I grin. When it comes to Myla, her natural competitive instinct trumps just about any level of anxiety. One of the advantages of being her husband is that I get to learn these things.
A low hum of voices fill the stadium. Far below on the Arena floor, more contestants march in through an entry archway. Mostly, those arriving are quasi demons. The obvious giveaway are the multitude of tail types, such as pheasant, squirrel, rabbit, and even stingray. That said, there are some angels and thrax in the mix as well. Few ghouls, though. Somehow, that fact makes my inner cord of unease twist itself more tightly.
What’s happening with that Ghoul Reconciliation Convention?
Remy sits beside the entrance arch. Like Myla, she wears a suit. Only in her case, Remy’s is green to match her house colors. As each contestant steps through, Remy hands that person an enchanted pen and small notepad while explaining these will be used to record their responses. Folks nod and take their seats. Soon the flow of foot traffic dies down to nothing.
Eventually Remy leaves the table to step into the center of the Arena. In a clear voice, she calls out to the contestants. “Settle down, everyone! We will now have an opening speech from the contest sponsor, Myla Lewis!”
All eyes turn to the balcony in general, and Myla in particular. “You can do this,” I whisper in her ear.
Myla rises and strides up to the balcony’s edge. The crowd falls silent. Myla grips the stone ledge and calls out to the audience.
“Welcome to the Angelic Assistance Contest! Here in Purgatory, we take sole responsibility for sorting spirits into their best after-life. In the past, souls were sent to Hell unless their hearts were absolutely pure.”
A hiss sounds from the audience. Many quasis glare at the few ghouls in the crowd.
“That’s over now,” continues Myla. “What’s important today is that we send more souls to heaven. However, that isn’t ideal for all of them. Some angels fade over time, so I’m looking for a small group of brilliant folks who can help ensure every soul gets its best chance at a happy afterlife.”
Myla pauses. All eyes are still on her. I couldn’t be more proud.
“Today, you’re here because you want to help.” Myla gestures across the crowd. “All of you will go through a series of tests. Afterward, a small number of you will be selected to help out Purgatory in this historic effort. What do you say?”
A long pause follows before a grey haired woman raises her hand. “I have a question.” There’s no missing how her fox tail swooshes behind her.
Myla gestures in her direction. “Please go on.”
“Who are you? What have you done with the Great Scala?”
Oh, damn.
At these words, grumbles arise from the crowd. A few voices sound over the din. It’s hard to hear exactly what they say, but the question, Where is the Great Scala?, comes up quite a bit.
Myla turns and meets my gaze. A mixture of frustration and sadness glistens in her eyes. This isn’t the first time the quasi people don’t equate Myla Lewis with the Great Scala. It’s like the human story of superman, only Clark Kent walks around saying, I’m the Man of Steel in pants and glasses, get it? Still, everyone just ignores him.
I give Myla what I hope is an encouraging smile. My wife returns her focus to the crowd.
“I’m the Great Scala’s assistant,” she announces at length. That seems to settle everyone down. “Remy Elayna Danae will now lead you through the tests.”
With that, Myla retakes her seat beside me. I wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Good work.”
Myla rolls her eyes. “Liar.”
“Look, the people here now know what they’re supposed to do. You’re building up your identity outside of the Great Scala. That won’t happen overnight. Besides, not every speech is supposed to be oratorical fireworks.”
Myla grins and I’m glad to see that it’s a genuine one. “Thanks.” She leans in. “So does that count as a win for yours truly?”
“Absolutely.”
Myla winks. “Even better.”
Back on the Arena floor, Remy reviews how to write on an enchanted notepad with a magical pen. Turns out, it’s just like regular writing, but it still takes a few tries for that concept to sink in. Not that I blame quasis for taking their time. Magic can be overwhelming if you’ve never used it before.
