Sunset ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Vaggie staggered to the wall and leaned heavily against it, panting hard. Her hair was plastered to her face with sweat. Her fingers were cramped and her palms were slick, making it a struggle to hold onto her spear. She was lightheaded despite only training for an hour, but an hour marked significant improvement from where she’d been two weeks ago.

She’d slept through most of that miserable first day in the palace, waking only to escape vague, shadowy nightmares. She ached all over and was nauseous with vertigo even when laying perfectly still, and any amount of light was too bright. By the time night fell, every breath she drew was a raspy wheeze, and she had resigned herself to the fact that if she didn’t starve into a coma and get killed, the very air would suffocate her. Maybe that would be a mercy.

The next morning, she’d woken up shaky and sore, but much more lucid. With the true excuse that she’d left some personal effects behind on Extermination Day, she convinced Charlie to take her back to the alley where she’d rescued her. She almost cried with relief when she found that, by some miracle, her armor and spear remained untouched where she’d hastily stashed them. Charlie had loaned her a bag to carry her things, so she packed up her uniform with an assortment of trinkets and trash scattered around the alley that could hopefully pass for her cover story. Her uniform was too recognizable to wear, but she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it for some rotten demon to find. There was no way to hide the spear, so she pretended she’d found it by happenstance. Charlie ooh-ed and ahh-ed at the weapon, marveled at the fact that the post-extermination looters had missed it, and with only a little trepidation permitted Vaggie to bring it back to the palace.

The next few days brought more sickness and vomiting. Having her spear back provided a sense of security, but that feeling subsided as her strength deteriorated. Every waking hour was more exhausting than the last. It got to the point that she couldn’t be out of bed for more than twenty minutes without collapsing. Charlie fed her increasingly bland things in smaller and smaller portions, but nothing stayed down for long.

On day four, when Vaggie managed to wash down a few dry crackers with a swig of water, the nausea she'd come to expect came and went without incident. It was the first bit of food that had stayed in her stomach. Charlie was delighted, and Razzle and Dazzle immediately tried to shove a full meal down her throat, but Vaggie managed to talk them out of it. She couldn’t risk sabotaging this victory, however meager it might be.

Over the next three days, she ate more, and her condition improved. Her portions were still small, and some foods her stomach still wouldn’t tolerate, but she was making progress. She got used to the rancid tasting water, and although the air quality didn’t improve, breathing started to come easier. A clean scar formed over her gouged eye. The wounds on her back stopped hurting except for the occasional phantom ache. She doubted she would ever fully get over the loss of her wings, but at least the pain had lessened. Just as Charlie had predicted, she was acclimating.

Forcing herself to get up and move around was challenging at first. One lap up and down the length of the hallway left her winded, but she made it a routine. Whenever she was awake, she would pace the hall, climb the stairs, and stretch her aching muscles. When that got easier, she incorporated the sit-ups and push-ups that had been second-nature in Heaven, and slowly, her strength returned.

At her request, Charlie showed her where the palace's library was, and it was there that Vaggie started to spend most of her time. At first, her only goal was to learn as much as she could about Hell, as much as she needed to survive, but that wasn’t all the library offered. On her second trip, she discovered a private study room. Based on the layer of dust coating the books and furniture, it wasn’t used often. She pushed the furniture up against the walls to clear a space, then started training with her spear.

Like every other step in her exercise regimen, it was challenging at first. The spear was heavy in her unsteady hands. Every few minutes, she had to take a break to avoid passing out. She was weaker than she would’ve liked, but gradually getting stronger.

She couldn’t wait around for Charlie to drop the nice act. She’d have to strike out on her own sooner or later, and when that happened, she needed to be ready. She had to be able to defend and provide for herself.

Now, after two weeks in Hell, her confidence had grown. Charlie was still playing the generous host. Vaggie didn’t know how much longer that would last, but she would take advantage of it while she had it. Every morning, they ate breakfast together, and then Charlie would leave to do whatever demon princesses did and Vaggie would go to the library to train. As far as Charlie knew, she was just reading, and Vaggie hoped to keep it that way. The minute Charlie sensed a threat she would strike, and Vaggie would never get a chance to escape. The longer her improved health and combat skills remained a secret, the better.

She idly studied her spear as she reflected on the past two weeks. After taking a minute to catch her breath, she straightened, moved to the center of the room, and crouched down into a fighting stance. The spots where her wings should have been twinged, but the pain was no longer an impairment. It anchored her, cleared her head. That burn was a good sign. It meant the exercise was working.

Muscle memory kicked in as she swung the spear, twirled it, stabbed it at invisible opponents. She leaped and dodged and rolled. She spun on her toes with practiced grace. It was like a dance—a dance her body knew well, as each step followed the next with hardly a conscious thought. Her bedridden recovery period might've taken a physical toll, but her instincts were still very much alive.

After a few minutes, she stopped for another break, but her hackles raised when she felt someone watching her. She whipped around, automatically lifting the spear in anticipation of an attack. She froze when she saw Charlie standing in the doorway of the study room, gaping at her. Her one-eyed black cat, KeeKee, was cradled in her arms.

KeeKee had kept out of sight for the first week or so of Vaggie’s stay. Vaggie didn’t even know Charlie had a pet until she woke up one morning with a fluffy black loaf perched on her chest.

“Oh, uh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Charlie stammered. Her cheeks were flushed, and her rustling hair was more lively than usual. She gave KeeKee a squeeze, which KeeKee didn’t seem to appreciate.

Vaggie remembered she was pointing a spear at the Princess of Hell and quickly lowered it. She straightened and gave a curt nod.

“It’s okay. I was going to stop soon, anyway.”

“You don’t have to. You, uh. . . you handle that thing pretty well.”

Nervous sweat clammed up on the back of Vaggie’s neck.

“Yeah, I’ve been working on it.” Realizing a better explanation would be needed if she didn’t want to give herself away, she cleared her throat and said, “When I was alive, my family owned a small sugarcane farm. My siblings and I helped with most of the field work. I know how to handle a few tools.”

“No kidding. You look like you’re feeling a lot better, too. Are you? Feeling better, I mean?”

Where had this awkwardness come from?

Vaggie knew the answer immediately. This was the first time Charlie had seen evidence that keeping Vaggie might come with dangers, and she was now struggling to reconfigure her friendly act. Vaggie could practically see the gears turning: should she drop the façade now, or drag it on a bit longer? Was Vaggie onto her, or just training to get her strength back up? Would Vaggie be more fun to torture with higher stamina, or would it be safer to shut down the threat before it got out of control?

Vaggie could kill her first. Charlie was powerful, but she’d made the mistake of letting an exorcist live. Vaggie imagined leaping at the princess, plunging the spear into her heart, watching her glamour dissolve and listening to her screech fowl demon curses. She could do it. Right here and now, Vaggie could eliminate one of the central pillars of demon royalty. Perhaps a heroic final act like that would be enough to redeem her in Heaven’s eyes.

No, she thought, shutting down that idea before it could go further. Too easy to fail with a direct attack. I’m still playing her game; I have to wait for her to make the first move. She realized her hands had automatically shifted to a throwing grip on her spear, and she relaxed her hold.

Charlie, meanwhile, rambled on undeterred. It was unclear whether she knew Vaggie had just seriously considered the merits of killing her.

“I only ask because I. . . I mean, I just want to know that you’re alright. You had such a rough time last week. I’ve never heard of a soul having that much difficulty. I’m glad you’re feeling better, and looking better. Not that you don’t look good normally. You do, you always look good. But you look healthier, is what I mean. You’re very. . . athletic.”

“That’s a kind observation,” Vaggie said dryly. A smile played on her lips. Had it been genuine, Charlie’s flustered stammering might've been endearing. Vaggie couldn’t decide if it was a brilliant performance or an incompetent one.

“Well, I’m always happy to observe you,” Charlie chuckled, pushing some hair behind her ear. She paused, and her face tightened with embarrassment. In a quiet, strained voice, she said, “That came out weird.”

“Little bit.”

Charlie stared at her a moment longer—a bit too long—then moved out of the doorway and nodded over her shoulder, to where Vaggie had set up her research table.

“By the way, I noticed you were looking into the history of Pentagram City. Are you actually interested? A lot of sinners aren’t.”

“Yeah. I actually have some questions I’ve been wanting to ask you. Maybe you could—”

“Oh my gosh, I would love to! I’ll answer whatever questions you have!”

Vaggie was a bit taken aback by Charlie’s enthusiasm, but didn’t waste the opportunity. They went to her research table together, where stacks of books waited beside some loose sheets of paper. Vaggie had been taking notes on things that seemed important, but she now folded the paper and tucked it between a pair of books so Charlie wouldn’t get suspicious—assuming she hadn’t already read the notes and figured out what Vaggie was doing.

They sat down, and Charlie eagerly scooched her chair closer. KeeKee hopped out of her arms and trotted away. Charlie watched her go, then slapped her hands on her knees and prompted, “So, what did you want to know?”

The exorcists studied updated maps of the Pride Ring before every extermination, with special emphasis on Pentagram City, but there was undoubtedly a lot of local know-how that they were missing out on. Vaggie couldn’t straight up ask for a detailed blueprint of the city, but if she was too vague, she wouldn’t get any valuable information.

“I was wondering about the different districts,” she said at last, opening a book to a map of the city.

“Oh, this map’s outdated. This place grows so fast, and businesses come and go all the time, so we have to draw up a new one every year. How about I grab the most recent edition?”

“Sure, that would be great.” Vaggie turned away to hide her embarrassment. She felt stupid for not considering that. The mutable layout was one of the most dangerous things about Hell’s big cities.

Charlie opened a portal into another room, grabbed a map off a desk, and spread it out on the table. She dismissed the portal with a wave of her hand. Vaggie paid close attention as she went through Pride's nine circles, the cities within those circles, and the districts within those cities. She listed their respective populations, which Overlords controlled which areas, who was in conflict with who, and the economic statuses associated with each territory. Partway through, Vaggie sacrificed subtlety for diligence and pulled out her notes to keep track of important names and locations; she wouldn’t have remembered half of it otherwise. Charlie gave her an odd look, but didn’t question her notetaking.

Once they’d covered the broad strokes, they elected to take a break, and Charlie summoned Razzle and Dazzle for snacks. The pair did as commanded, bringing up a tray of appetizers and some sort of sparkling juice, but they refused to bring it into the library. Charlie and Vaggie were forced to move to a study room across the hall that didn’t have a strict no-food-or-drinks rule.

As they ate, Charlie prompted, “You said you grew up on a farm?”

“Yup.”

“Where? What was it like?”

Vaggie took a small, careful sip of her juice. The benefit of a week of bedrest was that she’d had time to think, and she’d devoted that time to coming up with a human backstory. As long as she kept certain details vague, she was confident it would be believed. It was based on the life of a real soul, after all.

Exclusive companionships had always been prevalent among angels, even in the old days before Eden. When humans brought their culture to Heaven, those relationships came to be equated with romance. The exorcists were the first Heavenborn to explore the sexual nature of romantic relationships, since unlike all other Heavenborn classes, they were made with human-based anatomy (at Adam’s request). That included sexual organs and active hormones. Romances weren’t discouraged for Heavenborn, but sexual relations were heavily frowned on. It wasn’t natural for angels; it was a learned behavior. As such, it was the understood norm that any and all sexual activities were to remain private.

