Jodi Lynne Morningstar

“And where are you going this early, Jodi?” Azazel asked.

“Just heading to the lava pits to do laundry. It’s laundry day, remember?”

“Okay, have fun agitating the agitators.”

Yep, that’s my dad. Azazel. Great Overseer of Sin, Sacrifice, and Eventual Purification.

And no, not the noble kind of purification—he didn’t wash sins away or offer redemption. He just knew, innately, when one of these “From His Breath” dustbags had been cooked long enough to be worth a second look from that dipstick Michael.

Those were his glory days.

Now? You’re more likely to find him gambling with that a-hole Asmodeus.

Assuming Asmodeus isn’t too busy with his overripe daemon-lash girls.

Ask me straight out, I’d say pretty much everything around here has, you know…

Gone to Hell.

“Hey, you! Yes, you! Stomp harder! That bodice isn’t going to clean itself.”

These laundry agitators are the worst of the worst. But at least they have a purpose.

If you’re going to suffer for eternity, might as well wring some utility out of it.

I looked around the pit. The air shimmered with heatwaves. The stone was jagged and porous, pitted from centuries of molten detergent splashes. Steam rose in slow, greasy curtains. Chains clinked in rhythm as the stompers worked, ankles bound to red-hot drum mechanisms that sloshed the lava with each step.

The scent? Imagine scorched wool, iron, and regret.

Plus a hint of burning hair. Always burning hair.

Honestly, I designed this place as a joke. The “lava laundry pit” was my attempt to get out of traditional chores. Dad bought it. Said it was “innovative use of punishment-based labor.” I just didn’t want to fold bedsheets. But now here we are—Hell’s most productive underworld laundromat.

The first positive change around here in centuries.

Everyone else? Just kept inventing new ways to torture.

yawn

Boring as Hell.

One agitator caught my eye. He looked…different.

“So, what did you do that was so bad they assigned you here?” I asked one of the stompers.

“Uhm…” The sinner hesitated.

“Speak up. You can speak, can’t you? Or did they remove your tongue already?”

“No… I, uhm, killed my grandparents for insurance money.”

“Charming. Why didn’t you repent? You wouldn’t be down here washing my bras if you had.”

“No reason to repent. I don’t believe in God.”

“But you’re here. In Hell. Suffering for what you’ve done. And you don’t believe in God?”

“Nope. He doesn’t exist.”

“What about the Devil? You’re in Hell, getting the full experience, handcrafted by Lucifer himself—surely you believe in him?”

“No. He doesn’t exist either.”

“…Where do you think you are?”

“Fever dream. Maybe a coma. I’ll get over it.”

I turned to the next one.

“You?”

“Held up a gas station. Heist went sideways. I shot a young clerk.”

“And you didn’t repent?”

“Oh, I did. To myself.”

“You can’t repent to yourself. That’s not how any of this works.”

“Sure you can. God and the Devil are constructs. So like Polonius said: ‘To thine own self be true.’”

“So… atheist?”

“No. I’m an atheist. He’s agnostic,” the first sinner chimed in.

“He’s right,” said the second one.

“Show of hands. How many of you are agnostic or atheist?”

I stared.

Hands. Everywhere.

Blistered. Twitching. One missing a pinky. One giving me the finger.

Classy.

I hadn’t expected that many. Twenty-two, by my count. Atheists and agnostics. Out of maybe a hundred lava-stomping souls. All down here washing blood-crusted corsets and eternity-stained underthings—and they didn’t even believe in any of it.

Seriously? That’s like being mauled by a manticore and still insisting it’s just sleep paralysis.

“So let me get this straight. The rest of you… believe in a God? Any God?”

“No,” another sinner said. “I’m an agnostic atheist.”

Of course you are.

I sighed and stepped to the edge of the pit. My bras were done—crispy, slightly glowing, but clean.

No drying needed. Perks of bathing your delicates in lava.

I yanked them out with my brass-hook pole and slung them over my shoulder like a war trophy.

Still… I couldn’t shake it.

Twenty-two.

That’s not a fluke. That’s a pattern.

And patterns mean something’s broken.

These weren’t tortured believers. These were people who didn’t even think we existed. Who died unrepentant.

And yet… here they are.

Why?

They shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t be here.

I turned and started back toward the tunnel. My horns itched. I always get itchy horns when the rules don’t make sense.

---

Instead of going straight home with my laundry, I decided to stop by the coke ovens. I find it amusing, watching the dust bags haul coal into the furnaces—churning, purifying it into coke. That coke’s carried, still glowing, to the steel refinery to make Hell’s finest tools of torture.

Pure circle-of-suffering type stuff. Efficient, too.

“What you up to?” Celia asked, strolling up in her ever-melting heels.

“Nothing, really. Just came by for some shits and giggles.”

“Cool. We’re all heading to Dante’s Inferno later. Wanna come?”

“Who’s playing?”
Please don’t say 7 Circles.

“7 Circles.”

She said it. Of course she did.

“Again? That band is… I don’t know. So Dark Ages.”
I had to say it. 7 Circles is the hottest band touring the, ahem, Seven Circles. But still. They’re droll.

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun, I promise. And they’re hanging some dust bags on flesh hooks to serve upside-down jalapeño margaritas.”

Great. Service with a grimace.
“I’ll think about it.”

I won’t.

Another dust bag caught my eye. This one wasn’t flailing or sobbing. He looked… still.
Not peaceful—just vacant. Like his mind had accepted all of this.

“Hey, you. Come here.” I waved him over.

He stepped out of the coke oven line, slow and blank.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“I embezzled money from the elderly. Ponzi scheme,” he said.

“You didn’t kill anyone?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Then why didn’t you repent? Simple schemes, simple redemptions.”

“There’s no one to ask,” he said flatly.

Another God-denier. But this one felt different.

“Then why are you here, being punished for sins you committed, if there’s no God?”

“There isn’t a God. And this isn’t punishment.”

Okay, this guy’s nuts.
“So what is it then?”

