“Really? That sounds so badass. Can you show her to me?”
Drusus pauses. We do have a rule that we’re not supposed to talk about anything personal, including Drusus’ extended family. But I need to understand this stuff if I’ll ever help him or the other fading angels. So I press on.
“How old is she?” I ask.
“Eight years, three months.”
“Then her soul can’t be in any trouble yet,” I state. “Her guardian angel must just hang around all day long saying, oh how adorable.”
Drusus pretends to be fascinated by another cloud. “That one resembles a dragon.”
“Don’t change the subject. You know you want to share. What’s her name?”
“Annabelle.” Drusus sighs. “Fine, I’ll show you.” He waves his arm. Threads of blue light and power wind off his fingertips. Even though Drusus isn’t strong enough to be something senior—like a guardian angel—he can still cast basic spells. The azure cords fly out to wrap about the dragon-cloud.
Then the magic kicks in.
The dragon-cloud morphs into a sphere, the center of which becomes clear, like we’re looking through a window. Through that pane, I see a snug room with an orange couch and lots of photos on the walls. A girl with pigtails and a missing front tooth bangs away on a drum set. We can’t hear anything; that’s how it works when you’re not a guardian angel.
I lean forward. “She’s so freaking perfect, I can’t stand it.”
“That she is.” Drusus’ smile fades. “Others aren’t so lucky.”
“What do you mean?”
“My extended sons and daughters, as well as other people. They remain influenced by my, uh, life’s work. It isn’t going well for them.”
Now, I’m dying to ask what kind of work Drusus did while alive, but I keep my yap shut. This is more sharing than Drusus has ever done before, and I’ve been stopping by his cloud for weeks.
“And it’s my fault,” continues Drusus. “What I did while alive, it’s a poison that goes on through generations. Year after year, I watch people replay my same mistakes. It’s…” He shakes his head.
“It’s what?”
“I don’t want to say. You’re the latest Great Scala. You weren’t the one who put me in Heaven, but I know how your kind thinks. You believe you’re being generous by placing spirits like me here. But it’s … painful.”
I can’t believe this. “Would you rather Hell?”
“Souls burn out there eventually, don’t they?”
“It depends on who’s running Hell. At the moment, it’s Armageddon. He doesn’t let souls die.”
“But others do.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Before my eyes, Drusus becomes more transparent.
Suddenly, a magnetic pull yanks me through the cloud. I hurtle toward the ground. This dream ends and something else begins.
The next thing I know, I stand in a charcoal colored desert in Purgatory. The place is deserted. Dark clouds hang low in the sky. Kneeling, I brush my hands against the sand. The warm granules tickle my skin. Things are now absolutely lifelike.
I’m in a dreamscape, which how those who wield mega magic communicate with others in their sleep. And only one person uses dreamscapes to bug with me while I’m zonked out.
Verus is on her way. Crud.
Sure enough, a small point of white appears in the grey sky. The tiny figure grows larger as it draws in closer. Soon I see an angel soaring toward me. She’s the full deal: white robes, matching wings, and open-toed sandals. But that’s standard angel stuff. Verus also has long black hair and almond-shaped eyes.
Yup. It’s her all right.
Without so much as disturbing a grain of sand, Verus lands before me. “If you’d accepted my summons, I wouldn’t have to do this.”
“And hello to you, too.”
Recap: In my waking life, I’ve totally been avoiding Verus. She’s all blah-blah-blah-you’re-gonna-die-blah-blah-blah. My days are packed with reviewing and moving souls. In between, there are tons of worshippers to deal with. Don’t get me wrong. Verus is on my list. She’s just somewhere between voluntary surgery and lunch with Armageddon.
Verus lifts her chin. “I must speak to you about the fading angels. It is pointless for you to try and help them. All you’ll accomplish is our doom.”
Now, my father can lecture me. Mostly because he’s rather subtle about the whole thing. But Verus always makes me feel like I’m a toddler who just drew on my face with a Sharpie. Long story short, she kicks up my sass factor.