Vaggie had only ever had two relationships. The first was with another angel, but the second was with an ascended soul, a Salvadoran woman named Ana. She was softspoken but observant, and what little she said carried enough weight that everyone around her stopped to listen. Vaggie was utterly entranced by her—by her voice, her beauty, her soothing aura, but most of all by her stories.

Before Ana, what little Vaggie knew of Earth came second-hand from Adam or the exorcists’ schooling. Ana had been all around the world in her human life, had met all sorts of people and survived shocking situations. When she and Vaggie were together, they would lay awake in bed for hours every night, and Vaggie would listen in wonder to her stories. Ana told her all about her family, the farm where she grew up, and even taught her Spanish. She also divulged the painful and tragic story of her youngest sister, Sofia, who left the farm to make a name for herself in the city. She instead wound up broke and destitute, and sold everything she had—including her body—to survive. She was eventually killed, and her mutilated corpse was found in a sewage pipe.

Vaggie had to justify why she was in Hell, so she’d borrowed several details from Sofia’s life, mixed with embellishments from Ana’s. Drawing from their respective stories, she'd crafted a story of her own, and recited it for Charlie now. She gave a rough synopsis, then went into a series of carefully rehearsed anecdotes. She began with her childhood in El Salvador—using Ana’s place as the oldest of seven kids—and then recalled her experience of immigrating to the United States for higher education, where she smoothed out her English. She graduated and moved to Los Angelos with high hopes, but through a set of sudden unfortunate circumstances, her budding career took a nosedive. That, along with the high cost of living, left her with nothing. She did shameful things to survive, armed robbery and burglary and muggings, and eventually resorted to prostitution. She finished with her tragic murder on the merciless streets of Southern California.

She delivered each part of the story with all the appropriate emotion and grimness. When she finished, she looked up to see Charlie with her hands clutched against her chest and tears rolling down her pale face.

“You went through all of that, and then got dumped in the middle of an extermination?” she cried. She seized Vaggie’s hands, looking more distressed than Vaggie had ever seen her. “I’m so sorry! I don’t know what to say, Vaggie. Is that your real name, or a nickname? No, don’t tell me, it’s not my business. Everyone changes their names when they come here. I don’t blame you for wanting a clean slate. Oh, I’m so sorry!”

She pulled Vaggie into a tight hug and sobbed against her shoulder.

Vaggie’s heart plummeted. She had thought her story was convincing, but clearly, Charlie didn’t buy it for one second. This over-the-top reaction was so cartoonish and forced, it couldn’t possibly be anything but a subliminal message: she knew Vaggie was lying. She knew the truth. This was a stark reminder that she was just toying with her, probably ten steps ahead of everything she said or did. She had likely already known that Vaggie was training with her spear, too, and just feigned ignorance for the sake of dragging out this pointless farce. Being the Princess of Hell must be boring, if she had no better hobbies.

“It’s okay,” Vaggie forced out, giving Charlie a small pat on the back. “I’m, uh. . . I’m over it.”

With some urging, Charlie pulled back, wiping her eyes and sniffling. She halfheartedly poked through the books, then turned her glistening eyes to Vaggie and said, “I want you to know you’re safe here, and as long as you need a place to stay, you can stay.”

Vaggie hesitated before responding.

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I can probably—”

“You’re not imposing. It’s kind of nice, actually. I haven’t had any guests stay here in a while.”

They sat in silence for a few more minutes. Vaggie nibbled the snacks, sipped her juice, and pretended to read. She was acutely aware of the way Charlie’s eyes kept sliding back to her, as if drawn by some unseen magnetic force. When Vaggie risked a glance up, she saw that Charlie’s gaze was locked on her chest (her current shirt accentuated the outline of her breasts). Charlie noticed that Vaggie had noticed and hastily looked away, burying her nose in a book, cheeks burning. Her eyes darted back, though, and Vaggie shuddered at the lust she saw in them.

Charlie was lusting for her. Of course. She had been lusting since the first day, and it was getting harder to ignore.

The first thing Vaggie felt was fear, followed by disgust, but then she considered the situation with a bit more depth. Maybe she could use Charlie’s demonic urges to her advantage. If she made this cat-and-mouse game enjoyable, maybe that would convince Charlie to let it continue. Vaggie could postpone her torturous death until she had accrued the resources to make her escape.

But seducing a demon. . . that was about as sinful as it got.

Vaggie wasn’t a virgin. Sex had been a factor in both of her past romances. But that was about love, intimacy, deep emotions expressed through physical passion. She’d found more gratification in pleasing her partners than in her own sexual pleasure, and both partners had felt the same way.

Lust was selfish, harmful overindulgence of sex, devoid of intimacy. Lust was the realm of demons.

She could encourage Charlie’s unhidden interest; she could even meet it with a reciprocation. But did an end that wasn’t even guaranteed really justify these means? It was wrong. It was sinful.

Maybe she didn’t have to let it go all the way. She could give enough to bait Charlie, but not enough to completely debase herself. It wasn’t like she had a better plan.

Whatever it takes to survive.

“Charlie,” she said, breaking the silence. She scooted closer, until their knees touched. She pointedly let her gaze linger on Charlie’s lips before meeting her eyes.

“Yes?” Charlie asked. Her breath hitched. She scooted forward as well, closing the distance.

“I want to thank you again—really thank you. I died at the end of the worst part of my life, and I woke up in Hell in the middle of a bloodbath. Then you found me. You’ve been so good to me, more than anyone ever has. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. So, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Charlie murmured. She sounded like she was only half-paying attention. She leaned in, her breath heavy and her eyes lidded, and Vaggie’s stomach flipped in anticipation.

This was it. Once she crossed this boundary, there would be no going back.

Without giving herself time to reconsider, she shut her eyes and pressed her mouth to Charlie’s. It was more forceful than intended, eliciting a squeak of surprise, but Charlie was quick to reciprocate, cupping Vaggie’s face and leaning in. Her lips were warm and surprisingly soft. She tasted like the bubbly juice she'd been drinking.

Vaggie’s gut churned in revulsion—at Charlie, at herself, at all of Hell. This was so wrong, but the fact that it wasn’t overtly unpleasant made it worse. She almost would've preferred it if she was forced to kiss a hideous, lipless monster. With Charlie’s beautiful glamour it bordered on agony, because it almost felt real. Vaggie could just as easily be kissing another angel.

Vaggie pulled away first. Fear struck her when she saw that Charlie’s fangs had lengthened and her yellow eyes had turned red. Her pupils were visibly dilated as she stared down at Vaggie.

Charlie moved forward to kiss her again, and Vaggie was seriously considering punching her when the door opened and Razzle—or was it Dazzle?—flew into the room. He was oblivious to the fact that they were mid-kiss as he gathered up dishes and said something to Charlie in that weird chattering language.

“Shit, I’ve got a meeting to get to,” Charlie muttered. Her demonic features reverted to normal, and she hopped out of her seat. She straightened her clothes, flashed Vaggie a tiny smile, and said, “This shouldn't take long. Whatever you want to do, wherever you want to go. . . mi casa es su casa.”

“Ah, bien, muy bien,” Vaggie commended. Charlie looked pleased.

With one last longing glance, Charlie left the room, Razzle trailing behind her. It was only then that Vaggie became aware of her trembling legs and pounding heart. She slumped down in her chair, letting her breath go in one loud whoosh.

She had seen a glimpse of the real Charlie, the demon that lurked under that charming exterior, and it terrified her. She was supposed to seduce that? Surely there were better, less dangerous, less shameful ways to stay alive. Surely Charlie would respect her boundaries, at least superficially, to keep up the act. Surely this wasn’t the only card Vaggie had left to play.

Worst of all, on the fringes of her repulsion loomed a much darker feeling: desire. That kiss had almost felt good, and that frightened her more than even Charlie’s demon eyes had. Charlie was blatantly using some sort of demonic lust magic to instill those traitorous feelings in her heart. At this rate, Vaggie might even start having sexual fantasies about her!

She had to be more careful next time. She couldn’t just plunge in like that. She was walking the narrow edge of a slippery slope, and once Charlie got her claws in her, there would be no escape. She had to stay strong. She had to resist.

Not another moment could be wasted, she decided. Whenever she wasn’t with Charlie, she had to be learning, planning, or training. She couldn’t let her guard down again—not a little bit, not even for a moment. With that determination fresh in her mind, she went back to the library, took up her spear, and resumed her exercises.

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.

Chapter Text

Vaggie turned from side to side, looking herself up and down in the mirror. Of all the dresses she’d tried on, this one—a grey silk evening gown—was among the better ones, but she was still unsure.

“I don’t know. What do you think?” she asked.

Charlie, seated on a couch a few feet away, gave her a double thumbs-up and exclaimed, “It’s amazing! You should totally get that one!”

“That’s what you said about the last one. And the one before that.”

“Yeah, well, they all look good on you.”

Vaggie raised an eyebrow.

“There’s a common denominator there. Think you might be a bit biased?”

Charlie blushed and giggled, tucking some hair behind her ear. Vaggie was getting better at this, making flirtatious remarks at the right times or offering a well-worded compliment to get that reaction.

Vaggie grabbed the next dress off the rack—a ruffled red frock—and returned to the fitting room. As she slipped out of her current gown, she reflected that these shopping trips always felt like a game of dress-up. She was nothing more than a doll for Charlie to tote around from store to store, wearing whatever clothes Charlie told her to wear and gushing over each one as if she actually gave a shit. This was their fourth shopping trip in the last month. To be fair, though, this one did have a purpose.

There was a gala coming up that would be hosted by some Goetia duchess. Charlie was obliged to attend, and had invited Vaggie along as her plus-one. This wasn’t the first party they’d gone to together, and Vaggie doubted it would be the last. She’d learned very quickly that royals—especially Goetias—never lacked a reason to throw a feast or a ball, and they were all constantly trying to one-up each other. The host of this upcoming gala, being uniquely extravagant, had demanded all her guests buy new formal wear to show off. Charlie decided that if they had to buy new dresses, they might as well make it a date, and how could Vaggie turn her down?

Four months had passed since she defended the palace from the break-in. At this point, she was fairly certain Charlie didn’t know she was an angel, but that didn’t mean she was out of the danger zone—far from it. Every day was spent bending over backwards to keep Charlie happy. Vaggie attended events with her, hung out in the library with her, and shared no shortage of kisses. Long periods of alone time often led to a makeout session in a closet or on a table.

There was just one line they had yet to cross, the one act Charlie had hinted at many times but Vaggie was determined to avoid. So far, regular dates and plentiful kissing served to make up for the absence of that act.

If Charlie was getting frustrated or impatient, she hid it well. She hadn’t pushed for sex beyond implications and roundabout suggestions. Vaggie hoped it would stay that way. She had sacrificed every other scrap of dignity she had; if she could hold on to this last bit, she would.

She’d been in Hell for over half a year, and she finally had a plan. She finally knew how to get back home. She just needed to hold out a little longer.

She pulled up the bodice of the red dress, but was unable to reach the zipper. She probably could have if she tried, but this was one of those enrichment things best left for Charlie. As she turned to leave the fitting room, she glanced over her shoulder to the mirror and cringed at the sight of her exposed back. Her shoulder blades were marred by twin scars, pale and hideous, right where her wings should have been.

