I try to focus in history class, but it’s no use. The human’s sobs haunt my mind. I draw her scarred face in my notebook, but the lines blur. My hand keeps shaking.
Across the room, Zeke stares in my direction, his blonde eyebrows wagging suggestively. He mouths four words: “You. Me. Party. Tonight.” And this actually works on other girls? Shifting in my chair, I angle my back toward him and keep scribbling.
Miss Thing’s voice breaks through my internal haze. “Class, today we’ll learn about the Scala.” I drop my pen and look up.
For once, school is getting interesting.
I’ve only seen the Scala a handful of times. With so many souls to move, he basically specializes in mass migrations, thousands of souls at once. You have to be pretty nasty badass to get a solo transfer. I picture the mysterious old dude on his stretcher, moving souls to Heaven or Hell with a wave of his hand. Coooooooool.
“Turn to page 402 in Purgatory Through the Ages.”
I open my book and stare at the page. Then, I close my eyes, blink three times to clear my head, and stare again. On the sheet before me is a picture of a young man, burly and strong. An ebony beard covers much of his smiling face. His arm is wrapped about a slender woman with mismatched eyes and long blonde hair. The caption under the image reads Maxon and Esme Bane.
“This is our current Scala when he was a youth.” Miss Thing smacks her cherry-red lips together. “Maxon Bane was born in 1157 on the realm of Earth in a place called England. Who can tell me what type of creature he is?”
Zeke raises his hand. “He’s thrax. They’re demon hunters.”
“Excellent, Zeke; you’ll make a fine servant one day. And how do we know he’s thrax?”
“The eyes.” Zeke points to the picture on the page. “One’s blue and one’s brown. Thrax are part human and part angel. The blue eye’s the angel part; the brown’s human.”
“Very good.” Miss Thing waves her hand dismissively. “None of you will leave Purgatory, but if you do, remember Zeke’s words. Anyone with different colored eyes are thrax, and thrax hunt demons. It doesn’t matter if you’re a quasi or greater demon. Anyone with demon blood will be murdered by these criminals.” She claps her hands. “Now turn to page 457.”
I fiddle with my book until a familiar face fills the sheet before me: one with shining black skin, a blade-like nose and glowing red eyes.
“Class, can anyone tell me who this is?”
My mouth answers on its own. “Armageddon.”
“That’s right. Who said that?”
I half-raise my hand. “I did.”
“Myla.” Miss Thing’s upper lip curls. “I see you’ve learned at least one useful fact in the Arena. Yes, that’s Armageddon, the King of Hell and the father of Maxon; his mother’s a thrax woman named Sara. Together, the blood of angel, demon, and human run in the veins of Maxon, turning a useless thrax into the one and only Scala.” With a flick of her fingers, she snaps shut the book on her desk.
I raise my hand.
“Yes, Myla?”
“Has the Scala ever decided not to process a soul?” I picture the woman with the scarred face. Maybe the Scala would refuse to move her.
Miss Thing’s huge eyes stretch even wider. “No, never. Every Scala does exactly as they’re told. Always, always, always. In fact, no Scala would never dream of doing anything other than what a ghoul tells them.”
The way she’s overdoing it, I’m guessing the Scala could be a real pain the neck if he wanted to be. Although, considering how old the current Scala is, he probably does exactly as ordered, as long as they take care of him. My heart sinks. That’s not good news for the woman at the Arena.
I stare at the picture of Maxon Bane again. I hadn’t thought about it before, but if the Scala stops processing souls, Purgatory grinds to a halt. I suppose it’s a good thing for the ghouls that the current Scala only cares about sleeping, eating mushy foods, and getting carried around on a stretcher.
Paulette lifts her hand, careful to flash her beloved Rolex in the process. “So, the only time a thrax and a demon got, um, together was in 1157?”
“Hardly.” Miss Thing rolls her buggy eyes. “But while a Scala lives, no other being can be born with the blood of an angel, demon, and human. The Scala is literally one of a kind, which is why Armageddon rescued him in the first place.” She grins, showing a smear of red lipstick on her yellowing front teeth.
