Sunset ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Charlie paced across the parlor, wringing her hands, muttering to herself in increasingly agitated tones. Lucifer sat nearby on the couch, hands folded in his lap, staring into the middle distance. He had that disassociated look about him again, as if everyone around him had ceased to be. Vaggie sat on the couch across from him, watching Charlie pace.

For what must’ve been the dozenth time, Charlie stopped in front of Vaggie and asked, “How exactly should I address her? Elder Cynthaeis, or just Elder? Or just Cynthaeis? Is she still considered an elder even though she’s retired? Should I say it as a sign of respect, or will that offend her? Would it be more offensive if I used her name?”

“Just use her name. She won’t care.”

“Should. . . should I call her mom? Can I do that?”

“No.”

“You’re right. That’s weird.” Charlie resumed pacing, still muttering to herself. She’d pestered Vaggie with questions about Cynthaeis—what she was like, if she was a hugger or a handshaker, whether eye contact would be considered disrespectful—but so far, Vaggie had been rather unforthcoming.

The more Charlie thought about it, the stranger it was that Vaggie had never mentioned her maker before. The most she’d admitted was that they weren’t close. Apparently none of the exorcists had ever had much contact with Cynthaeis, because she and Adam never got along. Charlie thought it was a good sign that Cynthaeis wasn’t an Adam fan, but Vaggie didn’t share her optimism.

Charlie paused in her pacing again and asked, “Are you sure it’s alright for me to establish a first-name basis? That feels presumptuous.”

“Charlie, this isn’t that big of a deal.”

“Not a big deal? Not a big deal?” Charlie lunged across the room and grabbed Vaggie’s face in both hands. Staring down at her with wild eyes, she cried, “I’m meeting your maker! Until a few hours ago, I didn’t know you had any parents for me to meet! You’ve met all of my relatives, but you’ve never even mentioned yours! Except the exorcists, I guess.”

“They don’t really count.”

“But Cynthaeis is your mom!”

“She’s my maker.”

“Same difference! ‘Not a big deal’—Vaggie, this is the biggest deal! She can fix your collaborator—”

“Corroborator.”

“Right, that thing. She’ll fix it, and then maybe. . .” Charlie trailed off, falling into her thoughts. An idea that had been lurking around the fringes of her mind, previously obscured by worry for Vaggie, now surfaced. Excitement bloomed and she said, “Maybe she’d be interested in hearing about the hotel? And maybe sponsoring us, or—or representing us in Heaven, or—”

“Charlie, stop,” Vaggie interrupted. She held out a hand, and Charlie anxiously took it. With careful restraint, Vaggie said, “You’re my girlfriend, and I get that you want my maker to like you, but the thing you have to understand. . . Cynthaeis doesn’t really like anyone.”

“So that’s where you get it from,” Angel Dust remarked from where he sat at the bar. Vaggie glared at him, but didn’t retort.

Giving Charlie’s hand a squeeze, she maintained, “Even by angel standards, she’s. . . difficult. Complicated. And she’s not exactly proud to be known as the maker of the exorcists. Plus, supporting the hotel means she’d have to come out of retirement, and I can’t see her willingly doing that. You haven’t met her, Charlie, you don’t. . .”

Vaggie opened and shut her mouth, searching for the right words but unable to find them. She gave Charlie a pleading look and said, “Just don’t get your hopes up. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

“Hey, it’ll be okay. She’ll listen. I know she will,” Charlie insisted, pecking a reassuring kiss to Vaggie’s forehead. Vaggie looked unconvinced, but didn’t push her case.

A few more minutes passed. Angel Dust and Husk chatted by the bar. Seeking an outlet for her energy, Charlie tried in vain to discuss workers’ rights with Niffty. Niffty was deaf to her efforts, insisting that as long as the roaches didn’t rest, neither would she.

A timer went off on Lucifer’s watch. He stared thoughtfully down at it until Charlie prompted his attention.

“Is it time to go to the Embassy?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I guess we should head out. She’ll meet us there.” Lucifer started to stand up, but suddenly froze. He cocked his head, as if listening for something, and said with a raised eyebrow, “Never mind.”

Charlie felt the change as soon as he said it. The air grew heavy, almost suffocating. The windows rattled and the lights flickered, and there was a tremendous jolt from an unseen force. Charlie’s stomach dropped like she was in a lurching elevator. Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped. The atmosphere stabilized as if nothing had happened.

A soft, silvery glow filled the parlor. In unison, Vaggie’s and Lucifer’s eyes fixed on something behind Charlie. She turned around, and across the room, standing in front of the hearth, was Cynthaeis.

Charlie couldn’t help gawking. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—some family resemblance, maybe, but Cynthaeis looked about as much like Vaggie as KeeKee looked like Satan.

Cynthaeis was tall, taller than Angel Dust, more than double Vaggie’s height. She looked dragon-ish, with grey scales, a blunt snout, and ox-like horns. Four pupilless eyes glittered beneath a ridged brow. Lush silver plumage framed her face and covered her neck like a mane, melding with the feathers of her four large, shimmering wings. Layered white robes were draped around her body, secured with a woven belt; a skintight underlayer wrapped her forearms from the elbow-length bell sleeves to her wrists. Her hands were like spiders, her skeletal fingers disproportionately long, each nearly half a meter in length. Two snakelike, feather-tipped tails swept out from beneath her robes. Sharp, curved prongs jutted up at the front of her halo, mimicking her horns.

Then there was her demeanor. With that, too, Charlie hadn’t been sure what to expect, but she was taken aback by the sour curl in Cynthaeis’s mouth, the glare in her silver eyes, the unfriendly chill that hung about her. She looked around at the hotel like it was the very last place she wanted to be. The greeting Charlie had been practicing died on her lips when that frosty gaze raked over her.

The parlor was quiet as everyone held their breath. Lucifer was the one who finally broke the silence.

“Elder,” he said with uncharacteristic formality and a polite dip of his head.

“Seraphim,” Cynthaeis returned with the same tone. Her voice was gravelly and deep, edged with a subtle hiss. She sounded even colder than she looked.

She gave Lucifer an appraising look and stated, “You’ve aged.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve checked any mirrors lately,” Lucifer shot back without missing a beat.

Silence fell again. Cynthaeis stared down at him, her expression stony, unreadable. Finally, she asked, “What do you want of me, Lucifer?”

“We need your help.”

Cynthaeis scoffed.

“And here I was getting sentimental, thinking you wanted to rekindle our friendship.”

Lucifer chuckled and started to respond, but Vaggie sat up straight, making her presence known.

“Maker,” she said in a tone devoid of warmth. She neglected to give the polite nod Lucifer had offered.

Cynthaeis’s eyes narrowed, and her mouth thinned. The blatant dislike on her face took Charlie by surprise. It was even more alarming to see the same expression mirrored on Vaggie’s face.

“Offspring,” Cynthaeis replied. She grimaced as she forced the word out, like there was a rancid taste to it.

More silence. Everyone seemed to be waiting for one of the two of them to break it, but they were both firmly locked in their vicious staring match.

Charlie’s earlier excitement gave way to unease. Vaggie had warned her, of course, but Charlie hadn’t thought she really meant it. She assumed Vaggie was just being. . . Vaggie. But now, it occurred to her that Cynthaeis wasn’t just her girlfriend’s mom; she was the maker of all the exorcists, and thus partly responsible—if indirectly—for the exterminations.

Did she know about the slaughter before it was revealed to the rest of Heaven? Did she build an army knowing what it would be used for? What side did she take in the matter? Did she grieve the angels who were killed in the last battle? Was her hostility towards Vaggie a result of how she had turned against Heaven, or was there some other fraught history between them? Vaggie had never mentioned that she had anything resembling a parent before today. How much more had she kept to herself? The harder Charlie worked to puzzle it all out, the more questions arose, until it was taking all of her willpower to keep them in.

Unable to stand the tension, she put on her most winning smile and said, “It’s wonderful to meet you, Cyn—er, Elder Cynthaeis.”

She now understood what Vaggie meant by form of address not mattering. Somehow, she doubted Cynthaeis would’ve looked at her with any less disdain had she addressed her differently. Charlie tamped down the discomfort as best she could and went on, “My dad said he knew you before, and obviously you already know Vaggie. I’m Charlie. I’m—”

“Lucifer’s spawn. Yes, I guessed as much.”

“Right.” It suddenly became very difficult for Charlie to maintain her smile, but she refused to be deterred. “Thank you for coming. I mean it. We really need your help. First, though, I have to ask. . . I was told we would be meeting you in the Heaven Embassy, so why. . .”

Cynthaeis finally turned her icy gaze elsewhere. She looked around, taking in the scope of the parlor, and began a slow turn about the room. She wasn't beautiful, exactly, nor could she be called handsome, but there was an ethereal elegance in the way she moved.

“Given the current political climate, I was advised to keep this meeting streamlined. I thought it would be most efficient to come here directly, hear your demands, and leave. Simpler for all of us. Besides, I’ve never much liked the Embassy.”

She didn’t elaborate. As she moved away from the hearth, Charlie did a double take. She hadn’t realized a second angel was there, having been concealed behind Cynthaeis.

This angel was small, a few inches shorter than Vaggie, with a slim, androgynous figure. They wore a simple grey gown with a high neck, a floor-length skirt, and matching gloves, leaving only their ghostly pale face exposed. That face was strange but pretty—almost human, but angular and narrow, with round dewdrop eyes and a flat nose. Deer-like ears poked out between locks of iridescent purple curls, which grew from their forehead without a clear hairline. Their velvety purple wings were folded primly against their back.

Unlike Cynthaeis, this second angel didn’t display a hint of hostility. They displayed no emotion at all. They stood by the wall like a statue, gloved hands clasped in front of them, eyes downcast.

Charlie tore her eyes away from the smaller angel as Cynthaeis spoke again.

“I repaired you once already, just a few years ago. I was under the impression we’d reached an understanding—you would find no more help from me.”

Cynthaeis was turned away, inspecting a painting on the wall, so it took Charlie a second to realize she was talking to Vaggie.

“You think I planned to get my corroborator impaled? You think it was my idea to summon you?” Vaggie snapped. She shifted on her seat, and fresh pain lanced across her face, making her look even more miserable. Under her breath, she bitterly added, “You think I want to see you any more than you want to see me?”

Cynthaeis tilted her head, regarding her like some nasty bug that had died at her feet. Charlie couldn’t begin to guess where this vitriolic dislike had come from, but it was clearly mutual.

“Okay!” Charlie exclaimed with a halfhearted laugh. She stepped between them and approached Cynthaeis, fixing her face into a smile again. “I think we maybe got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we all just take a breath and—”

Lucifer put a hand on her shoulder, quietly shook his head, and gestured toward the couch. Despite how desperately she wanted to help smooth things over, Charlie took the hint and went to sit by Vaggie. Lucifer, meanwhile, seated himself in an armchair and indicated an unoccupied sofa.

“Will you at least hear us out? Sit down. Please.” He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, it was in a completely different language. “If not for your made, then for me. We were close once, Cynthaeis. Don’t you remember?”

Charlie startled at the flowing, resonant sound of the words. It was like a snatch of the loveliest music, yet at the same time alien and frightening. Charlie had never heard anything like it before, but somehow, a deep-rooted part of her brain understood it perfectly.

After a moment of loud silence, Cynthaeis responded in the same strange tongue, “I have not forgotten.” Her expression softened somewhat, and a hint of nostalgic sadness showed through the cracks.

She took a seat. Her robes flowed around her like liquid silk. With a twitch of her fingers, she beckoned the smaller angel over. Charlie could only assume they were a servant as they pulled a pair of long-stemmed goblets from an invisible pocket of air, filled them with pale, shimmering liquid from a bejeweled flagon, and handed them to Cynthaeis and Lucifer.

Lucifer accepted his goblet, but didn’t drink right away. He cleared his throat and threw a pointed glance at Charlie and Vaggie. The servant angel looked to Cynthaeis for instruction. Cynthaeis rolled her eyes and waved a hand, permitting them to pour two additional cups.

“Hello. Thank you,” Charlie said, trying for a smile as the angel silently handed her the drink. The angel briefly faltered, but the pause lasted just half a second before they turned away to give Vaggie her cup. They didn’t say a word, didn’t make eye contact with either of them. Charlie cleared her throat and said again, louder this time, “Thank you. This looks wonderful.”

The angel’s eyes briefly flicked to her face, but that was the closest to a response they gave. They moved to stand behind Cynthaeis, clasping their hands and resuming their earlier statue pose.

Noticing Charlie’s piqued curiosity, Cynthaeis presented a hand at the other angel and stated, “My attendant, Jasper. I’ve instructed them not to engage with you.”

Charlie started to ask why, but Vaggie grabbed her wrist and shook her head. Her expression clearly said, “Drop it.”

Charlie wanted to ask how close an attendant was to a slave, but she forced herself to keep her mouth shut. Debating Heavenly politics with an old, antagonistic angel would only hurt Vaggie’s chances of getting a new corroborator. The fact that Cynthaeis had consented to sit and share a drink was progress; they couldn’t risk undoing it.

Besides, Lucifer seemed to have an angle prepared. He stared down at the goblet for a moment, then, like he was afraid to do it, took a sip. He leaned his head back against the couch, shut his eyes, and gave an airy chuckle.

“Elechor. Never thought I’d drink this stuff again.”

When he opened his eyes, they were wet. It occurred to Charlie that this might not be entirely an act.

“From my personal supply. I brewed it myself,” Cynthaeis said offhandedly. “Retirement isn’t what I would call stimulating, but it does grant one time to explore a variety of hobbies. I’ve become especially proficient at needlepoint.”

“To the joys of retirement, then. Wish I could join you,” Lucifer replied, raising his cup.

Cynthaeis lifted an eyebrow, but her frown softened and her stiff posture eased. She obligingly raised her own goblet, if only a little. Lucifer gave a subtle gesture to Vaggie and Charlie, and they awkwardly joined the toast.

Charlie hesitated to drink the elechor. Keeping her fingers crossed that a mystery angel drink wouldn’t vaporize her, she shut her eyes and took a sip. Her mouth slackened, and she almost spilled a few drops over her chin. It was smooth and sweet, heady but not overly strong—it was like nothing she’d ever tasted before. It buzzed on her tongue, in her mouth, like magic had been brewed into every molecule. It was—for lack of a better word—divine. Glancing over, she saw that it had a similar effect on Vaggie, whose eye was glazed with bliss. It took conscious effort for Charlie to limit herself to one swallow.

Once the four of them had each taken a drink, Lucifer beckoned over Husk, Angel Dust, and Niffty. Cynthaeis’s grouchy scowl returned as they approached, but she didn’t tell them off.

“I guess we should make official introductions,” Lucifer said. He nodded to Charlie and prompted, “You wanna do the honors?”

“Yes!” Charlie exclaimed. She set her goblet aside and sat up straight, eager to proceed. “Cyn—er, Elder, welcome to the Hazbin Hotel, the first of its kind! This is Husk, our bartender; that’s Niffty, our housekeeper; Angel Dust is our guest—our only guest, currently, but that obviously won’t be the case forever; and Alastor’s our host. He’s around here somewhere, I’m sure.”

“Charmed.” The way she said it, Cynthaeis might as well have started dropping slurs.

Lucifer in turn gestured a hand towards Cynthaeis and said, “Hotel residents whose names I definitely have memorized, this is Elder Cynthaeis. She is—or was, back in the day—the head of Heaven’s bioengineering department. She helped with the Eden project, among other things. The two of us worked together for a long time. She was my boss.”

“No need to be modest, Lucifer. I wasn’t employing you—I was grooming the [then] youngest seraphim for a position of leadership. I was to teach you everything I knew, so when your power matured and your abilities inevitably surpassed mine, you would be able to take my place.”

“You never told me that,” Lucifer said, affronted.

“And you never ended up succeeding me. You would have, if you hadn’t gotten yourself banned from all creational activities.”

Lucifer scowled and slouched in his seat.

“I still think that was too harsh. Sera wouldn’t even hear my side of it. It was one little mistake!”

“Leaving the cages unlocked in the carnivore lab was a mistake. You threw a ten-kilometer asteroid directly at a planet selected to bear intelligent life.”

“Wait a fucking—are you saying you killed the dinosaurs?” Angel Dust exclaimed, staring at Lucifer in disbelief.

Looking less than thrilled to suddenly be the center of attention, Lucifer protested, “It was an accident! We were just having fun, chucking asteroids around, and. . . my aim was off.”

“Because you were drunk,” Cynthaeis added.

“So was Gabriel, and he barely got a slap on the wrist!”

“Gabriel didn’t wipe out 75% of prototypical life on Earth,” Cynthaeis reminded him. She almost looked like she was fighting a smile.

It was strange—not only seeing Cynthaeis warm so quickly, but seeing this new side of Lucifer. Normally, there was an air of weariness around him even when he was perfectly content, but that was gone now. Reminiscing had brought out a unique joy in him, one that made him look and sound years younger.

With the tension dissipated, Charlie bravely spoke up, eager to get back on track.

“Whatever mistakes my dad made in the past, he’s more than made up for them. He’s been helping me with the hotel! I know it’s not much right now, but this is a dream I’ve had for a long time, and everyone here is helping me to see it through. I still believe it can work. I know things aren’t great with Heaven right now, but I really feel like, in a roundabout way, we’ve made some progress. . . right?”

Cynthaeis’s eyes narrowed. Her halo pulsed and her feathers flared. The hint of goodwill Lucifer had managed to draw out evaporated.

“That’s an interesting interpretation of recent events.”

Charlie gulped. They were steadily veering towards the elephant in the room: the dozens of exorcists killed in battle. Charlie couldn’t tell how Cynthaeis felt about it, and the closer they drifted to the subject, the more afraid she was that she might discover those feelings the hard way.

Hiding her panic as best she could, she maintained, “Look, I know it was horrible, but now everyone in Heaven knows the truth. We fought to defend ourselves. Vaggie fought to defend us—to defend me—because she believes in the hotel, too. We—”

“Adam’s dead,” Vaggie interrupted.

Cynthaeis’s face didn’t change, but her feathers relaxed and her halo dimmed. She regarded Vaggie with slightly less antipathy.

“So I heard.”

“You’ve got to be happy about that, at least.”

“I did find the news of his death rather uplifting.”

The ice began to thaw. Cynthaeis almost looked content as she gazed pensively down into her goblet of elechor.

Charlie couldn’t begin to speculate what Cynthaeis’s beef with Adam was, no more than she could puzzle out the resentment between her and Vaggie, but hating him seemed to be the one thing they could agree upon.

Niffty, who sat perched on the back of the couch, swinging her legs, said with a wicked giggle, “I killed the golden bad boy. Charlie told me to stab, so I did.”

“Brava,” Cynthaeis commended, sounding shockingly upbeat. Once again, she almost smiled. She hid it behind a sip of elechor and muttered, “Pity no one attempted it sooner.”

“No kidding. That guy was dick,” Angel Dust chimed in, sliding into a nearby armchair. He, too, seemed encouraged by Cynthaeis’s improved mood. “You know the last thing he said, right after getting his ass handed to him? He said we ought to be worshipping his nuts, called us losers, and then he just fucking. . . keeled over. And that was it!”

“Mm.” Cynthaeis was gazing into the middle distance, stroking the rim of her goblet with one long finger, like she was imagining the scene. The corners of her mouth quirked upwards in the barest hint of a smile. Charlie just barely stopped herself from cheering.

If this was as negotiable a mood as Cynthaeis was going to be in, it was now or never. Charlie drew a deep breath and took her shot.

“He almost won, you know. We wouldn’t all be here today if Vaggie hadn’t fought with us. She’s so strong—she’s one of the strongest people I know, and. . . we need her.” Charlie put a hand on Vaggie’s shoulder and said, “I need her. Please, Cynthaeis, can you help us?”

Cynthaeis’s near-smile was gone. She scrutinized Charlie for a long time, weighing her plea. Charlie waited with bated breath, hoping, praying that she’d gotten through to her.

At last, Cynthaeis gave her answer.

“No.”

“No?” Charlie echoed. She felt faint; the word didn’t quite register in her head.

“No,” Cynthaeis repeated. She looked around at their collective shocked faces, waiting for someone else to speak, but no one did. She snapped her fingers to erase the elechor goblets and pushed herself to her feet. “Well, if that’s all you summoned me for—"

“What do you mean, no?” Vaggie demanded. Charlie squeezed her hand to try and calm her down, but Vaggie paid no attention.

Cynthaeis’s cruel glare returned. The ice had frozen over again.

“Vaggie obviously hasn’t shared with you the history of the exorcists. You would do well to educate yourself, Princess,” she said dryly.

Before Charlie could ask what she meant by that, Cynthaeis went on, her voice growing harsh, “You have no idea what you’re asking of me. If you did, you would not do so lightly. If you think—”

“You don’t get to talk to her like that!” Vaggie yelled, shooting to her feet. She gasped and clutched her ribs as the sudden movement caused fresh pain. Charlie grabbed her arm and tried to pull her back down, but Vaggie refused to budge. Glaring up at her maker, she snapped, “Cut the shit. Can you make me a new corroborator or not?”

“No.”

Vaggie lifted her arms and dropped them back down to her sides with finality. Her entire body shook with visible rage.

“Fantastic. Thanks for nothing, once a-fucking-gain.”

“Ad nauseam,” Cynthaeis growled.

“Wait, no, that’s not—Vaggie, hang on—” Charlie started, but Cynthaeis cut her off.

“I can see when I’m no longer welcome. I’d best be on my way.”

“Yeah, best. Thanks for wasting my time. Better not waste any more of yours,” Vaggie agreed.

Charlie leapt off the couch, crying “No!” but it was too late. The air thickened, the lights flickered, and just as abruptly as they had arrived, Cynthaeis and Jasper were gone. Silence reigned for several long seconds until Angel Dust broke it.

“Wow. Your maker’s a dick.”

Vaggie stood in place, seething, staring at the spot where Cynthaeis had just been. Then, all at once, her anger drained away. She shut her eye and plunked back down on the couch.

Unwilling to accept that it was over, Charlie turned to Lucifer, who was also staring at the vacated spot, and demanded, “Call her back, now! We can’t just let her go! She has to heal Vaggie! Please, dad, we have to—”

“Charlie, stop.”

“No, Vaggie, you’re hurt! You can’t honestly—”

“Charlie.” Vaggie straightened, gingerly rubbing her injury site, and said after a beat of hesitation, “I can live without it.”

“But—”

“I’ll be okay without a corroborator. I might be. . . limited, in some ways, but it’s not a death sentence.”

“So that’s it, then?” Husk said, watching her with disbelief. “You’re just gonna chug along on fumes forever?”

“That’s the plan,” Vaggie stated. She hauled herself to her feet and headed for the stairs.

Charlie rushed to her side to help her, but Vaggie brushed her off. A pang of hurt struck Charlie’s heart. It must’ve showed on her face, because Vaggie drew herself up taller, forced a smile, and assured her, “I’m feeling better already, hon. Honest. I just need to rest for a bit.”

“But Vaggie. . .” Sensing that the train had long left the station, Charlie’s shoulders slumped in resignation. “Okay. You want me to—”

“No!” Vaggie said a little too quickly. “I mean. . . no, that’s okay. I’ll be okay. I, uh. . . I’m pretty sure I can get upstairs by myself. I just need to rest.”