As they so often did, painful memories resurfaced: a blade, burning hot and icy cold at the same time, slashing her eye out of her face; her wings torn from her back, sinew and muscle ripping away in Lute’s hands like tissue paper; the sight of her own blood, brilliant gold and steaming on the pavement. She’d never seen her own blood before that night.

Vaggie shuddered and shook her head to rid herself of those awful visions.

Don’t think about it. Not now. Not yet. One day at a time.

She opened the door and stepped out, fixing her face into a smile, but Charlie wasn’t watching her anymore. Her attention was drawn to a nearby aisle, where a customer and an employee were having a heated argument. The customer was gesturing wildly, and the employee’s patience was clearly waning.

Vaggie was inclined to ignore it. Fights were more than commonplace in Hell. It wasn’t their problem. Charlie was staring at the two demons, though, wringing her hands and worrying her lip with her teeth.

“Zip me up?” Vaggie asked, presenting her backside. Charlie snapped to attention and hopped off the couch.

“Of course!”

Charlie zipped up the dress. It was tight, but not painful. Vaggie lifted her arms and spun to show off the flowing skirt. Razzle and Dazzle, seated on either armrest of the couch, applauded and squeaked their approval. Vaggie grinned at Charlie and prompted, “Well? What do you think?”

“I love it! It’s—”

“Amazing? And I should totally get it?”

“Maybe,” Charlie said, blushing. Her hair writhed happily.

Vaggie checked herself out in the mirror. The dress wasn’t bad, but she didn’t like how it exposed her back. Deciding it was a no, she returned to the dress rack. She noticed that Charlie’s attention had drifted away again, back to the nearby argument.

“This is fucking horseshit!” the customer yelled, waving a blouse in the employee’s face. “I’m supposed to pay that much for a fucking shirt? And I can’t even fucking return it?”

“For the last time, ma’am,” the employee said through gritted teeth, “I have no control over our prices or our return policy.”

It went on like that. Charlie watched with a deepening frown. Vaggie couldn’t figure out why. Was Charlie sizing them up as potential targets? Would she kill them for their annoyance?

No, that couldn’t be it. If Charlie did have a sadistic streak—and Vaggie was still very certain she did—she was going to great lengths to hide it. She went out of her way to appear kind and empathetic by giving handouts to beggars on the streets, rewarding and personally thanking her staff for nominal tasks, and offering to buy anything Vaggie so much as glanced at. As a princess, she had responsibilities, but she always made herself available for her friends. Vaggie had met some of those friends. They were loud and vulgar and as demon-ish as demons could be, but not one of them acted as if Charlie’s behavior was out of place. It didn’t take long for Vaggie to conclude that she must have bribed them. Why else would they act so unsurprised by her inexplicable sugary niceness?

“Two left,” Vaggie announced, holding up a sparkling gold gown and a gauzy purple one. “Purple or gold?”

“Hm?” Charlie glanced over, only half-paying attention. “Yeah, sure, whichever one you want.”

Vaggie sensed this shopping trip was nearing its end. By looks alone, she quickly decided the gold dress was a no and ducked into the fitting room with the purple one. The collar was embarrassingly low-cut, though probably elegant by Hell’s standards. The skirt wasn’t much better; the ruffled hem brushed her ankles in the back, but the front was disproportionately short, falling just halfway down her thighs. When she looked in the mirror, her first thought was that it was the dress of a harlot, equal parts beautiful and sinful.

She could never wear something like this in Heaven. And the fact that the possibility so much as crossed her mind was proof that Lute had been right.

After six months of hard reflection, she’d come to terms with the fact that her punishment was deserved. It was harsh, yes, even brutal, but Lute had never been one to mince words. Vaggie did a stupid, impulsive thing. She let a sinner go, and for what? That kid had probably ended up skewered on another exorcist’s blade five minutes later. Vaggie had replayed that night over and over in her head, trying to figure out why she’d done it, but she could never quite pinpoint the reason.

Maybe it was Ana’s influence. Her sister Sofia had undoubtedly ended up in Hell, so maybe there was a tiny part of Vaggie that couldn’t help wondering if she was among the sinners fleeing through the streets every year. Maybe she had already been exterminated. Maybe Vaggie had killed her, not realizing who she was—not that it would have made a difference.

Maybe it was the imp girl. Maybe Vaggie would have been better off joining in her sisters’ games, and she should’ve MacGyvered a way to kill that imp indirectly. Maybe sparing her had been the first step down a slippery slope of weakness.

Whatever the root cause, she did what she did, and now she was paying the price. She made the wrong choice. She understood that now. If Adam and Lute were reluctant to give her a second chance, surely someone else would see her plight, see how her heart had changed, and sympathize. She could live without Lute’s forgiveness; she could live without Adam’s forgiveness, too, if it came to that. They could demote her, publicly shame her, deploy her to the lowliest guard post—she didn’t care. She just wanted to go home.

Soon, she promised herself, recalling her plan. Just hold out a little longer. One day at a time.

Vaggie took a deep breath, put on her most winning smile, and walked out, ready to declare that this dress was the best of them all and her absolute favorite. She froze when she saw that Charlie was gone. Razzle and Dazzle hopped to and fro across the couch, chirping anxiously. Neither of them had eyes for Vaggie. Their focus was solely on Charlie, who, to Vaggie’s chagrin, had inserted herself between the still-arguing customer and employee.

Vaggie sighed and returned to the fitting room. She took her time changing back into her own clothes, hoping the situation would resolve itself by the time she finished. ‘Twas not the case. When she came back out with the purple dress folded over one arm, she saw that the argument had escalated. 

“Fuck off already! Who the hell even are you?” snapped the customer.

Charlie’s smile wavered and her eye twitched, like she was wrestling with whether or not she should invoke her princess status. She apparently decided against it, as she raised her hands in an appeal for peace and said, “I’m just trying to help. I think if we all just calm down and take a deep breath—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! I’m in Hell! And this stupid bitch is trying to sell me a five-dollar shirt for ten times that!”

“Okay, um. . .” Charlie glanced over her shoulder at the employee, who remained silent and sullen. Seeing she was on her own, Charlie steepled her fingers and calmly suggested, “Look, I get it. Whenever I’m having a rough day, the little things can feel like big things. But is yelling at someone who’s just doing their job going to change anything? I don’t think so. How about this: we all take a breather, and then—”

“Fuck that. I want this ugly-ass shirt.”

“Fine. I’ll pay for it.”

Both the customer and the employee looked at her in surprise. The customer’s face flushed with rage, and she sputtered, “You think I want your fucking charity? You think I want some hippy cunt all up in my business? You take it, if you want to shit your money all over the place!”

She flung the blouse onto the floor and spat on it.

Charlie’s face tightened with anxiety.

“I’m just trying to help. Please, if you’ll just—”

“For the last time, fuck the fuck off!” With that, the customer gave Charlie a hard shove.

Vaggie was across the store in a flash. No one noticed her until her fist cracked across the customer’s jaw, knocking her into a nearby rack of clothes. The customer fell on her ass with a loud squawk, and her hands flew up to guard her face.

“¿Por qué no te a la mierda?” Vaggie snapped. The customer took one look at her stony face and scarred eye and decided the blouse wasn’t worth the trouble. She scrambled to her feet and bolted from the store.

Vaggie thought that was the end of it until she was knocked off her feet by a blast of heat. She instinctively leaped towards Charlie and tackled her to the floor, shielding her with her body. When she looked up, her jaw dropped at the sight of Razzle and Dazzle transforming into huge dragons, one after the other, and bursting outside in pursuit of the asshole customer.

“No!” Charlie shouted, pushing Vaggie away and racing after them. “Razzle, Dazzle, stop!”

They didn’t hear her. Razzle caught up to the customer first and knocked her off her feet with a sweep of his tail. She screamed as he pinned her down with one massive clawed foot. Up and down the block, sinners shrieked and scattered, driven away by the threat of dragonfire as Dazzle opened his smoking jaws to burn the customer.

Charlie jumped between them and waved her arms, yelling, “No! That’s enough! No burning! Let her go!”

Razzle and Dazzle abruptly stopped. They glanced at each other, then Razzle lifted his claws off the customer. Charlie tried to help her up, but the sinner smacked her hands away and skittered off, cursing and tripping over her own feet. Charlie snapped her fingers at Razzle and Dazzle and whistled a sharp note. It must have been a specific command, because they shrank down, reverting to their natural tiny forms.

Vaggie and the employee slowly rose to their feet. The employee looked around the trashed store, raised her arms helplessly in the air, and gave Vaggie the most exhausted, exasperated look she’d ever received.

“Sorry,” Vaggie said awkwardly.

After helping with what little cleanup they could and getting harangued by the manager until they agreed to pay for the damage, Charlie and Vaggie returned to the palace. Charlie hardly said a word the whole ride back, and quietly excused herself to her room once they arrived. Vaggie went down to the library and swung around her spear for a while, but when Charlie didn’t make an appearance, she decided it would be a good idea to check on her.

She went up to Charlie’s room and knocked. Charlie called her in, and Vaggie stepped inside.

Charlie sat in the middle of the bed with KeeKee curled up in her lap. She stroked her black fur slowly, almost lethargically. Vaggie was surprised by how sad she looked. No, not just sad—defeated. Charlie was normally so upbeat. In retrospect, the incident had been fairly small (and could have been a lot worse), but Charlie still looked upset. What Vaggie couldn’t figure out was why. Was it because she’d been aiming for one of those fake-nice moments, and her efforts had failed? Could something so insignificant really cause her this much grief?

“How’re you holding up?” Vaggie asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Alright, I guess,” Charlie said with a sigh. KeeKee butted her small head against her hand, earning a tiny smile.

Vaggie was quiet for a few seconds before she spoke up again.

“You handled that situation as best as you could.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.” Vaggie turned to fully face Charlie, pulling her legs up to sit cross-legged. “You’re not responsible for other people being dicks. That bitch probably came in looking for something to fight about.”

“I guess,” Charlie relented, but she sounded unconvinced. Her face crumpled, and her voice warbled as she said, “You never really know what’s going on with people, though, you know? She could have been on the tail end of a really shitty week. Maybe she’s tight on money and was just hoping to find some clothes that make her feel good. Maybe that blouse was just the. . . what’s that idiom humans have? ‘The straw that broke the camel’s back’? What even is a camel?”

“Or she might just be an asshole. She’s in Hell for a reason.”

“I know, but. . . no, I don’t know. That’s the thing. It’s impossible to know.” Charlie almost sounded frustrated, but Vaggie sensed it wasn’t directed at her.

“C’mere,” Vaggie said, opening her arms. Charlie crawled across the bed towards her, and Vaggie pulled her down against the pillows. Charlie hugged Vaggie's middle painfully tight and tucked her face against her neck. Vaggie swung an arm around her, pulling her closer.

“I just wanted to help,” Charlie said again. She sniffed. A tear rolled down her cheek and dripped onto Vaggie’s collarbone.

Vaggie blinked at her in surprise. She’d never seen Charlie cry before. What in creation could have prompted that? Surely she wasn’t serious about this. Surely the incident hadn’t legitimately upset her.

Not knowing what else to do, Vaggie squeezed Charlie’s shoulder and murmured, “I know.”

“I just wish I could understand what’s going through some people’s heads. You, for instance.”

“Me?” Vaggie tensed. She could have sworn her heart sped up.

