“Looks like you have your hands full,” Yeats says, surveying the scene.
Al shakes her head in disgust. “Why is it when humans wage a war against each other in the name of religion, I end up dealing with a bunch of idiots?” She turns without saying goodbye and souls scramble out of her way.
“I like her,” I say to Yeats as we make our way to where Hazel is waiting. “The dog, not so much, but Al’s cool.”
He laughs and I realize the sound doesn’t hurt my head as much. “Alexandra has been Cerberus’s handler since the beginning of time. She’s seen everything and it’s given her a sick sense of humor. Still, there are few who can see the best and the worst in a person like she can. Back before Peter arrived, she handled the flow of all incoming souls. Of course, there weren’t as many people on Earth back then.”
I look around at the multitude of souls, each speaking different languages and wearing clothes I’ve only seen on the news or on the National Geographic channel. “When Peter arrived, she got the short straw and now has to hang out at the mouth of Hell?”
Yeats nods. “Cerberus still had a job to do and without her controlling him, well, let’s just say chaos would be redefined.” We cross an invisible center line between Heaven and Hell and there is an immediate change in the energy. For one thing, people aren’t trying to get out of line. Instead, it’s like being in a mosh pit with people pushing you closer and closer to the stage. Yeats has no trouble navigating us through the crowd.
“Finally,” Hazel huffs as we approach. She turns around and calls over the din of voices. “Peter, she’s here.”
“Why do I feel like Mom and Dad are dropping me off at the babysitter’s house?” I mutter, feeling the eyes of everyone around us turn to look at me.
“Who is she?” I hear someone whisper.
Another voice asks, “Why does she get special treatment?”
“Is she an actress?” another soul groans. “Please tell me they don’t get special treatment even in the Afterlife.”
“Back of the line,” somebody else calls and a chorus of applause follows. If they knew my story, I don’t think they would be jealous.
“My dearly departed,” an authoritative voice bellows from the front of the crowd. “You have not yet entered the Eternal Kingdom. Please do not make me send you back for a Judgment Review.” The man motions for us to follow him to a side room next to the Gates. As we pass a scribe seated outside the door, he adds, “Let ’em in. This is a rambunctious lot. The sooner they acclimate, the better.”
“Yes, Peter,” the young man says.
This is the holy Saint Peter. He looks more like Ryan Reynolds’s doppelgänger. Once the door closes I blurt out, “Can you really send them back for a review?”
His light brown eyes twinkle and it almost takes my breath away. “Technically, yes, but I’ve never done it. I just like to scare the rowdy ones straight before I send them in. Plus,” he says in a conspiratorial tone, “did you see the looks on their faces? It was priceless.”
Okay, Saint Peter being a hottie I can handle, but a prankster? This I didn’t see coming. I feel a blush spread across my cheeks. Oh no. This is not happening. I simply can’t be crushing on a guy who’s been dead almost two thousand years.
“Uh, yeah,” I finally manage. “Good one.”
“Peter,” Hazel says briskly, “Azrael wants RJ to stay here while we try to figure out how to handle her situation.”
“That’s cool.”
She looks at him in surprise. Maybe she’s expecting more of a fight or something. “Okay then, we’ll be back as soon as possible.” And with that, she and Yeats fly off, leaving me alone with Peter and nothing even remotely intelligent to say.
He’s studying me, his eyes probing mine for something. When the scrutiny gets to me, I blurt out, “What?” Like I said, I’m at a loss for witty comebacks.
“I’m just trying to figure out what all the fuss is about.”
I look at my feet. “What do you mean?”
He gives me a curious look before shaking his head. “A Tribunal hasn’t been convened. There hasn’t even been talk about getting them together.”
“You mean recently?” I ask quietly.
“I mean ever.” He opens the door and waits for me to walk through. “I hope you’re worth it,” he adds and breezes back into the Gates, which is now empty.
“Where’d everyone go?” I ask, looking around in surprise.
“Inside,” is all he says before letting out a sharp whistle.
From the other side of the space, Cerberus bounds toward us, all three tongues hanging out of their respective mouths. The creature skids to a stop in front of us and Peter scratches him under each chin. “Hey there, boy. How ya doing?” The dog flops down, rolling on his back and exposing his belly. “Not now, buddy. I’ve got some business to settle with your handler.”
“Handler? More like warden,” Al says, trotting over carrying two wooden boards. She hands one to Peter who counts out forty paces and then drops it in place.
“Definitely,” Peter says. With a snap of his fingers eight small bags appear at his feet. He grins at me. “Didn’t know I could do that, did you?”
“Quit messing with the poor kid’s head,” Al chastises. She places her board opposite his.
I glance at the board closest to me and gasp. The Guardians of Heaven and Hell are getting ready to play a game.
Chapter 9
I watch in amazement as two opposing representatives of Heaven and Hell sling bags of corn at small holes in wooden boxes while a dog with three heads groans harmonically in his sleep. This has got to be a joke. I clear my throat. “This is what you do when no one’s around?”
“We used to play chess,” Al says, heaving her fourth bag. “But then some college kids in one of those states in the middle of America came up with this and we got hooked.”