“What about that arrangement?” Lucifer interjected, catching everyone off-guard. “Carmilla mentioned you guys came to an agreement. What was it?”

Vaggie started to answer, but Charlie grabbed her shoulders and steered her to the stairs.

“We don’t have to talk about that now. There’ll be plenty of time later. Vaggie needs to rest, so. . . she’s going to rest.”

Vaggie looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn’t. She turned away and limped up the stairs, leaving the others to stew on everything they’d just witnessed.

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.

Chapter Text

Warm, clean air flooded Charlie’s lungs. She opened her eyes and blinked in the dim light.

She and Vaggie were standing on what looked like a landing pad. Ahead of them was a towering grey wall, stretching farther than Charlie could see in every direction. A handleless door was set in the wall straight ahead, with a lone lamp posted above marking it as the entrance. The landing pad was strangely dark all around, a far cry from the Heavenly brightness Charlie had expected, and she didn’t realize why until she turned around and saw that they were in space.

The edge of the landing pad dropped off into the void. Velvety darkness spanned beyond, dotted by countless dazzling stars, awash with the vibrant colors of distant nebulas. Charlie stared, her mouth agape and her eyes bulging, as a comet darted across the stunning expanse.

She was briefly distracted by a reflection of the door lamp projected in the darkness, and realized they were inside a massive transparent bubble. She felt like she was observing the stars from inside a giant fishbowl. The incomprehensible scale of it all made her feel smaller than she ever had in her life.

Charlie looked over her shoulder to see the others’ reactions, because a part of her couldn’t help but wonder if she was hallucinating. Vaggie’s eyebrows were high and her lips were slightly parted. Even Gladys was in awe, staring around with wide eyes.

Only Yris was unsurprised. She stood by the door, speaking into an intercom in a strange language. It sounded like the one Cynthaeis and Lucifer had briefly used. The words were completely foreign to Charlie, but just as before, some deep-rooted instinct understood exactly what was being said.

“Yris, Wing 3, Squad 14, escorting the Morningstar Princess and former exorcist Vaggie. They asked permission to bring a third party—a demon.”

A sharp, staticky voice responded, “And you granted permission? You were in full control of the portal for this trip. You should have reminded them of the agreed-upon terms.”

“Vaggie vouched for her, and I trust Vaggie,” Yris said firmly. She glanced at them and added in a low voice, “I accept responsibility for any harm caused.”

The intercom was quiet for a moment. Finally, the voice said, “Very well. Yris 3-14 checking in with three guests. Prepping airlock. Stand by.”

The door slid up into the wall with a soft hiss. Yris stood aside, and Charlie bravely led the way into a sterile antechamber. The door shut behind them, cutting off the view of the stars.

Without warning, a fine, cool mist sprayed down on them. There were no visible nozzles; it was as if the ceiling had spontaneously started raining. Charlie briefly panicked at the thought that she’d have to meet Mendrion in damp clothes, but the mist stopped after about five seconds, and the water—or whatever it was—instantly evaporated into whisps of sweet-smelling steam. A pleasant voice spoke, distinctly automated but as loud and clear as if it belonged to someone in the room with them.

“Decontamination complete.”

On the opposite side of the airlock, another door opened. It blended so seamlessly into the wall, Charlie hadn’t noticed it before. Once again, Yris stood aside, waiting to take up the rear, and once again Charlie tamped down her trepidation and led the way.

They emerged into a well-lit, unexpectedly normal lobby. An unattended but tidy reception desk stood in one corner, flanked by potted ferns. Behind it was what Charlie guessed to be a storage closet. On the far side of the room, a tall, wide doorway opened to a hallway lit with golden light from an unseen source. The air here was warm and close, not wet enough to be humid nor heavy enough to be stifling.

An angel darted up the hall and flew into the lobby. She was pretty, if not a bit severe, and decidedly not a smith. She wore a floral blouse and a tight pencil skirt, and her shiny blue hair was tied back with a kerchief. Her skin was paler than power washed bone, and her oblong face was dotted with freckles the same color as her hair. A set of cat-eye spectacles perched precariously on the tip of her button nose. The accessory that really caught Charlie’s eye was a metal cuff on her forearm. What she initially mistook for decorative texture was actually a miniscule keyboard with hundreds of buttons, each no bigger than a grain of rice. Multicolored lights lined one edge of the cuff, flashing at different intervals.

“Your Highness,” she said to Charlie with a polite nod. She glanced at Vaggie and Gladys, and her lips pursed in silent judgment as she added a curt “Guests.” From the pinched lines around her mouth, Charlie guessed she made that face a lot.

“Hello, Miss Nadine,” Yris said brightly, walking behind the reception desk and rummaging through the storage closet.

“Good to have you back, Yris.”

“Good to be back, Miss Nadine.”

Nadine returned her attention to the group. She opened a hatch on the underside of her cuff, and three tiny gold pins fell into her awaiting palm, which she promptly flung at the visitors. Charlie reflexively lifted her hands to catch them, but a set of tiny wings unfurled from each pin, and they fluttered through the air on their own accord, coming to land on their shirts. Charlie’s pin stuck itself to her lapel, and its wings gave a cheerful flutter, like it was pleased with itself. The word VISITOR was stamped on the smooth, shiny surface.

Charlie glanced back at Vaggie and Gladys to see that the other two pins had found their marks. The wings on Gladys’s pin looked a bit ruffled, as if she’d tried to smack it out of the air.

Folding her hands primly in front of her, Nadine said, “My name is Nadine. I’m Seraphim Mendrion’s secretary and the technical coordinator for the forge. I’ll be your guide today.”

“Hi, I’m Charlie. Obviously. Nice to—ack!”

Charlie had attempted a handshake, but a golden bubble rippled into view around Nadine, and her hand rebounded with staggering force. Her fingers felt slightly singed, like she’d just touched a bug zapper. She noticed a pendent around Nadine’s neck, a winged pentagram, that glowed with the same golden light.

Nadine touched the pendant and stiffly said, “Apologies, Your Highness. Just a precaution. Now, I’d like to confirm your intentions. It’s my understanding that you’re here for a direct audience with Mendrion?”

“Yes. I mean, if that’s—if it’s not inconvenient. I wouldn’t want to interfere with anything,” Charlie said with a nervous laugh.

Nadine pursed her lips. Charlie had obviously not provided the clear-cut confirmation she was looking for.

“If I recall correctly, the memo said you requested a direct audience.”

“Right, we did, we’d like that, I’m just saying if he’s really busy right now—”

Sounding a bit exasperated, Vaggie interrupted, “Yes, we’re here for an audience with Mendrion.”

“Good, good,” Nadine replied, mollified. She typed something into her cuff, then glanced across the room and called, “Yris, is the hoverflat ready?”

“Got it right here, Miss Nadine.” Yris emerged from the storage closet and steered the hoverflat across the room to them. It was a floating platform about one meter wide and two meters long, with a set of controls mounted on a stand at the front.

Nadine pulled something else from inside her cuff: a short, slim rod that, when flicked, extended about a foot. She waved it up and down, first in front of Charlie, then Vaggie, and finally Gladys, at which point it made a high-pitched whirring noise. Nadine stiffened and pursed her lips.

“You didn’t search them at the Embassy?” she said sharply to Yris, who stared blankly.

“Search them? Well, no, I. . . I didn’t think to.”

“You didn’t think to search the princess of Hell, a fallen exorcist, and a demon you don’t know?”

Yris dropped her eyes and wrung her hands, looking embarrassed.

“I forgot,” she mumbled.

“You forgot.”

“Yes.”

Nadine was tiny, little more than half of Yris’s size, but her piercing scrutiny made Yris shrink.

“Search this one. Now. The detector picked something up on her,” Nadine demanded, pointing at Gladys.

Offended by the suggestion, Gladys burst out, “You think I’d be stupid enough to bring weapons into a space station with a bunch of angels? I’m not a moron. That fucking thing is wrong.”

Her protests fell on deaf ears, as Yris lifted her arms and began patting her down. Gladys continued muttering indignantly, but she didn’t resist.

Yris removed Gladys’s cell phone, a wiretap, two bobby pins, and a metallic scrunchie. When the detector continued to whir insistently, Yris shrugged and said, “Doesn’t feel like she’s got anything else.”

“You’re sure? Hm.” Nadine looked suspiciously down at the detector. After a moment, she conceded, “I have a friend who part-times for the Embassy. She says Hellborn have a biological residue that can mess with the scanners. It’s something in their blood, I think. That might be the problem.”

“Great. Maybe you should quit hounding me and get your shoddy equipment fixed,” Gladys snapped.

Nadine’s beady eyes narrowed behind her spectacles. Matching Gladys’s venomous tone, she shot back, “Maybe you should check your attitude before I authorize a cavity search.”

That shut Gladys up.

Nadine’s cuff beeped, and a voice said, “Flaviur 2-29, requesting authorization to send off shipment 45078.”

“I read you, 2-29. Checking the manifest now,” Nadine said. She dashed a few keystrokes, and a holographic screen was projected into the air. She peered at it, pursed her lips, and said, “Authorization denied, 2-29. 45078’s flagged on my end. Have someone do a recount, please, check for any discrepancies. I can’t come do it myself, I’m with visitors.”

The smith on the other end, Flaviur, sighed and said, “Yes, Miss Nadine.” They took her cue to switch to English, although they didn’t sound thrilled about it.

Nadine hopped onto the hoverflat, took her place at the helm, and said to the visitors, “Step on the hoverflat, please.”

The three of them obeyed. Charlie and Vaggie stood side-by-side behind Nadine while Gladys took a spot in the back. Nadine activated the control panel, and at once, the atmosphere changed. The air around them became cool and pleasant, as if they were surrounded by an invisible air-conditioned bubble. Nadine pulled up a digital map, marked a destination, and the hoverflat floated out of the lobby, Yris walking alongside it.

Now that Charlie was standing behind Nadine, she noticed an odd device strapped to her back between her wings. It looked like a metal insect, clamped in place with slender jointed wires that disappeared under her skin. It had a small blue bar meter—what was being measured was unclear, but it didn’t look like a vitals monitor. Charlie elected not to comment on it, instead turning her attention to the map.

When she saw Charlie peering curiously over her shoulder, Nadine explained, “The forge has three layers. Right now, we’re in the outermost one. The smiths call it the cold crust. Mendrion works in the deepest layer, so that’s where we’re headed.”

“We call that one the broiler,” Yris chimed in.

Nadine agreed, “For good reason. That layer is closest to the star, it’s—”

Her radio buzzed suddenly, and the smith who called earlier said, “2-29 checking in. 45078’s been recounted. There was a discrepancy, but we took care of it. Requesting authorization for send-off.”

“I read you, 2-29. Checking the manifest. Yep, everything looks good now. Authorization granted.” Nadine cleared her throat and continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted, “It’s where the raw steel is refined. Smiths can tolerate the heat, but most visitors can’t. For your own safety, we ask that you stay on the hoverflat.”

Charlie quickly gave up trying to memorize the route they took. They turned corner after corner, first right, then left, right again. At one point they phased through the wall at what appeared to be a dead end.

“What goes on in the cold crust?” Vaggie asked. Nadine looked annoyed by the question. Lots of little things seemed to annoy her, Charlie noticed.

“It’s mainly residential. This is where the kitchens are, the washroom, the dormitories, our medic’s office. One wing is always stationed out here; I believe it’s Wing 1 right now. They have chores, of course, and the overseer has a lot of admin work to do, but it’s something of a respite. The real work happens in the interlayer and the broiler.”

They eventually passed through a wide hallway that was clearly a major thoroughfare. Dozens of smiths, all as tall and bulky as Yris, meandered in and out of rooms, chatting happily. Many of them were busily cleaning, while others carried loads of clothes, towels, and bedsheets. Charlie caught a whiff of cooking food when they passed by one door, and she glanced inside to see a bunch of apron-clad smiths hard at work in a massive industrial kitchen.

They passed by the washroom. The door was open, giving them a shockingly unobstructed view inside, where a bunch of naked smiths hung out in a communal bath that looked more like a swimming pool. Some were preening one another, others were basking under heat lamps with their wings spread, and a few were shamelessly flapping around, giggling and towel-snapping one another. It was hard not to stare.

Nadine started to explain something, but her radio cut her off again.

“Eltiom 4-22, requesting signature. We just received shipment 45078.”

Nadine tapped a button on her cuff, and another holo screen appeared. She scrawled a hasty signature, sent it off, and replied, “I read you, 4-22. Signature sent.”

“Signature received. Thanks, Miss Nadine.”

“So, do you monitor everything that happens here?” Charlie asked, gesturing to the cuff. Nadine nodded.

“Yep. Everything coming in, everything going out, every item made and registered.”

“And you do all of that yourself?”

“It’s my job. I’m the technical coordinator.”

That wasn’t the answer she was looking for, but Charlie didn’t push the subject.

As they drifted into a smaller corridor, a smith wandered out of the washroom, spotted the visitor party, and jogged up to them, buck-ass naked.

“Miss Nadine, I had a question about the schedule—” he started, but Nadine cut him off with a screech.

“Aarom! We have! Visitors!”

Aarom glanced at the visitors on the hoverflat and greeted, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Vaggie replied shortly. She kept her gaze firmly pointed to the ceiling.

“Hey,” Gladys purred, looking Aarom up and down with appreciation.

“Oh gosh,” Charlie breathed, trying not to stare and failing miserably. A naked angel was the last thing she'd expected to see on this trip.

Her only previous experience with nude angels was Vaggie, who was anatomically identical to a human woman. That wasn’t the case here. Aarom’s body was hard and smooth, like a buff bronze statue, and distinctly segmented at the joints. One arm was heavily inked, and more tattoos decorated his collarbones, runic writing and abstract shapes. He had no body hair, no nipples, and most surprising of all, nothing between his legs. He was Ken-doll-smooth.

“Aarom. Go back to the bath. Now.” Nadine jabbed a finger in the direction of the washroom. Her arm shook and her face was pinched with anger.

“But my squad’s supposed to spend the next shift watching over Core B.”

“Good for you. That’s a very important position. Core A is under maintenance right now.”

“It’s a boring position,” Aarom complained. “Can’t we switch with 17 or 19? The schedule—"

“Is not my responsibility. Remind me who your overseer is?” Nadine said through gritted teeth.

“Havyn, but—”

“And do I look like Havyn?”

“No, but—”

“Talk to Havyn. It is not my job to—2-29, I have eyes, I can that the discrepancy light is on, do not request send-off until you’ve done a recount—to rearrange shifts.”

“But Miss Nadine, can’t we—”

“Aarom, I am with. Visitors.”

Yris, who looked like she was trying not to laugh, piped up, “Aarom.”

“What?”

“Clothes.”

Aarom looked down at himself, like he was just now realizing he was naked.

“Oh. Right.”

Yris gave him a playful shove and said, “They don’t want to see your ass. Cover it or move it elsewhere.”

“Fine, fine,” Aarom grumbled, trudging back to the washroom with a roll of his eyes. They watched him go, Nadine seething, Yris holding back laughter.

“Huh,” Charlie said after a moment. She cleared her throat, flexed her hands, and remarked with an awkward laugh, “So, uh. . . privacy. Not really a thing here, huh?”

A resigned, long-suffering look came over Nadine as she flatly replied, “No. No, it is not.”

The ensuing silence was broken by the crackle of the radio.

“Flaviur 2-29. You were right about the discrepancy, Miss Nadine. Sorry about that. Shift’s almost over, everyone’s tired, ready to rotate. It won’t happen again. Requesting authorization for send-off, shipment 45079.”

Nadine checked her cuff with a sigh.

“Looks good on my end. Authorization granted.”

They moved on through the cold crust. Eventually, Nadine announced that they were entering the interlayer. The subtle glow that lit the hallways grew steadily brighter, until they turned one final corner. For the second time, Charlie’s jaw dropped.

They were riding a narrow path along the wall, and stretching out far below them was a cavernous factory. There were walkways moving freely through the air on invisible tracks, conveyor belts snaking across railings and up the colossal walls, racks of equipment, pallets of variously sized crates being guided on hoverflats, worktables lined up on the floor and hovering in the air. Giant vats of molten steel rose up from the floor every hundred yards, each one half the size of the old hotel.

Smiths were everywhere, stationed at worktables, steering hoverflats, pumping bellows, pouring steel, shaping steel, transporting steel through portals. The distinct glow of angelic steel could be seen everywhere Charlie looked. The smiths’ hands glowed like hot coals, and even through the hoverflat’s protective barrier, Charlie could feel the buzz of magic in the air. She watched in awe as one smith tapped a barrel full of steel from one of the giant vats, carried it to a worktable, and plunged his hands into it without breaking a sweat. He pulled up ropes of the stuff and began shaping it in midair.

At first glance, it was chaos, a jungle of moving rock and metal, muscled bodies racing this way and that. But the longer Charlie watched, trying to take in everything at once, she began to see an order to it all. The smiths in the air navigated around equipment with easy agility, like it was an ingrained route. The conveyor belts rolled along at a measured pace, and the pumping bellows kept a steady beat. Everything seemed to move to a subtle, ambient tune, similar to the music of the city Charlie often noticed back home.

“What’re they making?” she asked as their hoverflat scooted up the wall path. The question sounded stupid even to her, but she didn’t know how else to express her wonderment.

“Everything. Materials for construction (Heaven’s always expanding to accommodate the population); tools for the engineers, healers, academics, whichever other departments need them (the astronomers recently ordered a bunch of new telescopes, since some souls wanted to form a stargazing club); and some steel is molded into ingots so the smiths in Heaven can work with it. They do a lot of the finishing work up there—polishing, decorating, adding handles and such—but they take onsite commissions, too. They also keep halos stocked for whenever new angels are made, but only Mendrion is allowed to forge those. Oh, and new weaponry is made every day, of course.”

Sure enough, there was a cordoned-off section where smiths were handling a variety of weapons, twirling and tossing them with unsettling ease. Charlie thought they were all melee weapons until she spotted a whole group of smiths poring over blueprints for projectiles and firearms, another group discussing armor revisions, and yet another group testing holographic shields that could be projected from various pieces of the new armor. Several prototypes were being tested in a narrow field of targets, safely contained inside a giant golden tube that resembled Nadine’s protective shield. On a nearby hoverflat, a trio of slim angels wearing sterile white robes and visitor pins monitored their progress, scribbling notes on clipboards.

Apparently the exorcists had learned their lesson about bringing swords to a gunfight.

Charlie gulped and faced front, doing her best to ignore her creeping dread. She noticed Vaggie leaning over the side of the hoverflat, laser-focused on the weapon production.

“How many smiths are there?” Gladys asked. She’d been quiet since Nadine’s threat to cavity search her. Charlie had almost forgotten she was there.

“1204.”

Gladys raised an eyebrow.

“That’s specific.”

Nadine elaborated, “Four wings, thirty squads per wing, ten smiths to a squad, and of course each wing has an overseer. Every twelve hours, squads rotate positions. Every thirty days, the wings rotate levels. One wing is stationed in Heaven, one in the cold crust, one in the interlayer, and one in the broiler.”

“My wing’s in the broiler right now,” Yris added proudly.

Nadine nodded and concurred, “Brego is the overseer of Wing 3. You’ll have to check in with him before you see Mendrion.”

The hoverflat moved out into the open air. Yris followed, flapping in playful circles around them. They floated smoothly across the interlayer, passing more squads, more workstations, more vats of steel. Despite being enclosed between the impossibly massive walls of the cold crust and the broiler, the interlayer had the impression of spanning on forever.

“I’ve never seen anything like this. What is this place exactly? How did they build it?” Charlie asked as she craned her neck, trying to see to the ceiling.

Nadine hesitated a moment, as if unsure whether it was a good idea to share the story. She couldn’t seem to help herself, though, and explained, “Before the Fall, Mendrion was Heaven’s only smith. He took on a few apprentices, but he was the only one who directly handled the steel. After Eden, Heaven started filling up with souls, and the workload became too demanding. That was also around when Elder Cynthaeis began working on the exorcists. She was the one who recommended he make a race of smiths.

“He made the overseers first. But the population kept growing, and so did demand. He was running out of room in his workshop, so he designed a superstructure that would be dedicated to harvesting and forging steel. Even with his power and the overseers’ help, it took him almost fifteen years to build it. It took another ten to get it fully operational, since he’d made the rest of the smiths by that point and needed to train them up.”

“He worked with Cynthaeis?” Vaggie asked. The question was casual, feigning disinterest, but Charlie could see the tension in her shoulders, the subtle way she shifted on her feet.

“Yeah. Apparently they were good friends back then. They’re not as close nowadays, though. I guess they had some kind of falling out,” Yris said. She paused her circling to hover beside them. She, too, seemed to notice the change in Vaggie’s demeanor.

Before she could consider if it was a wise thing to say, Charlie blurted, “Their falling out wasn’t because of my dad, was it? Didn’t they both support him during the whole Eden thing? Or, you know. . . didn’t they want to at least hear him out?”

She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Nadine’s hands jolted on the controls at the mention of Lucifer, and the hoverflat jerked roughly forward a few feet. Yris’s wings faltered and she tumbled a little ways through the air before righting herself. The two of them exchanged a dark, wary look.

“I don’t know about that,” Yris said slowly. “The records of the Morningstar’s trial aren’t public. Only the angels who were there know what happened, and Maker doesn’t really like to talk about those times, so. . .”

“But my dad told me—”

Nadine whipped around and snapped, “Mendrion doesn’t talk about it because he’s not supposed to talk about it. It was an open-and-shut case, and it was ten thousand years ago. It doesn’t matter who said what. The Morningstar fell, and that’s that.”

Indignation struck. Charlie wanted to defend her dad, but before she could say a word, Nadine’s radio buzzed.

“Flaviur 2-29, requesting—”

“Denied. You’ve got another discrepancy. Damn it, Flaviur, find someone who can count past their fingers and put them on it!” Nadine cried, her voice rising to a shriek.

Flaviur was quiet for several seconds before mumbling, “Yes, Miss Nadine. Sorry, Miss Nadine.”

Nadine drew a deep breath and let it out with a sharp, irritated huff. Despite the obvious warning in her ruffled feathers and pursed lips, Charlie wanted to pursue the subject of the Fall, but Vaggie gripped her hand, wordlessly dissuading her. Charlie forced herself to calm down and drop it, though she wasn’t happy about it.

At long last, they made it across the interlayer and entered one of the tunnels in the wall. Through the labyrinthian paths they went, making little conversation and passing no one along the way. That enigmatic, sourceless light grew steadily brighter, and although the hoverflat remained cool and comfortable, Charlie could see the air around them warping with heat, like they were heading into a giant oven.

They turned one more corner and emerged into centermost layer of the forge. Charlie understood right away why it was called the broiler.

They were on the interior wall of a colossal sphere. In the very center was a great white orb too bright to look at, roiling beneath a cage of strange, translucent mesh. It could’ve easily encompassed ten Pentagram Cities. Two massive metal pipes pierced it, connecting it to the floor and ceiling of the boiler, keeping it suspended. A revolving platform ringed it, held steady by magic or gravity, Charlie couldn’t tell.

