Chapter Text
Two months after that first kiss in the study room, Vaggie got the opportunity she’d been waiting for.
Charlie had to leave the Pride Ring to visit one of the Deadly Sins. She anticipated being in Lust for the duration of the day. Since Vaggie was posing as a sinner, it was a given that she was unable to tag along. She was better off for it. She'd become familiar with the layout of the palace and ways of Pentagram City, and the last thing she needed was a new royal to contend with.
She and Charlie had inevitably grown closer with time. Their kisses were infrequent, but not rare. Vaggie did her best to limit the kissing only to instances in which it was needed, like when Charlie seemed agitated or impatient. She wanted to maintain Charlie’s affection, but at the same time wanted to keep her at arm’s length inasmuch as possible. Today, when Charlie headed out with Razzle and Dazzle, Vaggie deigned to send her off with a kiss—a deep, hearty kiss, to ensure Charlie left the palace in a relaxed, unsuspicious mood. Every kiss was a fresh test of Vaggie’s will, and this one was no different; she was pleased with herself when she successfully fought the base urges that arose from it. The effects of Charlie’s beautiful glamour were strong, but Vaggie’s resolve was stronger. She would not break.
As soon as Charlie was gone, Vaggie returned to her bedroom. There were a few maids making the rounds, but they were used to her wandering by now and ignored her. Still, Vaggie made sure to walk at a normal pace to avoid drawing attention.
In her room, she pushed the dresser away from the wall and pulled out the duffel bag that was squished behind it. Her exorcist armor was packed neatly inside, and a few other sets of clothes cushioned the food and bottled water she’d stashed. She did a quick inventory of her supplies, as she did every day, then zipped the bag shut.
After two months of mental and physical preparation, she'd regained her full strength. She was certain her lungs were lined with a permanent layer of ash, and eating was still a chore, but the state of being alive was no longer a constant discomfort. She was as quick and agile here as she was in Heaven, and as deadly with her spear as ever before. She’d been in Hell longer than any other exorcist, and had adapted to survive the harsh conditions.
Charlie seemed content to continue their unspoken game of false niceties, and Vaggie was content to take advantage of her lenience. She would not give Charlie the chance to turn on her, to taste her blood or hear her screams. She was no longer weak and helpless. She was ready.
Well, almost ready. Once she was out on the streets, what was to stop the princess from sending demons to drag her back? It wouldn’t be enough to escape the palace. Vaggie needed a way to get home.
She’d read through just about every book in the library that had anything to do with Heaven. While there was a concerning amount of available information on angel customs and anatomy, there was nothing on how to contact them, how to get to Heaven, or even how to leave Hell. Hellborn demons could go to work on Earth, but only if they submitted to strict regulations. That was the point, Vaggie supposed. This was the end of the line for sinners; once they were in the pot, there was no climbing out.
She prayed for forgiveness every night, though she knew it wouldn’t get her anywhere. Her connection to Heaven had been severed with her halo, and God certainly wouldn’t lend his ear to one fallen foot soldier.
There was one thing she could try, one angel she could still contact, but that was the longest shot of all, so she’d filed it away as a last resort—her Plan Z. It wasn’t even worth an attempt unless she was on death’s doorstep and had no other options. She was fairly confident she could find another, less drastic way on her own. She just needed to dig deeper.
The only other choice remaining to her was to infiltrate Lucifer’s half of the palace. He was sure to have more useful information archived. It was risky, but doable. Without Charlie to dissuade her or Razzle and Dazzle to intercept her, today was the day for Vaggie to take her shot. For all she knew, she might never get another chance. She couldn’t afford to waste it.
She replaced her bag behind the dresser and snuck from one side of the palace to the other. She noted the immediate change between the separate halves. While Charlie’s side was clean, well-lit, and buzzing with activity even on quiet days, Lucifer’s side was dark and unkempt. There were no servants milling around, and the few rooms that weren’t sealed shut were full of cobwebs and disarrayed furniture. If Vaggie didn’t know better, she’d have thought it was abandoned.
Charlie’s personal quarters were on the top floor on her side, and Vaggie assumed that layout was mirrored here, so she didn’t explore higher than the second floor. On the ground level, she discovered a door identical to Charlie’s library, but it was securely locked, with heavy chains crisscrossing over it. Trying to break them would have made too much noise, so Vaggie cut her losses and moved on. Hopefully she would find another room with conveniently organized information.
