Page 3 of Not Today, Satan
I raise my eyes and frown.
The boy before me bears no resemblance to the woman in the photo. His eyes are the kind of blue I’ve seen only in pictures Father’s shown me of oceans on Earth. Their depth makes me shiver.
Father warned me that oceans are as dangerous as shadelings. They may appear calm and beautiful on the surface, but monsters lurk below.
A lock of sandy-brown hair falls in front of his right eye. He’s young, maybe my age. Too young to be standing in front of me. Usually, humans his age go to the in-between until they earn their way up or down.
He’s done something awful to be standing in front of me.
“You don’t look like an Ethel Tofflemeyer,” I say, reading the name typed beneath the old woman’s photo.
“I get that a lot.” He lets out a low chuckle.
I narrow my eyes. “You know where you are, right?”
“Let’s see, fire…brimstone…creepy-ass demons… I’m going to take a guess and say it’s not Disneyland,” he says. “This place doesnotscream, ‘The Happiest Place on Earth.’”
His sideways grin throws me. Not only because I can’t remember the last time a shadeling smiled at me, but because, for some reason, my heart picks up speed when his smile reaches his eyes.
I swallow.
Something’s definitely defective in this one. No wonder he’s here.
“I’ve never been to Disneyland,” I say, my gaze locked with his. “But that’snotour motto.”
An agonized cry bursts from one of the shadelings in the boat to our right, and all traces of humor drain from his face. “I’m getting that.”
“What have you done with Ethel Tofflemeyer?”
“Who?”
I hold up the photo of the elderly woman, and his eyes widen with recognition.
“Oh, her! She was in front of me. She saw I was upset and offered me her place in line. Then she gave me a stale butterscotch candy and disappeared.” He holds up a gold wrapper and rubs his chin. “Huh. I guess youcantake it with you.”
Closing the file, I sigh, then scrawl anXacross the front in black marker and toss it on top of a pile marked “Last-minute Ascensions.”
This happens sometimes. Someone who’s on the cusp of making it to Paradise earns their way up. It’s not a common occurrence, becausehumans, but I’ve seen it once or twice.
I pull the stack of folders I haven’t gotten to yet toward me and wade through them. “What’s your name?”
“Reynolds,” he says, peering at me over the files. “Nate Reynolds. Err… Nathan, I guess.”
“Mr. Reynolds, can I see the stamp on your wrist?”
“What stamp? I don’t—” He squints at his inner arm and gasps when he spots the mark etched into his skin. He opens his mouth to say something, but, for the first time since he’s joined my line, Nathan Reynolds appears to be speechless.
I hold out my hand, but he remains frozen, his gaze on his wrist.
I’ve seen this before, too. Shadelings so surprised about being here that they cease to function. I bite the inside of my cheek. So much for getting out of here early today. At this rate, I’ll be doing overtime.
I lift my butt out of my chair and grab his wrist. He jumps at my touch, and I gasp. I’ve forgotten how cold their flesh is compared to my own. His skin is smooth as ivory, soft as velvet. I clear my throat and scribble the numbers onto a blank sheet of paper.
He snatches his hand back the moment I loosen my grip.
My face must betray my surprise, because he mutters an apology and holds his wrist out again. It trembles visibly in the dim lighting of the Welcome Hall. “Did you get it?”
“Yeah, hang on. Let me find your file.” I scan his papers for a long time. I’d been right about us being the same age. Nathan Reynolds is—was—seventeen. An orphan from Los Angeles whose parents died in a car accident when he was only six. He’d spent most of his life trekking from foster home to foster home.
