Chapter Text
Vaggie knelt on the bathroom floor, doubled over in pain, with her arms cramped tightly around her midsection and her forehead pressed to the cool tile. Her breathing was shallow, her heart pounding like it was trying to escape. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and pooled on the floor around her.
She’d lied right to Charlie’s face. She was not okay, and no amount of rest would change that. Whether a broken corroborator really was a death sentence or not, she had no idea, but it sure felt like it was.
Never before had she experienced physical pain like this. It was agony, a sharp, stabbing agony buried in her chest, relentless, digging in like a blade, burning. Every movement she dared to make, every breath she drew, every beat of her heart—everything made it worse. She shivered violently with each feverish flare of pain, which only served to amplify the next.
Rest was impossible. The thought of eating made her empty stomach turn.
The pain didn’t fade. It couldn’t, wouldn’t be ignored no matter how she tried. It would kill her soon; it must. There was no way she could survive this.
“Please,” she whispered. Her voice cracked, and tears sprang in her eye. Her corroborator twinged, nuisanced by her daring to move. “Please, please just kill me. God, please.”
She didn’t mean it, she kept telling herself, but it hurt so badly, and it wasn’t receding. When Lucifer healed the entry wound, he’d cast a sort of muffler around her corroborator to dampen the pain, and that had helped for a while (she wouldn’t have made it through the meeting with Cynthaeis otherwise), but it was no longer working. She had no protection, nothing to buffer the sensation of her body slowly combusting, cracking apart, breaking.
The door opened, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t see who it was. She was blind, blind and helpless, a blind, writhing slug. Whoever had come into the bathroom could kill her for all she cared. She wouldn’t be able to stop them.
“Hey, Vags, Charlie sent me up. Her old man just got back and—” There was a cry of distress. The intruder (Angel Dust, she recognized distantly) crouched beside her, frantically gripped her arms. “Holy shit, holy fuck, are you—what’s wrong with you? Vaggie, what’s wrong? Talk to me!”
“Ch-Charlie,” she croaked. She had no idea how she managed to force the words out, but somehow she did. “Get her, and—and Lucifer. Get L-Lucifer. He can—he can—”
She was unable to say what Lucifer could do. She couldn’t remember. It was important to get to him, she knew, he could fix this, but she couldn’t remember how. Everything was fading, burned away by flashes of white. Her vision was distorted, then overtaken.
She was blind, she was burning, she was breaking, and oh, the agony. . . the agony was all there was. Nothing else existed, nothing else mattered.
Then it stopped, as if a dial had been turned down. A bubble of warmth bloomed inside her, encasing the source of the agony, muffling it. It wasn’t gone, but it was contained. Agony receded to pain, which receded to discomfort. Bearable. Mild, even, after the torture that preceded it.
Vaggie slowly became aware that she was alive and intact. She lay on a cold tile floor, curled on her side in the fetal position. Her arms and legs were stiff, her joints sore. Small spasms rippled through her limbs, aftershocks of much more violent writhing. Hands were on her, and someone was calling her name.
“Vaggie! Vaggie, can you hear me? Please, please. . . shit. Come on, please say something. Vaggie?”
Charlie. Charlie was with her. Relief flooded Vaggie’s fried brain. She was safe.
“Alright, she’s waking up. It’s okay, Charlie, she’s fine, see? She’s okay.”
Charlie sobbed and threw her arms around her. Her blond hair, having exploded free from its confines, wrapped itself tightly around Vaggie’s fingers as she reached up to awkwardly pat Charlie’s shoulder.
“Hey, it’s. . . it’s okay, honey. I’m here. I’m alright. It’s okay.”
Charlie’s hair grew too tight for Vaggie to keep petting her, so she just held onto her. Charlie was trembling from head to toe, too unfocused to shift out of her full demon form. Her tears soaked Vaggie’s shirt as she sobbed against her shoulder.
Guilt gnawed at Vaggie for having thrown Charlie into such a state. There were no words for the pain she’d just experienced, but had it just been a brief episode? Could she have waited it out without causing a panic? Was all this fuss necessary?
As Vaggie waited for Charlie to compose herself, she looked around, getting her bearings. Angel Dust stood in the doorway, pale and anxious. Lucifer was kneeling on the floor beside her, watching her with a wary, calculating look. His hands sparked with the dregs of recent magic, and Vaggie realized he must’ve reapplied his pain relief.
It wasn’t just an episode, then. That was what it felt like to have a broken corroborator when the pain relief wore off. She’d gotten a taste of that agony with the initial injury, when Carmilla brought her home, but it had now gone a full day unhealed, and it was getting worse.
“I didn’t think it would wear off,” Lucifer said quietly. “Not so quickly, anyway. I made it stronger this time, though, so it should last longer.”
“How long?” Vaggie asked. Her voice was hoarse. She tasted blood and suspected she'd bitten her tongue.