At length, the test itself begins in earnest. Remy rattles off math equations and asks for folks to write down their answers. She the quizzes them on vocabulary words and history. I’m not sure how this all relates to helping angels, but this process did come from the thrax vaults. There must be some value in here somewhere.
After no less than ninety-six questions, a new figure steps out through the entrance archway to join Remy on the Arena floor.
It’s a ghoul, and he’s in dark green body armor. Even worse, he also wearing a sash for the Ghoul Reconciliation Convention. About a dozen other ghouls follow behind him, all wearing the same combination of body armor and sash.
Remy turns to the ghoul squad. “Can I help you folks?”
Moving in unison, the ghouls raise their arms high as they cry out one word. “Attack!”
Jolts of alarm race through my nervous system as even more green-clad ghouls rush out onto the Arena floor. And they head straight for Remy.
Double damn.
19
Myla
Attack?
Seriously?
Last time I heard that word called out in this Arena, it was from none other than Armageddon. At the time, the King of Hell was invading Purgatory. Now it’s a bunch of ghoul renegades from Mom’s Convention.
And even worse, one of those ghouls holds a dagger … and he’s closing in on Remy.
For a moment, it’s all I can do to stare. Sure, my parents have kept quiet about the whole Ghoul Reconciliation Convention. But now, the truth is unavoidable. My parents were protecting me from knowing that there was an insurrection brewing.
Damn. This is bad.
Lincoln rushes for the balcony’s edge. His reaction snaps me out of my shock. Rising, I race toward the same spot. Moving in unison, Lincoln and I leap off the balcony to land on the Arena floor below. Another fact becomes clear.
This shit’s hard to do in a suit. Just while landing, I lost my heels and shredded my skirt.
Across the Arena floor, Remy screams. Lincoln and I race toward her.
We’re not the only ones with the idea to run. Some quasis speed for the exits. But even more of my people hate ghouls. Those folks pour onto the Arena floor and rush toward the armored undeadlies. This scene has all the makings of a civil war. We’ve lost control.
At last, Lincoln and I reach Remy. A ghoul looms over her, a dagger gleaming in his pale hand. Before him, Remy lies unmoving on the Arena floor. Leaping forward, Lincoln twists the attacker’s arm behind his back, making the ghoul drop his weapon. I kneel at Remy’s side, taking her hand in mine. A thin line of blood drips from her temple.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
Remy flutters her eyes open. “Who … What … Queen Myla?”
I exhale. Remy’s in shock, but she seems unharmed. “It’s me.”
By now, Lincoln has the ghoul restrained, but there isn’t much we can do about the rest of the crowd. Fists collide. Someone screams. This could be a bloodbath. Not that ghouls have blood, but still. The whole point of the convention was to mend fences between my people and the undeadlies. A real battle in Purgatory’s Arena would definitely count in the not helping column.
All of a sudden, the sky darkens. It’s my parents, flying right toward us. Dad is in full archangel mode. I’m talking golden armor, matching wings, and a badass attitude. He’s not the only one, either. Dad holds Mom in his arms, and she has a scowl on her face that says, momma bear is not happy.
The pair land on the balcony. Mom steps to the edge, raises her arms, and goes into her best presidential-mode. “My people. You must and return to your seats. This is not a productive way to res
olve our differences.”
No one listens. More fists pound. Extra cries echo in the air.
My father’s face turns dark as thunder. As he takes to the skies, he ignites his baculum as a sword made from angel fire.
“Listen to me!” Dad cries. To accent his point, the sky changes from its permanent Purgatory grey to a single sheet of white flame.
Never seen that before. Dad is casting a spell, but what?
The white flames highlight Dad’s silhouette. Everyone pauses. My father bellows out again.
“You heard my wife!” Dad cries. “Shut up and sit down!”
Dad whistles and the fire vanishes, only to be replaced by dozens of angels in sliver armor. My eyes widen. So this was Dad’s spell. The General of the Angels just summoned his troops.
Part of me is in awe of my father’s power. Another part is just crazy-happy this won’t be a total loss.