Her search soon led her to the only room that looked like it was regularly maintained: a private garden. It was an indoor greenhouse full of unexpectedly normal flora. Colorful flowers blossomed on every bush, trees formed a dappled canopy against the glass ceiling, and there were only a few Hellish plants that looked like they were best avoided. A stream trickled through the greenery, forming a U-shape all around the room, feeding the irrigation system. Best of all, the air was free of smog. When Vaggie inhaled, she realized it was the first clean breath she’d taken in two-and-a-half months.
There was no information to be found here, but Vaggie didn’t want to leave just yet. Beauty surrounded her on all sides. The sweet-tasting air made her giddy and lightheaded. She knelt beside the stream, cupped a handful of water, and brought it to her lips. She almost cried at how good it tasted—it was real water, not the sour sulfuric stuff she’d been forced to live on.
Her heart ached with a pang of homesickness when she realized why she was so reluctant to leave this room. Between the layout of the plants, the crystalline stream, and the pleasant white lights that illuminated the whole garden, it was clear that this greenhouse was an imitation of the ones in Heaven.
A strange thought struck. Did Lucifer miss Heaven, even though he gave it up to be with Lilith? He loved his daughter, perhaps, but did he ever look up to the sky and long for the home he'd lost, especially now that Lilith was gone? Was it possible that ten thousand years in an apocalyptic wasteland had made him regret his reckless actions?
Vaggie was so lost in her stupor, she almost didn’t hear the door open. Panic seized her, and she dove behind a line of rosebushes. Thorns tore her clothing and clawed at her hair, but she didn’t dare peek out of her hiding spot. She couldn’t see the door from this angle; she couldn’t see any of the surrounding room. She could only hope she hadn’t been spotted.
Heeled boots strolled across the tile. Someone was whistling a simple, merry tune. Vaggie startled when she recognized it as an old nursery rhyme sung to young angels. Only one person in Hell could possibly know that song.
The footsteps abruptly halted, and the whistling stopped mid-note. He sensed her.
Vaggie squeezed her eye shut. She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, didn’t dare breathe. She began rattling through a prayer in her head, over and over again, knowing nobody would answer but unable to stop herself.
The footsteps approached her hiding spot, slowly, the light tread of a predator. They stopped, and Vaggie heard a noise that sounded like a sigh. Then the footsteps turned away, and the garden door closed. She heard the faint clack of those sharp boots retreating down the hall.
Vaggie exhaled. Blood rushed to her head, and she realized she'd been close to fainting. She waited a few more minutes before crawling out of the bushes. She didn’t stay in the garden a second longer. She had wandered into the heart of Lucifer’s territory, and as much as she yearned to rest in the soft grass among the trees and the flowers, and drink her fill from that lovely stream, that sort of willful stupidity would get her killed. Why Lucifer spared her, she might never know, but she couldn’t count on his lenience a second time. She had to stay strong. She had to stay focused.
She braved the halls again, peeking around every corner with utmost caution and checking behind every door to make sure Lucifer wasn’t about to pounce from the shadows. She made her way downstairs, then further down through a narrow passage, which led to a cramped, dingy basement.
There was a single window well, but the room was so deep underground, hardly any light came through. Vaggie stumbled around in the dark until she found an old lamp, and after a minute of struggling with some matches, managed to light it. Dusty furniture surrounded her, much of it themed around baby care. There was a high chair, a crib, a playpen. There was a rocking chair, upon which rested a bean-shaped pillow and a blanket for comfortable breastfeeding. Among the furniture were boxes full of books, antiques, paintings, and, to Vaggie’s surprise, photo albums. There was a whole stack of them sitting on a table, the only objects in the room that looked like they’d been touched within the last year.
Curiosity drew Vaggie to the photo albums. She brushed a film of dust off the first one and opened it. Where she’d expected a photograph, she instead found a sketch taped to the first page. It was of Lilith, laying on her side in bed. Her eyes were lightly shut, and her normally intense brows were softened in sleep. Her unbrushed hair flowed across the pillow in a tangled blonde mass, and she wore only a nightgown. This was not a formal picture; it was Lilith in her most natural state, without a gown or a crown or a hint of makeup. It was the most beautiful picture of her Vaggie had ever seen.
Cradled Lilith’s arms was a bundle of cloth. A baby’s face poked out, plump and cherry-cheeked. That could only be Charlie. She was asleep, too, with a hint of a smile on her puckered mouth.
