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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?
    â€œI don’t know. Arx Hall’s pretty sweet.”
    â€œSure, 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.”
    â€œThe 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?”
    â€œOne 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.”
    â€œShould I open it?”
    â€œDon’t, really. It’ll be the most disgusting thing you’ve ever smelled.”
    â€œNow, 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.
    â€œTold 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.
    â€œHey, 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.
    â€œAnything 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?”
    â€œGot me. Walker knows his stuff, though.”
    â€œWell, 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.” Ireturn 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