Dad points to the Arena floor. “Take the rebel ghouls away,” he commands. Warrior angels fly down in pairs, scooping up each ghouls before flying off.
“Dismissed!” cries Dad.
It’s amazing what my father can do with a single word. All the contestants neatly file out of the stadium. The remaining angels wing away. Beside me, Lincoln lifts Remy into his arms.
“I’ll take her to get checked out,” says Lincoln. “There’s a first aid station not far from here.”
I force a smile. “Thanks. I’ll chat with my parents.”
As if on cue, Dad flies across the balcony and scoops Mom into his arms once more. After that, my parents land beside me on the Arena floor. Dad sets Mom down and pulls me into a hug. He’s actually really good at giving cuddly embraces despite the whole I’m wearing armor thing.
“How’s my baby?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
Dad releases me and Mom continues the hug-a-thon. “How’s my sweet Myla-la?”
I force another smile. “Still good.”
Mom breaks the hug to straighten the lapels on my ruined suit coat. “Today went really well, don’t you think? I mean, apart from the ghoul attack which you couldn’t have done anything about.”
Don’t say it. Don’t day it. Don’t say it.
Fuuuuuuuuuuck, I’m saying it.
“Actually, I might have been able to do something. That is, if I knew about any trouble at the convention.”
Mom pats my cheek. “We’re only trying to shield you from bad news, baby. We had no idea the rebels would go to the Arena of all places.”
“And who cares about rebel ghouls anyway?” asks Dad.
“Precisely,” adds Mom. “Of course, you know today was a success, don’t you?”
Thus follows a long and expectant stare from my parents. They’re just waiting for me to say, today was a disaster, so they can tell me everything is perfect.
Which is sweet idea, but totally wrong.
Today was a disaster. This was weeks of planning to achieve my first real step on building my own knights of the round table. Instead, the contest was cut short and my parents had to bail me out. Maybe we got enough questions to find the right knights, but who knows? It could be a huge waste, too.
Even so, there’s no point having the same conversation over and over.
Me: I suck.
Them: No you don’t.
I know my parents. This could go on for hours. So, instead I force yet another smile. “I know it.”
“That’s my Myla-la,” says Mom.
With that semi-lie behind me, I decide that now is the perfect time to go home and hold my baby. After all, it’s almost naptime for Maxon. And nothing heals the soul better than a sleeping child and a rocking chair.
20
Lincoln
An hour later, I find Myla at home, rocking a very asleep Maxon. The house is deserted. My wife looks up as I enter.
“Is Remy safe?” she whispers.
When I speak, I take care to use the same low tone. “The thrax clinic is double checking everything, but Remy seems fine. Only a minor concussion.”
“You know, when I first met Remy, I suspected she was up to no good.”
“I remember.” Myla told me all about the animals, broken tools, and boxes of so-called books. “You were right to be suspicious.”
“Now Remy did this whole contest for me, and what happens? She’s almost killed by ghouls from my mother’s convention.”
“There is some good news,” I offer. “The magic notepads worked. Remy says she has enough to find the folks you need.”
Myla nods and runs her fingers through Maxon’s hair. I notice the gleam of a golden ring on her thumb. I blink hard, not believing what I’m seeing.
“Is that the Band of Epochs?” I ask.
“Abso-freaking-lutely,” says Myla. “It was waiting for me when I got home.” She nods toward an opened box that sits on a nearby bookshelf. Myla picks up a message beside the container and hands it to me. “Take a look.”
I read the words silently.
Dear Myla,
* * *
My visions have changed. Your interactions with the fading angels are no longer a cause for concern. Therefore, I have taken the liberty of removing the Band of Epochs from the Heavenly vaults and am returning it to you forthwith.
* * *
Sincerely,
* * *
Verus
“What do you think?” asks Myla.
“It’s more Verus double-speak,” I reply.
“Agreed.” Myla hands me the ring. “Do you notice anything different?”