“I don’t know. Based on how long the first relief lasted, I estimate this one’ll work for about. . . twenty-four hours, variables permitting?”
“What variables?”
“Stress, physical exertion, maybe diet. I wish I could give you concrete answers, but the truth is I’ve never heard of anything like this. There’ve been a couple of cases where an angel’s corroborator was damaged, but—” Lucifer stopped and averted his eyes.
Vaggie ground her jaw. Anger stabbed her heart—not for him, not even for herself, but for Cynthaeis.
“Their makers were available and willing to heal them?” she guessed. Lucifer nodded, still avoiding her gaze. “So there’s no research on long-term corroborator damage?”
“There are theories, but. . . no, there’s no actual research. It’s not the kind of thing angels are keen on testing. Heaven has some real freaks in the science and research departments, but not even those guys want to fuck around and find out.”
Vaggie didn’t respond. She had nothing to say. She just lay there, hating her stupid corroborator, hating Cynthaeis for leaving her broken and useless, hating herself for getting hurt in the first place. She suspected she’d spoken too soon when she said it wasn’t a death sentence. Even if Lucifer gave her a new relief every day, would its effectiveness wane over time? Were they just delaying the inevitable? Was this the beginning of a slow, agonizing, humiliating end?
But she couldn’t say those things. She looked up at Charlie’s tear-streaked face, gazed into her wide, frightened red eyes, and that volatile mix of self-loathing and dread was washed away. All that remained was guilt, for feeling those ugly, selfish things.
Her life was far from the most important thing at stake here. Charlie needed her. Vaggie couldn’t afford to waste her time wallowing in the grave she’d dug herself. She couldn’t die yet—she wouldn’t. She had shit to do.
Slowly, gingerly, she disentangled herself from Charlie and rolled up off the floor. It hurt, but the pain was manageable. It could be much worse, she reminded herself.
“Speaking of Heaven,” she said, “did you get an answer?”
Earlier, not long after the disastrous meeting with Cynthaeis, Vaggie sat down with Charlie and Lucifer and told them about her meeting with Carmilla. She recounted the steel proposal, and Lucifer agreed to reach out to Heaven again to contact the smiths.
Lucifer started to respond, but Charlie cut him off. She wedged herself between them and pulled Vaggie to her feet, quickly saying, “That’s not important right now. What’s important is—”
“What’s important is protecting the hotel,” Vaggie said sharply. She dug her heels into the floor to stop Charlie from dragging her to bed. “Heaven’s not going to drop the war just because we won the battle. We killed their general. And what do the power players in Hell do when they see a new up-and-comer on the board?”
“I’m not a power player, Vaggie, this isn’t—”
“I know that, and you know that, but an overlord who feels threatened isn’t going to care about your intentions! We need to do this.”
“No, we don’t, we can—”
“Charlie,” Vaggie said, harsher than intended, “I need to do this. Let me do this.”
In spite of the persisting aches and pains, she wanted to proceed. Maybe she couldn’t do much, but she could do this one thing. She could secure the deal with Carmilla and keep the trade going long enough to accrue a decent stockpile. The hotel needed to be able to defend itself—Charlie needed to be able to defend herself—if and when Vaggie no longer could.
Charlie looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn’t. She exchanged an uncomfortable glance with her dad and conceded, “Alright. Let’s go downstairs. We should let the others know what the plan is.”
They went down to the parlor, where everyone gathered to hear the updates. Vaggie was less than pleased to see that Alastor had returned from wherever he’d fucked off to and was seated primly in an armchair. When Vaggie came into view, his eyes locked on her, and his grin widened. He looked smugger and more conniving than usual. Vaggie scowled at him and straightened her posture, steadied her gait even though it hurt, refusing to look weak. Alastor quirked an eyebrow in wicked amusement. He wasn’t fooled for a second.
“Alright, people, here’s the dealio,” Lucifer said, plunking down on a couch and clapping his hands. “I just got back from the Embassy. I spoke to the smiths’ secretary, and we set up a meeting. Tomorrow morning, Charlie will go—”
“Charlie and me,” Vaggie interrupted.
An awkward pause ensued.
Charlie began, “Vaggie, I don’t know if that’s such a good—”
“We’re going. Both of us,” Vaggie insisted. Her tone was final; she would hear no argument. Charlie must’ve realized that, as she sighed, nodded, and gestured to her father to continue.
Lucifer cleared his throat and went on, “Right. So, you girls will go to the embassy tomorrow to meet one of the smiths—your contact, Vaggie—and she’ll take you to Heaven’s star-forge. Heaven itself is locked down pretty tight right now, but the forge is technically outside their borders, so you’ve been given special permission to go there and meet with the seraphim in charge.”
“Another seraphim, huh?” Charlie muttered, undoubtedly remembering how Sera had shut her down in court.
