Madonnalisa panted as she crossed under Gillian’s mural, lit partially by mounted lanterns dangling from the ceiling. She ran up to the altar, then bowed before the glass effigy atop, diamonds shimmering along the deity's crown, a lit candle resting in its outstretched palm.

  “Blessings to his honorable.” She said, before standing up.

  Sitting at the foot of the altar was Archbishop Tyranaggan, a stone-grey, aged man, draped in a glass-patterned robe, topped by a phallic glass-patterned miter, and surrounded by candles.

  “Greetings, Archbishop!” Said Madonnalisa, honoured to be in the presence of such a figure, also annoyed by the short notice she was given. Having been in the middle of an exorcism when her workplace was phoned, it had been quite troublesome to find a suitable colleague to replace her before she left.

  The archbishop frowned at her, then gestured around at the hundreds of chairs where religious figures sat in order of rank—priests at the back, Bishops in the middle, and Highbishops at the front. This was on the right side of the path to the doors; on the left side sat a few priestesses. A shadow hovered over everything, scattered candles shining and casting grim likenesses over their faces.

  Seeing this, Madonnalisa felt immense pressure, having not realised who they were on her stride in, only wondering why so many of the churchgoers wore funny hats today and why they were even attending on a non-religious day at all. Just having the Archbishop here was pressure enough. She wondered what this was all about.

  “Greetings, everyone.” She said all jittery.

  Their faces were all grim, as if some great tragedy had occurred. Most of them didn't acknowledge her, their heads lowered as they muttered what she guessed were prayers. She wondered now if her attitude was inappropriate, having never been the best at reading the room.

  Awkwardly, she faced the Archbishop again. “So—what is the occasion?”

  The Archbishop sighed.

  Having turned eighteen sixty days ago and having gotten married ten days ago, she was a proper lady now.

  “I’m sorry.” She croaked.

  “Sorry?” The Archbishop gave her a funny look. “Why are you saying sorry?”

  “I don't know, you tell me. You're looking at me like I've done something wrong.”

  The Archbishop sighed again. “It's not you, dear, don't worry. It's just that a serious issue has arisen. We need your help, since you're the only suitable reaper in the city who worships Gillian.”

  There were only two reapers in the city that worshipped Gillian, her and her dad.

  “What is it that you need me for?” She asked.

  Clearing his throat, the Archbishop went on to say. “Something’s going wrong in the astral world. Two days ago, we discovered First Apostle Pan completely unresponsive. He wasn't dead, but in a deep sleep that was clearly ritualistic in nature. I received over a hundred phone calls the following morning, and apparently, all of the other Apostles were in the same state. We've also lost contact with the divine spirits, as well as all connection with Gillian’s eternal sanctuary, and worst of all, the god's blood has stopped refilling.”

  Madonnalisa’s heart sank. Gillian’s communion day was only five days away.

  The seriousness of the situation finally showed its ugly face.

  With a grave expression, she asked. “What must I do?”

  “We need you to traverse the astral world and inspect Gillian’s realm with your own eyes. We obviously don't expect you to solve the problem by yourself; we only need you to gather some information, so we're not left in the dark on what may be happening on the other side.”

  “Archbishop, sir.” Someone spoke up from within the crowd.

  Looking over, Madonnalisa didn't recognize the Highbishop. He must have been from a distant branch.

  The fair-haired man continued. “Perhaps, his honorable wishes us not to interfere. He may be facing a sudden and grave situation and has likely summoned the souls of the apostles to his aid. Is it really a good idea to send a delicate girl like this into such danger?”

  “I agree,” said another Highbishop. “Assuming the worst, it’s unwise to have the young one sacrifice herself.”

  Before the Archbishop could respond, the doors to the cathedral opened; a few more figures came inside, among them one of this cathedral’s priests, Hiroodiggan, and his superior, her uncle, Bishop Hideomoto. Even her childhood priest from utero was among the group. Moving with an enviable grace, they came up to the altar, one after another, bowing to say, “Blessings to his honorable.”

  Once this was done, several among the seated began to ask Priest Hiroodiggan for Madonnalisa’s father, expressing sentiments about her being a mere lass, unsuitable for the serious trek into the astral world about to take place.