“Yeah. You’ve told me so much about your life, but sometimes, I feel like I hardly know you at all. It’s like I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

Vaggie felt herself slipping into fight-or-flight mode. A deep-seated fear she hadn’t felt in months washed over her, chilling her to the bone. It took conscious effort to keep her breathing steady.

That was the closest Charlie had ever come to admitting the truth. Even after six months, the cat-and-mouse wasn’t over. She was still circling, searching for a crack in the dam, a chink in the armor. It was unclear why, other than that this might just be a sadistic hobby of hers, but why didn’t matter. She was still trying to wear Vaggie down, to break her, and that couldn’t happen.

This was a warning. Her patience was wearing thin. Sooner or later, she would get tired of waiting for Vaggie to crack. She would beat her down, capture her, imprison her, and then she would be free to break her at her leisure, over and over. Maybe she would kill her afterwards, or maybe she would throw her out into the streets, leave her to the mercy of the sinners. They would probably love to get their hands on an exorcist. Horrible scenarios looped through Vaggie’s head, each worse than the last: slavery, torture, rape, murder.

She had a plan to get home, but it required her to stay alive for the next six months. When Extermination Day arrived, she would fall to her knees before her sisters and beg their forgiveness. They would see she’d learned her lesson, and they would bring her back to Heaven—if not for full reinstatement, then at least for a fair trial. Lucifer had gotten a trial, and his offense had been much greater than hers. Surely they would allow her that much.

Everything hinged on Charlie’s goodwill, fake or otherwise. If Vaggie didn’t step up her game, she wouldn’t live to see the next extermination. Everything she was doing now was good, but not good enough. It would take more than shopping trips, gala dates, and kisses to quell Charlie’s frustrations.

Vaggie had one card left to play, one thing that might buy her more time. She’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but she was out of options.

They stayed in bed together until Charlie had to leave for a meeting. As soon as she was gone, Vaggie leapt into action.

With Razzle and Dazzle as an escort, she made a run to the closest beauty shop, then spent the rest of the day prepping herself. She trimmed, rounded, and buffed her nails, then gave them a coat of clear polish. She washed her hair and brushed a sweet-smelling oil through it until it was softer and shinier than ever before. It was long enough now to brush her shoulders, so she pulled it back from her face in a half-updo and tied it with a silky ribbon. She spritzed herself with perfume and rubbed her entire body down with lotion that left her skin baby-smooth and subtly sparkling. Finally, she applied a touch of makeup—not enough to be immediately noticeable, but enough to call attention to her eye, lips, and cheekbones.

Once she was sufficiently beautified, she broke out the purple gown. Charlie didn’t see her try it on, since she’d been busy failing to resolve the fight, and when they hastily made their purchases afterwards, she was too harried to even glance at Vaggie’s choice. It would be a surprise. Vaggie put the dress on, and when she assessed herself in the full-length mirror, she didn’t recognize the angel staring back. She was stunning, soft yet severe, and above all, sexy. It was a word she had heard before, but never consciously associated with herself or anyone else. Not even in her two romantic exploits had she thought the word “sexy” applied to either of her partners.

In all the best and worst ways, she'd turned herself into a painted whore. Even if she made it back to Heaven, the shame she felt in that moment would never leave her.

She was waiting in Charlie’s bedroom when she returned that night. Charlie started rambling about her day as she walked in and took off her jacket, but when she looked up and saw what Vaggie was wearing, she stopped dead in her tracks. She stared, slack-jawed and speechless. Vaggie stood up from where she was seated on the bed and sashayed across the room.

“You never saw the dress I picked out for the gala. I wanted to make sure you got a chance to see it beforehand,” she stated, like it was the most matter-of-fact thing in the world.

“Oh,” was all Charlie said.

Vaggie turned slightly to the side, letting Charlie see how the dress accentuated her curves in profile. She pressed a hand to her bodice and frowned, pretending to be uncomfortable.

“It’s nice, but it does get a little tight after a while.” She didn’t elaborate. She let her actions speak for her as she pulled down the zipper with practiced slowness and let the dress fall to the floor. She turned to fully face Charlie as the gauzy purple fabric pooled around her feet.

She wore only a strapless bra and a set of sheer panties that, in her opinion, completely negated the purpose of underwear. Charlie’s eyes bulged, and her mouth gaped as she struggled for words. Her face was flushed beet-red.

Vaggie stepped out of the dress and closed the distance between them, walking with a deliberate sway in her hips. She unbuttoned Charlie’s shirt and tugged her bow tie loose, pulling it through her collar.

“Are you gonna kiss me?” she prompted when Charlie didn’t move.

That bit of encouragement was all Charlie needed. She cupped Vaggie’s face and kissed her hard. A guttural moan escaped her as she did, the sound of six months of repressed desire.

Vaggie pushed Charlie’s shirt open and ran her hands over smooth porcelain skin, feeling the curves of her waist and squeezing her hips. She tugged insistently at her waistband, and without breaking away from her mouth, Charlie slipped off her suspenders, unbuckled her belt, and shoved her slacks down around her ankles. Vaggie pulled her across the room to the bed, then spun her around and pushed her down onto her back. Charlie sprawled across the bed with her legs dangling off the edge. Her eyes went demon-red, and her fangs sharpened. Her horns manifested, too, long and ridged, sprouting up from her writhing blonde mane.

Vaggie slipped Charlie’s underwear off and knelt on the floor between her legs. She kissed her thighs, nipped blemishes into her pale skin. She held Charlie’s gaze as she touched her lips to her pelvis, just above her sex.

Vaggie knew what she was doing. It had been a while, but she knew how to pleasure a woman.

Her first sexual experience was also with her first romantic partner, long before she met Ana. Yris was Heavenborn, a smith. The smiths harvested steel from the core of a newborn stars, then refined and sculpted it in a specialized forge. Their skin was naturally armored to tolerate high temperatures, and their overly large hands were reinforced with magic, allowing them to work hot steel without the necessity of tools. They weren’t classically beautiful like most other angels, but they didn’t need to be. Their purpose was not to be beautiful. Still, there was something captivating in their towering height, bulky frames, and raw physical strength.

Once, in the early years of the exorcists’ training, Adam brought a group of smiths to the barracks to demonstrate the making of various weapons. Yris was one of those smiths. Vaggie was instantly enamored with her, and her interest turned to awe when she watched Yris plunge her bare hands into a vat of molten steel. She drew up thick and thin ropes of the stuff, holding it in the air with her magic, and began weaving it like thread. Vaggie expected her to make a weapon, but instead she sculpted a small bird, a sparrow. Every feather was clearly outlined and the beak was roughened by subtle ridges. It looked so real, Vaggie half-expected it to come to life and fly out of Yris’s hands. After the demonstration, Vaggie worked up the courage to approach her. Yris was a thoughtful, slow-talking angel with a honeyed baritone voice and an air of calmness about her. When Vaggie complimented her bird, stuttering and blushing and wringing her hands, Yris smiled and gave it to her to keep.

They saw each other with increasing frequency after that, as the smiths brought in regular batches of weapons at Adam’s request. Talking led to flirting, flirting led to dates, and after enough dates, they wound up in bed together in a mutual taking of virginities.

The exorcists were all made with human anatomy, including permanent sexual organs—specifically, female organs. Vaggie had never seen a non-exorcist angel naked before, so it came as a surprise when she found nothing but smooth skin between Yris’s legs. Luckily, Yris’s magic gave her some limited manifestation capacity, so she was able to create temporary organs. They tried sex several different ways, first with male parts, then female, then a unique blend of both. Vaggie found she preferred the female parts, and soon became very proficient in pleasuring her that way. Yris didn’t seem to care one way or another; it was all the same to her. If Vaggie was happy, she was happy.

It was with Yris that Vaggie learned how and where to touch someone, and how gratifying it was to please a partner. Yris’s hands were large but dexterous, and so very gentle. Years of intricate artistry made her fingers perfectly precise in every touch. The two of them stayed together until the smiths' work schedule grew more demanding, and Yris was set to be deployed to the star-forge, far outside of Heaven. They agreed their relationship would be too difficult to maintain from such a distance and parted ways.

Vaggie found solace from her heartache when she met Ana; she also found an opportunity to refine certain skills. When Ana’s children arrived in Heaven, she moved closer to them and drifted away from Vaggie, until they eventually agreed to settle as friends. Vaggie mourned the loss for a while, as she had with Yris, but not once did she ever regret her time with either of them.

Now, as she willingly stuck her face between a demon’s legs, all she could think was that this relationship was the one she would regret. Her hands were tied, but it was difficult not to think about how wrong this was. There was no refuting it. It was a sin, plain and simple.

Don’t think about it. One day at a time. If you can pull this off, it’ll all be worth it, she reminded herself. She didn’t know if that was true, but it was the best assurance she had.

She didn’t waste another second. She shut her eyes, dipped her head, and licked Charlie long and slow. She sucked at her clitoris, covered it with her mouth and exhaled hot breath over it. Charlie moaned, rolling her hips up, gripping Vaggie’s hair. Vaggie wasn’t sure what she’d expected taste-wise, but she certainly hadn’t expected Charlie to taste good. Her soft folds were warm, velvety, and when her wetness pooled on Vaggie’s tongue, it tasted like sweet, sultry heat. The scent of her natural musk mixed with Vaggie’s own perfumed sweat fogged the air. It was intoxicating.

For once, Vaggie allowed herself to forget her hollow vow of restraint. She teased Charlie open and lapped around her wet hole, licked the delicate flesh between her folds, nipped and kissed her swollen clit. She lifted Charlie’s thighs and hooked them over her shoulders. She was effectively locked in place as Charlie crossed her ankles over her back.

Vaggie paused only once, when her bangs became too much of an interference. Charlie understood the problem and held them out of her face without needing to be asked, leaving Vaggie free to plunge back in.

It was wrong, it was so wrong, but she liked it. A trance-like need took over, the same one that had crippled her self-control four months prior. She couldn’t resist, didn’t want to resist. She loved how Charlie’s sex felt under her tongue, loved the suffocating heat as those milky thighs squeezed around her head, loved the noise of surprise and pleasure Charlie made when she pushed her tongue inside her.

Before long, Charlie came, gasping and arching off the bed, pulling Vaggie’s hair so hard it hurt. Pride bloomed in Vaggie’s chest. It was the same sense of giddy triumph she'd gotten years ago, the first time she gave Yris an orgasm with her mouth.

Charlie’s legs slackened, and Vaggie stood, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. Charlie propped herself up on her elbows and gazed at Vaggie with heavy-lidded eyes. Her shirt hung open on either side of her heaving chest.

“C’mere,” she panted, reaching for her.

Vaggie climbed onto the bed and straddled her lap. She kissed her, ran her fingers through her luxurious blonde hair. The strands wound around her hands and entangled her fingers, holding them tight against Charlie's head.

Charlie reached around and unclasped Vaggie’s bra. She whisked it off and threw it across the room, then leaned down to kiss her breasts. Vaggie pushed closer, wordlessly pleading for more. Yes, she liked that. She liked how it felt when Charlie’s hot lips closed around her nipple. She liked even better when Charlie slipped a hand down her panties and rolled a finger over her clit in quick, rhythmic circles.