“Is that the star?” she asked in an awed whisper.

“It is. Hyper-condensed, of course, for practicality. Mendrion’s in there.”

“He’s inside the star?”

“He mines the raw steel and pumps it out for the smiths. He’s the only one who physically can.”

Where the pipes fastened to the walls, they branched off into a complex network of smaller pipes, which in turn led to enormous refinement tanks. Each tank was roughly the size of a two-car garage, and was equipped with a screen displaying two digital bar meters. One showed how full the tank was, the second measured the state of the steel inside. Whenever a batch was ready, the tank was hoisted up on chains thicker than Charlie’s entire body and set on a conveyor track heading for the interlayer.

Smiths flitted this way and that, steadying conveyor chains, monitoring refinement tanks, checking the pipes to make sure they were sturdy. They kept close to the walls, fluttering about like gnats. Throughout the broiler, the clamor of voices and machinery was undercut by a low, continuous rumble that Charlie could feel in the air, through the floor of the hoverflat, right down to her marrow.

She frowned when she noticed that the smiths all wore devices on their backs similar to Nadine's. Theirs were larger and had a few more wires. The smiths in the interlayer had been wearing them, too, but Charlie hadn’t thought to comment on it then.

“What are those machines on their backs?”

“SNPs—stimulant/nutrition packs. We call them snips. They cycle essential nutrients through the smiths’ systems, so they have no need to eat or sleep. One snip can last a full rotation before it has to be replenished.”

“And by full rotation, you mean a month? They work nonstop for a month?” Charlie exclaimed, her eyes growing huge.

“Yes. It’s very efficient.”

“What about breaks? Or weekends? Or holidays?”

“Working in the cold crust is kind of like a break,” Yris said with a shrug. “There are free shifts built into the schedule, and if we get our chores done early, we can rest.”

“What about you?” Charlie maintained, indicating Nadine’s snip. “Do you get a break anytime soon?”

“No, my break isn’t for another couple of weeks. Medic and I get eight hours off at the start of each rotation. We have to stay on call, just in case, but production is slow while everyone settles in at their new levels,” Nadine replied calmly. She didn’t look at Charlie, too busy signing more digital forms and sending a series of quick commands on her cuff.

Horrified, Charlie glanced at the star and asked, “What about Mendrion? He’s a seraphim. How often does he take a breather?”

“Well, he can’t, really. He has to work the pumps manually. The overseers or I can call him up if something important needs his attention, but he can’t stay out of the star longer than an hour. Everything that happens here relies on a continuous flow of new steel.”

Yris chimed in, “He does get to come up once a year, for the Starlight Festival. We all get a break then. He locks up the star, we shut down the forge, and we all go up to Heaven for five days. That’s when our maker rests. He replenishes his snip, too; it's made to last the full twelve rotations.”

“Good lord,” Charlie breathed, struggling to absorb all of that. Vaggie looked disturbed, but not surprised. Even Gladys's eyebrows were raised at the thought of such a ruthless work schedule. Neither Yris nor Nadine seemed to find anything questionable about it, however.

Nadine parked the hoverflat on a wide platform that looked to be a rest stop. A rack of spare snips stood in the corner beside coils of chains. The entrance of what looked like a maintenance tunnel breached the smooth wall above the platform. Three smiths were seated on the edge, stretching and chatting. When they saw the visitors, they got very quiet and stared at them with wide, wary eyes. They started whispering in that eloquent angel language, just loud enough for Charlie to catch some of their words.

“Weird looking. . .”

“That one’s like a fish. . .”

“Is that the fallen exorcist? Don’t they all have short hair?”

“I thought the length was fixed. Maybe it does grow, and they just cut it regularly?”

“I’ve never seen one with long hair. It’s weird.”

Vaggie also overheard the smiths. She pulled a lock of hair forward over her shoulder and idly tugged on it, looking uncomfortable.

Charlie glared at the smiths, then ran her fingers through Vaggie’s hair and whispered, “I like it long. And the high pony’s hot.”

Vaggie didn’t have the reaction she’d expected. She stiffened and whipped around, staring up at Charlie in alarm.

“You heard that?” she hissed, keeping her voice low so the others wouldn’t overhear.

“Uh, yeah? They’re right over there, and they’re not going out of their way to be quiet.”

Vaggie continued to stare as if Charlie had sprouted a second head. Before Charlie could ask what had thrown her off, Nadine called to the smiths on the ledge, “Is your squad on maintenance right now?”

“Yes, Miss Nadine.”

“Then shouldn’t you be making sure nothing needs maintenance? That pipe up there, I’m looking right at it—no, that one—I can hear those fasteners rattling from here, tighten them up. The last thing we need is another leak.”

“We’ll get to it, Miss Nadine, we’re just—”

“It’s almost time for the squad shift. You can stick it out for a few more minutes. I see a conveyor chain up there that—I read you, 2-29, looks good on my end, authorization granted—needs some attention. Bring a spare up and take a look, see if it needs replacing.”

The smiths sighed and stood up with a collective “Yes, Miss Nadine.” One grabbed a tool off their belt and went to tighten the fasteners on the pipe Nadine had pointed out. The other two hefted one of the spare chains and flew it up the conveyor line, where a tank of fully refined steel was ambling towards the interlayer.

They examined the suspect chain, and then, with cool precision, began to swap it out. One smith pressed their shoulder up against the current chain, sticking it firmly to the invisible conveyor for stability, while the other smith grabbed the weak link and heated it with their stone hands, which glowed white-hot. Once it was pliant enough, they bent the link open, attached the end of the new chain, and resealed it.

As the they moved to the other side of the tank to finish switching out the chain segment, the one holding up most of the weight glanced back down at the demons and remarked, “Look at the tall one—isn’t that the Morningstar’s made?”

The other smith, who was melting a link open, looked down at Charlie with wide eyes. Following that moment of distraction, a lot of things happened at once.

He overmelted the chain link by accident, and a bit of molten steel dripped onto his shoulder. Apparently only the smiths’ hands were designed for direct exposure, as he yelped and recoiled. The weak chain unstuck from the conveyor and crashed down on top of him, right on the joint of his wing. His wing gave out and he dropped with a shout of pain. The other smith darted down to catch him, stammering apologies. Neither of them noticed that the refinement tank had slipped off the chain until it plummeted past them.

An alarm call rang out among the smiths, and half a dozen flew from their stations at once to chase the tank, including Yris, but it was dropping fast, too fast. Charlie’s hands flew to her mouth with a sharp gasp, but she couldn’t look away.

A large, dark blur went zooming after the tank, easily outpacing everyone else. He dove beneath it and caught it with a strained grunt, hefting it back up into the air. Charlie craned her neck over the edge of the hoverflat for a better look and saw that it was a massive smith, bare-chested and distinctly bigger than all the others. Supporting the tank on his back, he carried it up to the conveyor chain, where a few smiths hastily finished attaching the spare. The tank was checked for damage, cleared, and sent on its way. The big smith barked an order, and everyone returned to their posts, except for the smith who’d been hurt.

“Ah, there’s Brego now,” Nadine said.

Brego parked himself on a nearby platform with the injured smith. He held his wing gingerly (it looked dislocated) and pressed a square of fabric to the burn on his shoulder. Charlie noticed that Brego had a cuff similar to Nadine’s strapped to one thick bicep, which he now used to send a signal.

There came a clitter-clattering of many clawed feet, and from one of the tunnels in the wall emerged a new angel. This one was huge, bigger than even Brego, and took up most of the room on the platform. It looked strangely mechanical, with a flexible, multilimbed lower body like a centipede and a skinny, elongated upper half. It had a mouthless, noseless face and hands like great long-legged spiders. A brooch with a white cross was pinned to the front of its pristine robes. Charlie watched, fascinated, as it bent over to inspect the injured smith, poking and prodding methodically. When it finished its examination, it picked him up in its oversized hands, pinning his wings pigeon-style, and carried him off into the tunnel.

“What the fuck was that thing?” Gladys demanded, pointed after it.

“That’s our medic. They’re one of the best in their field,” Nadine said frostily, sounding offended on the medic’s behalf.

Charlie watched as Yris flew up and landed beside Brego. They exchanged a few words, Yris pointed to the visitor group, and the two of them glided down to the platform where the hoverflat awaited.

Up close, Brego’s size was astounding. He was a full head and shoulders taller than Yris, and nearly twice as broad. His skin was stony grey and marbled with tattoos. Inked flames, chains, and runes marched down his bare chest, decorated his arms. His long, dark hair was tied in a thick plait that swayed gently as he walked. He might’ve been a little less intimidating if it weren’t for his grim, unsmiling face.

Yris cheerfully said, “This is Brego. He’s the overseer of Wing 3. Brego, this is my friend Vaggie, Princess Morningstar, and Miss Gladys.”

“Yes, I know, Yris. I read the memo,” Brego stated. His voice was a deep growl, like the bellow of an alligator, and marked by the same strange accent the other smiths had. He barely glanced at the visitors as he grabbed a spare snip from the rack and walked over to Yris with it.

As he turned Yris around and began affixing the snip to her back, she went on, “They’re very nice, Brego. I think Maker will like Miss Charlie.”

“I’m sure.”

“Vaggie and I were very close when we were younger. It was before we had to work full-time. Do you remember that?”

“Yes, I remember,” Brego replied, only half-paying attention. He hit a button, and the snip’s wires burrowed into Yris’s skin. It must’ve been painless, because she didn’t so much as twitch.

Yris saw Charlie’s concerned look and assured her, “It’s alright, the snips don’t hurt—not as long as they’re attached and removed correctly. It’s easier with extra hands.”

Brego gave her snip a light tug and asked, “How does that feel?”

Yris twisted right, then left, then flexed her wings and stretched her arms.

“Feels secure.”

“Good. Get back to your squad. You’re on tanks 15 through 20.”

Yris looked miffed at being dismissed from the visitor party, but she didn’t argue. She gave Vaggie an affectionate pat on the shoulder (Vaggie’s knees almost buckled under the force) and quietly said, “It was good to see you.” She then launched off the platform and flew to a row of refinement tanks, where nine other smiths were diligently monitoring the steel.

With Yris gone, there was no friendly buffer between the visitors and two extremely uptight angels. Brego crossed his arms and regarded the three of them irritably.

“Let’s make this fast. We have a lot to wrap up before the squad shift,” he grunted.

“Right. Of course,” Charlie said, stubbornly smiling in the face of his grouchiness. “First of all, it’s wonderful to meet you. You can just call me Charlie. We’re here to—”

Nadine interrupted, “Since you’re here, Brego, I need your signature on a few things. A new order just came in.”

She projected a holographic document, grabbed it out of the air, and handed it to him. The lines in Brego’s face deepened as he read through it.

“Fuck. More weapons,” he grumbled.

“The lieutenant again?”

“Yes. She’s been relentless since. . .” Brego glanced at Charlie, and his mouth tightened to a thin line. He signed the paper, attached it to his own cuff, and sent it off with a keystroke. While Nadine pulled up more things for him to sign, he asked Charlie, “What do you want from my maker?”

“I want to discuss my hotel,” Charlie said in a rush, hoping to avoid further interruptions. “You may have heard about it? I’m running a hotel to rehabilitate sinners so they can be redeemed to Heaven. I know things are a bit. . . rocky, politically, but I haven’t given it up. I was hoping I could speak to Mendrion personally to ask for his support.”

“I've read the transcript from the hearing. The court determined there’s no evidence that redemption is possible. You barely even had a case to present.”

“We did too have a case!” Vaggie protested. “We presented our patron, and he proved that a soul in Hell can do what it takes to get into Heaven.”

Charlie added, “Emily agreed with us! Adam—the first soul to make it to Heaven—wrote down the three things he thought it took, and—”

“And yet your patron is still in Hell, and the record states you were unsuccessful,” Nadine finished. Charlie glared at her. The look on Vaggie’s face said she would’ve punched Nadine if Brego wasn’t standing there.

“I’m not interrupting my maker’s work so you can waste another seraphim’s time,” Brego said harshly, turning away from them with a disgusted look. He walked to the ledge and took off, soaring to a nearby squad to check on their assigned tanks.

“Wait!” Charlie cried, panicking. It couldn’t be over that quickly. She refused to accept that.

She forced her way to the front of the hoverflat, only to bump into Nadine’s shield. Luckily, Nadine reflexively moved aside, leaving Charlie free to take the controls. She didn’t really know what she was doing, but the steering was fairly intuitive, so she unparked the hoverflat and guided it through the air, albeit with no small amount of jerking and jostling.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Nadine shrieked. She tried to grab Charlie, but Vaggie, on whom the shield was ineffective, shoulder-checked her aside and planted herself between them.

Charlie slowed the hoverflat beside the tank. Brego scowled at her, but didn’t stop what he was doing. The tank’s lid was open, and he was dipping what looked like an oversized meat thermometer into the steel. On the exterior of the tank, near the bottom, the bar meters were glitching and flashing error messages.

“I want to talk to Mendrion about the exterminations!” Charlie deliberately raised her voice so that the nearby smiths could hear. They startled and turned to stare at her. Brego stiffened, and for a moment, anguish pierced the flat dislike on his face.

Vaggie took the opportunity to jump in, reminding him, “Your weapons were used to slaughter souls—human souls—for years. I should know. Every extermination, some soldiers would lose their weapons or leave them behind, and Adam would have to commission more. And you didn’t question it! Not once! Not once did you or Mendrion or anyone else ask what we were doing!”

“Does Mendrion know what happened at the hearing? Does he know about the exterminations?” Charlie pressed.

Apart from the ambient rumble, the broiler had gone quiet. All eyes were on them.

Brego opened his mouth, then shut it.

“He knows.”

“We need to talk to him. Call him out of the star. Please, Brego.”

Brego’s jaw clenched and his eyes hardened. He didn’t meet Charlie’s gaze as he said, slow and articulate, “In the last week alone, our quota has almost doubled. We will make however many weapons we’re told to make, and once they leave the forge, it’s not our concern what they’re used for. Not to mention, our maker hasn’t engaged in politics in centuries, and he has no interest in engaging now. He knows what’s been going on. If he decides he should step in, he will. Until then, we need him here.”

“But—but you can’t just—”

“We are angels. We serve the will of Heaven,” Brego insisted. It sounded like he was talking more to himself than to Charlie. He shut the lid of the tank with finality. “We have work to do.”

He barked an order at the spectating smiths, and they returned to their respective tasks. Not one of them looked at Charlie. Before she could protest, Brego was gone, flying off to join another squad. This one was far away, far enough that there was no hope of catching him on the hoverflat.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Your Highness,” Nadine prompted in a voice cold as ice, nodding to the control panel. Charlie stepped aside, gestured for Vaggie to do the same. Nadine took the wheel and steered the hoverflat back to the rest platform. She parked it, then typed a command that locked it in place.

Charlie sank down against the wall, fresh defeat weighing on her. Vaggie knelt down and touched her shoulder. Gladys stood at the back of the hoverflat with her arms crossed, watching them with mild amusement.

“Some help you were,” Vaggie growled at her. Gladys shrugged.

“I’m here to observe, remember? Nothing more.”

Nadine pulled a new pendant out of the hatch on her cuff, hung it around her neck, and stepped off the hoverflat. Charlie assumed this one was meant to protect her from the heat.

“The squads are shifting soon. I’ll stay and help coordinate, but after that, I’m taking you back to the lobby,” she declared. Perhaps thinking they might try to commandeer the hoverflat again, she informed them, “I’ve locked the hoverflat. If you try to leave it, you won’t get far, believe me. You’ll have to wait.”

“No problem,” Charlie said flatly.

Satisfied that they weren’t going anywhere, Nadine tapped her cuff to check the time. Right on cue, a low chime rang out through the broiler. From the distant echoes, Charlie guessed it could be heard all throughout the forge.

Around the broiler, the smiths finished their respective tasks, grouped into their squads, and moved to their new stations. Brego and Nadine flew amongst them, directing as needed. When it was over, Nadine flew up to Brego, and they were close enough that Charlie overheard them.

“I have a discrepancy to take care of in storage room C-473. I need your assistance with it.”

“I’m sure you can handle it, Nadine. I’ve got a lot to deal with here,” Brego answered absently, still focused on the shift change.

“Brego.” The sharpness in Nadine’s tone gave him a little jolt of surprise. Through gritted teeth, she reiterated, “Discrepancy. In storage room C-473. I require. Assistance.”

Brego stared at her blankly for a moment, and then sudden comprehension dawned. Shockingly, a blush arose in his cheeks.

“Oh. You mean—storage room—assistance—yes, I see. Of course.”

Nadine checked her watch again. When she spoke, it was in the alternate language.

“We’ve got four minutes. Are we using them or not?”

Brego cleared his throat and nodded.

“Yes, of course. You know I’m always glad to assist you with. . . discrepancies.”

Nadine flew away without waiting to see if he followed. She alighted on the nearest platform and strode into one of the wall tunnels. Brego trailed after her, landing a bit clumsily on the platform and growing increasingly flustered.

A pair of smiths were on the same platform, grabbing some tools off a rack. When they heard the exchange, they cajoled each other and snickered. One of them crowed to Brego, “Which of you will be receiving this time?”

“Shut up.” Brego gave him a shove, but there was no real malice behind it. The two smiths flew away, laughing, while Brego disappeared into the tunnel after Nadine.

At once, Charlie’s despair ebbed. She sat up straight and looked around, suddenly realizing that they were unsupervised.

“Charlie, I’m so sorry. Maybe—” Vaggie was unable to finish as Charlie shot to her feet.

“There are two other overseers stationed in the forge. One of them could call Mendrion!” she exclaimed.

She rushed to the edge of the hoverflat and scanned the workstations for Yris. When she spotted her, she called her name and waved her arms in the air. She successfully caught her attention, and Yris cheerfully waved back.

Charlie took a deep breath, bracing herself for what she had to do. She was born in Hell, she reminded herself. A little heat wouldn’t kill her—probably. She clung to that feeble assurance as she stepped off the hoverflat.

She regretted it instantly. The oxygen was thin, horridly thin, almost nonexistent. She drew a desperate breath, and searing air filled her lungs, burning her from the inside. Her head spun and her vision warped. She could feel her skin start to sizzle as the heat enveloped her, suffocated her, brought her to her knees. She thought she might’ve started crying, but her tears evaporated. It felt like her eyes were evaporating, too. She thought she heard Vaggie call her name, but she was unable to respond as she struggled to stand up on the platform, which was scalding hot, she could feel it through her shoes, through her hooves, it was scorching, why the fuck had she thought it would be a good idea to let herself be cooked alive—

A pair of huge hands lifted her off the floor and set her down on the hoverflat with painstaking gentleness. She almost cried with relief as she inhaled a gulp of blessedly cool air. She looked up to see Yris and Vaggie gaping down at her.

“You have to stay on the hoverflat! It’s too dangerous!” Yris cried.

“Charlie, what were you thinking?” Vaggie moaned, pressing her face against Charlie’s shoulder.

There was no time to argue her case. Charlie seized one of Yris’s hands and said, “I want to talk to someone else. Is there another overseer who’ll listen?”

Yris blinked. She looked around uncomfortably and mumbled, “I don’t know if. . . Brego said—”

“He’s not here. You know it’s important, what we’re trying to do. You know it. Please, take us to someone else, anyone who can call Mendrion. We need to see him, Yris.”

“I. . . I have to work, but. . . I guess my squad will be alright if. . . I guess I could ask—”

“No. Don’t ask,” Vaggie snapped. Yris recoiled, staring at Vaggie with wide eyes. Vaggie maintained, “Please, Yris, for me. Will one of the other overseers listen?”

“Well. . .” Yris thought about it for a few seconds, then edged, “Havyn, maybe. She’s the overseer for Wing 1. They’re in the cold crust right now.”

“Great. Take us to see Havyn.”

Yris wrestled with the idea for a long time. Charlie found herself periodically glancing at the tunnel Nadine and Brego had gone into, hoping their allotted four minutes in storage room C-473 were not up yet.

Finally, Yris nodded and gruffly said, “Alright, hold onto me. You too, Vaggie.”

She leaned forward over the hoverflat and scooped Charlie up in one arm, Vaggie in the other. They both grabbed hold of her tunic.

“Wait, you can’t just leave me here!” Gladys sputtered.

“Just stay on the hoverflat. You’ll be fine,” Yris assured her. She looked down at Charlie and Vaggie in turn and asked, “Are you ready?”

They both nodded. Yris grunted “Hold your breath,” and secured her grip on them. Charlie clung tighter to her tunic and screwed her eyes shut, readying herself to face that horrible heat again.

Yris lifted them off the hoverflat and launched into the air. For a few terrifying seconds, Charlie forgot everything. Nothing mattered except the fact that she was being broiled alive.

Chapter Text

Her corroborator was acting up. Vaggie could feel it. It had been twinging since they arrived and now felt like it was being gouged with an ice pick. Whether it was aggravated by the smothering heat or Lucifer’s relief spell was wearing off, she didn’t know. Hopefully it wasn't the latter. All she could do was cling to Yris and grit her teeth through the pain. She didn’t speak, didn’t dare move.

The interlayer was baking, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the broiler. The air, while tainted with the pervasive odor of hot metal, was breathable, and Vaggie no longer felt like she was being slow roasted. Throbbing pain subsided to a bearable ache.

Yris flew high and fast, keeping close to conveyor belts and unattended worktables. Luckily, the nearest smiths were too focused on their work to pay attention to her.

Keeping her voice low so as not to attract eavesdroppers, Yris said, “We’re not supposed to take visitors off the hoverflats. We should stick to the maintenance hallways until we find Havyn.”

The air mercifully cooled as they entered the cold crust. Vaggie’s shirt was soon soaked with sweat, but that was something of a relief. Sweating was a reaction to normal, habitable hot weather. In the broiler, she’d been dry as a bone; any perspiration evaporated instantly.

Her corroborator flared and she sucked in a breath, reflexively lifting a hand to her midsection.

“Yris,” she croaked. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. “Yris, can. . . can we set down? Just for a minute?”

Yris’s brow knit in concern, but she didn’t argue. Charlie watched Vaggie closely, worry clouding her face.

“Are you alright? Is your corroborator hurting?” she asked. Yris’s frown deepened.

“What’s wrong with your corroborator?”

“Nothing, it’s. . . I’m. . . I just need to sit for a minute. Please, just—”

“You don’t look good. Vaggie, you—you really don’t look good,” Charlie interrupted. “Yris, is there somewhere she can lay down?”

Looking thoroughly alarmed, Yris nodded.

“The Wing 3 dormitory. No one will be in there right now.”

As they navigated through the cold crust, the murmur of voices in the nearby halls grew fainter. Vaggie was glad Yris was carrying her, because she doubted she’d be able to fly on her own.

Soon enough, they arrived. The Wing 3 dormitory was a large, cave-like chamber that was mostly open floor space. Three hundred outcroppings jutted from the walls, stacked five high. Each one was a neatly made bed. Built into the frames were transparent drawers for clothes and personal effects.

There were some communal activity supplies—styluses and paper, paints, balls, cards, outdated newspapers, a few board games, all stored on a set of open shelves. One bed stood alone, closest to the door, and from the size Vaggie guessed it belonged to Brego. She thought she glimpsed a photograph of Nadine inside one of the drawers.