He shrugged. “Poetic justice.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I scammed seniors to feed my coke habit. Now I make coke. In ovens. In unbearable heat.”
He looked around. “It’s ironic. But it’s balanced.”

“And you don’t think God or the Devil has anything to do with that?”

“No. Just physics. Equal and opposite reactions. Push, pull. Good, bad. All of it’s just balance. Equilibrium.”

I’d heard enough. I waved him back to work.

I couldn’t understand it.
He’s in Hell.
He sinned.
He’s being punished because he wouldn’t repent.

That’s it. That’s the system. Right?

I grabbed my bras and left.

I went straight home, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him. His voice. His calm.

There was no way I could bring this up with Dad. He’d get all misty-eyed and mutter something about me inheriting his sacred gift of purification. Ugh. No thanks.

No, Dad wasn’t the one I needed.

I needed Lucifer.

As much as I hate him—I knew he’d help.

“Hey, Jo, you were gone a while,” Cidalia said.

“Was only going to do a small load of laundry, but I stopped by the coke ovens after.”

“Poking fun at the coke heads again?”

Mom knew I liked to tease them. “No, not really. But—”

“No buts, just out with it. Knowing you, it’s either a good idea or wrath-of-the-Big-Guy-upstairs stuff.”

She knows me too well. “Not this time, really. But I stumbled on something weird. Just don’t tell Dad yet.”

“Okay.”

“No—promise you won’t tell Dad. I think he’ll misunderstand and take it the wrong way.”

“I promise. What’s up?”

“When I was doing laundry, I noticed this one agitator wasn’t really suffering like most of the dust bags do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, this one said he was an atheist—didn’t believe in God or the Devil. I pressed him on why he thought he was here, and he figured he was in a fever dream or coma, not really in Hell.”

I told Mom about how many I’d found, and even about the one in the coke ovens. She tried not to look concerned, but I know her too well—she’s worried.

“Why don’t you want to talk to Dad about this too?”

“You know Dad. He’ll think I’m picking up on his purification powers or something like that, but this isn’t it. I really think I need to bring this up with Uncle.”

“Well, you could… but you really should apologize to Lucifer first. I know he’s forgiven you, but you still need to apologize.”

“Why? He’s the one who said I could do it when Hell freezes over. I just ordered the ice.”

“Yes, you did order the ice—and in doing so you shut down half of the Third Circle and put Lucifer seriously behind quota.”

I could see in Mom’s face she still thought it was funny, but honestly, I didn’t think it would shut down half the circle. If anything, I gave the gluttons a good ice-cream headache.

I do get why he was mad, though. The Third Circle’s packed, and the backlog of new flesh pigs is extreme. They’ve got to move that line fast.

“But I do think you’re wrong about Dad,” Cidalia said. “He would understand this and help you too.”

I know she’s right, but I don’t want to sit through another We Are Legion motivational speech. I know we’re Legion, but he talks about it like it’s some secret, honored society… like the Free Masons or something.

“I’ll think about it. But I really want to talk to Uncle about it. I don’t think he knows how many non-believers are down here—ones who don’t think they’re really suffering. Or worse… the ones who think their suffering is self-inflicted. Or, like that coke head thought, just physics.”

I told Mom I was probably going to hook up with Celia and the gang for a night at Dante’s Inferno. She knew if I went there, she wouldn’t need to worry and I’d be gone for hours. But I’m not going. I’ll have to give Celia the heads-up so she doesn’t blow my cover.

No — I’m going to see Lucifer. That trip will take most of the night there and back.

---

Chapter Three: Chatting with Uncle Luci

We live out in the suburbs of Pandæmonium, Hell’s capital. We used to live uptown, but Dad said it was too busy and not the place to “raise a family.” As if. Sometimes I think the old man’s getting soft.

Lucifer’s chamber is a hike. You take the main road out of Pandæmonium to the central spiral, which branches to each circle of Hell. Every circle has its own spiral climbing to walled cliffs riddled with narrow caves. The caves open onto ledges that overlook a massive canyon.

Those ledges form a ring around a huge central pedestal. The canyon is so deep you can’t see the pit fires below — just the glow, a constant, hellish pulse. The jagged walls arch overhead into a dome, trapping the heat and the sound.

And in the middle of that pedestal is the Sword of Samael — Lucifer’s holy blade from before the fall, still bearing his true name. Even buried two feet in the rock, it stands over eight feet tall. It radiates a blessed energy that none of us can look at without searing pain.

The blade pierces a great iron ring that holds the unbreakable chain shackled to my uncle’s ankle. That’s how he rules: bound to his podium prison, the Sword always in sight, always out of reach.

I took the route through the Second Circle. I get a kick out of watching the lustful tossed around by those hurricane-force winds — like shaking a dust-bag salad. Plus, it’s the shortest path.

The spiral up to Lucifer’s ledge is steep but manageable. The ledge itself is narrow, and you approach it carefully — not because you’ll fall, but to avoid accidentally catching sight of the Sword. Personally, I like my vision.

“What’s that I smell?” Lucifer’s voice rolled across the canyon. “Ah, yes — unmistakable. Spoiled brat.”

“Hello to you too, Uncle.”

“What dares bring you here now?”

“I have a good reason. Something I think you should know.”

“After.”

“After what?”

“After you apologize for stalling operations on the Third Circle.”

“Okay, okay — I’m sorry for trying to freeze Hell, but—”

“Ha! You caved. I knew you would. It didn’t stall anything — I just kept it frozen. Gluttons hate it.”

“Really? Sometimes you’re such an ass. But this is serious. There’s something going on.”

“And what is it, then?”

“Some of these dust bags don’t think they’re really being punished because they don’t believe in God — or you.”

“They’ve just been misfiled. They should be in Limbo with the rest of the unbaptized and non-believers.”

“No. These were baptized. And they still deny good and evil. One swears it’s just physics — push, pull. Another thinks he’s in a fever dream. And it’s not just a couple — it’s many.”

“Denying His existence is still blasphemy, so yes — they belong here. Just in a different circle.”

“Uncle, you’re not getting it. They’re not suffering. They’re indifferent. A few even accept it.”

