A huge grin spreads across my face. When human souls reach Purgatory, they’re given a choice: trial by jury, or trial by combat. Based on the result, they end up either happily floating around Heaven or having their souls consumed in Hell. If the human selects a trial by jury, then it’s someone else’s problem. But if they choose combat–and the combatant in question is totally evil–then someone like Walker ends up in the kitchen of someone like me. I’m one of a few dozen quasis who kick butt. Literally.

I jump to my feet and clear off my bowl. “Now, this is what I call a Happy Monday.”

Mom steps back. “You’re sending Myla off to fight today? You can’t.” She leans against the countertop for support. “Every time she goes, she risks her life.” A muscle twitches by her mouth. “Those battles are to the death.”

I stifle a moan. Mom always focuses on the whole ‘to the death’ thing like it’s the first time she’s learned how matches work. Hell, I’ve battled in the Arena since I was twelve and have yet to get a scratch. You’d think the drama would tone down over the years.

Panting, Mom points to a tattered calendar by the door. “My little one fought a month ago. She serves once every three months, right?”

I raise my hand. “It’s not a problem. I’m up for this. Totally.”

Mom flashes me a desperate look. “I know that.” She grips the countertop like she’ll pull it out of the wall. “Please, Walker, tell me it’s a mistake.”

Walker’s black eyes fill with understanding. “Myla must serve today. There’s a spike in Arena matches; all fighters have extra battles.”

Mom stares at Walker, her jaw grinding out silent rebuttals. After a few moments, she presses her palms to her face, a low sigh escaping her lips. I frown. She’s hitting a new level of drama this morning.

Walker shoots me the barest wink. I fight the urge to smile, knowing it means one thing: there’s no across-the-boards spike in Arena matches. Purgatory must have an uber-evil soul on their hands, the worst of the absolute worst, and they need their best fighter on it.

That would be me.

Mom shakes her head from side to side. “All those demons and angels. Promise me, you’ll keep her away from ‘danger.’” She puts special emphasis on the word ‘danger.’

“I always do, Camilla.”

Mom releases her death-grip from the counter. “Of course.”

My back teeth lock. Mom’s always going on about protecting me from angels and demons. The demons I understand, but angels? Come on.

I zip up my gray hoodie. “Time to trash some evildoers.” Stepping to Walker’s side, I wait for transport to the Arena.

Mom’s hand lightly touches her throat. “Be safe!”