Thorn from Bone

Lokey slammed the front door shut and watched the bus drive away, exhaust tumbling out of its pipes like a cantankerous dragon awoken from its slumber. A dragon surely awaited her upstairs once he saw her report card. Senior year did not agree with her.

She could have driven to school, but her father’s car was off-limits and her mother’s was falling apart. Besides, she enjoyed riding the bus – no traffic to worry about and an extra hour to do homework. At least, that’s what she told her mother. Truth was, driving annoyed Lokey. She wished she didn’t have to deal with it, but soon she’d have to grow up and face real life. With her grades, college was no longer an option. Lokey had applied to UNC anyway for her mother’s sake, but it was going to take a miracle. She needed a job. It was just too easy to forget reality in the forests of rural North Carolina. Her house was the farthest stop the bus made.

Lokey slid onto a stool by the breakfast bar and dropped her book bag on the floor. The smooth granite tabletop invited her cheek to rest upon its cool surface. Her eyes closed.

“Oh, Brendan...” a woman moaned upstairs.

Lokey balked, shook the bangs out of her eyes, and tilted her head to hear better.

“You like that, Celeste?”

A train could have traveled through Lokey’s open mouth and come out the other side. She snapped it shut and wrinkled her nose, pushing the stool over to get upstairs. Normally her parents didn’t allow her in their bedroom, but her mother didn’t authorize this either.

Brendan had just been promoted to police chief that summer. On good days, Lokey never saw him. But sometimes on his days off, the fights would start. She used to idolize him, wanted to be a cop like him, and couldn’t wait. There had been talk of a gun permit when she was old enough. Now he only barked, “Girls and guns don’t mix. You’ll shoot the tree before you get the perp.” If she started crying, he’d smack her face and muttered that, in his house, that’s how tears were wiped. She learned how to cry noiselessly.

Her mother Freya would be out getting groceries, and Brendan would demand that Lokey vacuum the house and rub his feet. If she complained of cramps, he’d threaten to give her real ones. When she was fourteen, he took a belt to her back for not hearing him call her to the kitchen. After that, she enrolled in the self-defense elective at school. It was the only class she aced.

The first time she kicked him, he stood frozen, speechless. Unfortunately, that was not his permanent reaction. The beatings got worse. He lied to Freya, saying Lokey attacked him because she had joined a gang and did drugs. She couldn’t count the number of times he had whipped and then grounded her. It didn’t stop Lokey from mouthing off, though. She couldn’t help that she wasn’t a boy, and if he was stupid enough to blame her for that, he deserved every ounce of disrespect she gave. And now this, just a year after her mother’s diagnosis?

Lokey nearly pulled the doorknob out as she rammed into the room.

“What the—”

“Shit, Lokey, when did you get home?” her father gasped, pulling the sheets up around his chin. Celeste blushed but, obviously shocked, didn’t try to cover up. Lokey glanced at the nurse’s outfit on the chair adjacent to the bed. She glared, picked the crocheted throw rug up off the hardwood floor, and threw it at Celeste.

“Mom made that rug,” she growled at her father. “Your wife, remember? The woman you pledged your life to, who happens to be in chemo right now? Maybe next time your girlfriend can remember to keep her clothes on since there are other people in this house.”

She didn’t wait for her father to respond, but ran out of the bedroom and locked herself in her own. Wind whipped around outside, throwing acorns and leaves against the window. Lokey sat on the bed and cradled the stuffed owl her mother had made from a pattern. She lay on her side and pictured her utopian valley cottage, complete with a sweet-water stream and a father that understood loyalty. This image had been ingrained in her mind ever since reading The Secret Garden as a kid. She wanted something larger, not fenced in, and permanently in bloom. The woods around her house were nice, but not quite what she had in mind. Her utopia did not have ticks. Or strange women.

“What was she, five years older than me?” Lokey thought as she sobbed.

Lokey couldn’t remember falling asleep, but her eyes blinked open to see Celeste standing in her doorway.

