Chapter Text
Vaggie stood tall and straight, hands clasped behind her back, as Carmilla Carmine leafed through the bundles of cash, counting in silence. Anything resembling a demon deal, even something as simple as a cash purchase, always made Vaggie’s skin crawl, but she refused to let her discomfort show. She didn’t trust Carmilla, but she trusted that an overlord this old and savvy knew when to keep transactions straightforward. Neither of them wanted to make this any more complicated than it needed to be.
“Everything seems to be in order,” Carmilla said at last. She sat back in her chair and eyed Vaggie with her usual chilly scrutiny. “I’ve never dealt with the princess before, nor her compatriots. I took a risk in letting you postpone your payment.”
“Lucky for both of us, your risk paid off. Full payment in cash, within seventy-two hours, just like we agreed. The princess upholds her agreements,” Vaggie responded with equal terseness.
“I made no agreement with the princess. I made an agreement with you.”
“And I delivered.”
“You did.”
Silence fell over the room. Vaggie and Carmilla stared at each other, neither willing to break away first. Finally, Carmilla nodded to the door and prompted, “And you’re still here because. . .”
Vaggie took a deep breath and began the speech she’d rehearsed on the way over.
“On Charlie’s behalf, I want to thank you for your willingness to cooperate. Without you, this last extermination would have been a massacre—not just at the hotel, but all over Pride. Your weapons helped us turn the tide. So, thank you.”
Carmilla looked a little surprised, but accepted the sentiment with a courteous nod. Taking that as permission to continue, Vaggie went on, “But we don’t have those weapons anymore, or the new ones the exorcists dropped. The cannibals took most of them, and looters took what was left. The hotel survived, but now it’s a target. We’ve discussed it at length, and we need to be ready for whatever comes next. We need more weapons. How soon can you have another batch ready?”
Carmilla studied the pile of cash for a long moment, idly flipping through the bills. Finally, she stood up and walked to the window with a heavy sigh.
“You’re late for this particular trend. Do you think you’re the first one to consider stockpiling weapons? Angelic steel has always been a lucrative trade, but now that its effectiveness against angels is common knowledge, every demon who can scrounge up the money for a blessing-edged pocketknife is clamoring for it. It’s a limited resource, and suppliers such as myself are running out.”
“What are you saying? You’re. . . what? You’re out of steel?” Vaggie stammered, her stoic façade cracking.
“Not yet, but at our current rate, I will be soon. I can put you on the waitlist, but by the time we get around to your order, we might not have anything to give you.”
Through gritted teeth, Vaggie said, “I would remind you that I represent the princess of Hell.”
“And I would remind you that her title means nothing to me.” Carmilla strode to Vaggie, towering over her. Vaggie was accustomed to feeling small in Hell and resisted the urge to shrink. Carmilla narrowed her eyes and stated, “I have other clients, many of whom I’ve dealt with for years. I’m a businesswoman, Vaggie. I have my priorities in order, and I’d like to keep them that way.”
Vaggie wanted to argue, but sensed it wouldn’t be in her best interests. The last time they’d stood this close, Carmine was beating the shit out of her, and that was her making an exception. There was no imminent extermination on the line now, and Vaggie didn’t care to have her ass handed to her again.
“I understand, Miss Carmine,” she said at last. “Thank you for your time.”
Carmilla’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, like she hadn’t really expected Vaggie to back down. Vaggie broke eye contact and turned away, heading to the door. There was a gnawing pit in her stomach, knowing she’d failed to get the weapons the hotel needed. At least she could tell Charlie they were out of debt.
She was just grabbing the door handle when Carmilla said, “Wait.”
Vaggie hated the desperate, giddy hope that gripped her heart. She kept herself composed as she turned around. Carmilla was sizing her up with a thoughtful, calculating look on her face.
“How are you adjusting to your wings?” she asked.
Vaggie blinked, caught off-guard by the question. Her wings were currently retracted, but the mention made them twitch, and it took conscious effort to keep them down.
“Well enough. I missed them.”
“I can imagine.” Carmilla regarded her for a moment, then posed, “Did you have many friends in Heaven?”