“Doom.” I smack my lips. “Got it.”
“This is no joke,” counters Verus. Her eyes even flash with blue light, just to emphasize her point. “Do you even know what a demonpocalypse is? It’s all of history and time being erased. No more humans, angels, and after-realms. Only demons.”
“And you’re certain this will happen if I help the fading angels?”
“Absolutely.”
I tap my chin. How you ask Verus questions is a bit of an art form. If she can give a true but misleading answer, she will.
“Let me put this another way,” I state. “If I help the fading angels, then you’re certain this demonpocalypse will happen and be irreversible?”
“I am the oracle angel. My words and predictions are sacred.”
“Which isn’t really a yes or no.”
Here we go. When Verus is flustered, she starts repeating her resume for no reason. Let the record show that I’m already completely aware that she’s an oracle and never wrong.
Key example: before Lincoln and I met, Verus encouraged a mutual friend, Walker, to stick his nose into our love lives. Specifically, Verus urged Walker to make Lincoln act like Sir Douchebag, saying that if my guy and I fell in love, then I’d have to fight Armageddon. Talk about your lying liars. Verus wanted me to fall in love with Lincoln and fight Armageddon. Walker only helped make it happen. You see, I wasn’t exactly boy crazy at the time. If Lincoln came on all strong and lovey-dovey, then Verus’ predictions showed me running the other way.
All in all, I take the visions du Verus with a grain of salt.
Verus sighs. “You don’t believe me.”
There’s no point lying to an oracle. “Not really.”
“Don’t take my word for it,” continues Verus. “Consider all the Great Scalas before you, going back to the dawn of time. Each and every one has decided not to help the fading angels. Even Lucifer didn’t try to change this, and he thought angels were the highest form of life.”
I lace my fingers behind my neck and think this through. Sadly, Verus makes sense. Why should I be the only one who does something about fading angels? A mental image appears. Drusus vanishing. And there are millions more like him. I drop my hands.
“Let me get this straight,” I say. “You’re asking me to look away while millions of afterlives are erased.”
Verus’ eyes glow blue once more. “Yes.”
“Come on. You know that’s not me. You must have seen that when you totally manipulated me into this job.”
“I did.” Verus straightens the folks of her white robes. “I thought things would break differently based on your … experience.”
“In other words, you thought I’d suck at being the Great Scala.”
“You wish to do things, but that doesn’t mean you have the ability. To repair the fate of the fading angels, the Great Scala must work with others. Like …” She snaps her fingers, trying to think of a description.
Here we go.
“Like King Arthur and his knights of the round table?”
“Precisely.” Verus lowers her voice to a tone I like to call, gentle but deadly. “Let’s be honest. Is that you?”
Now it’s my turn to raise my chin. “It isn’t me to give up.”
A full minute of silence follows before Verus speaks again. “You care about this fading angel, Drusus.”
“I do.”
“Tell me why.”
“Drusus wants to
help the living. Back when I first visited him, he’d follow the guardian angels when they watched over their humans. That’s the big show in Heaven, of course.”
Verus nods. “Only the purest souls can become guardian angels.”
“After each trip, Drusus returned sadder and a little more faded. Simply put, Drusus didn’t know how to help humans. That desire to make a difference without knowing how, I guess it pushes buttons with me. It’s what’s draining Drusus, yet I don’t know how to fix it.”
“And you feel responsible.”
At this point, one thing is clear. Getting interrogated by Verus on this stuff … it’s like that dream where you show up to class without any clothes on. At the same time, Verus understands how Heaven works. Maybe she’ll have an idea or two. I keep going.
“Are you kidding?” I ask. “I’m absolutely responsible. When the ghouls ran Purgatory, they were harsh on souls. If you weren’t perfect, you went to Hell. After we got rid of the ghouls, I changed things. If you were mostly good, you went to Heaven. I thought I was sparing these souls an eternity of torture.”
