Chapter Text
The blankets were warm, and the pillow was soft. For a few delirious minutes, Vaggie thought she was in one of Heaven's aid centers, but as the dregs of sleep faded, so did that hazy relief.
She was in a strange bed, in a strange room, wearing nothing but a loose cami clearly made for someone taller. Overhead, a shimmering red canopy displayed a story she knew all too well: the corruption of humanity and the fall of Eden. A woman with flowing hair and long, curved horns—Lilith, Vaggie thought with a grimace—stood under the Tree of Knowledge with her arms spread to Adam and Eve, offering the forbidden gift. A winged serpent surveyed the three humans from where it coiled around the topmost branches of the Tree—Lucifer.
Vaggie looked away from the vile scene, but the rest of the room wasn't much better. Everything was red, from the carpet to the wallpaper. The furniture was all sharp angles and bold, dark colors. Hellish red light shone through a crack in the heavy drapes. The air tasted like sulfur; each breath scoured Vaggie’s windpipe and rattled in her lungs. It was like inhaling gravel.
Vaggie’s chest constricted, and a raspy cough escaped her. That small movement raked her back with blades of fresh pain, and she arched off the bed with a gasp.
She had almost forgotten. She wished she could forget. The aggravated wounds, the shredded muscle between her shoulder blades, the relentless ache of phantom limbs. . . it all served as a horrendous reminder of what had happened the night before.
Can't think about that now, Vaggie reminded herself. She could take time to process what Lute and Adam had done later. First things first: she was in Hell, alone, and she was vulnerable. She needed to reevaluate her priorities.
Her wings—or lack thereof—weren’t the only injury site. Where her left eye should have been was a gouged pit. Clean bandages were taped over the socket, though she knew they weren't much use. The blood had coagulated and cleared on its own mere minutes after the initial injury. When Vaggie lifted a hand to remove the wrappings, she found that her movement was unbalanced, and her line of sight was noticeably skewed. The pain she could handle; the lack of depth perception would take some getting used to.
Aside from her eye, her wings, and some bruising here and there, she was intact. The clothes she’d had on last night—stolen off a dead sinner—were nowhere in sight, and she was noticeably cleaner. Someone had taken the time to bathe her before dressing her wounds. She distantly recalled the sensation of cool hands stroking her hair, and a stranger's voice singing her to sleep, but the memory was fogged by agony and exhaustion.
Above all, Vaggie needed to move. She needed to get the fuck out of bed, even if it hurt. If she could stand, she could run; if she could run, she could fight. In a realm of monsters, she needed to be able to defend herself.
She pushed the blankets aside and, steeling herself for the inevitable, sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She had to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. Her back spasmed and her heart thudded against her ribs. She squeezed her eye shut and drew slow, shaky breaths until the pain faded. Then, with renewed determination, she slid out of bed.
Her bare feet landed on an unexpectedly soft carpet. She curled her toes against it, marveling at the texture, before remembering that it, like all other beautiful things in this wretched place, was most certainly a demonic illusion meant to lure her into a false sense of safety.
Vaggie reoriented herself and looked around. Now that she was on her feet, she did a more thorough sweep of the room. Her current clothing situation wasn’t ideal, but she didn’t have any better options, so she shelved the issue. Survival came before comfort.
Her next thought was of weapons. A hard lump of dread settled in her stomach when she couldn’t find her spear. She looked everywhere—under the bed, behind the dresser, inside an elaborate armoire—but every feasible hiding place was empty. As a substitute, she took up a heavy brass candlestick resting on the dresser. Like her clothes, it wasn't ideal, but it was better than nothing. At the very least, a well-placed hit would slow down an opponent long enough for her to flee.
Once she escaped this place, maybe she could retrace her steps back to the alley where she’d dumped her uniform and spear. Despite how recent it was, her memories of last night were a hazy blur, but hopefully she’d had enough wherewithal to hide her things well.
She was just removing the wax candles from her improvised weapon when the door opened. She whipped around, hefting the candlestick and drawing herself up into a fighting stance.
It was the demon from the alley. She strode into the room, carrying a pile of folded clothes, but stopped when she saw Vaggie’s defensive pose. She fell back a step and lifted a hand.
“Hey, it’s okay! It’s okay. I come in peace.”
