Dearly Departed

by Katie May

  I hold out my hand for him to shake.

  His brow furrows, an adorably confused smile appearing on his face, before he takes the proffered hand.

  “Auston,” he replies gruffly.

  Auston. His name reverberates in my mind, evoking something akin to safety and comfort within me.

  What the hell?

  You just met the guy, Hadley. Don’t get your kinky panties in a twist.

  Shaking my head to clear my muddled thoughts, I smile at him.

  “So, Auston, what brings you to this neck of the woods?” Internally, I wince at my choice of words.

  Do I have to be such a dork?

  His smile only widens, although he quickly tries to mask it with an impassive front. Still, the corner of his lips twitch, hinting at whatever he wishes to remain hidden.

  “I was looking for you, actually. I’m your Angel mentor.”

  Angel mentor. My heart thumps painfully beneath my ribcage as molten fire snakes up my spine.

  One attractive mentor I can handle, but two? I might spontaneously combust. Or my vagina will.

  I pinch myself to orient my thoughts.

  “My mentor? I have four, right? Preston is my Reaper mentor.”

  His lips press into a thin line, and he mutters something that sounds like, “Unfortunately.”

  Not about to get involved in a dick measuring contest, I smile once more.

  “And what happened on the bridge was an accident, you know. I wasn’t trying to, like, throw myself over or anything.”

  His face darkens further.

  “I was just...seeing everything, you know? Seeing this new world. My world. It’s beautiful.” My voice turns soft, wistful, as I reminisce on what I never got to see when I was alive. Before I developed Hodgkin’s Lymphoma my freshman year of high school, my parents had been busy with work, believing we had our entire lives to go on vacation. The farthest I’d traveled was to Disney. After years in and out of remission, I spent the last few months of my life in the hospital. My traveling comprised of walking from my hospital room to the bathroom.

  At my words, his face softens exponentially.

  “I know.”

  “I don’t think you do,” I counter, harsher than I intended. “I don’t know how you died—and that’s probably taboo to ask, so I won’t—but I died of cancer. My last days were spent in pain. Alone. Mom and Dad didn’t realize how close to the end I was, you know? It was the one night they decided to spend together. A date night. Every other night, they would huddle around me and hold my hand, but not the night I actually died. The only things I saw were doctors and ugly white blankets. My parents and friends came back after my soul already left my body. So sure, I got the hand-holding farewell moment and the tears, but at the same time, I didn’t. They weren’t there when I died. They were there after, when the doctors called them, and they huddled around me and whispered their goodbyes.”

  He opens his mouth, but I cut him off with a scathing glare.

  “Don’t,” I state firmly. “I don’t need sympathy. I’m just telling you how it is. I sometimes don’t think about the consequences.”

  “Do you know what the consequences would’ve been if I hadn’t caught you?” he asks, not unkindly. His eyes trace my features with an intensity that leaves me reeling. “Your soul becomes lost in the void. The darkness. You may be dead, but there is a fate much worse than this. You still have conscious thought, free will, memories. In the void, you’re nothing.”

  His words cause goosebumps to erupt on my flesh because, shit, that doesn’t sound fun.

  “I didn’t know that,” I admit softly.

  “I didn’t expect you to.”

  We’re both silent for a long moment, each considering the other. Our stare off is interrupted by a familiar figure implanting herself in between us. Aggie smiles widely at Auston, while her eyes do an up and down perusal of his body.

  “And who is this strapping gentleman?” she inquires coyly. With a giggle, she offers her hand for him to kiss. “I’m Aggie. And you are?”

  After a moment of awkward staring, Auston grabs her fingers and gives them a little shake.

  “Auston.” He nods towards me. “Her mentor.”

  “And what big wings you have...” Aggie coos suggestively.

  Ignoring her, Auston turns towards me.

  “We’ll meet every morning to practice flying.”

  “Flying?” I gasp, instinctively touching my back for wings I know don’t fucking exist. His lips twitch.

