Page 3 of In Between Death and the Devil

The words nestled in my chest, next to my heart. I felt their truth even as I questioned my sanity. I’d never been a strong devotee of the Order of Death. Because of my visions, I barely left the house, only making monthly offerings on our family altar the way most people did in person at the Order’s church. I’d never considered becoming a Judge before, but my hunger to atone by doing so was undeniable. Maybe being constantly surrounded by so much death had given me an affinity for it.

Even the judge’s motive in offering me this choice, whatever it was, wasn’t enough to deter me. I knew in my soul, I had to do this.

“The Order of Death.” My voice was steady even as my pulse throbbed in my ears, and the judge’s lips curled in a satisfied smile.

The path to the In Between wouldn’t be easy—there was no guarantee I’d make it—but I’d endure whatever I needed to in order to atone for what I’d done.

CHAPTER 1

Candles flickered on the altar. Anticipation and apprehension coiled in my stomach as I held a stick of incense to a flame. It caught quickly and I blew it out, the sweet-smelling smoke curling up towards the chapel ceiling as the incense started to smolder and crumble. Its length had been carefully calculated for the Ritual and would be gone by the time my heart stopped beating. My hands trembled as I placed it in the ceramic holder. One of three. Aside from the candles and a wide metal dish, they were the only things on the marble surface. The other two incense sticks were already lit.

The day had finally come for me to journey to the In Between. To die for a chance to atone. For my family. For my transgressions in a previous life. I clasped my hands together to stop them from shaking.

Seven years, I’d waited. Seven years of offerings to Death—scourging of flesh, fasting, bloodletting. My knees throbbed and my back ached in memory of what I’d endured.

The Ritual was conducted once each winter. I had volunteered for it every time since the day I arrived. Six times they’d told me no and selected others. I was beginning to think I’d never be allowed to go, that the Guardian of Death had recognized my unworthiness, but it was finally time.

“Your offering,” the sister behind me prompted me, the whip at her waist creaking as she shifted.

My heart clenched as I reached into my pocket and withdrew my mother’s necklace. A small gold pomegranate at the end of a chain, its red jeweled seeds winking in the firelight. The last tangible thing I had of my family. I didn’t want to part with it, but I couldn’t take it with me.

Before I could think too hard about it, I dropped it in the dish. It clinked against the offerings the other initiates had made, a hollow sound that reverberated through my body. My eyes burned with unshed tears, but I didn’t deserve to cry. I’d vowed to endure anything to atone. Parting with an object was nothing.

“And now your blood.” The sister handed me an ornate dagger.

The silver salamanders on the handle dug into my palm. I allowed myself one breath before I drew it along my skin, the blade cutting deep. Blood welled as I curled my hand into a fist and held it over the candles on the altar, two drops of blood for each one. The throbbing burn of pain echoed through me and my pulse pounded in my throat.

There were twelve candles, each one the length of my forearm and twice as round. Designs had been carved into the surface, along with the name of a soul lost in the transfer during the Ritual. Twelve souls in nine years. No one knew why they hadn’t made it, or where they’d ended up, just that they hadn’t. I knew I might join them, my soul ceasing to exist, lost forever, but it was a risk I was willing to take. I couldn’t face the alternative—that my family’s death meant nothing. At least, that’s what I told myself. In truth, I was a coward.

I forced air into my lungs as I accepted a cloth bandage to wrap around my hand and let the sister lead me out into the cloisters.

The air was crisp in the twilight, making me shiver in my thin shift and overdress. I breathed in the smells of winter—cold air, damp earth, moldering leaves and wood smoke.

The massive pomegranate tree in the center of the grass made stark shapes against the purple sky. Only a few leaves clung to its branches, clustered in groups where fruit hung ripe and heavy. It was unnatural to have fruit at the height of winter, but this was no normal tree. It was ancient and sacred, connecting the World of the Living to the In Between with roots that were said to reach across the realms.

My stomach knotted as I realized: this was my last glimpse of sky. I wasn’t sure if the In Between had anything like it. I’d find out soon enough. If I made it there. My chest tightened and I forced myself to turn away.

We entered the church through a side door, and the smell of candle wax and dust filled the air. The vaulted ceiling soared above the rows of stone benches in the nave. Our footsteps on the flagstone floor echoed the pounding of my heart as we walked down the central aisle. I kept my gaze on the altar, avoiding the faces of the people praying or waiting to make offerings for the smooth passage of the souls of their loved ones. To ask Death and her Judges to be merciful when determining their next life. Most of them clutched candles in one hand and totems of the people they’d lost in the other—jewelry, clothing, toys.

My entire body tensed, the way it always did in large groups of people, and I mentally scanned myself for any inklings of pain that might not be my own. I’d managed to hide my curse from the sisters and my fellow novices, though there had been a few close calls over the years. I’d gotten better at sensing when someone in my vicinity was near death so I could remove myself, but it required constant hypervigilance, something I hoped I could give up soon. Since everyone in the In Between was already dead, there should be no deaths to see or feel. And if I disappeared along the way, then the world would be free of my curse.

The Burial Chamber was reached through a door behind the altar. It was flanked by familiar, full-size marble statues. On one side, Death in a flowing dress with salamanders at her feet, holding her pomegranate-shaped Orb in one hand and reaching out with the other to pass judgment. On the other side, the Devil sat on a throne wearing a crown of horns. Beneath his feet lay three bodies writhing in pain, despair carved on their faces.

While Death weighed and judged souls, deciding the circumstances of their next lives, the Devil taught and punished through manipulation of their fears, desires, and past misdeeds. A soul could be sentenced to time with the Devil before being reincarnated, a path I no doubt would have taken if I’d been punished like I deserved.

My gaze lingered on his form. What did he look like in the flesh? Was he anything like the statue, a paragon of masculinity? The sculptor had given the Devil an expression both forbidding and leering, like he could see right through you. What would it be like to have his attention focused on you? Warmth bloomed low in my belly and my breath hitched.

I averted my gaze, shame overtaking arousal. There was something wrong with me. I didn’t deserve to want like this, and even without that, wanting the Devil was madness, no matter what he looked like. Whispers said that the strength of his power was responsible for the overflow of cruelty and injustice in our world.

Through the door, a stone staircase lit with torches spiraled down several floors until it let out into the Burial Chamber. The tight space was filled with sisters and novices.

I forced myself to breathe. It felt suffocating to be so far underground without any natural light.

The air was cold despite the two massive iron chandeliers and standing candelabras giving off light and heat, and the large fireplace in the middle of one wall with a crackling blaze within. Sacred salamanders scampered along the logs, chasing one another as they ran through the flames. They were said to be able to travel across realms. I wondered if any of them ever became lost, or if it was just souls.

In the center of the room lay three marble platforms and the other initiates—a doll-like girl and a man with a weak chin. I recognized them, though I didn’t know either well.

Both were already down to their shifts and shaking. A tremor moved through me, though whether from fear or excitement I couldn’t tell. Maybe an equal measure of both. Part of me wanted to turn around and run as far away as I could but I had vowed to endure. To atone. I’d made my choice. I wouldn’t turn back now.