She was tall and lean, with thick blonde hair, large eyes, and a pointy, spotted nose. She almost looked human.
Vaggie distinctly recalled looking up at her in the alley, seeing a face so inexplicably normal, and mistaking her smile for a beacon of safety, a candle in the dark. She now understood that feeling had been a result of pain and delirium. The longer she looked at this demon, the less human she appeared.
Those eyes, while bright and curious at first glance, were a sickly jaundice-yellow. Her nose was black and her nostrils had the wide spread of a dog’s. Her mouth was too wide, showing off canines that were too long and sharp. Her hair rustled softly in it constraints despite the lack of any breeze, like it was a living thing unto itself.
All demons, sinners and Hellborn alike, were notoriously ugly, twisted creatures. This one must be powerful to be able to disguise herself with this attractive, near-human façade. Vaggie shuddered to imagine what sort of monster lurked beneath that alluring surface.
“Sorry if I startled you. I guess I could’ve knocked, but I didn’t think you’d be awake,” the demon said in a tone so cheerful it bordered on absurdity. Her lips stretched into an unsettling imitation of a smile, showing off her fangs—a veneer of friendliness stretched too thin, like a cheap mask.
This demon was toying with her; Vaggie was sure of it. A predator stalking circles around its prey, ready to cast off all illusions of goodwill the second Vaggie dropped her guard.
Well, Vaggie wouldn’t give her that opportunity. She would wait for an opportunity of her own, and wouldn’t drop her guard for anything.
“I suppose I should thank you,” she said after a moment. The noxious air turned her voice to a raspy croak, but her tone was steady. She was pleased by how calm she sounded.
The demon flapped one of her clawed hands.
“Oh, it really wasn’t a problem. I’m just glad I got to you before someone else did.”
A veiled threat, a warning of what was to come. She wanted her victims all to herself. Whatever she had in mind was bound to be leagues worse than what any other demon might have done.
Vaggie put down the candlestick, forced herself to relax, and fixed her face into a grateful smile, pretending she hadn’t caught on to the demon’s agenda.
“I mean it. I don’t know what would have happened to me if you hadn’t shown up.”
That much was true. When her only other choice was braving the bloody, lawless streets of Hell, she would gladly taken her chances with a demon feigning kindness.
The demon chuckled and tucked some loose hair behind her ear. A blush crept into her cheeks. Vaggie watched her closely, silently working to determine what she hoped to achieve with a clumsy reaction like that. Whatever bit she was playing, she was committed, Vaggie could say that much for her.
“Well, uh. . . you’re welcome. . .” The demon trailed off, dangling a silent question in the air.
“Vaggie,” Vaggie supplied. In her rushed debate over whether she should give her real name, it came out quiet and choked.
“Vaggie,” the demon echoed, testing out the word. She mispronounced it, using a hard G, but Vaggie didn’t correct her. The demon crossed the room, held out a hand, and flashed that plastic smile. “Nice to meet you, Vaggie. I’m Charlie. I’m. . . okay, I don’t want you to freak out or anything, but I think I should tell you now rather than later just to. . . rip off the scab, so to speak.”
She gave an awkward laugh. Vaggie faked an equally awkward laugh. Charlie straightened her shirt, squared her shoulders, and said, “I’m. . . technically. . . the princess of Hell.”
Vaggie’s restraint cracked. She sucked in a breath and fell back a step.
She thought Charlie looked vaguely familiar, and had been working under the assumption that she was some obscure royal, or perhaps a prominent overlord. But the princess?
The pieces fell into place: the luxurious room, the Fall of Eden displayed proudly the bed canopy, Charlie’s obvious power and status. Vaggie was in the palace—Lucifer’s palace, with Lucifer’s daughter.
The revelation confirmed her worst fears. Charlie knew who she was, or at least what she was; how could she not? She hadn’t plucked Vaggie off the street in a moment of compassion, but curiosity. Had she ever seen an angel other than her father up close?
Vaggie could only imagine what horrors lay in store for her. She would be the princess's pet, her hobby, for her to pick apart piece by piece, indulge her curiosities whenever and however she liked. Maybe Vaggie could find a way to kill herself first, or if she was lucky, perhaps Charlie would miscalculate an incision mid-torture and strike a vital organ, granting Vaggie a quick death. However it happened, Vaggie realized then and there that she would die in the palace, at the hands of Lucifer and Lilith’s vile spawn.