We went back and forth for a while, but it was pointless. He kept calling it a clerical error. Even after I told him what some of them had done to get here, he just waved it off.

No — there’s something more going on. Not just misfiled bags of dust.

I left him to whatever he’s going to do. If anything.

When I got back into Pandaemonium, I decided I’d go to Dante’s Inferno after all. Still early enough, so everyone should be there.

The place had a lineup curling out the door. Great. It’s LaDaemon’s night — which means every male daemon in the city will be out trolling for female company. It’s a pheromone-soaked rutting ritual, and trust me, there’s nothing more nauseating than that much male daemon musk hanging in the air.

I cut to the front of the line and stared down the door troll. He stepped aside without a word. Being the daughter of a first-wave fallen archangel has its perks.

Inside was exactly what I expected: tables of daemon girls sipping drinks, laughing at all the males who think they’ve got a chance. Most of these women would eat them alive on any other night, but LaDaemon’s is a night of “peace” — which really means you can’t kill your date before they buy you a drink.

I hadn’t been inside Dante’s in a while, and they’d redecorated. The old murals — each one a scene from the nine circles of Hell — were gone. Now Hell was painted as an island adrift in an endless void. Far above it, floating in the distance, was a cloudlike mass… Heaven, unmistakably.

Between them arched two bolts of lightning, their paths on a direct collision course. The one fired from Hell was a deep, fiery red; the one from Heaven glowed with cold, radiant Holiness. At their tips, they scarred each other — Hell’s lightning charring and smoking under the Holy energy, Heaven’s bolt reddening and warping under Hell’s heat.

The details in the mural were sharp enough to pick out individuals. In Hell, daemons raved and cheered the bolt on. Mixed among them, dust bags stood motionless, unmoved by the chaos. In Heaven, angels and the clean dust bags did the same — some shouting in triumph, others simply… indifferent.

The image lodged in my brain like a burr.

“There you are — been looking for you all night,” Celia said, appearing at my side with two drinks in hand.

“Yeah, just got here. What’s this?” I took the glass she offered.

“It’s the new thing — Holy Water. You’ll love to hate it.”

I gave her a look. “Holy Water?”

“Not the real stuff. That’d burn us from the inside out. No, this is contraband liquor some daemon lifted from a bartender he possessed.”

I raised a brow. “And how exactly does booze make it from Earth to Hell?”

She grinned. “Limbo. If the person you’re possessing dies and goes there — unbaptized, pagan, whatever — whatever’s in their hands comes with them. So you just pick the right mark, and you can smuggle the good stuff back.”

That made me pause. I’d always believed nothing physical could follow you here. But possession changes the rules. It also made me think — what about Purgatory? Dust bags bound for Heaven, but slated for a fiery rinse first. What if you possessed one right as Michael green-lit them for ascension? Risky, but maybe possible.

“You look way too deep in thought,” Celia said. “Loosen up. Have some fun.”

“I will. Just… when did they change the murals?”

“A couple months ago. I like ’em — Heaven and Hell locked in eternal battle, all epic and dramatic.”

“Yeah, cool… I guess. But did you notice the dust bags? In both Heaven and Hell? They don’t even seem to care what’s happening.”

“Why should they? One’s being punished, one’s in bliss. The war’s not their problem.”

“Maybe. But remember that weird one at the coke ovens today?”

“What about him?”

“What if there are some of those atheists in Heaven?”

Celia laughed. “Good question. But who cares? Let’s go dancing.”

We danced to a couple of songs, but my heart wasn’t in it. Maybe the hike to Lucifer’s chamber had drained me, or maybe I was just running out of steam. Still, I had to admit—those Holy Waters were dangerously good.

The thought of daemons possessing souls bound for Purgatory wouldn’t leave my head, so I asked Celia, “You know the name of the daemon who possessed that bartender?”

“Pazuzu, I think. Yeah—Pazuzu.”

“I thought his thing was possessing teenage girls?”

“It was—until one of them happened to be a teenage alcoholic. He got hooked on the good stuff and now only possesses people he can smuggle booze back with.”

We danced a few more numbers before I decided to call it a night.

Chapter Four: A Plan is Brewing

When I got home, Dad was there—looking as distant as usual.

He saw me and tried on a creepy, over-the-top evil grin. Creepy is just the default for us down here, but I knew the attempt was genuine.

“I hear you’ve had a busy day?” he asked.

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Patching things up with your Uncle isn’t ‘kind of.’”

“I didn’t think we were patching anything… why, what did Mom tell you?”

“Nothing. Haven’t seen her since I got home. But I did have a meeting with Lucifer earlier.”

“And he said we patched things?”

“Not in so many words—but he appreciated you bringing the atheists to his attention.”

“Funny, he dismissed it as a clerical error.”

“True… but after you left, I went to the lava laundry myself and talked to a lot of the damned. Just like you told him—many don’t believe in God, or the Devil, or anything at all. These aren’t your standard pagans or unbaptized that belong in Limbo. These are… different. Special. Worth a closer look.”

And there he went—into one of his tornado speeches: why this, why that, how things should be. On and on. I had to cut in.

“On Earth, if a dirt bag dies while possessed by a daemon, where does their soul go?”

“That depends,” Azazel said.

“On what? Details, Dad.”

“The whole point of possession is corrupting a pure soul so it can’t enter Heaven. If they die while possessed, and they’ve sinned naturally, they’ll go to their designated circle of Hell. But most are innocent. The possession just tarnishes them slightly. Those souls go to Purgatory, to be cleansed of the trace of evil we left behind.”

“And the daemon?”

“We’re expelled before they enter Purgatory. It’s holy ground. Limbo’s one thing, but Purgatory is entirely different. We can’t follow.”

“Not even if the soul you’re riding is an atheist? Someone who doesn’t believe in God?”

He hesitated. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Just thinking. All those dust bags I met today had sinned, so sure—they belong here. But what about a baptized atheist who’s lived clean? No Limbo, no sin to punish. Do they go to Purgatory for ‘purification’ just because they don’t believe? And if so… when they ascend to Heaven, will they still not believe?”

