I open my book and stare at the page. Then, I close my eyes, blink three times to clear my head, and stare again. On the sheet before me is a picture of a young man, burly and strong. An ebony beard covers much of his smiling face. His arm is wrapped about a slender woman with mismatched eyes and long blonde hair. The caption under the image reads Maxon and Esme Bane.

“This is our current Scala when he was a youth.” Miss Thing smacks her cherry-red lips together. “Maxon Bane was born in 1157 on the realm of Earth in a place called England. Who can tell me what type of creature he is?”

Zeke raises his hand. “He’s thrax. They’re demon hunters.”

“Excellent, Zeke; you’ll make a fine servant one day. And how do we know he’s thrax?”

“The eyes.” Zeke points to the picture on the page. “One’s blue and one’s brown. Thrax are part human and part angel. The blue eye’s the angel part; the brown’s human.”

“Very good.” Miss Thing waves her hand dismissively. “None of you will leave Purgatory, but if you do, remember Zeke’s words. Anyone with different colored eyes are thrax, and thrax hunt demons. It doesn’t matter if you’re a quasi or greater demon. Anyone with demon blood will be murdered by these criminals.” She claps her hands. “Now turn to page 457.”

I fiddle with my book until a familiar face fills the sheet before me: one with shining black skin, a blade-like nose and glowing red eyes.

“Class, can anyone tell me who this is?”

My mouth answers on its own. “Armageddon.”

“That’s right. Who said that?”

I half-raise my hand. “I did.”

“Myla.” Miss Thing’s upper lip curls. “I see you’ve learned at least one useful fact in the Arena. Yes, that’s Armageddon, the King of Hell and the father of Maxon; his mother’s a thrax woman named Sara. Together, the blood of angel, demon, and human run in the veins of Maxon, turning a useless thrax into the one and only Scala.” With a flick of her fingers, she snaps shut the book on her desk.

I raise my hand.

“Yes, Myla?”

“Has the Scala ever decided not to process a soul?” I picture the woman with the scarred face. Maybe the Scala would refuse to move her.

Miss Thing’s huge eyes stretch even wider. “No, never. Every Scala does exactly as they’re told. Always, always, always. In fact, no Scala would never dream of doing anything other than what a ghoul tells them.”