Chapter Text
Lute awakens from a familiar nightmare with a pain in her shoulders that she knows won’t go away anytime soon. She doesn’t know how long she lays there in the dark, staring at the wall and running through her memories again and again, trying to make sure that everything happened the way she thinks it did. She doesn’t acknowledge the world around her until the first rays of light bleed in through her open window. That is when she sits up, wincing with the movement, and gingerly shifts her legs over the side of her bed to lay her bare feet against the soft red carpet.
Her dresser is a looming figure in the dull light of the early day. Lute stares at it blankly, weighing the pros and cons of getting dressed. In the end, the risk of someone seeing her feels less pressing than the discomfort that would come from attempting to get dressed. She cannot deny that she is disappointed in herself when she leaves her bedroom, but failing to get dressed first thing in the morning is the least of her reasons to feel such a way.
The hotel is silent at the crack of dawn. It is one of the only hours when it is silent. Lute tries to focus on that quiet, to summon up some sense of peace while she can. Right now, there is no need for her to seclude herself in her room. She does not need to carefully change her paths to avoid running into someone she’d rather avoid. For a precious hour or two, the whole place is hers to explore.
There is nowhere that she wishes to see.
Nimble footsteps bring her into the kitchen. She is unsurprised to see that it’s empty, but no less relieved for the predictability. Walking down a few hallways is a pitifully low amount of exertion, and yet it has left her feeling that she has run a marathon. Gingerly, she pulls back one of the chairs sitting at the table and sits down. She does not need to linger for long, only long enough to pull herself together. As long as she has left before an hour has passed, she won’t have to see—
“Hey.”
Lute closes her eyes and exhales heavily. Her lips twitch as if to smile, but she can’t quite manage the gesture. “Hey,” she softly returns.
She opens her eyes to find Adam lingering in the kitchen entryway. His reptilian gold eyes meet hers for a bare second before flicking to the side. His cloven hooves shuffle slightly as he shifts from side to side, drawing his wings in closer and lifting a clawed hand to scratch at the red scales on his cheek, before shifting to rub the back of his head, right behind one of his curved black horns.
“You’re up early,” he says.
“I always wake up early,” Lute says. “I’m surprised to see you up before noon.”
“Yeah, well.” Adam crosses his arms over his chest, glances at her for a second, and promptly looks away again. “Charlie doesn’t let that shit fly here.”
Lute frowns. She refrains from outright calling him a liar, just as she has found herself holding back from saying most of the things that she’d like to say to him. However, she does not keep the disbelief from her tone as she asks, “The Princess makes you wake up early.”
“For her activities and shit, yeah.”
“I haven’t seen an activity that started before nine in the morning.”
“I thought that you didn’t care about that shit.”
Lute looks down at the table.
A fresh spasm of pain runs through her back the instant that she does. Even knowing that it is unlikely that Adam will see her face, she fights back the wince that threatens to overtake her features.
“I don’t,” she dully says.
“Then how the fuck would you know what time the activities are?”
“Because I’m observant and you idiots are loud.”
“Oh.”
Lute’s shoulders tense uncontrollably. She clenches her jaw and fights back the hiss of pain.
A soft tap echoes throughout the kitchen as a hoof steps onto the linoleum tiles. “Hey, are you—”
“It’s the crack of dawn, Adam,” Lute says, snapping her head back up to stare him down.
Adam freezes, then takes a step back. “Okay, so?”
“Why are you awake?”
“Fuck, I don’t know, I can’t sleep sometimes. Why the fuck are you up?”
“I already told you—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ve been waking up early since you were in diapers. Why are you up now? You should be r—”
“What on earth are you two doing?”
Lute and Adam freeze up at the same instant. She watches Adam wince and shift off to the side before turning her attention to the disgruntled angel standing in the doorway.
Vaggie looks between the two of them with tired, disgruntled eyes. Her wings and hair are disheveled enough to make her look more like a mop than an angelic being. After a few moments, the weight of her accusatory gaze falls on Adam.
Adam narrows his eyes at her. The spaded tip of his tail flicks behind him. Lute thinks that it’s a sign of agitation, but with how subtle it is, she doubts that there is any true anger behind it.