Vaggie tensed. She didn’t like talking about Heaven; she didn’t even like thinking about it.
She’d had friends—she’d had a life—but it was long gone, and she’d moved on. What was done was done, and she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. If losing everything she’d known was the only way to end up where she was now, she wouldn’t undo it for anything.
“Some,” she replied carefully.
“And would you still consider them friends?”
“Does it matter?”
Carmilla moved past her, out the door and down the hallway. She beckoned Vaggie to follow.
They were on a raised walkway. In the open space below, demons pushed dollies, filled crates, and barked orders at one another. It was just as busy as it had been when Vaggie arrived. As they walked, Vaggie felt the itch of eyes on her back and turned to see a shark demon staring up at her from the factory floor. She glared at him until he looked away, bent to continue his work.
“Where does angelic steel come from? I’ve always wondered,” Carmilla asked as Vaggie jumped aside to avoid a pair of imps toting a crate.
Vaggie’s first instinct was to keep her mouth shut, but she consciously reminded herself that she had no reason to protect Heaven’s secrets. She was still getting used to that. More than once since coming out, she’d caught herself reflexively lying to Charlie and the others about trivial things. She debated keeping her mouth shut anyway, because she also had no reason to trust Carmilla, but her gut was telling her to answer truthfully. Besides, if she kept Carmilla talking, she might be able to secure an agreement after all.
“A star. A young star,” she answered. “Once it stabilized, they built a forge around it. They harvest material from the core and refine it into steel.”
“Who's in charge of that process?”
“The smiths. They’re a specialized class, sort of like the exorcists. Specialized angels are designed for specific purposes; the smiths were made for metalworking.”
Carmilla absorbed that in silence. Without looking down at Vaggie, she asked, “Do you have any friends among the smiths, former or otherwise?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Why do you think?” Carmilla stopped and faced her. Once again, Vaggie had to resist the urge to shrink. “We’ve told each other our circumstances. You’re in need of weapons, and I’m running out.”
“You want me to hook you up with fresh steel,” Vaggie concluded.
“I suspect the exorcists will be much more attentive to their weapons going forward. It was already a limited resource before the last extermination; it will only grow harder to find from here on. If you want to build a working relationship with Carmine Industries, well. . . we have to start somewhere, don’t we?”
Vaggie bit her lip. Once again, the instinct to lie arose, a voice in her head screaming that she must defend Heaven at all costs. Once again, she repressed it.
“I do know someone. I haven’t seen her in a long time, though, so I don’t really know where I stand with her,” she said slowly. “But hypothetically, if—and it’s a big fucking ‘if’—I were to get you new steel, what would we get out of it? What would a working relationship look like?”
“That depends on how much steel you bring me.”
“Which depends on how many weapons you plan to give us.”
Carmilla lifted an eyebrow, and a ghost of a smile played on her lips. Vaggie crossed her arms, resolute. Now that they’d started the conversation, she wouldn’t budge until she’d brokered some sort of agreement.
One of Carmilla’s daughters—Odette, Vaggie recalled—approached her mother with a clipboard and pen, muttering about a recently closed transaction. Carmilla took her time reading through the documents presented, rereading them, and signing them. She studiously ignored Vaggie’s impatient fidgeting. Vaggie thought at first it was some sort of demeaning mind game, being forced to wait like this, but once again, her gut told her that wasn’t the case. Carmilla didn’t strike her as petty. This felt more like a test. Thus, Vaggie held her tongue and restrained the urge to interrupt.
Carmilla at last turned away from her daughter and, fixing Vaggie with an appraising look, stated, “I’m prepared to offer you a deal.”
“No deals,” Vaggie cut in immediately.
“A gentlemen’s agreement, then. If you can provide Carmine Industries with fresh steel, your efforts will be compensated with 3% of the initial weaponry made from that steel, free of charge.”
Vaggie blinked, a bit taken aback by Carmilla’s bluntness. She’d expected more persuasion to be needed before negotiations were opened. She took her time thinking about it, mimicking the way Carmilla had made her wait.
