If they were allowed to leave. If they weren’t killed.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Day Nine
Jocelyn found herself in a building, an atrium. At least fifty floors of milled stone balconies, with rounded archways and wooden doors, towered above her. In front of the balconies straight across from her, a cascading waterfall fell into a turbulent pond, amidst lush vegetation.
She recognized this place—her Inner Temple.
Then she remembered the battle, the gunshot, blacking out.
Dying.
She died.
Well, this was what it was like to be dead. In my Inner Temple. Am I stuck here for all eternity?
But she realized there was no better place to spend eternity. She could make her Inner Temple anything she wanted it to be, make this into her own little paradise, conjure up a man to fall in love with, conjure up servants to cater to her every whim.
Or even dream up an adventure for fun.
Like a zombie apocalypse . . .
The thought occurred to her that she had been dead the whole time. That she had frozen to death in that cabin. And now that she was dead in her dreamed-up adventure, she was back in her Inner Temple.
The world waited for her instructions.
But she needed answers.
She turned around and walked over to her altar, inspecting it, facing eastward (she got to choose the cardinal directions in the temple). Beyond the altar, a lattice of mirrors reflected the “other half” of the temple. In the mirrors, she observed herself. She wore a red ritual robe, her head obscured in the hood. Lifting the hood off, she could see the bullet hole through her bangs, right in the center of her forehead.
Right before her eyes, her forehead healed.
Dead in my Inner Temple. I can do anything.
On her altar laid her familiar ritual tools, mimics of those she used on the material plane: a wood pentacle on her left, in the north, representing Earth; a crystal chalice immediately in front of her, in the west, representing Water; a wand (a polished, de-barked branch she had found in the woods that called to her—wands always chose you, rather than the other way around) on her right, in the south, representing Fire; a double-edged, nondescript knife with a wood handle, in front of her at the far side of the altar in the east, representing Air; and a cauldron in the center—to burn things safely, not that she couldn’t contain a fire in her Inner Temple. Anything else she might put on the table she could conjure up on command.
Her green prosperity candle was absent—a perpetual candle, always lit, never reducing in size, which she kept to help her achieve wealth and status in her life. Apropos of her life now, she had little of each. Who did, in a zombie apocalypse?
And her life was over, anyway. She had no need of prosperity.
She knelt before the altar and called upon the spirits to aid and guide her in her journey through the astral plane, or whatever it was she should do now that she was dead. Hissing sounds emanated from all directions. A circle of shimmering, undulating air developed in front of her. Astonished, she turned around clockwise. Turbulent warping circles at each of the four cardinal directions appeared and started growing.
The disks, now as big as her torso, distorted her vision of what lay beyond, as if they changed reality itself. As the disks grew larger, now large enough for Jocelyn to step through, they spun clockwise, swirling the distortions.
And the circles kept expanding, towering above her, now twice her size.
Men walked through each one, and Jocelyn gasped. She knew these men well—but she had never seen them make such an entrance before. The four cardinal archangels all towered around her. She pivoted several times, disoriented and frightened as they surrounded her.
Eventually, her eyes landed on the Archangel Gabriel. He stood at least seven feet tall, wearing a suit of water, with shimmering waves as if he were the ocean itself, when a familiar, booming voice echoed throughout the temple.
“Pardon the theatrics,” archangel Saint Michael said. She turned to her left to face him in the South, his searing heat almost burning her flesh. “It takes a lot of energy to arrive in a temple of the dead.”
She just stared at him for a while, in his red robes—this time a darker shade than hers—trimmed in green. He planted his huge sword—almost as big as himself—into the smooth stone floor. The sound rang out like the thunder of a nearby lightning strike.
She jumped back into what felt like two strong, solid tree trunks. Arms gripped her tight, and, given the presence of the other archangels, and the location opposite Michael, she realized she was being held by Archangel Uriel, dressed in a green robe with brown highlights. He smelled like wet dirt, dead deciduous leaves, and the pine of evergreen. His coolness counterbalanced Michael’s heat.
“Careful child,” he murmured.
Uriel comforted her, anchored her to gather her wits.
“So I’m dead,” she whispered. “I was right. I’m dead.”
“You were,” said Raphael, in the east. He wore yellow robes with purple trim and carried a dagger as if he was ready to strike at any moment. As he spoke, the wind of his hot breath emanated with a force as strong as any gale.
She lingered in Uriel’s embrace, giving her the strength she needed to deal with this situation.
“What does that mean?” she asked of Raphael.
“It means,” Michael said, “you possess the power of coming back from the dead. Congratulations.”
This startled her, but in a way, it was no surprise. “Do I have a choice? Can I remain dead?”
“No, I am sorry. You cannot.” This last came from Gabriel, and as he spoke, she smelled salt air.
“Except,” Uriel whispered in her ear, “you can always kill yourself after.”
“I heard that!” boomed Michael. “Pay no attention to him,” he said to Jocelyn. “Metatron made it very clear she would spend eternity in Hell
