Scala (4 page)

“Here? In Purgatory?” Official visits are typically less than an hour. “How long?”

“As long as it takes. This is serious, Myla. We should tackle it as a team.”

That awesome warm-happy-tingly feeling rolls through me again, only even stronger this time. I wrap my arms around his neck. “You're amazing.”

Lincoln whispers in my ear. “How about we go kill this thing, then head over to your house?”

“You and Cissy are spoiling me today.”

“Don't say that. You've made a really brave choice to stand by those souls. You're carrying a huge responsibility right now. This is the least I can do. Cissy feels the same way.”

A great roar echoes through the darkened factory, breaking the moment. The cry is so deep and powerful, bits of dingy wall-glass tumble from their rusted window-frames.

Hellooooo, Durus demon.

Battle energy careens through my muscles. “You're right. Let's go take down this Durus.”

I snap into fighting-mode, my mind zooming through different approaches and scenarios. “How about we start with long-swords, and then finish with a net?”

“Excellent.”

We take out our baculum, igniting the silver rods as long-swords made of angelfire. Once the flames begins to crackle, the threads of my Scala robes instantly realign into white battle armor. I have to admit, dynamic robe re-alignment is one of the cooler benefits of being the Great Scala.

Before us, garbage heaps scrape across the floor, combining into a larger shape.

“Guess someone's decided to come to us,” says Lincoln.

“So thoughtful for a demon.”

On the ground nearby, the trash-pile shifts at a faster rate: melting, reforming, rising. The sour smell of burned rubber and engine grease fills the air. Within seconds, the metal refuse resolidifies as a massive man that's eight feet tall and almost as broad.

The Durus is here.

The demon's arms are a mash-up of jackhammers and belt riveters. It stands on legs made of massive steel beams; strange smokes and acids spew from its torso of engine parts. The head's the nastiest bit of all, a crazy mix of punch-needles and round-saws with crushed-glass eyes and a huge, gaping mouth full of moving-piston teeth.

My breath catches. I have to admit, this thing is way cool.

The Durus speaks in a deep and rusty voice. “Leave my lair.”

Lincoln moves into battle stance: feet wide apart, his long-sword raised high. “That's not going to happen, buddy.”

With lightning speed, the demon raises its arm to strike Lincoln. I get ready to leap into a counter-attack. However, the demon does something unexpected. It
stops, actually freezing in place for a few seconds. After that, its crushed-glass eyes begin to glow with demonic fire.

Lincoln and I share a confused look. That's strange. Durus demons are one of the few breeds whose eyes don't light up.

The Durus rounds on me. “Show me how you move souls, Great Scala.” With clunky movements, he rips a length of conveyor belt off the floor and chucks it at me; I easily leap out of the way. The broken machinery lands on the floor with a room-shaking crash. The Durus takes a lumbering step closer. “Fight me like you fought Armageddon.”

I frown, considering. Two months ago, I blasted Armageddon and his ghoul cronies out of Purgatory. It took a bit to figure out my brand-spanking-new igni power, but eventually, I trapped the King of Hell in a Soul Column. I can still picture him howling with bone-crunching rage as he plummeted under the earth, to be forever locked into Hell. Fun times.

Beside me, Lincoln speaks in a low voice. “Your call, Myla. If you send him back to Hell, he'll be locked down there forever, but he'll still be alive.”

“That's true.” However, I can't move any souls right now, so I've been itching to use my igni. “But I could use the practice with my powers.” I turn to the demon. “You've got yourself a deal.”

I raise my arms high above my head. Closing my eyes, I reach out with my thoughts to the dark igni, the tiny bolts of power and light that transport evil souls to Hell.
Come to me, my little ones.
Instantly, their grating voices fill my mind, a cacophony of rasps and whispers that only I can hear.

Opening my eyes, I watch the tiny white lightning bolts materialize before my outstretched palms. More come into existence, soaring and diving about my hands like tiny silver fish. Soon, hundreds have arrived, their bodies making intricate flow-patterns that wind up my arms.

My sweet igni. A sense of peace and power rolls through me. I am the Great Scala, and this is what I'm meant to do.