“I thought I locked that...” Lokey thought.

“Go home. Stay away,” she said aloud instead.

“Get used to it, sweetie pie. Your daddy doesn’t love your momma no more. Face the facts,” Celeste sneered. Her small eyes looked like a mole’s, and her nose reminded Lokey of a wild boar. She stared at the intruder and couldn’t control herself.

“You s-sk-skank,” Lokey said, her trembling voice reminiscent of a dying snake’s final tongue slither. She rolled out of bed, grabbed her radio, and threw it at Celeste, who ducked and giggled. Lokey grabbed a pen from her dresser and chased the woman down the hallway through a window. Celeste walked across the roof and sat precariously on the edge, crossing her legs seductively.

“What a romantic way to die, thrown off a roof by my lover’s child. I do love revenge stories, don’t you?” Celeste cooed. Her voice sounded distorted, like a distant screech, not at all like the voice that had moaned Brendan’s name earlier.

“Shut up. It should be my mother standing here, not me. But I won’t let her know. She needs him still. It would destroy her. But you – you don’t deserve to live.”

Lokey advanced on Celeste, the pen uncapped and aimed for the woman’s eye. She picked up speed, but the pen fell from her grasp. She couldn’t stop running. She body-slammed Celeste, but it felt like hitting a wall of air. Lokey tumbled off the roof with the woman, the asphalt of the street rising up to meet her face....

Sweat flowed down Lokey’s chin and neck. Around her, lava spat and occasionally bellowed, but Earth’s blood gave off no light. Lokey saw nothing but darkness, breathed nothing but ash, felt nothing but the thick air bearing her body down to the soil. No. Not soil. No entity existed here that could promise life. More likely pile upon pile of discarded excrement and more ash. She couldn’t smell anything to confirm or deny, and she didn’t care.

An ashen bird flew past Lokey’s face and dove down her open mouth. She choked and heaved, but the powder dampened with her saliva, coating her throat.

“Am I to die after death? How does that even happen? I am innocent,” she gasped.

Lava burst near her right ear; Lokey turned her head away to avoid the heat. Shadows moved in the distance. A finger bone emerged from the terrain by her stomach and moved to touch her. As the extremity moved closer, the associated hand also arose from the ashes, followed by the arm, shoulder...skull. The body seemed to wear a black cowl. Swirling shadows confirmed only an illusion. She screamed, but the fiery wind whipped away the sound. Lokey shoved her face into the ground as the wraith wrapped its arms around her waist. The skull lingered next to her cheek.

“Why are you here?” a gravelly whisper emanated from the specter. Lokey felt the air pull the answer from her lips.

“I...murdered,” she said barely above a whisper, “to save my home.”

“No excuses,” the wraith replied in a firm monotone.

“I know,” Lokey said, wanting to cry. “I thought if I got rid of her, everything would go back to normal. But things haven’t been normal for a long time.”

“Harm never heals.”

Lokey paused. Her agnosticism was slowly unraveling before her eyes, and if this place was real, so was Heaven, and what the wraith had just said sounded more like angel-speak. Now that she thought about it, the intense pain she expected to endure upon realizing where she was hadn’t come. Was this the Purgatory her mother had tried to teach her about years ago? It seemed too dark. She wasn’t feeling very cleansed.

Harm never heals. Lokey couldn’t help but scoff.

“He won’t at least learn not to bring his sluts home?” she retorted.

“You believe you have taught him a lesson? He will not change simply out of fear that you will murder his mistresses. You can’t force him to be better. He must choose it himself.”

“So vengeance isn’t real?” Lokey asked, contemplating the specter’s words.

“Not the human kind.”

“I have to...trust...that in time my father will pay for his betrayal?” Lokey said, raising an eyebrow.

“We may not be in Paradise, but all spirits eventually understand how God acts. And He will act at the appropriate time.”

Lokey imagined the wraith wanted to sigh in exasperation, but lacked the ability. Or maybe she was projecting her emotions since his monotone was pushing her patience off a cliff.