Yris took them to a section of beds on the wall labeled 3-14 and set Vaggie down on one of the lower bunks. Vaggie’s attention was drawn to the adjacent bed, where an afghan made of lumpy, colorful yarn provided a welcome pop of color. When she peered into the drawers, she saw balls of yarn and another half-finished afghan.

“Whose is that?” she asked hoarsely, nodding to bed.

“Ansyl. She crochets. She doesn’t have much time for it, but she wants to make blankets for our whole squad.”

Pity struck Vaggie’s heart. Ansyl was in the broiler right now when she’d probably rather be here, crocheting blankets for her fellow smiths. It was difficult to picture a smith working a delicate crochet hook with their massive hands.

“What about you? Are you doing any crocheting?” Vaggie said with a light chuckle, just to delay the inevitable tiresome explanation about her injury. Ignoring the twitch of pain (it had thankfully diminished now that she was sitting), she reached down to Yris’s bed drawers and opened one up.

Her breath caught in her throat. Dozens of intricate animal sculptures gleamed inside the drawer. She carefully pulled one out, feeling as if a rough touch might ruin it. She hadn’t thought it possible for Yris’s work to improve from the sparrow she’d made years ago, but it had.

The sculpture she pulled out was a beta fish. Each scale was meticulously outlined, and the eyes were round and gleaming. The frondlike fins were thin, flexible whispers of metal so delicate that they actually rippled as Vaggie moved the fish between her hands, so it appeared to be swimming through the air.

“You made this?” Charlie breathed, taking the sculpture from Vaggie. “It’s amazing.”

Yris looked uncomfortable, like she didn’t know what to do with the praise.

“Well, I mean. . . yeah, I did. I didn’t thieve the material for it, though.” A blush arose on her cheeks. It seemed important to her to clarify that the steel for her projects was fairly acquired. “Sometimes the batches have excess, or we find dregs in the refinement tanks when we clean them out. It’s not the best quality, so no one cares if we pocket it. And occasionally an order will be canceled when the steel for it is already prepared and registered. In those cases, we’re technically supposed to put it into excess storage, since it’s fully refined, but Brego sometimes lets us take a bit for ourselves. It’s not really thieving; I’ve never thieved.”

Her face suddenly lit up, and she rummaged through the drawer herself. She moved aside a few other animals, pieces of jewelry, and unused hunks of steel, and at last pulled out a preening comb. The wide handle was a wreathe of sculpted roses, and vines crept up the two sharp prongs.

She shyly offered it to Vaggie and said, “I made it for you when this meeting was arranged. I would’ve given it to you earlier, but I forgot to grab it when I left for the Embassy. I understand if you don’t like it. Or if you already have one. I just thought. . .”

She fell quiet, waiting for Vaggie’s reaction.

Vaggie stared down at the comb, turned it over in her hands. She hadn’t had a good preening the entire time she’d been in Hell—not that she’d needed it for most of that time. Even when she finally got her wings back, she didn’t pay much attention to the state of her feathers. She occasionally did some finger-preening in the shower, but she wasn’t particularly diligent.

Her eye stung, and she swallowed a lump in her throat. How much longer did she have before her corroborator gave out? How long would she have to use this comb? It was a work of exquisite craftsmanship, and a far kinder gift than she’d ever expected to receive.

“It’s perfect. Thank you,” she choked out. She wiped her eye on her glove and said to Charlie with a weak laugh, “I’ll have to show you how to use this. Preening’s easier with an extra set of hands.”

Guilt reared its head as she remembered what she’d come here to do. The more she thought about the steel she’d promised Carmilla, the less she wanted to acquire it. How could she go through with it now? How could she admit that she’d lied to Yris’s face about her intentions, and then have the audacity to ask for a favor?

She met Charlie’s gaze, silently pleading for her to read her thoughts and understand. From the way Charlie smiled and squeezed her hand, she was pretty sure the message got across.

Oblivious to the wordless exchange, Yris prompted, “What’s wrong with your corroborator?”

Vaggie tucked the preening comb into her waistband and heaved a sigh. She explained the ambush—skimming the details of the meeting with Carmilla, of course—and the injury that resulted, and the failed appeal to get her corroborator repaired. While recounting Cynthaeis’s visit, some choice language slipped out that shocked Yris and made Charlie visibly uncomfortable.

Rubbing the nape of her neck, Vaggie finished, “So, that about covers it. I’m fucking useless now—”

“Vaggie,” Charlie murmured.

“—and there’s no way to fix it because Cynthaeis was being. . .” She trailed off, scraping her brain for a suitably offensive word that she hadn’t already used.

“Cynthaeis?” Yris supplied, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” Vaggie looked over at Charlie and was surprised to see her deep in thought. She knew that look well enough to know that a new plan was forming.

Before Vaggie could talk her down from whatever insane thing she was thinking of doing, Charlie piped up, “My dad said an older angel could make a temporary substitute for a corroborator. Could Mendrion do that? Could he make a substitute for Vaggie?”

Vaggie looked at Yris, who was just as surprised.

“I don’t. . . maybe? I don’t know, I’m not sure he’s ever done that.”

“Because he’s never had to. But if he made Vaggie a substitute, that would give us time to convince Cynthaeis to come back and help!” Charlie was on her feet now, pacing in front of the bed, a fresh dazzle in her eyes.

“Hang on, we don’t know that he would agree to it,” Vaggie said, holding up a hand, but Charlie wouldn’t be talked down.

“If you have his support, Cynthaeis will have to reconsider!”

“Cynthaeis agreed to come down once, and only once, as a favor to your dad. She won’t—”

“And if we can get him to vouch for the hotel, too, maybe we can get another hearing! All of Heaven knows about the exterminations now, and Adam won’t be there to sabotage us, so we might actually have a chance to make them listen!”

Yris nodded vehemently. Charlie’s contagious enthusiasm had reached her.

“Then we can’t wait,” she decided. “I’ll find Havyn, and she can summon Mendrion. You two wait here.”

She hopped to her feet and hurried out of the dormitory, leaving them alone.

As soon as the door shut, Vaggie seized Charlie’s arm to stop her pacing. She’d been stewing on something since the broiler, but didn’t want to risk bringing it up in front of anyone else.

“Can you understand what I’m saying right now?” she asked. Charlie blinked in surprise.

“Yeah. Why do you—”

“You know Enochian?”

“Is that what it’s called? I was wondering.”

“Can you speak it? Did your dad teach you?”

“What? No, I’d never even heard it before Cynthaeis came over. Why?”

Vaggie gingerly reclined on the pillow and explained, “Enochian is the language of the angels—exclusively angels. Speaking it takes practice, but we can all understand it when we hear it. No one else can, though. Souls have tried to learn it, and demons have tried to translate it the few times they’ve recorded snippets, but they can’t.”

“Oh. But I’m not. . .” Charlie frowned and wrung her hands self-consciously. “Is it weird, then, that I can understand it?”

“I don’t know. You’re not an angel, but. . . I guess there’s not really a precedent for what you are. But your dad is a seraphim. Maybe you got a little more of him than you realized. Just keep it to yourself for now, okay? If you hear anyone else speaking Enochian here, just play dumb.”

Charlie took a second to process all of that, then resumed her anxious pacing. After a minute, she sat down and looked sideways at Vaggie.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, babe.”

“Why is Cynthaeis. . . like that? What happened between you two?”

Vaggie snorted.

“It’s not just me. She hates all the exorcists.”

“But why? Is it because of the exterminations?”

“No, it’s got nothing to do with that. Honestly, I don’t think she cares about the exterminations. She’s never really liked humans.”

“Why, then?”

Vaggie slowly sat up and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, deliberating how much to tell her and how best to tell it.

Finally, she explained, “When new angels are brought to life, it’s a really big occasion. There’s this grand ceremony where their maker presents them before all of Heaven. The Speaker of God blesses them, they’re given a halo and a name, and they officially become part of the Host.

“When the exorcists were made, our ceremony. . . didn’t go as planned. Instead of naming us, Cynthaeis said we were a disgrace and her greatest shame as a creator. She handed us over to Adam and walked out.”

Charlie gaped at her, one hand hovering over her mouth.

“What?” she gasped. “But. . . but why?”

Vaggie shrugged.

“We weren’t what she wanted. Adam was in charge of our making, since he was going to be our general, so she had to follow his design. It was a rough blow to her ego.”

“Did you ever try to talk to her? Did you ever try to get an explanation, or an apology?”

“Yeah, we tried.”

“And?”

“And she didn’t want anything to do with us, so we stopped trying. Some of us reached out again when we were older, when we heard about her retirement, but she made it pretty clear that her feelings hadn’t changed.”

“Oh, Vaggie, I had no idea! I never. . . that’s. . . that. . .” Charlie’s face contorted in sudden anger. Vaggie jumped as she snarled, “That bitch!”

She seized Vaggie by the face, held her so close their noses touched, and said with manic fury, “We will drag her out of Heaven if we have to, and she will make you a new corroborator! That’s a fucking promise.”

Vaggie couldn’t help smiling at her fierce tenacity.

“Thanks, sweetie. But I’ve thought about it, and the truth is, she might not be able to. Angels don’t get to just retire; she was an exception. After the power she expended making the rough draft army, and then us, she—”

“Wait, ‘rough draft army’? Like, a different batch of exorcists?”

The first army—the ‘rough draft army’, as Adam had called it—was a whole other can of worms, one that Vaggie was hesitant to open up. The exorcists’ fraught history with their maker was bad enough without taking that into account.

She was debating where to start when the dormitory door opened and Yris trotted in, grinning.

“I found her, she’s in the kitchens! Nadine sent out an alert for us, but if we hurry, you might have time to talk to Havyn. I know a shortcut.”

She scooped them up again and took off, flying through the empty hallways.

The shortcut took them out of the well-lit passages and through a set of maintenance tunnels similar to the ones running in and out of the broiler. They passed by one room filled with panels of buttons, switches, and blinking lights, all surrounding a tall, pulsing cylinder. A plate at the top of the cylinder read CORE B.

“What’s that?” Vaggie asked.

“One of the power cores. There are two of them. A’s undergoing maintenance right now. Both cores need maintenance twice a year, but we can only do them one at a time. A squad is posted in each core room to keep an eye on them.”

Sure enough, a squad of smiths was milling around inside. Some looked busy, if not a bit bored, opening wall panels to check wiring and wiping down already clean surfaces. Some had stopped pretending to work and were playing a card game on an observation deck. Among the card players, Vaggie recognized Aarom, the naked smith from earlier (thankfully, he was no longer naked).

Next, they passed through the medical office. According to Yris, Medic was constantly on the move, summoned from one side of the forge to the other to deal with injuries, so the smiths in the cold crust used their room as a shortcut frequently.

They first entered the main clinical room. There was a chair for patients, an operating table, shelves of neatly labeled supplies, and a box of medical textbooks. Inside a locked antechamber were racks upon racks of charging snips. Yris took them through a sequestered side door into Medic’s personal quarters, and the change in atmosphere made Vaggie’s eyebrows shoot up.

Medic’s room was much homier than she’d expected, given how mechanical and insectoid they were. A large woven cot furnished with embroidered pillows and fluffy blankets took up half the room. On one side of the cot was a stand with a self-heating tea kettle, and on the other was a small bookshelf which, based on the titles, contained mostly sappy romance novels. There was a flowering orange tree ringed by bushes in one corner of the room, and a modest kitchenette with cheerful pastel appliances. Paintings of nature scenes from alien planets decorated the walls.

Vaggie, Charlie, and Yris froze when they heard the multiplous clacking of Medic’s approach.

“Shit,” Yris muttered. “Medic doesn’t like when we come in here.”

“You said you come this way all the time!”

“Yes, because Medic is usually elsewhere. They’ll write me up and bring you two back to Nadine!”

They ran to the orange tree and ducked behind the bushes—just in time, as the door opened and Medic scuttled in. They were even more frightening up close, filling the room with their mechanical coils, dozens of legs rotating them smoothly forward.

Vaggie peeked through the leaves. She watched as Medic turned on the tea kettle, curled up on the cot, and pulled the fluffy blankets around themself. They grabbed the novel sitting on top of the shelf, Feathers & Fidelity, and opened it, removing a tasseled bookmark. They didn’t look like they were planning to leave anytime soon.

Vaggie silently cursed them and their stupid romance novel. She and Charlie had limited time to talk to Havyn, and Medic was unknowingly making that time even more limited.

The cuff on one of medic’s arms beeped, and a voice on the radio called, “2-07 to Medic, we’ve got another firearm mishap in the interlayer. Quadrant 4-B, weapons production.”

Medic pressed a button, which sent off an affirming sound. A long, whispery noise escaped them, like the brush of dry fabric on cement. It sounded vaguely like a sigh. Medic turned off the tea kettle, set aside their book, and uncoiled themself from the cot. Despite their clear reluctance, they scuttled out of the room with unnerving speed and disappeared into a maintenance tunnel.

Letting out a collective breath of relief, Yris, Charlie, and Vaggie left their hiding spot and continued on their way.

They finally arrived in the kitchen. Rows of counters and appliances were diligently manned by one squad. Two smiths worked on twin stoves; another was in charge of fetching ingredients from a pantry the size of Vaggie and Charlie’s bedroom; four were chopping, dicing, stirring, and peeling at the counters; and three were scrubbing, rinsing, and drying dishes assembly-line style.

A few squads hung out in an adjoining dining area, playfully ribbing the squad on cooking duty and browsing a long buffet table where the dishes were regularly refilled and swapped out. Every few minutes, smiths who were between chores would dart in, grab some food, and leave.

There was no sign that scheduled meals were a thing here. Vaggie guessed the cooking was kept up continuously so that food would be available 24/7 to whoever needed it. The squads in the cold crust didn’t wear snips, so it was necessary for them to eat and sleep.

There was no shortage of distracting sights, sounds, and smells, but Vaggie immediately identified Havyn. She resembled Brego, bigger than all the other smiths and the same stony grey color, but she had fewer tattoos and close-cropped hair. She was helping in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and chatting with the nearby smiths. Despite how small the potatoes and the paring knife were in her enormous hands, she held them dexterously and worked with swift precision.

Charlie looked at Vaggie and bit her lip, suddenly nervous. Vaggie understood; their first talk with an overseer hadn’t gone well, and as they knew, Heaven in general wasn’t big on second chances. Vaggie gave her a thumbs-up, and that was enough for Charlie to work up the courage to approach Havyn. As they drew closer, they overheard what Havyn and the smith beside her were discussing.

“So, Miss Nadine said to keep an eye out. If we see the visitors, we are to detain them and radio her. Yris from 3-14, too. They convinced her to fly them out of the broiler,” Havyn was explaining.

“What about the other demon?”

“That one stayed put. Miss Nadine dropped it off in the lobby and locked down the hoverflat.”

“And how did Miss Nadine sound when she told you all of this? Tired? Sore? Like she was. . . in the middle of something?”

Havyn rolled her eyes and drawled, “She sounded exactly like she always does. If she and Brego stole away to enjoy their usual window of early shift change peace, they were quick about it. They never take more than five minutes. They’ll be done by now.”

The other smith said with a shrug, “I just don’t get why they’re always trying to be sneaky about it. Everyone knows. It’s not like—” Their gaze fell past Havyn, and they went abruptly quiet.

Havyn tensed at the sight of Charlie striding purposefully towards her, flanked by Vaggie and Yris. Other smiths took notice, and the murmur of conversation gradually died down.

“Hello, Havyn,” Charlie said, puffing out her chest. “I’m Charlie Morningstar, the princess of Hell. I’d like to talk to you about the Hazbin Hotel.”

Havyn’s surprise disappeared, and her jaw set in a stony expression.

“Maevol, radio Nadine. We’ve found the visitors,” she ordered one of the smiths. She stepped toward Charlie and said with measured calm, “I'm going to have to ask you to come with me, Your Highness.”

She reached for Charlie’s arm, but Vaggie checked her big hand aside. Her shoulder smarted as if she’d rammed it into a brick wall, but she tamped down the pain and placed herself between Charlie and Havyn.

“We need you to summon Mendrion out of the star. We came here to talk to him, and we’re not leaving until we do,” Charlie said stubbornly.

“Brego is overseeing the broiler. You should’ve gone to him.”

“We did! He wouldn’t do it! He said we’d just be wasting Mendrion’s time!”

“That’s his prerogative.”

Yris stepped forward and pressed, “Please, Havyn, just hear them out. It’s important, what they have to say. If you just—”

“Why aren’t you with your squad? Go back to the broiler. Now.”

Yris obeyed automatically, turning around to leave, but Charlie grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

“No, Yris, stay. I’m sure the broiler can function without you for a little bit longer. You’re an angel, not a slave.”

Vaggie cringed. Certain words were taboo in Heaven—words that weren’t simply crude or offensive, but implied dissatisfaction, even rebelliousness. Using “slave” or an equivalent term to refer to any angel, in any context, was one of those major no-nos. That stigma apparently carried over to the forge, as the surrounding smiths gasped and drew back, whispering behind their hands. Even Yris looked shocked. Charlie might as well have slapped her across the face.

Charlie seemed to realize she’d crossed a line. Vaggie could see her confidence wavering.

Vaggie threw up her arms and said loudly, “Is that wrong? Are you guys not slaves? We would hope not, but from what we saw in the interlayer and the broiler, it sure looks that way.”

“Vaggie!” Yris gasped, clutching her pearls.

Havyn threw down her paring knife and stomped over, glowering down at them. It was a terrifying sight, but Vaggie stood her ground.

“Who are you to shame us? You are fallen! Don’t act like you know what it means to serve Heaven.”

“That's right—I’m fallen. I know exactly what it means to serve Heaven,” Vaggie growled, clenching her fists at her sides. “It’s only a paradise for human souls. For angels, it’s indentured servitude. Eternal indentured servitude. We’re not people, we’re just cogs in the machine. You were built to make weapons, just like I was built to use them. You can sugarcoat it with that ‘servant of God’ bullshit all you want, if it helps you sleep at night; I did that for years. The only difference between you and me is that I woke up.”

Havyn’s face, at first slack with shock, darkened with fury. Her hands balled up into boulder-sized fists and heated until they were glowing white-hot. Vaggie tensed, balancing on the balls of her feet, ready to leap away if Havyn decided to swing.

The tension was pierced by a shrill voice in the hallway.

“WHERE ARE THEY?"

Nadine shoved her way through the crowd of smiths. She was quite literally fuming; her blue hair danced with flames, and her freckles threw off angry sparks. The smiths gave her a wide berth as she passed.

“You! And you!” she shrieked, jabbing a finger at Charlie and Vaggie. She turned her rage on Yris, who shrank in fear. “And you! What do you think you’re doing? What gives—what made you think—how you ever conceived—you—you disobeyer!”

Yris reeled back, gutted by Nadine’s words. The other smiths looked horrified. A few rushed forward to catch Yris as she swooned.

Nadine flew up to Charlie’s eye level and hissed in her face, “You are, by far, the worst visitors we’ve ever had! I advised against bringing you here, you know. I said, ‘They’re demons, they’ll only cause trouble!’ But no, Seraphim Mendrion’s sentimentality won the day! I respect Mendrion. He’s not my maker, but I do love him, and I will continue to serve him for as long as he’ll have me. But to heed the Morningstar! I don’t know what he was thinking!”

“Miss Nadine, calm down!" Havyn exclaimed, her own anger ebbing. She, too, was alarmed by Nadine’s outburst. She edged toward her with her hands out, the way one would approach a frothing animal.

“I will not calm down! They are discourteous! They are causing a ruckus! They—”

“They called us slaves!” someone shouted.

“Exactly, they—wait, what?” Nadine froze, her mouth hanging open and her face going blank. Her flames died, and she drifted down to the floor.

Another smith added, “They said we’re enslaved to Heaven. They said Maker built us to be slaves.”

All eyes were on Nadine. They seemed to be waiting for her to reassure them that they were not slaves, but she was speechless. Charlie spoke up before she could recover her wits.

“Come on, we just took a tour of this whole place! We saw the working conditions in the broiler and the interlayer. Most demons don’t have it anywhere near this bad!”

“Working conditions! I’ll have you know our working conditions are fine, Your Highness. We are efficient, organized, we have an excellent medic on call, and the SNPs have revolutionized production.”

“Those snips are the most dystopian shit I’ve ever seen! It’s inhumane!”

“Need I remind you, we are not human. We’re—” Nadine’s cuff beeped, and she stopped. She smoothed her hair, composed her earlier professionalism, and printed out a holographic message. She skimmed it, pursed her lips, and flatly said, “Emery sent another one.”

An ecstatic smile broke out on Havyn’s face, and she hurried forward to take the message. Vaggie caught a glimpse of it: a few paragraphs of neat cursive were scrawled beneath a rather provocative photo of a cupid. Like all the other cupids, she was stunningly beautiful, even by angel standards, with flowing red hair and lilac-pink skin. It didn't hurt that she was nude.

Another smith leaned around Havyn’s arm to read the message and remarked, “Wow. Her poetry is not improving.”

“Shut up! Her poetry is wonderful,” Havyn asserted, although she was too happy to muster any real anger.

“Enough!” Nadine snapped. “Follow me, please, Your Highness. I’m afraid you’ve overstayed your welcome. Yris, go back to the Broiler and report to Brego. He said he’d like to have a word with you about your disobedience.”

“Brego keeps a picture of you in his bed drawer,” Yris blurted. Vaggie looked at her in surprise. She hadn’t expected Yris to regather her crumbling courage.

Nadine opened her mouth, shut it. Her eyes were wide, and a blush bloomed on her cheeks.

“He does?” A confused mix of emotions flashed across her face.

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t know that, would you?” Vaggie pressed, jumping on the opportunity.

Charlie said to Havyn, “You’re an overseer. How often do you get to rest? Do overseers ever get free shifts?”

Havyn rolled her shoulders indecisively and answered, “Well, no. We can rest sometimes, if work’s going smoothly, but we have to stay vigilant in case a squad needs our help.”

“So even Brego’s ‘easy’ rotations aren’t really easy, are they? And Nadine, you said yourself you only get eight hours off every month. No wonder you can’t have more than five minutes alone with him.”

Scandalized, Nadine sputtered, “How dare you—we’re not—he and I—my schedule is—my work here—important—”

“Look, whatever you two have going on, do you really want it to be like that? Forever?”

“I. . .” Once again, Nadine was speechless. She fell back a step, compulsively smoothing her skirt. “I suppose I’ve never thought of it like that.”

“Because you don’t have time to think, and neither does he!”

Charlie turned to Yris next. “I’ll bet Ansyl would be able to finish blankets for half your squad by the end of the month if she wasn’t stuck in the broiler. Medic has all those novels they never get to read, and you showed us your sculptures, Yris. What do you think you could make if you had a full day to yourself to do it?”

“I have no idea,” Yris whispered. Her eyes became starry as the possibilities sank in.

Finally, Charlie turned to Havyn.

“I bet Emery would like to show you her poems in person. When do you get to see her again?”

Havyn’s smile faded. Her joy at receiving Emery’s message was replaced by resignation.