Sensing the igni's power, the Durus leans back on its heels, beating his chest with his great fists. Opening his piston-mouth, the demon lets out another ear-splitting roar.

At the sound of this cry, my inner wrath demon kicks into high gear, electrifying my nervous system with rage.
Time to go home, buddy.
I lower my arms and command the igni to slide onto the floor and create a Soul Column, the vehicle that will send the Durus to Hell.

Only, the igni don't move.

I frown, my forehead creased with confusion. This can't be right.

The igni keep whirling around my arms. Inside my head, they start rasping out an odd song that makes me wince. I catch the words ‘dragon' and ‘must get' in there, but otherwise, it's a bunch of nonsense.

I mentally command the igni with more force. It makes no difference. Their voices keep chattering away in their strange cacophony, their sounds faster and harsher by the second. Finally, I resort to speaking out loud, something I've never had to do before.

“I order you! Send the Durus to Hell!”

In reply, the igni's song turns furious in its intensity. I've no idea what they're saying anymore, only that the sounds are super-painful to hear. I set my hands over my ears. “Enough!”

Instantly, the igni disappear. It takes me a full minute to regain my focus and senses. Damn, those dark igni can take over your brain when they want to.

I scan the factory floor for Lincoln. He's fighting the Durus, and probably has been for some time. The demon's now missing a riveter-arm; half its face is gone. The Durus swings its remaining band-saw arm at Lincoln, who leaps away while changing his baculum into a net of white flame. Tossing it high, Lincoln encases the demon in his angelfire web.

A pause follows. In a moment that lasts forever, Lincoln and the Durus stare at each other. The demon's face droops with an unasked question: what can this thrax possibly do with a net?

In one swift movement, Lincoln cinches the net-cords into a tight ball. The angelfire strands are razor-sharp, tearing easily through the demon, slicing its metal body into thousands of tiny shards. The bits tumble to the floor, softly jingling as they fall. The place where the demon once stood is now a shredded pile of scrap metal.

The Durus is dead.

I should cheer, but I'm still a little freaked out my impromptu igni concert.

Lincoln steps up to my side. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. My igni wouldn't listen to my commands, though. They were singing some kind of message to me instead. Weird.” I punch his upper arm. “By the way, nice job, you.”

“I've fought Durus before. Normally, they're incredibly fast. The eyes shouldn't light up, either. Something was wrong with this one.” He frowns, resetting his baculum into their holster on his thigh. “Not that there's anything wrong with an easy battle every once in awhile.” A crafty look lights up his eyes. “Ready to head out? I want to hear all about what's going on.”

Happiness bubbles up inside me. That's right. Lincoln's staying for days now. Awesome. Whatever other plans I had, I'm clearing my schedule and enjoying our time together. I take his hand in mine and head for the door.

Betsy's still waiting outside.

Lincoln and I hunt through the contents of my fridge, looking to scrounge up a quick snack before dinner. Like most nights, my parents are off running Purgatory as Madame President and First Man, so it's fend for yourself time. Turns out, killing a Durus makes you hungry. Plus, that weird-igni-concert was no-fun. I need me some grub.

Lincoln digs through a shelf loaded with plastic containers. “I still can't get over this place. So much nicer than Arx Hall.”

My new house is nicer than Lincoln's underground castle in Antrum?

“I don't know. Arx Hall's pretty sweet.”

“Sure, it all looks good,” says Lincoln. “But we've no electricity, no phones, no computers. Our kitchens are still stuck in the Middle Ages. There's a larder, a buttery, an icehouse, and a guy whose only job is to ensure that meats roast properly. I kid you not; I pay someone to be my Master of Turning Spits. It takes a legion of people two days to make me a sandwich.” He gestures open-armed at the fridge. “Now, this is so much better.”

“The kitchen here's pretty kick-ass, I'll grant you that.”

Once I got to be the Great Scala—and Mom became Purgatory's President—I knew we'd get an upgrade in housing. The place we ended up in was recently abandoned by a wealthy ghoul collective (they don't use the term ‘family') so it's essentially a mash-up of Goth haunted house and high-tech superstore. And for once, the ghouls didn't cheap out on the electronics, either. The kitchen's the nicest spot, a huge space covered in stainless steel and the latest gadgetry from Earth. There's a long shiny table on the right-hand side of the room. On the left is where all the inscrutable appliances hang out.

