Visions appear in my mind’s eye: Manus demons tearing down the doors to my high school…Rows of mansions in Upper Purgatory burning in a long line of flame…Crini demons smashing the empty cottages of the thrax compound…And Armageddon leaning against a wall of black stone in the middle of the Gray Sea, his great mouth coiling with a satisfied smile.

More igni slip under my skin. The column of Scala power dims and thins. Every cell in my body vibrates with energy. A jolt of realization hits me. The demon invasion, Armageddon, and Purgatory; I know precisely what I need to do next.

If only I have the strength to do it.

I still don’t want this power. Refuse to accept it as my future. But right now, at this moment, I know it’s the only way to save those I love. I will have to try.

The last of the igni enter my body. The room becomes dead quiet. I scan the faces around me: Zeke and Cissy stand stock-still. Adair sits curled against the wall, immobile. I’m not even sure if they’re breathing. Lincoln and Walker smile. Mom’s brown eyes bulge in a look that hovers somewhere between terror and pride.

The Oligarchy are the only ones who speak. They turn to me, lick their lips and hiss: “The new Scala.”

It takes all I have to force my shoulders back and my spine straight. I have to try. I meet the Oligarchy’s gaze head-on. “Yes, I’m the new Scala. And now we’ll discuss how to drive the demons from my homeland.” I turn to Walker. “Bring me the angel Verus.”

The Oligarchy bow. “We cannot allow unauthorized portals at this time, Great Scala. There’s some kind of interference in Group Think. It’s not safe.”

“Really? How’d you like a quick trip to Hell?” I raise my hand, hundreds of igni encircle my palm. I watch the tiny lightning bolts whirl about my fingers.

The Oligarchy bow. “We can allow portals for you, Great Scala.”

“That’s more like it. Walker, go get Verus.”

Walker nods. A portal opens. Its edges blur and waver. Gritting his teeth, Walker steps into the black emptiness and disappears.

I pull open a folding chair and point to the empty seat. “Grab a chair, boys. We’ve lots to talk about.”

The Oligarchy gasp. I’m guessing they aren’t used to a Scala with a backbone. “As you wish, Great Scala.” The Oligarchy pick up metal folding chairs and drag them across the concrete floor with an ear-piercing series of squeaks. I’d probably laugh my head off if I weren’t so freaked out about whatever-the-hell-it-is that just happened to me.