“My wing was in Heaven last rotation, so. . . three more rotations, including this one.”

The spectating smiths murmured about their own hobbies, about friends in Heaven they’d like to see. Charlie had struck gold.

“You know,” she broached, “in Hell, most places have standardized work hours. Forty per week, sometimes fifty or thirty depending on what ring you’re in. One of my hotel guests works seventy or eighty. But that’s a lot, and his boss is kind of shitty, so it’s not ideal.”

One of the smiths snorted and said, “No wonder Hell isn’t as advanced as Heaven! How do you guys get anything done?”

“Forty hours a week sounds horribly inefficient,” another agreed.

“It’s plenty efficient, actually, and Hell is plenty advanced, thank you very much. Forty hours was just an example.” Charlie was getting exasperated now.

Havyn tucked Emery’s message away and said, “Call us what you want. We serve Heaven, and we are proud to do it. If you’re suggesting we forsake this forge, forsake our maker—”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all!” Charlie said hurriedly. “I’m just saying you should ease up a little. Reconfigure the schedule so you can all have more personal time. Are worker’s rights just not a thing here?”

Judging by the puzzled stares, they were indeed not a thing. Vaggie wasn’t surprised. What did surprise her, however, was when Charlie exclaimed, “Well! Have I got a game changer for you guys!” and whipped out Labor Unions: A Comprehensive Guide for the Unfortunately Uninitiated. She’d probably smuggled it in the interior pocket in her jacket that was secretly a spacial rift (Vaggie had seen her store all sorts of things in there, from pens and chapstick to full luggage sets).

“Why did you bring that?” Vaggie whispered.

“I didn’t know what to expect,” Charlie whispered back. “I thought if we had to sit in a waiting room or something, it’d be a good idea to have some light reading on hand.”

Before she could explain unionization to the crowd, two surly looking smiths entered the kitchen, guiding a hoverflat between them. From the layer of sooty perspiration, the flecks of steel stuck to their hands, and the snips on their backs, they’d just come from the broiler.

“Brego wants to see the demons. You, too, Yris.”

“Right,” Nadine agreed, snapping out of her stupor. “Your Highness, if you’ll please—”

“He wants to see you, too, Miss Nadine. He wants to know how the new visitors got in without your escort.”

“New visitors? I didn’t—but—” Nadine’s face paled in horror. She looked close to fainting as she said in a breathless whisper, “I missed visitors?”

“They arrived unscheduled. They took a hoverflat and went directly to the broiler.”

Reeling from the knowledge that she’d failed to intercept the new visitors, Nadine stepped onto the hoverflat without a word. Yris resignedly followed, standing beside it. The two smiths closed in on Charlie and Vaggie, and one put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder in a way that, while not quite threatening, made it clear that this wasn’t a request.

Charlie thrust the book into Havyn’s hands and cried, “Read it! Your livelihoods depend on it!”

She and Vaggie were dragged away and loaded up on the hoverflat. They glided out of the kitchen, leaving Havyn staring down at the union guide, dumbfounded, while the other smiths gathered around curiously.

The ride through the forge was infinitely longer than before. No one spoke except Nadine, who muttered about the indecency of unscheduled visitors and what a disgrace it was that Gladys, a random lowborn demon, was better at following instructions than a princess and a soldier. Yris looked miserable, lagging at the back of the procession with her head hanging low. The tension was tangible.

“Do you think the book will work?” Charlie asked Vaggie as they entered the tunnels between the interlayer and broiler. She spoke so quietly that Vaggie barely caught the words.

“I don’t know. They might be too scared to even open it, since a demon gave it to them. We’ll just have to hope for the best.”

They drifted into the broiler, shielding their eyes from the blinding light of the star. Several smiths watched the hoverflat’s progress from their workstations. Vaggie spotted Yris’s squad glaring down at them from where they were monitoring their refinement tanks. Yris hid behind the hoverflat to avoid their judging eyes.

Vaggie started when Charlie sucked in a sharp breath and gripped her arm. Vaggie followed her frightened gaze to the rest platform. The new visitors were there, talking to Brego, who somehow looked grouchier than before. A chill shivered up Vaggie’s spine, and her corroborator twinged.

The visitors were exorcists.

There were three of them, and Vaggie recognized them instantly. Andromeda was at the front of the group, speaking loudly and insistently, flanked by Vulvanna and Ovaris, who glared around at the nearby smiths. As the hoverflat drew closer, Vaggie caught a snippet of the conversation.

“I don’t understand what the problem is. We have an order, and it’s your job to fill it. Lute wants these by the end of the week.”

Andromeda thrust a sheet of parchment at Brego, who read through it. His scowl deepened, and when he answered, his voice was trembling with restrained anger.

“This is the eighth order she’s sent in the last two days. We were already dealing with increased demand before she started asking for all these new weapons. We need more time, we can’t—”

“You’ll use the time we’ve given you. Just work faster.”

“We’re working as fast as we can,” Brego said through gritted teeth, keeping his eyes fixed on a spot above her head.

“Clearly not, or this wouldn’t be a fucking problem. It’s what you're built for. And hey, if all the smiths are too pussy to do it, just pull Mendrion out of the star. He can probably crank out this whole order in half an hour.”

The hoverflat landed. Charlie and Vaggie tried ineffectively to hide behind Nadine, but she put on her heat protection pendant, hopped off the hoverflat, and fluttered over to Brego.

“I apologize. I should’ve been there to receive you. I was busy,” she said, nodding curtly to Andromeda. With a sniff, she added, “Although, if you’d scheduled your visit, I might’ve taken more care to make myself available.”

Her eyes suddenly dropped to their hoverflat. She frowned and said, “That one was already in use.”

“No one was using it when we arrived. It was just sitting in the lobby,” Vulvanna said with a shrug.

“No one? But I left. . .” Nadine’s face paled, and she swayed in place. She had to brace herself on Brego’s arm to stay upright. She looked up at him and weakly said, “I left that demon alone in the lobby while I went to retrieve the others. I didn’t think. . . the hoverflat was locked, but she could’ve figured out how to access the map if she. . . oh, dear God, if she wandered off. . .”

Brego’s face was an unreadable mask. He turned on his radio and gruffly ordered, “Wing 3 overseer, calling all squads. A demon is loose in the forge. If you see it, apprehend it and contact your overseer immediately.”

“A demon? How did a demon get into the forge?” Andromeda demanded. She grabbed the handle of her scimitar and looked around, as if the demon might be standing behind her. She spotted Charlie and Vaggie, and her eyes bulged with rage.

“That’s—it’s—it’s them!” she screeched. She drew her scimitar and brandished it furiously. The other two exorcists followed suit; Vulvanna pulled out a mean-looking mace while Ovaris unsheathed twin sickles and twirled them with malice.

Logically, Vaggie knew she never would’ve been allowed to bring her spear into the forge, but she wished she had it now. Despite her lack of a weapon, she drew herself up in a fighting stance, ready to play defense. In her mind, she was calculating who would likely strike first, how they would strike, how she could disarm them and steal their weapon.

“Wait, no, we’re not here to fight!” Charlie cried, raising her hands. She looked pleadingly at Brego and said, “Gladys doesn’t even work for us, she’s a representative for. . . a family friend. Whatever she’s doing, we didn’t tell her to do it. We just came here to—”

“To kill more angels? Is that what you came here for?” Andromeda let out a manic cackle. “Killing an archangel wasn’t enough, huh? Aiming a little higher now?”

“What? No! No, we don’t want to kill anyone!”

“Now that Heaven knows what you guys were getting up to every year, Charlie wanted to pitch her hotel again. She hoped Mendrion would listen to her,” Vaggie interrupted. All eyes turned to her.

She took a deep breath and confessed, “Things are getting dangerous in Hell, even more than usual. Now that demons know what angelic steel can do, they’re stockpiling it. It was my idea to start a stockpile of our own. I hoped that if negotiations with Mendrion went well, we’d be able to take some fresh steel for ourselves, and for an overlord I’ve been corresponding with. That’s who Gladys works for.”

“What?” Yris moved forward, staring down at her. “You didn’t tell me that. You said—”

“I said what I had to say,” Vaggie continued, avoiding her gaze at all costs. “I knew you would still trust me, but I didn’t think you’d let us in if you knew what we were really after—what I was really after. Getting steel was my idea, not Charlie’s.”

The platform was quiet. Charlie gaped at her, shocked that she’d taken the blame onto herself. Vaggie caught a glimpse of the devastation on Yris’s face, but refused to let it touch her heart. She kept her own expression neutral, determined.

Andromeda cackled, low and mean.

“Only a smith would be thick enough to trust a demon,” she scoffed, shooting a reproachful look at Yris.

As if the betrayal hadn’t fully sunk in yet, Yris weakly said, “She’s not a demon, she’s—”

“She’s worse than a demon. She’s fallen,” Andromeda snapped.

Vaggie’s heart felt like it was shrinking. It hurt to stand tall, to keep her face blank. She barely noticed as Charlie moved protectively in front of her.

A commotion near the walls caught their attention. Havyn had entered the broiler and was now flying to the rest platform with another overseer—presumably the one from Wing 2—in tow. They landed on the platform, and Havyn marched right up to Brego.

“We need to talk,” she told him.

“Not now. I’m dealing with a situation here.”

“Yes, now. Summon Mendrion; he needs to have a say, too. It should be all of us or none of us.”

Vaggie noticed Havyn was carrying the labor union guide. Maybe Charlie’s spontaneous speech had worked after all.

Havyn’s serious tone gave Brego pause. He crossed his arms and brusquely said, “Fine, we can arrange an overseer meeting later. But not now, Havyn. I have work to do—so do you, Ambross. More orders keep coming in, and with the recent interruption,” he scowled at Charlie and Vaggie, “we’re already behind. I can’t just—”

“Havyn!”

Everyone looked up to see Aarom flying out of the wall, carrying Gladys. She was half-cooked from being flown through the interlayer and the broiler. Aarom plopped her on Charlie and Vaggie’s hoverflat, but kept his hands locked on her arms, pinning them to her sides.

Unaware of what he’d just walked in on, Aarom proudly said, “I apprehended the demon! I tried to contact you, Havyn, but you weren’t answering your radio. Maevol said you’d come here to talk to Brego. He also said something about starting a ‘labor union’ and organizing a ‘strike’? I don’t know what those things are, but—”

“Enough! We’re wasting time!” Andromeda shouted, slashing her scimitar. There was madness in her eyes as she hissed at Charlie, “You want round 2? I’ll give you round 2, princess, right here, right now. Oh, and Vaggie—Lute sends her regards.”

Striking with the speed of a snake, Andromeda lunged over the edge of her hoverflat, snagged Nadine’s heat-resistant pendant, and threw it over her own neck. Nadine collapsed, gasping for air, pale skin steaming in the heat. Brego lunged to grab her with a cry of distress. He was so preoccupied getting her to safety that he didn’t notice Andromeda charging toward Charlie and Vaggie.

Andromeda leapt onto their hoverflat, sending it careening through the air. They both dove out of the way as she swung the scimitar. The curved blade bounced off the floor with an ear-splitting clang, sending up a spray of sparks. Andromeda slammed the hilt into Charlie’s nose with a sickening crunch, then rounded on Vaggie.

She lunged. Vaggie dodged and grabbed her wrist, hoping to disarm her. Andromeda brought her knee up into her ribs, and Vaggie gave a choked shout as her corroborator smarted.

Andromeda raised the scimitar, brought it down. A giant hand seized Vaggie by the back of the neck and shoved her to her knees on the floor of the hoverflat, out of the blade’s path. Golden blood splattered, and she looked up to see that Yris’s face had been violently slashed open.

Yris howled, reeling back and clutching her face. All the smiths on the platform converged, shouting in Enochian. Andromeda was disarmed and brought back to her own hoverflat with the other exorcists, and the pendant was returned to Nadine, who quickly darted out of reach.

“Yris!” Vaggie cried, grabbing her shoulder. Blood trickled between Yris’s fingers, and Vaggie tried in vain to help her staunch it.

The wind was knocked out of her as Brego shoved her backwards and crouched beside Yris. He spoke rapidly in Enochian, tried unsuccessfully to pry her hands off her face so he could see the injury. The other smiths crowded around; their earlier judgment was gone.

“Call Medic,” Brego said to the Wing 2 overseer, Ambross. Ambross nodded and reached for his radio, but Havyn swatted his hand down and glared at both of them.

“I’ve seen enough. I’m calling our maker.”

“No!” Brego protested, but Havyn didn’t listen. She raised one hand and shot a jet of light into the ceiling of the broiler.

High overhead, a panel in the wall slid open. A massive ringer swung down and hit the pipes connecting to the star. A thunderous knell sounded, reverberating through the broiler, making the walls tremble. Vaggie’s teeth rattled as the deafening note rolled over her.

The mesh around the star shifted, and a slit opened, spilling raw light into the broiler. An enormous arm shot out, then another, then a third and a fourth. They grabbed onto the pipes, and a six-winged silhouette made of light—pure, blinding, holy light—hoisted itself out of the star. It was bigger than a skyscraper, bigger than a mountain, and impossible to look directly at. It launched off the orbiting platform and glided across the broiler. A wave of scorching heat rippled through the air, strong enough to be felt through the hoverflat’s protective shield.

Vaggie dropped to her knees, instinctively falling prostrate before this thing—one of the oldest, one of the first, one of those who had helped lay the foundations of Heaven.

As the seraphim drew closer, it shed layers of light, which dissolved into clouds of billowing steam. When he arrived at the platform, Mendrion had reverted to a solid form, taking the shape of a giant four-armed man with brass skin, a mane of dark, silver-streaked hair, and a neatly trimmed beard to match. Even in this minimized form he was huge, dwarfing the overseers. His clothing was simple, but elegant: a sleeveless shirt of fine gold mail, a long netted skirt wrapped around a set of loose, high-waisted pants, and simple leather sandals. A uniquely large SNP was hooked to his back.

The smiths swarmed Mendrion as soon as he landed, shouting over each other and pointing accusingly at Charlie, Vaggie, and the exorcists.

“Maker, the demons—”

“—the exorcists came without scheduling—”

“—that one is careless with her sickles, we have to make her new ones every year—”

“—they hurt Yris, Maker, and—”

“—my friend in Wing 1 said they caused a ruckus—”

“—called us slaves, Maker—”

“—set that fish demon loose—”

“—tried to steal from us!”

Cries of “Maker” “Maker” “Maker” bombarded Mendrion from all sides as the smiths tugged at his skirts and ran about under his large tawny wings.

“Alright, alright! I hear you, I—yes, I understand, now where is Yris? Move aside, please, just for—yes, I see you, Aarom. Move aside.” His voice was deep and resonant, with a rich, soothing quality to it.

He waded through the smiths and bent down to examine Yris. Brego had coaxed her to her feet, but she was still covering her face. Mendrion grabbed her wrists and gently pulled her hands away, murmuring, “Let me see it. It’s alright, I’m here. Let me see.”

Yris complied, allowing him to bare her face. The bleeding had stopped, but that didn’t make the wound any nicer to look at. It was a long, bone-deep gouge, crossing her face from her temple to her cheek. Her nose was cut clean through; a chunk of it dangled over her lip by a strip of skin.

“Is it bad?” she whimpered, her voice choked with tears.

Mendrion responded after a beat, “I’ve seen worse.” Securing her wrists with two hands, he cupped a third hand over her face and pressed two fingers to the edge of the wound. Light bloomed under his fingertips, and he moved them slowly up the length of the cut, sealing it inch by inch. When he removed his hand, there was no trace of an injury. Not even a scar was left.

“There,” he said gently. He pulled her close, and Yris huddled under his wings, sniffling. Mendrion looked up and took in the rest of the scene: three visibly agitated overseers, three exorcists trembling with bloodlust, and three visitors from Hell. Looking sternly down at them all, he prompted, “Would someone like to tell me what’s going on? One at a time, please.”

Aarom answered before anyone could properly fill Mendrion in.

“One of the demons wandered off, but I apprehended her!” he said excitedly. He was still holding Gladys, ignoring her defiant hissing and spitting. “She was sneaking around in core room B.”

Mendrion’s brow furrowed. Apprehension dawned on his face.

“What was she doing near the core?”

Aarom shrugged.

“We asked her, but she wouldn’t tell us, so I just brought her here. Orders were to bring her to our overseer if we caught her.”

As if on cue, there was a distant boom, not unlike the tolling of the pipes that had summoned Mendrion. The entire broiler trembled, shaking loose a few smiths who were working on the walls. It ended as quickly as it started, but a sense of foreboding lingered in its wake.

Vaggie looked up and saw that all of the conveyor chains had stopped moving. The low, ambient rumble that had filled the space earlier was gone, leaving an ominous quiet. The smiths fluttered around checking tanks, tapping meters, and muttering to each other in confusion.

All eyes fell on Gladys. She looked rightly terrified to be in the crosshairs of a bunch of angels and a seraphim, but had enough demonic audacity to sneer at Nadine and say, “Should’ve done that cavity search, bitch.”

Chapter Text

It began with a terrible, bellowing groan, as if the forge itself was in pain. Then the walls began to tremble, and Vaggie’s stomach turned with dread as she realized what was about to happen.

“Evacuate,” Mendrion said, the first one to break out of his shocked stupor. No one moved; none of the smiths seemed to have heard him. He grabbed the three overseers and reiterated, “We need to evacuate the forge, now. Ambross, go to the interlayer and activate all of the transport portals. Havyn, get Wing 1 out of the cold crust, have them join Wing 2. Don’t let anyone try to leave through the lobby, it’s too close to Core B. If Core A is stable enough to be activated, do it.”

Aarom looked faint as he piped up, “Maker, my. . . my squad is in core room B. I have to—”

“I’ll see to your squad, Aarom. Right now, I need you to go to the workshop in Heaven. Tell Ikarvis to go to my sanctum and get it ready to accommodate everyone. Wing 4 will be fine without her for a few hours. I found a new secretary to work there at the last Starlight Festival, remember? That cherub, Monica? She’s very good. She can manage the workshop on her own.”

“Yes, I. . . I know Miss Monica.”

It was clear Aarom wasn’t up to the task, so Mendrion turned to Nadine and said, “Go with him.”

Nadine nodded, and she and Aarom flew out of the broiler. Havyn and Ambross took off, barking orders over their radios. Brego watched Nadine until she was gone, then looked fearfully up at Mendrion.

“Maker, what are we going to do?”

“I’m going to assess Core B, repair it if I can. Call Medic, tell them to meet me there. I need you to organize Wing 3 and get them out of here. I don’t want anyone near the star until I’ve stabilized the forge. Make a round through the broiler, ensure no one’s left behind.”

“We can help!” Charlie blurted. Mendrion and Brego both looked down at her, the former with strained patience and the latter with blatant contempt.

Charlie didn’t wait for chastisement as she maintained, “My hotel is one of the safest places in Hell, and. . . honestly, we only have one official guest right now, and our staff is me, Vaggie, and three other people. There’s plenty of room. Let me open a portal, and Wing 3 can layover with us.”

Vaggie added, “The interlayer will be swamped in a few minutes, since 1 and 2 are both evacuating through there. This’ll go quicker if you let us help. Once everyone else is settled in Heaven, you can come pick up 3.”

Mendrion looked like he was considering it until Brego snapped, “Don’t listen to them, Maker. They manipulated Yris and lied about their intentions. They came here to steal from us, not to earn your favor.”

Vaggie knew immediately that Charlie wouldn’t let that remark slide. To keep her inexplicable understanding of Enochian secret, Vaggie butted in, “We didn’t lie about wanting your support! Yes, we were also hoping to start a conversation about steel, but that was only if the first part went well! But that’s obviously out the window now, isn’t it? None of us are getting steel if there’s no forge to make it!”

She turned to Yris, who was standing beside the hoverflat like she didn’t know what to do with herself. Vaggie clutched her hand and pleaded, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything, but I never lied to you. We can help. You have to believe me, Yris. Please.”

Yris was in tears, she was so conflicted. She gulped and said to Mendrion, “I trust them. They can help.”

Mendrion stared down at her, then scrutinized Charlie and Vaggie. Brego watched the exchange in disbelief.

Finally, Mendrion nodded and said, “You may receive Wing 3. I will personally come to collect them as soon as I can.”

There was a hint of a threat in those words—a warning. He would come, and if the smiths weren’t all alive and safe, there would be literal Hell to pay.

Vaggie had almost forgotten the other exorcists were there, so it surprised her a little when Andromeda burst out, “You’re letting them drag the smiths—your angels—to Hell? Haven’t you heard what happened the last time we went down there?”

Mendrion regarded her coolly, and after a moment commanded, “Brego, take these three to an evacuation point in the interlayer. Yris, remain here until he returns, then join the demons. Help get everyone settled.”

Yris nodded and gave a fervent “Yes, Maker.” After several long seconds of glaring and tooth-grinding, Brego growled, “Yes, Maker.” He commandeered the exorcists’ hoverflat and steered them out of the broiler, ignoring their indignant shouts and curses.

Mendrion stayed long enough to help Charlie coordinate the portal to the hotel. Then, trusting Yris to hold down the fort, he took off, winging away to the cold crust.

“Come on. We need to warn the others that the hotel’s about to fill up,” Vaggie told Charlie, moving to the edge of the hoverflat. She grabbed Gladys by the elbow and pulled her along, meeting the demon’s furious scowl with one of her own.

Yris’s hand shot out and gripped her shoulder, halting her.

“Vaggie, are you sure?”

“Yes, Yris, I’m sure.”

“I’m trusting you,” Yris said in a hard voice. The weight of so many unspoken words hung in the air between them.

“I know.”

They exchanged a nod, and Yris released her.

Charlie went through the portal first, shutting her eyes to brave the jump through the baking air. Vaggie followed, holding Gladys firmly by the arm.

For a terrifying fraction of a second after she jumped off the hoverflat, she was exposed to the heat of the broiler, which she could’ve sworn was worse now that the mesh around the star was open. Then she was swallowed up and spat out onto a carpeted floor. Sour, sulfuric air filled her lungs, unpleasant but familiar. She’d never thought that air would come as a relief.

They were in the second-floor parlor. Husk and Angel Dust, who were in the middle of a card game, stared at them from the across the room.

Vaggie wasted no time. She locked Gladys in a chokehold before she could make a break for it and shouted, “Handcuffs, now! This bitch is a fucking snake!”

Angel Dust obeyed without thinking, scrambling to his feet and racing up the stairs to his room. He returned with a set of fluffy pink cuffs. Vaggie dragged the now unconscious Gladys to the radiator, cuffed her, and stuffed the key into her waistband next to her new preening comb. She searched until she found Niffty trying to force a bunch of captive cockroaches to fight each other to the death.

“Niffty, how would you like to do some stabbing?” Vaggie asked. Niffty was on her feet in a flash, scurrying around her legs.

“Stab?”

“That’s right, stab.”

“Yes! I love stabbing!”

Vaggie led her over to Gladys, who was just starting to stir, and said, “Don't let her escape. If she breaks free and tries to run, stab her legs. If she tries to crawl, kill her.”

Niffty cackled and twirled her knife.

Vaggie stared down at Gladys for a few seconds. She briefly considered trying to contact Carmilla, but decided against it. If the nosy old bitch was still watching the hotel, she probably already knew they were back.