Peter laughs as the bag skims over the edge of the target. “Yeah, plus chess took forever. A guy can die of boredom waiting for her to make a move.”
I start to ask when they think my Guardian Angels will be back, but Peter holds up his hand. “Shhh. I’m throwing here.”
“RJ, what’s your story?” Al asks, as she starts her turn. The bag spirals out of control and Peter has to dodge out of the way to avoid it.
He shoots her a warning glare. “Don’t start this again.”
“Sorry,” she says, but even I can tell she’s not. “Go on, RJ. Tell us your tale.”
I step farther away from them just in case their friendly game evolves into an all-out war and then tell them everything, starting with the fortune-teller and ending at the point when I was dropped off with them.
“That sucks,” Al says, ducking out of the way of one of Peter’s throws. The toss is definitely not an accident. “Hey!” she yells at him. “If you make it personal, it’s a forfeit. You know the rules.” He doesn’t act like he cares, but his next toss lands neatly in the hole. “Show off. Next time we double the distance,” she mutters before turning back to me. “What did the Reaper say?”
“That there was nothing he could do.”
“There isn’t,” Peter agrees. “Someone much more powerful would have to handle this mess, and I can’t think of anyone who would want to deal with it.”
“Why not?” I huff. “I thought this was the place miracles came from.”
“It is, but it’s not like you can just plop back into your life. In case you forgot, you died. By now people are probably preparing your body for burial, assuming you aren’t being cremated.”
The idea makes my stomach turn and I struggle against the wave of nausea that rolls over me, but Peter keeps going. “In order to have what you want to happen, the Fates would have to rewind the entire world.”
“But I’m not asking for the entire world to be reset. Just my life. I deserve a second chance.”
“You keep telling yourself that,” Al says, lining up her next shot. “From what I hear, the ruling on you
r Afterlife isn’t cut and dry. Personally, if it were me, I would hang out here until your number’s up. You could play the winner.”
I can feel the color draining from my face. Is she saying I might actually end up in Hell? I mean, I know I haven’t always been nice to people, but still. Hell? There is no way I can let that happen. “It’s not like I’ve done anything really bad,” I stammer.
“Oh really?” she says, returning back to her game.
“Yeah, really,” I argue, not ready for this conversation to end. “It’s not like I killed anybody.”
This time it’s Peter who speaks. “What about that boy in your high school?”
“What are you talking about?” I say, looking between the two of them.
Neither of them is playing the game now. “The boy in your school. The one who killed himself.”
“You mean the guy in the bathroom? How is that my fault? He did that to himself.”
Peter’s eyes are gentle but stern. “But why did he do it?”
“How should I know?” I balk, still angry that they’re trying to pin someone else’s choice on me. “It’s not like we were friends.”
“No,” Al agrees.
I’m speechless. Is she really trying to pin a suicide on me?
“In all fairness,” Peter adds, “it wasn’t just her.”
“Right,” Al says, stretching out the word. “Her friends. The difference is they’re mean, self-centered people.”
“Oh, and why do they get an excuse and I don’t?” I ask, gritting my teeth.
“Because you’re better than they are,” Peter answers. “You were meant for so much more than you became.”
Okay, now I’m getting tired of riddles and lectures. “Whatever,” I say and cross my arms over my chest. I really wish Yeats and Hazel would hurry up.
With a sigh, Peter sits down on the ground and motions for me to do the same. “Everyone has a plan before them. They have a purpose. Each choice they make keeps them on their path or leads them off course.”
“Okay,” I say, still not understanding what he’s trying to say.
“Well, you were pretty far off the path. In fact, you weren’t even in the same forest you started in.”
My shoulders drop. “But I still had my whole life in front of me. Maybe I would’ve changed.”
“Maybe,” he admits. “But for the first seventeen years you put yourself before others. You were more interested in being popular than being a good person.”
“People can be both,” I argue.
He shrugs. Wow. There is nothing like having Saint Peter insinuate that you suck as a human being.
“I could change,” I mutter. “If I had more time, I could change.”
“Yeah, or,” Al adds, standing over us, “you could live out the rest of your allocated life, ring in a new millennium, and still arrive here with a first-class ticket to my line. It’s not my call, but I’m not sure it’s worth the risk.”
“Al,” Peter says sharply.
“What?” she snaps back. “It’s my opinion. Even now, after everything she’s seen, it’s still all about her. People can change, but they have to want to. I don’t think she has the desire.”
Without warning, a bell rings. Peter makes a quick hand gesture and the boards dissolve into the floor, taking the corn bags with them. Cerberus is on his feet shaking his massive heads. The drool spreads several feet in every direction. Al gives a sharp whistle and in an instant Cerberus is at her side and ready for business.
“I could be better,” I say to Peter, my eyes pleading for him to believe me.
“Hey, you’re talking to the guy who denied his best friend not once but three times. I believe you can change. But Al’s right. What you’re asking for has never been done. The odds aren’t in your favor, kid.”
I watch the main doors swing open as souls begin to pour into the room. As the last one makes her way into the crowd, Hazel and Yeats swoop over them, dropping gracefully on either side of me.