Rescued or kidnapped? Miss Thing is the Mistress of Spin.
I raise my hand. “What about the Scala Heir?”
“An interesting point.” She narrows her eyes. “At one time, it was believed there was both a Scala and a Scala Heir. Both mortals had the blood of an angel, demon, and human in them. Many years ago, a thrax man claimed to be the Scala Heir. He was killed, and no one else has come forward to replace him. It’s been so long, many of us question if the Scala Heir ever really existed.”
Miss Thing folds her arms over her chest. “But whether or not it exists, the Scala Heir is nothing.” When she speaks again, her words echo strangely around the room: “Whoever controls the Scala, controls everything.”
The rest of the day zooms by. I drive Betsy back home, grab a snack and dive into my new issue of Quasi Life magazine. I plunk onto my bed, pick up the glossy journal and start skimming the pages. One story catches my eye: Ten Ways to Make Your Ghoul Love You. I scan the article. Number ten: try our new worms and jalapeno recipe.
Ack.
Gagging, I toss the magazine onto my bedroom floor.
Mom waddles into my room, a huge cardboard box balanced in her arms. “Hello, my little Myla-la!” She plunks the container onto my dresser and bounces on the balls of her feet. “Let’s get ready for the party!”
I slide off the bed and stand on my tiptoes, trying to peep into the box. “What did you pick out? I can’t wait to see it.”
“You’re going to love it. But close your eyes…I want this to be a surprise.” Her face looks so joyful I can’t say no.
“Okay.” I shut my eyes.
As the dress slips over my head, Mom asks the question all seniors dread: “How are your assessments going?” This is a grueling year-long process that ends with being assigned a life-long service.
“The tests haven’t started yet.”
“Have you thought about becoming a seamstress?” Mom gives my arm a gentle pinch. “We could work at home and be together all the time. Would be much safer than the Arena.”
Stop fighting in the Arena? No freaking way! I’m about to tell her that, but the hope glistening in her brown eyes stops me cold. I can’t burst her bubble yet. “Wow, that’s a really great offer.” I shift my weight from foot to foot. “But, you know, senior year started a few weeks ago. I’ve still got time.”
Mom zips up the back of my dress. “Don’t take too long. Graduation will be here before you know it, and Arena fights aren’t enough of a service on their own.”
“Uh, they aren’t?” My mouth falls open. “Are you sure?”
“What do you think?” She winks. She probably researched this years ago.
My body feels cold. “Uh, let’s not talk about that now.”
“Fine with me. But if you don’t start to advocate to be a seamstress, you could be assigned something awful like latrine duty.”
She may have a point.
“Okay, Mom. I promise I’ll think about it soon.” I fidget in my gown, dying to open my eyes a crack. The skirt feels a little weird, but then again I don’t wear dresses very often. “Can I look now?”
Mom claps her hands. “Yes!”
Glancing in my mirror, I see myself wearing an ankle-length gown with a massive hoop skirt. The entire monstrosity is covered in flounces, bows, and the color orange.
Hells bells, orange. I so want to puke, die, or both.
At that moment, the doorbell rings. “Cissy must be here.” Mom clasps her hands beneath her chin. “I’ll go get her. I can’t wait for her to see you!”
Um, I can.
Mom walks to the front door, letting a giddy Cissy inside. There’s a lot of cooing and hugging, then footsteps pad toward my bedroom. Cissy pauses in my doorway, her hand covering her bow-shaped mouth. She’s wearing a slinky black dress that’s floor length and sliced half-way up her thigh.
I let out a low whistle. “Cissy, you look gorgeous.” All quasis are beautiful by human standards, but Cissy’s dress takes it to a new level. Why couldn’t Mom have called Versace, too?
“Thanks, Myla. You look…” Cissy smacks her lips, searching for the right word.
“She looks amazing, doesn’t she?” Mom weaves her arm through Cissy’s. “Hard to believe I wore this gown twenty years ago.”
“I believe it,” says Cissy quietly.
Suddenly, I’d like nothing better than for the earth to open up and swallow me whole. I kill things; I don’t wear dresses.