The thought crosses Lute’s head, only to be followed by a wave of disgust and shame for even trying to interpret the meaning behind body language that should not be there at all. She wretches her gaze away from Adam’s tail, and Adam himself, to look down at the table once more.
It is harder to ignore the pain when she isn’t looking at him. Eventually, it will fade away again. After a while, she will be able to go through her day as if everything is normal, or as close to normal as she can get under such wretched circumstances. For now, she clenches her fists beneath the table and prays to God that Adam’s obliviousness holds true for a little while longer.
Meanwhile, Adam says, “There is no fucking way that we were loud enough to wake you up.”
“That doesn’t mean that I want to deal with your bullshit at this time of the morning,” Vaggie growls.
“Oh, come the fuck on, Vags, I wasn’t—”
“You were arguing with Lute. At the crack of dawn. Cut it out.”
Lute squeezes her eyes shut.
“Actually, you were being a rude bitch and interrupting our conversation at the crack of dawn.”
“Why are you even awake right now?”
“Why the fuck is everyone on me about that today? Sometimes I sleep in, sometimes I fucking don’t. It’s not—”
Lute’s shoulders seize. Her fists clench so tightly that her nails bite into the palm of her flesh hand and her prosthetic whines slightly. Despite her best attempts, she cannot prevent the slight hiss that forces its way past her teeth.
“Adam. Out. Now.”
“Um, fuck you? You aren’t queen of the castle, bitch. You can’t just—”
Footsteps stomp across the floor. A drawer rips open. Lute peels open bleary eyes to find Vaggie brandishing a spatula at a disbelieving Adam.
“What, are you going to beat me to death with a fucking spatula!?” he asks, gesturing at the offending utensil.
“Are you going to test your luck?” Vaggie demands, waving the spatula at him threateningly.
“Here I thought you’d decided that you weren’t going to kill me.”
“I could still change my mind. It depends on how much of a stubborn bastard you are.”
“No, for real, what the fuck did I do now? I thought we were past—”
“Adam,” Lute cuts in, fighting to keep the tremor out of her voice. “At least wait until the sun is up to pick a stupid fight.”
She doesn’t allow himself to look at him. Nonetheless, she can feel the way his gaze bores into her. She can hear the precise moment that the wretched realization overtakes him in the way he says, “Sure, whatever. Find me when you’re done being a raging bitch, Vagasaurus.”
No one moves until Adam has left the kitchen. Then Vaggie walks over to Lute’s side and wraps her arms around her shoulders, gently easing her to her feet with a quiet, “Come on.”
Through gritted teeth, Lute manages to grind out, “I don’t—”
“Don’t even try it,” Vaggie interrupts. “I know how it feels, remember?”
Of course she remembers. She hasn’t been able to forget it no matter how much she tries. It’s all that she can do to keep it from flooding her mind every time she sees Vaggie. In theory, there may be some degree of refuge in her refusal to say as much, but in practice, she is certain that the other angel knows it, as well.
She wonders if the karma is sweet for Vaggie.
She wonders if she is kind enough not to glean any satisfaction from her suffering.
She wonders which would be harder to live with, should she ever get confirmation. For what little peace of mind that she still has, she hopes that she never does.
Lute feels some small degree of relief when Vaggie leads her into the bathroom. It does not erase the blow to what little remains of her ego, but not being brought into the infirmary makes the damage a little less devastating. Granted, that could just be practicality on Vaggie’s part. They both know that there is nothing that can truly be done by this point. There is no real point in trying to ease the pain, for it is just that, pain that is unable to deal any real harm. It is nothing more than a reminder of the damage that has already been done, something for Lute to power through and ignore until the day comes that she forgets about it entirely.
And if that day never comes, she can at least reach a point where others assume that it has.
But that day has not come yet, and she knows better than to think that she can escape Vaggie’s ministrations now that she has noticed her discomfort. The most that she can do is shrug out of her grasp when they enter the bathroom, close the toilet lid, and sit down in a series of stiff, uncomfortable movements.
