I frown. The one thing that sucks about Arena matches is listening to everyone complain about my ‘special treatment’ afterwards. In all of Purgatory, there are only a few dozen Quasis across who fight in the Arena, and we’re all descended from Furor demons. The Furor are known for not one, but two deadly sins: lust and wrath. Clearly, I only inherited the wrath part, which is why I’m an especially good Arena fighter. And yeah, I do think I deserve special treatment. Hey, I kept an evil soul out of Heaven this morning. Where’s the love?

Opening my mouth, I’m about to say something to that effect when I glance into the Old Timer’s oily black eyes. No love for me there, that’s for sure. I bite my lower lip. “Whatever you say, sir.” Suck it, loser.

The Old Timer lets out an indignant puff of air. “What does the rest of the class think? Should Myla have special treatment because she wrestles a few ghosts?”

Thirty sets of eyes turn in my direction, everyone looking at me with a gaze that says ‘hey, I forgot about that freaky fighting girl.’ This attitude is an improvement, actually. Time was, they all teased me mercilessly. That ended when I put Billy Summers in hospital back in first grade. That’s when Cissy took pity on me too, wrapping me up in her little shoebox of friendship. I’ve cherished her ever since.

The Old Timer taps his foot. “Well, class?”

No one wants to get their ass kicked like Billy Summers, so they all keep their yaps shut.

“I see.” The Old Timer eyes the bowl of worms. “Myla, since you seem to deserve special treatment, perhaps you’ll demonstrate how to make worm soufflé.”

Oh my sweet evil. Not worm soufflé.

I take a deep breath. “Yes, sir.” Stepping up to the table, I eye the massive bowl of nasty, writhing, and greasy worms. Even for a quasi-demon, this is gross stuff.

The Old Timer grins, showing a mouthful of cracked and yellow teeth. “First, you must mush the worms into a pulp.”

I cringe. Okay, that’s totally repulsive. Scanning the room, I see every set of eyes still locked on me. I try twisting my disgusted sneer into a cool and casual grin, but I just end up looking constipated.

“Got it.” My stomach somersaults. “Is there a spoon or something?”

“Absolutely not,” says the Old Timer. “This must be done with your bare hands.”

“Oooooookay.” Bit by bit, my trembling fingers inch toward the wriggling mass of gray and brown nasties.

At that moment, Cissy lets out as yelp. “Angels! Angels!” She points to the window; the class runs to look. I follow, thrilled for the diversion.