“3%. . . of the first batch? That won’t cut it. 5% of your output every month.”
Carmilla’s eyes narrowed.
“2%, every two months.”
“2% every month. And the princess and I get a say in which weapons we take. You’re not just giving us the extras that no one buys.”
“That percentage, of course, coming out of the weapons made from the material you provide. As long as a flow of fresh steel is maintained, you will have your monthly compensation. If it is discontinued for any reason, you will stop receiving weapons.”
“Sounds fair,” Vaggie said after a moment.
“Excellent. Shall I draw up a contract?”
“No.”
Carmilla raised an eyebrow. Vaggie quickly amended, “Not yet, I mean. I, uh. . . I need to consult with the princess. I need to ensure that this arrangement is acceptable to her.”
“She trusts you to negotiate on her behalf, but not to close deals?”
Vaggie disregarded that stinging remark and firmly said, “I also need to contact the smiths. If they’ll cooperate, I’ll come back as soon as I can, and we can close the deal.” She held Carmilla’s gaze, not daring to break away for a moment, holding herself rigid with militaristic practice.
Carmilla cast a glance at Odette, who shrugged. Finally, she bowed her head. It was hard to tell, but Vaggie could’ve sworn she was hiding a smile.
“I look forward to our follow up, Vaggie.”
“As do I. Thank you, Miss Carmine,” Vaggie said, giving a curt nod in return.
For a moment, they just stood there. Vaggie wasn’t sure if she was supposed to wait for a dismissal or if Carmilla was expecting her to leave on her own accord. Neither got the chance to end the meeting properly, however, as a sudden commotion arose from the factory floor.
Carmilla and Vaggie both rushed to the railing and looked down, Odette peeking between them. Standing in the middle of the room, being given a wide berth by the other workers, a shark demon—the same one Vaggie had stared down earlier—had unzipped his coveralls. Strapped to his chest was a device that was unmistakably a bomb pack. Carmilla’s other daughter, Clara, stood nearby with a group of other workers who looked like they’d been trying and failing to talk him down.
“I’ll fucking do it!” the shark yelled. A detonator was clutched in one white-knuckled fist, and he waved it menacingly in the air. “I swear I’ll fucking do it, you fucking sheep!”
Carmilla moved out of the shadows, looming at the edge of the walkway, and called down to him. Her voice carried like a sonorous wave, silencing the room. Vaggie reflexively straightened, half-expecting orders to come her way and ready to follow them.
“And what exactly are you intending to do under my roof?”
The shark demon looked up at her, startled. He grinned, showing his fangs, but there was noticeable fear in it.
“I—” His voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. “I have a message, Miss Carmine.”
“You have thirty seconds to deliver it,” Carmilla said, stalking along the walkway. Menace echoed in her every step. She was putting on the same performance she’d put on for Vaggie, but there was a tension this time that wasn’t there before. Her eyes flicked to Clara, who stood dangerously close to the bomber.
Vaggie extended her wings but didn’t take off. She stood at the railing, taut as a bowstring, ready to jump.
The shark ripped the canvas cover off his bomb pack, and Vaggie sucked in a breath when she saw that it was lined with metal spikes. They varied in size, some the length of a pinky finger while some were bigger than kitchen knives. Most telling was the subtle glow emanating from each spike, and even from a distance, Vaggie could sense the holy pulse in the metal. They were forged from angelic steel. Whether the shark had gotten them from Carmilla or another supplier, she didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. If that bomb went off, it would be a disaster. Clara, being so close to him, wouldn’t stand a chance.
The shark bared his teeth in another ugly grin and said, “Times are changing, Ma’am. Hell’s changing. If the old timers wanna stick around, they gotta learn their place.”
“Who sent you?” Carmilla demanded. She leapt up with startling agility, landing on the railing and glowering down at him. “Who is this message from?”
The shark didn’t answer. He looked pointedly at Vaggie and added, “You should be careful who you make deals with, Miss Carmine.”
His hand tightened on the detonator. Sweat poured between his clammy scales, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn’t come here to negotiate, Vaggie realized with doomed certainty.
