“This was from you?” Pulling out the letter, I turn it over in my fingers. “I was going to read this today anyway.” I pause. My tail tries to shred the rest of the envelope. I smack the arrowhead end and reset the letter into my backpack.

Zeke flashes me a white-toothed smile. “Why don’t you read it right now?”

Miss Thing stares out the window, monologue-ing on how quasis sent too many souls into Heaven, which was super-unfair to the poor demons. I could samba down the aisle right now and she probably wouldn’t notice me.

Zeke has the same idea. “Miss Thing won’t see you. Go ahead. Take a look.”

I pull the envelope out of my backpack and set it on my lap.

Zeke arches another eyebrow. “I can’t believe this. Is the fearless Arena fighter too scared to open one ittle-wittle envelope?”

That did it. I tear open the letter with a vengeance. Inside I find an embossed invitation that reads: You and a guest are cordially invited to attend a diplomatic gala in honor of our ghoul overlords and their noble allies, the demons. Friday, the 13th, The Ryder Mansion, Upper Purgatory. Formal dress only. Doors open at 8 PM.

I run one finger over the embossed letters. “Is this for real?”

“Absolutely. You can bring a friend too, if you want.” Cissy’s crush on Zeke is nothing less than monstrous; she’ll never forgive me if I pass this up. Maybe he’s not as dumb as he looks.

After the last ‘party’ Zeke invited me to, I should be skeptical. But there are four good reasons to attend this one. First, Zeke’s dad really is a wealthy diplomat known for hosting delegations of ghouls and demons. Second, the party’s at his parent’s mansion where he’s less likely to get nasty. Third, I’ll bring Cissy (with her crush she’s better protection than parents). And fourth, the single fact I know about my own father is that he was a diplomatic something-or-other. I can’t miss the chance to learn more.

“I’ll think about it.”

Zeke’s mouth arcs into a satisfied smile. “That’s all I ask.”

I forget about the invitation until the end of the school day. Cissy and I sit in the back row of Lessons in Servitude class. It’s taught by OT-42–we call him the Old Timer–who’s known for his huge handlebar moustache, broken teeth, and blazing hatred of talking in class. His receding head of gray hair is tied back into a teensy ponytail at the base of his neck. Other than that, he’s pretty standard ghoul material: tall, dark, and gruesome.

“We have an important lesson today.” The Old Timer stalks around the classroom, his thin frame setting his long robes swaying. He pulls back his black hood and scans the rows of desks, twiddling his handlebar moustache.