“So my father gets to do whatever he wants while God takes his sweet time?” she seethed.

“God gives his children time to repent. Which is also why you are here.”

The skeleton did not change form, but Lokey suddenly felt relaxed in its hold, comforted. He – she? – surrounded her body, protecting her from the phantoms that wanted to tear her apart.

“This is not Hell,” it said.

“What?”

“This is the Antechamber, the lower level of Limbo for souls closer to Hell than Heaven. On the other side of the thunder-clouds is Purgatory.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lokey asked, feeling betrayed. “Why tell me I could be at peace, but it’s just out of my reach?”

“You misunderstand. The Antechamber is a place of reflection. Here you make the choice – do you want to purify yourself, or do you want to revel in your self-satisfaction?”

“I want to start over. I shouldn’t have blamed Celeste for my father’s bullshit. She might not have even known about my mom or me. If I don’t get to live again, at least she should,” Lokey said.

The specter released its hold and started sinking into the ash.

“Wake up, Lokey,” it mumbled.

A bed formed behind her back. Air blew across her stomach; a silky blanket cooled her skin. After the dry heat of that place, every touch felt soothing. She opened her eyes. Tubes glided down into her arms and her mother’s face floated above her, wearing a smile. The nurse entered the room to check Lokey’s vitals. That face....

“She’s alive. I didn’t...I must’ve dreamed...I sleepwalked...,” Lokey thought.

Celeste asked Lokey’s mother to leave the room. Lokey watched her mother’s back until she could no longer see her.

“Lokey,” Celeste said, “I know you’re upset. We heard you on the roof – what you said. Your father couldn’t get there in time to stop you falling. I don’t blame you for wanting to get rid of me, but believe me when I say how very sorry I am for hurting you. He never told me he had a family.”

Celeste’s voice did not match the woman of the dream. For that, Lokey was grateful. But still, the truth remained that she had slept with Lokey’s father.

“The pictures on his dresser didn’t hint at it?” Lokey replied, pursing her lips.

“He hid them; I never saw them. Listen, Lokey. I yelled at him the entire way here. He manipulated me. I never thought I would do something like this. You don’t have to see me again if that’s what you want. I can arrange for you to have another nurse.”

Her blue eyes were much larger than Lokey remembered. They were damp.

“I believe you,” Lokey said, “but I’ll take you up on that offer.”

The woman nodded. “Of course. I’ll get Noni.”

Celeste smiled weakly and left the room. The door re-opened immediately and the hulking shadow of her father came into view.

“Mr. Thorn, Lokey needs to rest,” Celeste begged, but he shut the door in her face and parked himself at the foot of Lokey’s bed. Loose hairs from his blonde mustache rested on his cheek, reluctant to leave their brothers behind. The dark brown roots of his hairline mirrored the hair that lay upon Lokey’s shoulders, the only genetic inheritance she treasured. His obsession with constantly dying his hair lighter and lighter shades of blonde humiliated her. His embarrassment to be her father couldn’t have been more obvious if he had screamed it.

“We need to discuss your mother,” he began, placing his hand on her leg. Lokey flinched at the severity of his grip.

“You disgust me,” she said, ignoring his butchered attempt at supplication.

“You will not talk to me that way. I was shot last month, remember?”

“In the leg. Poor, poor police officer shot by a druggie. Probably how you met Celeste, right? You must have laid it on thick.”

“Quiet,” he growled, twisting her ankle. She gasped.

“You will not tell your mother, do you hear me?” he said in an almost-whisper that still managed to echo down into Lokey’s stomach.

“You bastard. I never planned on it – she’s too weak. The whole world should know the truth, but it’s not the right time,” Lokey said, attempting to sound bold but barely squeaking out the words.

“You plan on blackmailing me? Little bitch,” he practically yelled. His lip curled.