Seeing her fear, Charlie lifted her hands again and hastily said, “No, no, it’s not like that! It doesn’t really mean much, anyway. Not in this ring. Most sinners don’t care about Hell’s royalty.”
Right. Vaggie was supposed to be a sinner. Surely the princess knew what she really was, but until she acknowledged it, it would be in Vaggie’s best interests to play along. What else could she do but delay her gruesome fate?
“Okay,” she said tentatively. “Should I be calling you ‘Your Highness’, or. . .”
“Oh, Lord, no. Please don’t,” Charlie groaned. She pinched the bridge of her doglike nose, took a deep breath, and said after a moment, “Don’t think of me as a princess. Just forget I told you that. Think of me as. . . a friend?”
She extended her hand again, looking hopeful. This was the most believable performance she'd delivered so far.
“Sure,” Vaggie said through gritted teeth. With that, she accepted the handshake. She swallowed bile as Charlie’s pale, clammy hand closed around hers.
Charlie’s smile somehow widened further, and she squeezed Vaggie’s hand painfully tight. No doubt she was delighted to have pinned down her new prisoner. The sparkling insanity in her eyes tied Vaggie’s stomach into knots.
When they released each other’s hands, Charlie held out the bundle of clothes she was carrying. Vaggie recognized them as the ones from last night. She was a bit surprised to see them again, having assumed they were thrown away in favor of her current flimsy top.
“I had these washed. I would have given you better pajamas, but I didn’t want to aggravate any injuries, so that’s why. . . you know, what you’re wearing now. . . that is. . .” Charlie cleared her throat and nodded to Vaggie’s cami. That odd flustered look returned.
Vaggie became suddenly self-conscious about how short her top was. It was long for a shirt, but barely covered her ass. To make matters worse, she was wearing nothing underneath. Charlie’s gaze raked up and down, clearly noting the same thing. Lust gleamed in her overlarge eyes. Disgusting.
Seeing that Vaggie was rightly uncomfortable, Charlie quickly added, “It was the best I could think to do. I promise it wasn’t weird. Look, lunch is almost ready. Why don’t you change and then come join me?”
“Sounds great.”
Charlie stole one more unsubtle glance at Vaggie’s bare legs, then turned and sped from the room, leaving Vaggie alone with her stolen clothes. Having no better options, she put them on. The sinner they’d previously belonged to had been taller, with wider hips and a larger bust, but the fit was decent. They were definitely more comfortable with the crust of blood, ash, and dirt washed out.
Now that she was awake and dressed, Vaggie finally started to feel like herself again. The pain from her wounds receded to a steady throb. It didn’t feel like it would go away anytime soon, but it was bearable.
Next came the dilemma of how to handle the princess. Could Vaggie escape before Charlie got a chance to hook her claws into her? Was escape even possible? For the sake of due diligence, Vaggie opened the drapes and tried the windows, but all were locked tight. She was loathe to discover the locks at the very top of each arched frame, far out of her reach. She couldn’t touch them even when she stood on tiptoe and whacked at them with the candlestick. They were probably meant to be opened with magic or some hidden mechanism.
Her back was aching by the time she gave up the struggle, which exacerbated her misery. If she had her wings, she could open this stupid window and fly away. But a lingering look outside, at the smoking city and unfettered violence in the streets, was enough to deter her irritation. She wasn’t ready to face the wilds of Hell yet. First, she had to survive the princess.
Vaggie pulled back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and strode out of the bedroom into a long hallway. She set her trajectory on the nearest set of stairs as if she knew where she was going. She forced herself to walk fully upright and with as normal a gait as she could muster. Her body immediately protested, but she gritted her teeth through the pain. She couldn’t afford to look weak.
Her false confidence wavered when she made it down the first flight of stairs and found herself staring down an identical hallway. It finally clicked that not knowing her way around the palace might be a problem.
“Hello?” she called, tentatively stepping forward. “Charlie? I’m, uh. . . I’m decent now.”
No response. She was considering opening doors at random—maybe scouting for accessible windows—when a high-pitched chittering noise nearly startled her off her feet. She whipped around, silently cursing herself for leaving the candlestick in her bedroom, and found a short, winged demon staring up at her.
