His buggy black eyes narrow into slits. Sharkie always knows when I’m making fun of him, and it drives him crazy. “I’ll have no mischief from you today.”

I bow again, even lower this time. “Yes, I’m fresh out.”

Sharkie turns to Walker, his black eyes flaring bright red. “Control her.” His gaze swings back to me. “We’ve an especially evil human soul fighting today. I hope to watch you die at last.”

I pick something off my molar with my pinky. “I’m sure you do.”

Sharkie steps closer, his pointy teeth click-clacking as he speaks. “The soul you fight today is so evil, the angels have begged the Great Scala to stand by, ready to transport him to Hell the moment he’s defeated. Which will never happen.” He leans in closer. “You. Are. Doomed.”

My brows pop up. Normally, the Scala migrates tons of souls at once in what’s called an iconigration. For this guy to get solo treatment, he must be a SUPER nasty. Fun. “Bring it on, Shar–.”

Walker grabs my elbow. “Look, Myla! Your friends are here!” He points across the stadium floor. “We must depart.” He bows once more to Sharkie. “Excuse us.” As we speed-walk away, Walker whispers in my ear. “If I weren’t already dead, I’d have had a heart attack just now.”

“Eh, Sharkie’s harmless.”

“Because I placate him for you.” He shoots me a sly look. “Why must you always taunt him?”

“Not sure.” I shrug. “It’s a hobby.” A few yards ahead stands a ghoul named XP-22, and a hovering green blob that’s Sheila, the Limus demon.

I shoot Sheila a friendly wave. “Hey Shiel, how are the kids?” Sheila’s nice, so long as you don’t stand close enough for her to swallow you whole. XP-22, on the other hand, is a total drip. I don’t even glance in his direction.

“The kids are good, Myla, getting bigger every day…Just like you.” Sheila’s entire body shivers, which is a little scary since she’s six feet tall, three feet wide, and has fourteen red eyes the size of tennis balls. “It seems like yesterday you were twelve and about to fight your first demon.” Her huge gaping mouth twists into a grin. “How old are you now, honey?”

“Eighteen.”

A blob-like arm stretches out from Sheila’s side, lengthening into a gooey hand with eighteen long fingers. “Almost grown up! Have you been assigned your service yet?” ‘Assigning your service’ is ghoul-speak for locking a quasi into a life-long job after high school. We’re not allowed to call it ‘prison labor.’ I shiver. There are some mighty foul careers out there too, like the infamous anal probe development lab.

Before I can reply to Sheila’s question, Sharkie thumps his staff against the ground.