Vaggie eyes her for a few moments before turning to the mirror. Lute watches as she pulls it open to reveal a cabinet with rows of medication, only to look toward the bathtub as she starts rummaging through it.
This is a small bathroom for a building the size of the Hazbin Hotel. Surely, it is not the most well-stocked. Which means that Vaggie brought her here due to its location. The realization is one that brings a bitter taste to her mouth, but it is not worth dwelling on, just like most aspects of her life these days.
“How bad is the pain now?” Vaggie asks.
Lute instinctively moves to shrug. The gesture is aborted by a fresh stab of pain from her shoulders, drawing another hiss and grimace from her.
“Bad,” Vaggie surmises.
“It’s average,” Lute corrects. She means to be firm, but there is no effort she can possibly make that would keep the pained croak out of her voice.
“Lute, it’s only been three weeks. You don’t need to pretend.”
Lute’s eyes drop to her hands. She flexes her angelic steel hand and wonders, idly, if it would have been taken from her too if the opportunity had arisen.
Most likely. If she was not allowed to keep her halo, she would not have been allowed to keep anything else from Heaven. She should count the fact that she currently has her prosthetic as a stroke of luck, then. She should be grateful.
There are so many things that she should be grateful for, and every single one of them makes her want to laugh until she sobs.
“It’s average for this point in my recovery,” she says.
Vaggie heaves a heavy sigh. Lute hears the clink of a bottle of pills, followed by the sound of the mirror closing.
“I wish I could ask you on a scale of one to ten,” Vaggie mutters.
“Five,” Lute says.
Vaggie snorts. “Yeah. That’s why we aren’t using that scale.”
The faucet turns on. Water runs. The faucet turns off. Vaggie steps into her line of vision to press a cup of water into one hand and a pair of pills into the other.
Lute stares down at them, making a weak attempt to remember exactly what they are, before giving up, popping them into her mouth, and swallowing them down.
Vaggie sits down on the edge of the bathtub with a sigh. Her wings are drawn in close to her back. That has been their default position over the past three weeks. Or at least, it has been whenever Lute is looking.
Now, she looks away. She tries not to acknowledge the feeling of Vaggie’s eye boring into her as she says, “I wish you’d tell someone when you’re in pain.”
“I don’t need to tell anyone,” Lute murmurs. “I won’t make any difference.”
“You don’t need to let yourself hurt.”
“I’m fine with the pain.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
Lute presses her lips together, but doesn’t respond.
Vaggie stands up and reaches out to take her arm. “Come on,” she murmurs, pulling her to her feet. “Those pills will make you tired.”
“I can make it back to my room.”
“Your room is where everyone will expect you to be.”
Lute wrinkles her nose and lets a note of venom slip into her voice when she says, “None of your sinners are stupid enough to pester me.”
She pretends not to see the wary judgment in how Vaggie looks at her. She pretends that it still doesn’t matter, that it still doesn’t have a place.
“One of them is,” she says. “The idiot’s worried now.”
“Adam doesn’t count,” Lute mutters.
Now, there is no ignoring the way that Vaggie is looking at her. Her stomach roils, but she still finds the willpower to meet her gaze, daring her to say what she is thinking. Begging her not to.
In the end, Vaggie is the one to look away. “Fine,” she says. “But do you really want to deal with him right now?”
Lute looks away, idly taking in the pale pink wallpaper of the hallway that Vaggie is leading her down.
“Didn’t think so,” she says. “Come on. Charlie should be up by now. You can rest in our room until you’re feeling better.”
Lute’s lips twist down in a scowl. “I don’t want to deal with your—”
Vaggie’s grip on her shoulder tightens slightly.
Lute bites her tongue and reluctantly corrects, “I don’t want to deal with the Princess either.”
“Charlie won’t bother you,” Vaggie says in a firm way that she knows means that she won’t let the demon pester her.
They don’t speak for the rest of the walk. It’s a short one; Vaggie’s room is only a few doors down from the bathroom she brought her too. It takes a long time though, and as much as she would like to pretend, Lute knows that only one of them is to blame for it.
