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Emily Dagon caught sight of her reflection in the mirrored glass of the mall entrance. She smiled, showing off the prominent double canines that she’d inherited from her father. When braces became more than just an “if”, the only thing that she and her parents had agreed on was that those teeth would be saved. Instead of yanking her canines, she’d lost her second incisors. The canines had moved forward, slowly.
She looked fierce.
Dagon cultivated the word “fierce”. It was her personal adjective, her lifeview, her essence. When schoolchildren looked "fierce" up in a dictionary in the next century or so, Dagon wanted to be the accompanying illustration.
Fierce smile, metal on her teeth and headgear holding her jaw forward, sleek hair pulled back in a fishtail braid, tight corset vest, fitted pinstripe pants, fishscale-look leather jacket, sharp shades, heels as big as her catcallers wished their dicks were, and a large black handbag with brass knuckles (fully-functional, detachable, and completely illegal) for handles.
The handbag was a gift from Beelzebub. She spent her last birthday, number twenty, getting plastered with Hastur, Ligur, Crowley, and Beez at the midnight showing of Rocky. They’d spoken of many things, as the poem went. She couldn’t remember the conversation, but she could remember the feeling. All the hard edges of the world softened with the booze.
Then, everything had felt so light when Beelzebub took her hand, and they waltzed across broken blacktop.
My god, how did things get so fucked up?
Somewhat absurdly, on the lapel of her jacket, just beneath her nametag (“DAGON, LORD OF THE FILES, MASTER OF TORMENTS”), a little pin gleamed. It was also a gift from Beelzebub. A cartoon goldfish grinned in a purple party hat, and the pin boldly declared in bright yellow, “I’m 4!”
Four years, she’d been working here. Four years. Sounded like a jail sentence. High school was four years. So was college.
Well, for mere mortals like herself. Beelzebub had their first degree when they were nine or so. Crowley was the same. But their parents were messed up, and took it out on their kids.
Like more messed up than hers. And took it out on Crowley and Beelzebub way worse than her parents had ever taken their shitty lives out on her.
She nodded her approval at the fierce creature that met her gaze, then breezed into the mall.
Dagon clicked into the Hot Topic, ducking under the half open gate. The lights weren’t on yet, but Dagon could hear Beelzebub moving in the backroom.
“Hey,” she called. “I’m here.”
“Beloved,” Beelzebub said, darting out of the darkness to kiss Dagon on the cheek. “Today is going to be bloody murder.”
“Ugh. Third worst day to be in retail.”
“Someone might ask to see the manager,” they replied, brightly.
“We should only be so lucky.” Dagon opened her locker and dropped her bag and hung her jacket up. She shivered in the cold of the backroom and put her jacket back on.
“Where’s your lunch, Fishy?” Beelzebub asked from behind her.
Dagon withdrew a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. “Two for one baskets at the Fish Shack. My treat?”
“Excellent,” Beelzebub said. “We can split my cooler, then.”
“Sounds great! So...who pulled the short straw at the GAP?” Dagon asked, physically incapable of keeping the eagerness and apprehension out of her voice.
“Your ex,” Beelzebub said.
“Shit.”
Beelzebub slid an arm around Dagon’s waist. “You were right, you know, to dump her. You don’t need to be someone’s secret.”
“It’s nice to hear.”
“Oh, I think you could have been great...you’re both barracudas, both so meticulous. But...her family...” They gestured helplessly with their free hand, a soft grasp of something invisible.
Somehow, that movement managed to capture perfectly the loss of something unborn. A chick who could not break its shell, and died.
If it cannot break out of its shell, the chick will die without ever being born. We are the chick; the world is our egg. If we don't crack the world's shell, we will die without ever truly being born.
“Yeah,” Dagon agreed. “Is she still gorgeous?” She squinted through the door to the backroom, through the half-closed shutters, and into the GAP.
“Does the sun rise in the east?”
“Fuck. Why does she have to continue to be perfect?”
Beelzebub had not removed their hand from Dagon’s hip. They gave her a tight squeeze. “To tempt you, sweetling, and for no other reason.”
Four years. Four years was a sentence. Four years was high school. Or college.
Four years was a chasm. It gaped under her very high heels. It lurked between her and the Lord of the Flies. It threatened to swallow Dagon whole.