  “There’s an elixir you drink. The wings last for only an hour.”

  “Oh.” I try not to be disappointed that I won’t have my own pair.

  “If, at the end of the year, the Fates determine you’re meant to be an Angel, you’ll grow your own. Or if you’re a Demon.” His lips curl at the latter statement. Oh yeah. Angels probably aren’t the biggest fans of Demons.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “For a little bit, yes. But it happens fast.”

  “That’s what she said!” Aggie chortles, slapping her knee.

  Once more, we ignore her.

  “Next week, you’ll follow Preston while he reaps souls. Then the week after that, you’ll meet your Demon mentor. During your third week, you’ll follow your Ghost. And during the last week of the month, I’ll show you what Angels do besides flying.”

  I can’t help but notice the way his lips curl when he says Preston’s name.

  “Get a good night’s rest,” he continues. “Tomorrow, you’re going to begin learning things you only imagined as a human.”

  I can’t tell if I’m excited, terrified, or aroused.

  Maybe I hit my head when I fell off the bridge…

  Chapter 7

  Hadley

  My first class of the day is Afterlife 101 - The Fundamentals.

  Unlike with eating, we are required to sleep. A way to rest the mind, Aggie told me cryptically.

  For a first year—a Dearly Departed—like me, she knows an awful lot about the Academy and the rules of the dead.

  I wake feeling utterly refreshed and dress quickly in the standard school uniform. With two hairpins, I twist my sandy blonde locks out of my face.

  My lips scrunch together as I survey myself in the full-length mirror.

  Death has been good to me. Color has returned to my once pasty cheeks, and the weight I had lost has now returned. My hair is glossy, as if it has its own personal sheen, and my lips are a bright red.

  A direct contrast to the dying girl from only a few days earlier.

  We skip breakfast, moving swiftly down the halls and into our first classroom of the day. Artificial lighting gives the room a bright, homey feel. Three rows of desks sit in the center of the room facing a smart board and podium.

  You would think the Afterlife would invest in something more...modern.

  I take off the used backpack I found in my closet and unpack it. Notebooks. Pencils. A textbook that eerily looks like something that would contain satanic ritual instructions.

  Student of the year, right here. All the gold fucking stars for me.

  The second my last pencil is in its place on the desk, it is brutally pushed off. Along with my two notebooks, the Satan book, and my colored pens.

  Blinking rapidly at the aggressive display, I glance at the newcomer who dared to disturb my...schooling.

  Yeah, I realize that makes me sound like a nerd.

  The girl above me is beautiful, there is no denying that. Her thick, onyx curls cascade to the middle of her back, and the light gold of her barrette heightens the golden flecks in her mossy green eyes. If I look mediocre in my uniform, she resembles a fucking goddess. The blouse dips low on her, abnormally so, to reveal a hint of cleavage and the lacy top of her bra. While my skirt rests at my knees, hers barely covers the bottom of her ass.

  Someone has obviously gotten the measurements wrong.

  “Can I help you?” I ask dryly, glancing at my school supplies littering the grou
nd.

  Aggie, who has been sitting beside me resting her head on her hands, sits up suddenly, staring on in rapt interest. Always a penchant for drama, that one.

  “You’re in my seat,” new girl accuses haughtily. She even goes so far as to put her nose in the air.

  “It’s the first day of class...and I’m in your seat,” I repeat.

  I know people like her. Bullies. Bitches. The stereotypical mean girl.

  And then the girl begins to laugh, her beautiful face softening.

  “I’m just fucking with you.” Bending down, and giving the entire class an ample view of her ass, she grabs the stuff she dropped. “You should’ve seen your face. I’m Layla.”

  My confusion is growing by the second, but I take her offered hand with my own. “Hadley.”

  “And I’m Aggie,” my roommate says, never one to be ignored.

  Plopping in the seat on the other side of me, Layla grins mischievously. “So, are you ready for the first day of...well...official deadness?”

