“I’ll be super-safe, don’t you worry.”

“And don’t be late for school.”

I slap on a smile. “On it, Mom.”

Walker bows his head. “Stand back, I’ll summon a portal.” A new black hole appears in the center of the kitchen. I glance into the darkness, feeling the Frankenberry in my belly come up for a repeat performance. Using a portal feels like tumbling through empty space with a killer case of the stomach flu. Helpful safety tip: hold a ghoul’s hand or you’ll fall forever.

Taking a deep breath, I grab Walker’s chilly fingers so tightly, I’d cut off his blood flow, if he had any. Together, we step into the portal, topple through nothingness, and walk out again onto the sandy earth of the Arena floor. I try my best to look ready-for-battle instead of ready-to-puke.

Walker offers me a sympathetic glance. “Shall we find a place to sit?”

“Nah, I’m fine, thanks.” I scan the open-air stadium around me. The Arena’s a nasty old ruin, all chipped gray rock and busted sandstone columns. How the place stays upright is a total mystery. The fighting floor is one huge uneven clod of dirt, the bleachers are basically rubble, and the entire top level looks ready to collapse.

I freaking love it here.

The stands lie open and empty, except for a few quasis. They’re all fighters like me, trying to catch someone else’s match. Mom used to attend too, but all the moaning and gasping got so out of hand, she was banned ages ago. I can’t say I was bummed. Nothing like having your Mom yell ‘Baby, don’t diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie’ when you’re twelve and fighting a demon for the first time.

A gravelly voice echoes through the air. “Greetings, slave.” The word ‘slave’ is said with particular venom.

Every muscle in my body goes on alert. I’d know that voice anywhere, and I absolutely loathe its owner. I scrape lint from under my fingernails and pretend not to notice the seven-foot tall ghoul looming behind me.

Walker steps between us. “Greetings, SKE-12.”

My mouth winds into a mischievous grin. “Hey, Sharkie.’” SKE-12 hates his nickname, so I work it into every encounter.

Sharkie frowns. “My name is SKE-12, slave.”

Walker sets his hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me so I stand face-to-navel with Sharkie, master of Arena ceremonies and all-around dickhead. He hasn’t changed a bit since my last match, not that ghouls often do. He’s gray-skinned with large coal-black eyes, a skull-like hole for a nose, and teeth that have been filed to tiny points. His long silver robes hang in tatters; a tall black staff is gripped in his bony hand.

Walker gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Myla was just about to greet her ghoul overlord properly, weren’t you, Myla?” Standing next to Sharkie, even Walker looks vertically challenged.

“My bad.” I bow extra-low. “Greetings, SKE-12.”