Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Peter stared down his long nose at Mags, the horn-rimmed spectacles that balanced precariously on the bridge partially obscuring his stern brown eyes. He sighed heavily, drumming his fingers against the edge of the marble lectern that was set before him. “Lady Mary.”
“Saint Peter,” she said, hands folded demurely in front of her, fingers laced. She rocked back on her heels, casting a casual glance at the massive golden gates that loomed mere inches behind him. Standing before them always managed to make her feel so impossibly small.
“Why do you insist on trying to sneak inside the border? You know your name is on the list.” He gestured at the scroll stretched out on the lectern’s top, which Mags knew was enchanted to contain the names of every soul permitted to pass through the Gates.
She smiled. “Well, you know the line is just so long. This gets me an escort straight to the front.”
“And do you think that’s fair to them?” Peter arched a brow, prompting Mags to turn and acknowledge the line of newly arrived souls, winding along the sandy path to a glimmering Rift some yards away.
As they watched, a petite blonde Reaper practically bounced through the Rift with an eager grin, a terrified young man trembling beside her.
There was a sound like a chiming bell, and the Rift flashed from its normal icy blue to a bold ruby red.
The Reaper gasped, turning in alarm toward her charge, and muttered something they were too far to hear before dragging him roughly back the way they had come.
Peter sighed. “These new Reapers are nothing like their predecessors. Do you know how often that happens? At least twice a week. Unbelievable.”
“Everyone takes time to adapt to their new responsibilities, yes?” Mags asked slyly.
They eyed each other warily, a long pause and much unspoken lying between them. Then Peter grinned and stepped down onto the cobbled path. “Stop acting like such a brat and come give us a hug, Mags.”
“You only had to ask,” she said sweetly, stepping into his outstretched arms and winding hers around his waist. “How is gate duty treating you?”
“Long, boring shifts,” he sighed. “But better than what Bartholomew is tasked with.”
“Oh?” The other Apostle was known for his mischief, and Mags wondered what trouble he had gotten into now.
“The Almighty is...displeased, with him,” Peter smirked. “He’s mucking stables for the King’s horses.”
Mags mock gasped. “Not the stables!”
“They’re made of sunbeams, Mary. Can you imagine the burns?”
“The horror,” she intoned dramatically, but her eyes were still sparkling with mirth.
“Mock me if you must—” he pointed sternly at her, “—but please stop trying to sneak through the wall. You’re setting a bad example.”
“Am I?” Mags turned to the nearest soul, a timid looking woman with mousy brown hair, who had apparently died on her way to the bathtub if her fluffy pink robe was any indication. “Excuse me, do you think that I’m a bad influence?”
The woman blinked, looking confused. “Je vous connais?”
“Ah,” Mags said, flushing. “Non, excusez-moi.”
“Miss?” The middle-aged man behind the French woman waved her over, smiling slightly. “Have you...you’ve been inside before?”
“I have,” she said. “Many times.”
“So...” He cleared his throat, looking hesitant. “We’ll...be allowed to come and go?”
“Oh honey,” she softened. “No, I’m afraid.”
“Oh...” the man seemed to shrink a bit, his hopeful expression turning into something like grief. “Why?”
Mags felt her heart break for him. She knew firsthand how it felt to go through this—to suddenly find yourself removed from the world, from everything and everyone you knew.
“Well honey, there isn’t anywhere else to go.
” She laid a small hand on his shoulder, carefully avoiding what looked like a piece of iron that had been jabbed through his collarbone.
It was a miracle indeed that passing through the Gates would remove all traces of their death, because some of the ways a soul could pass on were. ..quite gruesome.
“Why can you leave?”
“Because I still have a body.” Mags cupped his pudgy cheek gently. “I’m a goddess, not a departed soul.”
The man squinted in disbelief, then blinked as realization dawned. “Wait...I know you.”
She smiled. “You must be quite the dedicated theist if you recognize little ol’ me.”
“The bride of Jesus,” the man continued, eyes bright, clearly enthused by his discovery. “Mary Magdalene.”
Mags flushed. “We’re not actually married; that’s just an expression...um...”
“Richard,” the man supplied eagerly.
“Right.” Mags patted his shoulder once more and stepped away. “Well, don’t let me hold up the line any longer, I’ll just be going then.”