This demon wasn’t of any species she knew. It was goatlike, with curled black horns, leathery wings, and a reptilian tail. It cocked its head and blinked bulbous yellow eyes at her. Vaggie jumped a little when it made that same chittering sound. It turned back to the stairs and beckoned her to follow.
The most widespread Hellborn breeds had been created by the Deadly Sins, and each one was specifically modeled after them. She could only assume this demon was the work of Lucifer, perhaps created to serve his daughter.
Vaggie drew a map in her head as the demon led her through the palace. Some rooms were open, and she made sure to glance into each one, noting potential exit routes and hiding places. Along the way, the demon squeaked and chattered and bleated, but it seemed more like general noisemaking than an attempt at a conversation, because it never waited for Vaggie to respond. Whether there was an actual language barrier between them or this demon simply wasn’t capable of speech, Vaggie neither knew nor cared. She decided quickly that it wasn’t an immediate threat.
She was brought to a dining room, where a long table awaited. Charlie was seated at one end, and Vaggie groaned inwardly when she saw that the only other available chair was directly to her left, perpendicular to her.
Charlie’s face lit up when she saw Vaggie, and she straightened in her highbacked chair. Her smile was like the flash of starlight on ocean waves, dazzling to the eye, a cap of beauty concealing an abyss of unknown horrors. A cunning strategy—beauty was undoubtedly an effective lure in a realm like this, where grotesque bodies and mouths of rotted teeth were the norm. This glamour was expertly crafted, but Vaggie would not fall victim to it. The princess would have to try harder than that if she wanted to deceive her.
“Hi,” Charlie said, somewhat nervously.
“Hey.”
Vaggie sat down, and Charlie followed suit. The servant demon set down two glasses of water, one for each of them, then scampered off.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come down. I realized when I left, I didn’t really give you a choice," Charlie stated with a bashful laugh.
“It’s alright. I could go for some food.”
A short, somewhat awkward silence ensued. Charlie’s eyes darted erratically around the room, looking anywhere but at Vaggie. She wrung her hands in her lap. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Perhaps Vaggie’s resistance to her glamour had shaken her confidence. Vaggie found some satisfaction in the thought.
In hopes of maintaining her casual demeanor, she asked, “So, what’s for lunch?”
“Well, I figured you would probably want something light to start with, so it’s just soup. Razzle and Dazzle will bring it out when it’s ready.”
“Razzle and Dazzle?”
“My attendants. Dazzle was the one who brought you in here.”
Vaggie recalled the little goat demon and nodded. She cleared her throat to respond, and was promptly reminded of her dry mouth and sandpaper tongue. She desperately needed water.
She inspected her glass for a moment, making note of the subtle yellow tint in the water, before downing half of it. She almost spat it out. It was lukewarm and tasted like rotted eggs. Just like the air, sulfur saturated every molecule. It helped a little bit, she thought—her throat no longer felt like it had been buffed by broken glass—but a bout of nausea made her head spin. Somehow, she kept it down, and managed to let only the barest grimace show on her face.
Charlie watched her carefully, like she was also waiting to see if the noxious water stayed in Vaggie’s stomach. After what she must have deemed a long enough pause, she steepled her fingers and said, “So, Vaggie, you’re obviously new to Hell.”
“You could say that.”
“Did you drop in during the extermination?”
Vaggie bit her lip and nodded. It wasn’t untrue. Charlie winced sympathetically and muttered, “Oof. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. What an introduction, huh?”
“Tell me about it.”
“But you survived. Most of the souls that drop in on Extermination Day are killed before they can get their bearings. It’s a good thing you were able to get your feet under you in time.”
“Yeah. It was. . . a lot.”
“I can only imagine.” Charlie leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the table, and Vaggie resisted the urge to lean away. Her cheery smile returned as she asked, “Where are you from?”
A vice of panic gripped Vaggie’s heart, but she suppressed it. The best play was to play dumb. She was starting to wonder if Charlie didn’t actually know what she was. Maybe the loss of her halo hadn’t just changed her appearance, but her overall aura. It was unlikely, but not impossible. If that was the case, then the longer she kept this ruse up, the better.