Charlie pushed a finger inside her, then a second one, pumping them steadily, stretching her open. Vaggie cried out and bucked wildly, grinding her clit against Charlie’s palm, spurring her on with breathless pleas and gasps of pleasure. She buried her face in Charlie’s hair so Charlie wouldn’t see her tears when she hit her climax. Electric heat washed over her, filling her up, scattering all rational thought. In that moment, it didn’t matter that Charlie was a demon. It didn’t matter that Vaggie was only doing what she had to do. All that mattered was the brush of Charlie’s lips on her cheek, the lush softness of her hair, and the warmth of her body.

They lay awake for a long time afterwards, curled around one another under the sheets, talking of idle things. None of what they said stuck in Vaggie’s mind until Charlie kissed her neck and whispered, “I love you.”

Vaggie didn’t know how to respond to that, so she didn’t.

Chapter Text

Vaggie squeezed Charlie’s waist and bucked up into her. They moved in sync, Charlie bouncing on the strap-on, Vaggie grinding her hips up to boost her momentum. The smooth pink shaft of the toy, slick with perspiration and lube, pumped in and out of Charlie’s hole with a slew of wet, filthy noises.

Charlie cried out and rode faster. Her movement became rough, erratic, driven by a fervor that bordered on desperation. Vaggie reached up to fondle her breasts and breathed, “You’re so beautiful.”

“Please. Please, I’m so close, please,” Charlie whimpered.

“I know you are,” Vaggie said. Her hands roamed over Charlie’s body with dazed reverence. “Come for me, honey.”

“I love you,” Charlie gasped. Her legs trembled and her eyes rolled as she climaxed on the toy. “I love you so much.”

Vaggie didn’t stop moving until Charlie had ridden out her orgasm. When Charlie drifted down from her high, she climbed off of Vaggie, panting, and flopped down on the bed beside her. Vaggie unclipped the strap on, wriggled her legs out of the harness, and tossed it aside. The toy left a wet smear on the blankets, but they could worry about that later.

Once Charlie caught her breath, she turned onto her side and fingered through Vaggie’s bangs. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her eyes sparkled. She always looked so lovely in the afterglow of good sex.

With a tired smile, she said, “That was really great.”

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” Vaggie replied. She leaned up on one elbow and pressed a kiss to Charlie’s mouth.

Neither of them brought up the I-love-you. It wasn’t a unique occurrence. Charlie said it every other night, it seemed, but only in the heat of passion. She had yet to ask after a reciprocation.

They showered, changed, and turned in for the night. The sex had been a good distraction, particularly for Charlie. In her words, she was always a bit restless the night before an extermination.

Charlie slept soundly with her head resting on Vaggie’s chest, but Vaggie didn’t sleep. She didn’t try, since she knew it would be impossible. When she wasn’t running through the steps of her plan in her head, she was reliving the last six months.

Six months sharing a bed with the Princess of Hell—six months since she’d thrown out the last of her dignity. She’d grown numb to the shame by now. She no longer held back, instead indulged every ounce of the sick, sinful want that had infected her mind and body. She kissed Charlie harder than she’d ever kissed Yris or Ana, touched her in more ways than she’d ever touched either of her past lovers. She now actively chased her orgasms, welcoming those few seconds of weightless pleasure, because it was the closest thing to an escape she would ever find in that palace.

Humans had a term for it, or at least one that came close: Stockholm Syndrome.

She couldn’t bring herself to hate Charlie anymore, and she didn’t have the will to try. The only person she could hate was herself.

Maybe this had been Charlie’s plan all along: to let Vaggie wear herself down trying to out-deceive her, then swoop in to have her way with what was left. If that was the game, she’d played it brilliantly. But at long last, the torment was about to come to an end. Just a few hours ahead of them loomed Extermination Day.

Vaggie had survived a full year in Hell. That revelation came with none of the joy she might’ve anticipated a few months ago. Her determination was rotted by paralyzing anxiety. She had one goal, and until she reached it, she couldn’t afford the luxury of happiness, or even hope. If she allowed herself to feel those things now, and she ended up failing, it would crush her. When she got back to Heaven, she would be free to feel all the things she’d bottled up in the last twelve months, but until then, she had to stay focused.

The next morning brought chaos as every staff member clocked in to help lock down the palace, whether they were scheduled to work or not. Every one of them had a spot reserved in the royal bunker to wait out the next twelve hours. The extermination started at 8:00 sharp, so they had little time to prepare.

Charlie was particularly anxious to get Vaggie into the bunker. Most of the staff were Hellborn, but Vaggie wasn’t, so as far as Charlie was concerned, she was a target. Because of this, Vaggie went out of her way to avoid Charlie. She helped servants lock the windows and hide the valuables. She helped them get their families settled in their designated spots in the bunker. She helped organize and distribute supplies. Every excuse she could use to stall, she used, so that she would be one of the last ones inside.

At 7:59, the alarms sounded, a chorus of wailing sirens that could be heard all across Pentagram City. On every street, traffic slowed to a crushing halt. The roads were clogged to bursting, made impassable by the volume of sinners looking for a safe place to hunker down and Hellborn trying to leave Pride. When they heard the sirens, they abandoned their cars and ran.

The bunker doors—three feet thick, lined with angelic steel, and engraved with powerful wards—began to slide shut. The wheeled mechanisms in the walls groaned under the doors’ colossal weight.

Vaggie watched them carefully, gauging their speed, calculating when to run. If she was short by even a fraction of a second, she would be trapped in the bunker or crushed between the doors. Timing was everything.

Not yet. . . almost. . . now.

She bolted past Charlie, vaulted over Razzle and Dazzle’s heads, and sprinted for the shrinking exit. Charlie screamed her name, but she didn’t stop, didn’t dare look back. She squeezed between the doors and made it through to the other side right as they were threatening to crush her.

The doors slammed shut. A veil of magic materialized, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, sealing the bunker. Vaggie was left to her own devices. From here on, it was all or nothing.

Vaggie ran up to her room and grabbed her spear. She left her emergency bag tucked behind the dresser. Whether she succeeded or failed tonight, she wouldn’t need it. She put on a long coat, pulled up the hood to shadow her face, and fled the palace.

The streets were chaos. It wasn’t unfamiliar, but Vaggie had never seen it from the ground, from the perspective of the prey. All around her, sinners were cut down by holy blades, and Hellborn were crushed by demolished buildings or struck by flying debris. As Vaggie turned into an alleyway to escape the brunt of the carnage, she narrowly avoided a body hurtling towards the ground. It splattered on impact like a ripe melon, spraying viscera across the sidewalk. High overhead, Vaggie thought she recognized Andromeda’s gleeful laughter.

She navigated through side streets and empty buildings, conjuring a mental map of the city. She veered away from the majority of the noise, but followed isolated screams. She needed to find an exorcist alone, on the ground, someone she could talk to on equal footing.

When she broke into one abandoned house, she heard clattering and followed it to the attic. When she opened the door, she was ambushed by a large, barrel-chested sinner with beady eyes and curled ram horns. He grabbed her spear and whipped her into the air with it, flinging her against the wall. Vaggie's spear was ripped from her hands, and the sinner kicked it away before she could grab it. Her eye widened when she saw that he had an angelic weapon of his own, a mace.

Adam had never been the most organized of commanding officers. There was always a small percentage of weapons left behind after each extermination, since the exorcists all carried backups and Adam didn’t enforce thorough inventory checks. They could get new ones from the smiths at any time, he reasoned. Now, Vaggie silently cursed him for his idiocy.

The sinner pounded a meaty fist against his chest and roared, “My fucking hiding spot! Not yours!”

He swung the mace, and Vaggie rolled out of the way. It slammed down right where her head had been, splintering the floorboards. It lodged in place there, and the time it took the sinner to rip it out was all the time Vaggie needed to get back on her feet. She grabbed her spear and plunged it into the back of his leg. He fell to his knees with a howl of pain.

Vaggie ripped the spear free, grabbed him by the collar, and flung him towards the window. His own momentum carried him through it in his struggle to regain his balance, and a cloud of shattered glass followed him to the ground.

Vaggie rushed to the windowsill. The sinner tried to rise, but an exorcist rocketed down from the air and landed on top of him. Vaggie heard his back break, and he screamed. He was silenced when the exorcist stabbed one of her serrated daggers through the back of his neck, severing his spine.

Those daggers, that helmet. . . Vaggie knew this exorcist.

“Leah!” she cried, her voice cracking with emotion.

The exorcist startled and whipped around, raising her daggers in anticipation of a fight. Vaggie dropped her spear to the ground and clambered down the side of the house. She fell part of the way and landed rough on her side. She grunted when she felt something in her shoulder pop, but gritted her teeth through the pain and hauled herself to her feet. She staggered over, stopped about ten feet away, and gasped, “Leah, it’s me.”

She couldn’t believe her good luck. Leah was one of the most honorable angels she knew. She was strong, compassionate, and a steadfast friend. Vaggie had just as often sat beside her in the mess hall as stood back-to-back with her in battle.

She spotted the exact moment Leah recognized her. The eyes of her mask went wide with shock, and the digital smile flipped to a frown. She pulled her helmet off and shook her snowy white hair free.

“Vaggie?” she said hesitantly. She didn’t sound like she believed what she was seeing.

“Yes.” A smile broke out on Vaggie’s face, her first real smile in over a year. Relieved laughter bubbled out of her, high and breathless. She stumbled forward, but stopped when Leah tensed and gripped her daggers tighter. Vaggie gulped and said, “We have to talk.”

Leah’s sharp yellow eyes narrowed.

“I don’t think we have anything to talk about.”

Did she know everything that happened a year ago? She must. Did everyone know? It didn’t matter, Vaggie quickly decided. If she could get just one angel on her side—especially an angel like Leah—the rest would have to listen. They would understand; they had to.

“I want to come back,” she blurted. She’d rehearsed versions of this speech in the days leading up, but all that preparation was forgotten in an instant. Tears sprang in her eye, and she said the first words that came to mind unfiltered. “Please, just give me a second chance. I want to come home.”

“You made your choice.”

“I know, but it was the wrong choice. I see that now. If I could go back and undo it, I would, but I can’t. Please, just take me to Adam. Let me talk to him. He’ll listen, I know he will. Please.”

She dropped her spear and moved forward, hands raised in surrender. Leah held her daggers at the ready, but didn’t attack. Vaggie dropped to her knees and grasped the bottom of Leah’s skirt, clung to it with trembling hands.

The next words she spoke were in Enochian. It was the mother tongue of Heaven, the oldest spoken language in creation. It was a language all Heavenborn angels instinctively knew—a language only Heavenborn angels knew. The holiest of ascended souls could never learn or understand it, nor could any other creature.

“Mercy, sister.”

Leah’s glare softened. Anguish lanced across her face. She opened her mouth to speak, and hope sparked in Vaggie’s heart. But before Leah could say anything, a loud, grating voice cut through the air.

“Kill them all! Don’t lose one of them!”

It was Lute. She wasn’t anywhere in view, but she was nearby, maybe almost on top of them. Vaggie looked desperately up at Leah, silently pleading.

All trace of warmth disappeared from Leah’s face. Her eyes hardened, and her hands tightened on her daggers.

In Enochian, she spat, “I have no mercy for traitors.”

Vaggie anticipated the attack a second too late. She managed to block the first dagger, but the second one plunged hilt-deep into her side.

Her plan dissolved. Her mission ceased to matter. Nothing mattered except the sensation of a blade digging between her ribs and hot blood soaking her shirt.