Lucifer chuckled and said, “They’re not all bad, Charlie, I promise.”
“I know that. Emily was alright.”
“And so is Mendrion. He’s never been much involved in politics, but he’s fair. He’ll hear you out.” After a moment, he added, “He heard me out. He spoke in my defense at my trial, like Cynthaeis did, tried to get me a lighter sentence. He made an argument for Lilith and Eve to be let into Heaven, too. Of course, not many angels shared that perspective, so he was overruled, but. . .”
Lucifer didn’t seem to have the words for everything he wanted to say. He gave Charlie’s knee a pat and said, “Mendrion’s one of the good ones. He’ll listen. After everything that’s happened this year, if you want to stick out an olive branch, this is a good place to start.”
“Okay.” Charlie still looked nervous, but his reassurances worked, and determination settled over her face.
Vaggie added, “And if we make a good enough impression, we can check out the steel, maybe open a discussion for trade. We might even be able to nick some of the excess.”
“Right, about that,” Charlie said, frowning at her, “I don’t know how I feel about this whole subterfuge thing. I think we’ll make a better impression if we’re honest about our intentions. I’m all about pitching the hotel, but. . . I don’t know, Vaggie. Do you really think we need a weapons stockpile?”
“A weapons stockpile and an alliance with the Carmine family. Yes, I do think we need those things. But the smiths won’t talk to us if you tell them right off the bat, ‘Hey, I know our realms might be on the brink of war, but can we have some your angel-killing weapons?’ That won’t go over well, Charlie.”
“Obviously we wouldn’t say it like that, but. . .” Charlie trailed off, wringing her hands.
Looking her in the eye, Vaggie said, “A lot of bad shit went down this year, and it’s only going to get messier. We need to be ready. It’s not like we’re going there to blow up the forge. We’re just trying to get our foot in the door.”
They talked for a while longer. Charlie ran through the schedule until she had it memorized. Angel Dust and Husk brainstormed what to do while she and Vaggie were gone. Alastor was unusually quiet; he pretended to listen to Charlie, but Vaggie sensed that most of his attention was really on her. Why he was suddenly interested in her—other than sadistic glee at seeing her in pain—she didn’t want to know.
When he wasn’t answering Charlie’s questions, Lucifer was silent. Several times Vaggie caught him staring off into the middle distance, completely disassociated, and she wondered if he was thinking about the before times. He’d had friends, a life—Cynthaeis and Mendrion had evidently liked him enough to stick up for him at his trial. Were there others? Did he think about them often, or had Cynthaeis’s visit and the upcoming meeting with the smiths spontaneously brought on this phase of stewing? Now that he was living in the hotel, he and Vaggie had plenty of opportunities to reminisce together in private, but had yet to do so. Somehow, Vaggie doubted they ever would.
When Vaggie finally went to bed, she used every excuse in the phonebook so Charlie would let her go upstairs alone. She wasn’t sure she could sleep, but she needed time to settle in and pretend, so she could avoid the inevitable questioning.
Charlie wanted to know the exorcists’ story. She wanted to know Cynthaeis’s story. She hadn’t openly demanded it yet, but Vaggie could feel the urge in every quick glance, could feel her restraint in the way she so carefully avoided the subject around the others.
Vaggie would tell her—one day. Not tonight. She couldn’t do it tonight.
Unfortunately, arriving at their bedroom brought none of the welcome solitude she’d hoped for. Standing before the door was Alastor, looking as rotted and dapper as ever, having slipped away from the group downstairs. Vaggie stopped in front of him and scowled.
“What do you want?” she snapped, not bothering with niceties. She didn’t have the bandwidth for his bullshit today.
“My, my,” Alastor chuckled, shaking his head. “Why the hostility, my dear? Is it so hard to believe I might simply be concerned for a friend’s welfare?”
Vaggie scoffed and crossed her arms. This hurt quite a bit, but she refused to show it.
“Exactly how gullible do you think I am? You don’t give a shit about my welfare. What do you want?”
“That charming streak of paranoia is still intact, I see. A good thing, too. You’ll be needing it now more than ever, won’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vaggie hated herself for the note of fear that slipped into her voice. Alastor noticed it, too; he’d probably been waiting for a reaction like that. He threw her a smug side-eye as he idly inspected one of the wall sconces.
“Oh, I only meant it in the sense that. . . well, let’s face facts, dear. We both know you’re not up to the task of defending Charlie anymore. Physically, that is. Keep those sharp wits about you, though, and I’m sure you’ll make a decent lookout!”
He was just trying to get under her skin, Vaggie told herself—and it was working. He knew exactly where to poke to make her squirm.
She was scrounging up a retort when he abruptly shifted the subject.
“Husker told me about that ugly little scene with your maker—unfortunate business, that. But it did leave me curious. How exactly does one go about mending an angelic wound?”