“Interesting questions. But—”

“But what if we possessed one in Purgatory?”

“The holy purification would destroy us.”

“I’m not so sure. Wearing a dust bag who doesn’t believe would be like wearing a cloak of invisibility. Holy Water burns the flesh of the possessed, but to us it’s just an irritant. Maybe the Holy Light would be the same—painful, but bearable. It’s meant to cleanse, not torture.”

“And when they die, the daemon releases the possession—right? You’re not forced out by the Light?”

“That’s… true.”

“Then I think I could withstand it long enough to see if non-believers make it into Heaven.”

He went silent—really thinking it over. If I was right, this could change everything. Maybe even end the Holy War… or at least give us an edge.

***

A thimble vibrated on the table.

Not enough to spawn a new universe—just enough to be noticed.

It had happened before, but this was different. The hum was sharp, tonal, fading quickly.

One reached for a flask of aether resin. Two lifted the thimble.

A drop of resin on the table. The thimble set down on it.

The hum stopped. The vibration stilled.

They noted the incident, and watched. Closely.

***

Chapter Five: The Push-Pull Games

“Morning, Mom.”

“Morning! You look suspiciously chipper,” Cidalia said, eyeing me over her mug.

She knows I’m not a morning person, but I did feel good today. “Do you know the last time Dad actually purified one of these dust bags?”

“It’s been ages. If I remember right… yes—second ring, seventh circle.”

“So the guy offs himself and Dad decides he’s worth purifying? Really?”

“No,” she said, frowning slightly as the details came back. “It was complicated. The man’s wife was terminally ill and in constant agony. She begged him to end her suffering. He resisted for a long time, but she kept pleading. Finally, he smothered her with a pillow. Then, knowing what that meant for him, he took his own life at the foot of her bed.”

I blinked. “So, murder out of mercy, and suicide out of love. Why was Dad so torn up?”

“He refused to repent—at least, not to God. He only begged forgiveness from his wife. He accepted the punishment, almost welcomed it, for not having the strength to live on without her. He believed that by taking his own life, he had sealed off any hope of being reunited with her.”

“And Dad purified him anyway? Even without repentance?”

“Mostly, yes. But he worried that a non-repentant soul sent to Purgatory would just be stuck there forever unless Michael saw what he saw. And knowing Michael… that’s not exactly doing the soul a favor.”

“Did the guy ascend?”

“Eventually, yes.”

“So he repented after all?”

Cidalia shrugged. “Maybe. Michael must have seen something.”

I left Mom and headed to the Fourth Circle, where Celia was overseeing punishment with Plutus. I told her I’d help out—make a day of it.

The Fourth Circle is for the greedy and the hoarders—the penny pinchers, the “what’s mine is mine forever” types. Normally, their punishment is just pushing massive stone weights in endless, chaotic collisions. But today? Today Plutus had turned it into an actual spectator sport.

Instead of random shoving, it was ten Greedy vs. ten Penny Pinchers, lined up like a medieval tug-of-war. Both sides pushed their weights toward the other team, trying to force them past a goal line. Losing team’s punishment: even heavier weights for the next round.

“Plutus,” I said, staring at the wooden bleachers full of cheering daemons, “you built seating? Like… actual bleachers?”

“When you first told me about the idea, I mentioned it at Dante’s over drinks. Half the bar wanted tickets. It took off from there.”

I had to admit—it was a sight. Over a thousand daemons shouting for their side like this was the underworld’s version of the Super Bowl.

Ten hoarders were lined up on one side, Plutus had blue jerseys made and called the hoarder team Gimmees. The penny pinchers were decked out in gold and their team name was Never-Gets-Enough. Every player had to wait for the starting horn, and then push as hard as they could, staying in their own lane, toward their opponent. The field was marked off in thirds. You had to push the opponent past the line on their side to be counted as a win. Round was over when all had been pushed past either goal line. The first round was won by the Gimmees 7 to 3.
The second round went to the Never-Gets-Enough 6 to 4.

The crowd was eating this up. It wasn’t a fast game, but it was intense. You could see the exertion on the faces of the players. Yes, it was punishment, but there was a weird sense of team spirit too. The competitive nature of earthly dust bags, it seemed, didn’t end in death.

At halftime, the crowd parted as the Marching Wraith Accordion Band floated onto the field—Jodi’s worst nightmare. Half-translucent specters in faded military dress from a dozen different centuries, their skeletal fingers squeezed the bellows of ancient accordions that groaned out a warbly, off-tempo version of Stayin’ Alive. The sound was like a haunted harmonica caught in a wind tunnel, and the wraiths moved in a lazy, undulating sway instead of a proper march.

One drifted a little too close, its accordion bellows expanding almost into Jodi’s personal space, and she flinched.
Celia grinned. “You hate accordions, don’t you?”
“Only when they’re attached to floating corpses.”
“Hey! Play Don’t Stop Believin’!” Celia called out, and the nearest wraith’s hollow eye sockets somehow managed to look… offended.

“Anyway,” Jodi said, trying to refocus as the tune wobbled behind them, “you remember that Coke head yesterday?”
“Yeah, what about him?”
“Do you think he’d be worthy of redemption even if he doesn’t believe any of this is real?”

The music wheezed on, clashing hilariously with the weight-pushing grunts of the competitors in the background.

“I doubt it. He wrecked a lot of lives with that Ponzi scheme. Why?”

“I’m just… wondering. If he believes everything’s just physics—action, reaction—would he ever expect there to be a next stage?”

Celia narrowed her eyes. “You’re scheming something.”

Not exactly scheming—more like connecting dots. And the picture forming wasn’t pretty.

By day’s end, the Never-Gets-Enough crushed the Gimmees 124 to 56. The losers’ weights would be increased by 45%. Plutus was thrilled. I was less thrilled—my mind was already elsewhere. Something in this pond was off. And I was going to find out what.

After the Push-Pull games, I wandered. No destination, no real plan — just trying to sift the noise in my head into something useful.
All I had were suspicions, scraps of half-born ideas. Maybe there wasn’t even a problem to solve. No one else seemed to think there was. But it still felt like a puzzle I had to finish.

