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, eatingmushy 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
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, eatingmushy 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
Similar Books