Vaggie frowned, unsure where he was headed with this. He was turned away from her, still diligently examining the wall sconce. She didn’t have a good view of his eyes, and his tone was as peppy as ever, so it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
After debating whether she should even answer the question, she said, “Well, you can’t just magic it away. You need an older angel or a healer to repair it manually. The more experienced they are, the cleaner and quicker it is. A good healer can fix it without leaving a scar, but—”
“But only an angel can do it? There’s no other way?” Alastor’s voice was suddenly sharp, his plastic mirth gone. His back was to her now, hiding his expression completely. He gripped his staff tighter than usual.
“Not that I know of. Lucifer was able to fix most of the damage; it’s just my corroborator that’s shot.” Vaggie paused, scrutinizing him. Her gaze traveled lower, to the distinct jagged crook in his staff that hadn’t been there before his fight with Adam. Suspicions freshly ignited, she edged, “Why are you asking?”
Alastor finally rounded to look at her. That odd tension was gone, replaced by a much more characteristic gleam of wickedness.
“Is curiosity not a sufficient reason? Ah, you’ve got me. I just want to know how much time I’ll have to enjoy this new entertainment. Regrettably, I anticipate being kept busy with a good many errands this week. I’d hate to miss out on all the fun.”
“What fun?”
Alastor laughed low and mean, his voice fuzzing with radio static. He leaned down, grin stretching, and purred, “Words can’t describe how delighted I was to hear of your little mishap. I sincerely look forward to watching you decay, dear.”
He finished the last word with a cruel, crackling hiss. Despite her resolve to stay cool, Vaggie found herself involuntarily backing away. Alastor smirked, satisfied by her reaction, and slipped away, disappearing into the shadows cast along the walls.
Vaggie had no idea what to make of that conversation. She felt sick, and strangely violated by what he’d said.
Was he right? Would her corroborator eventually stabilize, or would it fester, decay her from the inside out? That was an ugly enough visual on its own, but what really turned her stomach was the thought of what that would do to Charlie. Vaggie was supposed to be her anchor, a pillar of safety. With everything else going on, this was the last thing Charlie needed to worry about.
A selfish part of her wished she’d let Clara Carmine die.
By the time Charlie came upstairs, Vaggie was tucked into bed, feigning sleep with slow, measured breaths. Charlie nudged her shoulder a few times, whispered her name, but gave up when she didn’t respond. It was all Vaggie could do to contain her relief, to not give herself away as Charlie settled into bed beside her and turned out the light.
*****
Morning came far too quickly. Charlie hopped out of bed, as excited as she was anxious, and began hastily preparing for their trip to the forge. Vaggie managed to talk her down from packing her usual full luggage set, convincing her that just showing up would suffice. Charlie acquiesced, albeit begrudgingly, clearly trying to be accommodating for her injured girlfriend. To remove her from the temptation of but-what-if packing, Vaggie escorted her downstairs to breakfast.
Husk and Angel Dust were speaking in low voices at one of the tables, but went quiet when they spotted Vaggie. She had little doubt of what they were talking about.
When everyone else gathered—except Alastor, who preferred to eat alone—talk was stilted, overly polite, and more than a little forced. Everyone seemed to be waiting for Vaggie to bring up the events of yesterday, but she didn’t, so it went undiscussed.
Substantial conversation finally started when Charlie asked, “So, is there anything I should know about the smiths?”
Lucifer shrugged and nodded at Vaggie over his coffee.
“Don’t know. They weren’t made until after the Fall. Ask her; she’s friends with one.”
“I was friends with one. I’m not really sure where I stand with her now,” Vaggie said, the same caveat she’d given Carmilla.
“Well, tell me what you remember. I want to know what I’m walking into,” Charlie insisted, nudging her elbow.
Vaggie had envisioned herself briefing Charlie with a concise rundown of culture and history, but now realized she had no idea where to start. She struggled to come up with something until Charlie prompted, “They’re not dangerous, are they? Like, we’re not going to be walking into a trap? Or another biased court session?”
“No, no, these guys aren’t like that. They’re not aggressive at all. They could do some serious damage if they wanted to, but it would take a lot to push them to that point.”
“So, they’re not like. . .”
“They’re not like the exorcists.”
Charlie looked embarrassed for posing the question. Vaggie gave her hand a squeeze to let her know she wasn’t offended.
Charlie cleared her throat and went on, “And what about your friend? She’s the one we’ll be meeting, right?”
“That’s right. Her name’s Yris.”
Charlie nodded, waiting for elaboration, but Vaggie hesitated to give it. She didn’t know how honest to be. She wasn’t sure how Charlie would react to the fact that Yris was her ex.