“Weren’t you?”
I hug my elbows. “Drusus weeps.” My eyes prickle with held-in tears, remembering all the times I sat beside him on a cloud, unable to give him any comfort as he cried. “I send these souls—millions of them—to what I think is an afterlife of peace. But many spend eternity watching their extended children make the same mistakes they did without being able to do anything. That’s it’s own kind of torture.” I tap my chest. “And I’m causing it.”
“Mortals must live with the consequences of their own lives,” declares Verus.
“No offense, but that’s easier to say when you’re not the one choosing their eternity.” Pressing my palms against my eyes, I heave in a shaky breath. “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t keep trying to help them.”
Verus nods slowly. “I understand. You’re very strong, Myla. More than you know. That is why she awakens.”
A jolt of awareness moves inside me. “She? What she? Who do you mean?”
Yet even as I say the words, I know who Verus is talking about. It’s that serene voice that sounds in my head, telling me to spend more girl-time with Allimari.
“That—” says Verus “—is for you alone to discover.”
Without another word, Verus takes off. And I return to an uneasy night of sleep.
13
Lincoln
“Daaaaaaaddy!” yells Maxon. “Paaaaaaancakes!”
My wake-up call has arrived early this morning. And by wake up call, I mean my son Maxon now jumps on the bed while demanding pancakes. Not that I’m complaining. Normally, our son wants a breakfast of demon bars from Mommy … and he doesn’t give up easily. Thus ensues a lot of explaining about the benefits of vegetables.
It’s about as much fun as it sounds.
Then I happened upon a new idea: pancakes. Considering how this dish includes high-grade maple syrup, the meal is only marginally better than demon bars. That said, it allows a somewhat more equal morning routine. That’s especially handy today, when Myla remains completely zonked. She isn’t even waking up from Maxon’s jump-and-demand performance.
Best to let the sleeping Mommy sleep.
I pull on some pajama bottoms, scoop Maxon into my arms, and head off for the kitchen.
Now, I was never much of a cook growing up. In fact, I snuck into the royal kitchens all of twice in my entire life. And I’ve certainly been invited to attend various committees related to royal meal preparation. There’s the Hen Happiness League, Silver Platter Server’s Contingent, and—my personal favorite—the Ancient Order of Melon Rind Repurposers.
Long story short, it would have required navigating about a dozen committees and a hundred thrax traditions to empower me to boil an egg. As a result, I’m thrilled with my self-serve options in Purgatory. Myla and I split our time evenly between realms—six months in Purgatory and six months in Antrum—and I must admit that my time here is rapidly becoming my favorite.
Who would have thought that?
All of which brings me to the current moment, where I make what is now the only meal I can create solo, pancakes. While I putter around the all-steel kitchen, Maxon sits at the table on his booster seat, watching my every move with rapt attention. A single question overloads his mind.
“Is it done yet? Is it done yet? Is it done yet?”
As I finish mixing up the batter, an idea hits me. “Not yet. How about you sing your new song?”
Maxon frowns, a motion which involves scrunching up his face in the extreme. It’s what he does when thinking something through. “Which one?”
In my opinion, there’s only one tune Maxon should sing for all eternity, namely The Itsy Bitsy Human. The words are supposed to go like this:
The itsy bitsy human met demons in his town
Out came the thrax and tracked that evil down
None saw the thrax as they make the demons fall
So the itsy bitsy human knows nothing here at all
Even better, there are hand motions that go along with everything. For the itsy bitsy part, you put your thumb and forefinger almost together. That’s not the bit kids love, though. More popular is brandishing a pretend sword for out came the thrax. That’s followed up by vigorous stabbing motions with make the demons fall. It’s beyond charming.
“How about The Itsy Bitsy Human?” I suggest.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Maxon takes in a deep breath, which is how he always prepares to sing. Although Maxon sometimes speaks like an older child, his singing voice is all toddler. So it’s no surprise that my son’s version of this tune deviates from the standard.
