"And Soul Traders take them to this judgment? But why? Why bother?" I asked, not totally getting it.
"As it is in the earthly realm, free will govern one's path," Haniel explained.
"What are you saying? They get to choose whether they go to heaven or hell?" I asked, still confused.
"In a way, yes."
"OMG, I still don't get it," I griped.
"Haniel, if I may?" Mark gestured. "Jordyn, it's complicated, but what Haniel means is that some souls are not ready to move on for whatever reason. They're not reborn, but they are given a second chance. Their bodies regenerate into the form they were before."
"Ewwww, that's freaking gross. What if someone got hit by a car or something?" I said, wrinkling my nose up in disgust.
Krista laughed at Mark. "Nice try, babe, but you're not doing much better. Their bodies are restored back to their pre-death condition, but it's not like they are now back on earth like regular people. What Mark and Haniel have not explained is that the soul's choice at judgment is to accept the decision to go on to their afterlife destination or become a Soul Trader."
"What?" I asked, shaking my head in amazement. "You're saying Soul Traders were once these questionable souls who now work for The Light?"
"They work neither for The Light nor The Dark One," Haniel intervened.
"So who's doing the judgment then?" I questioned.
"Like Mark said, it's complicated," Krista answered. "All you really need to understand is that some souls want a second chance to finish something they started when they were human, while others find it a temporary solution to avoiding hell."
"So, you still go to heaven or hell, you just put it off for a while? Sounds weird," I exclaimed. "What about after they get their human form back, do they have powers like you guys do?" I asked, wondering about the green-eyed, rebel-hottie-looking Trader I had left at the Boardwalk. I was relieved that Haniel's and Krista's mind-reading gifts were useless on me.
"They do have special abilities, but at a price," Haniel interjected. "As long as the Soul Trader performs the duty of collecting souls, actual human shape is retained. As for your other question, if the soul's path was for the heavenly realm, the choice to become a Soul Trader forfeits that right."
"Shut up!" I said shocked. "You mean if you become a Soul Trader, you can't go to heaven? How does that make any sense?"
"It is not for us to question," Haniel answered sternly.
My stomach twisted around in knots. These people are screwed either way. My thoughts drifted again to the Soul Trader I met tonight. Had he been hell bound? His very existence could go against everything I believed and fought for.
"Was Emrys hell bound?" I asked, trying to convince myself it didn't matter.
"That is unknown. All that is certain is he is a Trader, and as such, cannot be trusted."
"Sounds like you don't like him much?" I asked Haniel, but he said nothing more.
I wanted to argue, but I could tell my aunt and Haniel were beginning to look worried at my interest.
"Jordyn, there is something you must understand. Soul Traders are gifted in the art of persuasion. They use this skill to convince the souls to go with them, but it can also be used on humans. They are extremely dangerous," Haniel said, obviously seeing through my indifference.
"Gotcha. Soul Trader bad," I said, working to hide my sarcasm. Insanely hot, but bad, I thought. Feeling I had pumped as much information out of them as I was going to get, I made a big production of yawning, giving the impression I was exhausted.
"I think I'm going to do some backseat diving and then hit the sack," I joked, trying to lighten the tension that had crept into the room.
"Jordyn," Krista chastised, smothering a laugh as Mark groaned again and dropped his head in his hands.
"Mark, chillax, dude. I save that for extracurricular activities after school," I sassed as I headed to my room. I could hear Krista's muffled laughter behind me.
"Teenagers," I heard Mark mutter.
"That was us just a few years back," Krista reminded him as I closed my bedroom door.
Grinning wickedly to myself, I kicked off my Converse shoes that never seemed to go out of style, shimmied out of my jeans and shirt, and tossed them in the vicinity of my laundry basket. I opened my pajama drawer and pulled out a pair of cutoff sweats and one of the spaghetti-strapped tank tops I liked to sleep in.
Once I was dressed in my nightly attire, I plunked down on my lavish high poster bed and leaned back against my mound of pillows. I studied the posters plastered to my ceiling. Steamy guys from all my favorite shows grinned down at me in their hotter-than-sex-on-a-stick way.