Yris was her first venture into romance. Vaggie met her in the early years of the exorcists’ training, when Adam brought a group of smiths into the barracks for a weapons demonstration. Like the other exorcists, Vaggie was awed by the smiths’ towering bulk, raw physical strength, and deft handling of steel. Yris in particular caught Vaggie’s attention when, amid the weapons and lectures, she sculpted a small metal sparrow, so meticulously detailed in form and texture that Vaggie half expected it to come to life in her hands. At the end of the demonstration, Vaggie worked up the nerve to approach her. Yris was a slow-talking angel with a honeyed baritone voice and a calm, pensive manner. Vaggie complimented the bird she’d made, and to her own delight, Yris gave it to her to keep.
The smiths kept a rigorous schedule, but Vaggie made time to see Yris as often as she could. Their friendship progressed to a tentative romance, and they eventually fell into bed together. It was the first time for both of them. Neither knew what they were doing at first, fumbling under the sheets with inexperienced mouths and clumsy fingers, but after enough nights sharing a bed and enough escapades sneaking into one another’s barracks between work shifts and training sessions, they became adept lovers.
They parted ways on good terms. The smiths’ work schedule grew more demanding, as did the exorcists’ training and patrol rotations, and Vaggie and Yris found themselves growing apart as they saw each other less and less. Eventually, they agreed their relationship would be too difficult to maintain and settled as friends. Vaggie grieved the loss for a long time (she cried herself to sleep more than once, with her fingers clutched around the metal sparrow she kept under her pillow), but she never regretted her time with Yris.
Now, she didn’t know what to expect. She didn’t know if Yris knew about her fall. The smiths spent much of their collective time outside of Heaven, working under Mendrion in the star-forge, too busy to pay attention to current events until they rotated back home. Since they were often cut off from other angels (even the ones stationed in Heaven kept to themselves, rarely straying from the workshop), they tended to be a bit behind on news.
They must at least know about the exterminations. It was something Vaggie had been wondering ever since the hearing: what was the general population’s reaction? How had the smiths reacted, learning that the weapons they devoted their lives to making were being used to slaughter human souls?
Realizing that she’d lapsed into a very noticeable, very awkward silence, Vaggie cleared her throat and said, “Yeah, uh, Yris is. . . she’s a good egg. You’ll like her.” She took a sip of coffee and added, “She’s a hugger, too, so be prepared for that.”
A relieved smile spread across Charlie’s face, and Vaggie knew she’d said just what she wanted to hear. She could only hope it was all true.
By the time breakfast concluded, the pain relief was wearing thin. Vaggie discretely informed Lucifer, and he reapplied it with another warning not to overexert herself. After that, she and Charlie piled into the limo and headed to the Heaven Embassy.
Along the way, Charlie’s anxiety began to show. She rambled about what she would say to promote the hotel, how she would make a good impression on Mendrion, and if the subject arose, how she would apologize for killing Adam and a bunch of exorcists while also maintaining that Heaven had thrown the first punch. She paused for breath maybe twice. That was fine by Vaggie, since all she had to do was smile, nod, and occasionally offer some reassurance. It left her free to mull over her own worries.
When they arrived, all sense of giddy anticipation was overshadowed by the sight of another car parked outside the Embassy. A tall, voluptuous fish demon in a plum-colored pantsuit stood beside it, waiting for them. Vaggie sorely regretted leaving her spear at the hotel as they approached her.
“Your Highness,” the demon said, giving Charlie a curt nod. She didn't bother to greet Vaggie.
“Can we help you?” Charlie asked coolly. She touched Vaggie’s arm, clearly put off by the way the demon had dismissed her.
The demon straightened her jacket and said, “My name is Gladys. I’m here representing Carmilla Carmine. She’s asked that I accompany you to speak to the smiths.”
“How do you know about that?” Vaggie demanded. “Have you been tailing us?”
“Miss Carmine put a watch on the hotel, and they informed her when they saw the two of you heading to the Embassy. She assumed you’d managed to get in contact with the smiths. I believe you discussed it in her office the other day?”
“I wasn’t told she would be sending a representative,” Charlie said, casting an apprehensive, almost accusing glance at Vaggie.
To clear her name, Vaggie interjected, “I wasn’t told that, either. How do we know you’re even who you say you are?”
“She figured you’d ask that.” Gladys pulled a cell phone from her pocket and held it up for them. On the screen was a video of Carmilla standing in her office, looking as stern and composed as ever.
“I apologize for being unable to inform you of this development in person,” she stated. “I’m sending someone to oversee your negotiations with the smiths. In accordance with our agreement, Vaggie, my primary concern is securing a ready supply of steel. I would accompany you myself if I could, as I do consider this matter one of great importance, but as you both know, sinners cannot leave Hell. Hellborn demons, however, are free to move between realms. I trust that Gladys is up to the task.
“I understand why you might be reluctant to accept this. Know that she is under explicit orders to not interfere with the smiths’ work, nor to directly participate in negotiations. I’m sending her to observe, nothing more.”