  “Official deadness?” I echo, lips twitching. “That’s a good way to look at it.”

  “My Reaper says that the first week is the worst. Just a bunch of classes and homework. Homework. I thought I finished that when I graduated college,” Layla grumbles. She pouts, oddly resembling a petulant child getting reprimanded by a parent instead of the supermodel she actually is.

  “What did you go to school for?” I question at the same time Aggie interjects, “Who’s your Reaper, and is he single?”

  Thirsty old bitch.

  Layla chuckles, crossing her long legs. The movement captures the attention of every guy in the class. Literally every guy.

  One goes as far as to lean over, trying to peek under her skirt, and face-plants on the ground. Either oblivious or choosing to ignore the attention aimed her way, Layla addresses Aggie first.

  “Her name is Theresa, and she’s nice.” Layla emphasizes “her” with a pointed look in my roommate’s direction. Aggie scowls, muttering something about the “lack of man meat” beneath her breath.

  Turning towards me, Layla answers, “I studied English in the hopes of being an English teacher.”

  “Wow. And how’d you die?” I immediately wince at the crass question. Shit. Shit. Shit. “Err...you don’t need to answer that.”

  Layla waves her hand dismissively, but her eyes flash with pain.

  “No, it’s fine. Drunk driver. My boyfriend and I were hit on the way home from an engagement dinner.” My throat closes at the obvious anguish in her voice.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He didn’t end up here,” she murmurs softly. “His soul wasn’t chosen to attend the Academy.”

  Double shit.

  “At least he’s in a better place,” I add meekly. Inwardly, I groan.

  Better place?

  I always hated when people said that to my parents when they thought I was sleeping. At least she’s going to a better place.

  But no one knew that for sure. It was just words used to console the grieving like one would apologize for something that wasn’t their fault. Words didn’t bring back the dead.

  Before I can put my foot in my mouth again, the classroom door opens and an arresting older woman enters. She’s dressed in a tight corset and an intricately detailed ball gown, which swoops around her feet in ruffles of red and black. Her salt and peppered hair flows to mid-back, braided away from her face. Barefoot, she glides to the front of the classroom.

  On closer inspection, I can see the slightest shimmer around her body.

  Her translucent body.

  My breath hitches as I stare at the otherworldly professor.

  “A Ghost,” Layla whispers, leaning over so her words aren’t overheard. “They revert back to what they looked like when they died. Including their injuries, at least if they’re powerful. Not every Ghost retains their injuries, but in the Academy, it’s a sign of power.”

  When the strange woman turns her head, it’s only then that I see dark blood coating the back of her scalp and hair. It drips unceremoniously down her shoulders, the noise vociferously loud in the quietness of the room.

  “Good morning, students. My name is Patricia Myle, but you can call me Mrs. Myle. I will be your teacher for this class.”

  “You’re a Ghost,” a boy whispers from the front of the classroom. He looks no older than thirteen, his face slack with shock. Mrs. Myle smiles sympathetically.

  “It’s a lot to take in, I know. I remember being a Dearly Departed myself. The shock. The confusion. The fear.” Her voice turns wistful as she recollects her early years at the school before she shakes her head vehemently. “But that was over two-hundred years ago.”

  “Two-hundred years?” the same boy asks, aghast.

  “Let that be lesson number one, kids. You’re immortal.”

  Whispers instantly emerge from the classroom. Layla, beside me, pales.

  “Does that mean we’ll never have eternal rest?” she pipes up. Mrs. Myle turns towards her.

  “As most of you know, when a body dies, the soul itself goes to Heaven or Hell. A select few are chosen to run the Afterlife. Their souls undergo four years at Afterworld Academy—”

  “Four?” Aggie speaks up. For the first time since I met her, her eyes are aglow with clarity. The wrinkles around her face are more pronounced as she leans forward, frowning.

