looks like rolls of blankets.
“What are those?” I ask.
“Brand new souls,” Yeats says with a serene smile.
“Please tell me they aren’t going to cry the entire way there,” I say. “Because if they are, I’ll wait.”
“Just get on the train,” he says with a laugh.
And I do, without anyone forcing me. As the doors close, I turn to find Death Himself still standing outside the door.
“What?” I ask.
“Keep your chin up, kid. Who knows, you might be back here before you know it,” he says as the Soul Mover chugs forward and picks up speed.
I lean against the glass, but Death Himself is lost in the mist. I look at Yeats. “Hey, you don’t think that was some cryptic message about my impending death, do you? Because I’m fine with not seeing this place or any of you for at least seventy years, maybe eighty, with the right diet and exercise.”
Yeats shakes his head and lets out a deep chuckle. “It’s Death Himself, RJ. No one can know for sure what he means. My guess is he’s messing with you. You do kinda bring out the antagonist in him.”
“Yeah, but do you think he knows something about my new life—and my real death?” I demand.
“I doubt it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because your Records are still sealed. Until your soul reunites with your body, no one, not even Death Himself, can view them.”
Why do I get the feeling Death Himself can do whatever he wants?
“Maybe you’re right,” I say. Looking around, I notice the seats are white and pristine. “How come this train is so much nicer than the one we arrived on?”
Yeats glances up. “I don’t know. This is my first time on the outbound express.”
“It’s because these souls are pure. They’re clean and the train is a reflection of them,” a familiar voice explains.
Chapter 31
I spin around to find Hazel standing near us, complete with a swaddle of her own.
“Hi,” I say in surprise.
She smiles and I can see the change in her since she stopped being a Guardian. There’s a gentleness in her face that wasn’t there before.
“You look amazing,” I say. Do angels care about their looks? I mean, they’re all beautiful, but Hazel’s transformation goes beyond surface level.
To my surprise, Hazel blushes. “It’s less stressful delivering the souls than it is to watch over them and bring them back when their lifeline ends,” she admits.
“Hazel was once a human soul, before she was elevated to angel status,” Yeats says, taking both of us by surprise.
“Yeats,” Hazel says, shifting the future newborn away from him. “I thought that information wasn’t supposed to be discussed in front of the souls.”
“I was just explaining your unusual assignment,” he explains. “Besides, she already knows about the elevation process.”
“Who told her?” Hazel demands.
“Um, hello. I’m standing right here,” I remind them, but as always, they ignore me. I guess Death Himself was right. Some things never change.
“Sal did,” Yeats explains. “She was asking all kinds of questions about Madeline.”
“She knows about Madeline?” Hazel shrieks and every angelic face on the train turns toward her. She doesn’t seem to notice and I get a sense of satisfaction that I’m not the only one she ignores.
“Relax,” I tell her. “Apparently they have it set up so when I get back, I’ll think this is just some crazy dream and eventually forget all about it.”
And much to my surprise, she does seem to relax a little. “You know what? You’re not my responsibility anymore. I trust Yeats. If he, or any of the other angels for that matter, wants to take chances with what you will or won’t remember, that’s up to them.”
“Speaking of that, do you know who they’re going to assign as my new Guardian?” I ask Yeats.
“I don’t know yet,” he answers. “For now, you’re stuck with me. Just do me a favor and try not to cause too many problems when you get back.”
The train is beginning to slow. I watch as the black outside the window gives way to gray and then eventually white. When it finally stops, the doors open and the angels, in solemn reverence, walk single file out into the mortal realm. Hazel is the last to disembark.
“Good luck,” she says. “I knew you were redeemable.” She rushes out the door to catch up with the others.
“Well,” I say, turning back to Yeats, “this is it.”
“End of the line,” he jokes.
“What happens next?”
“When the doors shut, the connection between you and the Afterlife will sever, much