Gladys flashed them a grin laced with smug corporate politeness. On the fuzzy screen, Carmilla’s red eyes sharpened. Vaggie knew she was speaking directly to her as she said, “Our agreement stands for as long as you uphold your end of it.”
The video ended, and Gladys pocketed her phone. She folded her hands in front of her and looked expectantly at Charlie.
“I think that made things clear enough. Would you like to lead the way, Your Highness?”
Charlie had that deer-in-headlights look she often wore whenever she was expected to take charge without warning. She was good at leading—Vaggie and everyone else at the hotel knew she was—but she needed time to mentally prepare for it. She cast an unsure glance at Vaggie, who sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“I guess I can ask Yris if it’s alright.”
Charlie grabbed Vaggie’s arm and guided her a few steps away, turning so Gladys couldn’t overhear them.
“Do you really think they’ll let a demon in?” she whispered.
“You’re a demon, and they let you into Heaven.”
"You know what I mean! This is different, you know it is. Will they agree to it?”
“They might. It’s like I said, the star-forge is technically outside of Heaven’s borders. It’s not like we’re asking to bring her into the capital.” Vaggie glanced dubiously at Gladys, who made a show of checking her watch. “We have to at least ask. We need those weapons, and that means we have to stay on Carmine’s good side.”
“Okay,” Charlie conceded, drawing a shaky breath. Together, they returned to face Gladys. With all the regality she could muster, Charlie said, “Alright, miss, er. . . Gladys. If the smiths allow you to accompany us, you may.”
“Excellent.” Gladys sneered, showing off her sharp greyish teeth.
With that, the three of them strode up the steps to the Embassy. Charlie led the way into the vast, eerily quiet lobby and up to the reception desk. She bopped the bell, and a roll of gold parchment manifested alongside a feathered quill. She signed in, and the parchment zoomed up into the ceiling. Down the hall, the door to one of the many small conference rooms slid open.
Charlie started forward, but Vaggie held an arm out and started, “Wait, maybe. . . maybe I should. . .”
Guilt made the words stick to her tongue. She had trouble meeting Charlie’s eyes.
Charlie guessed, “You want to go in by yourself?”
Vaggie bit her lip and nodded. Not until now had it fully sunk in how much she missed Yris. She wanted to talk to her alone, just for a few minutes—not as mediators, but as friends. But she couldn’t leave Charlie in the lobby with a demon they didn’t know.
Charlie looked a little put out, but she smiled, patted Vaggie’s shoulder, and said, “Alright, Vaggie. You go ahead in.”
“Are you sure?” Vaggie shot a pointed look at Gladys.
“I’ll be fine. Take your time.”
Vaggie whispered her thanks and left the lobby. After taking a moment to steady her nerves, she entered the dark conference room. The lights switched on automatically. There, pacing anxiously behind the table on the far side of the room, was Yris. She froze when Vaggie entered, and for a long moment they just stared at each other.
Yris was sporting a few tattoos she didn’t have before, and she looked a bit less bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed than Vaggie remembered, but other than that, she hadn’t aged a day.
She had the same impressive build as all the other smiths: taller than Charlie, close to Angel Dust’s height, with a broad-shouldered, thick-waisted frame. Her body was all hard angles and dense muscle, from her arms (her biceps alone were thicker than Vaggie’s torso) to her copper wings (they were short but broad, designed for maneuvering through enclosed spaces). Her face, while not classically beautiful like most angels, had a rugged handsomeness to it, with her wide, flat nose, heavy brow, and square jaw.
Her clothes were simple—a sleeveless linen tunic, loose pants with a high waist and cinched ankles, and hard-soled boots. Her jewelry—a set of armbands and a choker—looked deceptively plain as well, but a closer look revealed how intricate they were: thin threads of steel woven in imitation of lace. The glowing metal strands were bright against her burnished bronze skin.
Most striking of all were her hands, the hands that all smiths were specially designed with. Starting just below her elbows, her forearms grew into what looked like stone-carved gloves. They were huge, each palm the size of Vaggie’s head, and armored to withstand the heat of molten steel. Each thick finger was a joint too long, and Vaggie knew from experience that despite the hard, rocky exterior, those fingers were shockingly deft, and equipped with hidden tools to perform delicate artisanal work. Those same hands that could crush rock and heave literal tons of steel could also craft fine jewelry, create stunningly lifelike sculptures like the one she’d given Vaggie all those years ago.
Vaggie didn’t know what happened to that bird after she fell. She doubted she would ever find out. She’d long accepted that it was probably thrown away or regifted to someone who didn’t know its origin.
“Hey,” she said. Her voice cracked.
Yris gulped and returned, “Hey.”