“Mom!” Odette cried.
In her periphery, Vaggie saw Odette clinging to the railing, her face chalk white, staring down at her sister. Clara looked just as frightened. Carmilla’s eyes switched rapidly between them and the shark, deciding who to go for first.
Several things happened at once. The factory workers closest to the shark lunged, trying to swarm him. Carmilla and Vaggie exchanged a look, and a wordless understanding passed between them. Carmilla leapt from one side of the walkway to the other and tackled Odette, pulling her out of view of the factory floor. At the same time, Vaggie launched herself over the edge and shot towards Clara. She slammed into her, and Clara’s scream died on her lips as the wind was knocked out of her. Vaggie folded her wings around her and took shelter behind a crate. It wasn’t sufficient, she knew it wasn’t, but it was that or stay out in the open, which would surely get both of them killed.
The shark hit the detonator, and the bomb whirred against his chest. He screeched something else, probably some vague, haughty threat, but no one heard it.
There was a blast of heat and light. Sharp blades clipped Vaggie’s wings, her exposed back, her limbs, her face. Something stabbed into her middle, between her ribs and her spine. It found its mark deep inside, in a spot she knew instinctively should not be touched, a spot she should’ve thought better to protect.
There was searing, blinding pain, and everything disappeared.
*****
Angel Dust sidled up to the bar and rapped his knuckles on the lacquered surface. Husk paused where he sat crouched behind the counter, unloading a box of supplies, and looked up, disgruntled.
“Whatever you’ve got there, I’ll take one of them,” Angel said blithely, flapping a hand at the box. Husk uncapped one of the new bottles and plunked it down in front of him. With a wink, Angel said, “Thanks, baby.”
Husk grunted and returned to his work. Angel watched him for a minute or so, sipping his drink. He automatically turned to the side and opened his mouth, but stopped when he remembered no one else was there. Vaggie was off meeting with Carmilla Carmine; Charlie was in her room working on some sort of royal Charlie project; Nifty had taken to hanging out in the basement of late, where a seemingly indestructible nest of roaches had made camp in the walls; and Alastor was fuck knows where doing fuck knows what. Not for the first time, Angel wished Sir Pentious was still around. He was a dork, but the hotel felt strangely empty without him.
“Pull me a few more. This one’s just a fluffer,” he stated on a whim, raising the now half empty bottle. Husk cocked an eyebrow.
“Awful early to start bingeing. You wanna wait a few hours?”
“I know what I’m about. Cough ‘em up, Husker. Yeah, just set ‘em up here. Perfect.” Angel wrapped an arm around the collection of bottles and eagerly drew them closer. He grinned at Husk and informed him, “Cherri’s coming over again tonight. Better get your mixing mitts ready.”
“Actually,” came a singsong voice from the balcony, “Husk’s mixing mitts are going to have to come off soon, because he’s taking a break.”
“ ‘Scuse me?” Husk said flatly.
Looking immensely proud of herself, Charlie came skipping down the stairs towards them. She handed Husk a sheet of paper and declared, “I’ve calculated the number of hours you spend working every week, and I’ve decided it’s far too much. Here, I’ve drawn up an official work schedule for you with union-approved hours—regular breaks, holidays and weekends off, all that stuff.”
Angel Dust groaned.
“We don’t even have a union here. Don’t tell me you’re still reading those fucking books.”
Charlie whipped out one of the books in question and gazed down at it with sparkling adoration. Filling up most of the cover was the lengthy title: The White Collar’s Guide to Effective Management, Volume I: Understanding the Blue Collar.
“It’s a really good read,” Charlie said seriously. “It’s all about building and maintaining a healthy work environment. Managers who read this book said that once they started applying these tips, turnover dropped and satisfaction rate among employees went up. I’m on the chapter about unions—how they’re formed, why they’re important, how to negotiate with them, that sort of thing—and it’s a real eye-opener. I’m really glad you gave me that other book, too: Labor Unions: A Comprehensive Guide for the Unfortunately Uninitiated.”
