Page 6 of Not Today, Satan
Above me, the sky is pitch-black. It’s a gaping void I want to scream into. I’m as trapped as the shadelings, and even Atty knows it.
I take a deep breath and return my gaze to Attero. “Even if I take over for Father—which you know I don’t want—that shouldn’t change things between us. We’re best friends, Atty. We’ve been together since we were children.”
“And that’s the problem.” He clears his throat. “We’re not kids anymore, Devica. It’s time we start acting like it.”
The coldness in his tone sends shivers down my spine, and I look down so he won’t see my lower lip quiver. “If that’s how you feel…”
He keeps his eyes trained on his desk. “It is.”
Grabbing my pile of folders, I jam them into the filing cabinet behind me with shaking hands. I slam the drawer closed. Attero mumbles my name, but I spin away from him.
The doors out of the Welcome Hall are too heavy for humans, but I fling them open with ease. They bang shut behind me, the sound ringing along the stone walls as I run to my chambers.
I stand in the middle of my bedroom, taking deep breaths in an effort to control the hurt consuming my body. Hurling myself onto my bed, I scream into my pillow.
“I hate it here,” I say into the fabric. “And I hate him for keeping me here.”
I roll onto my back to stare up at the indigo sky full of stars Atty and I painted on my ceiling together. I’ve spent hours staring at them, imagining I was anywhere else but in this room.
Something pricks my thigh, and I frown. I reach into the pocket of my dress. Nathan Reynolds smiles at me from the photograph I’d shoved in there. His grin is almost as comforting as the stars above me. It’s warm and inviting, lighting his entire face.
He was so sure of his innocence. And I almost believed him. That’s never happened before. I don’t know what it is about this shadeling, why he’s had a hold on me since appearing at my desk.
Sighing, I stash his photo under my pillow.
It doesn’t matter. He’s in his lot now, and I’ll never see him again.
I stare back up at the painted sky and shove Nathan Reynolds out of my mind with the force I’d used on the filing cabinet drawer.
It’s not long before I fall into a fitful sleep, dreaming that the stars above me are real and that I’m no longer imprisoned in stone.
III.
Along with working the welcome line, Father insists I take classes to learn how to access the new powers emerging in me. They’re his powers, which I suppose have been passed on to me because I’m his blood.
Except that, so far, all I’ve been able to do is make sparks fly from my fingers when I get angry.
Fire manipulation is only one of Father’s gifts. He created all the punishments down here with the power of his mind. Up on Earth, Father can cause humans to freeze in fear by revealing his true form to them, and he’s adept at convincing them to do things they may otherwise shun.
So far, I don’t have any other form beyond the one reflected back at me in mirrors. And, hard as I’ve tried to scare humans in the welcome line, they don’t cower in front of me like they do before Ferus. Disappointing, to say the least.
Since I’m his first and only child, there’s no precedent for me to follow. I’m not sure what powers I’ll grow into or how strong they’ll be.
Father only cares that I take on his most important power, though—the ability to judge sinners. And though it’s necessary for me to take his place, it doesn’t come to me naturally.
And my classes don’t make it any easier.
I stifle a yawn as I squint at the photo of a man taped to the chalkboard at the front of the room. According to my teacher, Mr. Bellum, I should be able to see someone’s sins simply by looking at their photograph. It’s what Father calls my “sight,” and it’s what he uses to judge.
From what Mr. B.’s taught me, no one remembers their judgment. They start in the in-between, where impartial observers review their lives, then send them up or down. They then receive a final judgment from Father or the angels in Paradise that confirms they’re in the right place and determines their lot.
Father used to do judgments in person, but now there are too many sinners to spend so much time with them. Besides, he insists that a photo is faster and just as easy to read when it comes to judgments.
I have my doubts, however, as the picture in front of me is about as clear as the blackboard it’s taped on.
“Is he a murderer?” I guess.
“No.” Mr. Bellum pries off his glasses, breathes on them, and wipes them with his sleeve. “You can’t always use murder as your default sin, Devica.”