  Mrs. Myle’s smile turns placating, an expression I have seen on my mom numerous times. “The first year, you train in all aspects of the Afterlife. You learn the history, the varying divisions and what they do, and you also accompany your mentors, third year students. After your first year, the Fates choose your profession. The second year you focus fully on your new...job. It is a lot of hands-on work. Angels will often be assigned a case, Demons will lurk on the human plane, Ghosts will haunt their assigned human, and Reapers will practice collecting souls.

  “During your third year, you will acquire a mentee. They will follow you around, and you will work with them on mastering every aspect of each division.

  “The fourth year...well...it’s not a normal year at the Academy...” She trails off ominously, and my curiosity instantly piques. Layla straightens further, and Aggie narrows her eyes.

  “And?” Aggie prompts.

  “And…” Another smile graces Mrs. Myle’s face. “It’s a well-kept secret. Think of it as the final test.”

  I exchange anxious glances with Layla and Aggie. If that doesn’t sound terrifying…

  “The first week will consist of only classes. The following week you will begin your mentorships by following your Reaper around on Tuesday and Thursday. The other days will be normal class.” She claps her hands together. “Now, let’s begin today with introductions. Who would like to go first?”

  My next class of the day is Combat Training with a big-ass man who looks as if he wants to squash me under his boot. With scarlet red hair and penetrating green eyes, Adam Time is a sight to behold. The black wings indicate he’s a Demon.

  “You will get hurt. You will get bruises. You will fucking hate me and life—death—by the end,” he declares, pacing the gymnasium floor. Our class is huddled on the bleachers, with me sitting between Layla and Aggie once more. It seems as if I have every class with the voluptuous female and the perverted old lady.

  Fortunately, Adam Time—or Master Time, as he demanded we call him—sends us away with only a warning that we have to come prepared for our asses to be whooped.

  His words, not mine.

  The rest of the classes pass the same way. Introductions, promises of bloodshed in the coming years, and reading requirements for the next class.

  “This is going to suck donkey’s ass balls,” I lament, after we exit our last class, Ghosts and Exorcisms. Layla hefts her backpack farther up her shoulder.

  “Demonology and Angelology seem interesting,” she comments, always looking at the bright side. A group of Demons walk by, and upon seeing Layla, whoop and catcall. She igno
res them, which I’m beginning to see is her go-to move.

  The girl is gorgeous, and her provocative outfit only accentuates that.

  “That professor had a nice ass,” Aggie agrees seriously.

  Before Layla can respond, a loud “shit” echoes from down the hall.

  Recognizing the voice immediately, I rush towards the noise.

  Preston is sprawled on the ground, his backpack a few feet away from him. I glance around, amused, but see literally nothing he could’ve tripped on or run into.

  Nothing.

  “Fall over your own feet again, Preston?” I ask teasingly, and he tilts his head back to stare up at me. A brilliant smile cleaves his face in two, and I feel something warm and tingly settle in my stomach. He’s handsome normally, but when he smiles, he’s fucking gorgeous.

  “I’m just...making sure the carpet is comfortable,” he replies easily, patting the ground with his palm. “It is.”

  “Oh my gosh. Are you okay?” Layla inquires in concern. His eyes flicker to her, and I feel myself tense. It’s completely instinctive.

  Why should I care if he stares at her the way every other guy stared at her?

  I have no claim on him. Hell, I barely even know him. He’s just...my Reaper.

  Well, not mine mine. The Reaper is a better description. The Reaper who happens to be mine. But not mine in the way—

  Gah!

  Schooling my features, I watch Preston smile at Layla before focusing his attention back on me. His smile grows exponentially.

  “Help a Reaper out?”

  Rolling my eyes, I extend a hand towards him, and his warm one engulfs mine. I didn’t expect a dead guy to have such warm, soft hands. The heat he emits is almost palpable.

  When he continues holding my hand, the warm flutters in my stomach turn into a raging inferno. Clearing my throat, I gesture towards Layla and Aggie.