“How long are you going to watch me?” A sly smile rounds Dad’s mouth as he makes another note with his feather-pen. “I can do far more entertaining things than write, you know.”
“I have—” I almost say ‘a gift,’ but the words get stuck in my throat. My gift may be no gift at all. I hover anxiously in the doorway. I only woke up a week ago in Purgatory General; maybe this was a mistake. “I should go.”
“Please stay.” Dad’s gaze locks with mine, and understanding shines in his blue eyes. “I know what you’re going through, Myla. I spent nearly twenty years in Hell. It’ll help to talk about it.” He gestures to the leather chair across from his desk. “Besides, Cissy left some brownies.”
Ah, my father knows me too well. I smile.
“Home-made?” Cissy’s cooking skills are nothing less than legendary.
“Just dropped them off today.” Dad slides a cardboard box to the edge of his desk. “Fudge almond.”
“Okay, that settles it.” I step into the room, sink down into the leather armchair, and start chomping away. “This is Heaven.”
“Where’s your mother?”
I speak through a mouthful of brownie. Not ladylike, but fudge almond is my favorite. “Trying to get Maxon to fall asleep.”
“Still?”
“He’s on another no-sleep-athon. Now he’s up to—” I check the nearest clock, silently making calculations. “Fifty-six hours now. I was with him for the last eight and, well, I had to take a break.”
“He’s worried about Hildy.”
“Yeah, Maxon’s convinced that if he goes to sleep, Hildy will forget to wake up.”
“And his flashbacks?”
“Still happening. If he gets into a confined space, he loses control. Thinks he’s back in his cell.” I shake my head sadly. “It breaks my heart, Dad.”
“Anything we can do to help?”
“You’re already doing so much. I really appreciate you and Mom coming to Antrum. It’s not easy running Purgatory from here, and you’ve been away a week already.”
“A week, a month, a year, it makes no difference,” says Dad. “We’ll be with you until you kick us out because you don’t need us anymore. Besides, I think the quasi population would riot if we were anywhere else. They’re very fond of Maxon, you know.”
“True.” Our home in Purgatory is almost submerged in flowers and candles.
Dad leans back in his chair and eyes me closely. “So, what happened, Myla-la?”
My chest tightens. I’ve been dreading answering to this question almost as much as I’ve been wanting to set the words free.
“I don’t know where to begin.” I decide that now is a really good time to check how my cuticles are doing. Yup, still there.
Dad’s voice is gentle. “Take your time.”
Stop *footing around, Myla. You can do this.
“I have a gift for you.” Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees. This whole conversation makes me restless. It’s like I could crawl out of my own skin. “At first, I thought it would be a good thing to give this to you but then, I worried it might bring back bad memories.”
My father shoots me one of his trademark toothy grins. “I welcome any gift from my daughter.”
I let out an awkward chuckle. “Wait until you see it.” Slipping my hand behind my back, I pull an item from the waistband of my jeans, and set it gingerly onto the desktop. “It’s your old baculum.”
Dad’s toothy smile disappears. His hands tremble slightly as he reaches forward, his fingertips brushing along the baculum’s carved surface. “The Almighty gave this to me when I was created. My baculum.” His voice breaks. “I never thought I’d see it again.”
My father rises to his feet, his golden wings appearing down his back. He takes the baculum in both fists, igniting the blade as a long-sword. With blinding speed, he starts running through battle moves, including a bunch of fancy jabs that are part of the Dawn Crucible, a special type of archangel battle training. After a few minutes he pauses, holding the hilt at eye level, watching the blade crackle with angelfire in the dim light. A look of ultimate satisfaction glitters in his blue eyes. His gaze locks on mine. “Tell me you killed him with this.”
“Nefer and I did. Together.”
Dad extinguishes the baculum and retakes his seat. “Oh, ho! I want a blow-by-blow account.”
“Sure, but first I have to ask about something else.” I straighten my shoulders and stiffen my resolve. I can talk about this.
“What is it, Myla?”
“It’s about Connor.” I fidget in my seat. “I think his soul may be trapped in Hell.”
“It is, Myla.” Dad folds his hands onto the tabletop, which is his ‘I mean business’ move. “Connor’s permanently tied to the torture pits. I’m so sorry.”