Vaggie brushed her fingers over the graphite lines, admiring the rough yet elegant shapes. There was so much love in each stroke, so much care poured into the smallest details, from the frown lines around Lilith’s mouth to the subtle texture of the blanket Charlie was swaddled in.
It was hard to imagine the King of Hell commissioning an artist to draw his wife and daughter this way. Had Lucifer drawn it himself? Vaggie tried to picture him sitting in a chair beside the bed, watching over Lilith while she slept. This sketch hadn’t just been a means to pass the time; it was done to immortalize a fleeting moment of raw, vulnerable beauty.
Vaggie was still studying the sketch when she heard an ominous thunk, followed by the sound of glass breaking. She whipped around to see glass shards littering the bottom of the window well. She shut the photo album and crawled under the table, squeezing between two boxes.
A demon dropped down, then a second, then a third and a fourth. They clambered off the ledge and looked around. In the faint light cast by their glowing yellow eyes, Vaggie could just make out striped horns and arrow-tipped tails. Imps.
“Are you sure this is it?” one of them whispered.
The shortest of the four, who Vaggie guessed was the leader, answered, “For the last fucking time, yes.”
“What exactly are we supposed to get?” asked another.
“Crimson didn’t say. He just said to take anything that looks valuable.”
“This place gives me the creeps, boss.”
“Get over yourself. Let’s just grab some shit and get out.”
They were thieves. Vaggie’s first thought was that they were the stupidest thieves in Hell if they thought they could steal from Lucifer. Her next thought was that their stupidity might not matter. Lucifer had spared her in the garden when, for all he knew, she could have been planting bombs. Would he consider a group of imps pickpocketing his basement a problem worth confronting?
A sudden stint of indignation arose. This was a room full of memories—intimate memories, like that sketch in the photo album—and these demons felt entitled to break in and take what they wanted. They would probably get away with it, too, if Lucifer really had deteriorated to the depressed, spineless shell of a person that Adam was wont to rant about after a few too many drinks. Vaggie had no reason to care, no reason to defend the keepsakes of the King of Hell, but she was unable to tamp down her anger at these imps’ mercenary callousness.
She kept her cool until one of the imps wandered over to the table where she was hiding. He picked up the photo album she’d been looking at and laughed, “Hey, do you think they’ve got any nudes in here?”
“Lilith or Lucifer?”
“Either or. Maybe they’ve got a sex tape floating around, too.”
“Think the princess does?”
“Probably. She’s Lilith’s daughter, ain’t she?”
Vaggie was moving before she knew she’d made a decision. She launched upwards and threw the table onto its side, trapping the imp beneath it. He gave a shout of surprise, but before he could say another filthy word, Vaggie grabbed him by the horns and snapped his neck.
The other imps whirled on her, snarling and hissing. One of them drew a gun and fired, but the bullet glanced harmless off her chest. She seized a candelabra and threw it at him, hitting him square in the head. Blood sprayed as his skull cracked open. The impact killed him instantly.
Vaggie didn’t have her spear, but she didn’t need it. She crossed the room in half a second, leaping across chairs and trunks, and landed behind the remaining two imps before they could fire another shot. She knocked one aside and grabbed the other by the neck. She pried his knife from his hand and slit his throat with it. Black blood splashed across her face. Some got in her mouth, and she gagged at the rancid taste. She dropped the dead imp and rounded to face the final one.
The fourth imp, a young female, skittered backwards across the ground, trying and failing several times to stand. A whimper of fright escaped her as Vaggie stalked closer. Suddenly, the imp froze. Her brows knit, and then her eyes went wide.
“It’s you,” she said, gaping up at Vaggie.
Vaggie faltered as well. With a jolt of surprise, she realized she knew this imp. It took a second to recall where she’d seen her before, but when she did, she couldn’t unsee it.
She ran into this very imp during an extermination just a few short years ago. Hellborn demons were technically off-limits, but a convenient loophole allowed that collateral damage was unavoidable. As such, the only stipulation was that the exorcists couldn’t directly kill them.
With encouragement from Adam, some of the more vicious exorcists had built a game around that loophole. They would sow as much destruction as possible to kill as many Hellborn as they could with collapsing buildings, flying debris, and whatever other indirect methods they could think of. One soldier, Andromeda, mastered the art of carrying sinners high up into the air, killing them, and dropping their bodies onto unsuspecting Hellborn fleeing through the streets. Her aim was lethal, and she had an uncanny ability to calculate the exact height needed to make the impact fatal.