She felt like such an idiot, trusting the Carmines. What order had Gladys been acting on? Sabotage whatever she could? There was no way she could’ve known what to expect. More than likely, she’d brought the bomb as a just-in-case, on the off chance she found a way to disable the forge. If she succeeded, it was a win for Hell. If she failed or didn’t get an opportunity to try, nothing was lost.

There had probably never been a real need for security beyond what was necessary to keep the forge structurally sound. With the unfortunate timing of one core being down for maintenance, all the moving from layer to layer, and collective oversights from Nadine and the smiths, sheer dumb luck had given Gladys all the cards she needed to shoot the moon.

Vaggie left Gladys under Niffty’s eager watch and joined the others by the portal. Charlie was speaking in a long, winded rush, explaining as much as she could, as quickly as she could.

“We didn’t get to talk to Mendrion about the hotel, but we convinced some of the smiths to unionize and now they want to organize their first strike, but it’ll have to wait because the forge was sabotaged and everyone has to evacuate, and time-wise, getting them all out is going to be tight, so I volunteered the hotel as a layover, so some of them are coming here, so don’t be alarmed when—”

Yris stumbled out of the portal and skidded to a halt beside Charlie. Husk and Angel Dust gaped at her, and it took Vaggie a second to remember that neither of them had seen a smith before. Charlie took it upon herself to introduce her.

“Yris, this Husk and Angel Dust. That over there is Niffty, and Alastor is. . . where is Alastor?”

“He went out again,” Husk grunted.

“Huh. He’s been doing that a lot lately, hasn’t he? What about my dad?”

“He went out, too. Heaven wanted to see him about some kind of emergency. I assume that’s your emergency?”

“Probably.” Charlie clapped her hands together and jumped back on track. “Anyway, guys, this is Yris. She’s Vaggie’s ex. She’s great.”

“Hey,” Yris greeted quickly, nodding to Husk and Angel. She turned to Charlie and reported, “All thirty squads are coming. Brego’s on the other side, keeping the evacuation streamlined. Are you sure you can accommodate them?”

“I’m sure. It’s ten per squad, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Right. Well, uh. . . I assume you guys aren’t going to want to be spread out too much. If we put one squad to a room—thirty squads, thirty rooms—we should be able to consolidate everyone here on the second floor. Yris, stay by the portal and send the squads down the hall as they come through. Vaggie and I will direct them into the rooms. Husk, Angel, you guys are on ambassador duty. I promise the smiths aren't dangerous, just try to make a good impression. Most of them have probably never seen demons before.”

As Vaggie and Charlie hurried down the hallway to prep the empty guest rooms, Vaggie observed, “You know, it’s probably for the best that Alastor and your dad aren’t here.”

“Yeah. I don’t think that would go over well.”

The smiths of Wing 3 soon began to trickle into the hotel, one squad after another. Many gave little screams of fright when they saw Husk and Angel, and scooted past them very quickly. They were shaken enough as it was, actively fleeing a collapsing superstructure, and being greeted by two sharp-toothed sinners pushed several to the brink of a panic attack. At one point, Niffty left her guard post and circled the smiths curiously. She zeroed in on a particularly nervous one, who hopped up on a chair to get away from her. He was in tears by the time Husk and Angel managed to herd Niffty back to Gladys.

Thankfully, although the smiths were very scared, they were compliant, and followed Charlie and Vaggie's directions without a fuss. They relaxed a little once they were cordoned off with their squads in their respective guest rooms. Vaggie had been concerned that the cramped space would make them antsy, but it had the opposite effect. If anything, it made them feel safer, as they huddled around the undressed beds and consoled each other. They all insisted on leaving the doors open so passing squads could check in with one another. Each smith seemed to be running their own head count.

Finally, Yris announced that the last squad was through. Twenty-nine rooms were filled; only squad 14 hung back, refusing to leave Yris alone in the parlor. They congregated around one couch, three squished on the cushions while the others stood behind it or sat on the floor. It didn’t look comfortable, but as Charlie had anticipated, they weren’t eager to separate. They wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone, only risked the occasional side-eye glance, and Angel Dust’s halfhearted attempts at conversation were met with petrified silence.

As Vaggie and Charlie headed back into the parlor, Vaggie overheard a snatch of Enochian from Yris’s squad. Ansyl was crying, hoping her crocheted blankets wouldn’t be lost, because it had taken her so long to make them, and two of her squadmates were assuring her that Mendrion would stabilize the forge in no time. On the surface, a few blankets seemed like a silly thing to worry about, but the knife of guilt in Vaggie’s heart gave a sharp twist as she remembered Yris’s sculptures, Brego’s picture of Nadine, even Medic’s cozy reading nook. That knife soon started to feel very literal, and she realized the pain relief had begun to wane. She did her best to ignore it.

Everyone was settled in, and Yris was waiting for Brego, when Andromeda, Vulvanna, and Ovaris burst through the portal, weapons drawn. With the advantage of surprise, they successfully knocked Yris out of the way, then rounded to face their targets.

Vaggie, who had retrieved her own weapon almost as soon as she and Charlie arrived, reacted first. She deflected the sickle that Ovaris threw and charged, catching Ovaris’s other blade on the hilt of her spear, shoving it aside, and wrestling her to the ground. Behind her, Andromeda lunged for Charlie, who summoned her shield and tried in vain to talk her down. Vulvanna attacked Angel Dust, inciting Husk to vault over the bar to defend him. Yris’s squad was remarkably unhelpful as they scrambled to hide behind the furniture.

The scuffle lasted less than a minute. Vaggie beat Ovaris easily, while Husk and Angel managed to disarm and subdue Vulvanna. The three of them rushed to Charlie’s aid, as she was reluctant to let loose against an increasingly feral Andromeda.

“I’m going to finish what Adam started,” Andromeda snarled, pointing her scimitar at Charlie. “You, your fallen whore, and your fucking leeches are—”

No one noticed that Brego had come through the portal until he was standing right behind her, looming like a giant shadow. He grabbed her by the collar, yanked the scimitar from her hands, and tossed her across the room as if she weighed nothing. She landed in a heap with Ovaris and Vulvanna, and they cowered as Brego stalked over to them.

“Enough!” he shouted, lifting his wings threateningly. “Mendrion told you to evacuate through the interlayer, and you disobeyed.”

The exorcists hung their heads, but they looked more upset about having been caught than about disobeying.

Yris picked herself up off the floor and hurried over to Brego. As soon as he closed the portal, he faced her and urgently asked, “Where are the squads? Are they safe?”

“Yes, they’re in the rooms. All are safe and accounted for,” Yris reported. “What about Mendrion? The cores?”

“Havyn activated Core A, but it’ll take time to boot up. Mendrion was repairing Core B when—” Brego stopped, and his face became strained.

“What? What happened, Brego?”

“The compression mesh around the star was compromised. He sent me, Havyn, and Ambross through the portals, but he stayed back to try and contain the star.”

Yris paled. She wetted her lips and broached, “And. . . Aarom’s squad? Are they okay? They weren’t hurt badly, were they?”

Brego walked a few steps away and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the back of a couch. It took great effort for him to say, “Two were killed. The other seven were severely injured. Thirteen others were in the vicinity when it happened; they were injured, too.”

Vaggie had never seen anything like the tortured anguish that passed over Yris’s face. She plunked down on the nearest couch and dropped her head into her hands. Vaggie knew she was remembering how she’d vouched for her and Charlie—vouched for Gladys—and personally escorted them into the forge.

Vaggie shut her eye. More blood on her hands—more blood that she knew would never wash off. There was no redemption for fallen angels.

Everyone was roused by a triumphant screech near the radiator. Niffty had wandered off, distracted by a stray roach, leaving Gladys free to slip out of her cuffs. She’d had to sacrifice some skin and scales, and foul-smelling black blood dripped onto the handle of Ovaris’s sickle as she picked it up. She brandished it at the group, baring her teeth.

“I’m leaving,” she hissed, backing toward the stairs. “And if any of you fucks try to stop me, I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking gut you!”

Brego moved first, striding towards her, his features twisting up in murderous loathing. Gladys visibly panicked as he drew closer. She swung the sickle clumsily, but he seized both her wrists in one giant hand and the blade of the sickle in the other. Instead of disarming her, however, he held her fast, letting her keep her white-knuckled grip on the hilt.

Brego’s eyes narrowed. His hand heated up around the blade of the sickle until it was glowing white hot. The steel melted, dripping down in thick glowing runnels. When it covered Gladys’s hands, melding them to the hilt, her scream was like nothing Vaggie had heard before.

Brego dropped her, leaving her to writhe and howl on the floor. His lip curled in disgust, and he spat, “There’s your steel, demon filth.”

The room was silent apart from Gladys’s sobbing. Yris and her squad watched Brego with wide eyes, shocked by what he’d just done. Brego slowly turned, and the glare he fixed on Yris made her shrink.

“This is your fault,” he growled, stalking toward her. “This is all your fault.”

“Brego, I didn’t know—I didn’t mean—”

“You let them in! You promised us they could be trusted! I didn’t trust them, not for one second, but I trusted your word! Our maker trusted your word! Now two smiths are dead, because of your carelessness!”

“I’m sorry,” Yris whispered. Tears were brimming in her eyes.

“You want to lay off? It wasn’t her fault,” Vaggie interjected, marching up to him.

Brego went still.

“You’re right.” He spun to face Vaggie, fists blazing, wings flared, and roared, “It’s your fault! You knew Yris was sentimental enough to believe you!”

Charlie cautiously moved up behind him and said, “Hang on, Brego, we didn’t know Gladys was planning anything. We were told she was coming along to observe—that’s all. If we’d known, we never would have—”

“And you!” Brego whirled around and advanced on Charlie, backing her up. “All your talk of redemption and unions—I saw right through you from the start. You’re the spawn of Lilith and the Morningstar. You, most of all, Yris should’ve known better than to believe.”

“Hey, back the fuck up,” Vaggie snapped, putting herself between them. She raised her spear in a threat that needed no words, but Brego didn’t look remotely intimidated.

“Was slaughtering human souls not enough for you?” he said viciously. “Are you going after angels now? I always thought there was something wrong with you exorcists. No wonder your maker regrets you.”

Vaggie reacted without thinking, slashing the spear at his face. He jerked back, but the blade landed a shallow slice in his cheek.

Brego touched a finger to his face and gaped down at the golden blood that came off. It didn’t take long for his shock to give way to rage.

Only Yris realized what was about to happen, a split second before it did. She was off the couch and across the room in an instant, just in time to tackle Brego as he lunged for Vaggie. Yris grabbed him under one arm and pulled him away with all her strength. He wrenched himself free and charged Vaggie again, but Yris bodychecked him off-course.

“Get out of here, now!” she shouted at Charlie and Vaggie as she attempted to pin Brego.

They didn’t need to be told twice. Brego was much bigger than Yris, and if he was as fast on his feet as he was in the air, she wouldn’t be able to hold him long. But when they turned to flee, they were met by the exorcists, who were back on their feet and advancing on Angel and Husk.

Vaggie heard a cry and looked back in time to see Brego throw Yris against the wall. It cracked under her weight, and a dusting of plaster cascaded down on her as she crumpled to the floor.

For the third time, Brego lunged at Vaggie, but she was ready. She dodged and slashed at his underarm, aiming to disable rather than kill, but he moved quicker than she’d bargained for, bringing one hand up to block. The spear tip ricocheted off his armored fist, and Vaggie's arms buckled under the force of the collision. Brego swung, and she just barely ducked out of the way. She felt the searing heat as his fist sailed past her head.

Fighting Brego wasn’t like fighting an exorcist. He wasn’t formally trained, but he’d been handling weapons longer than Vaggie had, and he was big. She’d watched him catch one of the giant refinement tanks in midair and lift it on his own, and she suspected that was far from his limit. If he landed even one hit, the fight would be over. The only thing keeping her alive was her speed.

She dodged and leaped and rolled, not bothering to conceal her wings for emergency use, searching for an opening. As she danced around Brego, she started to notice a pattern to his movement, the way he put all of his momentum behind every swing and all of his strength behind every block. If Vaggie played her hand right, she could use his size against him.

She retreated, readied her spear, and charged head-on, making to stab him. Just as she’d hoped, he grabbed the spear with both hands. Instead of letting the recoil rattle her, she used the momentum to kick off from the floor, flapping into the air as high as the spear would allow. She slackened her grip and dropped down, slamming both feet into his chest with all her might.

Brego hit the floor and crashed straight through it. It was so sudden, Vaggie didn’t realize what happened until they landed. They were on the first floor, surrounded by rubble. Through the hole in the ceiling, Vaggie could hear the fight with the exorcists continuing.

Brego gripped the spear and flung her off. She caught herself in a roll and scrambled to get back on her feet, only half aware that she’d just been disarmed. For a few seconds they both struggled to right themselves, coughing and waving aside the cloud of debris.

A terrible pain constricted Vaggie’s chest, and she dropped to her knees, gasping. She clutched at her shirt, twisting the fabric in her fist.

Not now. Please, not now.

A hulking hand seized her ponytail, and she cried out as her head was yanked back. Brego sat on her back, pinning her down, crushing the air from her lungs. His other hand closed around her face, plunging her into darkness.

“If you had any honor, you would've taken your own life the moment your halo fell,” he growled in her ear.

His hand heated up around her face. The carved runes glowed like the element of an oven. Vaggie’s skin started to burn, then blister. She tried to scream, but with his full bodyweight crushing down on her, she couldn’t inhale.

One of her hands clawed desperately at Brego’s and the other groped around the floor for a weapon, any weapon. When she managed a feeble twist, she felt something small and sharp poke her ass, something tucked in her waistband. She reached for it, and her fingers closed around the handle of the preening comb.

She ripped it free and thrust it upward, not knowing or caring where it landed. The sharp prongs hit flesh, and Brego let out a bellow of pain that shook the hotel. His hand disappeared from Vaggie’s face, and his weight lifted. Only his grip on her hair remained secure—so secure that when he staggered away, half of her scalp tore clean off her head.

Vaggie thought she might’ve screamed, but she didn’t hear it. Brego’s grip finally loosened, and her hair slipped out of his fingers, but the damage was done. Her scalp hung off one side of her head in an ugly, bloody flap, like a half-attached wig. The thought sparked a sense of misplaced humor, and Vaggie would’ve laughed if she’d been able to stop screaming.

She forced her arms to move, to drag her prone body. Forward, she commanded. Forward.

She turned her head just enough so she could see Brego. He stood a few feet away, leaning against the wall, clutching his face. The handle of the preening comb glinted in the lamplight, dripping blood. She’d stabbed him right in the eye.

Vaggie wasn't screaming anymore, so there was nothing to stop a bubble of delirious laughter from escaping. It was weak and choked, and it made her corroborator hurt even more, but once she started, she couldn’t stop.

Her laughter caught Brego’s attention. He ripped the comb out and flung it to the floor. Liquid gold spilled from his ruined eye as he stalked over to her. His savage face was the last thing Vaggie saw as he raised a fist and brought it down on her back.

She heard her spine break half a second before she felt it, and everything went white.

*****

The entire time it took Charlie, Angel, and Husk to subdue the exorcists, all Charlie could think of was Vaggie, standing alone against Brego.

Once the exorcists were disarmed again, Yris’s squad finally decided to help. They restrained them easily, and no amount of struggling could break their stone grip. Charlie didn’t waste another moment jumping down through the hole in the floor, where she was met with a paralyzing sight.

Vaggie lay flat on the floor, unmoving. Charlie could only hope she was merely unconscious.

She'd been partially scalped. Her blood-soaked ponytail, still rooted to the skin, lay limp on the floor beside her glistening head. Her midsection looked like it had been flattened by a tire; her bowels oozed out her sides where her body had split open from the sheer force of the blow. Bits of torn mesentery hung from the edges of splintered ribs. A single vertebra was visible, peeking up through her back. Greenish fluid leaked onto the floor, mixing with her gold blood.

Brego stood over her, heaving. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, both splattered with gold. One of his eyes had been reduced to a ball of slimy, bloody tissue, sitting limp its socket. His own blood was drying in yellow streaks on his face, drying where it had dripped onto his bare chest.

Charlie’s mind blanked. Her vision went red.

She was charging before she knew she’d made a decision. She approached from his blind side, so by the time he heard her, it was too late.

A surge of power flowed through her, raw and tremendous, howling for vengeance. A burst of unnatural strength manifested in her left hand, building up the muscle, thickening her skin, lengthening her claws, giving her what she needed to beat him.

Her fingers locked around his snip, digging into the metal with a crushing grip, and she tore it off with one ferocious yank.

The flesh of Brego’s back ripped free. The skin directly under the snip split down the middle and folded to either side like ghastly wings, exposing a broad plane of gold muscle.

Brego’s shriek cracked the windows, threatened to shatter them. He fell against a sofa, skinless back arching in pain. His wings hung off to either side, twitching weakly.

The battle was won, but the new power inside Charlie wanted more. It reared its head, roaring for the angel’s blood, fiending to tear him limb from limb.

Charlie might have given in if Yris hadn’t grabbed her by the jacket and thrown her across the room.

Charlie landed hard, rolling across the carpet. When she pushed herself up and gathered her wits, the roaring inside faded away, and her hand reverted to its normal size. She crawled over to Vaggie, fear suddenly overtaking her.

She was too afraid to move her, so she knelt beside her and pressed two fingers to her neck. She almost sobbed in relief when she felt a feeble pulse of life. How much longer it would last, she didn’t know, but by some miracle, Vaggie was alive. There was still time to save her.

A cry of distress drew her attention. Yris was kneeling beside Brego, sobbing, hands hovering helplessly over his back. The rest of her squad flew down through the hole in the ceiling, carrying the exorcists, and scattered screams of horror passed over them when they saw what had happened. Charlie shielded Vaggie with her body, but none of the smiths paid any attention to her.

She heard the swish of a portal on the floor above, and Angel Dust exclaimed, “Holy fucking DILF!”

Mendrion. Mendrion could help Vaggie.

“Here!” Charlie screamed, startling the smiths. “We’re down here! Please!”

Mendrion dropped down through the hole. He was so large that the top of his head brushed the ceiling. Charlie opened her mouth to plead for help, but surprise made the words stick to her tongue.

He wasn’t alone. Cynthaeis dropped down after him, and her attendant, Jasper, glided silently behind her. Between Cynthaeis’s plain, shapeless robes, her tousled feathers, and her disgruntled expression, it looked as if Mendrion had just dragged her out of bed. A rather mean part of Charlie hoped that was the case.

“Let me through. Let me see him,” Mendrion ordered, brushing past the smiths. He glanced at Charlie and Vaggie only long enough to note that damage had been done on both sides. He crouched beside Brego, pressed a fingertip to the back of his neck, and with a ripple of light, Brego relaxed. His face, only partially visible where it was pressed against the couch, went slack with relief. Mendrion carefully removed the broken snip, arranged the torn flaps of skin where they belonged, and began sealing them in place.

Cynthaeis didn’t move. She just stood where she’d landed, glaring around the room with the same degree of disdain as before, until Jasper cleared their throat softly and nodded towards Vaggie. Cynthaeis gave a permissive flick of her hand.

Jasper crossed the room like an apparition, pale and silent, and lowered themself gracefully to their knees on Vaggie’s other side. With glowing hands, they nudged her organs back into her body, fitted her broken ribs, and began to close the worst of the wounds from the inside out. Their magic worked slower than Mendrion’s, and scar tissue formed instead of new skin, but Vaggie could come out of this with a hundred scars for all Charlie cared—just as long as she survived.

Jasper must be a healer, Charlie realized. Had she been able to focus on anything other than Vaggie, she might've wondered why Cynthaeis felt the need to keep a healer close at hand.

On the far side of the room, the exorcists stood in a tight cluster. They were no longer being restrained, but they’d lost all interest in fighting. They stared at Cynthaeis, then at Mendrion, watching the way the smiths crowded him and huddled under his wings.

One of the exorcists—Ovaris, Charlie recalled—hesitantly approached Cynthaeis.

“Maker?” she said in a small voice. Cynthaeis glowered down at her.

“What?”

Ovaris cowed at her tone, but didn’t retreat. She held up her arm like an offering; it had taken a nasty cut during the fight.

Cynthaeis grimaced. Ignoring Ovaris, she said loudly to Mendrion, “Forgive me, Seraphim, but I don’t see why it’s necessary for me to be here.”

Mendrion paused in his healing and turned around. He fixed her with a glare that clearly said, “Deal with your damn kids.”

Grumbling, Cynthaeis seized Ovaris by the wrist and began mending her cut. Ovaris gazed up at her, not flinching even as Cynthaeis’s long, sharp fingers dug into the wound.

When Cynthaeis finished, she dropped Ovaris’s wrist and turned to the other two. The second one eagerly moved forward for her turn, but the third, Andromeda, hung back, looking sulky.

Quiet lapsed as the two makers healed their respective charges. Charlie watched Jasper’s slow but steady progress with bated breath. She hardly noticed when Angel Dust and Husk made their way downstairs and joined her.

As he finished Brego’s back and moved on to his eye, Mendrion cast a glance at Charlie and stated, “She looks like him.”

Cynthaeis paused, and she, too, took a moment to scrutinize Charlie.

Mendrion didn’t look at Cynthaeis, but his words were clearly meant for her as he went on, “I had heard she resembled him, but I didn’t think—”

“Dead ringer, I know.”

Cynthaeis finished healing the second exorcist and moved on to Andromeda. She reached for her face, where a long slash marred her cheek, but Andromeda smacked her hand away.

“I don’t want your help,” she snipped. Cynthaeis rolled her eyes, grabbed Andromeda by the jaw, and hoisted her up onto the tips of her toes.

Cynthaeis’s handling of the exorcists wasn’t rough, exactly, but there was no warmth in it. As Charlie watched her, she recalled everything Vaggie had told her in the Wing 3 dormitory.

“It’s not just me. She hates all the exorcists.”

“Alright,” Mendrion said, leaning back with a sigh. Brego slowly stood, flexing his wings. He turned to Mendrion, but had nothing to say for himself. Mendrion held out his arms, and Brego moved forward, accepting the hug. Squad 14 invited themselves to join in.

Mendrion broke away and rose to his feet. He manifested a ball of light, handed it to Brego, and said, “This portal goes directly to my sanctum. Go upstairs and lead everyone through. Wings 1 and 2 are accounted for.”

“Yes, Maker,” Brego mumbled, accepting the portal without argument.

Before he could take off, Mendrion put a hand on his shoulder and stated, “When I consented to let the princess visit, I was clear that I would grant her an audience. You should have summoned me when she arrived.”

“Yes, Maker.”

Yris piped up, “Wait, what about the forge?”

“The forge is gone.”

The smiths gasped, and a few broke down in tears.

“What?” Yris said, shocked. “But you stabilized the cores, didn’t you?”

“It didn’t matter. I was unable to repair the compression mesh in time. The star consumed the forge. It’s gone.”

“What are we going to do?” another smith cried.

“Go to my sanctum. We’ll talk about our options there. And I believe Havyn has something she wants to discuss as a group. Go on, now. Follow Brego.”