“You mean. . . on Earth?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, uh. . .” Vaggie scraped her brain frantically, but couldn’t come up with a believable answer. She needed time to craft a good cover story. She crossed her arms and hunched away, making herself look small and pitiable, and quietly responded, “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” Charlie stammered. She sat up straight, putting some welcome space between them.
“It’s alright. I’m still processing everything, I think.”
“Of course.”
Until now, Vaggie had concluded that some of Charlie’s deliveries were fumbled because she was accustomed to relying on her looks rather than having to play a convincing role, but the warm compassion in her voice almost sounded real. Maybe she was a better actress than Vaggie gave her credit for.
The conversation was thankfully derailed when the two goat demons, Razzle and Dazzle, flew into the dining room, each carrying a tray with a bowl of soup.
As their respective trays were set down, Vaggie’s gaze was drawn to the far end of the table. A terrifying thought occurred to her, and she hesitantly asked, “Will Lucifer be eating with us, or. . .”
“Oh, no. He doesn’t. . . that is, we don’t. . .” Charlie struggled for words for a moment, then carefully explained, “This palace is more like two palaces. He has his side, I have mine. After Mom left, he and I just sort of stuck to ourselves. He doesn’t leave his quarters if he can avoid it. At this point, it’s probably better that way.”
That was a lot to unpack. It must have shown on Vaggie’s face, because Charlie smacked her forehead and backtracked, “Shit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you. It’s not anything you need to worry about. Point is, we get lunch to ourselves. Everything’s fine.”
“Okay,” Vaggie said after a moment. She didn’t know how else to respond.
Heaven had plenty of eyes in Hell to monitor the steadily growing population and ever-shifting political climate, so they’d heard the news that Lucifer and Lilith had separated. When it first became known, Adam reveled in it, and many of the exorcists shared in his revelry, but Vaggie had always found it hard to believe. The infamous lovers who shattered Eden had broken up like any other dysfunctional couple? After nearly ten thousand years together? It seemed unlikely.
Had the alleged separation not already been common knowledge, Vaggie would have assumed Charlie was lying to win her sympathies, but she sensed that wasn’t the case. She couldn’t quite puzzle out Charlie’s true feelings about the situation, but she was willing to accept the truth of it.
Regardless of the details, it was a relief to hear that a) Lilith was no longer on the scene and b) Lucifer, while nearby, likely wouldn’t make an appearance. Even if Charlie had miraculously missed the fact that Vaggie was an angel, her parents wouldn’t be nearly so ignorant. The last thing Vaggie needed was to bump into Lucifer. If he didn’t kill her on sight, he would out her, and she didn’t know which would be worse.
With that concern dealt with, Vaggie turned her attention to the food. It looked more like a stew than a soup. It was a creamy purple goo filled with wedges of unknown meat and vegetables. Like everything else in Hell, it radiated the pungent odor of sulfur, though it was somewhat diminished by the equally strong smell of garlic.
Obviously, it was poisoned. This was what the morning had been leading up to, the pinnacle of Charlie’s plan to pull the rug out from under Vaggie’s feet. It was all part of a sadistic game: nurse her wounds, lull her into relaxation, and then throw her into a dungeon or torture chamber when she least expected it. Why else would she go to such lengths to establish a safe, friendly environment? Why else would she invite Vaggie to share a meal?
Vaggie couldn’t turn down the food now that it was in front of her, but she couldn’t let herself be poisoned or drugged. There was only one option—it wasn’t foolproof, but it was the only thing she could think to do.
Pretending to reach for her glass, she jolted her elbow forward, bumping her tray and knocking her spoon to the floor. She'd considered hitting the glass, but the mess would bring Razzle and Dazzle over, which would render this ploy moot. Plus, as awful as the water was, she couldn’t afford to waste it. It was probably the closest thing to a clean drink she would find in Hell.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” she muttered, halfheartedly leaning down to grab the spoon. “It's my eye. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no, it’s okay. You’re still healing. Here, I’ll get it.”
Charlie bent down, lowering her head under the table. Vaggie threw one perfunctory glance at Razzle and Dazzle to make sure they weren’t watching (they were conveniently busy fussing over a decorative fruit bowl arrangement), then switched the soups. The movement was swift and precise, and her years of wielding a heavy weapon lent her the grace to set the bowls down without a sound. When Charlie arose, Vaggie was back in her relaxed posture as if nothing had happened. Charlie handed over her spoon with a smile, and Vaggie gave her profuse thanks.