“You’re just mad because I’m the only woman who has the balls to stand up to you. Hurt me all you want, but don’t you dare hurt her again,” Lokey whispered, sounding a bit more like herself.

“What Freya doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” her father replied, his voice once again low but menacing.

“You’re joking,” Lokey said, raising her eyebrows. “Everything hurts her. She notices every little hint of stress now. Has, ever since she was diagnosed. You think she won’t see the tension between us?”

“Not if you get over yourself.”

Lokey sputtered, wanting to spring up and strike her father. The tubes and the pain strapped her down. Brendan grimaced, patted her leg forcefully, and stood. Lokey winced, holding her hand next to her right eye to block the view of her father’s retreating back as he walked out. A few minutes passed. She spent the time assessing her damage – bruised legs, tender and angry scabs on her left ribcage, and a broken left arm, which had apparently stopped her head from crashing into the pavement.

Freya opened the door a crack and peeked inside.

“Are you alright? May I come in?”

Lokey relaxed her right arm on the mattress and nodded. Freya approached the bed slowly, her steps barely sounding against the floor. She sat on a chair beside Lokey’s head, lacing her left hand in Lokey’s right and gently stroking her daughter’s forearm with her other hand.

“I thought you had stopped doing that. It’s been three years since you got off your meds,” Freya whispered.

Lokey had been sleepwalking since the age of four. Doctors couldn’t explain why, but, instead of trying to pinpoint the problem, they had hopped her up on prescriptions. Once she hit her teens, she refused to drug herself anymore. Exasperated, she did an internet search of natural remedies and found that yoga helped her immensely. She refused to take her pills from then on, and Freya didn’t fight her about it.

“It’ll be alright Mom, I promise. School’s just been really stressful, but I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it, please. Please,” Lokey said as sweetly as she could manage.

“Oh, honey, I know you mean well when you say that, but I can’t help worrying. You’re my little girl.”

Lokey smiled and sniffed, her eyes watering. “No. Please. I don’t want you to stress.”

“I’m fine, Lokey dear. I’m scheduled for a marrow transplant next week, which should encourage my appetite at least,” Freya said and tried to smile, but a tear fell down her cheek.

Lokey frowned. Freya’s leukemia was chronic – her optimism was a ruse. She wasn’t getting better, even with the transplants.

“Did the doctor say how long I have to be in here?” Lokey asked instead.

“Someone will check on you in the morning, but we should be able to discharge you by tomorrow afternoon. Oh, Lokey, I am so grateful you landed the way you did. You could be in a coma right now.”

Freya pushed her hands into the mattress to stand up, leaning over to kiss Lokey’s cheek. She slowly made her way back to the door, pressing more weight than was necessary into the handle. Even wearing jeans, her knees bulged wider than her skeletal legs. If Freya lost any more weight, she would no longer be able to walk. Lokey turned to face the window, desperately trying to silence her sniffles. If only she were a little girl again, back when Freya was healthy and life held so much promise. Even when Lokey was suffering, as she was now, Freya would wrap her arms around her daughter, shushing her cries and singing sweet night-songs that she made up on the spot. The flu Lokey had caught when she was seven was the worst, but what she hated almost more than the vomiting was the liquid medicine. It tasted nothing like cherries; she didn’t care what the box said. More like a liquefied knife with all its metallic flavor and lump in her throat after she swallowed. But her mother’s singing healed everything.

Now the only thing that could relax her was the view of the surrounding forest through the window. But even that reminded her how far out in the country they were, and how difficult it was to find the proper therapy for her mother’s cancer.

An oak tree loomed close, a deep hollow embedded beneath the lowest branch. Large eyes stared at her from within, gradually revealed by the hospital flood lights to be a barn owl. Its soft hooting became her lullaby until she was jolted awake by the intercom.

“Doctor Hunt to the Psychiatric Ward. Code Yellow.”

Lokey blinked rapidly. They only used codes in emergencies. What was yellow? Fire? Heart attack? Missing patient? She looked back out of the window. The owl stopped hooting.