Vaggie had never participated in those cruel, twisted games, though she was often cajoled to do so by Adam and the other elite soldiers. She wouldn't shed a tear for any Hellborn demon, but she wouldn’t kill them if she could avoid it.
This imp was one of the few she’d come face-to-face with, when she broke into a house in pursuit of a sinner. In the moment they locked eyes, the world around them faded away, and a few seconds stretched to a brief eternity. The tension was cut when another sinner stumbled into the room, having escaped the slaughter outside, and Vaggie switched her focus to him. When she turned back around, the imp had fled the scene.
Not once since then had it ever occurred to her that she might see the same imp again, but here they were.
Once Vaggie moved past her initial shock, a grim truth sank in. This imp now knew her secret. She was the one person in Hell—except perhaps Lucifer—who knew what she was. If Vaggie let her live a second time, how long would it take for word to spread about a fallen exorcist living in the palace? If Charlie didn’t kill her, the angry mobs would.
Vaggie couldn’t afford the luxury of mercy. She couldn’t let her secret get out.
She charged. The imp grabbed a heavy book and pulled it up over her chest like a shield right as Vaggie tried to stab her. The blade lodged in the thick leather binding, and for a moment, the two of them were trapped there, the imp pinned under the book, Vaggie crouched above her.
“Don’t, please don’t!” the imp cried.
“I’m sorry,” Vaggie whispered. Guilt constricted her heart, but she had no choice. She ripped the knife free and slashed open the imp’s neck. The imp’s eyes bulged, and she clawed desperately at Vaggie’s hands, but it was too late. Blood gushed from the wound, spluttered from her mouth, formed a dark pool on the floor around her. It soaked Vaggie’s stockings and trickled through her fingers in thick black runnels. Vaggie stayed there for a long time, frozen, staring down at the imp until she gurgled her last breath and went still.
Vaggie’s head snapped up when she heard shouting and running feet in the hallway outside. She stood and backed away from the bodies, still clutching the knife. The door burst open, and three servants rushed in.
Vaggie dropped the knife, lifted her empty hands, and blurted, “They were stealing. I heard glass break, and the door was unlocked, so I came in.”
“Sweet Lucifer,” one of the servants gasped, taking in the sight of all the blood and broken furniture.
“Holy fuck,” another said simply.
Vaggie wasn’t sure what to expect. Would they accuse her of also trying to steal? Would they attack her? Arrest her? Bring her before Lucifer? To her relief, they surrounded her in a flurry of praise and concern, checking her for wounds and demanding the details of what happened. They ushered her out of the basement, and someone escorted her back to her room to get cleaned up while the bodies were dealt with.
Vaggie stripped off her bloody clothes, left them on the floor by her bed, and got in the shower. It didn’t help much. The blood had dried to a sticky crust, which left behind an oily residue that she doubted would go away anytime soon. Like the rest of the water in Hell, the shower spray smelled bad and tasted worse. She would've felt cleaner showering in liquid rust. Even after two months, she was still struggling with the fact that there was no such thing as “clean” in Hell.
Despite her distaste for the shower, she stayed in it for a long time, reflecting on what had happened. The longer she thought about it, the more clearly she understood the gravity of her mistake.
She'd set out to look for information, a way to get home, and instead allowed herself to get sidetracked just because of some sentimental old picture. She’d defended her captors on a whim of misplaced righteousness, and now that the palace was on high alert, her window of opportunity for escape had closed, maybe forever. Her own confidence had crippled her. When Vaggie finally turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, she was close to tears from the shame of what she’d done.
She wasn’t ready to face the world yet, so she wrapped herself in a towel and sat on the rim of the tub, letting her sopping hair drip onto the floor. She hated this place. She hated Charlie, for her false friendliness and dazzling smiles. She was starting to hate herself, too, for so many reasons. She just wanted to go home.
She glanced up when someone called her name outside. The door to her room banged open and Charlie ran in, making a beeline for the bathroom. She fell to her knees in front of Vaggie and took her face in her hands.
“Are you hurt? How many of them were there? What were you doing on that side of the palace? No, forget that last part, it doesn’t matter. Are you okay?”