“Charlie, for the last time, we gave you those books as a fucking joke,” Angel clipped, rolling his eyes. “None of us think you’re a shitty manager.”
“I won’t be a shitty manager anymore, you mean. I’m not upset, Angel, I’m actually glad you gave these to me. I’m learning so much!”
Angel looked to Husk for backup, but Husk just shrugged. Setting aside the cases of booze and dusting off his hands, he said, “Not a bad thing for her to get invested in, if you ask me.”
“She’s not even your real boss. Won’t Alastor make you get back to work as soon as he gets back?”
“He doesn’t give a shit what I do so long as I stay in the hotel. I’m not saying no to a break.” Husk grabbed a bottle for himself, hopped over the counter, and seated himself on a stool. Charlie looked delighted.
“So, would you say your workplace satisfaction has gone up?”
“Sure.”
Charlie squealed with joy and flung both book and schedule into the air with a pop of magical confetti. She opened a portal to her bedroom, grabbed another sheet of paper off her desk, and dismissed the portal with a wave of her hand. This new sheet looked to be a survey—numbers 1 through 5 were scrawled across it, each corresponding to a smiley face of varying happiness, with a space for extra notes at the bottom. Charlie thrust it and a sparkly red pen into Husk’s face and said with uncontained excitement, “This is perfect, you can give me my first official rating! How am I doing?”
Husk was working out how to politely tell her to fuck off when the front doors of the hotel banged open. Vaggie stumbled in, being half-carried by none other than Carmilla Carmine. Both were covered in soot, and Carmilla’s normally pristine clothes and hair were disheveled. Most concerning was Vaggie; her breathing was ragged, her face taut with pain, and one hand was pressed to her side, just under her ribs. Gold blood stained her shirt and oozed between her fingers.
The survey was forgotten as Charlie let out a sharp cry and ran over. She carefully took Vaggie from Carmilla, who retreated to the doors but didn’t leave. Charlie led Vaggie to the couch and set her down.
Vaggie let out a choked whine. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her face was shiny with sweat. She looked like she was close to falling over, but held herself so stiffly that she didn’t sway an inch.
“Razzle, go find my dad and bring him down here, we need his help! Vaggie, you’re hurt, what happened? What—who—” Charlie’s stammering abruptly stopped, and she whipped around to face Carmilla. She bared her teeth and snarled, “What did you do to her?”
“N-No, Charlie, it wasn’t. . .” Vaggie’s words tapered, and a weak cough forced its way out of her. A bit of blood sprayed from her lips. She reached out a clumsy hand and grasped Charlie’s wrist—whether seeking support or holding Charlie back from attacking Carmilla, it was unclear.
“My compound was attacked,” Carmilla said. Despite her frazzled appearance, her voice was as cool and strong as ever. “A suicide bomber infiltrated my staff.”
“Was he after Vaggie?”
“After both of us, is my guess. He was working for someone; didn’t tell us who.” Carmilla’s severe expression softened somewhat, and she added, “My daughter Clara would’ve been killed if Vaggie hadn’t intervened.”
Charlie didn’t respond to that, but her anger ebbed, and she sat down beside Vaggie.
With Vaggie’s ashen face, how stiff she was, how badly she was trembling, Charlie was almost afraid to touch her. She grabbed her hand and gingerly pried it away from her ribs so she could see the wound. Thin yellow cuts gleamed all over Vaggie’s body, but she’d had worse before. The main point of concern was a deep gouge under her ribs. The tip of some shrapnel was just visible.
“What should I—what should I do, Vaggie? Should—should I pull it out? I can—” Charlie stammered, but Vaggie clutched her wrist tighter and shook her head. A tear squeezed from her eye. Charlie felt tears of her own well up. She hated this, seeing Vaggie so hurt and not having a clue what to do.
“No, don’t pull it out, that’ll make it worse,” Vaggie rasped. Her voice was painfully hoarse. Each breath was a harsh wheeze. She pressed her hand over the wound again and muttered, “Something’s. . . something’s wrong. Something’s not right. I can feel it.”
Just then, Lucifer came hurrying down the stairs, Razzle fluttering anxiously behind him.