Brego led the group back up to the second floor. Yris briefly lagged behind; she almost made to check on Vaggie, but changed her mind and followed her squad without a word. Charlie heard Brego give orders in Enochian, and three hundred pairs of feet thundered overhead.

A loud, purposeful knock sounded on the front door. Charlie threw a pleading look at Husk, who rolled his eyes and went to answer it.

“How can I—oh, shit, uh. . . hello, Miss Carmine.”

The door was shouldered open, and Carmilla Carmine pushed past Husk, striding into the parlor. Strangely, she was alone. Her eyebrows shot up as she took in the destruction. She studied the two giant angels, one gold and one silver. Finally, her gaze landed on Vaggie.

“I take it your trip didn’t go well, princess.”

“No thanks to you,” Charlie shot back.

Cynthaeis ignored Carmilla, but Mendrion’s full attention came to rest on her. He flicked a finger at the ceiling, and Gladys floated down through the hole. He dropped her on the floor, where she lay curled up, whimpering and tugging at her fused hands.

“This one belongs to you, I believe?” he prompted. He crossed his arms, awaiting an explanation.

Charlie burst out, “You said she was coming to observe! Just fucking observe!”

“Yes, that’s the order I gave her,” Carmilla confirmed. “Did she do something other than observe?”

“Try destroying the whole forge,” Husk said dryly.

Carmilla’s cool demeanor cracked.

“She. . . destroyed it?”

“Was she not acting on your command?” Mendrion asked.

“No. She was not.” Carmilla’s piercing red eyes were locked on Gladys.

Mendrion considered for a moment, then addressed Gladys directly. His voice was heavy with magic as he commanded, “Speak the truth.”

Gladys fell into a dazed calm. She sat up, faced Carmilla, and bluntly said, “I’ve been an informant for the Vees for the past year. Velvette sends me a paycheck every week, on the same day you do. I listened outside your office door when the exorcist came to talk to you, and I monitored the security feed on the hotel. I kept Velvette updated on everything. She told me to find a way to join the princess, so I convinced you I should go as your representative. I brought an angel bomb just like the one that shark smuggled into your facility—and his was just a prototype. Velvette told me to do whatever I could to cripple Heaven’s forge. I was acting on her command.”

Gladys slumped, snapping free of that dreamy haze. She blinked, confused, and looked up to see her boss standing over her. Carmilla's face was drawn in cold, murderous anger. Gladys's eyes widened, and she clumsily backed away.

“M-Miss Carmine! I-I can explain, that wasn’t—all those things, I don’t know why I said that, none of it was—they made me say it! The angels made me! Please, you have to—”

Carmilla swept her leg through the air in a swift, deadly strike, and Gladys’s head dropped to the floor.

Cynthaeis, who had finished healing Andromeda and stopped to watch the altercation, scoffed, “Demons.”

She wasn’t watching the exorcists, so Ovaris was able to sneak up and nestle under her wings. Cynthaeis jolted as if she’d been electrocuted, lifting her wings and jerking away. Ovaris recoiled from the utter revulsion on her maker's face.

“What did you expect?” Andromeda muttered. Ovaris looked like she was trying not to cry.

Mendrion frowned at Cynthaeis’s behavior, but didn’t correct her. He nudged the exorcists toward the hole in the ceiling and said, firmly but gently, “Go on. It’s time to return home.”

“But Seraphim, the demons—”

“I’ll handle it. Go.”

Shooting one last hateful look at Charlie, Andromeda took off, and the other two followed suit.

Charlie was so focused on the exorcists’ departure, she jumped a little when Jasper spoke. Their voice was soft, but no less surprising to hear. Charlie had been half-convinced that they were mute.

“Elder, she’s stable, but there’s only so much I can do. I can mend her spinal cord within the hour, but it’s not in my capacity to mend her corroborator. I don’t think it will remain intact for much longer.”

Cynthaeis glanced disinterestedly at Vaggie and said, “Yes, that damage does look severe. It might be kinder to let her die.”

Charlie bolted to her feet. Her horns manifested, and her hair swirled angrily around her.

“How dare you?” she yelled. “You’re her maker! What the fuck is wrong with you? Why can’t you just fix her? It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do! You’re fucking retired!”

The silence that ensued was deafening. Cynthaeis’s nonchalance faded, replaced by a venomous chill. She advanced on Charlie, crossing the room in just a few long strides.

In a voice colder than ice, she said, “Never presume to command me, Charlie Morningstar. I stooped to obey the whims of one arrogant child, and it cost me more than you can comprehend. Never again.”

As she spoke, she changed. Her flesh became thin and pallid, her plumage grey and withered. Her entire body appeared to sag, and her silver eyes clouded with the beginnings of cataracts. As soon as she finished speaking, however, she reverted to her normal appearance.

It was as if, for a few seconds, a mask had been lifted, but it happened so fast, Charlie had to wonder if she’d imagined it.

“Cynthaeis.”

Cynthaeis didn’t turn around, didn’t respond to him. Mendrion moved closer and quietly said, “Please, ashlehren.”

“Don’t you ‘ashlehren’ me. You know my feelings on that matter; they have not changed.” Cynthaeis snapped, rounding on him.

“Nor have mine.”

They stared each other down for a long time. Mendrion gave her a tired, pleading look, and Cynthaeis finally caved. She trudged over to Vaggie and scooped her up. Vaggie looked horribly small and frail in her arms.

Without looking at Charlie, Cynthaeis said, “I need somewhere I can lay her down and examine her.”

“We have tons of guest rooms, you can use one of those,” Charlie said hastily, leading the way down the hall.

She opened the door to a guest room, and Cynthaeis ducked inside. She placed Vaggie on the bare mattress and sliced away her clothing.

“Do you really have to—”

“I built her from molecules. There's nothing here I haven’t already seen.”

As soon as she said it, she paused. She lifted one of Vaggie’s wings and made a thoughtful noise. She chose not to remark upon it, however, and bent low over Vaggie to examine her spine.

Charlie stood in the doorway, watching anxiously. She stayed quiet until she no longer could and asked, “Do you need anything else?”

“Privacy would be ideal.”

“Right. Privacy. I’ll just. . . leave you to it, then.” Charlie waited a moment to see if she would get a response, but she didn’t.

She shut the door, leaving them alone, hoping Cynthaeis had been fully won over by whatever estranged elderly romance Mendrion had implied. Charlie didn’t quite understand what ashlehren meant (it was the first Enochian term she’d heard that didn’t translate cleanly in her head), but there was a weight to the word, a sense of significance that she couldn’t quite grasp. She made a mental note to ask Vaggie about it later.

When Charlie returned to the parlor, it was deserted except for Carmilla.

“You’re still here?” she asked, pointedly flicking her eyes to the door.

“I apologize for the trouble my representative caused. I’d have killed her a long time ago if I knew she'd been bought.” Carmilla regarded Charlie with something close to curiosity. “You should know, princess, the Vees were in favor of war before the last extermination. They and many others are getting restless. You should be more careful, especially if you plan to continue corresponding with angels.”

“Thank you, Miss Carmine. The door’s there.”

Carmilla took the hint. With a curt nod, she left, closing the front door quietly behind her. Charlie locked it, then went upstairs to find Mendrion.

She arrived as the last ten squads were waiting for their turn to go through the portal. The smiths were much more comfortable now that Mendrion had shown up, and a few were even voluntarily talking to Husk and Angel Dust. From the bits Charlie overheard, it sounded like Husk was explaining what a strike was.

“So we just. . . stop working?”

“That’s right. And you don’t go back to working until they cut you a fair deal.”

“But our work. . . it’s important.”

“Yes, it is, which is why it makes a great hostage.”

“So, we’re holding our work hostage?”

“Weird way to put it, but sure.”

“But taking hostages is bad. That’s a terrible thing to do. Why would we—”

“The ruling class is holding your rights hostage. Even trade.”

Charlie approached Mendrion, who was ushering the squads through the portal. She sidled up beside him and hesitantly said, “Hey, so. . . sorry about the forge and. . . everything else. Will you be able to make a new one, or. . .”

“I hope so.”

Charlie waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t even look at her. Still, she had to try. She and Vaggie had gone through so much just for a chance to speak to him.

“I know you’re probably not in the mood, but I’d like to talk to you about my hotel.”

The quiet, derisive noise he made confirmed that he was far from in the mood. Charlie tried not to sound desperate as she pressed, “Look, I know I fucked a lot of things up today, but this is really important, maybe the most important thing I’ve ever done! You know about the exterminations, right?”

Mendrion finally glanced down at her. He gave a short, pained nod.

Charlie persisted, “This is an alternative to that. I really, truly believe it can work, but both doors have to be open. I need support in Heaven. Please, will you hear me out?”

Mendrion was silent for so long, Charlie started to think she’d failed. Then he responded in a flat, unmoved voice.

“Five minutes.”

“What?”

“It will take five minutes for the rest of Wing 3 to depart to my sanctum. You may speak. I will listen.”

“Thank you,” Charlie breathed, her heart flooding with relief. She looked around and saw that some of the smiths were eavesdropping. She smiled, pleased to have a wider audience. The more angels heard, the better.

Without further ado, she took a deep breath and started to sing.

Chapter Text

The angel opened its eyes.

White. Large, open space bordered by hard white—a room. The hard beneath—floor—was white, too.

The angel didn't know how it knew these words.

It lay supine on a small stretch of raised floor—a table. Unused abdominal muscles flexed as it lifted its upper half. It turned its head, wanting to know more, wanting to know why.

There were others in the room.

Grey. Grey bodies on rows upon rows of grey tables. The angel looked down at itself and thought it resembled the others. It moved its upper appendages—arms, hands—to explore itself. Itself was strange.

Its wings twitched. The angel felt them, wanted to use them, but didn’t know how. It tried a few clumsy flaps and lifted itself off the table. It plunked back down, buzzing all over, facial muscles automatically twisting upwards.

It was excited by this discovery. It could take to the air. It could leave the table.

It moved its arms, moved itself. Its hands grasped the edge of the table, and it slid off. Its lower appendages—legs, feet—touched the floor. The floor was hard and cool.

The angel wanted to go forward. It lifted its feet, set them down, bravely moving away from the table. Its wings were a hindrance, and it struggled to hold them comfortably. It swayed and stumbled, but eventually figured out the difficult process. Its gait was shaky, but felt correct.

The others were all still on their tables. Some were struggling to master their appendages. Some were trying to sit up. Some were still laying supine with their eyes shut, unmoving. When the angel passed those ones, it sensed the emptiness in their selves and knew they were not alive, not like itself was. It was proud of its quick advancement as it walked between the tables.

The angel reached the end of the rows and stopped.

An other stood nearby, but this one wasn’t like the others on the tables. This one was much bigger and covered in loose, flappy white. They were facing away from the angel, but the angel saw them and knew instinctively who they were to it.

Maker.

Maker was huge and beautiful, a beacon in the cool white room. The angel felt a surge of something warm and tremendous inside, urging it on, pushing it towards Maker—love.

It reached Maker. It wriggled up under their wings—wings that were shelter, wings that were safety—and grasped the white folds, tugged to make itself known. It opened its mouth and made a noise, but didn’t know how to form the word running circles in its mind.

Maker. Maker, Maker, Maker.

Maker looked down at it. The angel felt something, a new buzz, where its hands touched Maker. Feelings flowed and ebbed, not its own, marked by words it didn’t fully understand.

Made, child, replacement, parasite. Pride, joy, disgust, shame.

These were Maker’s feelings, it realized. These were not like its own feelings; these were big, complex feelings, layered, shifting, fighting for attention. It frightened the angel.

It pushed its own feelings forward, wanting Maker to feel its love, wanting Maker to understand.

Maker. I love you. I love you, Maker. Please love me. Maker, Maker, Maker.

It searched for a reciprocation, but love was nowhere to be found amidst those big, frightening emotions. It didn’t understand why. Was it wrong to expect love? Maybe it was supposed to love Maker, but Maker wasn’t supposed to love it back.

“You’re up already, too, are you?” Maker said. Their voice was startling in the quiet, but it was Maker’s voice, and the angel loved it for that. The angel tugged the draping white fold again—sleeve—and pushed out more love, desperate for Maker to feel what it felt.

Maker reached down to a table standing beside them. It was multiple tables, one on top of another—shelves—with stacks of white folds. Maker grabbed a swathe of white and flapped it in the air, then maneuvered the angel's arms through holes, helped its wings slide through slits. Maker shut the folds of the white and tied two long strips, securing it. The angel looked down at itself in wonder. Its appendages were uncovered—short bottom, no sleeves—but the rest of itself was concealed.

Maker grabbed part of the white and informed the angel, “Clothing.”

“Clothing,” the angel echoed, mimicking the movement of their mouth. It smiled, pleased with itself for mastering speech. It grabbed onto Maker’s arm again, eager to know if those big feelings had changed, to see if clothing would earn Maker’s love.

Annoyance, amusement, affection. Offspring, child, made.

Warmth bloomed, brought on not by the clothing but by the angel’s smile, a warmth that felt very close to love. It wasn’t as strong or prominent as Maker’s other emotions, but it was there, and it was real. Then it was gone, buried, dissolving as quickly as it had formed.

Replacement. Parasite. Hate.

Maker yanked their arm out of the angel’s grasp and turned away.

The angel was distracted from their confusion when they spotted an other on Maker’s opposite side. This other must’ve been the first to walk, because it was already clothed. It stared at the angel. The angel stared back.

The angel huddled closer under Maker’s wings. It felt their irritation, but Maker didn’t push it away. The other took offense to its closeness and darted around Maker, shoved the angel away with a loud grunt, stole its spot. This other wanted Maker all to itself. Angered by this unfairness, the angel pushed back. The other responded with a second, harder push.

“Stop that,” Maker snapped, startling both. “No pushing.”

The other looked ashamed. It brushed up against the angel, self against self, slow and gentle. The angel gratefully mimicked the affection. It held out a wing, and the other met it with its own. Sister.

Sister looked to Maker to see if they approved of this new behavior, but Maker was not watching. They were focused on an object in their hands, a rectangle with many small circles displayed inside. Most of the circles were glowing and moving around, but some were dark.

The angel hesitantly touched Maker’s arm.

Confusion, alarm, fear.

The angel recoiled, frightened by change. Something was wrong. Something had upset Maker.

Maker put down the rectangle and turned to speak to the angel and Sister. They both straightened, eager for Maker’s attention.

Maker reached into the shelves, planted a hand on the folded clothing, and stated, “Clothing.”

“Clothing,” the two echoed, bobbing their heads. They grabbed their own clothing, proudly held it up so Maker could see that they understood.

Maker pointed to the others. Most were still on the tables, but many were wandering around, learning to walk. Maker pushed the shelves towards Sister and the angel, moving them easily through the air—hovering, the shelves were hovering—then pointed more insistently at the others and said, “Naked.”

The angel and Sister looked at each other, then back at Maker, slowly bobbing their heads. They understood. “Naked” was without clothing. The way Maker said it, it sounded unideal.

Maker ordered, “Help them dress. I showed you how.”

Sister and the angel scrambled to grab the shelves, briefly scuffling for control before figuring out how to push it together. They moved among the others, helping the ones on the tables to their feet, distributing clothes so none would be naked.

“No, no, no. . .”

The angel looked up, alarmed by the strange intonation in Maker’s voice, and scanned the room for them.

Maker stood by one of the tables where an other lay. It was one of the others the angel had passed when it was learning to walk, one of the empty ones. It looked no more alive now than it had been earlier. Maker was bent over it, feeling its appendages and touching its face.

Between quickened breaths, Maker muttered, “Was it not enough? It should’ve been enough. I gave all I could give. It had to have been enough.”

The angel looked around the room, marking the tables where empty others lay. There weren’t many, but the difference was stark now that most of the others were on their feet.

Comprehension slowly dawned. Something had indeed gone very wrong. Maker had given them something to wake them up, but it hadn’t reached them all—it hadn’t been enough.

Maker framed the other’s face with their long fingers. They drew a deep breath, and the angel watched, transfixed, as their eyes glowed and gold veins lit up in their face. They leaned down and exhaled brilliant light. It disappeared into the other’s mouth, guided by an unseen force. The other’s body gave a jerk, its eyes glowed like Maker’s, and it inhaled with a loud, jarring gasp.

Maker leaned back, panting. They didn’t just look winded. They looked diminished somehow, hurt. The other was alive, but Maker had given up something of their own to make it so.

Maker moved through the array of tables, bringing the empty others to life one by one. With each piece of themself they gave, they grew weaker. Several times they stumbled and almost fell; the angel and its sisters would swarm them in a panic, keeping them upright. Maker didn’t seem to like that. They would tolerate one touching them, but any more than that and they would shoo them all away.

When Maker reached the final empty other, they could barely stand, let alone walk. They had given up trying to keep their made off of them. The angel clung to one of their sleeves, and the others jostled for similar positions. The angel could feel Maker’s desperation, could feel how they were forcing themself to keep going, to finish their work despite how drained they were.

It took Maker several breaths to achieve a strong glow. They breathed it into the final other, giving up the very last of what they could give. As the other drew its first breath, Maker’s eyes fell shut and they collapsed.

The sisters let out a collective scream and surrounded Maker, shaking them, tugging their clothes, crying for them to wake up. Maker was unresponsive. Their face was gaunt and pallid, the natural glow of their skin gone. They’d given too much.

The angel’s eyes burned as it knelt beside Maker. It flapped its wings to keep the others away; they must give Maker space.

Finally, Maker’s eyes fluttered open. They groaned and pushed themself up, grasping onto a table for support. Their glow slowly returned, but it was pale and weak. The angel sensed there was no replenishing what was lost. Whatever Maker had been forced to give was gone for good, sacrificed so that all the others could live.

“Get off me!” Maker yelled hoarsely, pushing away the others that crowded too close. “Get away!”

The others retreated, frightened by their outburst, but didn’t stray too far. Every one of them was desperate for a chance to be close to Maker.

Slowly, gingerly, Maker rose to their feet. They shut their eyes and breathed deeply to steady themself.

At one end of the room, a tall rectangle in the wall opened—a door. The others yelped in fright and hid under Maker’s wings, boundaries forgotten.

Someone new entered the room. They were big, though not as big as Maker, and threw their weight into every step. Their golden wings hung at their sides like they’d never learned how to hold them comfortably.

“Everyone’s awake, I see,” the newcomer said, eyeing the others. Their gaze lingered on the ones who were still naked, and their mouth lifted in an unpleasant grin.

The angel shrank from the newcomer’s loud, harsh voice, clinging tight to Maker’s sleeve. It couldn’t understand this newcomer’s words like it understood Maker’s. This newcomer frightened it.

“Adam. Always a displeasure,” Maker said. They spoke in the same strange way as the newcomer. The angel heard, but didn’t understand. It squeezed Maker’s arm, silently pleading for them to speak in a way it understood.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too. Are they ready?”

“They are.”

“Good. Everyone’s gathered outside. Sera said to bring them out whenever you’re ready.”

The newcomer started to leave, but stopped and appraised the others again. That nasty smile returned, and they said, “My girls turned out well, huh? Good thing you scrapped that first draft. Those ones weren’t half as nice to look at.”

Maker didn’t respond, but the angel could feel their roiling anger.

Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. HATE.

“Tell Sera I’ll bring them out shortly.”

The newcomer started to go, but paused when Maker added, “After today, I pray our paths never cross again.”

“Likewise, hag.”

The newcomer left. The door remained open, waiting.

The angel tugged Maker’s arm, opened its mouth, and clumsily formed the word it had been desperate to speak.

“Maker?”

Maker stared down at it. Their anger faded now that the newcomer was gone, taking every other emotion with it, leaving them hollow, empty. The angel could feel the chasm left behind. No word appeared in its mind to explain it.

The angel stared up at Maker, waiting, begging for them to feel something, anything.

Maker stared down at their made and felt nothing. The chasm yawned wider, deeper.

“Follow,” they ordered, forging a path through the throngs of others and leading the way to the door. The angel had no choice but to go along, trotting to keep up with Maker’s long strides. The others fell into place. None of them dared to question.

The angel’s eyes burned again. It didn’t understand why. Something hurt, something deep inside, something it couldn’t put into words.

It grasped Maker’s sleeve tighter and prayed it wouldn’t ever have to let go.

*****

Vaggie opened her eye.

It took her a long minute to get her bearings. She was in one of the empty guest rooms, lying naked on the bed. She felt over herself with clumsy hands and found that her innards were where they belonged, her scalp was secure on her skull, and her back, while sore, was not broken.

The deep, chronic pain she’d grown accustomed to in the last few days was gone. Her corroborator was fixed.

Someone nearby was breathing loudly, painfully. Every agonal wheeze rattled in the quiet room. Vaggie looked over and saw Cynthaeis seated on the edge of a chair, slumped forward. The back of her robe was open, exposing her shoulders and the base of her wings. Spreading out from her spine like a creeping rash, her skin and feathers had turned to solid grey stone.

Jasper stood beside the chair with their hands pressed to Cynthaeis’s back, right over the stone patch. Magic glowed under their palms. They eventually lifted their hands away, and Cynthaeis rolled her shoulders, wincing.

“It won’t recede any further,” Jasper declared. Sounding unsure, they offered, “I might be able to ease the pain some more.”

“No, you’ve done plenty. This is. . . this is manageable.” Cynthaeis’s breath hitched, and she doubled over with a wet, hacking cough. Unable to speak, she pointed to a flask sitting on the dresser. Jasper retrieved it and helped her take a sip.

Vaggie felt like an intruder, like she wasn’t supposed to be seeing this. The glamour Cynthaeis normally wore was gone, putting her real face on full display. She was aged, even more haggard than when Vaggie had last seen her, and the sight of her marred, crooked back didn’t help.

Vaggie wondered if the flesh-to-stone transition was part of the aging process. She couldn’t be sure, as she’d never heard of an angel aging. It was unnatural, grotesque.

Then again, it was also unnatural for an angel to be mortal.

Cynthaeis noticed Vaggie staring and rasped, “Good, you’re awake. Your princess left those for you.” She gestured to the foot of the bed, where a pile of neatly folded clothes waited.

Vaggie dressed while Jasper helped Cynthaeis put her robe back on. Vaggie then moved to Cynthaeis’s side, sitting on the window ledge next to the chair and pulling her knees up to her chest.

Cynthaeis regarded her tiredly for a moment, then said to Jasper, “Return home. Prepare the usual; I’ll need it. I won't be long."

Jasper bowed their head, summoned a portal, and disappeared. Vaggie shifted awkwardly on her seat, not sure where to start. She hadn’t been alone with Cynthaeis in years.

“Jasper’s a healer?” she prompted, for lack of a better conversation starter.

“Yes.”

“They seem like a good attendant.”

“It’s just us here, Vaggie. Call them what they are.” Cynthaeis took another drink and said with a bitter sneer, “They’re my hospice nurse.”

Vaggie cringed at her bluntness, but she was grateful Cynthaeis wasn’t bothering to sugarcoat the situation.

“How long do you have?”

“Now?” Cynthaeis threw a pointed look at Vaggie’s midsection, indicating the recent repairs. “Half a century, maybe. I had to make you a new corroborator; the first one was unsalvageable. My own fault, I suppose. If I had just fixed it when you asked me to, I wouldn’t have had to expend so much energy.”