I must have walked on autopilot, because the next thing I knew I was back at the coke ovens, staring into the open mouths of fire. The flames devoured the coal, roaring without mercy.

I’d only been there a few minutes when I saw him — the Ponzi scammer. I waved him over. To my surprise, he smiled at me. No one smiles at a daemon.

“Yesterday you said you scammed the elderly out of their retirement savings. Why?”

“All my life I had a gambling addiction,” he said without hesitation. “And the worst luck of any gambler I knew. I got in deep with some dangerous people. The Ponzi scheme worked—until it didn’t.”

“Then why are you here in the coke ovens instead of in the Eighth Circle, neck-deep in shit?”

“Started there,” he said. “But Azazel decided my Ponzi work trumped just plain gambling and moved me here.”

That tracked with the look Dad gave me yesterday — the I know that guy look he tried to hide.

“So you gambled too. Cards? Roulette? Sports?”

“All of it. Except slots — too slow. I’d bet on dog fights, cock fights… even underground street fights.”

“What about dares? The kind with personal risk?”

“Yeah, a couple of times. Harder to arrange, usually just happen by chance.”

I leaned in. “What about now? You don’t believe you’re in Hell. You think there’s no afterlife. Would you take a dare to change your current fate?”

“In a heartbeat,” he grinned. “If I still have one.”

I told him I’d be back tomorrow. I had an idea — and I needed his full commitment. No details, no leaks, especially not to Azazel.
He agreed.

Back home, neither Mom nor Dad were around, so I went straight to bed. Sleep came fast. So did the dream.

I’d never dreamed before — and certainly never had a nightmare. But that’s what this was.

It began like the mural in Dante’s Inferno — the war between Heaven and Hell — only this wasn’t paint. It was real, and I floated in the void between. From Hell, the hoots and roars of daemons; from Heaven, a steady hum of angelic chorus.
Hell screamed in agony. Heaven’s souls murmured in idle conversation, ignoring the battle entirely.

That’s when I felt it: the pull. A massive invisible hand clamped around my torso and yanked me toward Heaven at breakneck speed.

The burn came next — not fire, not acid, but something stranger. It hurt, but I could bear it.

I was hurled into a glade thick with honeysuckle and daisies, beside a pond so still it looked painted.

When I looked in the water, I screamed. My horns were gone. My black hair spilled in long, soft waves. My eyes were the deepest blue, pupils perfectly round. My skin was pale alabaster, flawless — not my usual weathered, tanned leather.

I woke with a jolt. Startled.
And certain.

Whatever it took, I was getting into Heaven — no matter how uncomfortable it might be.

Chapter Six: Purification

“Morning, Jodi. So what’s my little punisher up to today?” Cidalia asked, eyes narrowing like she already suspected trouble.

“Nothing really, but I might be gone for a few days. Celia says Belial wants me to co-possess a pair of young pure twin girls to tarnish their purity.”

Cidalia sighed, lips twitching between concern and a smirk. “Alright, but be careful. The truer the faith, the more it can sting. And I don’t want to explain to your father why you came home smoking.”

“We’ll be careful. It’s just a torment-tarnish-and-vacate-the-building gig.”

“Okay then. Have fun.”

Mom was always a worrywart, but in her own daemon way it was nice knowing someone cared if I came back singed.

Dad was tied up in the sixth circle dealing with the heretics. The tombs were malfunctioning again—apparently not heating enough to sear flesh properly. That would keep him busy for a while. It’s not like he’s an HVAC tech.

I needed to find Celia. Ran into Raum—literally—and he told me she was heading to the fifth circle. He shifted back into his crow form mid-sentence and flapped off. Typical.

At the Styx, I spotted her lounging on the bank with a couple of junior daemons. She wasn’t tormenting anyone—nope, she was betting on the fights. Wrathful souls clawing at each other in the sludge while daemons cheered like it was a prize match. The scene looked half gladiator pit, half carnival sideshow.

“Hey Jodi. What’s up?”

“I’ve got an idea, and I need your help.”

“Is it the atheist thing still?”

“Yes. And I have a plan. I’m going to possess that coke-head scammer, and I need you to convince Dad he’s ready for purification so I can get him into Purgatory.”

Celia frowned. “But you can’t enter Purgatory even through possession.”

“I think I can. With that guy’s pure atheism, it’ll act like a buffer—like wearing a cloak against the Holy burn.”

“And then what?”

“If he’s so devout in disbelief, Michael might mistake it for conviction—and grant ascension.”

“That could take eons. Are you ready to endure something that painful?”

“Time means nothing to us. Besides, his denial of everything might shield me from the Holy Light long enough.”

“And if it works?”

“Then I’ll prove there are non-believers in Heaven. That God makes mistakes.”

“You know this could end badly for all of us.”

“How do you know it won’t change things for the better? So… are you in?”

Celia’s grin stretched unnaturally wide, that daemon smile we can’t help. “Sure. I’m in.”

***

The same thimble pulsed again. It hummed and warbled as it expanded.
The resin securing it evaporated.

Before either Overseer could blink, the thimble split into two identical twins. Both now glowed, resonating with each other in a low harmony, as if sharing a secret in a language only thimbles knew.

Neither One nor Two had witnessed such a thing.
Their attention was absolute.
And for the first time, their certainty failed.

***

Celia and I wasted no time heading to the coke ovens. She kept hounding me—literally, in hound form, snapping at my heels with that menacing grin—asking if I knew what I was getting into.

“Of course I don’t,” I kept telling her. “But I know it has to be done.”

The coke head spotted us and dropped his coal. As he walked toward us he smiled again. It’s unnerving to see the tormented smiling.

“I told you I’d be back.”

“So what’s the plan? You said it might change my fate.”

“First,” I said, “even if you don’t believe, I’m going to possess you. You’ll feel me in every layer of your being. I’ll have control, but we’ll understand each other. That’s the key. You have to stay strong in your denial, but convince Azazel you’re ready for purification. Celia will help nudge him.”

“Okay… then what?”