“Just one second!” Mom rushes back to the box, pulling out a floppy orange hat with an enormous bow. “This goes with it.”
I picture Captain Hook’s hat, then realize Mom’s hat could eat that one and still have room for dessert.
“No, thanks,” say Cissy and I unison.
A knot of tension crawls up my spine; I can’t wait to get this dress off. “I’m not feeling too well, Cissy.” I fiddle with the zipper on my back. “You’ll have to catch the party without me.”
“You’re fine. It’s nerves.” Cissy turns to my mother, blinking her tawny eyes madly. “You wouldn’t mind if we made a few little alterations, would you? To bring the dress up to date a wee bit?”
“Of course. There are scissors in the box. Do you need anything else?”
Cissy smiles sweetly. “A little girl-time.” She stares pointedly at the door. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” Still beaming, Mom almost glides out of my room. Cissy closes the door firmly behind her, then grabs the scissors and goes to work. Within minutes, the flounces and bows lay on the floor, alongside the hoop. In the end, I’m wearing a very simple, very electric orange gown. I stare at my image in the mirror.
“I look like a nuclear carrot.”
Cissy grabs my hand. “No, you don’t, you look fine. Please let’s go to the party please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeease?”
I’m going to regret this. “Okay, let’s go.”
Cissy and I race toward the front door, but my mother’s too quick for an uneventful escape. “No, wait!” Mom holds up her hands. “I have an instamatic camera somewhere in the attic crawlspace. I want to capture this moment!”
Cissy pauses by the threshold, fluffing her blonde ringlets. “Sure.” Mom runs off, the sound of footsteps echo through the house.
I glare at my best friend. “No pictures, please. Besides, we’re running super-late.”
“Oh, yeah,” Cissy cups her hand by her mouth. “Gotta go, Momma Lewis!”
Mom’s muffled voice sounds from the attic. “Are you sure you can’t wait?”
I grab Cissy’s hand and lunge for the front door. “Absolutely positive.”
Cissy and I rush to the driveway and slide into Betsy. After Betsy coughs up a few clouds of toxic smoke, we putter along the route to the Ryder mansion, our gowns carefully folded around us. As I drive along, I watch Upper Purgatory slide by my windows.
What a bummer this place is. When I was a kid, this used to be the fanciest spot around, filled with rows of overly-large houses on overly-small plots of land. The lawns were always green and fancy black sedans lined all the driveways.
That was before the ghouls took over.
Like all conquerors, the ghouls decided they deserved the best real estate. The same houses I remember slide by my window again, only now they’re filled with the undead. The lawns have been turned into open earth, the better for worm farming. Every window has been boarded up; each fancy sedan sits rusting in its driveway.
All the houses, that is, except the Ryder mansion. It slides into view, a white citadel of quasi-ness sitting atop a lush green hill. It’s a little patch of the old republic that survived, lovely and alive. We park Betsy and march up to the mansion’s front door. Cissy presses the bell, her face positively beaming. “We’re on!”
I suppress the urge to grab her hand and run for it.
Seconds later, the door swings open to reveal Zeke, who looks extra smarmy with his slick-backed hair, black tuxedo, and red plaid vest. His eyes me slowly from head to toe before saying: “Helloooo, Elmo!”
“Ha, ha, very funny.” I step inside. “And it’s orange, not red.”
Zeke rubs his chiseled chin. “Yes, Elmo’s not the right Muppet for you. Beaker maybe? Ernie?”
Cissy steps directly in front of me. “Hi, Zeke! Wanna dance?” She hitches one leg out to show the high slit in her dress. Damn, that girl looks like a million dollars.
I cross my fingers behind my back. Please, please, please let him notice her. Just once.
Zeke’s caramel eyes twinkle with a reddish glow. “I’d love to, uh…” He snaps his fingers. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.”
“Cissy.” She steps closer to Zeke. “My name’s Cissy.”
“Wow. Are you new in school?”
“No, we’ve been in the same class since Kindergarten. You broke my nose playing dodge ball in third grade, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” Zeke nods slowly. “Sorry about that.” He brushes one finger down the bridge of her nose. “You look fine now, though.”
