I fluff the pillow and slide it under my noggin. Being suspended means no school. Maybe even catching a few Arena matches on the sly. I wag my eyebrows. “And suspension would be bad because?”

“I’d make it that way.”

Ugh. She would, too.

Off go my covers. “This is me getting up.”

“Good.” Mom stomps away.

I shower, pull on some sweats, and sleepwalk into the kitchen, seeing the familiar lime-green appliances, mismatched furniture, and peeling linoleum tile. Everything looks peaceful, quiet, and empty. Another typical Monday morning before another average day at school. BO-ring. I’ll have to charm Walker into taking me to the Arena later. Until I’m called to fight again, it’s better than nothing.

A thick white envelope sits at the center of the kitchen table. I scoop up and read: “To the Quasi-Demon, Miss Myla Lewis, 666 Dante Row, Purgatory.” I lick my thumb and run it over the loopy calligraphy. Real ink. My long black tail flicks in a nervous rhythm.

Frowning, I tap the unopened letter against my palm. No one sends me fancy stuff like this. In a blur of motion, my tail darts across my torso, grips the envelope with its arrowhead-shaped end, and tries pulling it from my fingers.

“Hey now!” My tail’s always had a mind of its own. For some reason, it’s decided this letter is dangerous. I jerk the envelope out of reach, but not before one corner gets totally shredded. “Now, look what you did.” My tail slinks behind me to curl guiltily about my ankle.

I reread the outside of the letter. Nothing here to worry about. I am a quasi-demon (mostly human with a little demon DNA). I’ve spent all eighteen years of my life in Purgatory (where human souls get judged for Heaven or Hell, aka the most boring place in the history of ever). This letter’s like dozens of others that hit our doorstep each week. Why’s my tail on a mission to trash this thing?

I stare at the words again, feeling like they should read: “Open this to turn your life upside-down and your heart into mush.”

Clearly, I’m having an off-morning.

I slip the envelope-slash-time-bomb into my mangy backpack. I’ll read it later at school.

Mom steps into the kitchen. “How’s my sweet baby, Myla-la?” Yes, I’m eighteen years old and Mom still uses pet names from when I was three.

“I’m good.” I open a cabinet and pull down a box of Frankenberry cereal.

Mom eyes my every movement, her forehead creasing with worry.

“Did you sleep well last night, Myla?”

Oh, no. Here it comes. I square my shoulders and mentally prepare my ‘I’m so very-very caaaaaaalm’ voice. “Absolutely.” Nailed it.

“Any bad dreams?”

“Nope.” The ‘calm voice’ isn’t working so well this time.

“Hmm.” She taps her cheek. “Met anyone lately? Made any new friends?”