Ashes of Eaden

Prologue

Beep... Beep... Beep...

The machine that monitored the patient's heartbeat gave its steady report, the rhythm broken occasionally with a sudden pause as the man lying in the hospital bed seemed to momentarily cease to breathe. Then it would beep faster for a few beats when the man would suddenly begin to breathe again with a ragged gasp before reverting back to its original steady rhythm. A few other machines crowded the hospital bed and its occupant, but they were silent, unhooked, and pushed against the wall to make room for the small crowd gathered to await the inevitable. They were waiting for death.

The man's name was Anthony Johnston. He was a diabetes patient suffering the aftermath of a massive heart attack, an unfortunate result of the stress put on his heart during a dialysis treatment given by machines meant to do the work for his failed kidneys of filtering impurities from his blood. He had just been taken off of those dormant machines that helped him breathe and had kept him alive for days. His brain was dead and he had no hope of waking up. His family had finally made the decision to let him go.

His body involuntarily twitched and jerked as his muscles spasmed, and his chest rose and fell in a broken pattern with the gasping breaths he took as his body fought for life even as it grew increasingly weak. His skin was ashen. The numbers on the monitor screen kept track of his diminishing vitals as death slowly took him.

He was surrounded by his family: three small children, a wife, three sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews, cousins, his mother, countless friends and church members. They all prayed for a miracle that wouldn't come, their murmurs of comfort to each other and quiet sniffles as they wiped their own and each other's tears joined the beep of the monitor in the otherwise quiet hospital room in one of three major hospitals in the vast metropolitan area. And none of them were aware of the lone figure who stood in the corner of the room apart from the rest.

It wouldn't be long now. His life had been reduced to mere minutes and seconds. The countdown to his final breath was upon him.

His breath stuttered to a pause again. Everyone in the room held their own breath and turned their eyes to the occupant of the bed. Was this it?

Anthony gasped and his restless twitching resumed. Everyone present breathed freely again and resumed their efforts in prayer, and the figure in the corner sighed restlessly as she glanced at the clock ticking on the wall and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. It was late afternoon, her eleventh escort of the day, and the last one before her shift was done.

Anthony's aura was greyed and darkening as death approached. Tick, tick, tick, said the clock. Beep, beep, beep, said the machine right up until the body on the bed ceased to move once more. He released a long final breath, expelling with it the life and soul that had been imprisoned in his earthbound body for the last forty-one years. The monitor emitted one long steady tone and a multitude of gentle alarms sounded and were joined by the sounds of grief for a loved one passed.

"Show time," she whispered.

Eadie was a reaper, one of many in a species of angels on the low end of the totem pole. Her job was to watch over her charges who were near death and to do the groundwork that would ensure those souls made it to their eternal rest — or, in some unfortunate cases, unrest — without mishap.

What kind of mishaps could occur on one's grand exit from mortality, you ask? A lot, actually.

Just as angels were walking all over creation performing small miracles, protecting their charges, and whispering reason now and again, lowly demons ran amuck making every attempt to turn good souls toward damnation. Among your typical corrupters were those disgusting, scavenging demons known as snatchers who, as their name suggests, would snatch newly departed souls not meant for hell. It was a reaper's job to see to it that no such thing happened. It was messy but necessary business.