“Yes, Charlie, I’m fine,” Vaggie said tiredly, peeling Charlie’s hands off her face. God, she was getting sick of this act. It was so hard to maintain. She almost hoped Charlie would drop it soon.
Charlie relaxed a little bit, then abruptly tensed again. She took stock of Vaggie’s bare legs and towel-wrapped body, and her face went scarlet.
“Oh, gosh, I didn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in. Fuck, I should have knocked. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
Vaggie looked away, unable to bear the kindness in her eyes. It was too close to real compassion, too close to home.
Charlie sat back on her knees and looked Vaggie up and down. After a beat of hesitation, she spoke again.
“You didn’t have to do what you did.”
“I know.”
“But you did it anyway. You stopped them. Thank you.”
Vaggie finally gathered the courage to look her in the face.
“It was the least I could do.”
Once the words were out, she realized she sort of meant them. Killing those imps—at least the first three—hadn’t just felt like a necessity. It felt correct. She was a guest in the palace, and whatever their real motives might be, both Charlie and Lucifer had chosen to spare her. How much longer this grace period would last, Vaggie wasn’t sure, but in a strange way, defending their basement of keepsakes felt right. For better or worse, she owed them. It really was the least she could do.
Charlie cupped her face and pulled her down for a kiss. Somehow, it felt different from all their previous kisses. Instead of drawing away after an appropriate length of seconds, Vaggie found herself pushing closer. Rather than wanting it to end, she wanted more, and when Charlie’s tongue slipped into her mouth, she moaned—actually fucking moaned.
Charlie’s hands alighted on her waist, and it was all too easy to imagine them seizing her towel, ripping it away. Vaggie’s own hands began to roam, first to Charlie’s shoulders, but then to her breasts, to feel their soft shape, their subtle weight. Charlie arched her chest forward, leaning into Vaggie’s touch and whining against her mouth. Her hands moved down Vaggie’s thighs, and one wandered up under the towel, up the length of her thigh, to her hip. Her touch was pleasantly warm against Vaggie’s bare skin.
Charlie broke away from the kiss, panting, and redirected her lips to Vaggie’s neck. She found her pulse point and sucked at the sensitive skin. To her own shock, Vaggie felt her sex twitch, and electric heat pooled between her legs. For the first time in years, she was wet.
That was a bridge too far. This was only supposed to be a kiss; it wasn’t supposed to go any further. If she didn’t stop now, she would end up crossing the one line she’d promised herself she wouldn’t cross.
She didn’t want to stop, though. It was wrong, and she knew it, but with that wrongness came a raunchy excitement. She needed to stop, and she wanted to, but at the same time she didn’t, because when Charlie opened the towel and cupped her bare breasts it felt so right, and the very last thing she wanted to do was stop. Charlie’s powers of sexual manipulation were stronger than she’d thought. Whatever spell she was using was disgusting and horrible—and God, Vaggie should have seen it coming—but it was working. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to stop. Her will to resist had all but dissolved.
She probably would’ve let Charlie have her way with her right there on the bathroom floor if Razzle and Dazzle hadn’t burst into the room with an urgent staff report.
Charlie pulled away and shot to her feet, haphazardly straightening her clothes. Vaggie wiped her swollen lips on the back of her hand and pulled her towel tight around her body, suddenly conscious of how naked she was.
Razzle chittered something unintelligible, Dazzle chimed in, and Charlie said with a nod, “Alright, I’ll come down and take a look.”
She shuffled towards the door, stopped, and cast a pained glance at Vaggie. Looking between her and the exit, she stammered, "I’ve got to. . . I’m glad you’re okay, but. . . look, maybe later we can—”
“I get it. Go."
Charlie nodded and hurried out of the room with Razzle and Dazzle, shutting the door behind her.
Vaggie was alone again. The gravity of what just happened—what she allowed to happen—sank in. She slid to the floor, leaning against the bathtub, and clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a series of loud, gasping breaths. She could still taste Charlie’s lips, could still feel traces of warmth ghosting across her skin where Charlie had touched her. She gripped the towel, her knuckles white, and twisted it until it tore.
How could she have been so stupid? How could she have let herself fall so low so fast? How was she supposed to dial their relationship back to chaste kisses?
Her entire goal was to escape this place, and she’d blown her one chance. Her only consolation was the thought of her duffel bag, still packed and ready to go. Maybe one day another opportunity would arise, but until then. . . she didn’t know how much longer she could do this.