Lincoln slides out a plastic container filled with multi-colored goop. “What in blazes is this?”

“One of Dad's creations.” As an archangel General, my father has a list of superpowers a mile long. Expertise in demon lore and battle strategy rank up at the top. Being a decent cook isn't on the list, period. “Dad doesn't have to eat, but he still likes combining random stuff in a pan. Lately, he's been stashing it in the fridge, too.”

“Should I open it?”

“Don't, really. It'll be the most disgusting thing you've ever smelled.”

“Now, I've got to open it.” Lincoln lifts the lid a crack. The scent of rotten eggs and dumpster juice slams into our faces. “Damn, that's nasty.” He closes the lid quickly and shoves it back into the fridge.

“Told you so.” Giving up on the fridge, I go to the stainless steel cabinet where all the Demon bars are stored. Along the way, I notice a pile of written sheets on the countertop. I'd know that handwriting anywhere. It's Walker's. As a ghoul and family friend, Walker portals in and out of our kitchen daily. Lately, he's taken to leaving notes behind, especially if he needs to update us on sensitive stuff.

“Hey, there's something here from Walker. I bet it's about the Orb.” My heart rate kicks up a notch. Walker wouldn't leave a note unless something big had happened. Hopefully, it's something super-awesome.

“Anything good?” asks Lincoln.

I scan the letter. “Depends how you define good. This is all about Walker's search for the Orb. He figured out the riddle in the crypt, which is amazing, but it led him to a warehouse in Lower Purgatory that's filled with magical junk.” I skim through more pages filled with long equations and notes on stuff like probability theory. I flash the sheets at Lincoln. “Any idea what this means?”

“Got me. Walker knows his stuff, though.”

“Well, the bottom line's that the Orb's definitely in the warehouse, but Walker has no idea when he'll find it.” I toss the sheets onto the countertop. “So, we're back to where we were before. No clue when I can start moving souls again.” I
return my attention to the stainless steel cabinets. “Time for comfort food.” I grab a Demon bar, rip it open, and bite into the chocolate-y goodness.

Lincoln slides out a bag of carrots from the fridge and starts to munch. “You know, what you're eating there is a tiny smidgeon of granola and a whole bunch of chocolate.”

“Hence the name Demon bar.” I bite off another chunk. “I'm at peace with that.”

“Only you, Myla.”

I polish off the bar. “So, I can't get over how my igni acted around that Durus. They wouldn't do what I told them. They only wanted to sing. And it was the dark igni too, so their music was a bunch of screeching. Think about two-dozen Yoko Ono clones doing speed metal covers. That's pretty much the idea.”

Lincoln starts laughing so hard, he almost chokes on a carrot. “What were they singing about?”

“Something about dragons and finding someone. I don't know. Finally, I told them to shut up and they went away. It was so strange.”

“Doesn't sound like a big deal to me. Don't they pop in every so often with odd messages, anyway? This is just the first time they did it when you were telling them to do something else.”

“That's true.” The igni are notorious for chattering on about cryptic nonsense.

“I wouldn't worry about it, not unless it happens again.” Lincoln bites off more carrot. “Now, tell me more about Adair. Let's start with the investigation. What's she looking into, specifically?”

“How the Ghost Towers are overcrowded and ready to blow. It's an official inquiry, so there's no way to bury it. Cissy said she could stall the news getting out, though. So, that's a help.”

“Nice to have friends in high places.”

“You're telling me.” I frown. “But after announcing her investigation, Adair asked if I couldn't move souls to Heaven because I've lost some of my powers. I hate to admit it, but after the igni ignored me with the Durus, her words have really gotten under my skin.”

“You losing your powers? That's impossible.”

“No, it's possible, alright. There's one disease where a Scala loses their igni. It's called the Bloodstone Curse.” I'm tempted to discuss the symptoms, but I've had enough nastiness to contemplate for one day.