Nodding, I grip my hands behind my back. I’m enough of a warrior to know he’s right: taunting Armageddon is a B-A-D idea. I focus on the ground, force myself to breathe slowly, and try to keep my cool. My inner demon has a mind of its own with more than my tail. When my eyes flare red, it’s my demonic side getting rowdy. Sometimes, it’s a struggle to keep it in check.
From his great stone throne, Armageddon watches the frenzied demon crowd, his thin red lips curling upwards. He scans every face, soaking in each expression and nuance, weaving them all into some complex and dark plan.
I shiver. He’s being crafty again, and damn, that makes my skin crawl.
Raising his hand, Armageddon quiets the crowd. “Today’s soul was a favorite of mine on earth. Unbelievable strength. No capacity for conscience. Pure untainted evil. When he wins this battle—which he will, make no mistake—then we’ll finally have one of our own inside the gates of Heaven.” The dark seats howl with glee while the angels collectively shiver. Grinning, Armageddon retakes his seat.
All faces turn to the Angel Verus. She slowly rises to her feet, her white wings spreading regally behind her. She shouts one word: “NEVER!” The force of her yell sets columns rattling and rubble tumbling to the ground. Her gaze turns to me, eyes flashing bright. Armageddon follows suit, his irises glowing red as he scans me from head to toe. A satisfied smirk winds the corner of his mouth. I’ve seen that look on other faces; it’s the one that says ‘that little girl? Maybe she’s won before, but against this opponent? Are you serious?’
Which pisses me off, big time.
Sharkie thumps his staff again; a human soul appears nearby. In life, this ghost was a man about six feet tall with broad shoulders and two-hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle beneath them. Now he appears as a spectral version of his mortal self: a ghostly hulk whose pale body looks ready to burst from his faded jeans and dirty white t-shirt.
Sharkie addresses the spirit. “Vincent Francis Morris, you’ve chosen trial by combat, is this true?”
“The Choker. My name’s…The Choker.” Squinting his piggish eyes, the ghost flicks a fat tongue over his full lips.
“I will ask again.” Sharkie’s irises flare bright red. “Have you chosen trial by combat?”
The ghost curls his hands into fists. “Yes, combat.”
“Select your opponent.” Sharkie grins, his knife-like teeth glimmer in the pale light. “First, we offer XP-22.”
The Choker eyes our ‘fighting ghoul.’ With barely-there skin and the muscle tone of toilet paper, anyone could crush XP-22. In fact, the Choker would probably snap him in three seconds or less, but I don’t think he’ll choose to. Ghouls look mighty terrifying, even the weak ones. Most humans avoid them.
The Choker is no different. “I’ll pass.”
Sharkie moves his thin arm to the next figure in line. “Second, we offer Sheila, the Limus demon.”
Sheila’s fourteen red eyes whip about her upper body, finally stopping to glare at the ghostly human. She stretches wide the black hole that serves as her mouth, letting out a gurgling roar. When that girl puts her game on, she’s terrifying.
“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.”