Crosscorp

Myriads of angels stood in formation, gleaming like holy fire. Their presence shimmered across the ether, vast and reverent. Yet all of them waited. For her.

For one small, breathless woman named Lydia, who, somehow, had the audacity-or misfortune-to keep Heaven's most revered gatekeepers waiting.

If it had been anyone else, she might have been smited for the inconvenience. Vaporized on the spot. Toast. But no. It was Lydia. And apparently, she got a pass.

Unaware of the cosmic tension building outside, I sat hyperventilating in my rust-speckled Achieva, haphazardly parked in the celestial visitor's lane.

I'd wedged myself between a luxury car wreathed in lightning and what might have once been a chariot, now converted into something with wheels but barely so.

"Get a grip, Lydz," I muttered, rocking gently in the front seat, crumpled paper bag pressed to my mouth. "They're just angels. Big, flaming, terrifying heavenly messengers. You've faced vampires. Vampires, Lydia. Vampires."

I took another panicked breath into the bag, my thoughts unravelling. These weren't ordinary supernatural beings. These were upper echelon celestial bureaucrats. The VIPs of the divine realm. These guys didn't just have access to the Big Guy. They reported to him.

The I-Am. The CEO of Everything.

And for reasons still beyond my puny grey matter, He'd saved my sorry butt. Though I was important enough to spare. The concept still short-circuited my brain.

I raised another glance at the angelic crowd and immediately regretted it.

The tallest among them stood like a bronze obelisk sculpted from divine fire. Familiar, somehow. He radiated ancient authority, six wings wrapped around his form in practiced precision. They encircled him. Two shielded his face, two cloaked his feet, and two extended outward. His eyes shimmered with ocean hues and stardust and when they focused on me, I felt my skin might peel away from my spine.

Then came the knock.

I screamed and dropped the paper bag.

A figure loomed at my window, his voice a perfect match for the glass it tapped on. Cool, flat and non-negotiable.

"Daughter of Zion."

I didn't move.

Until he tore the door off its hinges.

That did it.

Scrambling out of the car, adrenaline overriding reason, I babbled. "Right. Yes. Coming. Totally on board. Walking now."

Somewhere in the far reaches of my mind, a mocking voice rose like smoke from an abandoned fire. Where's your stillness now. Your silence? The voice sounded vaguely like the Headmistress of that special hell I'd once escaped.

The angel gave no sign of hearing my internal spiral. His expression didn't flicker as he gestured to a precise spot on the glowing ground.

“Stand here. No. Not there. There. "

The area glowed on command, a spotlight on my assigned place like a stage cue.

"Do not speak unless addressed. No squealing. No clapping. And above all - don't fawn. He's in a mood and he can spot a phony a mile away." He gave me a look that would have cowed the entire planet.

I blinked. "He being."

"The Right Hand. He grants in person audiences to three mortals a day. While he's interceding on behalf of seven billion prayers. So, don't waste his time."

My mouth went dry. “I-“

“He's the one handling meets and greets today.”

“Where do I-”

"He'll come to you. See the man in the cap?"

I turned and spotted him immediately. Average height. Average face. A jaunty cap upon his head. Plain black coat that seemed to fold time into its seams. He was so painfully mundane it hurt to look at him. Until you noticed how the angels subtly moved aside, lowering their wings in deference.

He walked toward me with measured calm.

When he stopped, I stuck out my hand before my brain could stop me.

The angel beside me looked like he might spontaneously combust.

"Hi," I said sheepish.

The Right Hand extended his left and we shook. His grip was neither too warm nor too cold. I clasped it with both hands, finding it the same as any other hand.

"Lydia, eh? I imagined you taller for some reason.

"I was sitting," I offered weakly, thinking of one specific act of desperation. My hand instinctively moved to tug my shirt over my wrist. "If we've met before. Maybe I was sitting then too."

He chuckled. "You have quite the file, you know."

"Seven million pages. Mostly footnotes. A few... regrets." His gaze passed over me as though weighing me. Or my questionable acts.

I winced, picturing the years I'd rather forget.

"We only keep the good stuff. If you mean it," he said gently.

I met his eyes, mine probably more glassy than were usually. "I usually mean it."

"That's what we're hoping for." His smiled a disarmingly human smile. "Lord knows we don’t want anyone mining your file for inspiration. Now. About the vampire issue..."

"You know-" I asked, startled.

"We've always known. You're right, they're demons. Just...rebranded for dramatic flair.

"Charming." The range threatened to rise until a sweet smell curled through the air. Cinnamon buns?

I exhaled, and breathed in the smell once more.

"And the werewolves?"

"Genetic offshoot. Accidental. Dangerous, but salvageable. We'll fill you in."

"Wait. I'm being debriefed. "You're assigning me to this?" My hands rested about my hips. My mouth opened to argue.

He fixed me with a look that would have staked a vampire.

"We already have." The Right Hand, glancing behind me.

Two figures appeared from shimmering portals. One stepped forward.

"Introduce yourselves," the Right Hand said. "Then we'll begin initiation and reconciliation."

He turned and spoke to the two figures. "Start the initiate at the Hall of Echoes."

A shudder passed through me like someone had lit a grassfire.

I remembered the last time I heard that word, and I began to shake. Initiation. Tools meant to break me.

Instead, I used them and I survived.

Even now, a small part of me wondered if they had taught me something I wasn't ready to admit.