“Dee izzy bizzy human met dedons in da town
Out comma thrax and track-a evil down
None saw-a thrax when they make-a dedon fall
So dee izzy bizzy human know nothin’ here at all.”
He’s perfected the song, in my opinion.
“Brilliant,” I say as I pile my son’s plate with the first round of pancakes.
Pro tip: I make them all bite sized. Saves on cutting and overall mess.
As Maxon dives in, Myla rushes into kitchen. She’s wearing a blue bathrobe and a shocked look.
“You let me sleep in,” she gasps.
I kiss her cheek. “You seemed to need the rest.”
“Right. Rest.” Myla blinks hard. My girl is still waking up. “Has my father gotten here yet?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“Okay, good.” She pauses. “Ugh, I forgot to tell you. I’m visiting the fading angels today. Or rather one fading angel. Drusus.”
“Mind if I join you? Octavia is having a blast running Antrum.”
“I’d love it, but who will watch Maxon?”
“I think that will sort itself out. I have a sense that Octavia’s taking an interest in our morning.”
Myla frowns. “How do you know that?”
“Years of scar tissue.” I hand Myla a mug of coffee from the counter. As her husband, I’ve found it’s best to keep java handy in the morning.
Myla’s face lights up. “Coffee.” She gulps down half the mug and sighs. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re most welcome.”
Myla finishes the rest of her drink and pours a refresher before turning to Maxon. “Good morning, baby. What do you want to do today? Go to the zoo?”
Maxon stuffs his mouth with another massive bite of pancake. “No zoo. Horses.”
Myla sits down beside him. “What do you mean, honey?”
I raise my pointer finger, ready to share my theory.
Ding!
The front doorbell rings, interrupting me.
Myla starts to rise from the table. “I’ll answer it.”
“No,” I counter. “Allow me.”
I march over to the front door and pull it open. Sure enough, my theory is correct. Two figures stand on the threshold. First, there’s Xavier. Myla’s father is here to
help us check on Drusus.
Second, there’s my mother.
Now I don’t know how she got in touch with Maxon and informed my child that she’d be taking him to visit horses today, but that’s part of the charm of having Octavia as your mother. She keeps you on your toes.
“Good morning, Xavier.” I shoot Octavia a sideways glance. “Mother.”
Xavier tilts his head. “You don’t seem surprised that Octavia is along this morning.”
Mother grins. “He’s my son. That makes him almost as clever as I am. And to answer your next question, Connor is running Antrum today.”
Since the Earl of Acca died, my father has become an excellent ruler … when you can get him out of retirement. I’d wonder how Mother bribed him to help out, but again, it’s probably best not to know.
“That’s great news.” I step back and allow them to enter. “Everyone’s in the kitchen.”
Octavia speeds past me. “Did Maxon tell you how I’m taking him to see horses today?”
“Something like that,” I reply.
Xavier works to suppress a smile, but honestly? He doesn’t work too hard at it. “And did Myla mention the visit to Drusus?”
“She did.” I open the front hall closet. Purgatory has quickly-changing weather. Both Mother and Xavier are wrapped-up in coats. I take their garments and hang them up.
Xavier rubs his palms together. “I have a magic spell for today’s visit which will blow your minds.”
“Excellent.” This time, I’m the one trying not to smile—and doing a terrible job at it. Because when Xavier rubs his palms together? He reminds me very much of Myla.
The General of the Angels is working a wacky scheme this morning, and I can’t wait to discover what it is.
14
Myla
While Lincoln goes off to answer the door, I watch my son eat pancakes. Although eat isn’t really the right word.
Bathe might be better.
One second, Maxon is neatly setting mini-pancakes into his mouth. A moment later, Lincoln answers the door and—Boom!—Maxon has pancake in his hair, down his pajamas, and all over the table. Did some get in his ear, too? I lean in for a better look.
The Brutal Time Special Edition Page 6