O-72 lets out a long breath. “I’ve heard it many times, Armageddon. Maybe someday you’ll become the King of Hell, but right now you’re a common demon, fourth class.”

Armageddon visibly cringes at these words. “So you keep telling me.”

Beads of black sweat appear on O-72’s forehead. He adjusts the neckline of his ghoul robes. “The rules are the rules. Only two categories of demons go to iconigrations and Arena matches: the first class and the King of Hell. Not fourth class demons. Not you. Be thankful you’ve been appointed delegate to this Council. It’s a great honor for someone with your humble background.”

Armageddon’s eyes narrow. “But not the honor I want. My son moves souls at the Arena. I want to be there.”

Mom stays unflappable. “We appreciate that your son is the Great Scala. Perhaps you could arrange to see him outside of the Arena?”

Armageddon bares his teeth. “The thrax poisoned his mind against me. You all know this.” He pounds the table with his fist. “I want Arena access to my son.” He scans the table with a predatory glare. “I wish to see him move souls.”

I inhale a stunned breath. I knew the Scala was Armageddon’s son, but I didn’t realize the old demon wanted anything to do with his child. A tremor of fear rattles my shoulders. Armageddon’s calculating something, weaving his invisible plans. He did this when he schemed his takeover of Purgatory; it gives me the creeps.

O-72 wags his massive gray head. “This is not possible. Ghouls only allow certain demons into any Arena event. The rules are the rules.”

“I see.” Armageddon laces his three-knuckled fingers together by his long neck. “We all bend the rules. Sometimes.” He skewers O-72 with a look that speaks of hidden secrets that Armageddon has stockpiled for just such an occasion. “You, of all of us, should understand that.”

O-72 clears this throat. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Armageddon lowers his hands, his mouth curling into an evil grin. “That’s all I ask.” He rises to his feet. “We’re done here.”

Mom points directly at Armageddon’s chest. “Where are you going?”

I gasp. Damn, Mom! Going toe-to-toe with the future King of Hell. My chest tightens with bands of worry.

Xavier raises his hand. “If Armageddon wishes to retreat, he may.” Something in his tone says the word ‘retreat’ is laced with some particular memory, one that Xavier is flaunting in the demon’s face.

Armageddon twists his head to glare at Xavier, a low hiss sounds from his throat. “Your time will come.”

Xavier’s blue eyes flare brightly. “We’ll see.”

Mom knocks on the tabletop with her fist. “We have important matters to discuss here today.” She taps the manila folder with her pointer finger. “Let’s get back to it.”

Armageddon curls his finger to O-72. “Come with me.”