“Then you stay firm. Disbelief is still a kind of faith. Michael should see that conviction as truth—and truth could open the door to ascension.”

“You mean…”

“Yes. Me, a daemon. You, a sinner and non-believer. We’re going to Heaven. And once there, we’ll find more non-believers.”

“And what’s the point?”

“As firmly as you deny God, I know He exists. But I also know He is fallible. If I prove it, He is not the omniscient, omnipotent being He pretends to be.”

He squinted. “So I don’t believe in a God, and you just want to pull the mask off yours. Sounds less like a plan, more like a dare.”

“There is risk. If we fail, you’ll suffer Hell beyond imagination, and I’ll be chained to you for eternity—no escape, no release.”

“And if we succeed?”

“Honestly… I don’t know. But I need to find out.”

He smirked. “Well, no time like the present. What do I do?”

“Nothing.” I looked to Celia. “You know what to do.”

“Yes. Convince your father this one’s worth redemption.”

“Great. He’s at the Wrath Tombs—the heaters broke down again.”

Then I entered.

Possession isn’t just wearing a body like a coat. You get carte blanche to the whole interior: mind, memory, essence. This one was stripped bare, just his tormented soul—but I could still see it all. The gambling urges, the Ponzi scam, the coke habit born of desperation and fear. But no malice. He hadn’t set out to hurt those seniors; he just wanted to survive. The addictions were the true evil. That sincerity was my lever. If I could amplify it, Azazel would feel it too.

Dalton. Your name is Dalton? I thought into the stream of his mind.

He answered wordlessly, thought audible as if spoken. Possession is trippy like that.

“Good. Can you feel this?” I dialed up his remorse, tuning it sharp like a blade.

His mental voice quavered. Yeah. I feel it.

“Focus on it, but don’t get comfortable. If you let it become normal, it loses its edge. This is what convinces my father. Let it overtake you, but don’t let it settle.”

I hate it, he thought, raw and bitter. I’ll never get used to it.

I could sense the truth of it deep within him.

“Go get Dad,” I said aloud in Dalton’s voice.

Celia actually jumped at the sound. She recovered quick, though, nodded, and turned tail.

“Tell him you’ve been noticing this for a while,” I added.

“I will.” She bolted off, full dire-hound, claws scraping stone as she sprinted toward Azazel.

Celia returned with Azazel about an hour later. Pay no attention to them. Just act normal, I whispered into Dalton’s mind. Anything out of place could shatter everything.

Azazel and Celia were talking as she shifted back into her daemon form. She pointed toward us, and Dad just kept staring. Watching. Weighing.

I dialed up Dalton’s remorse, feeding it to the surface until his arms began to tremble in the flames. Intriguing—this was a man who believed pain itself was nothing more than physics: stimulus and response. He’d told me the ovens weren’t punishment, just “equal and opposite.” And somehow, he was right. He’d built a wall of disbelief so strong that fire meant nothing to him.

Until I touched his remorse. That alone cracked him. Not the flames—never the flames—but memory, guilt, and shame. That’s the true fire, I thought. And Dad will feel it.

Azazel stepped into the oven. The flames bent away from him like grass before a gale. He reached out, touched Dalton’s brow, and I felt the burn thread through his mind and soul-flesh. I cranked the remorse higher, terrified he might sense me riding inside. But Dalton’s ironclad non-belief kept me cloaked.

Azazel released him and walked out, the flames snapping shut. He spoke briefly with Celia, then left. She lingered.

“Well?” I asked through Dalton’s gravelly voice.

“He said he felt something—like remorse—but he wants your Mom to look deeper.”

“Shit,” I muttered.

“What’s wrong with that?” Celia asked.

“Mom doesn’t just see truths, she weaponizes them. She’ll dig until she finds that one thread a soul can’t bear, and then she’ll unravel it over and over until flames seem merciful. If she twists his disbelief into yearning, even a flicker of belief, Azazel won’t purify him.”

“That won’t happen,” Dalton said, his voice steady, distant.

And he meant it. I could feel it: his disbelief wasn’t a shield—it was a fortress.

Minutes later, Mom swept in beside Azazel. The ovens bent again, groaning.

“So this one thinks he’s ripe for purification?” she said with a laugh under her breath. “Let’s see.”

Azazel touched Dalton’s brow again. Cidalia tilted his jaw open and slid her elongated fingers deep against the roof of his mouth, past the bone, into the hidden places of his mind. I felt her rifling through memories like knives through parchment. I shoved remorse forward, the faces of his victims blooming sharp and unavoidable.

She flinched. That wasn’t the truth she wanted. She dug deeper.

Show her, Dalton thought, calm as stone. Show her the truth she can’t twist.

He opened himself. Not to belief, but to the purity of disbelief—unyielding, uncorrupted, absolute.

And Cidalia recoiled.

“There’s nothing I can do with this one,” she said.

“Why?” Azazel pressed.

“Because his remorse is real. He punishes himself more harshly than we ever could. That is his torment. That is his truth.”

Chapter Seven: Purgatory

Then it came: a flash of cold, a sting like frost across soul-flesh, and light—searing, blinding light. I shielded my eyes. When it dimmed, Dalton stood free of the ovens.

Not in Hell.

In Purgatory.

And not before Michael, but Gabriel.

“Shit,” I hissed.

“Bad?” Dalton asked.

“Worse. Gabriel hunts daemons. If he senses me…”

Dalton squared his shoulders. Turn it up. Let me carry this. If I can convince him, he’ll never see you.

I drew in a breath I didn’t need. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

***
And the table shook.
Only for a moment—but it shook nonetheless.

One looked at Two, suspicion flashing. But Two only pointed.

Pointed at the new thimbles.

They weren’t merely vibrating now. They were harmonizing.

And as their tune shifted, so did the light within them—each pitch higher, each glow brighter.

One and Two leaned heavily on the table, steadying it, terrified of spilling the rest.

But these twin thimbles—they would do the spilling.

Not the upstart. Not the wayward. These two.
 

