I’m curious about what his memories will reveal about him. Every human I take to the other side relives their pivotal moments—the ones that have shaped them into who they are today—as we walk through the mists separating Earth from the heavens. Dempsey is no exception.
As his memories start to play, I watch them right alongside him. The first ones are from when he was young. His mother yelling at him, telling him she wished he’d never been born. Blaming his existence for her unhappiness over and over again. The repeated verbal lashings and manipulations turned him cold and hard. By the time he reached adulthood, he kept his distance from everyone. No dating, no friends, and no close family. Just him.
I glance over to gauge his reaction to these harsh memories. His face is briefly twisted in a flash of pain, but the emotion disappears in an instant, leaving behind a stony, unemotional expression in its wake.
As we continue our walk down memory lane, as it were, I see that his self-induced isolation was the secret to his success. However, he didn’t come by all of his accomplishments honestly. He liked to take shortcuts where he could. After all, why work harder when a shorter route would get you to the same objective?
The deeper we go into the mists, the darker the memories get. I see him fire hard-working family men without blinking so he can bring on cheaper, younger workers and interns to do the same jobs—a decision he refers to as “smart business sense.” I watch him cut corners, take credit for others’ work, and hurt person after person, all in the name of moving up the corporate ladder.
Chancing a glance over at him, my fears are confirmed. He’s smiling. He’s proud of these memories.
Finally, after an exhausting walk, we come to his last memory, his most defining moment. This is the one that will show me which gate to expect at the end of the mists. If his memory is happy and loving, I will know that, despite his sins, he’s earned a place in heaven. If not, the black gate will be waiting for us.
Despite the fact that not one of his memories was happy, I still hold out hope for this man. When the Fates spin a life for their tapestry, the color of the thread reflects the type of person he or she will become. Greys are an odd breed—some are good, some are bad, but they’re never wholly so, which makes it difficult to predict where they’ll end up after death. Dempsey is clearly a grey thread, a man who regularly walked the line of moral ambiguity, but it’s not an automatic go-directly-to-jail card. Greys can still go to heaven.
His final memory forms in front of us on the mists, playing out like a movie on a giant projection screen. I cling to his hand in anticipation, but he lets his fingers dangle loosely in my grip.
I watch him sitting in a dark office. It seems to be after hours. A large executive desk separates him from another man with dark hair so slicked back it’s shiny. Dempsey is young in this memory, perhaps in his late twenties. The thin, secondhand suit he’s wearing doesn’t quite fit him right, but he’s paired it with a nice silver statement tie, probably to distract from the poor quality and fit. It tells me he hasn’t come into his money yet, but he doesn’t want people to know it.
“If we do this, and someone finds out, we could go to jail,” the man says.
“If we do this and succeed, we’ll be promoted to the top positions in the company,” young Dempsey says. The look on his face tells me he’s excited, even exhilarated. I frown and look over at the man next to me. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, telling me he enjoys this memory.
“A lot of people will go bankrupt for this. Lives will be ruined. I can think of a few who might even kill themselves,” the greasy-haired man says.
Young Dempsey shrugs and leans back in the chair across the desk from the man, clearly not as concerned as his coworker is. “Less competition, if you ask me.”
“Riding out the panic will be key.”
“Starting the panic will be the fun part,” Dempsey says with what sounds like glee.
“You are a bit disturbing, Dempsey.” Although the man looks untrustworthy in every way—salt-and-pepper hair slicked back with grease, pointed features that make him look like a super villain when he smiles, and an overly starched suit that makes him look like a used car salesman—I can’t help but agree with him.
“Not disturbing. Successful. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” the older man asks.
Dempsey chuckles. But the sound isn’t happy or contagious like it sometimes is when people laugh. No, his chuckle is more of a derisive snort that leaves an ugly feeling in the pit of my stomach. “No, maybe not.”
And that’s it—that’s where it ends. I don’t know the outcome of their plot, let alone the specifics of what they did. I suspect they orchestrated some stock market crash that earned them millions. I’m not sure it’s enough for the black gate. I hope it isn’t, but I fear it might be. He was too happy about it, too carefree about the consequences. They love the selfish in hell, and Dempsey here is one of the most selfish men I’ve ever reaped.
As the mists clear, I hold my breath. The man stands next to me, relaxed, but I brace myself for what’s coming. Very few souls accept their fate willingly when it comes to hell. And this man doesn’t seem like he’s used to consequences.
Much to my chagrin, my fears are confirmed, and the black gate appears on the other side of the mists, but there’s no sign of the demons that are usually there to collect the souls of the doomed. I cling to Dempsey’s hand, holding tight. Where are they? I have been a Reaper for many centuries, and never have the demons missed the opportunity to collect a soul. Their absence is yet another sign that the usual rules no longer apply.
On instinct, the man tries to jerk away from me as soon as he sees the gate. It looms over us, threatening to suck all the happiness from our lives.
“No,” Dempsey says. It’s the first word he’s spoken since we met. Even without any sign of the demons, he knows. It’s impossible not to—the gate practically emanates the worst emotions humans feel. His eyes grow wide and dart around, searching desperately for a way out.