Cissy’s face turns about eight shades of red. “Thanks.”
I pull down my fist and whisper ‘yeah!’ Neither of them notice, which shows how far gone they both are. Finally.
“Follow me.” Zeke grabs Cissy’s hand and they disappear into the crowd.
I watch them go, wondering what it’s like to feel all blushy for a guy. I suppose that’s step one, while step two is actually kissing. Not that I know anything about either.
Ah, well. Back to the party.
I step around the ballroom floor. This must be the prettiest spot in all Purgatory. Great glass chandeliers hang from the ceiling. A line of balconies arch over the long wooden dance floor. A specially-designed stage perfectly fits the jazz band.
The floor is packed with ghouls and demons, but angels and thrax walk around too. I even spy the Oligarchy and Verus. Staring at the different faces, I smile from ear to ear. Maybe this is the angelic plan Walker was talking about. We may be nearing a new age of cooperation between angels, ghouls, thrax, quasis, and demons.
Then again, maybe not.
In one scrambling and biting mass, all the demons cluster into a corner, staring around the room with a look that says ‘yum, dinner.’ At the center of their group stands Armageddon, his long arms folded across his narrow chest. The human from today’s match flashes through my mind’s eye, and I have a mad desire to race across the room and give the King of Hell a piece of my mind. I take a deep breath and ball my hands into fists. Tonight’s probably not the night to lecture Armageddon.
The guests within twenty feet of Armageddon all whimper and sulk away. That’s his greater demon aura knocking into them, overwhelming them with terror. Combine that aura with my neon orange dress and heels, and tonight’s definitely not the night to take on the King of Hell.
I force myself to look away. My gaze finds Cissy and Zeke dancing up a storm. Cissy’s eyes glow with a bit of demon-red (which means half the room envies her and she knows it). Meanwhile, there are ruby sparkles in Zeke’s irises too (which means I cannot let him drive Cissy home, and I know it).
Considering how they’re dirty-dancing, I’m not driving Cissy home any time soon. I’m spending the next hour or so alone, but it’s worth it to see Cissy’s dream come true, such as it is. I decide to circulate through the crowd, sizing up the different faces. Which ones could tell me something about my father?
I spy an older quasi woman with oodles of silver hair and diamonds. Her long peacock tail perfectly matches her green gown. She’s eating a shrimp so slowly, I know her demon power is sloth.
Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders. You have to start somewhere.
I step up to the stranger. “Hello, I know we don’t know each other, but I was wondering if you went to any diplomatic events, say, eighteen years ago?”
Bit by bit, the woman sets the shrimp in her mouth and starts to chew. I take that to mean ‘yes.’
“Well, I was wondering if you knew any of the diplomats from those days. The quasi guys in particular?”
The woman swallows, then slowly turns to face me. She eyes me carefully. “Are you…Are you?” My heart beats so quickly, I think it will explode.
I grab her wrist. “Do I look like someone? Who? A diplomat?”
“Are you the floor show?” She points to my dress. “What’s that Muppet’s name again? Fozzie Bear?”
“No, I’m not the floor show.” I bite my lips together. “Excuse me.”
Clearly, it’s time for a new party survival plan.
Setting aside the quest to find my father, I discover that if I stand under a balcony, the shadows hide my orange-ness. An extra bonus is that no one can see me and/or make Muppet comments. I’ve hoarded a pile of canned soda and sugary snacks on a nearby table. My night is full.
In fact, I’m having a sweet time when two figures step into the darkness beside me.
Squinting in the dim light, I size up the pair of strangers. The first man is older, tall and burly with long white hair past his chin. He wears a classic tuxedo that matches the one on the figure beside him. The second stranger is a boy with broad shoulders and a rigid military stance. His hair is shorter, earthy brown and loose. Since it’s super quiet under the balcony, I can’t help but listen in.
Okay, maybe I could help it, but I’m a little curious and a lot bored.
“I don’t understand why we’re here, father.” It’s the boy.