I clasp the item in my palm. “Feels lighter.”
“It is. When I found the Band of Epochs, it had five trips through time in it. Dad showed me how to check.”
“And now?”
“Only four. When you say a certain spell, the ring splits into mini-rings, if that makes sense. One ring for each trip. That’s why the band is lighter now. A single mini-ring is gone. Someone can use it to travel though time.”
“Or they’ve already made their visit.” I scan Maxon’s bedroom, as if the secret of Verus’ true intentions will be written on the walls somewhere. But there are only my son’s collection of King Arthur posters.
“Any ideas what she’s up to?” Myla asks.
I tap my chin and think things through. “Verus insists you hand over the Band of Epochs to the Heavenly vaults, which you do. But the ring comes back minus one trip through time. Verus is clearly scheming somehow. But what her true aim is? I can’t guess.”
“Same here.” Myla lets out a long breath. “After everything that happened today, that letter feels like it’s saying, Myla Lewis is a failure who couldn’t start a demonpocalypse anyway. Which shouldn’t hurt my feelings, but…” Sorrow seem to careen off her in waves.
I kneel by Myla’s side. “May I say something?”
Myla nods. Unshed tears glisten in her eyes.
“It’s not how you fall down, it’s how you get up. And you always rise again, Myla.”
“Thanks.” Myla offers me a genuine, if sad, smile. I take that as a good sign. For a long minute, I just sit beside my wife, watching her rock our son.
Sometimes, the best thing you can do is keep a silent vigil over your family.
21
Myla
One Week Later
I pace a line across Ghost Tower One.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
All the while, my gaze stays locked on the front doors. Any minute now, the folks who could be my knights will step through that very entrance. Nervous energy charges through my limbs.
I scan the rest of the empty space. Like all ghost towers, this is a tall and rectangular building made from concrete. Imagine hanging out inside a giant chimney and that’s the general idea. A small control room juts out from one wall. Layers of clouds drift overhead—they’re the magical structures where we store souls before processing for Heaven or Hell.
Lincoln waits nea
rby. He exudes total calm in his dark human suit. For my part, I’m in my Scala robes. The purple skirt-suit look from the contest? Total bust. Also in the not-great column, Remy isn’t here today. Sadly, she’s still recovering from her concussion at the contest.
And yeah, I feel hella guilty about that.
Across the floor, the main doors finally swing open. Three quasis step in. I stop pacing and move to stand beside Lincoln. My breath catches as they cross the room and pause before us.
At last. Three of the most acclaimed geniuses in all Purgatory are here. In honor of the occasion, I give this trio-o-brainiacs secret nicknames.
First, there’s Ginger Girl. Self-explanatory.
Second, I have Old Guy With A Throatbeard. Which I decide to shorten to OGWAT.
And third, it’s Bill. I call him that because he’s wearing a bowling shirt with Bill written on it. I’m smart that way.
Addressing the trio, I gesture to the concrete walls around me. “Welcome to Ghost Tower One,” I declare. “This is the oldest facility in Purgatory for storing souls. I thought we’d meet here so you can see our problems first hand.”
I pause and give the group a chance to talk. After all, if a demi-goddess and her hottie Consort just summoned me into the equivalent of a three-story-tall concrete tower packed with ghosts, I know I’d have questions.
In reply, there is only silence. Tapping my chin, I consider this turn of events. Lincoln and I can be a little overwhelming. Maybe these folks are just waiting for some official stuff, like introductions.
I clear my throat. “I am Myla Lewis, the Great Scala, and this is my Consort, Lincoln.” Beside me, my husband bows slightly at the waist.
Still nothing. Unless you count the blank stares. Huh.
Normally, Lincoln never says much at Purgatory events. Now my guy breaks his normal no-talkie rule. “We need your help.” He raises the control pad in his hands. “How about a brief demonstration?”
The Brutal Time Special Edition Page 9