The In Between

Chapter 41

Justin

There is a knock on the heavy metal door. 

I stand up immediately just as it creaks open.

An Enforcer looms in the doorway, beckoning me in with his large black-gloved forefinger. "Get up, boy." His face is marred by a jagged scar, deep purple and a quarter-inch wide, running from his left eyebrow down to his pointed chin and splitting the side of his face in two.

I hurry to the door.

"Follow me," he orders.

I step outside. Even the dark, damp air of the In Between offers relief from the dim isolation of my hut.

"Where are we going?" 

The Enforcer turns his back to me and begins walking with long military strides.  "Zerachiel has called for you."

"Where's my Guide?"

"I'm to deliver you to Zerachiel. That is all you need to know."

A dense blanket of clouds hover near ground level and I can barely see my feet as I follow the Enforcer in his long matte black hooded robe out of the gates of the High Security Zone and through the deserted shantytown. I try once more to ask a question but he quickens his pace and does not answer. The Enforcer remains a yard ahead of me the entire way and I struggle to keep up, still weakened by my stay in Hell.  

I fear that Damaris has changed her mind and told Zerachiel everything. The memory of the men and women in Hell, staring in terror into the air, makes me shiver. Every other memory is fuzzy and washed out, but this one grows stronger by the minute, sharper in focus and more horrific in detail. They have taken away so much but left me with this.

When we get to the Mission Registration Bureau, the Enforcer flashes a black iron badge in front of the electronic sensor and we enter. We pause at the main door to allow two Guides supporting a beefy young man to pass. He has the thick-necked body of a football player, but he's doubled over, his eyes downcast, and Guides on either side have to support his every step. The Enforcer shakes his head in disapproval as we make our way inside.

The reception area is nearly deserted. A frail elderly woman sits on a bench talking amicably with her equally frail and elderly female Guide, clearly old friends. A middle-aged man leans against one of the tall pillars, playing with the edges of his gray tunic, his eyes sweeping the room, his expression blank.

The Enforcer pays little attention. His stride is long and sure—he has no interest in his surroundings. I follow him down the long hallway to the imposing door of Zerachiel's office. He adjusts his hood slightly and smoothes his robe before knocking once with the knuckles of his gloved hand.

The door opens of its own volition and the Enforcer, bowing his head to Zerachiel, motions for me to go in. With that, he turns to leave.  

I raise my eyes to the far end of the long, long room. Damaris is standing by Zerachiel's side behind his granite desk. They both watch me without expression as I move toward them. Damaris' eyes betray nothing. I can't tell if she has swayed Zerachiel—or if he has swayed her. I can't tell whose side she is on or guess what could possibly lie in store for me. My footsteps echo on the mosaic floor.

I stop in front of Zerachiel's granite desk. I know better than to sit this time. Beside him, I notice that the majestic antique brass scale has tilted noticeably to the left, though both hanging baskets are completely empty.

"The last time we saw each other was not a pleasant experience," Zerachiel begins grimly. "I am not inclined in your favor, Mr. Westcroft. Still, Damaris has informed me that your brief visit to Hell has shown you the path you must take. She claims that you have accepted your Mission, that you have learned obedience and are ready to correct your course. But I am not so easily swayed. I gave you leeway. I gave you independence.  And you abused those privileges."

"Sir. Damaris has told you the truth. I understand—I was wrong. Really wrong. I'm ready to fulfill my Mission. I know now that letting Tara go is the right thing to do. I will tell her. If you will give me the chance." I speak as forcefully as I can, channeling my anger into what I hope looks like truth.  

One colorless eyebrow raises on Zerachiel's impassive face. "You don't really think we would allow you to contact Tara on your own, do you?" His voice drips with an icy sarcasm, his lips curl into an amused sneer.

"I will do whatever you say," I reply, confused.

"We will send you to her," Zerachiel pronounces.

"Send me back?"

I try to wall up my thoughts. Make my face a mask. Can he see that this is exactly what I wanted?

"Of course, you will have an escort and be monitored very closely. We will be listening to every word. There must be no ambiguity, no wavering or attempt at hidden signs. No trickery. You will make clear in no uncertain terms that you are breaking it off and you will return here for good to await Passage; never to see Tara again. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"If you express one shred of love, if you betray one iota of emotion, your punishment will be eternal damnation. Valefor is aware of this. He awaits you eagerly. The outcome is up to you."

"I will accompany the boy and ensure that he acquiesces," Damaris offers.

"You will do no such thing."

Zerachiel rings an enormous brass bell on his desk. The sound echoes throughout the chamber.

"Passage is granted for seven minutes. That is all. We will be monitoring every word and inflection. One last thing, Mr. Westcroft."

"Yes?"

"You were so eager for Tara's fate to be tied to yours, that I have granted that wish."

"I don't understand."

"If there is even the most minor slip on your part, Tara Jenkins will be instantly rendered to Hell for all time, locked alone with her terrors. She will have no release. Her fate is entirely in your hands, Justin."

I rear back. "But..."

Zerachiel raises his hand to silence me. "You have been warned."

Two Enforcers have answered Zerachiel's bell and are suddenly by my side. "You may take him," Zerachiel says and turns his back to me.

Before I can say a word in Tara's defense or plead for her safety, I feel a single sharp needle jab to my arm.

And then nothing.