“More orders from the angels, son.” The older man has a deep and rolling voice. “They want closer relations between the realms.”
My heart thumps in my chest. Angels? Closer relationships between the realms? Maybe we really are on the edge of a new era. I smile, thinking about a ghoul-free life where I choose my own job, clothes, anything. The boy speaks, interrupting my thoughts.
“I understand. What should I do?”
“Try to socialize; meet some quasis in particular.” The father’s eyes glimmer in the shadows. His irises are mis-matched: one blue and one brown.
They’re thrax. High-fives to Miss Thing for actually teaching something useful.
“Quasis aren’t people,” snaps the boy. “They’re demons.”
What?! My hands clench into fists. Actually, we’re mostly human, thank you very much.
“Angels say they’re different. Try to keep an open mind.” The father points to the dance floor where Cissy shimmies up and down Zeke’s thigh. “Take that girl, for example. Why don’t you ask her to dance? She seems quite, uh, friendly.”
I roll my eyes. What an old-guy thing to say. Sure, Cissy’s a little over the top right now, but she’s been dreaming of this night since she was nine. I glance at my friend and smile. Cissy looks absolutely blissed out. Maybe a wee bit slutty as she paws Zeke’s abs during the mambo, but who cares? She’s eighteen; it’s her job to be stupid.
The boy folds his arms over his chest. “That quasi has a dog’s tail and acts like one in heat.”
My blood simmers with anger. What an ASSHOLE-GUY thing to say!
The boy grips his fist behind his back. “Besides father, you know I’m no diplomat.”
You think?!
“Where’s my best soldier?” The older man punches his son’s upper arm. “I know I can rely on you for this mission.”
The boy nods briskly. “Of course.”
“That’s my boy.” Grinning broadly, the father marches off into the crowd and starts glad-handing a pack of ghoul diplomats.
I sip the rest of my soda, glaring at the boy’s silhouette. My inner demon begins to stir. I imagine wagging my finger in his face, screaming the differences between demons and quasis. Or even better, I could leap beside him and land one good kick behind his kneecaps. I’m so distracted that instead of setting my empty soda can back on the table, I drop it to the floor with a crash.
Turning on his heel, the boy steps to my side. “Are you alright, Miss?” Up close, I can see that he’s my age with mismatched eyes, one wheat-brown and the other slate-gray. His face is square with a strong jaw and scooped-out cheeks. For some reason, I can’t stop staring at his full mouth, wondering what it would be like to brush my lips against his. He looks mighty tasty indeed.
Wait a minute. Me thinking about kissing anybody? When does that happen?
Pull yourself together, Myla. You downed too many candy bars, that’s all. Clearly, this is some kind of sugar-induced hallucination.
I take a deep breath, refocusing my sugary brain on how this dirt-bag insulted Cissy. “I’m fine.” My voice comes out low and sharp. “I dropped an empty can, that’s all.”
His mismatched eyes lock with mine. Our stare quickly turns intense, enveloping. “You look familiar.” He leans in a bit and I inhale his earthy scent, a mixture of forest pine and leather. “You don’t visit the Ryder stables, by any chance?”
Oh, you mean the Ryder stables where I break in all the freaking time to hunt demons? Little doxy monsters go there to pester the horses; I’ve appointed myself stable exterminator, on the sly, of course. But there’s no way can he know that, though. The question must be a weird coincidence.
I anxiously shift my weight from foot to foot. “Nope.”
A ghost of a smile rounds the boy’s mouth. “Ah, my error then.” He bows slightly. “My name’s Lincoln.” He scans me from head to toe, his gaze resting on my tail. “You must be a quasi, um, ‘demon.’” His voice lowers when he says the word ‘demon.’
“I’m ‘Myla.’” My voice lowers when I say ‘Myla.’ I have a name, creep.
“Pleasure to meet you.” Lincoln rakes his hand through his mop of brown hair. “Would you…” He has the look of someone about to force himself to do something disgusting. “Would you like to dance, Myla?” He glances toward the ballroom floor, locks his gaze on Cissy and Zeke, then sneers. “It seems to be something your kind enjoys.”