Vaggie screamed and lunged away, ripping herself free from Leah’s dagger. When Leah attempted to stab her again, Vaggie launched herself towards her spear, seized it, and swept it through the air in a wide arc. The flat side of the blade caught Leah in the chest, knocking her aside, giving Vaggie a few precious seconds to escape.

She ran.

She stumbled every few steps, clutching her ribs in hopes that enough pressure would staunch the wound. All around her, the world burned. People screamed and died. Angels circled overhead like vultures, swooping down on whichever unlucky target caught their eye.

Vaggie pulled her hood up and buttoned her coat to hide her glowing gold blood. Before long, though, it soaked through. Her hands were covered in it. It dripped a trail behind her, trickled down the shaft of the spear as she ran. She couldn’t go back to the palace like this. Charlie would see what she was, and the harmony they'd come to have would be shattered.

The blood kept flowing. When Lute wounded her a year ago, it had stopped within a few minutes. Why wasn’t it stopping now?

As Vaggie passed through a dark, narrow alley, her vision blurred, and she lost all control of her legs. She fell, catching herself on all fours. She couldn’t get back up, so she crawled. When she couldn’t do that anymore, she rolled onto her side and just lay there, struggling for breath. She coughed, and when she reached up to wipe some spit from her mouth, her hand came away bloody.

The bleeding wasn’t going to stop this time, she realized. Leah’s knife had struck something vital. Drop by drop, breath by heaving breath, she was dying. Only a miracle could save her now.

A miracle. . . or a last resort.

Her eye flew open. She forced her leaden limbs to move, to push herself upright. She had completely forgotten about her Plan Z. How had she forgotten?

There was one angel she could still contact—the one angel who, until this moment, was the last person in all creation she wanted to contact.

Having no other materials available, she dipped her fingers in her blood and spread it across the ground, drawing a messy circle. It took her failing brain a minute to recall the correct sigils, but she did, and drew them accordingly. Soon, she had a streaky summoning circle. Vaggie bent over on her knees, touched her forehead to the ground, and prayed.

“I call upon Elder Cynthaeis. I call upon she who forged my body and breathed divine life into me. I call upon my angelic maker, she who created me to serve God. Please, Maker, answer me. I—” Her words were cut short as she coughed up a yellow clot. It splattered on the pavement between her hands.

Tears rolled down her face. She gulped and pleaded, “I’ve never asked you for anything. I’ve never called on you. I’ve never bothered you. Since the day you brought us to life, you didn’t want anything to do with us, and I’ve always respected that. But please, Maker, I need you now, I. . . I have no one else. Please, answer me.”

There was no answer. There was nothing but the sound of a city being slaughtered.

She choked on more blood. She pounded a fist on the ground and hoarsely yelled, “Damnit, Cynthaeis, I know you can hear me! Please! Just this once, please!”

No answer. Not so much as a whisper on the breeze. Her maker had abandoned her like everyone else. In hindsight, Vaggie didn’t know why she’d expected anything different.

The last dash of her strength gave out, and she collapsed. Her eye slid shut. It hurt to breathe, hurt to move. Hopefully Charlie wouldn’t be the one to find her body tomorrow. She didn’t need that grief.

She was cold, so cold. She was slipping, falling, falling. . .

And then she wasn’t.

Vaggie opened her eye. The old wounds were unchanged, but the new one was gone. She lifted her shirt and found that not even a scar was left behind, as if it had never happened. She looked around, bewildered.

She was nowhere. On all sides, stretching in all directions, was dark nothingness. Her feet were steady when she stood up, but if there was a floor, it was beyond her ability to perceive it.

“I could have made you indestructible. I knew how. I had done it before, with the first army. But Adam didn’t want indestructible; he wanted human. So that’s what I gave him.”

She hadn’t heard that voice in years. It was a cold, gravelly timbre with a distinct air of authority. A mix of emotions coursed through her: relief, sadness, resentment, confusion.

Vaggie spun in search of the voice as it went on, “I was also in favor of programming you all to be like-minded drones. Enough agency to make quick decisions on the battlefield, but not enough to put your obedience into question. But that wasn’t human enough, either. What Adam wants, Adam gets. He always was a stupid, arrogant creature, as much in Heaven as in Eden. Humanity was doomed from the beginning. Why we didn't just sterilize Earth and start over somewhere else, I'll never know."

Vaggie turned around one last time, and there she was. Her maker stood no more than ten feet away, glowering down at her. For so many different reasons, Vaggie wanted to burst into ugly tears right then and there.

Cynthaeis looked exactly as she remembered. She was tall, easily more than double Vaggie’s height. She resembled a dragon, but not a dragon like Razzle and Dazzle. Hers was closer to the look of an Earth lizard, with her blunt snout and pebbly gray skin. Four pupilless silver eyes glittered beneath a hard, ridged brow. More eyes lined either side of her long neck and both of her curved, ox-like horns. Her skeletal fingers were each close to two feet long, with pale webbing stretched between them. Most striking of all was her silvery plumage; a thick mane of it covered her head and neck like a ruffled collar and filled out her four long wings. Twin feather-tipped tails stretched behind her, swaying lightly from side to side.  

Layered white robes shrouded her body, secured at her waist with an ornamented belt. The overly large bell sleeves ended at her elbows, and a skintight underlayer wrapped her arms all the way to her wrists.

When humans first began to populate Heaven, they brought aspects of their cultures with them, one commonality being the emphasis on sex separation. Not all human languages were strictly gendered, but many were.

Angels didn’t reproduce sexually. They were made, not born. They had no basis for the concept of “gender” that humans had. But over the centuries, it became the norm for individual angels to adopt an established gender identity, one of many changes made to accommodate souls.

Cynthaeis was one of the few who didn’t openly declare any human-based identity, but when souls tentatively started referring to her as female, she didn’t correct them, so it stuck. She probably wouldn’t have cared any more or less had she been labeled male. There was nothing feminine or masculine about her by any human standards, but nor could she be accurately described as androgynous. She was an angel, one of the oldest angels in Heaven, and she refused to present herself as anything but.

Vaggie stared at Cynthaeis, and Cynthaeis stared back.

“Maker,” Vaggie breathed.

“Offspring.”

For years, Vaggie had planned how she would confront Cynthaeis, what she would say to her in what order, but now that they were face-to-face, she couldn’t think of a single thing. At last, she dumbly stated, “You healed me.”

“I did.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Is that all you summoned me for?”

Indignation arose, but Vaggie tamped it down. Now was not the time.

“Where are we?” she asked, staring at the nothingness around them.

“A void-space. I own several. Did Adam not teach you about those? Don’t answer that. Of course he didn’t. Think of this as a sort of. . . pocket. It may be the only place we can safely talk.”

“I need your help,” Vaggie blurted.

“I gathered that.” Cynthaeis nodded to where her wound used to be. Her tone was callous, matter-of-fact. An old, familiar anger simmering in the depths of Vaggie’s heart was stoked to life.

“You hate me. You hate all of us. Why did you save me?”

“What little I feel for you isn't strong enough to constitute hate.”

“Whatever! Why did you do it?”

“Retirement isn’t the luxury vacation I was told it would be. One can only do so much needlepoint before the tedium sets in.”

Millennia ago, in the prime of her career, Cynthaeis was known as the greatest bioengineer in Heaven’s ranks. She had a seat on the high court, cultivated life on thousands of worlds, and even helped with the Eden project. She was also said to have mentored Lucifer for a time.

After the Fall and the spawning of Hell, she was commissioned to build an army. It was expected to be her crowning achievement. Instead, on the day she gave the exorcists life and presented them to Heaven, she declared them a disgrace and publicly disowned them. She pawned them off on Adam, who had co-led the project, to raise and train as he saw fit.

Over the next several decades, she pulled out of one committee after another, stepped down from the various departments where she worked, ceased all involvement in politics, and eventually announced her retirement. She was the first and only elder to ever do so. She moved to a private sphere on the outskirts of Heaven with a single attendant as company, and was never seen in public again. She was confirmed to still exist every few weeks, when her attendant traveled to the city for books, craft supplies, and groceries. Over time, her name faded into obscurity.

Vaggie wasn’t interested in an ego-driven lecture. She didn’t need her maker’s judgement; she needed her help.

“I need you to get me back into Heaven,” she said.

Cynthaeis’s gray eyes hardened.

“No.”

“Yes.” Vaggie braved a step forward. “I’ve never asked you for anything before, and I’ll never ask for anything else after this, I swear. You’ll never have to see me again if you don’t want to. But if you vouch for me before the court, they’ll let me back in. They have to. You could restore my halo right now if you wanted to, I know you could! If you just talk to Adam, I’m sure—”

“Adam was never interested in what I had to say, and he won’t be now. Not to mention, I no longer have any influence over the courts, so my favor would gain you nothing. No.”

Vaggie clenched her fists and ground out, “Please.”

“No.”

“I made one mistake! One stupid mistake!” she cried. “I would take it back if I could!”

“Would you? It seems like you’ve settled in well enough with the princess.” Cynthaeis cocked her head. Those silver eyes bored into Vaggie, reading her like no one else could. After a moment she said, more of a statement than a question, “You love her.”

Vaggie’s brave front cracked. She ran forward and fell to her knees, just as she had with Leah. She grabbed the front of Cynthaeis’s robes and gasped, “She made me! I didn’t want to, but she made me! It’ll go away once I’m out of Hell, I know it will. What she made me feel isn’t real. I just want a second chance. Please, Cynthaeis, I can’t ask anyone else. You’re all I have left.”

Cynthaeis stared down at her for a long time. Her expression was unreadable. When she spoke, the subject change caught Vaggie off-guard.

“There was another army before you and your sisters. Did you know that?”

Vaggie swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded. All the exorcists knew about the first army. The “rough draft army,” as Adam called it.

Cynthaeis wrested her robes from Vaggie’s grip and paced across the empty darkness. “It was before Adam was given creative control over the project. They were mine, mine alone. It took me twenty years to build them all because I wouldn’t let another angel touch them. A great and terrible force they were, frightening to behold. An army of indestructible warriors, one million strong—an army worthy of Heaven.”

She paused and looked down at Vaggie. There was a note of accusation in her tone as she posed, “Do you know what Adam said when I presented my army to him? The pinnacle of my career, the culmination of my abilities? He said, ‘I don’t like it. Make something else.’”

Vaggie felt sick. She already knew where this story was going, but she didn’t interrupt. She had nothing to say.

Cynthaeis resumed pacing and went on, “I couldn’t bring myself to destroy them, so I stored them in a void-space. Then I went back to the drawing board. I was forced to defer to Adam’s choices in every step of the project, from the numbers of our army to the design of the soldiers. I had a vision, and that imbecilic primate ignored it at every turn. Do you know how much of my vision ended up in the final product?”

Vaggie knew the answer. Everyone knew the answer.

Cynthaeis narrowed her eyes, and a hiss ripped through her teeth. “None. The Heavenly Host was meant to be my greatest creation. Instead, I ended up with you—my greatest shame.”

“I know,” Vaggie said hollowly. She didn’t try to hide the bitterness in her voice. “You care more about a bunch of dead angels than you ever did about us.”

“They are not dead. They’re less than that,” Cynthaeis snapped. Her face tightened, and for a moment, her expression was of the deepest despair Vaggie had ever seen. Her voice was thick with grief as she finished, “They never lived.”