“You alright, Fishy?”
“I will be. Coffee?”
“Yes, and that’s MY treat.” Beelzebub released her and pulled their wallet out. They handed her a crisp five. “Croissants?”
“Yeah.”
They handed her another five. Then, they opened their own locker and handed her their Center Court Coffeehouse mug. “Extra honey butter for mine, please?”
“I remember. Back in a bit,” she said, opening her locker again to retrieve her own mug. “I’m going to stop by Anthony’s kiosk.”
Beelzebub smirked slightly. “Whatever gets you through the day, beloved.”
“This day. Ugh. First day of summer vacation. Fuck us.”
“It will. I have no doubt,” Beelzebub laughed. “I’m going to let you get some distance before I turn this on.”
They gestured to the switch that would turn both the lights and the music on. It was loud as Hell right outside the store, so Dagon appreciated the gesture.
She ducked the gate again, then yanked it up hard. It clicked into place, and Dagon locked it.
“Thank you,” Beelzebub piped from the backroom. They were not short, precisely. But that maneuver would have required The Hook to accomplish, if Beelzebub did it.
Dagon liked being helpful. At least, helpful to her boss.
Four years. Four years is nothing when one is twenty-four and the other is twenty.
Four years was a moral crisis when one is twenty and the other is sixteen.
Four years is a sentence.
My god, how did things get so fucked up?
Shadwell was on his Segway, with a new recruit. The recruit was impressively big, if not particularly tall. His hair, in spite of his size, was as downy and white-blond as a toddler’s.
“Morning Dagon,” Crowley called, his voice too bright to be allowed this early in the morning. The grin on his face told Dagon that he’d been up to some wickedness, probably involving Shadwell’s little lamb.
“Morning, Crowley,” she returned as she slipped past the Segways towards center court. A look back showed her that Shadwell’s new boy was certainly a DiAngelo. He had the look. “Wotcher, Shadwell. Hey, Crowley, catch you on my way back?”
Crowley waved at her, “Yeah. Sure.”
“Alright,” she said, climbing the steps up to the coffee shop that was in the middle of the fountain at center court.
Will waited at Center Court Coffeehouse. He was an aspiring playwright, and barista work paid his bills. He tended to quote Shakespeare, and recited monologues at the Renaissance Faire for some extra coin in the fall.
Spike, a fat Gothling with a stuffy demeanor (with whom Dagon maintained a nodding acquaintance), stocked the pastry display. He wore his spiked leather collar, even at work. But he made such excellent pastry that his idiosyncrasies were tolerated by management.
“All hail Dagon, Lord of the Files and Master of Torments,” Spike said pompously as Dagon clicked up to the counter.
“Ah, sweet Dagon. You have come to us on this day--the day that marks the beginning of the summer of our discontent,” Will intoned. “The usual?”
“For myself and Beelzebub, if you please.” She handed over the travel mugs.
“Most certainly.” Will began making the coffee and Spike shoved the croissants and honey butter into a clear clamshell. “And how are you both on this star-crossed Monday?”
“Ready as we can be,” Dagon said. “It’s going to be war out there.”
“Then sound trumpets! Let our bloody colors wave! And either victory, or else a grave,” Will said. “That’s six dollars and fifty pence.”
Dagon handed over the cash. Will counted out her change, and she dumped all but a dollar into the tip jar.
“We love you,” Spike said, stuffing extra honey butter in Beelzebub’s clamshell and handing both over the counter to Dagon.
“The coffee is the life,” Dagon replied. “See you two around.”
Dagon was nearly at the stairs when a burst of laughter startled her. She looked over and saw Shadwell heading for the Maison Blanche. His protégé nearly clobbered a potted plant with his Segway, corrected, and continued after the old goat. Dagon heard the music coming from Pacific Sun.
It was “Ridin’ Dirty” by Chamillionaire.
Oh, this was too good.
She stepped down, careful with the two mugs of very hot coffee and the two clamshells of croissants. “Oy, Crowley,” she called.
“Good morning, Lord Dagon.” Crowley pulled his sucker out of his face and smiled.
“Oh! Is that the Halloween wreath?” she asked, setting the coffee and the croissants down. “Lemme see. Lemme see!”
“It’s not done, not even close.” He held it up anyways. “Maybe you can get some idea of my vision, though?”