Charlie Morningstar is combing out her hair in front of her vanity when they enter the room. She is already fully dressed and seemingly lost in thought. She snaps out of it the second she spots them, jumping to her feet with a cry of, “Lute! Are you—”
“She’s fine,” Vaggie says, holding up her free hand. “She just needs to rest for a bit, if that’s okay.”
“Of course!” the demon princess exclaims as Lute gently pulls herself out of Vaggie’s grap and sits down on the edge of the bed. She can already feel the effects of the pills, easing the pain in her back and making her body heavier in the same instant.
“Thanks,” she mutters.
In the corner of her eyes, she sees Vaggie and her demon whispering together. She can’t bring herself to care enough to wonder what they’re saying, let alone watch. She pulls her legs onto the bed and awkwardly shimmies under the covers.
Before she can make herself comfortable, the demon says, “You know, Lute… We have a few activities planned for later today. You’re welcome to join, if you’re feeling up for it.”
Lute turns her head over to face the demon. She finds her eyes unable to focus, but she still catches the hopeful look on her face. It fades when she asks, “Has associating with the sinners become a requirement for me saying here?”
“No, but—”
“Then no.”
Lute turns away and onto her side.
“…Okay,” the demon quietly says. “Sleep well. I hope you feel better.”
Two sets of footsteps move away from the bed. The lights turn off. The door closes.
Lute falls asleep, and for once, it is dreamless.
*
Lute wakes up with a foggy head and a back that is mostly void of pain. It isn’t perfect, but it’s enough for her to function. She stands up, exits the Princesses’ room, and creeps down the hallway as quietly as she can. She can hear voices rising up from the lobby, but they are far enough to provide her with some sense of security. With any luck, they will be too caught up in their own nonsense to spare any thought to her.
Her room is untouched when she returns to it. It always is, but she takes a moment to survey nonetheless. For all of her crippling flaws, the Princess seems like an honest enough abomination. Thus far, she has made good on her promise to keep the unholy cockroach that she calls a maid out of her bedroom. Even so, Lute refuses to let her diligence drop and run the risk of one day being caught off guard.
Once she is content that everything is as it should be, she makes her way over to her dresser. Getting dressed is always a slower affair than it ought to be these days. She knows from experience that she can get ready at her former speed if she pushes herself, but that same experience has taught her that to do so is to guarantee back pain.
Sometimes, she allows herself to hope that it will eventually go away and she will one day be able to perform effectively the same functions that she used to, albeit with one glaring difference.
Most of the time, she tries not to think about it at all.
She never even considers asking Vaggie.
At least there is no real reason for her to try to move quickly. She doesn’t even know if she is going to leave her room, let alone allow herself to interact with any of the other residents of the hotel. Getting dressed is nothing more than one of the last pieces of normalcy that she cannot bring herself to give up on, an attempt to establish some semblance of routine amidst the ruins of her life. As long as she is still getting dressed and putting on the front of a functional individual, she cannot say that she has devolved into an entirely shameful mess.
But it all becomes empty posturing if she never leaves her room.
It is with a distinct sense of defeat that Lute resigns herself to going outside. Not beyond the hotel’s grounds, of course. It is unlikely that she will even venture beyond the back doors and into the wasteland that Vaggie swears the Princess is going to force into the shape of a garden. But weary feet do carry her out the door and down the hall, toward the sound of raucous voices echoing down from the lobby.
She makes it to the staircase when she decides that she has gone far enough. From her vantage point, Lute can see down into the lobby, but it does not seem that any of them have noticed her. More importantly, she can hear them, but is not at risk of being pulled into any sort of conversation.
There is a little stool pressed up against the wall, a few feet away from the banister. Lute sits down on it, flesh hand running idly over the red and gold print, and peers down into the lobby.
The Princess has her crew of idiots assembled. The radio demon is nowhere in sight, nor is the thing that killed Adam, but the rest are there. Adam sits closest to the Princess, in a sight that makes Lute’s upper lip curl in distaste. It is quelled somewhat by the fact that it is Vaggie who he is speaking to. Unfortunately, the porn star demon seems very interested in their conversation; far more than the Princess, who is chattering away in some animated nonsense that Lute can’t bring herself to even try to listen to. The King of Hell seems absorbed in her daughter’s ramblings though. The remaining two sinners, a feline abomination and a cyclops woman dressed like a whore, aren’t even bothering to pay attention, the former reading a book and the latter scrolling idly through her phone.