Vaggie had rarely ever spared a thought for the rough draft soldiers. When she did, all she felt for them was resentment. Heaven’s indestructible army was doomed to remain a pile of lifeless shells, cast off into the infinite dark, taking with them whatever love Cynthaeis might’ve had for Vaggie and her sisters.

Cynthaeis stopped in front of her. She shut her eyes and drew a deep breath, and Vaggie felt the buzz of magic in the air.

Suddenly, Cynthaeis changed. Her scales dulled and her skin sagged. Deep lines transformed her face into a gaunt mask. Her plumage lost its shine, and pale gray peppered her feathers. She had been wearing a glamour, Vaggie realized, to hide her sickly appearance.

Vaggie gaped up at her. She didn’t understand.

“You’re different.”

“I’m mortal.” Cynthaeis said the word with such disgust, Vaggie couldn’t help recoiling.

That volatile mix of emotions ripped through her heart again. All Heavenborn angels, from the lowest-ranking cherub to the High Seraphim, were immortal. What Cynthaeis was claiming shouldn’t be possible. Angels didn’t age.

“How is this. . . when did you. . .” Vaggie stammered.

“Angels don’t just retire, Vaggie,” Cynthaeis said with a roll of her eyes. It was the first time Vaggie could recall ever hearing her say her name (it was no secret that Cynthaeis despised the names Adam gave the exorcists). “I am not seraphim. I can only create so much. I am powerful, but all power has limits. Giving life to an entire army was my limit.”

The full implications slowly sank in. Vaggie’s stomach turned.

“How long do you have?”

“Years. Maybe another century or two, if I avoid exerting myself.” Cynthaeis’s lip curled with unhidden disdain. “I knew what it would cost me to build an army, and I was ready to pay that cost. I would have gladly traded eternity to bring my vision to life. Instead, I traded it for you.”

Vaggie slumped down and shut her eyes. She was so tired. Her sisters had betrayed her, she’d just learned that her maker was mortal and dying, and all she wanted was to go home.

“Please, Cynthaeis,” she begged, trying one final time. “I know I’m not what you wanted, but you’re still my maker. Please.”

“Do you think any amount of ‘please’ will change the answer I’ve repeatedly given you?”

“I don’t have to be a soldier anymore. I could live with you, away from everyone else. I won’t cause any problems that way.”

“I fear we would only compound each other’s misery. No, Vaggie. I cannot, and will not, facilitate your return to Heaven. What you’re asking is the one thing I can’t give you.”

Vaggie shot to her feet, her anger rushing back full force, now tinged with panic.

“You’ve never given me anything! Not once! Do you remember the day you woke us up? I remember it. You were the first thing I saw, the first thing any of us saw. We loved you. I loved you, Cynthaeis! You were everything, and then you were gone! And you left us with him! You never gave us a single damn thing! You—”

Cynthaeis lunged forward with a snarl, grabbing Vaggie by the face and all but lifting her off the ground. Her claws dug into Vaggie’s skin. Her feathers flared and her wings lifted menacingly, making her look twice her normal size. Her halo blazed with searing white light.

“I gave you life!” she roared, baring her teeth. Her voice boomed across the void-space like thunder. “I sacrificed my immortality for you! For all of Heaven!”

For half a second, Vaggie thought Cynthaeis might kill her, but she didn’t. All at once, Cynthaeis’s rage died. She released Vaggie and stepped back. Her shoulders slumped and her wings drooped. In that moment, she looked her age—her real age. An ancient weariness hung in her voice as she said, “I’ve given enough.”

Vaggie threw herself forward, reaching for her maker with one last desperate plea, only to fall face-first onto hard pavement. She was back in the alley, with the screams of dying sinners ricocheting off the surrounding rooftops. Her blood trail had disappeared. Even the summoning circle was gone, leaving only a charred ring behind.

Vaggie grabbed her spear and scrambled to her feet. She didn’t have time to process everything that just happened. She was still in Hell, and as far as her sisters were concerned, she was fair game. There was nothing in the rulebook about sparing fallen angels.

She ran for her life.

Reevaluate your priorities. You’re being hunted. Find a place to hide and wait it out.

She needed a hiding spot. She leaped over fallen bodies and ducked under eaves, searching for an opening, any nook or cranny she could hide in. Eventually, she stumbled upon the doors to someone’s wine cellar. She yanked them open and dashed down the stairs. She heard feet pounding behind her and turned in time to see a sinner trying to follow.

“Let me in!” he begged. “We can both fit! Just—”

Vaggie lunged with a guttural yell, stabbing the spear through his gut. She kicked him off of it and shut the doors. Hopefully, any exorcists passing by would see his body and assume the area had been swept.

Vaggie got to the bottom of the stairs and backed away from the doors, but whipped around at the sound of shuffling bodies deeper in the cellar. She stormed over to a pile of barrels, hefting her spear, and found a succubus and incubus huddled in the corner. They wept and clung to each other.

It was everyone for themselves. Vaggie couldn’t let them live, no more than she could’ve let that sinner live. She was deciding which one to kill first when she caught a glimpse of yet another person on the far side of the room. She turned, ready to face them, too, but froze when she realized it was her reflection, distorted in a broken, dusty mirror.

Her face was haggard, her hair matted, her clothes splashed with demon blood. She looked like a feral animal. She looked like a sinner.

She stared down at the two demons. They were openly sobbing now, begging incoherently for her not to kill them. After a moment of deliberation, Vaggie retreated across the cellar and perched at the foot of the stairs.

“Stay over there, and we won’t have a problem,” she growled, pointing her spear at them in an unveiled threat. They nodded frantically and hugged each other tighter.

With that, Vaggie turned her focus to the doors. Not for one second did she let herself relax. She remained vigilant for hours, jumping at every close sound, tensing in anticipation whenever she heard someone pass by. At one point, the incubus had to piss, and went to the opposite corner of the cellar to do so. Vaggie watched him like a hawk the whole time, then marched him back to his friend’s side at spearpoint.

Her hands were cramping and her eye was bloodshot when, at long last, she heard the familiar blast of the horn signaling the exorcists to fall back.

“It’s over,” she declared.

The succubus nervously asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Let’s just give it a few more minutes.” Many exorcists made a habit of picking off stragglers on their way back to the portal, even after the horn had been blown. It wouldn’t be truly safe until they’d all gone back to Heaven.

Vaggie waited until she could wait no longer. She ditched the cellar, leaving the two demons to their own devices. She wandered through the streets, aimless and alone. She wondered if she should return to the palace. Was the bunker open now? Was Charlie out looking for her? Was she angry that Vaggie had defied her? Would this be the turning point in their relationship? Was the game over?

A group of sinners cornered her down a side street. Looters. Two went for the spear while the other three attempted to grab her. Vaggie killed them one by one, letting her instincts lead, only half-aware of each agile move. When it was over, five fresh bodies surrounded her. She moved on.

Clouds rolled in on a foul-smelling wind, and it began to rain. It was acid rain, steaming on the pavement and sizzling on the bodies that littered the street. It burned holes through Vaggie’s clothes wherever it touched, so she took shelter under the overhang of a restaurant roof. The space between the wall of the building and a graffitied dumpster was well protected, so she crouched down in there. It wasn’t comfortable, and she wouldn’t be able to react quickly if she was attacked, but she was tired, so tired.

The steady patter of raindrops on the tin roof slowed, then stopped. The rainclouds drifted away, leaving a cloying, acidic mist in their wake. Vaggie squeezed out from behind the dumpster and moved on again.

A limo slowed to a stop beside her as she was stumbling down the main drag. She didn’t know where she was anymore, and she didn’t care that she was in full view for anyone to take a shot at. Let them come. What did she have to lose?

“Vaggie!”

Charlie’s voice pulled her from her stupor, and she sluggishly turned around. Razzle and Dazzle waited beside the limo, and there was Charlie running towards her. Her eyes were wide and her face was white as a sheet.

“Charlie,” Vaggie mumbled. Her knees buckled as Charlie reached her, and she collapsed into her arms. Her strength was gone, her will was gone, but it was okay, because Charlie’s arms were around her, and she was carrying her to the car, where she would be safe, safe at last.

Once the doors were shut and they were on the road, the dam broke. Vaggie’s face crumpled and the first tear fell. A shudder passed through her, doubling her over.

“They didn’t listen,” she said. Her voice cracked. “I just wanted them to forgive me, but they didn’t. They wouldn’t. They wouldn’t listen.”

“I know,” Charlie murmured, putting an arm around Vaggie’s shoulders.

Vaggie had never felt smaller than she did in that moment. A loud sob escaped her, and she leaned against Charlie, buried her face in her jacket.

“I want to go home,” she whispered. She broke down completely, sobbing and clinging to Charlie’s shirt. “I just want to go home.”

“I know. We’re going home now. It's okay, I’m taking you home. It’s going to be okay.”

Vaggie didn’t know what she meant by that. She had no home now. She had nothing.

Chapter Text

Vaggie sat on the edge of her bed, staring into the middle distance. A tear rolled down her cheek and dripped off her chin.

“Sinful filth like you has no place in Heaven.”

Lute was right. Of course Lute was right. Vaggie was sinful filth, and her place in Heaven was long forfeit.

“I have no mercy for traitors.”

When they were young, the exorcists took delight in racing each other from one end of the training yard to the other. Vaggie always enjoyed racing Leah, since they were consistently neck-in-neck. Sometimes Vaggie won, sometimes Leah won, sometimes it was too close to tell.

Never again. Vaggie would never stand back-to-back with Leah in a fight, never sit beside her during another meal.

Her sisters weren’t her sisters anymore. Maybe some of them had mourned her, but they’d had a year to get over it, and now she was just another sinner.

“I’ve given enough.”

Her maker didn’t love her.

Perhaps Cynthaeis didn’t outright hate Vaggie, but she certainly didn’t care for her. She had forsaken her. At least the others could go on burying that shame, pretending like it didn’t matter. They still had Adam. He wasn’t much, but he was better than nothing.

Vaggie recalled the little metal bird Yris had given her. Was it still in the barracks, tucked under her pillow? Had someone taken it? Had Lute thrown it away? That sounded like something Lute would do. Would Yris ever know what happened to it? Would she ever know what happened to Vaggie? Would Ana ever know?

Vaggie would never see Heaven again. She would never fly again. She would never laugh with her sisters, never walk down the shining streets of the capital, never breathe the cleanest air in creation or taste the sweetest water. She was no longer an exorcist. She was no longer an angel.

She hadn’t just lost her home; she lost her purpose. She lost her entire life.

Almost.

Her gaze moved across the room, to where her spear sat on the dresser. She hadn’t cleaned it yet, so it was still sticky with blood and grime. She stared at the blade, gleaming and deadly sharp. A dark, ugly thought arose from the deepest pits of her mind.

She could do it. She could take that final step. Maybe she could even regain a few scraps of honor that way. One final selfless act, falling on her own weapon like human warriors of old. If she didn’t do it, Charlie surely would, and there would be nothing honorable about it. Vaggie would die screaming in the bowels of the palace, begging for mercy she didn’t deserve, or she could take back control of her life one last time.

It would be quick—painful for a few moments, perhaps, but quick. The pain would end, and no more would follow. The more she thought about it, the more appealing it sounded.

There was a soft knock at the door. Vaggie didn’t move, didn’t say a word. Whoever it was could come or go for all she cared. It didn’t matter. There was nothing any demon could take from her now.