Now’s my chance, while he’s in shock. If I wait, he’ll really start fighting me. I hate to see them fight. It always breaks my heart.
The demons are always here, so combative humans are their problem. I don’t like to watch the struggle, so I tend to disappear back into the mists, hoping the next soul on my list will meet a better fate.
I pull Dempsey along as he stares slack jawed at the beauty and horror that is the black gate of hell. Thankfully, he follows me automatically… for now, at least. The tortured forms of the humans who came before him are carved into the black stone—all are crying, and all are doomed for eternity. I imagine it must be a terrible thing to try to comprehend, especially moments after his unexpected demise.
As I push the gate open, he finally starts to pull away, and my heart cries for him. His fight is futile, of course. As a spirit, he’s lost his physical heft and strength.
“Come on now. Don’t fight me, please.”
“Why? So you can toss me into the pit of hell? I don’t think so.” And just like that, he pulls back his free hand and tries to punch me in the face. It’s a ridiculous move. Even if he makes contact with me, I won’t feel anything. But the intent behind it shows me his soul is even darker than I thought.
It makes something inside of me snap—this man who’s hurt so many people is trying to hurt me—and suddenly, I’m out of patience. I yank him through the gate with little sympathy. It’s the first time I’ve ever done anything like that. Centuries ago, when I was first training to be a Reaper, we were taught to always be compassionate with the humans, even those who possessed the blackest of souls. But this man rubs me the wrong way, and I start to wonder about myself. Have I been a Reaper too long? Am I losing my touch?
I’ve always been a bit… eccentric for a Reaper, drawn more to the company of the Fates than that of my own kind. That’s not to say I’m not friendly with the other Reapers, but the Fates have always interested me more. I�
��m drawn to their creations, their processes, and their love for each other. Sometimes, I think I should’ve been a Fate, but their jobs are just as hard, and occasionally as heart wrenching, as mine. I shake my head. Despite my lack of compassion for the soul in front of me, I know I’m doing the work I’m meant to do.
After the gate closes behind us, I straighten and glare at Dempsey’s soul, anger bubbling deep inside of me. It’s not an emotion I feel very often, but this man is about to get the full force of it.
I narrow my eyes at him. “If you ever try a move like that again,” I say, keeping my voice low and even, “I will personally see to it that the demons have an extra-special reason to torture you. Let me tell you, the demons here like their jobs. They don’t need a reason to make your life more miserable, but if I give them one, they’ll be happy to oblige.”
His face goes white, but I can tell the fight hasn’t gone out of him. Not giving him time to think, I guide him deeper into the depths of hell, trying to hide my desperate search for a demon to take him from me. If I make him think this is normal, I have an advantage. If he sees my desperation, I’ll end up chasing after him for half the night. Definitely not my idea of a good time.
More than once, he tries to run, and more than once, I consider letting him. Now that he’s on the other side of the gate, he can’t escape. The gates only open from the inside for heavenly beings, not human souls. That’s true for heaven too. We don’t want lost souls wandering around. Once they reach their new home, they’re there for good. Still, I go after him each time he tries to flee, determined to do my job even if the demons aren’t doing theirs. I’m not going to let him wander around hell before he’s properly processed.
Finally, I find a pair of Torturers. They aren’t my first pick. Guardians make an effort to follow the rules—as generalized as they are. They would at least process the soul—find out who they are and what they’ve done—before torturing him. But I have little choice. Although my workday is technically over, there is nothing I can do for this man’s soul. Frankly, there is nothing I care to do. He’s shown me his true nature, and I want no part of it. It’s much more important for me to figure out what’s going on in the heavens.
“Why are there no Guardians at the gates?” I demand.
The demons don’t seem cowed. “How should we know, Reaper? We’re not their keepers,” one of them responds, its voice high and scratchy. Dempsey shrinks back from them, and rightfully so. Torturers are fluid in form. They change appearance to exploit their victims’ greatest fears or desires. But they don’t yet know Dempsey, so they appear as they always do—huge, black, and horned, with red eyes and razor-sharp claws. Anyone’s nightmare.
“What do we have here?” the one on the left asks me.
“Your newest resident,” I say with a hint of regret. Despite what he’s done, it still saddens me to leave him here. It almost always does. Almost. There was one exception—a murderer who had a liking for children. I took quite a few of his victims to heaven before he was finally executed. He’s one of the only souls I’ve reaped for whom I felt no empathy. I still don’t.
“Wonderful.” Dempsey recoils as two demons reach out for him with charred hands.
“They’ve been burned,” he says, almost to himself.
I don’t respond. He has a lot to learn about his new home, but he has an eternity to do it.
“I trust you’ll take care of him properly,” I say. It’s not a question.
“You’re a foolish one to put your trust in demons, Reaper,” one of them says, his red eyes laughing at me. His sharp, yellowed teeth form a gruesome smile.
“Maybe,” I say, but I leave it at that. I don’t like to engage the demons in unnecessary conversation. It never ends well.
I have no closing words for Dempsey. No words of encouragement. Nothing. While he was reluctant to hold my hand before, now he clings to me, knowing what my departure will mean for him.
