Chapter 3
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.”
“Why not? Isn’t that why they’re all here?”
“You know that isn’t true.” He returns the glasses to his pinched face. “Besides, that isn’t the point of this class. Your father insists you learn how to use your sight properly. Now, look at his picture again and concentrate. What is his sin?”
I press my fingers into my forehead and rub in circles as I focus on the image of a Korean man with a tight smile. Nothing appears beyond a slight headache from the hour we’ve spent doing this.
“He cheated on his wife?”
“No.”
“Cheated on his taxes, then?”
“No.” Mr. Bellum grits his teeth. “Try harder, Devica.”
“I don’t know,” I groan. “He um… He owned an exorbitant number of cats?”
“That’s not even a sin.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Are you sure? Weren’t cats the furry demons Father sent to Earth to punish the living?”
Mr. Bellum groans in exasperation. He was a teacher in his human life and was plucked by Father from his lot to teach me.
That sounds like it would be an upgrade down here, but the way he’s looking at me, I get the idea that he’d prefer his original punishment of hanging upside-down by his toenails for eternity.
“Try one last time,” he says. “Really try to connect through his eyes.”
I follow Mr. Bellum’s directions, practically boring holes into the blackboard, but beyond white spots swimming through my vision, the photo stays the same.
“Nothing.” I hurl my pen onto my desk and cross my arms over my chest. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”
Mr. Bellum gives me a rare smile. “For once, Devica, you’re right.
You shouldn’t see anything in this man. He hasn’t committed a sin, and he will be sent to Paradise.
” He sighs and raises his eyes to the ceiling, no doubt debating what he could’ve changed in his life to have received a similar fate.
“That’s not possible. Everyone sins. They may not always end up down here, but humans sin constantly.” I point at him with my pen. “Even you. That’s why you’re here.”
He clears his throat.
Mr. Bellum never talks about what sent him to us, but he doesn’t have to.
I peeked at his file once at work. I know he stole funds from a school fundraiser to pay off his mounting gambling debts, but it was too late. His bookie had already sent someone to “deal with the problem.”
Poor Mr. B. hadn’t even seen it coming. He died clutching the ten-dollar bills his students had sold chocolate door-to-door to raise. Guess that year’s band trip had to wait.
Mr. Bellum fixes his gaze on the floor. “Everyone sins, yes. Even those with the best of intentions. But there are sins small enough to be forgiven and send someone to Paradise. You won’t be able to see the sins of people who still have good in them.
But those that are doomed—destined—to come here, you’ll be able to see their souls, clear as this photograph. ”
I study the image again. “If he was so wonderful, why can’t I see any of that? I can see their sins, but not their good deeds? That doesn’t seem fair.”
“It’s because of what you are,” Mr. Bellum replies. “Your father’s sight extends solely to sin. Good deeds are accessible only by the angels who make the decisions in Paradise. You have no reason to see them.”
I run my finger along a burn in the oak top of my desk. It was put there by me only a few days ago in a fit of rage when I kept failing Mr. B.’s tests of my powers. A slightly sulfuric scent still clings to the wood. “So, I either see something or I don’t. Doesn’t that make this class pointless?”
Mr. Bellum rubs his receding hairline. “If only your father believed me when I tried to tell him that. Your powers will get stronger the more you practice using them.” He peers at me over his glasses. “And if you can learn to control your emotions.”
I suppress another yawn and study the room Father had built for my lessons.
Because he only taught small children on Earth, Mr. B.
decorated it with that in mind. Cartoon bunnies romp across the alphabet bordering the walls.
Toys overflow the box in the corner. An empty coat closet lines the wall behind me, and a pink, fluffy rug that makes me want to hurl sprawls in the center of the room.
It looks nothing like the classrooms I shared with other demon children growing up. Those were dark and gloomy, with steel walls covered in weapons and instruments of torture.
I hadn’t graduated into The Art of Torturing Humans before Father decided he had other plans for me. Six months ago, he pulled me out of my classes and stuck me here, explaining that he wanted me to learn whether I had any abilities and how to harness them.
I set down my pen. “We’ve been doing this for months, and I’m not getting any stronger. I know Father started out touching humans to see their sins. Why aren’t we doing that?”
“You’re right. Touch amplifies your sight.
Close contact with the sinner will put you in their soul.
You’ll see their sins as they happened. But you’re not ready, Devica.
Touching someone connects you intimately with their sins.
It can be overwhelming. And you tend to”—he glances at the pile of ash beside his desk that was once a trash can before I’d disintegrated it in frustration last lesson—“set things on fire when you get overwhelmed.”
My cheeks heat, and I clench my jaw against a reply. He’s not wrong. The proof is all around us—singed bunnies on the wallpaper and piles of ashes where desks used to be. But I’d never admit that he’s right to his face.
Mr. B. pries the photo off the board and drops it on his desk. “Besides, your father stopped using touch to judge a long time ago. This is just as accurate.”
The face of the boy I sent to Lot Thirteen flashes across my mind. How insistent he was that he’d been sent to the wrong place. I’d bet anything he’d have some words for Father about the accuracy of this new method.
“Maybe we need to go back to that,” I mutter.
Mr. Bellum turns from the chalkboard, midway through pinning up a new photograph. His body goes rigid. “What?”
“Nothing.” I twirl my pen between my fingers, then shrug. “He must get a judgment wrong once in a while. If a photograph isn’t as clear as touch, maybe he’s missing things.”
Mr. Bellum’s eyes dart to the door. “Devica, your father’s been doing this forever. He doesn’t make mistakes. It’s not possible. Now, we need to get back to our lessons, so it’s not possible for you, either.” He points at the photo of a middle-aged woman tacked to the chalkboard. “What is her sin?”
I know when I’m beaten. Mr. B.’s nothing if not stubborn when it comes to these classes. I exhale a long sigh.
Closing my eyes, I clear my mind of anything but the room. When I open them, I narrow my eyes at the image, grimacing when it blurs slightly, but it never wavers from the age-worn face peering back at me.
I sigh again as Mr. Bellum prompts me for my answer.
“Cats,” I say. “This one definitely owned too many cats.”