They are sitting in a loose semi-circle on the floor with papers and writing utensils spread out between them. It is immediately apparent that no work is getting done. They aren’t talking about anything important either; Lute hears a few names that she doesn’t recognize, mentions of incidents that no one told her about. It’s enough to have her considering whether it might be worth walking away within minutes of sitting down.
Then the porn demon says, “Y’know, Adam, I haven’t seen your girl around much.”
“Good fucking riddance,” the slut-looking demon mutters with a scoff.
Disgust coils in Lute’s stomach upon hearing the sinners refer to her so casually.
It is nothing compared to the way that her heart drops when Adam pulls his leathery wings in close to his back, tail wrapping around his crossed legs, looks up at the ceiling, and mutters, “She’s not my girl, you fuck wit.”
“…Oh,” the porn star demon says. “Sorry, I just assumed—”
“Well, don’t make fucking assumptions,” Adam snaps.
“It’s not an assumption,” Lute whispers, so quiet that she can barely even hear herself. But it isn’t an assumption, she is his. They may have been temporarily separated by his death, but they never officially parted ways. They aren’t over.
…Are they?
“Sorry,” the pornstar demon says, looking down at his lap. “That’s, uh, rough.”
“It’s Hell,” Adam flatly says, “Shit’s supposed to be rough.”
“Well, I mean, it doesn’t have to be!” the Princess interrupts, apparently jerked out of her nonsense by the tense silence that’s filled the air. “We have all sorts of fun things to do like—”
“Drink,” the cat demon mutters, summoning snickers from the assembled group.
“Draw. Or draw about our feelings! Or talk about our feelings! Like—”
“What the fuck’s going on with you three?” the one-eyed sinner asks, lowering her phone into her lap to gesture between Adam and Vaggie.
There’s another shift amongst the group. The Princess whispers something softly to herself. Adam half-mantles his wings, clawed hands twitching against his knees. He doesn’t quite glare at the whore, but he can’t bring himself to look at him either. The King of Hell glances toward the bannister, but he looks away before any true worry can break through the tumult of emotions already twisting within Lute.
It is Vaggie who takes it upon herself to ask. Her eye narrows dangerously as she asks, “What do you mean?”
The cyclops either doesn’t get her warning or is stupid enough that she doesn’t care. “Come the hell on,” she says, slapping her knee. “Things have been tense after since the head bitch got herself plucked and stuck here. When are you going to tell us what your deal is?”
“There is no deal,” Adam says.
“Yeah, and we’re all stupid,” the cyclops says with a snort.
“Maybe we, uh, shouldn’t be talking about this?” the King of Hell interjects, pitifully anxious for what is supposed to be one of the strongest beings in the universe.
“Right, because it’s none of your business,” Vaggie growls. Her own wings are starting to spread now, whereas Adam has tucked his own in tight once more.
“But it kinda is?” the porn demon interjects. “No offense, but you guys haven’t been doing a good job of keeping your melodrama quiet, and the rest of us are getting, y’know, worried?”
“There’s nothing to fucking worry about,” Adam spits, a little too fast and venomous to be convincing. It earns him a concerned glance from the Princess and King alike.
Even so, the Princess swallows down her worry to gently say, “Angel, Cherri, if they can’t want to talk about it, they don’t have to.”
“So what, are we supposed to just guess what’s going on!?” the cyclops exclaims, throwing her hands in the air.
“Yes,” Vaggie spits.
The porn demon sits up straighter and clasps all four of his hands in front of himself. “Alright, here’s what I think is going on.”
Lute freezes.
Vaggie scrambles to her feet to point at the demon and snarl, “Angel Dust, don’t you fucking dare—”
The porn demon points at Vaggie. “You and Miss Murder used to be close, but then she dropped you for him—” he points at Adam “—but then he got his ass kicked down to Hell, and you and him figured your shit out. But now that your mutual ex is down here too, you’re pissed at him ‘cause you feel betrayed all over again, and she hasn’t figured her shit out with either of you.”