“Coroner to the Psychiatric Ward. Room 206,” the intercom blared.

Despite not knowing the patient, Lokey still felt her eyes water. She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes to sleep.

A few days later, Lokey felt well enough to return to school, where classmates who had never noticed her before scrambled to sign her cast. Amused but not fooled, Lokey enjoyed the attention for the few hours she received it. Her thoughts, however, never strayed far from her mother.

After school, she slumped onto the living room’s burgundy couch and began flipping through channels. Nothing flashed before her eyes that she cared to watch, so she settled on a home renovation show for background noise and headed into the kitchen for a bag of pretzels. The crackling of the bag as she ripped it open with her teeth almost disguised the familiar click of the front door. She frowned. Brendan was supposedly at the hospital with Freya. Lokey had confirmed another cop covered his patrol so he could go.

Footsteps hurried up the stairs. A faint giggle confirmed another woman was in the bedroom. Lokey gritted her teeth and threw the bag at the cabinets. A multitude of the hardened dough twists snapped in half, landing in a pile on the frozen tile floor. She walked over and picked up the pieces, naming each sliver as she placed it back into the bag.

“My bones. My heart. My confidence. My innocence. My patience. My life. ...My mother.”

Lokey crumbled the final pretzel splinter in her hand and headed for the stairs. He would not do this again. Never again. She could not wait for God.

She approached the closed bedroom door, placed her hand on the doorknob, and listened. The woman giggled.

“Brendan...stop...that tickles!”

“But Barb, you’re laughing.”

“I know, but stop!” she said.

Heavy breathing replaced the inane dialogue. Lokey groaned and pushed the door open. Barb, still wearing her bra and panties, dove underneath the covers. Brendan let off a rant of swear word combinations Lokey had never heard before, but she ignored him. She pulled open his sock drawer.

“If you make one more move,” Brendan finally broke his rant, “and you aren’t heading for the door, you’re gonna kill your mother.”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean, no?”

“It’s you. You and the cancer. You are the cancer.”

She rummaged through his black socks until her fingers touched metal. She prayed it was loaded. Her right hand could only do so much. Lokey cocked the hammer, gripped the handle, and began a game of show-and-tell.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m pretty sure this is the gun you taught me to shoot with. I love irony.”

“Mm-hm. That pistol only has one shot left. Last I checked your aim wasn’t so good. Don’t be stupid.”

Brendan pulled out a semi-automatic from his bedside table. Barb whined through the sheet. He smacked her shoulder.

“Come out of there. Nobody’s getting shot today. She’s not gonna pull the trigger.”

“Bad day to become a gambling man, Daddy,” Lokey sneered. A stalling car engine compelled her to look out the window. Various pine trees grew within inches of the siding, blocking the view of the street. She shook her head and turned back to her father.

“You think I won’t pull the trigger? You think because Mom has to spend a hundred days in the hospital after her transplant that you can have sex with whatever slut you want, and I have to put up with it because your money is paying the bills? I’m done with this. We don’t need your money that badly,” Lokey said. Her hand shook.

Brendan slowly swung his legs out of the covers and let his feet slam against the floor. He pointed the gun at his daughter.

“Think it through, Lokey. I’ve spent years on the force. I don’t want to kill you, but if I have to defend myself...”

“We don’t need your shit anymore,” she spat back.

Lokey’s finger twitched against the trigger with just enough pressure that the gun fired. Her father screamed as the bullet wedged into his left chest cavity. He returned fire just before collapsing against the bed. His eyes remained open and unblinking. Barb shrieked.

Brendan’s bullet lodged between Lokey’s left shoulder and neck. She gasped and panted heavily, trying to deny the piece of metal that spilled the liquid life of her body. Then the pain dawned, causing Lokey to yell and crumple onto the floor, blood flowing down her chest like the cherry cough syrup she had always hated.

A great-horned owl perched on one of the pine trees by the window. It hooted. Then the image faded, and darkness enveloped the world.

