from earth in the 1800s, except for her pink skin, pig-snout nose, and tiny black eyes. Her hair’s a long piggy tail that winds into a bun behind her head. In her hoof-hand she holds a silver briefcase.

Armageddon, a ghoul and a few Manus demons all seat themselves in the black marble balcony. The King of Hell snaps his fingers over his shoulder. “Clementine. Now.” The pig-demon rushes onto the balcony, taking her seat beside Armageddon’s black stone throne. She opens the briefcase in her lap and fiddles with whatever’s inside. A high-pitched buzz rings softly in the air.

I nod to Walker. “What do you think Armageddon’s up to?”

“Who knows? He’s always doing strange things. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Humph. That attitude got Purgatory overrun in the first place.

A long portal opens in the center of the Arena floor. Through it steps six ghouls carrying a fancy stretcher. The old Scala lays atop the makeshift cot in his white robes, fast asleep. A thin white blanket is tucked beneath his chin.

One carrier-ghoul gently touches the Scala’s thin shoulder.

The old man’s cloudy eyes open a crack. “Ah, J-27.”

The ghoul bows. “It’s time to call the souls to Heaven, Great Scala.”

Walker taps my hand. “He just said–”

“I understood him.” My body freezes. Hey now, I just understood freaking Latin. “How in Hell do I understand Latin?”

Walker seems awfully interested in staring out at the Arena floor. “When he wants to, the Scala can make the crowd understand him.”

I smack my lips once. That sounds mega-fishy. I never heard the Scala had that power. I tilt my head to one side, trying to figure out if Walker’s telling the truth. “Are you lying to me?”

He turns to me, his face the picture of cool. “Why would I lie?”

Okay, he has a point. Back to watching the Scala.

On the Arena floor, the Scala feebly raises his right hand. A flurry of igni lightning bolts swirl about his palm. Two dozen ghosts appear on the stadium’s floor. I examine the one closest to me. Its shape quickly morphs between thousands of different faces and body types. Icons. Each one contains thousands of human souls.

I watch the icon bodies transform in a blinding flicker. It’s beautiful.

The Scala drops his shaking hand. The igni disappear. He gasps for air, his bony rib cage heaving up and down. The ghouls prop him upright. He catches his breath.

I shake my head. That is one really old dude. He looks like he could cork any second.

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