***

It was working. I wasn’t expelled from Purgatory in a burst of searing light. Dalton’s atheist armor shielded me, belief in disbelief itself wrapping me like a cloak.

Through his eyes, though, I saw the Divine Light.

Not a metaphor. Not some vague spiritual warmth. A living radiance born of prayers—the faithful interceding for the souls here. The Light didn’t burn indiscriminately; it sought, it consumed, it loved. Sins seeped from the souls like tar, moist darkness streaming from them in rivulets—and the Light drank it down.

Are you seeing this? Really? My thought bled too loud across our link.

Dalton’s answer came flat, steady. I see it. But seeing still isn’t believing.

Then it began. The satispassion. Dad’s word for it: suffering-as-purification. Involuntary. No one chose this; the Light demanded it. You could not simply repent your way clean—you had to ache clean.

Dalton’s sins rose from him like smoke off a fire. His disbelief didn’t stop the ooze; his humanity carried it anyway.

You’re good, I thought to him. Really convincing.

He didn’t reply, wisely. But I felt it—Dalton wasn’t just performing. He was reliving every trespass, every scam, every terrified old woman’s face. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t hollow. He was… remorseful.

And that startled me more than any Divine Light.

Gabriel swooped past. His glare lingered. Too long. Souls who arrived with Dalton bled sins in faint streams, but Dalton poured like a breached dam. The Light around him flared brighter, greedy for the flood.

I tensed, ready to crank his remorse up higher, but there was no need. He did it himself. He chose to face his own harm, not for holiness, but for the sake of the moral code he had betrayed. A gambler. A scammer. An addict. And still—someone who wanted to be better.

Time here had no measure. Eternity blinked. A blink stretched to eternity. Suffering was the only heartbeat; the Light was the only currency. Each sigh, each tear, each pang earned a drip more radiance. When enough gathered, it pooled around a soul as aura. That was the ticket to the joy of God.

I watched Gabriel pause before one such soul, shining bright. He lifted Splendor. A blade of pure brilliance.

Holy fire ripped upward like lightning in reverse. The air cracked with its release. And then—the soul winked out.

No trumpets. No choirs. No cosmic scoreboard ticking higher.

Just gone.

Ascended.

And I shivered—not from the Light, but from the silence that followed.

And another one gone. Then another. More arrive. There is no queue. No assembly line for dust bag purifiers. It just is. Random.

You can tell the fresh ones from the older by the glow. New arrivals are lackluster and dim, but their darkness is internal, not external. And there’s no constant rate to gaining Holy Light—suffering is a personal journey.

But me? I only know one thing.

I’m bored as shit.

Dalton scoffed in my head. But hey—Hell had its perks. It was fun, always something to do.

Another scoff. Guess I was venting my boredom too loud for his taste.

Make a game of it, he thought. Pick ten souls at random, and ten new arrivals. Guess their ascension order. Oldies versus Newbies. See which team wins.

“I can’t believe you,” I scolded, as loudly as I could think. “All this time here repenting your sins, and you can still come up with games of chance?”

Games of chance to pass the time isn’t sinful. Wagering on them—and what that leads to—that’s the real dilemma.

“I wouldn’t bet on that!”

He cringed inside, but hey, c’est la vie. And I have to admit—his little game broke the monotony. Newbies scored first. One-nothing.

Gabriel flew past again, glaring over the crowd. But I swear, he lingered on us a little too long. Like he knew something was off but couldn’t name it. I sweated mental bullets.

Two-zip for the Newbies. Dalton smirked mentally. Of course he’d root for the underdogs.

Gabriel halted at a soul and raised Splendor. Nothing. No lightning. Not quite ready. He sheathed the blade and gave the soul a nod, as if to say, Soon.

The next one winked out in a blaze of light—but wasn’t on either team. No points, no foul.

Then Michael descended, joining Gabriel. No words, but their kind didn’t need them. They separated, scanning the crowd. Michael paused near us, lifted Glorious, and blue fire cracked skyward. Another soul gone. Score unchanged.

The two Archangels reconvened near the center, communing in silence. Slowly, deliberately, they began moving in our direction.

Closer.

Closer.

Until they stood before us. Splendor and Glorious raised in unison. The lightning that surged wasn’t gold or blue—it tangled together, a blinding chain of violet fire.

There was no wink. No sensation. Just there—and then not there.

“Now I’ll never know which team won!” I giggled, only to get promptly shushed by Dalton.

***
The two upstart thimbles weren’t humming anymore.
They were screaming in harmony.
They didn’t just glow—they burned white-hot, not to the touch but to the sight.

One looked at Two. Two looked at One.

They weren’t stumped.
For the first time,
They were scared.
 

***

Chapter Eight: So This is Bliss?

My nightmare was way off. So far, anyway.

We both felt the whoosh of whatever power dropped us here. No fields of daisies or buttercups, no gentle ponds — just light.

An all-encompassing light. One you can feel, see, taste… even hear. Not a hum or a buzz, but a soft vocal harmony of three calming voices resonating everywhere at once. Low, almost imperceptible, yet undeniable.

And with the light came another sensation — whether from the glow, the sound, or simply from being here I couldn’t tell — but it overwhelmed us completely. A calm that soaked every sense.

For me, it was unsettling. I’ve never felt calm like this. For Dalton, it was something he never knew. For both of us… foreign, but welcomed.

We walked aimlessly, if “walking” is even what you’d call it. No ground beneath us, yet we weren’t floating either. Just motion. No direction. No up or down. Circles, maybe. It didn’t matter.

If this really is Heaven, and this is all there is, it’s going to be one boring eternity, I thought at Dalton.

He actually giggled — didn’t even grimace at my joke. Instead, he marveled at the calm. Said it was strange but filling.

Then the sound shifted. The harmony of light changed. It wasn’t words, but it was speaking all the same. Feelings carried meaning — a thought we understood as clearly as language.

A welcome. An open-armed, unconditional welcome.

I could feel Dalton welling up. I hoped he wouldn’t notice that I was too.

He noticed. And still, he just said: No.

My thought slipped: How can you not start to believe?