Vaggie lunges at the porn demon with a screech. He stands up and scrambles out of the way, attempting to hide behind the King of Hell, who rises to his feet and scurries out of the room.
The Princess jumps to her feet and starts waving her hands urgently. “Guys, if we could all just drop it—”
“How’d I do?” the porn demon shouts, dragging the cat demon to his feet to try and use him as a living shield. The thing gives him a disgruntled glare, but goes along with it.
Adam braces his hands against the floor and leans back to look at the ceiling, all of the fight and anger draining out of him as he says, “Pretty spot on, honestly. But you missed the part where they fucking hated me and—”
Lute is on the verge of launching herself over the banister to shut Adam up when Vaggie drops her pursuit of the porn demon in favor of turning on him and snarling, “Don’t you fucking tell him!”
“Nah, that’s fine,” the porn says, releasing the cat and stepping forward again. “I don’t need the full story. What I’m wondering is if you’re going to start trying to kill each other again, ‘cause I think I speak for everyone when I say that we can’t go back to that shit.”
Lute’s shoulders tense even though she doesn’t know that she has any real reason to be emotionally invested in this — just like she’s not sure that she has any valid reason for the lump the has been lingering in her throat ever since that comment. In an attempt to ward off the oncoming pain, she forcibly relaxes them the second she catches the motion. She is only partially successful, but the dull ache that starts up is minor enough that she can largely ignore it.
“We’ll be fine as long as he behaves himself,” Vaggie flatly says.
“Oh, sure, if the Almighty Dickmaster here backslides, I’ll take him out back and shoot him myself,” the porn demon says.
“Well fuck you too,” Adam mutters. “And I told you to stop fucking calling me that!”
The porn demon snorts. “Buddy, the day I let you live that down is the day we’re both double-dead. But that’s not what we’re talking about right now.” Turning back to Vaggie, he says, “‘Cause you see, Adam might have a sexy, sexy history of egomania, but he’s not the one I’m worried about right now.”
Vaggie crosses her arms over her chest and growls, “Excuse me?”
The porn demon crosses his arms in turn. “You heard me,” he says. “Have you got your shit together, or do you need emergency therapy time?”
“You can’t call emergency therapy time,” Vaggie sputters.
“Okay, but…” The Princess steps forward to rest a hand on Vaggie’s shoulder. “Do you?”
Vaggie makes a noise that could almost be a response, but ultimately closes her mouth, looks away, and mutters, “I’m not talking about this right now.”
The Princess looks like she wants to argue, but a glance around the room and all the people watching them sees her biting it back. “Okay,” she gently says. “But we’ll talk about it later?”
“Fine.” Vaggie looks at Adam then, purses her lips together, and says, “I don’t have any problem with you.”
“Sure, I believe you,” Adam drily says, not looking away from the spot on the ceiling that he apparently finds so interesting.
“I don’t!” Vaggie insists, tugging her shoulder out of her demon’s grip to take a step forward. “It’s just—”
“Yeah, I know.” Adam looks forward and sits up with a heavy sigh. “I get it okay? Don’t get your panties in a twist. Just, fucking…” He waves his hand dismissively. “If you need to be a raging cunt for a while, don’t get all twisted up about it. I get it.” He stands up to shoot a glare around the room. “Now can we stop fucking talking about this?”
“Yes!” the Princess exclaims, stepping into the center of the room and clapping her hands in a feeble attempt to draw attention back to her. “We have work to do! So I was thinking that, since we’ve all made so much progress, we could…”
Lute tunes out the demon’s rambling. She doesn’t know if it’s an intentional choice or she is simply unable to hear her above the pounding of her heart and the twisting of her insides. She stands up on shaky legs, one hand pressed against the wall to steady herself.
Even before she takes a step forward, she knows it’s a bad idea.
It doesn’t stop her.
A gentle hand catches her arm before she can stumble. Lute tenses up, but doesn’t pull her arm away.
“You okay?” the King of Hell asks.
“Fine,” Lute mutters, glancing toward him.