“What does it mean to be the Princess of Hell, exactly?” she asked, just to make conversation. “What do you do?”
The prompt worked, and Charlie dove into a history of Hell’s royalty, much of which Vaggie already knew (the exorcists were all required to take regular demonology classes). As Charlie talked, she ate. Vaggie spent the first few minutes stirring around the mystery chunks in her soup, nodding along and piping up with occasional questions, all the while watching with a wary eye for any adverse effects. After fifteen minutes with no noticeable change, her growling stomach reminded her that she really was hungry, so she risked a small bite.
Like the water, it was the strangest and most disgusting thing she’d ever eaten. The texture was simultaneously thick and runny, the vegetables were painfully bitter, and she didn’t want to know where the meat had come from. But also like the water, it was all she had, so she choked it down. She endured a few more bites, then set her spoon aside to give her stomach time to settle.
Within a minute, she knew something was wrong. Dizziness turned to full-blown vertigo, and Charlie’s peppy voice was slowly overtaken by an echoey, high-pitched ringing. Vaggie's stomach was not settling, was in fact starting to hurt, and she repeatedly had to swallow a rise of acid reflux. She knew what vomiting was, but it had never happened to her before, so it took her longer than it should have to realize that was where this was headed.
Charlie was droning on about her day-to-day life, specifically her interactions with local royals, when she stopped midsentence and fixed Vaggie with a concerned, quizzical look.
“Hey, are you okay? You’re looking a bit green.”
“I’m, um. . . yeah, no, I’m good. I’m just. . .” Vaggie sucked in a breath. Her stomach gave a painful lurch, and she realized with a sense of doomed certainty that she was about to be sick. She stood up on unsteady legs and asked, “Is there a bathroom around here?”
“Yeah, just down the hall on the right. Do you want me to—” Charlie started to stand as well, but Vaggie lifted a hand and stumbled away from the table. Her legs trembled beneath her as she headed for the door.
“No, it’s alright. I’ll just be a minute.”
As soon as she was out of the dining room, she broke into a run. She shuddered, and knew instinctively that it was about to happen.
She made it to the bathroom and fell to her knees in front of the toilet just in time. An acrid belch was followed by a torrent of bile and half-digested purple stew. It burned her mouth like acid, and the smell alone was enough to make her vomit a second time. She coughed and moaned in pain, struggled to steady herself as violent shivers seized her body. Her stomach clenched and she retched again, then again. By the fourth round, there was nothing left for her stomach to eject. It was just sulfur-tainted saliva, yellowish bile, and, to her horror, a clot of gold blood.
Poison. The word arose in her mind again. How? She swapped the bowls! If Charlie had tried to poison her, the attempt should have backfired! Unless. . .
Maybe Charlie had anticipated that Vaggie would swap the bowls. Maybe she’d poisoned her own in anticipation of that very thing. Or worse, maybe she’d put it in both servings and the poison was angel-specific, so she would walk away unharmed whether Vaggie swapped the bowls or not.
She knew exactly what Vaggie was, or at least suspected. It was the only explanation.
Vaggie’s spiraling thoughts halted when she heard running footsteps. Her eyes darted down to the blood that had come up. There wasn’t much of it, but if Charlie saw. . .
Vaggie flushed the toilet, and that gleam of gold disappeared right as Charlie rushed into the bathroom.
“Oh my gosh, are you okay? Are you sick? What’s wrong? What happened?”
“What was in that fucking soup?” Vaggie croaked. She doubled over and hacked into the toilet once more. She flinched when Charlie’s cool hands gathered up her hair and pulled it back from her face, but didn’t have the strength to push her away.
“There you go, just get it all out. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that would happen,” Charlie said gently.
When Vaggie finished, she drew back from the toilet and leaned heavily against the wall. She was trembling from head to toe; clammy sweat beaded on her skin. Charlie pushed her bangs back to feel her forehead, and Vaggie flinched again. A guttural whine of fear escaped her.