Lokey’s eyes slowly opened to more darkness.

“But owls are nocturnal. Why would it...? Wait,” she thought aloud. “I died. Damn omens.”

Lokey tried to roll her eyes but couldn’t find the energy. Fire hissed by her ears. She couldn’t lift her head and she couldn’t breathe. She moaned.

“What am I, the friggin’ duchess of Hell?”

“Antechamber. Do you not remember? Hell would be worse, much worse,” a form said as it approached her.

“You. No. No way. This place was a dream. A dream. I woke up,” she said aloud.

“You are mistaken in thinking all dreams are lies. Your soul travels just as your body does.”

“Then why did I come here before, if I hadn't killed her?”

“You believed you had, and this is where your soul expected to go for your sin. The Great One allowed you to remain to purge the intention, or else you would have woken and committed the sin in reality.”

“No, it...that just doesn’t make sense. Where does my soul go when I dream I’m a mermaid, or smoking a cigar, or battling man-apes?”

“Some dreams are purely imagination, you are correct. But it is up to you to discern which ones are not.”

“Am I...am I soul-traveling now?” Lokey whispered, hoping.

“Traveling – no. You have arrived.”

“I’m dead, then,” she confirmed tersely, wishing the fact didn’t bother her so much.

“Your body is deceased, yes. You cannot return to Earth.”

“So much for my second chance.”

“Murder is a terrible sin, and revenge in place of faith borders on blasphemy, but—”

A blaring horn interrupted the specter, who shrank down into the ash, performing a distorted genuflection.

“Where are you going?” Lokey accused. She couldn’t imagine what could frighten it, when it was so imposing itself. But, in some small way, the spirit had become a comfort to her – something familiar in this desolate place. It even seemed as if it wanted to help her. And without its guidance – to think, guidance from a wretched wraith – she knew there was nothing to delay the torture of hell.

“Do not speak,” the wraith mumbled through the ash. “Prince Dumah approaches.”

“Who?”

“He is lord over the stillness of death. The Antechamber is his dominion.”

An appalling figure came into view. Nearly a thousand eyes covered his head, and from his spine grew six pairs of bat-like wings. A platoon of phantoms hovered in his wake. Decayed skin dripped from his bone hands – he carried a massive flaming scythe like a processional crucifix at Mass.

Dumah did not possess a mouth; still, a grating voice rattled in Lokey’s mind.

HELLBOUND. COME.

Lokey tried to shake her head but still couldn’t move.

REFUSE AND BE SLICED AWAY PIECE BY PIECE.

The overbearing wind lifted its pressure just enough to permit Lokey to stand. She glanced at the specter, still prostrate in the ground.

“Can you come with me?” she tried to ask, but no sound left her mouth.

MY REALM IS NO LONGER FIT FOR YOUR CRIMES. HE STAYS. YOU COME.

“Who is he?” she thought to Dumah.

NOT YOUR CONCERN.

Dumah lifted his scythe. Lokey held up her arm.

“You already said he’s male. What more is a name?”

WHAT MORE IS A NAME? THEN WHY MUST YOU KNOW?

Lokey mulled over his question. Knowing who the wraith had been in life wouldn’t change his fate or her own. He had found her, held her, comforted her, given her a chance, and taught her about his world. He had probably been down here so long no one could remember his sins.

“You know what? It really doesn’t matter. I know who he is to me,” she replied.

Dumah stepped forward and inclined his head. The blackness of his eye sockets darkened, if that were possible. Lokey felt as if she were being dissected.

“He’s mercy,” she said quietly. Nothing else came to mind. If she had to spend part of eternity here, his kindness would get her through, no matter who or what he was. She didn’t know why or how he managed it in such a place as this, but she knew better than to question what was keeping her out of Hell.

Dumah must have sensed her words were true, and the evil within him could not tolerate it. He raised his scythe and roared. Lokey collapsed. Ash flew up into the air and ignited, raining cinders onto her face. She screamed. Dumah’s platoon charged with smaller blades unsheathed, ready to cut her soul into pieces to carry back to Hell Proper.

