It's a Wonderful Death - Sarah J. Schmitt Page 0,21

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