  Madonnalisa frowned. They didn't even know her, let alone what she was capable of; these priests would piss their robes at the mere sight of some of the demons she had expelled before. How rude. With the pressure of this situation mounting, she gave a brief display of her reaper power, materialising a scythe as long as a man was tall, with a blade as sharp as these men were dull.

  “What are you doing, Madonnalisa?” Asked her uncle sharply.

  With one mighty swing of her scythe, she stole the heat from the air, the life from the torches and lanterns, stripping away what the eye could see, and leaving only a collective gasp in the total blackness that remained.

  Then, with a snap of her fingers, tall pillars of fire boomed from the torches and lanterns, igniting a thousand suns under the watchful eyes of the mural. As the light dimmed, she unsummoned her scythe.

  Madonnalisa was neither pompous nor one to stomach being underestimated. This was her power. As a reaper, she wielded the authority of life and death, and fire was life itself, ever growing and consuming, but always destined to be extinguished by a reaper’s scythe.

  Not giving two shingles and a paper clip about her display, the attendants resumed their pestering of her uncle and Hiroodiggan, demanding her father’s immediate service. Before it all, Archbishop Tyranaggan was a pillar of indifference. He stood from the altar and raised his hand to hush the cathedral. “Silence, all of you. Hiroodiggan and Hideomoto, you may now speak unimpeded.”

  “Thank you, Archbishop.” They both said, then Hiroodiggan spoke first. “Karrolyle is in too poor a mental state to be given this undertaking. Madonnalisa is perfectly capable, and we won't tolerate any disrespect going her way.”

  Her uncle came up to her, his silver eyes as warm as his pearly white smile. They hugged, and he asked. “How are you, Sunflower? You had to hurry here, right? I'm sorry about that. We actually planned to do this tomorrow, but we had to reschedule for today. A lot of people are still on their way here because of the sudden change.”

  “Why did you reschedule? And why not tell me in advance?”

  “Hiroodiggan forgot about the renovation work that was supposed to start tomorrow morning. Thick in the head, him. We actually wanted your dad at first, it wasn't until I visited him earlier today that I realised how bad his situation was and decided to phone the Cathedral to make the change.”

  How inconvenient, but she wouldn't complain as there were greater things at stake. She and Froggo had to meet their mother; it was something they had been desperate to do for ages, but had never felt satisfied enough with their progress in life to try, and it was only now that Madonnalisa at least felt able to face her.

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  “He hasn't been eating, y’know.” Her uncle sighed. “Your father. My sister’s death really knocked the wind out of him. After two years, he still hasn't caught his breath.”

  Madonnalisa took a deep breath. Her parents were her heroes, the people who made her see the world the way she did. Every time her heart broke seeing what had become of dad.

  “Right, enough,” The Archbishop roared to the crowd, “we will begin right now. Enough wasting time.”

  Two priestesses came around from behind the altar, laying down several layers of blankets at the altar's foot.

  Some groans could still be heard from the seated watchers, finally stopping when Madonnalisa went to lie on her back, several more priestesses coming to sit in a circle around her.

  She saw her uncle giving her a look of encouragement, his mouth stuttering as if he wanted to encourage her with words, but couldn't, not wanting to patronise.

  Closing her eyes, she first sent her thoughts into the astral realm, projecting feelings of compassion to summon her spirit friends.

  First, the image of a double-headed, winged cobra emerged in her perception, shimmering with metallic scarlet scales and eyes burning with a turquoise blaze. This was Belzirr, a spirit to protect her in the astral world. Second, the image of a being with a lion’s body, a woman’s face, and turquoise peacock wings and peacock’s tail came forward. This spirit’s job would be to guard her physical body and stop demons from possessing it while she was gone. Their name was Nassiara. Third: the image of an eel made entirely of lightning came forward; this spirit was her guide, whose name was Han.

  With them summoned, she leapt out of her body, landing across the cathedral. The world appeared vastly different when viewed while astralprojecting. Colours were brighter, and the sky was always twilight, no matter day or night, and it didn't feel as one would expect it to feel. It didn't feel like being out of the body; in fact, all the feelings were elevated, precisely like a dream. There was vibrancy, an aliveness to things that was absent in the normal world.