Rage boils through me. “Do you mean ‘our kind’ as in my friend with the dog tail?” I hitch my thumb to the dance floor, where Cissy and Zeke are mid-cha-cha. “You remember? The one in heat?”
Lincoln folds his arms across his chest. “What I said was true.” His upper lip curls with disgust. “I can hardly bear to watch.”
“So, you find quasis repulsive.”
“What do you expect?” His mismatched eyes open wider. “You’re part demon. I’m a demon hunter. Asking you to dance was a kind gesture on behalf of–”
“Kind gesture?!” I’m so itching to kick him. “I’ve got a gesture for you.” I turn on my heel and walk away, my tail waving good-bye to him from my backside.
Marching onto the dance floor, I grab Cissy’s arm. “The lust-a-thon ends. Now.” At this point, I’m in a full-blown rage tsunami. My eyes glow bright red.
Cissy knows my wrath-mode when she sees it. “No problem, Myla.” Frowning, she gives Zeke a quick peck on the cheek. “Later, sweetie.”
As we march from the room, I hear Zeke blah-blah-blahing about getting Cissy’s phone number. She gives my hand a little squeeze.
“That was the perfect exit.” She almost skips to the front door.
I speak through gritted teeth: “Glad I could help.”
We drive away from the Ryder mansion in silence. Cissy stares at her hands in what I call her ‘guilty mode.’
As we drive home, my fingers tap the steering wheel in a nervous rhythm. I can’t stop thinking about that thrax boy. It’s mega-irritating. “I’ve a question for you, Cissy.”
Cissy turns to me, her eyes large and watery. “I totally didn’t mean to desert you at the party. You had every right to drag me off the dance floor. But Zeke and I were dancing and I lost track of time.” She puffs out her bottom lip.
“No, it’s not that.”
“Really?!” Cissy sets her hand on her rib cage. “Because I totally feel bad about it.”
“Don’t worry, honestly. I’m happy for you, girlfriend. I’ve got another question for you.”
“Okay, whew.” Cissy leans back in the busted front seat, and props one knee onto the dashboard. “Shoot.”
“Hypothetical question. Suppose there’s a guy–”
Cissy holds up her pointer finger. “Is he hot?”
How I hate admitting this. “Yes.”
“Okay. I like this game already. Please continue.”
“So, this hottie guy is a total and complete dick. Yet you still think about kissing him and–”
“Stop right there.” Cissy raises her hand shoulder height, palm forward. “The answer is kiss him, kiss him, kiss him.”
“You didn’t hear the question.”
Cissy turns to me, her blonde ringlets jiggling. “What is the question?”
“Okay, you got me. What would you do in this situation?”
“As I said, kiss him.”
“That’s not very helpful.”
Cissy glances out the window. “I thought this was just a hypothetical.”
I grip the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles could pop out of my skin. “Of course, it is.” A hypothetical about that Lincoln guy.
Cissy stares out the window for another moment, then stops. “Hang on there, amiga.” Her head snaps toward me, her mouth pursed. “What’s this really about?”
“Nothing. A little girl talk on the drive home from the party.” I turn to her and wink. “Zeke looked mighty handsome tonight, by the way.”
Please take the bait and change the subject. Please, please, pleeeeeeease.
Cissy drums her manicured nails on the dashboard. “If you weren’t mad at me for ignoring you, why drag me off in a huff?”
“I didn’t huff.”
“Myla, your eyes were blazing bright red.”
“Okay, maybe I huffed a little bit.” In a lovely bit of kindness from the universe, Cissy’s house appears to my right. I pull over the car. “I’m fine, totally. I just wanted to ask a hypothetical question and say how handsome Zeke looked. That’s all.”
Cissy’s eyes narrow. “If you say so.”
I make a great show of checking my watch. “Oh, wow, look at the time. I gotta go or my Mom will freak!”
Cissy slowly exits the car. I can almost hear the rusty gears of her brain working overtime. I’m going to get a call later, you can bet on it. The moment she’s clear of the curb, I rev the engine and speed home (as much as anyone can speed in Betsy). I stomp through the front door.