Long moments of silence, heavy as stones, fall about the Arena. What in Hell was that all about? Armageddon almost lost his marbles. Adrenaline pumps through my veins by the gallon; my tail arcs by my shoulder. Something is wrong here, very wrong. These two are in the middle of some kind of power play, and everyone in this Arena is another piece on their game board. A shiver of fear rattles my spine.

Sharkie thunks his staff on the Arena floor, interrupting my thoughts. The emcee’s voice echoes through the Arena. “I call forth the soul.”

A spirit appears beside Sharkie. This time, the ghost is a powerhouse of a man with a barrel chest over stout arms and legs. Skull tattoos cover his body. I let out a sigh of relief. Finally, an opponent worth the effort.

Sharkie turns to the human soul. “Deacon Lee, have you chosen trial by combat?”

The spirit’s misty eyes scan the Arena. “Yes.”

“You have three opponents to choose from. First–”

“I choose the girl.”

Huh. I’ve been in matches since I was twelve, and the souls always need to have it explained to them who they can choose and why. Sometimes, twice. It’s totally sketchy this guy not only knows the rules of the game, but who he wants to play with. On instinct, I scan Verus and Armageddon. The lead angel’s face is unreadable, but the King of Hell? He looks mighty pleased with himself.

A fissure of unease opens inside me. This is so not good.

Tilting his skeletal head to one side, Sharkie’s eyes glow bright red in their sockets. “So be it.” He waves to the exit archways. “All others, depart.”

The Crini demon is first to slink away, its eight puny legs creeping in an odd rhythm. Walker and XP-22 follow closely behind.

Deacon crosses his heavy arms. “And I want a weapon.”

My jaw just about drops off my face. Nobody gets a weapon. Not me, not the evil souls. Never. The sketchy quotient of this match just went through the roof.

Sharkie sniffs from his nose-holes. “No.”

Deacon turns to the Arena audience. “This girl is clearly part demon. I’m a man. Don’t I deserve the means to defend myself?” The demons screech and howl with delight; the angels sit in anxious silence.

Sharkie slams his staff onto the ground. “The rules of trial by combat are not open to negotiation. The soul may choose their opponent but no weapons. This was decreed by the Spectral Treaty of–”

A slick voice echoes through the arena, silencing Sharkie. “I like him. The man’s got sass.” It’s Armageddon. The demon raises his black hand, snapping his fingers. “Here’s your weapon, friend.” A long coiled whip appears before Deacon’s feet.

Unholy Hell.