  She saw that most of the attendants had at least one demon feeding on their energies. Pathetic and miserable creatures, they took on forms that reflected those they fed on. There was one priest with a demon made from money, blood-soaked pins holding the cash together, forming a humanoid shape, signifying stress over money troubles. It squatted on his shoulders with its fingers wedged into his eyes, corrupting them to see only opportunities for profit. A Bishop had a demon in the form of an obese version of himself with a pig’s head, showing guilt related to gluttony. It sat beside him constantly rubbing its stomach and producing loud rumbles. A Highbishop seemed to be having troubles in his marriage; he had two demons that took on forms resembling exaggerated women, waists needle thin with their bust and bottom hilariously outsizing beach balls, implying sexual repression or adultery. They were on either side of him fondling his every inch. Her uncle’s demon took on the form of him wearing only a wine barrel as clothing; he had always had an alcohol problem. That demon swayed drunkenly, asking around at nobody in particular for a free drink.

  There was no such thing as privacy in the world of spirits. The things people feel ashamed of, the things they fear being exposed to the world. Those negative emotions gave those things power, and that was what demons fed on.

  Modonnalisa summoned her scythe, clearing out all the demons with a single swing. This would calm the attendants temporarily, but wouldn’t rid them of demons permanently, or even for a short amount of time. So long as the issues plaguing people’s minds remained, demons would always come back. A proper exorcism involved clearing up the mental clutter that demons fed on, something she obviously didn’t have time for.

  Belzirr and Han both flew over to her, while Nassaira remained hammered to the foot of the altar beside her body.

  Belzirr slivered up her astral body, wrapping themselves around her with one head facing in front of her, the other behind her.

  Belzir’s front-facing head breathed out a plume of smoke that formed into a scene of a starry night.

  “Goodnight to you, too,” greeted Madonnalisa.

  Han had also said goodnight, projecting their intent into her mind.

  Spirits had such fascinating ways of communicating.

  She rode on Han’s back over to the altar, where the Archbishop had joined the priestesses, all hunched in prayer.

  She dipped the tip of her scythe in the blood fountain at the effigy’s feet, then moved away and slashed at the air, leaving a thin gash of light that expanded into a tear in space. She had the authority to enter a god’s divine sanctuary as she pleased, though she had never done so until now, mainly out of fear of offending them; some among the one hundred and thirteen had been known to attack her kind.

  She assured herself. Gillian surely wouldn't regard her as an enemy; she was his devotee. If he were locked in battle, however, his adversary may. Fortunately, the cord between her body and soul was practically indestructible; if anything threatening happened, she could instantly escape by returning to her body.

  Wasting no time, Han flew into the light with her on its back.

  She had a rough idea of what Gillian’s divine sanctuary looked like, having seen it on the mural every time she attended church. A magnificent city built on clouds, the palace of rainbows in the centre, surrounded by arenas, theatres, and vast halls filled with fruits and meats, and several encircling rainbow rings for racing chariots reminiscent of the ones that encircled certain celestial bodies. It was a city built for eternal leisure, where the souls of Gillian’s most devoted went to live out eternity after death, freeing them of the endless reincarnation cycle.

  When the light faded, this was not what she saw.

  What she saw was a scene of total carnage.

  Death ether hung lynched in the air here, clouds black, the palace reduced to rubble, the outer rings shattered into shards floating out into a void of chaotic matter. It was cold, darkly cold, the kind of cold that tore into a person’s pores and tore them wider before gouging its way through the body.

  Madonnalisa shivered as Han flew closer to the devastated sanctuary.

  Above the rubble swayed tens of thousands of crimson things that couldn't be made out. Thunder could be heard from off in the distance.

  “Belzirr, do you sense anything threatening in the area?” She asked.

  Belzirr produced another cloud. Slowly, it formed three images: one of a danger sign, one of a clock, and another of a man walking a great distance.