“Charlie? Everything alright? What’s going. . .” He trailed off when he saw Vaggie bloody and wounded on the couch, Charlie clinging helplessly to her, and a disheveled Carmilla Carmine standing in the doorway. Husk and Angel Dust stood off to one side, not knowing what to do with themselves.
With a nod of assent from Vaggie, Lucifer went to Carmilla first. They exchanged words of thanks for Vaggie saving Clara and Carmilla bringing Vaggie home safe, before Carmilla stepped outside. Just before the doors shut, she looked Vaggie in the eye and stated, “Our agreement stands. See that you follow through when you’re able.”
With that, she headed back to the car she'd arrived in, dignified as ever in each long stride.
Lucifer manifested a stretcher, moved Vaggie onto it, and floated her upstairs. Charlie stumbled along behind them, her face bloodless and her head spinning. She didn’t take her eyes off Vaggie for a second. There was a knot of fear weighing in her gut, along with an uncertain sort of nausea, as if her stomach couldn’t quite decide whether it wanted to eject its contents.
Lucifer led the way into one of the many empty guest rooms, and at his behest, Charlie shut the door. Together, they coaxed Vaggie out of her shirt and laid her down on the bed, curled on her side. With every small movement, she let out a guttural moan of pain. A terrified, delirious part of Charlie wondered if she would die right then and there.
Lucifer rolled up his sleeves and went to work. Brow knit, face set in grim concentration, he removed the shrapnel. It gleamed in the dim light, soaked in angel blood. Lucifer kept a pad of magic pressed on the wound to maintain pressure, but a few spurts of blood still escaped, staining the otherwise clean mattress. With glowing hands, he began to feel around the injury sight, running his fingers delicately over Vaggie’s ribs and down her spine.
Charlie clutched Vaggie’s hands, unsure how else to help. Several times Vaggie jerked and tried to rip her hands away, to defend the wound; Charlie felt sick as she was forced to restrain her.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, as if speaking too loudly might impede her father’s work.
Lucifer didn’t look up as he explained, “I’m examining the site. Angelic injuries are. . . finnicky. You can’t just will them away with a snap of your fingers. Not to mention, my healing skills are a bit rusty. I have to mend it from the inside out.”
Charlie nodded, but was unable to say anything more. Her tongue felt thick, her mouth painfully dry.
Gradually, the bleeding stopped, and the wound began to shrink. Charlie watched with gross fascination as shredded muscle fibers fused back together and torn skin knit itself shut. Lucifer didn’t look pleased with his progress, however. His frown deepened, and a mix of concern and confusion colored his drawn face.
At last, he broke the tense quiet.
“Something’s wrong.”
Charlie’s heart plummeted.
“Wrong? What do you mean wrong? You’re—you’re healing it, aren’t you? It looks like it’s getting better.”
“Superficially, but there’s something going on inside. It’s not responding to my magic.”
“I think I know what it is.”
Charlie and Lucifer both startled as Vaggie spoke up. Her voice wasn’t as weak as before, but there was an uncharacteristic tremble in it that put Charlie’s stomach in knots.
Vaggie gingerly pushed herself up into a sitting position. Charlie protested, sputtering and trying to push her back down, but Vaggie waved her off. Her face was strained, like she was still actively in pain, but it didn’t seem as overwhelming as before. She shut her eye and swallowed hard before speaking.
“I think. . .” she said slowly, rubbing her ribs. “I think it’s my corroborator.”
“Your what?” Charlie asked at the same time Lucifer breathed, “Oh, shit.”
The two angels exchanged a dark, knowing look. Charlie stared between them, and when no explanation was forthcoming, demanded, “What’s a corroborator? What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s an organ,” Vaggie said shortly.
“You gotta give her more context than that,” Lucifer cut in, sounding somewhat exasperated. He seated himself cross-legged, facing Charlie, and said with some delicacy, “I guess it’s time you and I had ‘the talk’. To understand what a corroborator is, you have to know how baby angels happen.”
“Oh,” was all Charlie could say. This was the last place she’d expected the conversation to go.