Yeats looks at Peter and shakes his head. “The Tribunal has been summoned.”
Before I can respond, Yeats and Hazel each take me by an arm and we shoot into the air on the way to my moment of truth.
“Good luck,” I hear Al call over the rush of wind. “You’re going to need it.”
And deep down, I know she’s right.
Chapter 10
Just about the time I get comfortable with flying, we’re landing softly in front of a stone building with tall pillars supporting a steep roof. Since my arrival in the Afterlife, I’ve been in rooms of varying degrees of sumptuousness, but this is the first time I’ve seen an actual building.
“Wow,” I say quietly. “It looks like the Supreme Court, only bigger.”
“About this hearing,” Hazel says, ignoring me, “if I were you, I wouldn’t talk unless asked a question.”
I stop her. “Don’t worry. Peter and Al did a pretty good job of making it clear how big a deal this is.”
“That wasn’t their job,” she mutters before asking, “What exactly did they say?”
Not wanting to rehash the breakdown of my apparently worthless life, I shrug off her question. “Just that it’s going to be a hard sell.”
Yeats clears his throat. “The Tribunal is made up of three angels. Azbaugh is one of the higher-ranking Angels of Judgment and he’ll be running the show. Marmaroth is one of the Fates. He has the power to alter the course of time. The third member of the panel is Shepard, an Angel of Repentance. The three of them will have the ultimate authority over your past and future.”
“It sure sounds like a trial to me,” I remark.
“It is,” Hazel answers quickly.
Great. Just great. I accidentally get collected by a Grim Reaper and end up the criminal. Could this get anymore unfair?
“Don’t I get a lawyer?” I ask, half joking.
“Actually,” Hazel answers, “you do. The angel Salathiel will speak on your behalf.”
“Salathiel has a soft spot for hopeless causes,” Yeats adds. “He’ll put up a fight.”
It’s official. Everyone thinks my situation is hopeless.
“Who’s going to argue that I be left to rot here until the end of my life?” I ask.
“Zachriel, an Angel of Memories,” Yeats answers.
“Angel of Memories?”
This time it’s Hazel who answers. “He has the ability to search through every memory that has ever been had. When he speaks, everyone, and I mean everyone, listens.”
“He also has the gift of sight,” Yeats adds.
“Huh?”
“It means he can see some aspects of the future. But he’s not as accurate as the Akashic Records,” Hazel adds impatiently.
Is that supposed to reassure me? Because it doesn’t. Not even a little. My shoulders sag. “Azrael also said something about Death Himself?”
Again my two Guardians exchange a cryptic glance.
“Stop it,” I demand. “Stop doing that thing where you look at each other like you’re keeping a secret from me. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of people making me feel bad for something that’s not my fault.”
There are no sounds once the echoes of my words fade away. Yeats breaks the silence. “I would try to avoid doing that in front of the Tribunal.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, taking in a deep breath. “So is he here?”
“Who?” Yeats asks.
“Death Himself.”
“No, but I’m sure he will be.” Hazel averts her gaze, and her unwillingness to look me in the eye does not inspire confidence.
“What about Gideon?” I ask in a panic. “He can tell them what happened.”
Yeats shakes his head. “He’s just a Reaper. The Tribunal won’t listen to anyone except Death Himself.”
“Who isn’t here,” I remind him. My knees buckle, and Yeats reaches down to catch my elbow.
“I’m so screwed,” I moan.
“It doesn’t look good,” H
azel agrees.
My head snaps up at her. “I thought you were supposed to be my Guardian Angel. Aren’t you on my side?”
“I am on your side. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up when the odds are stacked against you.”
“Because I’m just a spoiled princess who doesn’t care about anyone but myself. Isn’t that what you said earlier?” I mutter with a huff. “Why can’t anyone see that I’m the victim here?”
Hazel surprises me by wrapping her arm around my shoulders. “I know how good you can be. I’ve watched you every day of your life. But what you can do and what you’ve done aren’t the same. Not to mention, this is uncharted territory. You need to be ready to defend your life.”
I groan. “How can I fight when everything is on the Tribunal’s terms?”
“I’m sure Salathiel has a plan,” she says with a tired smile.
Before anyone can say anything more, the door at the top of the stairs creaks open.
“Enter,” a voice calls. “Enter into the Judgment Hall, Rowena Joy Jones. The Tribunal is waiting.”
I lean over to Yeats. “Where’s the guy who’s going to represent me?”
He nods toward the open door. “In there.”
I close my eyes. “I can do this,” I whisper to myself. When my nerves settle, I add, “Let’s go.” Yeats and Hazel exchange another look. “What?”
“We can’t go in,” Yeats says, his wings hanging a little lower.
“Why not?” I demand.
“We are Guardians,” Hazel says. “We cannot enter the Hall unless the Tribunal requests our presence.”
I think I’m going to throw up. “So I’m on my own?”
She nods. “Salathiel will take care of you. You can trust him.”
I raise a foot and take my first steps toward the looming entryway. My legs feel like they’re made of lead. When I reach the top and turn around, Yeats and Hazel are gone. Just like that. I am alone.
It's a Wonderful Death Page 6