An intense golden light sliced through the black clouds. It burned with such beauty that Lokey couldn’t look away, despite the agony. Vivid white wings flared in and out of focus as a fragment of the light descended into the realm.

“Leave her, Dumah,” a melodious voice commanded.

I AM LOYAL TO MY DUTY.

“She is no longer your duty.”

YOU PLAN TO TAKE HER? RARE IS THE DAY, MICHAEL.

“No. It is not her time to ascend the clouds. But the Great One intends her to stay here. She is not to go to Hell unless she chooses to do so.”

YOUR MASTER PROMISED NOT TO INTERFERE AFTER HIS SON RIPPED US ASUNDER.

“Not to interfere in Hell. This is the Antechamber. Your master tends to forget the expanse of the Great One's authority.”

Dumah growled and swung his scythe at the angel’s neck. Michael dodged and flew behind the demon, a staff forming in his hands. He threw it around Dumah’s chest and held on with both hands.

“The Great One can allot another to this job if you are unwilling to obey,” Michael said. “I am certain you are familiar with the deepest corner of Hell where He will send you if you betray your post.”

Dumah dropped his scythe and Michael relinquished his grip. The demon vanished.

“Saint Michael...” Lokey muttered dreamily. The angel turned his face upon her, but she could not see his features for the light. He raised his staff and ascended through the sky’s fissure. The Antechamber seemed even darker than it had before his arrival. The wraith emerged from the ash.

“Why did you ask my name? I told you not to speak. You angered him,” he said.

“Why are you here?” Lokey countered. “The way you’ve been to me – you should have ascended to Purgatory a long time ago.”

“You are not the first soul to say this. I was summoned to Purgatory centuries ago, but I felt a duty to the other souls. Dumah does not want us to know our options. He is trying to lure us farther into Hell. Even Saint Michael’s appearance just now was shrouded by Dumah’s army so the rest remain ignorant.”

The specter paused, scratched his fingers across the dirt, and continued.

“I could not ascend and allow the rest of you to wander helplessly. I requested to stay here, and the Great One granted my plea. I will never witness His majesty, but I had to sacrifice my salvation in order to save others.”

“Including me?”

“That depends on you,” the wraith said, putting his palms together and meeting Lokey’s gaze. “Do you sincerely regret your actions?”

Lokey thought she saw a glint of light in the black hollows of his eyes. She sighed, shaking her head. She was convinced that she could not have allowed her father to keep living as a traitor.

“You will not be summoned to Purgatory until you find that repentance within you. It must be genuine – your weariness here will not encourage it.”

Lokey resigned herself to the fact that she would be in the Antechamber for years. As it stood, she didn’t think she’d ever forgive her father, ever regret what she had done. She couldn’t help but continue to believe he had gotten what he deserved. But then, she apparently deserved Hell for those thoughts. And here she was, in a place of suffering, but also of hope.

She looked around and realized she was still mobile. The wind stung, the ash seared, and she could barely breathe – but she could move.

“When Dumah’s power fades will I go back to being...stuck?” she asked, pointing at the ground.

“The atmosphere varies. Some days, yes. Other days you’ll be able to fly, but you won’t want to.”

Lokey nodded and sat down, resting her chin on her knee.

“I suppose you can’t tell me where my father ended up?” she asked.

“He is being punished. I cannot say more.”

“And my mother? Will she be okay?”

The wraith turned away from Lokey as if consulting an invisible oracle. The darkness before his face lightened to a deep purple and faded almost immediately. He turned back to her.

“The transplant was successful. She is in remission. Your death will take a toll on her, but she will live for many decades yet.”

“Thank God,” Lokey replied, blinking ash out of her eyes as she gazed upon the specter. Freya’s leukemia had been chronic, but she was going to live. Despite the burning air and the sweat streaming down her face, Lokey smiled.