She can only take in his soft, concerned, almost angelic look of worry for an instant before she has to look away.
“I’m sorry,” he says, in the tender, regretful tones of someone who means it. “I shouldn’t have let them talk about that stuff.”
“You knew that I was there, then,” Lute says, pulling her arm out of his grasp and taking a step to the side.
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think that anyone else did.” He pauses for a moment before correcting, “I know they didn’t. If they did, they wouldn’t have talked about—”
“Yeah. I figured.”
The minutes tick by. No one moves, but no one say anything, either. Lute seriously considers leaving, but is stopped by the knowledge that it is the King of Hell who she is speaking to. He could probably go over his daughter’s head and kick her out of the hotel if he wants to. He could do far, far worse.
He is the one who put Adam in the position to become what he is now.
He is looking at Lute like she is someone who matters, like he cares if she lives or dies. He has, from what she has seen, reliably looked at Adam the same way.
Lute will probably be allowed to leave if she asks to be excused.
Before she can get the chance to do so, the King of Hell takes a shuffling step closer and quietly says, “They’re worried about you, you know.”
Lute does not want to look at him. She does not want to feel the way it will make it that much harder to think, to breathe, to cast what illusion of strength that she is still capable of. For the sake of proving her point, she forces herself to meet his red eyes, which glow far more softly than such a disgusting shade should be capable of, and says, “They shouldn’t be.”
The demon king’s lips twitch ever so slightly. She can tell at a glance that there is no mirth behind the gesture, but something far more aching. “I know the feeling.”
He looks off the banister, toward where the group is gathered in the lobby. Lute follows his gaze, but can only look at Adam for a few seconds before an array of unwanted feelings threaten to rear their ugly heads once again.
“They’re worried because they care,” the King says.
“They’re tearing themselves apart because they care, from the sound of it,” Lute bitterly says.
“They have a lot of history to work through.”
“They’ve had over a year.”
“Yeah, well, it’s hard when a third of that history is somewhere that’s impossible to reach.” There’s a pause. Lute pulls her flesh arm in close to her side and wraps her prosthetic hand around her wrist. The bite of metal digging into skin claws at the surface of her mind while the King says, “It’s harder when you keep yourself unreachable.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lute flatly says. “I’m right here. They see me every day.”
And they will continue to do so for the rest of eternity, unless the Princess kicks her out, or Vaggie realizes how little sense her actions make, or Adam—
It could have been a comment to get the sinners off his back.
Or maybe seeing the exorcists and exterminations from the other side has changed things in a way that there is no coming back from.
“I think you do,” the King of Hell says.
Lute shakes her head. “Pardon me, your majesty, but I’m tired. May I be excused?”
“You know, sometimes going on a walk helps more than sleeping. Or talking to someone, or—”
“My shoulders are starting to hurt.”
It’s not strictly a lie. More importantly, it makes the King shut up with a quiet, “Oh.” A second later, he asks, “Do you need help getting to your room?”
Lute shakes her head. “I can walk that far. Thank you.”
With that, she turns to walk away.
The King of Hell does not follow her. But he does call out, “You know, you aren’t the only one who’s been through this. If you ever need someone to talk to — someone without history — you know where to find me.”
“Thanks,” Lute reluctantly murmurs.
She will not be taking him up on the offer.
*
The extermination flies by in a haze of adrenaline and bloodshed. Lute look at the face of every sinner she cuts down, but at some point, they all bleed together into the same pitiful, pleading, terrified expression. With her lieutenant at her heels, she cuts a bloody swathe through Hell unlike ever before. Only a few hours in, she is certain that she has broken her record twice over.
It doesn’t matter. She is coated in filthy red blood and surrounded by the screams of the damned, but it brings her no satisfaction. The hotel is under siege, its members scattered to the wind, but it doesn’t do a thing to mend the hole in her heart. She is yet to find any of the demons responsible for his death, and the more the night drags on, the more certain she becomes. Even if she is able to kill the Princess of Hell and the traitor who tore apart her eternity, it won’t do a think to make her feel better. She could raze all of Hell and it still won’t matter, because it won’t bring back—
“Adam?”