Peter cast her a sidelong glance. “The bride of Jesus, is it?”
“Shut up,” she smacked his elbow, the highest point she could reach now that he was back on his podium. “I will pluck your wings, Peter, I swear it.”
He laughed, tossing his sandy head back. Mags yanked a single silver-grey feather from his wing as she swept past him between the Gates, giggling at his startled yelp as she hurried up the path towards the palace.
Fast, upbeat music spilled beneath a dark wooden door, echoing faintly down the hallways of the palace.
Passing angels looked curiously toward the noise, either smiling or shaking their heads when they identified the source, while the mortal souls working in the palace were more prone to open boggling.
Within the room, its occupant—pleasantly oblivious to the opinions being formed about his latest hobby—moved in awkward, hesitant steps to the Latin music.
He was deeply tanned and tall, broad shouldered and finely muscled, none of which was helping him properly orient his feet to the rhythm of the song.
His dark, curling hair brushed his shoulders and fell into his eyes, and he swept it back with an irritated brush of his hand, regretting that he hadn’t thought to tie it back.
His dark brows furrowed intently as he counted the beats of the song in his head.
The prophet formerly known as Jesus was learning some new dance moves.
To be fair, several people still called him Jesus, his parents included.
Others referred to him by many different names, including but not limited to: Messiah, Savior, Light of the World, Logos, and Emmanuel.
But he was going through another of what Mags called his “rebranding phases”, and went by Christos these days.
Christos hummed along with the song, shimmying his hips and twisting, trying to move his feet in the right patterns.
He stumbled, caught himself on his work bench, and sighed.
This dance would be a lot easier with a partner to balance against—bachata was a sensual pairs dance. Tango’s sexier cousin, by all accounts.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, almost inaudible under the pulsing beat of the music that continued playing without him.
But he heard her, as he always would. Her very presence reached out to him, like a warm breeze on a summer day, and Christos found himself turning to the door before he had consciously decided to move.
His foot struck a haphazardly discarded chisel and made him pause.
Amber eyes swept the room, taking in the mess.
A small pile of woodchips had accumulated beneath his lathe, which was otherwise tucked neatly in the alcove to the side of his room.
Discarded shirts and pants from when he was choosing an outfit this morning littered his unmade king bed.
There were several bowls and plates laid on every flat surface—evidence of the many meals he elected to take in his rooms instead of joining his parents.
Christos winced at the state of the room, then folded his hands as if in prayer.
A faint wind stirred, sweeping the woodchips into the trash bin, carrying the clothes to the closet, and stacking the dishes into a neat pile before they were deposited in a dumbwaiter that descended to the kitchen with a hushed whirr.
The knock sounded again, and this time the door swung inward. Mags slipped inside with a knowing grin. “Are you done cleaning up your mess?”
Christos feigned indignation. “You wound me.”
“Mhm.” Mags smirked and bent to retrieve the chisel from the floor. “Missed a spot.”
“Caught me.” He laughed. “You know me too well.”
She smiled, setting the tool on his nightstand as she pressed herself into his chest. A brief flare of guilt over the diversion tugged at her, but Mags pushed it aside for now.
Time was of the essence, but in a world of chaos, this man was her anchor, and she needed this moment to collect herself.
Christos wound his arms around her waist, settling his palms to the curve of her spine.
“This music is nice,” she murmured, leaning her head against his collarbone. “You got bored of salsa?”
“I like variety.” He began to rock gently from side to side, guiding her hips with his to the beat of the song. “Though you ruined the surprise.”
He stepped to the left, leading her along with him as he began to work in the movements of the dance. Another step left, then two steps to the right, and the same cycle again. Mags giggled as he began to guide her backwards, then stepped back himself and pulled her along after him.
“This is still nice, surprise or no.” She brought her hand up to cup his cheek as he twisted them to the side and led them into a turn.
“Mmm, speaking of surprises, I made you something.”
“You did?” She pulled sharply back to gaze up at him in delight, throwing them off balance as Christos attempted to turn them again. They staggered together, Christos carefully tucking her to his chest as they fell sideways in a heap on his bed.
“Yes,” he answered casually, as if his face wasn’t half pressed into the sheets.