“The hair’s new. I like it,” Vaggie commented, clearing her throat and gesturing to Yris’s hair. Indeed, it was longer, and styled much differently. What was once a downy fauxhawk was now a mane of shoulder-length dreadlocks, tied in a ponytail atop the crown of her head. It gleamed under the glow of her halo.
Yris’s face broke into a smile, and Vaggie couldn’t help but return it.
“I like yours, too.” She indicated Vaggie’s long hair, also in a high pony. Yris’s eyes grew damp, and her voice warbled. “It suits you.”
Her accent was stronger, Vaggie noticed. It was an accent all the smiths shared. Whether they were deployed at the forge or stationed at the workshop in Heaven, they spent significantly more time with each other than with souls or other angels. As such, they primarily used Enochian. It was the mother tongue of Heaven and the oldest spoken language in creation. Although speaking it took some practice, all angels could instinctively understand it when they heard it. But only angels could understand it; even the most dedicated, pious souls were incapable of learning it. Thus, it had fallen out of common use and was no longer considered Heaven’s first language.
Most angels reserved their native tongue for prayer or private, intimate conversations. The smiths, however, could often be heard barking orders at each other, having loud, boisterous conversations, and exchanging crude jokes exclusively in Enochian. They only ever switched out of it to interact with souls, or to accommodate the angels who favored human languages. They’d even developed their own dialect, much to the chagrin of the many older angels who felt that any colloquial modifications were improper, even profane.
Vaggie hadn’t used Enochian in years—mostly English, occasionally Spanish—but she used it now. She swallowed a lump in her throat and said, “It’s good to see you.”
Yris’s face crumpled. A guttural, wordless noise escaped her. She was across the room in an instant, and Vaggie didn’t have time to warn her about her corroborator before Yris’s massive arms wrapped her in a spine-cracking hug. Vaggie’s feet were lifted off the ground, and the air was crushed from her lungs with a pained wheeze.
“I’m so glad to see you,” Yris whispered, her voice muffled in Vaggie’s hair. “I didn’t know what happened to you. No one would tell me. I didn’t know where you were, or if you were even alive, but you are. You’re alive and you’re safe. I’m so glad.”
Vaggie’s hand moved automatically, reaching up to Yris’s bicep and tapping out like she would in a sparring match. Yris released her, looking surprised and a little guilty.
“Thanks to you,” Vaggie panted, switching back to English. She rubbed her sore ribs, trying her best to ignore her aching corroborator. “I wouldn’t have made it far without my spear.”
“You still have it?” Yris exclaimed, lighting up.
“Oh yeah. I couldn’t bring it with me, ‘cause, you know. . . no weapons in the Embassy. But I still have it.”
“Are you taking care of it?” Yris asked, suddenly serious. “You should be sharpening it regularly. Every day or every other day, ideally. Once a week, minimum.”
In all her time in Hell, only once had Vaggie taken time to sharpen her spear—right before the last extermination. She decided not to share this.
Matching the seriousness in Yris’s tone, she nodded and said, “Yep. Definitely. Every night before I go to bed. It drives Charlie crazy.”
“Charlie? The princess?”
“Yeah. Right, uh, about that. . .” Vaggie pulled one of the chairs out from the table and took a seat. Yris followed suit.
Vaggie took a deep breath, ready to the recite a well-rehearsed defense of Charlie’s character and a pitch for the hotel, but that wasn’t what came out. Instead, she found herself recounting the night Lute took her wings, followed by everything that had happened to her since.
She explained how Charlie had taken her in, how she adapted to survive in Hell, and how they’d set up the hotel together. She talked about the residents, who she now had no choice but to call her friends; Alastor, who, despite her distrust of him, had repeatedly gone out of his way to protect the hotel; and Lucifer, who was as far as could be from the monstrous deviant Heaven painted him as.
She admitted her part in the exterminations, and how she’d devoted herself to defending Charlie in the last battle. It was a form of redemption just for her, she said, finally giving voice to thoughts that had been percolating since that bloody day. Fighting for the souls she’d once helped to slaughter was her repentance.
Yris listened in silence the entire time. When mention of exterminations came up, the guilt on her face couldn’t be plainer. Vaggie wondered if all the smiths felt that guilt, now knowing what their weapons had been used for.
Vaggie hadn’t realized how badly she’d craved this: a chance to talk to someone who understood. She loved Charlie, and she knew she could always talk to the residents at the hotel, but they weren’t angels. There were certain things she could only talk about with someone from Heaven—a peer.
The only parts she kept to herself were her recent injury and her unsuccessful appeal to Cynthaeis.
“So, now we’re here,” she finished. She sniffled and wiped her eye, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Our pitch didn’t work the first time—Heaven didn’t listen—but we’re hoping we’ll have more luck now that. . . now that everything’s out in the open. If nobody knows exactly what gets someone into Heaven, then nobody can say for certain that redemption isn’t possible. Charlie has faith in her plan, and. . . I have faith in her.”