His reply was firm. Because this isn’t God. It’s a being. A real entity of a different biology. Not almighty. Not eternal. Just… different.

Well, that Being wants us to come forward, I scoffed.

We walked. For what felt like forever.

At last the light thinned. We came to a cliff overlooking a valley — brilliant and white, but also all colors at once. A waterfall cascaded on one side, rainbow hues shining, yet still white. It wasn’t shifting from one to the other. It was both simultaneously.

Down the path, others were already there. Wandering. Calm. Wonder-struck.

We didn’t speak to them. We didn’t need to. A glance was enough to know them completely.

The light guided us toward a structure — small, beautiful, marble-like. Not a house, not a church. Just a place.

Inside: bare. Except for three small pillars, like polished stumps.

The light gathered over the middle. Then split into three. White at the center, blue-violet on the right, deep red on the left.

The harmony became three distinct thoughts. Three voices that weren’t words at all, but feelings.

Not judgment. Not command. Just one message, repeated threefold: Love.

That was it. Love.

The pillars merged, the light dissipated, and we were left wandering again.

Hours? Eternity? Hard to say. The valley opened to a glade — souls at rest, lying by ponds, sitting under trees. No wants. No needs. No secrets. Without desire, privacy meant nothing.

Dalton marveled. For the first time in his memory, he felt no needs. None at all.

But everyone we saw… believers. Except him.

And I pressed on. I had to know if there was another.

A plain stretched out ahead, and in the distance: a city. Radiant. White and multicolored all at once, polished like marble under eternal light.

We entered. The streets were full, but no one rushed. They simply were.

Everyone we passed, we knew completely. And they knew us. Some may have sensed me inside Dalton — but I couldn’t be sure, because I was feeling everything Dalton was too.

Then I noticed something strange. Everyone appeared as thirty, but their histories told otherwise. A woman walking past had died at three years old. A man lived to eighty-seven. Both walked here in the same eternal prime.

And then I found him.

A man who lived a full life. Who was kind, good-hearted… and godless.

Like Dalton.

He didn’t see this as Heaven. He saw it as another plane, another form of existence.

I found him. An atheist in Heaven.

Now what?

I soon discovered that in this place, not only do we know each other instantly — we also know intention. Dennis, through Dalton’s interpretation of my thought, understood why I wanted him to come, without a word.

We returned to the white building with the three marble stumps.

No questions. No doubts. Just knowing.

Dennis Lowe. Jeweler. Six children. A wife. Losses too — one son gunned down in a robbery before Dennis himself passed. He didn’t believe his boy was in Hell. Just… elsewhere. Another plane.

Dalton thought that seemed reasonable, given Dennis’s convictions.

The two men walked forward and stood before the stumps.

***
One looked at Two. Concern mirrored concern.

The upstart thimbles were no longer humming — they were vibrating, pulsing. The glow spread backward along their spawning tree, every God-thimble flaring brighter, while the Godless ones dimmed.

One pressed a hand to the table. Two did the same. But the vibration only intensified. The unbelieving universes guttered out like dying coals.
 

***

Dalton and Dennis waited at the stumps. Nothing. No light, no chorus.

I fidgeted — too excited about finding Dennis, too caught up in the moment. I slipped. Released Dalton.

Now it was three of us standing there.

Two atheist human souls. One daemon — Jodi Lynne Morningstar, daughter of Azazel and Cidalia.

For the first time in my life, I was afraid.

A daemon in Heaven. Shouldn’t I be ash by now? Smote into nothing?

But no. Just calm.

And then it came. The chorus. The light. Splitting into three. White, violet-blue, red.

They spoke in thought and harmony, but their meaning was clear.

“I am that I am. To you, Jodi Lynne Morningstar — I am Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. To Dalton — I am science. Push, pull, counterforce. Proton, electron, neutron. To Dennis — I am logic. True, false, indeterminate. I am all of these. And more. What matters is living your truth with fidelity — even if you falter in other ways.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but a warmth surged through me, silencing me.

Dalton smiled. Dennis smiled. And I… felt.

Then His voice, not thought but thunder, filled the chamber:

“Jodi Lynne Morningstar. You have done well. You will return to Hell, not to punish but to guide. The gift of empathy I seeded in you will now be your purpose: to help more souls find redemption, as you did with Dalton. What say you?”

Before I could answer, Dalton spoke:
“May I accompany her? My life had little purpose. Perhaps this one can.”

I tried to object, but the light swallowed us.

***
The hall shook. Columns pulsed.

The non-God universes imploded in on themselves, collapsing to ash.

The Godly thimbles glowed white-hot, spiraling faster, faster, until they fused into one blazing megaverse that rose above the table.

The marble melted, reshaped. A ring became two chairs. One and Two sat.

They watched the new universe hang between them.

Paradox, resolved.

Paradox, eternal.

And for the first time, One and Two smiled.
***

Epilogue: Grounded

We were back in Hell.

“You can’t come back here,” I hissed at Dalton.

“Too late,” he said — with a voice, not thought.

“Get some clothes on,” I groaned, realizing God had restored him to manhood… literally. 

Dalton laughed, impervious to the heat. “You’re not the only one changed.”

He was right. My horns were gone. My skin smooth. My wings still black, but softer. My hooves replaced by ridiculous, floppy feet. “I’ll never learn to walk with these things.”

For once, I felt… good.

We went home.

When I walked in, silence fell as jaws dropped. .

“Hi Pops. Hi Mom,” I grinned. For once, it wasn’t the eerie daemon grin.

Azazel smiled. “So, you did it. You challenged God. Didn’t go as planned, did it?”

“Oh, I think it went just fine,” I smirked.

Cidalia eyed Dalton. “And this coke-head dust bag? And why is he fleshed naked?”

“Mom, so judgy. Yes. This is Dalton. God made him my assistant. Though not much of a tailor.”

“For what?” Azazel asked.

“To help more like him find redemption.”

Azazel puffed with pride. “Knew you’d follow my path.”

“Nope,” I said, stretching my new wings. “You just purify. I transform.”

It’s been eons since I was sent to my room. But today? Today was the day.

*End*