The world drips by in slow motion as the whip wobbles in Deacon’s hands. Lunging, I try grabbing the weapon from him, but at the last possible millisecond, his fingers grip it firmly again.

Oh, no. I watch helplessly as my last chance to steal away the whip disappears. My lungs burn for air, turning my body numb with fear. Frozen with terror? Not the way to win a battle.

Deacon slams his arm down once more, bringing the whip along with it. The fiery cord around my neck pulls even tighter; my lungs scream for oxygen. At least, my new suit protects my skin from burning. Small comfort amid a huge panic.

The roar of the demon crowd rattles through my head. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware of Armageddon leaning forward in his dark throne, watching the match with glee, his eyes burning bright red. A horrible thought flashes through my mind: If I die here today, some demon like him could end up consuming my soul. The thought turns my muscles slack with shock.

Deacon runs into me full throttle, ramming his shoulder into my belly. He drags me along a few paces; my body slams against the Arena wall. I’m dimly aware of demons howling ever louder with pleasure. Pinned in place, I heave up my legs for another kick, but this time, my feet miss the mark. My limbs feel oddly heavy, my mind strangely calm as I realize an important fact:

Deacon just made the strategic error of the century.

My inner demon roars to life, my limbs flail with rage. As I writhe under the human’s grip, Deacon presses his face closer to mine. My vision turns fuzzy, the tattoos on his skin blur. Deacon’s knee makes contact with my stomach as he grunts: “You’re not the only one with a kick.”

I smile under the layers of my mask. With my last ounce of energy, I move in for the kill. Raising my tail shoulder-high, I stab it straight through my attacker’s heart.

And you’re not the only one with a weapon.

Deacon’s face falls slack. His body slumps to the floor, lifeless. Lurching forward, I unwind his whip from my throat, then yank my tail from his chest. Blood gurgles from his fresh wound. Air floods into my lungs in huge gulps. My vision clears; I give my tail a feeble high-five.

Sharkie rushes to my side. Grabbing my wrist, he pumps my arm into the air. “The winner!”

I tug my hand downwards, but he won’t let go. “Thanks.” Hunching over at the waist, I gasp for breath. “Want…To…Leave.”

Sharkie swivels his skull-like head in my direction, his grip tight as iron. “Not yet. Before you depart, guests from the entourage of Angel Verus wish to praise your valor in battle.”