Vaggie averted her gaze and mumbled, “Thank you.” Cynthaeis didn’t reply.

An angel of Cynthaeis’s age and rank was powerful, but she was no seraphim. She had her limits, which she discovered the hard way the day she brought the exorcists to life. The power she could afford to expend wasn’t enough, and she’d been forced to chip away her own life force until she was rendered mortal. She was still long-lived, and certainly a force to be reckoned with, but year by year she decayed, drawing ever closer to a death thought to be impossible for angels. Unfortunately, overexerting herself sped up the process, shrinking her already limited time.

She’d once said that she had known the cost of building an army would be great, and was willing to pay it anyway. . . for her creations. But she didn’t consider the exorcists hers. As far as she was concerned, they were—had always been—Adam’s.

The first soldiers were hers.

They were what she made when she was first given the honor of building Heaven's army, before Adam was put in charge of the project. After twenty years of tireless labor, she'd created a host of one million merciless, indestructible warriors—in her own words, an army worthy of Heaven.

Then Adam was given creative control.

He decided Cynthaeis's soldiers didn't fit the bill. Not attractive enough, not familiar enough, not human enough. At his behest, she was forced to scrap them and start over. After many drafts, much trial and tribulation, the exorcists were made, and Adam gave them his stamp of approval.

The rough draft army still existed, Vaggie knew. Unwilling to destroy them, Cynthaeis had stored them in a void-space, a matterless pocket between dimensions. But they were shells, lifeless and empty. They were less than dead; they had never lived, and they never would. The exorcists were replacements, parasites, and whatever love Cynthaeis might’ve had for them was buried with the first soldiers.

Vaggie was so lost in thought, she jumped a little when Cynthaeis broke the silence.

“I felt them die.”

“Who?”

“Your sisters. In the last extermination. I felt it when they died.” Cynthaeis pressed a hand to her sternum, wincing, as if she was actively reliving that bloody hour.

Vaggie didn’t know what to say to that. She remembered the forge, and her guilt resurfaced.

“Two smiths died today. Did Mendrion feel that?”

“He did.”

“Does it. . . hurt?”

“Yes. But he didn’t want to worry anyone, so he kept it to himself. He’s always been good at that.”

They lapsed into silence again. Vaggie studied Cynthaeis for a while, mapping the details of her gaunt face, her gnarled hands, her greying feathers. A question nagged at her until she could suppress it no longer.

“Why did you heal me?”

“Mendrion commanded it. I can’t disobey a seraphim.”

“Bullshit. No one can make you do anything.”

Cynthaeis gave her a sardonic side-eye.

“If that was true, you wouldn’t exist.”

Vaggie remained quiet, waiting for a real answer. Cynthaeis sighed and said, “Mendrion has enough to deal with right now. I didn’t want to add to his troubles.”

“What’s the deal with you two, anyway? Nadine said you guys used to work together.”

“We did. He actually came to me for help in designing the smiths.” Cynthaeis visibly relaxed as she recalled, “Humanoid bodies were all the rage, so that was what he wanted, although I tried very hard to talk him out of it. He mostly wanted my help with the chemistry and coding. Docile temperaments were imperative, given their physical power and the fact that they’d be working in close quarters for long stretches of time. The overseers would need to be more assertive, being the foremen; the downside of that trait is that they’re prone to aggression in situations of elevated stress. And, of course, all the smiths would need to be able to tolerate extreme conditions, for—”

Cynthaeis stopped when she saw that Vaggie didn’t care. She leaned back in her chair and said with a huff, “Anyway, in hindsight, I don’t think he really needed my help. He just wanted to get me out of the lab.”

“Sounds like you two were pretty close. Sounds like he cared about you. A lot.”

“I suppose.”

Vaggie’s unspoken question weighed heavy between them. With a roll of her eyes, Cynthaeis admitted, “There was a time he expressed interest in courtship.”

“And?”

“And I made it clear that I had no desire to court or be courted. Companionships of that nature have never held much appeal for me. He is nothing more or less than a very old, very dear friend. He knows that. Even if I ever considered attempting something more. . .” Resignation was heavy in Cynthaeis’s voice as she said, “It’s better this way. He is well-liked, and he has his smiths. He’ll be alright. It’ll be easier when. . . if we’re not. . .”

So her relationship with the exorcists—or lack thereof—wasn’t the only bridge she’d burned. Vaggie wasn’t surprised. Still, a thorn of longing pierced her heart, rooted in instinct rather than any sort of logic.

“Did you ever want to make things right with us?” she blurted. “Did you ever try to come see us?”

“Once, when I was extremely intoxicated.”

Vaggie let out a burst of shocked laughter. She did her best to smother it as Cynthaeis continued, “I went to the barracks, but Adam wouldn’t let me in. It turned into something of a scene. I threatened him, called him a few things I don’t think he’d ever heard before, and Mendrion had to be summoned to escort me from the premises. Not my proudest moment.”

Vaggie had to disagree. She’d never heard anything that made her come closer to liking Cynthaeis.

She thought she even knew which night Cynthaeis was referencing. The exorcists had been awoken by a shouting match outside, someone cursing Adam out in a variety of languages. When Adam eventually returned to the barracks, he was fuming, and wouldn’t tell them what happened no matter how they pestered and pleaded. He wouldn’t let them leave his sight, either, or even peek out the windows, until he’d received word that the “loiterer” was gone. Some of the exorcists later claimed they’d caught a glimpse of their maker, and it was she who tried to force her way in to see them, but Vaggie and most of the others dismissed that rumor as wishful thinking.

Now she knew it really was Cynthaeis that night. Long-buried love bloomed, the instinctive love that had driven her to her maker’s side when she was first brought to life. Vaggie hated the feeling, hated herself for letting it persist when she knew better.

She had to consciously resist the urge to curl up under Cynthaeis’s wings. She very well knew she wouldn’t get the reaction she wanted.

Slowly, tentatively, she reached out and touched Cynthaeis’s arm. She opened her senses, concentrated, listened for the buzz she remembered from that first day, but felt nothing.

“That won’t work. Only newborn angels can feel their maker’s emotions. That sensitivity fades within the first year.”

“Oh.” Vaggie withdrew her hand, embarrassed. Even so, that intrinsic need for her maker’s affection lingered. It was horrible, humiliating, because she knew that the love she felt—the love she couldn’t help but feel—would never be reciprocated in any meaningful capacity.

She would never forget the moment she’d realized that, the day Cynthaeis presented the newborn exorcists to Heaven.

Vaggie remembered the crowd’s shock as Cynthaeis denounced her made, remembered the cutting words that she couldn’t understand. She remembered how it felt when Cynthaeis pried her fingers off her sleeve and left the stage without a backward glance. She remembered how the seraphim struggled to get the situation under control, tried unsuccessfully to soothe the exorcists as they wailed for their maker.

They didn’t understand why she’d left them, didn’t understand why they were expected to obey Adam, who was big and loud and frightening. Some of the exorcists latched onto him fairly quickly, but others, including Vaggie, remained leery of him, because he was not Maker. He could never fill that chasm. No one could.

She knew she wouldn’t like the answer, but she had to ask.

“Do you still regret us? Me?”

Another broken corroborator would’ve hurt less, Vaggie thought, as Cynthaeis shut her eyes and quietly said, “Yes. I regret you.”

Chapter Text

Cynthaeis left without informing anyone, without saying goodbye. Vaggie didn’t say goodbye, either, just watched her disappear through the portal. She stayed in the guest room for a long time, staring at the spot where the portal had been, a weak part of her hoping against hope that Cynthaeis would come back. Cynthaeis didn’t come back, and Vaggie was finally forced to get her shit together when Charlie came in. Vaggie kept the details of her talk with Cynthaeis to herself, so Charlie was free to ruminate on her anxieties about the smiths once she’d finished weeping with joy over Vaggie’s newly repaired body.

Charlie was plagued with doubts, but it sounded like her pitch had gone well. Mendrion had a lot to deal with—get the smiths settled in back home, get everyone together for a talk about a potential union, start drawing up plans for a new forge—but he said he’d consider her appeal.

Lucifer returned not long after Mendrion left. He claimed the meeting at the Embassy ran longer than anticipated, but Vaggie suspected he’d deliberately delayed his return to avoid seeing Mendrion. As he repaired the smashed furniture and the hole in the floor, he explained what happened at said meeting.

It was the most exciting one in years, he claimed. The ambassador he met with received continuous live updates on the situation in Heaven, including word of the smiths’ plans to unionize. Heaven didn’t use currency (although the souls up there had a long-running joke about “Heaven bucks”), so it was non-work hours rather than wages on the line. It was rumored that a handful of cherubs were considering a union of their own, and the cupids wanted to jump on the trend, too (“I don’t think the cupids understand what a union is—they’re not the smartest ducks in the pond,” Lucifer said, “but they want one anyway.”).

The political atmosphere in Heaven was already rocky, and Lucifer theorized that something else was going on up there that had nothing to do with labor unions, but the ambassador was careful not to slip any hints beyond what was relevant to the meeting.

When Charlie asked if he thought Mendrion would support her, he sighed and said, “I don’t know, sweetie. If he has to do it alone, without any other higher-ups backing him, he might cave. His influence isn’t what it used to be. He only spends five days a year in Heaven, for that Starlight Festival junk.”

“Do you think he said he’d consider it just to make me shut up?”

“I’m sure he will consider it, but he won’t follow through if he thinks it'll put the smiths at risk. They’re his main priority right now.”

“What do you mean, ‘at risk’? You don’t think the higher-ups would threaten them?”

“It’s not like they don’t have an excuse. You have to understand, Charlie, labor unions aren’t a thing up there. I don’t think the smiths realize how dangerous what they’re doing is. A lot of the older angels, when they hear ‘union’, are going to hear ‘rebellion’. Even if they do accept that all the smiths want is the occasional weekend off. . .”

“Would they actually hurt them, just to keep Mendrion in line? It’s Heaven, Dad! Do you really think they’d do something like that?”

“I think if it wasn’t a possibility, Mendrion wouldn’t have kept his head down for this long. Sure, he preached mercy for your me and mother, but that was before he had a dozen hundred kids to worry about. It was a brilliant move on Heaven’s part, honestly. Add to the population, strengthen the workforce, and shut up their highest-ranking dissenter, all in one fell swoop. If that’s not efficiency, I don’t know what is.”

Charlie found that take hard to believe, conspiratorial even, but Vaggie privately agreed with it. Had that very thing not also been done to Cynthaeis? Why would an angel who lacked a seraphim’s power be selected to give life to an army, if not to take her off the board?

When Charlie and Vaggie turned in that night, as a welcome distraction for both of them, Vaggie suggested they give her new corroborator a test drive. As they lay in bed together afterwards—Charlie with her head on Vaggie’s chest, Vaggie tracing invisible shapes on her pale shoulder—Charlie’s worries resurfaced.

“I don’t feel like I really accomplished anything. I just have more questions,” she lamented. “Why would the Vees want a war? Why can’t Mendrion just sit down and talk to the other seraphim? How many seraphim are there, anyway? Who are the 'higher-ups'? Why won’t Heaven just listen to me?”

Her voice cracked as she finished, “Why does it seem like everyone who had anything good to say about my parents got pushed to the fringes?”

Vaggie gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“You saved my life, Charlie, and you opened a door for the smiths that they didn’t even know was there. I think you accomplished a lot more than you realize. You’ll see. Just give it time, mi manzana.”

Charlie was quiet. Vaggie thought she’d fallen asleep until she asked, “What does ash-Lauren mean?”

Vaggie tensed.

“Ashlehren?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Mendrion said it to Cynthaeis. What does it mean?”

Vaggie recalled what Cynthaeis told her about her relationship with Mendrion.

“There was a time he expressed interest in courtship.”

Vaggie scoffed. That callous, crotchety bitch.

“It’s an old term, not used too much anymore. Back in the day, angels would form ‘exclusive companionships’ through courting. Nowadays, those courtships are associated with romance, but it’s a lot more than that. I wouldn’t call it platonic or romantic, exactly; those are modern terms. This bond is. . . sort of its own thing. An angel thing. Ashlehren is the official name for bonded companions, like 'partner' or 'spouse', but it can also be a casual term of endearment.”

“Like an old, old-timey pet name?”

“Yeah, kinda. There isn’t an exact translation for it, since it has such a specific context, but there is a rough, mostly agreed-upon translation.”

“What is it?”

“ ‘Beloved eternal’.”

“That’s really beautiful,” Charlie murmured. Vaggie gazed down at her, brushed a blond lock behind her ear. Charlie’s hair rustled happily and tangled itself around Vaggie’s hand.

“You’re beautiful,” Vaggie informed her. Charlie leaned up on her elbows, grinning, and pressed a kiss to her mouth.

Ashlehren, Vaggie thought as Charlie’s long, pale hands moved over her body. Ashlehren, ashlehren, ashlehren. Beloved eternal.

She kissed Charlie back, harder, because it was only way to stop herself from saying it aloud.

*****

Charlie awoke to a loud clatter downstairs, the noise of clinking bottles and breaking glass. She rolled over and found that she was alone in bed. She couldn’t help feeling a little hurt. She got up, put on her slippers, and followed the noise downstairs to the parlor.

Husk was a hard sleeper, she knew, and Alastor probably didn’t care enough to get up (assuming he slept), but Angel Dust was awake. He was in the parlor, wearing an oversized tee, booty shorts, and an askew sleeping mask. He was glaring at the bar, where Vaggie had consumed at least half of the available liquor.

She’d put on a pair of capris for modesty and an open cardigan over her nightie, and now sat on the floor, legs stretched out, wings hanging limply at her sides. Empty bottles rolled around her, and a broken one was scattered across the lacquered surface of the bar. She swayed slightly in place, bleary-eyed, and struggled to connect the lip of her current bottle to her mouth.

“Christ, Vags, how much have you had?” Angel groaned. Neither he nor Vaggie had noticed Charlie yet.

“What’s it to you? You drink. I can drink, too, can’t I? I’m in Hell,” Vaggie snapped, brandishing the bottle at him and sloshing alcohol onto her lap.

“I can hear your liver shriveling up from here.”

“So what if it is? Cynthaeis can just make me a new one.” Vaggie shrugged and chugged the rest of the bottle. When it was empty, she tossed it aside and reached for another one. She frowned when she saw that there were none left within reach. She struggled to her feet on unsteady legs, clambered over the bar, and pawed at the shelves.

“Alright, come on, that’s enough,” Angel said. He went behind the bar and attempted to drag her out by the arm.

Vaggie gave him a shove and slurred, “Don’t touch me, motherfucker.”

Charlie was so shocked by the scene, it took her a long time to gather her wits. She’d never seen Vaggie like this.

Vaggie had never been much of a drinker. She would have a glass or two at a party, but never seemed to particularly enjoy it. If Charlie wasn’t so worried for her, she might’ve been impressed at how much she could put away in one sitting.

“Vaggie?” she finally said, stepping into the room.

Vaggie whipped around, and the utter mortification on her face made Charlie’s heart ache for her.

“Oh, no, Charlie, you’re—fuck. Fuck.” Vaggie pushed past Angel, trying to leave the bar, only to stumble and fall on her face. Angel tried to help her up, but she shoved him away. “Shit, I didn’t—go back to bed, Charlie, it’s okay, I’m—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Charlie hurried towards her, but Vaggie retreated. She couldn’t, wouldn’t meet Charlie’s eyes, even for a moment.

“It’s okay, Vaggie. Just. . . just come back upstairs. We’ll get you cleaned up, and—”

“No, I didn’t—I didn’t want to wake you, you shouldn’t have to see—please, Charlie, don’t. . . don’t look at me. I don’t want you to—” She paused for a loud hiccup, “—to see me like this.”

“Vaggie, it’s really okay, you know I would never—”

Charlie’s reassurances fell on deaf ears. Vaggie staggered away and, before Angel or Charlie could move to stop her, threw open one of the windows and leaped out. She spread her wings and flapped through the open air, veering and tumbling wildly. Several times Charlie was afraid she’d crash, but she didn’t, flying up and onward until she faded from view.

Charlie and Angel shared a helpless look, knowing they had to find her, knowing they had no clue where to start looking.

*****

Vaggie wasn’t sure why she went where she did. All she knew was that she couldn’t stay in the hotel, couldn’t let Charlie see her fall apart like this.

She hadn’t meant to make so much noise. She hadn’t meant to get so carried away in the first place. She'd been unable to fall asleep and just wanted something to dull the edges.

Charlie had so much shit on her plate right now. Vaggie was supposed to help solve her problems, not add to them. If there was an award for creation’s most burdensome girlfriend, she’d earned it.

Breaking into the Carmine facility was laughably easy. Once inside, however, she realized she had no plan. She didn’t know what to do with herself, where to go, who to talk to.

Charlie had recounted Gladys’s confession, so Vaggie knew the destruction of the forge wasn’t Carmilla’s fault, but it didn't really matter whose fault it was. The net result was the same. There was no forge, which meant no fresh steel, which meant no deal and no weapons.

Vaggie snuck by the guards, slipped through a laser alarm system, and broke into Carmilla’s office. If she was here, she might as well continue doing what she’d woken up to do. There was nobody here whose opinion she cared about.

She found a stash of high-end whiskey behind Carmilla’s desk. She didn’t bother with a glass. She sat on one of the window ledges in case she needed to make a quick escape and started drinking. The crystal flagon was half empty when the door opened and a tall shadow filled the room.

“Vaggie,” Carmilla stated. She stood there, staring, like she was offended by the break-in but unsure how to handle it. It was strange to see her dressed for bed in a nightgown and a purple silk robe, with her hair tied in a long, loose braid.

“Hang on, I’m almost done,” Vaggie said. She wiped her mouth and muttered, “Just let me finish this, and then I’ll be out of your hair. This is good stuff, by the way. Really good stuff.”

“Why are you here?”

Vaggie shrugged.

“Had to get out of the hotel for a bit. Couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”

One of Carmilla’s daughters appeared in the doorway, peering around her mother. Vaggie couldn’t remember which one this was.

“Mom, what’s—”

“Send someone to the Hazbin Hotel. Let the princess know we found her exorcist.”

Her daughter nodded and disappeared, but not without snatching one last curious glance at Vaggie. Carmilla stepped into her office and shut the door.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I shouldn’t be alive. I should never have been alive. My maker regrets ever making me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

Vaggie snorted.

"It is. She told me so. She told me she regrets me, and she meant it. I could tell. I mean, I already knew it, but. . .” She took a long swig of whiskey. It burned, scoured her throat, but she needed it. She glared at Carmilla and grumbled, “ ‘Not true’. Easy for you to say. You weren’t a fucking replacement. You weren’t supposed to not exist. Your maker doesn’t hate you.”

Vaggie didn’t know why she let her guts spill like that. She had no reason to tell Carmilla about her personal problems, and Carmilla had no reason to care, but once she started, she couldn’t stop.

To her surprise, Carmilla’s features softened. The pity on her face was unbearable.

“I saw how she treated you. I’m sorry.”

“Why? She’s not sorry. I’m not sorry. I’m better off without her, honestly. She’s a dick, always has been. Mendrion can do way better. I can do better, too. I am doing better. I have Charlie, and the hotel, and. . .”

Vaggie’s voice cracked. She wiped her stinging eye on her sleeve and took another drink. Her face was hot with embarrassment. Carmilla Carmine was the last person she should be crying in front of.

“Have you talked about this with Charlie?”

“No.” Admitting that made Vaggie feel worse. “I could, and she’d listen, but. . . she wouldn’t underst—she doesn’t need that. She’s got enough of her own baggage to deal with.”

“Vaggie,” Carmilla said. Her voice was soft, almost tender. It was agony.

She crossed the room in slow, measured steps. Vaggie wondered if she meant to kill her, and thought that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Carmilla didn’t try to kill her. She placed her hands on Vaggie’s shoulders and repeated, “I’m sorry.”

Slowly, very slowly, she pulled her closer. Vaggie resisted for a moment, confused, before hesitantly leaning in. Her head came to rest on Carmilla’s shoulder, and Carmilla’s hands settled on her back.

Vaggie was not a hugger. Carmilla didn’t feel like much of a hugger, either. This embrace felt rehearsed, calculated, in a way that only a hug from a non-hugger could be. There was cautious tension in Carmilla’s body; she was very aware of what Vaggie was, and was ready to switch tactics if she reacted badly.

It didn’t feel like hugging Charlie, or Yris, or any of the few people Vaggie had embraced in her life. Carmilla was a virtual stranger, barely an ally, and yet. . .

In some emotional, enigmatic way, it felt the way Vaggie had always imagined a hug from her maker would feel. There was a warmth in it, a sense of safety that made her want to curl up under wings Carmilla didn’t have. She found herself pressing closer, burying her face in Carmilla’s robe. A choked sound escaped her, and a single tear dampened the purple silk.

“Shh. Lo siento. Estoy aquí. Lo muy siento.” Carmilla lifted a hand to stroke Vaggie’s hair. That felt better, felt worse, made Vaggie cry harder.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed in Carmilla’s office. Not once did Carmilla attempt to kick her out. She even let Vaggie finish her whiskey.

Vaggie instinctively knew she’d hit the blackout stage when the second hug happened, this time at her request. To Carmilla’s credit, she didn’t cringe when Vaggie mopped her damp eye and runny nose on her fine silk robe.

Charlie arrived. Vaggie heard her before she saw her. She made a break for the window, since she was in even worse shape than she’d been in the hotel and wasn’t ready to face Charlie, but she didn’t get far. Carmilla put a stop to the escape and half-dragged, half-carried her out of the office, taking advantage of how completely shitfaced she was. She handed her over to Charlie, who in turn brought Vaggie outside to where the limo was waiting.

Vaggie’s feet felt like lead weights, and her head swam. Her vision warped, shifting in and out of darkness. She couldn’t recall if she’d ever drunk so much in her life.

“Vaggie, what were you thinking?” Charlie groaned.

Vaggie couldn’t remember what she’d been thinking. She didn’t know what she was thinking now. She was barely even aware that she was laying down on the seat with her head in Charlie’s lap, Charlie's hands in her hair.

“It’s not fair,” she moaned, hiding her face against Charlie’s legs.

“What?”

Heaven. Her maker. How come she had to get the shitty one? How come hers had to be mortal and dying? Why couldn’t she have been made by someone else? Anyone else? Why not Mendrion? Why not Carmilla?

Why couldn’t she just not care? Why did she have to feel anything at all? It was agony, such agony.

She didn’t know how to say all of that, so she mumbled, “Everything.”

Charlie petted her hair, consoled her, but Vaggie didn’t hear any of it.

“No one can make you do anything.”

“If that was true, you wouldn’t exist.”

In her heart of hearts, a part of Vaggie wished it had been true. Everyone would be better off, she thought. Cynthaeis could age to death in peace, having sacrificed her immortality for offspring she actually gave a shit about, and Vaggie would never have had to know the unending agony of living, breathing, feeling.

But then, she never would’ve found Charlie.

That was her last coherent thought before she passed out with her ashlehren’s hands stroking her hair, the limo rocking her to sleep, and the high, clear voice that she loved so dearly singing her a lullaby, singing her off into oblivion.