Scala by Christina Bauer
Chapter One
Ring, ring, ring. Five o’clock in the morning and my kitchen phone won’t shut the Hell up.
A dull ache of worry pulses through my drowsy brain. Someone calling at this hour? Most likely, it’s bad news.
I sleep-shuffle into the kitchen. Yawning, I pick up the receiver and set it to my ear. “Myla Lewis speaking.”
“Is this the Great Scala?” The voice is young, female, and borderline hysterical.
My anxiety level kicks up a notch. Based on that tone? Definitely bad news.
“Yup. That’s me.” I only gained my Scala powers a few months ago, but already, my old Myla Lewis self is fading into the background. People only want to talk to the Great Scala, the sole being who can move souls to Heaven or Hell. Most assume that Myla’s my nineteen-year-old secretary or something. It’s really weird.
I stifle another yawn. “What’s going on?”
“I’m calling about the eighteen million souls in Ghost Tower Six.”
“No, you’re not. There are 3,325,932 souls in Ghost Tower Six. 18,873,264 in all of Purgatory.” Give or take a few. Since it’s my job to move them all to Heaven or Hell, I like to keep tabs on these things. “Still, that didn’t answer my question. What’s the problem?”
“Code-red failure, Great Scala. Ghost Tower Six is ready to blow.”
Now, I’m wide-the-fuck-awake. Ghost Towers keep angry, confused and homicidal spirits off the streets while we sort them into Heaven or Hell. There hasn’t been a code-red failure in ten years. Electric jolts of panic course along every nerve ending I’ve got. I grip the receiver so tightly, I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in two.
“When did this start?”
“Thirty minutes ago. Your phone rang and rang.”
My mouth falls open with a mixture of rage and shock. “A half-hour ago? Why didn’t you send a runner to my house? I live two blocks from your Tower.”
“The rules say to call you on a code-red. Please don’t be angry with me. Please don’t—”
“Send you to Hell? No, I won’t.” Though, I’m sorely tempted. “I’ll be right over.”
“Thank you Great Scala, thank you, thank you. May I say how honored I am to have been able to—”
Thus begins the usual kiss-assery that comes with being a demi-goddess. For the first few weeks it was fun, now it’s a major time suck. And I have a Ghost Tower about to explode and release three million homicidal spirits all over Purgatory. I hang up without saying goodbye and high-tail over to the Tower.
The building is almost in my backyard, but even if it wasn’t, Ghost Tower Six would still easy to find. The place is massive, rectangular, windowless and made of concrete. I rush towards the only door, a round metal portal. A stocky guard in ninja-style body armor stands nearby. Like all natives of Purgatory, the guard and I are quasis, a mix of human and demon.
I shoot him a quick wave. “Hey, Harold.”
“Great Scala, thank Heavens you’ve come.” Harold sets his bare palm onto an input pad by the door. A series of clicks sound as the locks release. “It’s a code-red failure.”
“I know, buddy. I’m on it.”
A muscle twitches by Harold’s eye. “The Cloud Carriers are close to rupture. Maybe we should follow the ghoul-rules and—”
“If you say move the souls to Hell, I’ll kick you in the kneecaps.” Since I grew up fighting demons gladiator-style in Purgatory’s Arena, those kicks would hurt, too.
Harold’s face takes on a terrified look that I can only describe as ‘please don’t send me to Hell’. “I meant no disrespect, Great Scala.” He keeps standing there, cowering and not opening the door.
“You, open, portal, now.”
“Yes, Great Scala. Right away, Great Scala.”
Sure, I could scold Harold for even suggesting Hell, but it wouldn’t do any good. Twenty years ago, the King of Hell invaded our lands, toppled the Quasi Republic, killed off anyone with a brain or spine, and set up ghouls as puppet government. For the next two decades, the ghouls brainwashed quasis like Harold into mindless, submissive, rules-worshipping slaves. I kicked the ghouls out, but their brainwashing has stayed.
At last, the round portal swings open. I hurry inside.
The interior of the Ghost Tower is a concrete shell, noisy as Hell and empty of anything solid. There’s a Control Room about halfway up the wall. Wardens stand at each corner, all of them in simple white uniforms. It’s what fills this empty space that always takes my breath away. From floor to ceiling, the open air holds a shifting array of what look like clouds. They’re actually huge vessels that enclose souls in a misty containment field. We call them Cloud Carriers.