Dagon examined the orange and black ring. “Vision? Not yet, I’m afraid. But I know you aren’t one to half-ass anything. It’ll be epic.”
Crowley looked pleased with the praise. “Alright, Lord of the Files. How many?”
“Two or four. Whatever you think I need to get through this day.”
“To get through today?” He took the mug that had Dagon’s name on it, and reached under the desk. Dagon could see him pump once, twice, and then pause before he pumped another three times. “Five. If I give you more, Beelzebub will have my guts for garters.”
“Fair,” Dagon said, and handed over the last dollar that Beelzebub had given her.
“You don’t have to pay.” He handed the mug back.
“From the boss. You want me to tell them that you said no?” Dagon drank deeply. The Bailey’s tasted like heaven.
“Nope.”
“What were you teasing that boy about?”
“Oh. Y’know. Stuff.” Crowley flushed. “He likes my tongue, I think.”
“Shit, you like him! That’s news.”
“He’s pretty, alright?” Crowley went back to twisting crafting wire. “And he blushes really easy.”
“Is he one of the DiAngelos?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t have the GAP look, so he’s with Shadwell.” Crowley somehow managed to flush more. “He’s named Aziraphale.”
“Is that even a real angel?”
“There’s, like, ten million of ‘em. Bound to be an Aziraphale in there somewhere.”
“Shit, we’re opening in a few. I need to get back,” Dagon said. “I’ll see you for lunch.”
“Don’t tell Beez, okay?”
“About your angel? My lips are sealed.”
“They’d better be,” Crowley said. “I can run out of Bailey’s.”
“Please. Give him, what, a fortnight?” Dagon laughed. “You’ll find SOMETHING to hate about him.”
“That’s true. Probably.”
“Stay safe today,” she said, as she collected Beelzebub’s coffee and the croissants.
Crowley made a noncommittal sound. Dagon gave him a tight, worried grin before turning to leave.
A tall boy brushed past her, leaving as Dagon entered the Hot Topic. Beelzebub was laughing, their sweet, musical laugh. They were wearing the tricorn hat that Crowley had made for them. The one with the fluffy plume and the blinking MANAGER pin.
“Someone asked for the manager? And I missed it?” Dagon rushed to the counter and set down the coffee and croissants. “Who was he?”
“Another DiAngelo,” Beelzebub said. “Gabriel...my Heavenly counterpart, according to Milton.”
Dagon looked down and saw the blank complaint form. “I think he’ll be back.”
Beelzebub picked their coffee up and took a deep drink. “Look who it is,” they said, sotto, to Dagon. They glanced up at the door, pointedly.
The tall boy huffed into the Hot Topic. His face looked flushed, but the real surprise was the look on Beelzebub’s face. They were smirking, which was normal enough. The light flush in the apples of their cheeks, however, was not.
Gabriel hunched over the counter, wordlessly filling in the form with meticulous script. Beelzebub watched, with their usual detached curiosity. But there was something behind it.
Something dark and dangerous. Dagon had seen them play at swords enough to recognize that look. They were sizing up a potential opponent.
Their interest was an all-encompassing thing, frankly intimidating to the uninitiated. Glass blue eyes gleaming, and sweet little mouth set in a challenging smirk.
Beelzebub was beautiful in their intensity.
They chewed their lower lip as he finished the form. He handed the pen and the form to Beelzebub, who took them dutifully.
“I’ll be following up on this,” he said.
“He’s going to follow up on this,” Dagon laughed.
“So he says,” said Beelzebub.
“I will,” Gabriel said. “This is not over.”
“Of course not,” Beelzebub chuckled into their coffee. “Welcome to retail Hell, Archangel.”
Gabriel stormed right out of the Hot Topic, obviously not amused.
Dagon was, though.
She was also most of the way through her coffee. She’d drunk too much, too quickly. But the edges of the world softened in the warmth of her belly. She licked her lips.
Beelzebub put their hat away, pulled a croissant out of the clamshell, tore it in half, and buttered it. They took a bite, chewed and swallowed. Two bites later, the croissant was gone. They wiped their mouth with a napkin. Their other hand fell daintily over Dagon’s.
“Are you feeling any better, beloved?”
Dagon took their hand and kissed it. “Not one bit,” she admitted.