Пепельный рассвет. Антон Демченко

      Prologue

      The After Place

      “Please, don’t send me back to earth!” Celestian was really in trouble this time. He had finally gone too far. Tampered with The Plan once too often. He’d already been busted down from time-out monitor to prayer courier, and yet here he was again, facing a Level Three Penalty Hearing. Would he ever learn to straighten up and fly right?

      “A decision has been made.” He couldn’t see the hallowed faces of the Panel’s senior saints, but their voices resonated from three different directions.

      He couldn’t go back. Earth was a dangerous place. “It’s been over three hundred years, Your Excellencies. I am unfit to live again.”

      A calm, sonorous voice filled the interview chamber’s white space. “You shan’t be given an earthly life, Celestian. You must retain spirit form.”

      “If I may speak freely—”

      “You may not speak at all.” Another voice. Deeper. Not so calm. “Listen and obey. We do not wish to see you in Judicial Chambers.”

      “Yes, sirs.” Nor did he wish to be seen in Judicial Chambers.

      “More than once you have failed to follow After Place policy.” Another voice seemed determined to point out the obvious.

      “Perhaps I’ve behaved imprudently, but—”

      “Your imprudence borders on insubordination,” St. Cranky snapped. “You have placed us in an untenable position.”

      “You have lost sight of your purpose,” St. Obvious intoned.

      “We trust a lesson in humility will teach you to respect The Plan.” Even St. Calm didn’t sound so calm now.

      “An example must be set.” St. Cranky, of course.

      “Yes, sirs. But banning me to earth seems harsh in light of—”

      “Do not consider yourself banned.” St. Calm recovered his equanimity. “Consider your return to earth a mission.”

      “A mission? Me?” Celestian squeaked. What in heaven’s name were they thinking? He did not possess the skills required for Earthwork.

      “Celestial beings are never given assignments they cannot fulfill,” St. Calm reminded.

      “Very well.” Celestian sighed. There was no arguing with a Review Panel. “I can’t wait to hear what I must do.”

      “That’s the spirit!” St. Obvious didn’t understand sarcasm. “Since you are guilty of manipulating circumstances for your own purpose, you shall be given ample opportunity to do so by returning to earth as a guide.”

      “A spirit guide?” Celestian dared to hope. That wasn’t so bad. “Whose earthly life must I guide?”

      “Your human’s name is Chloe Mitchum.”

      Celestian’s optimism faded as memories of Slapdown, Texas flooded back. “But Chloe Mitchum is a child.”

      “Yes, an old soul who recently entered the fifth year of her current life. Helping an innocent little girl won’t strain your limited resources, will it?”

      “No, sir.” Celestian listened as the Panel explained he was to befriend a child experiencing earthly problems. What problems did a five-year-old have?

      “All you have to do is provide comfort, succor and guidance. The usual.”

      He could do that. “As in, look both ways before you cross the street. Brush your teeth up and down and back and forth. Drink your milk. That kind of guidance?”

      “Your primary objective will be helping Chloe’s mother meet her soul mate,” said St. Cranky.

      “What?” Matchmaking was definitely not in his toolbox.

      “Nothing complicated. Assist them in falling in love. Facilitate their courtship. Insure their lifelong happiness, a fate already slated for them. That is all.” St. Calm’s impossibly reasonable tone frustrated Celestian.

      “You lost me at courtship.” He knew nothing about making people fall in love. He’d died without ever experiencing the emotion.

      “Despite the combined efforts of several departments,” St. Obvious continued, “we have been unable to bring these two soul mates together. Their paths have paralleled, but have not crossed.”

      “Time is running out,” added St. Calm. “She married the wrong man once and is overcautious. He has stubbornly vowed to remain a bachelor.”

      Celestian began to sense how truly difficult his task would be.

      “Extreme measures are needed. That’s where you come in,” said St. Obvious. “We require regular progress reports, so stop by Central Supply before you leave and pick up a H.A.R.P.”

      “A harp, sir?”

      “Handheld Analog Reporting Pad,” St. Obvious explained. “The new technology far surpasses the old. Very user-friendly.”

      “If you succeed in helping the soul mates find true love, you may return to your former position in the time-out room.” St. Cranky dangled the bait.

      “And if I fail?” Celestian asked.

      “If you fail, you are stuck.” Leave it to St. Obvious. “Stuck on earth. Stuck in Texas. Stuck with Chloe.”

      Doomed. As were the humans if he was their best shot at happiness. “I don’t understand. Why do soul mates destined for eternal love need my help?”

      Silence filled the interview chamber as the panel conferred with one another. St. Cranky finally spoke. “Due to a system error, these two soul mates currently occupy Antipodean Mortal Coils.”

      “Anti what?” Celestian wasn’t up on the jargon. He’d never expected to wind up on happily-ever-after detail.

      A babble of no longer serene voices boomed through the chamber.

      “Opposites. Contrary in personality, temperament and values,” explained St. Calm.

      “Totally and hopelessly mismatched,” added St. Obvious.

      “You call that a glitch?” Celestian began to sense how hopeless his mission really was. “Try problem of mammoth proportions.”

      “Dear boy, do not be discouraged. If you wish to return to The After Place, you mustn’t let the fact that the subjects have absolutely nothing in common deter you from your worthy goal.” St. Cranky had suddenly become St. Smug.

      He knew Celestian didn’t have a prayer.