However, I do override one verdict. Adair’s. I make sure to set her aside for later. She was awarded Hell, but I won’t send her there. At least, not yet.
I reopen my eyes, and see my handiwork come to life inside the Soul Column. Where Maxon Bane once stood, now there is a morphing image of millions of different bodies. All of them appear and disappear within milliseconds, creating a single morphing figure, the soul icon, which holds every spirit that needs to be moved. With another flash of light, the icon splits into two, just as I’d divided them. One version rises up towards Heaven; the other tumbles down into Hell.
Above us, the clouds flare with white light as Heaven accepts its icon of souls. In the stadium’s floor, a red light blazes as Hell receives its spirits. The lightning-tornadoes let off similar blasts of brilliant light, white above and red below. Both swirling forms deliver a fireworks-style explosion that leaves us all seeing spots.
In between these two brightly-lit tornadoes, at ground zero, one soul remains, waiting to be moved. My heart leaps into my throat.
Before me stands Adair.
Lincoln’s speeds my side, his unreadable-face firmly on. “Hello, Adair.”
Her body appears misty in form. Other than that, she looks as I last saw her: long blonde hair, pretty face and Scala robes. Her face twists into a scowl as she recognizes Lincoln and me.
“Come to gloat?” asks Adair. “What a shock.”
“No, we’ve come with an offer,” I explain. “Above you is Heaven, below you is Hell. I have the power to send you to either.”
“No you can’t. I sold my soul to Armageddon.”
“Last time I checked, I can kick his ass pretty easily. I’m willing to bet that I can move you wherever I want. Only one way to find out, Adair.”
“And what do you want in exchange?”
“Information,” says Lincoln. “Who’s been supporting you? What are their plans? How did you get Armageddon’s blood? I want names, places, anything you can remember.”
“Never. I’ll take Hell.”
The memory of Adair’s broken body appears in my mind. I didn’t want to kill her mortal self; I certainly don’t want to sentence her soul to an eternity of pain and torture.
I raise my right hand, ready to command the igni to cast her down. I can feel the dark ones chafing to send her into Armageddon’s tender mercies; they really hate her guts.
“Think carefully, Adair. Give us information or get Hell.”
She looks down, seeing the fires of damnation lick up beneath her feet. Little by little, raw fear twists across her pretty features.
A pang of hope brightens my heart. Maybe she’ll see reason, at last.
Adair looks up, opens her mouth, and then, her gaze runs across Lincoln and me, hand in hand. The look on her face changes from terror to a mixture white-hot rage and jealousy.
“I said Hell,” she cries. “Send me!”
I remember when I last hoped for Adair to see reason. It ended with her dead. This time, I really thought that the threat of Hell would change things.
A heavy sense of sadness settles onto my skin. She has no idea what she’s asking for. I fought so hard to keep anyone I could out of Hell. For all Adair’s faults, I hate to send her there.
I begin to issue the command to move her, but stop one last time. “I wish I didn’t have to do this.”
“That’s why the igni chose me as the True Scala,” says Adair with a sneer. “If I had to send a soul to Hell, I’d never hesitate.”
“Actually, they chose me because that’s what I’ll always do. Goodbye, Adair.”
Lowering my hand, I send her spirit through the Arena floor and into Armageddon’s realm. A small flash of red light flares as Hell accepts its latest resident.
With Adair gone, there are no more souls to move. The two tornadoes recede into their original places, one rising into the clouds while the other collapses into the Arena floor. The stadium falls quiet. Thick mist still hangs heavily on the ground; the sky remains black with storm clouds. As I survey the filled stadium, one thought echoes through my mind…
The iconigration may be over, but with that little chat, our investigation of Acca has officially begun.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Once again, I stand on a high platform made of pale rock, staring down into a massive geode crammed with thrax partygoers. The Rixa Herald waits nearby, ready with a silver trumpet and pre-set speech about yours truly.
I scrunch and un-scrunch my fingers, trying to release some anxious energy. It doesn’t work in the slightest. Long story short, there’s no way to avoid high levels of adrenaline and excitement tonight.
This is my Ball of Welcome, Part Deux. Only this time around, the audience won’t get puppeteered by a semi-demonic Adair. So, I’ve got that going for me.