The demons positively lose their freaking minds in a deafening cheer. My upper lip twists. Screw Armageddon and his fake liberation of Purgatory. He handed us over to ghouls so we’d send more souls to Hell, pure and simple. It’s only when demon DNA mixes with a human that you get different powers. On their own, demons are mindless soul-munchers. My eyes flare red. I start to make a lewd hand gesture in Armageddon’s direction, but Walker snags my wrist before I get too far. He shoots me a stern look, mouthing the words ‘put a lid on it, Lewis.’

Nodding, I grip my hands behind my back. I’m enough of a warrior to know he’s right: taunting Armageddon is a B-A-D idea. I focus on the ground, force myself to breathe slowly, and try to keep my cool. My inner demon has a mind of its own with more than my tail. When my eyes flare red, it’s my demonic side getting rowdy. Sometimes, it’s a struggle to keep it in check.

From his great stone throne, Armageddon watches the frenzied demon crowd, his thin red lips curling upwards. He scans every face, soaking in each expression and nuance, weaving them all into some complex and dark plan.

I shiver. He’s being crafty again, and damn, that makes my skin crawl.

Raising his hand, Armageddon quiets the crowd. “Today’s soul was a favorite of mine on earth. Unbelievable strength. No capacity for conscience. Pure untainted evil. When he wins this battle—which he will, make no mistake—then we’ll finally have one of our own inside the gates of Heaven.” The dark seats howl with glee while the angels collectively shiver. Grinning, Armageddon retakes his seat.

All faces turn to the Angel Verus. She slowly rises to her feet, her white wings spreading regally behind her. She shouts one word: “NEVER!” The force of her yell sets columns rattling and rubble tumbling to the ground. Her gaze turns to me, eyes flashing bright. Armageddon follows suit, his irises glowing red as he scans me from head to toe. A satisfied smirk winds the corner of his mouth. I’ve seen that look on other faces; it’s the one that says ‘that little girl? Maybe she’s won before, but against this opponent? Are you serious?’

Which pisses me off, big time.

Sharkie thumps his staff again; a human soul appears nearby. In life, this ghost was a man about six feet tall with broad shoulders and two-hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle beneath them. Now he appears as a spectral version of his mortal self: a ghostly hulk whose pale body looks ready to burst from his faded jeans and dirty white t-shirt.

Sharkie addresses the spirit. “Vincent Francis Morris, you’ve chosen trial by combat, is this true?”