Lucifer steepled his fingers and explained, “Right. In summary, angels are made, not born. We have makers, not parents.”
“Wait, so, was I actually—"
“No. Your mother and I had sex.”
“Ah.”
“Anyway, all angels are built with what’s commonly called a corroborator, although that word isn’t really exact. Enochian doesn’t translate well into human languages. ‘Corroborator’ is a rough equivalent. It’s basically a bundle of magic—a core, of sorts—that an angel’s entire being is built around, condensed into an extra internal organ. It’s a living piece of the angel’s maker. It’s what keeps them going. Problem is, because it manifests as a real, physical thing, it can be damaged.”
“But you can fix it, can’t you?” Charlie edged. Lucifer’s sympathetic, slightly guilty expression was answer enough.
“A stronger, older angel might be able to make a temporary substitute.”
“You’re a seraphim,” Vaggie said. Her voice took on a note of desperation.
“A fallen seraphim,” Lucifer reminded her gently. “I’m sorry, but. . . I can dull the pain, but I can’t fix the thing. If an angel’s corroborator is damaged, only their maker can directly alter or replace it.”
“Great! So we just have to get Vaggie’s maker to come down here and give her a new one.”
“I guess I could try and contact her,” Lucifer muttered, his brow furrowed in thought. He glanced at Vaggie and asked, “Cynthaeis made the exorcists, right?”
Charlie looked at Vaggie in anticipation, but faltered when she saw the utter despair etched across her face. Charlie thought it sounded like a fine solution, but Vaggie looked as though she’d just received an official death sentence.
“That won’t work.” She dropped her gaze and hung her head. Her voice was hollow. Her hands sat limply in her lap. She looked and sounded like she’d already accepted defeat.
“Why not?” Charlie pressed. “We just have to reach out to Heaven, contact your maker—you said her name is Cynthaeis?—and explain the situation. Once she knows you’re hurt, I’m sure she’ll—”
“She won’t.”
“What? But—”
“She won’t do it, Charlie. That won’t work.”
Charlie looked at her father for help. He shifted on his seat and admitted, “As far as angels go, Cynthaeis was never the warm fuzzy type, and I doubt the last ten thousand years have done her personality any favors. But I knew her well in Heaven, and. . .”
He paused, glanced unsurely at Charlie, and said without meeting her eyes, “After Eden, she was one of the few angels who supported me during my trial. She wasn’t fond of your mother, but she spoke against banishing me. I might be able to convince her to come down—to hear us out, at least.”
Vaggie snorted.
“Good luck pulling her out of retirement.”
“Retirement?” Lucifer looked confused. “Since when is that a thing up there? Angels don’t retire.”
“She did.”
“Oh. Well. That, uh. . . that does change things. Hm.” Lucifer pressed his fingers to his lips and sat in silence for several seconds, thinking hard. He had a far-off look in his eyes, as if Charlie and Vaggie weren’t even in the room.
“Dad?” Charlie prompted, breaking him out of his stupor.
“I can still try,” he decided. He hopped off the bed and strode to the door, ignoring Vaggie’s quiet protest. “I’ll talk to Heaven, see if I can talk to Cynthaeis, and I’ll let you guys know as soon as I have an answer.”
Charlie watched him go, then looked back at Vaggie. She didn’t look any less hopeless.
“This won’t work, Charlie,” she stated, staring down at her hands.
Charlie cupped her face and lifted it, met her weary gaze. With conviction, she said, “It will work, Vaggie. We’re going to fix you. We have to try. Please don’t give up before we’ve even tried. I need you here with me.” She picked up one of Vaggie’s hands and kissed her knuckles.
Vaggie shut her eye and nodded her assent.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay, we can try.”
“Thank you.” Charlie touched a relieved kiss to her lips. She was gentle, painstakingly gentle, feeling that if she kissed her even a bit too roughly, Vaggie would break apart.
With a quiet “Come on,” Charlie slid an arm around Vaggie’s waist and pulled her to her feet. She opened a portal to their bedroom, where Vaggie could rest comfortably while they waited for Lucifer to return with a verdict.