  So danger was here at one point, but it left a while ago. Madonnalisa gasped as Han corrected her, projecting their thoughts. The danger wasn't entirely gone. What Belzirr actually said was that the entity responsible was gone and would return at some point. These spirits were much more in tune with the ether here than she was. With only intuition, they could already tell so much.

  A shiver ran up her spine. She didn't want to sit and wait for whatever had done this to come back.

  “Stop.” She ordered.

  Han came to a halt.

  She was on the verge of peeing herself, not daring to go any closer.

  She asked. “You two are much better at gathering information than I am. Can you sense what happened to Gillian? If so, then tell me what happened to him because I don't want to get closer.”

  Han projected into her mind that small amounts of Gillian’s ether could be sensed coming from what remained of the palace, and they needed to get closer.

  “Ok, fine.” Madonnalisa whimpered. “I’ll close my eyes, and you'll tell me what you see.”

  Belzirr rudely blew out a cloud that took the form of an ostrich burying its head in the sand. Madonnalisa buried her eyes under her eyelids.

  She felt a whoosh as Han sped off and dove and twisted around.

  She calmed herself down, remembering that she could instantly be back at the cathedral whenever she wanted.

  Han jerked to a halt, projecting into her mind that she had to see something.

  Opening her eyes cautiously, she saw the foot of a cracked and blackened pillar, realising they were now deep in the ruins of the palace.

  Looking up gently, slowly, careful not to set her eyes on something she inevitably had to see, she saw a figure on it’s back, sprawled over the stump where the rest of the pillar had broken off, a sword with a hilt that ended in the curve of a cane impaled through his chest.

  Han rose with her to hover above the large man. He was muscular, clad in only an ancient red-and-yellow garment that covered his thighs and groin.

  His head was thrown back, a dull expression frozen on his face. His black hair was long and curled, his skin distorted by some corrupting force, appearing grey.

  She was looking at a killed god! She was looking at—

  The thunder roared in the distance again.

  The god she had worshipped her entire life was dead.

  Han looked at her, then looked up. They projected into her mind that she needed to find the souls of the dead devotees.

  She froze, her eyes widening Panic overrode her fear and grief.

  Han did several loops around the rubble. Madonnalisa cried, seeing no sign of anything anywhere here, only blackened debris powdering the dark clouds.

  Han began to fly toward the crimson anomalies dangling high in the sky.

  Through her tears, Madonnalisa started to make out what these were. Thousands of them fashioned from ominous crimson strings that hung from outside the realm.

  When they got to them, an even stranger reality revealed itself.

  Devine spirits, the souls of the apostles, all imprisoned. According to Han, they were completely unconscious. The apostles still had ether cords shooting off towards their bodies in the mortal world, meaning they were still alive.

  Attempting to free them, Madonnalisa swung her scythe at a few of the cocoons, but it simply bounced off, not even managing to disturb how they swayed.

  She didn't exhaust herself; she understood her purpose was merely to gather information. But she still needed to know where her mother’s soul was.

  “Do either of you have any idea where the devotees are?”

  It was likely that they were taken by Gillian’s killer for some unknown purpose, according to Han, who answered first.

  Belzirr blew out a cloud that showed her being devoured by a monster. She understood the meaning of it. Whatever had done this was strong enough to kill a god; she wouldn't stand a chance, and there was no point in even trying.

  At the next moment, reality itself seemed to be collapsing. Waking up in the middle of the priestesses, she began to hyperventilate, the air fleeing her, never to be hers again like her mother’s embrace.

  The priestesses swarmed her, the priests and Bishops trying to do the same. Archbishop Tyranaggan, Hiroodiggan, and her uncle had to push them back and threaten their careers to make them stop.

  “Gillian is dead,” she wheezed to the closest priestess.

  The older woman went ghostly pale before yelling to the others. “GILLIAN IS DEAD!”

  “What?”

  “Did I hear that right?”

  “Gillian…”

  “Gillian is dead?”

  “No, it can't be.”

  A few of the priestesses fainted. A Highbishop attempted to take his own life by breaking off a chair leg and stabbing himself in the neck, needing to be restrained.

  Madonnalisa’s uncle reached her and took her through a door behind the altar as chaos erupted behind their backs.

  She was crying, her nose running, her voice broken.