It's a Wonderful Death - Sarah J. Schmitt Page 0,18
they, like myself, follow each soul’s life from birth to death.” He crosses his arms in front of him as his long fingers drum on his well-defined biceps. Finally he stops and turns to face my Guardians. “Check with the Record Keepers in Judgment Hall. If there is an appointment for RJ, we know she’s where she’s supposed to be.”
“And if there isn’t?” Yeats asks.
Azrael pauses. “Then we have a serious but delicate problem that must be handled with great care. If this is the case, advise the Keeper to summon Gideon, convene the Tribunal, and for everything that’s holy, try to get Death Himself to show up for the review.”
“Under your authority, I assume,” Yeats says.
“Of course.”
Yeats and Hazel bow their heads.
“Until then,” Azrael continues, “perhaps she would be more comfortable in the Receiving Hall.”
Another hall? How big is the Afterlife, anyway?
I see my Guardians look at each other, this time their eyes are filled with concern.
“Is there a problem?” Azrael asks.
Hazel starts to shake her head no, but Yeats speaks up. “While the Receiving Hall might be a good place for her to wait, it is beyond the Gates of Heaven. Since her fate has not been determined, we would be breaking procedure.”
“We can’t have that, can we?” Azrael asks with a sneer. “It seems to me this entire situation is in violation of all sorts of protocols.”
“What I mean,” Hazel adds quickly, “is that it would be cruel to expose her to paradise only to send her below, if that is her future.”
“Hello,” I say, waving my arms over my head. “I can hear everything you say. You know that, right? I might be dead, but I’m not deaf.”
“Do you have another idea?” Azrael asks, ignoring me.
Yeats looks at me, probably trying to decide if I’m worth sticking his neck out for, especially with his boss. “Perhaps a better location would be at the entrance to the Gates. Peter can keep an eye on her until everything has been arranged.”
Azrael nods thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’re right. Yes, I think this plan will cause the least disruption.”
As soon as the decision is made, Yeats rushes me out of the room with Hazel following behind. When the door latches shut, they both let out a sigh of relief.
“I can’t believe you looked at him when we told you not to,” Hazel says briskly.
I almost remind her that she’s not my mother but I decide not to. Hazel is someone I need on my side, even if she’s only doing it to save her own butt.
“Who’s Peter?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
They both stare at me like I’m a child. I’m really starting to hate that look. Finally, Hazel answers, “Peter. The Apostle. You know, from the New Testament? He hung out with Christ a lot.”
I stop in my tracks. “You mean Saint Peter? As in the guy who meets people before they enter Heaven?” Great. My babysitter is one of the most famous men in the Bible. There is no way this ends well.
Chapter 8
“So, Saint Peter,” I say as Yeats and Hazel hurry me through the maze of passages that lead away from Azrael. “What’s he like?”
I see them exchange a look of amusement. “He’s hard to describe,” Hazel says as she tries to hold back a laugh.
Are all Guardians vague or just mine?
“Is he nice?” I probe. “I mean, I assume he’s pretty serious. He was besties with the Son of God, so he’s pretty pious, right?”
Yeats chuckles.
“What?” I demand. “What is so funny?”
Instead of answering, he opens a door. I expect to walk into a solemn processional, but what I see is anything but.
Though mild compared to the Receiving Hall, the Gates is a place of revelry. Well, most of it is. There are fireworks sparkling in the sky and cherubs floating lazily in the air, throwing confetti on the new arrivals. If they’d taught us about this in Sunday school, I might have kept going.
For once, something looks like I expect. The gold fence of the Gates of Heaven is as tall as a giraffe. On regular intervals, the entrance opens and trumpets can be heard blaring as the souls enter.
“They’re announcing the new arrivals,” Hazel explains.
“They blow the horn every single time?” I ask.
She nods. “This is a place of celebration. Unless …” she casts a quick glance in the opposite direction.
I follow her eyes. Looming opposite the Pearly Gates is an opening that looks like a cave. “What is that?” I ask.