Charlie sat back on her knees, regarded Vaggie with a long, pitying look. At last, she stated, “I’ve heard of this sort of thing before. Sometimes new sinners have trouble with the physical adjustment. I’ve also heard of Hellborn who go to work on Earth for long stretches of time, and when they come back, they have readjustment issues, too. You might just be extra sensitive.”
The explanation sparked something in Vaggie's mind, a distant memory.
Many years ago, one eccentric scientist who specialized in demon biology did a series of experiments on plant- and animal-based foods from Hell. Rather than properly testing their genetic makeup, he skipped the standard safety protocol and ate the food to see for himself how it would affect an angel. He discovered that angels and demon food did not mix, as he was rushed to an aid center by his lab assistant and spent the next eight hours violently ill. He famously instructed his assistant to write up a detailed list of his symptoms, track his vitals on a spreadsheet, and record his verbal reactions, the latter being an incoherent ramble of increasingly dramatic adjectives and metaphors (some notable phrases were “agonal flutterings,” “a flayed calf crying for its mother,” and “I have swallowed all the fire of God’s brightest stars”).
Charlie seemed genuinely surprised by Vaggie’s reaction. Maybe she really hadn’t intended for this to happen. If she was playing some sort of long con—and Vaggie’s gut told her she was—why would she poison Vaggie on the very first day?
The food wasn’t poisoned, Vaggie realized. Her body had simply rejected it.
“Oh, God,” she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut and thumping her head against the wall. She hadn’t eaten very much, so hopefully her symptoms wouldn’t be as bad as that scientist’s, but her newfound despair more than made up for any lack of pain.
It was technically impossible for angels to die of dehydration or starvation. That was discovered by the same scientist who did the food experiment. He sealed himself in his lab without food or drink for three weeks, at which point his lab assistant finally managed to force the door open with the help of a few smiths and an elder. They found the scientist on the floor, comatose, and when he was brought to the aid center, it was discovered that he’d lapsed into a preservative stasis. In place of sustenance, his body had tapped into the natural energy in his halo and started cycling it through his vital systems. Everything shut down except for what minimum function was needed to survive, rendering death impossible.
But Vaggie wasn’t in a controlled environment. She wasn’t in a lab, with a devoted assistant and an aid center just down the block. If that happened to her—if all but her vital organs ceased to function—she would be an easy target. No demon would pass that up. If Charlie didn’t bother finishing her off, perhaps bored by her unconscious state, she would throw her out into the street for someone else to take a shot at. One way or another, if Vaggie couldn’t eat or drink anything without throwing it up, she would be dead in a matter of weeks.
Maybe Charlie didn’t plan on torturing her, after all. Maybe she just wanted to watch her waste away.
“Hey, it’ll be okay. You’ll adjust in a few days, I’m sure,” Charlie said, placing a hand on Vaggie’s knee. When Vaggie didn’t move, Charlie scooched closer, grabbed her under her arms, and hauled her to her feet.
“I’m okay, Charlie, I’m just—”
“You’re not okay. You need to rest. Come on, let’s get you back to your room. One foot in front of the other. Maybe we just take the food thing a bit slower for now, yeah?”
Vaggie didn’t resist as Charlie guided her down the hall and up the stairs, holding her steady with an arm around her waist. Pressed so close to her, Vaggie was acutely aware of how warm she was. She smelled good, too—a subtle spice, vaguely exotic but unidentifiable. Whether it was perfume, natural musk, or an effect of her glamour, Vaggie wasn’t sure, but she knew she couldn’t trust it. In a land of abominations, only the deadliest of predators could have such attractive qualities.
Charlie returned Vaggie to her room and deposited her in bed. All Vaggie’s remaining strength left her at once, and she went limp on the soft mattress. Charlie tucked her in, then seated herself on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers through her hair. With sickening tenderness, she said, “I’ll stay until you fall asleep, okay?”
Vaggie didn’t reply, didn’t even nod or shake her head. She could only lay there, sick and sweaty and shivering, completely at Charlie’s mercy. The idea that she would want a demon looming over her while she slept was a nightmare, but how could she tell Charlie that? No, she had to stay strong. She had to keep up the act, no matter how hopeless it might be.
Charlie combed her clawed fingers through Vaggie’s hair, and as she did, she started humming. That slow, lilting lullaby was the last thing Vaggie heard before sleep claimed her.