“I’m sorry,” he screams, tears of desperation flowing freely down his cheeks.
“Me too,” I say. With that, I shake my hand free, turn my back on him, and walk back toward the gate, leaving him to his eternal doom.
Hell is dark, filled with the stench of sulfur, rotting flesh, and other unpleasant things. No matter where you are inside the dark gate, your ears are assailed with the din of souls being tortured in unimaginable ways. Needless to say, I don’t enjoy spending time here. Once I’m out of sight of the two demons and Dempsey, I hurry to leave as fast as my feet will carry me. But a sound stops me in my tracks before I reach the gate.
Someone’s crying.
It’s not an unusual sound to hear in hell. Plenty of souls cry out for help, and many others simply cry in their anguish. But I’m on the outskirts. The sound shouldn’t be so pronounced this far from the torture chambers. I follow it around a few rocky turns, entering an area of hell I haven’t visited before. It makes me a little nervous, and I take special care to notice landmarks that will help me find my way out. Hell is designed to keep its residents inside, and as such, it is a quagmire of caves and crevices all leading nowhere. Torches burn red against the walls, casting an eerie glow as I continue to follow the sound.
I finally reach a long, empty corridor. It’s odd to find such a place in hell, particularly during working hours. During the day, there are usually demons wandering around everywhere except for the area directly around the gate. That same feeling of dread I had when I didn’t see the Guardians outside the black gate washes over me. Too many things have gone wrong lately—Penn getting banished to Earth, humans popping up on my list before their time, the missing Guardians, and now this. I can’t help but wonder if all these problems are connected, but if so, the nature of that connection eludes me.
I look back and forth as I listen to the crying. It’s very loud, but also a little muffled. I walk to the place where it’s loudest, following the noise. There’s a symbol carved into the side of the stone wall, and as I get closer, I can make out the outline of a door. Frowning, I can’t resist the urge to touch the symbol. It seems oddly familiar, as if I’ve seen it before, maybe in the handbook given to new Reapers. Three distinct swirls connect in the center, surrounded by a thin circle that joins them all together. What does it mean? Death? It seems cyclical, so maybe death and rebirth? I can’t quite put my finger on it.
As I trace the symbol with my finger, the door moves slightly. When I cover the symbol with my hand, the door opens fully. Just as expected, there are souls inside, chained and hunched over. Some are silent; some are crying. There are seven in all.
No more than a handful. It’s odd to me because souls are normally kept apart in hell. They aren’t given an opportunity to seek comfort or encouragement from one another. It’s unheard of for seven to be grouped together.
Before I take two steps inside, a pair of haunting green eyes looks up at me. I reaped this very soul only a few days ago. Penn was banished after he created her and fell in love with her. She doesn’t belong here in hell; in fact, I’d left her at the gates of heaven. Kismet.
A small sob escapes my lips as I go to her. “What are you doing here?” I ask, but she can’t answer me. Tears choke her words. I’m not sure if she’s crying out of sorrow for what’s befallen her, or if she’s simply relieved to see me. I tug uselessly on her shackles as she looks over my shoulder in fear.
I left her at the gates of heaven, so why is she chained up in hell?
My mind is already racing when a pair of demons walks by the doorway. I freeze. I have no idea what they will do to me if they find me here. I don’t even know where we are. All I know is demons don’t need an excuse to punish someone. Nor do Reapers wander the halls of hell alone.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I hold my breath, waiting for the demons to pass the hidden room. Kismet looks at me with sheer terror in her eyes, and I try to smile encouragingly at her. I give a small nod, hoping she knows I’m here to help.
Once I’m certain the demons are out o
f earshot, which seems to take an eternity, I whisper, “What is this place?” I look around, assessing the room. Each soul is chained with his or her arms above their heads to the outer walls. But there are several pairs of empty chains, and an entire row of chains down the center of the room. Plenty of room for new additions. Some of the prisoners are worse off than others. In fact, one woman in particular seems as if she’s literally fading away. She’s becoming opaque. It terrifies me. It means her soul is dying, and once that happens, she will simply cease to exist.
I go to her, and to my horror, I recognize her too. This is Nysa, the very first surprise. I remember collecting her. She was so confused. Her soul knew it wasn’t her time. But her name was still there on my list of assignments. Undeniable. Irrefutable. It was painful to take her before her time, but we all hoped she was an anomaly—not a sign of a bigger problem. But more and more surprises popped up, and as I look around the small room, I see they’re all in here, every single one.
Another demon walks past, so I crouch down, making myself look small and beneath notice. My time is running thin. Then it hits me. This place we’re in is a prison. Something clicks into place in my mind, and I remember where I’ve seen the symbol on the door before—the cyclical waves churning around, bringing the surprises and the prison around full circle.
“The prison of souls has been opened,” I whisper.
2
“I will come back for you. I promise,” I say to the souls trapped in this terrible room. But before I go, I take Kismet’s hand. She looks up at me, tears streaming down her face. I see her glance up at Andrew, her soul mate. Penn created these souls as two halves of a whole. They weren’t meant to be sitting in hell, rotting away. They were meant for greatness.
The Children of Wisdom Trilogy Page 18