Yris sighed and rubbed the back of her neck, processing everything she’d just heard. After a pause that felt like a brief eternity, she said, “Well, I don’t know the mood in Heaven right now. I haven’t been up there for a while, and our usual news sources are quiet. The elders tried to organize a mid-year Starlight Festival, and everyone was really excited for it, because it’s usually just an annual thing, but it was canceled because of. . . you know. . . so we didn’t get the rest week we were expecting.”
“The Starlight Festival was always bullshit, anyway. It was a distraction, to keep everyone out of the way during the exterminations,” Vaggie informed her, crossing her arms. Yris winced at her callousness.
The Starlight Festival was a five-day holiday of parades, feasts, community activities, and worship that all of Heaven partook in every year. The smiths particularly looked forward to it, because they got to put down their tools and take a respite. On the third day, all the seraphim gathered to perform a dazzling display of cosmic magic that made human fireworks look like sputtering candles. No one could look away—no one but Adam and the exorcists. That was when they took their “holiday retreat,” dipping out of Heaven for twelve hours and returning to enjoy the remainder of the festivities, teasing their friends and admirers with the secrecy of their retreat.
Organizing a second festival to take place six months after the regular one was a brilliant cover for the jumped-up exterminations. With everything that came to light, Vaggie wasn’t surprised it had been canceled.
Guilt must’ve put Yris in a generous mood, because she straightened and declared, “Charlie saved you. If you trust her, then so do I. We will listen.”
“Thank you.” Vaggie started to stand up, but paused. With some reluctance, she said, “Oh, yeah, one other thing. Is it okay if another demon tags along with us?”
“Um. . .” Yris wrung her hands, looking even more uncomfortable than when Vaggie mentioned the exterminations.
Vaggie quickly assured her, “It’s alright, she’s with us. She’s cool. She works for. . . a friend, an overlord who’s been helping with the hotel. She doesn’t have any magic or anything, she’s a pencil-pusher type. We’ll keep our eyes on her the whole time.”
“Okay. I trust you.” Yris nodded, staring at Vaggie with an expression of intense, if not a bit forced, conviction.
“Okay,” Vaggie echoed, relieved laughter bubbling out of her. Yris shared in her laughter, seemed to take comfort in it.
Vaggie was feeling lighter than she had in days as she led Yris out of the conference room, to where Charlie and Gladys waited in the lobby. The former was lecturing the latter on the importance of labor unions and very studiously informing her that she should be aware of her rights. Gladys’s earlier smugness was gone; she now looked like she would rather be anywhere else.
Charlie shot to her feet when she saw Vaggie and Yris. Putting on a winning smile, she prompted, “You’re Vaggie’s friend? Yris, right? I’m Charlie.”
“Yeah, ‘friend’. About that. . . shit, I should’ve told you earlier.” Vaggie briefly considered how best to break it to her, and at last bluntly stated, “We dated. For a bit. We’re just friends now, though.”
“Oh.” Charlie’s smile wavered, and she studied Yris with renewed scrutiny. From the tension in her shoulders and the flexing of her hands, Vaggie knew she was trying hard not to get territorial. She cleared her throat, held out a hand, and politely began, “Well, I’m sure that won't be an issue, we’ll just—”
Oblivious to the one-sided tension, Yris seized Charlie by the shoulders and pulled her into one of her near-fatal hugs.
“You saved her,” she said. Her voice warbled again, and her eyes sparkled with fresh tears. “You found Vaggie, and you sheltered her when she had no one. You helped her. Thank you.”
Charlie was stunned for a few seconds after Yris let her go. Her eyes welled up, too, and she stammered, “She’s so amazing and beautiful, and I love her so much. I don’t know what I would do without her.”
Vaggie had no idea who initiated it, but the next thing she knew, Charlie and Yris were breaking down, sobbing and clinging to one another, thanking and praising and apologizing with no rhyme or reason. When Vaggie tried to break it up, she got pulled into the middle of the clump, and for a few terrifying seconds wondered if she would be killed via group hug.
It took Gladys’s intervention and Vaggie’s breathless plea for mercy for them to finally settle down. Yris composed herself and said, “I have the portal ready, if you’re ready. My maker will hear you.”
Charlie wiped her eyes and squared her shoulders.
“We’re ready,” she declared.
A ball of light appeared in Yris’s hands, and she tossed it into the air before them. It expanded into a ring of swirling light.
Vaggie felt the pressure change all throughout her body, including in her corroborator. It gave a terrible twinge, and her hand automatically flew to her chest. She shut her eye tight and breathed hard through her nose, willing the pain to go away. When she opened her eye, Charlie was watching her closely.
“I’m okay,” Vaggie assured her, forcing a smile. “Really, I’m okay. I can do this.”
“We can do this,” Charlie asserted. She took Vaggie’s hand, and they stepped through the portal together.