“Vaggie?”

The door opened. Charlie stepped in and shut it quietly behind her. She walked over and joined Vaggie on the bed. Vaggie shut her eye and thought, Just get it over with. Just kill me already.

Surely Charlie could see the game was over. She won. Vaggie was completely, irreparably broken. What fun could Charlie glean from a broken toy? If she wanted to drop the act, drag Vaggie to her private torture chamber or whatever secret dungeon she had, and tear her apart until there was nothing left, now was the time to do it. It was a relief, in a weird way. Maybe torture would erode the pesky affection that had wormed its way into Vaggie’s heart. That awful, wonderful, unwelcome feeling was more than she was prepared to face. She would be glad for an excuse to let it fade.

Charlie touched Vaggie’s shoulder and asked, “Are you alright?”

Vaggie opened her mouth to say she was fine, but stopped. What reason did she have to lie now? What did she have to lose?

“No,” she whispered.

Charlie scooched closer, close enough for their bodies to touch.

“Can I ask why you went out there?”

God, she was still so kind and gentle. It had to be intentional. She had to know that any compassion, fake or not, was a bucket of salt poured over every wound in Vaggie’s heart.

Was there any point in lying? Was there any point in keeping up the act?

“I just. . .” Vaggie struggled to come up with some excuse, any excuse, and at last said, “I just wanted to talk to them. I wanted to ask for a second chance.”

Charlie was quiet for so long, Vaggie wondered if she’d offended her somehow, and the killing blow was about to come right then and there. Good. It was about time. She wouldn’t resist. She was done resisting.

“Do you really mean that? You would want a second chance?”

Vaggie frowned and looked sideways at her.

“I guess? I don’t know now. Window of opportunity’s closed, isn’t it?”

“Maybe not.”

Charlie was watching Vaggie with interest, like she’d just discovered her to be a unique specimen. She stood up from the bed and held out a hand. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

Vaggie took her hand, let Charlie lead her out of her bedroom. She whispered a silent goodbye to it, knowing this would be the last time she experienced the luxury of a comfortable bed. She said goodbye to her spear, knowing she would never wield it again. If Charlie appreciated a good irony, she would finish Vaggie off with it after she had her fun.

She led Vaggie downstairs, then deeper, to a basement similar to the one Vaggie had found in Lucifer’s side of the palace. Charlie paused at the door, took a breath, and said, “I’ve been working on this for a while. These last few months, a lot of my meetings have involved setting it up. Please, tell me exactly what you think. Even if it’s stupid, I want to know. Don’t hold back. Can you promise me you’ll be honest?”

That was unexpected, but Vaggie nodded.

“Sure.”

“Okay.” Charlie exhaled, then opened the door and disappeared inside.

Here we go. Torture time. End of the line, Vaggie thought. Her stomach turned with dread, but she reminded herself that she had nothing to lose and followed Charlie.

It was not a torture chamber. Vaggie couldn’t help being a little disappointed. She’d been curious, in a macabre sort of way.

This basement was downright homey compared to Lucifer’s. It was cramped and somewhat chaotic, but it was organized chaos, for the most part. The furniture was well-loved but clean, and the room actually had decent lighting. Bookshelves were everywhere, and a massive stack of books with worn spines and crinkled pages littered a table in the middle of the room. Several titles were in Enochian, and Vaggie mentally smacked herself. The Heaven books she’d sought months ago had been down here the whole time.

Charlie sat down in a red armchair and gestured to a green sofa beside it. Vaggie obediently sat. Charlie bent forward over the table and began leafing through stacks of papers. Some looked like drafts of schedules, some were scripts, and some were scribbly crayon drawings of demons and angels. Vaggie’s eyebrows shot up when she noted that the theme across most of the drawings was handholding. In 90% of them, the crudely sketched characters were smiling, holding hands, and dancing around under rainbows.

“So, I have this idea, and I want to know your thoughts on it,” Charlie began. She held up a drawing, which looked like an average extermination. “The exterminations are about population control, right? According to Heaven, the only way to manage sinners is to—”

“To cull the population,” Vaggie finished.

“Right. But what if there was another way? A way that could benefit both realms?”

“Uh. . . I don’t follow.”

“Think about it. The exterminations don’t really help anyone. It’s the most miserable day of the year down here, and it’s a twelve-hour chore for Heaven. They’ve got to be sick of it, right?”

Vaggie pursed her lips and nodded. She elected not to mention that a) most of Heaven’s population didn’t know about the exterminations and therefore didn’t care, and b) a good portion of the exorcists, their leader included, actively looked forward to it.

“See, you get it! I mean, you got a full view of it yesterday. I’m glad you’re okay, but it was awful, wasn’t it?”

Vaggie nodded again. She didn’t have the words to describe everything she felt and experienced yesterday.

Charlie sorted through more drawings and went on, “So I started thinking, what would be a good alternative? What are our priorities? First and foremost, we need to fix overpopulation in Hell. Secondly, if Heaven is so worried about it, would they be less worried if they had more souls? Like, to balance things out? Think about how many humans end up in Hell. I don’t know the exact parameters, but I’m guessing it’s a lot harder to make the cut up there than it is here.”

Vaggie was now fully confused. She was slowly starting to grasp that this was not heading in the direction of imminent torture and/or death.

“The system is what it is,” she said carefully. “That’s not something anyone can change, Charlie.”

“How do we know that for sure? Has anyone ever tried?”

Before Vaggie could think of a response, Charlie whipped out a poster and held it up, beaming from ear to ear. A tall building covered most of the page, and a bunch of demons held hands in happy rows across the lawn. There were angels, too, and what looked like demons ascending to Heaven.

Vaggie bit her tongue to stop herself from demanding what in the fuck she was looking at. She didn’t have to, thankfully, as Charlie proclaimed in a faux announcer’s voice, “Welcome to the Happy Hotel, where we clean your slate and pave your way to the pearly gates!”

Silence fell over the room. Somewhere nearby, a cricket chirped. Vaggie opened her mouth, then shut it.

“A hotel?” she echoed.

Charlie, now looking a little embarrassed, nodded and explained, “Yeah, a hotel to rehabilitate sinners! They come stay with us, we help them become better people through therapy and friendship and whatever else goes into that, and then they get re-judged and welcomed into Heaven!”

That had to be the stupidest thing Vaggie had ever heard. The damned were damned, and the saved were saved. There was no after-afterlife. There were no second chances.

She looked at the drawing again, then back up at Charlie. She mentally stepped back and reexamined her. Charlie was trembling with enthusiasm, practically bouncing in her chair. Her hair rustled excitedly in its confines. Her face was lit up like Vaggie had never seen it before, and her eyes shone with hope—real, genuine hope.

“The Happy Hotel,” Vaggie echoed. She had no idea what to think. The idea that Charlie might legitimately be a thoughtful, kind, happy-go-lucky person had never crossed her mind. She played along as best she could, though, nodding at the poster and asking, “That’s the name? Is that set in stone, or. . .”

“Well, I guess it’s. . . I mean, ‘Happy Hotel’ is. . . you know what? This whole thing is still in the brainstorming phase. We can workshop it.”

“What about a building? A hotel implies a building.”

“Yes, and as of last month, I have one! It’s a bit of a fixer-upper, but I think with enough love and elbow grease, we can make a real home out of it. I’ve been wanting to move out for a while, anyway. I think it would be good for my dad to have some space.”

Vaggie stared at her. She understood what she was hearing, but she was still skeptical.

“And you really think it’s possible for a soul to change? Not just try, and not pretend, but really change for the better?”

“I know it’s possible. And you know how I know?” Charlie set aside the poster and grabbed Vaggie’s hands. There was only love in her eyes as she said, “It’s you, Vaggie. I didn’t realize it until this morning, but you are living proof—well, not so much living, but you’re proof that a person can want to do better. You went out in the middle of a bloodbath to ask the angels for a second chance. That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen a sinner do. If you can do that, why not someone else? Why not everyone else?”

Guilt nipped at Vaggie’s heart. She wasn’t the rock-solid proof Charlie thought she was. She wasn’t a good person; just that morning, she’d been contemplating suicide. She wasn’t even a soul.

But no one—angel, soul, or otherwise—had ever looked at her the way Charlie was looking at her now. No one had ever clutched her hands this tight as they shared with her their impossible, beautiful dream, an unreachable goal driven by boundless hope.

“You really believe this,” Vaggie stated.

“With my whole heart. Will you help me?”

There was no lie in her eyes. There was no lie in her voice. Deep in Vaggie’s heart, the wounds stopped bleeding. The black cloud of despair that had seeped into every fiber of her being began to ebb. A ray of light broke through the darkness, not cast by Heaven or any angel, but by Charlie’s smile. It was a beacon of safety, a candle in the dark.

What did she have to lose?

“Alright, walk me through some of this. If you’re going to shoot for the moon, you should have a plan,” she said at last, picking up a list labeled “Trust Building Exercises” in sparkly marker.

Charlie nodded vehemently and snatched the paper. She looked like she might explode from happiness. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of Vaggie’s mouth. Had Charlie always glowed like this? Had her smile always been enough to light up a room? To light up all of creation?

They talked late into the afternoon. Charlie bounced around the basement with frenetic energy, jumping from one stage of the plan to the next, from the recruitment process to the finish line, from all the demons she would befriend to the angels she would win over. It became apparent very quickly that she didn’t have a plan, per se, but did that really matter when weighed against her enthusiasm?

As the day wore on, Vaggie started to see her in a very different light. Where before she had assumed cunning manipulation around every corner, she now saw that Charlie’s “act” was the exact opposite of an act. If anything, she might be the most genuine person in Hell. She wore no glamour, either. That captivating beauty was as natural as could be. It was her face, her voice, her body, everything she said and did. She was more of an angel than Vaggie had ever been.

When they retired to Charlie’s bedroom that night, Vaggie did everything she could to make her new feelings known. She poured every bit of emotion she could muster into every touch, every kiss. The change wasn’t lost on Charlie, who matched her passion at every turn.

Afterwards, when Charlie fell asleep in Vaggie’s arms, Vaggie lay awake for a long time, gazing down at her. She could watch her forever, she thought. For the first time in a long time, she felt at peace.

“I love you,” she whispered in the quiet dark. Charlie wasn’t awake to hear it, but that didn’t matter. It wasn’t for Charlie’s benefit that she said it.

Her life in Heaven was over, as was the purpose she’d been built for, but that didn’t have to mean the end of everything. Maybe she could have a new purpose here. What did she have to lose? More importantly, what did she have to gain?

She had Charlie. That was the one thing that hadn’t been taken from her. She had lost everyone else she cared about, and she realized with sudden clarity that if she lost Charlie, too, that would be the final killing blow. That was the very last pain she would care to endure.

“I love you,” she said again. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she drew a shuddering breath. What a relief it was to give voice to a feeling she’d spent so long denying.

The redemption Charlie wanted to make happen would never apply to Vaggie. She would never see Heaven again; she’d accepted that. It might not even work for sinners. But if she could help Charlie do it, or at least try. . . maybe that would be a form of redemption in and of itself, just for her. Maybe that could be enough.

It might not be possible, but if it was Charlie’s dream, Vaggie would see it through. And if the whole thing fell apart, she would stick by her. If, one day, Charlie was the one who lost everything, she would still have Vaggie.

For both of them, maybe that could be enough.