One minute, Lute is on a rampage unlike anything that she has experienced in her existence. The next, time is standing still. She swooped down on the sinner like she would any other. She backed him against an alley wall with her sword clenched tightly in her fist. Then he looked up at her with those eyes, and they’re a reptilian horror show, but the color is the same, and—
The sinner smiles sadly. It is resigned, it is broken, and somehow, impossibly, it is happy to see her. “Hey, Dangertits,” he whispers.
Lute stares. She stares at the demon before her, closer in appearance to a hellborn than a sinner. She takes in the bright red scales covering his body, the leathery wings, the claws and horns and everything else that marks him as infernal. But she keeps coming back to his eyes, to his voice, to the way he’s looking at her. In an instant, she knows that if she tries to kill him, he will not do a thing to try to fight back.
If she runs her sword through his heart, he will stand there and accept it without assigning her any blame for her actions.
He is a sinner.
She was made to kill sinners.
If she kills him, he will die like a sinner.
If she kills him, he will be gone forever. And he won’t even blame her for it.
Lute does not choose to stand down. When she lowers her arm, it is an instinct, something that she could not fight even if she tries. And she does not want to try. It is all that she can do to fight the tears threatening to build in her eyes, to hold back the waver in her voice as she breathes, “What happened?”
Adam’s voice cracks with the words, “Would you believe me if I told you that Charlie might be right?”
“No,” Lute says shaking her head. “That can’t be.”
“Eye for an eyes, right?” Adam’s smile shifts into something bitter. It would be almost laughing if not for the glint of agony in his eyes. “I must have been doing something wrong.”
“No,” Lute repeats, shaking her head more fiercely. “No! This must have been some sort of mistake! We can talk to Sera and—”
“Charlie’s already tried that,” Adam softly says. “Lute, they aren’t going to make an exception for me or any other sinner.”
Lute’s grip on her sword weakens. It’s on the verge of falling from her fingers as she spits out, “You aren’t a sinner.”
Adam shakes his head. “Come on, babe, denial’s not a good look on you.”
“It’s not denial, it’s—”
“You trying to cheat your way out of making a choice?” Adam clicks his tongue and spreads his arms out wide, wings shifting behind him slightly. “Come on, Dangertits, time to make up your mind. Are you gonna do your job or are you gonna hear me out?”
“Shut your mouth!” Lute spits. “You don’t get to come back from the dead and just—”
“Step aside, Commander,” a soft, cold voice cuts in.
Adam freezes. Slowly, he lowers his arms down to his sides. His warped eyes flick over Lute’s shoulder, toward the figure that they’ve both forgotten about as they drown in their own little world.
Lute does not want to turn around. She does not want to acknowledge the tingle of dread running up her spine or the whispers of warning in the back of her mind. She will not heed the memory attempting to creep up on her. Right then, she wants nothing more than to take Adam and run far, far away, to a place where no one can touch them, see them, judge them.
What she wants does not change the fact that she is the Head Exorcist. But because she is Head Exorcist, she does not have anything to fear. The authority of Heaven is hers to wield. There are none who can touch her, and they have no reason to even wish to do so, for she has done nothing wrong.
She has done nothing wrong.
It’s just Adam.
She is a loyal, dutiful exorcist.
She has no reason to fear.
Lute turns to face her lieutenant with her head held high. Even with her mask blocking her face, she can sense the anticipation that wafts off of Anastasia. Her fingers tighten around her scythe, which she sways back and forth ever so slightly.
She is no danger. She has no authority over her. She is one of her best girls, but she is ultimately the lesser exorcist. There is nothing to fear.
“What do you need, Lieutenant?” Lute asks frostily.
“It looks like you could use some help,” Anastasia sweetly says. “Step aside, I will dispose of the sinner for you.” She takes a step forward.
Lute spreads her wings out wide and steps to the side so that she blocks Adam.
Anastasia pauses and tilts her head to the side. “What are you doing, ma’am?”
“It’s none of your concern,” Lute says. “Continue the extermination elsewhere. I can handle this.”
“Really? Because…” Anastasia draws her scythe closer to herself, running her finger along the edge of the silver blade. Anticipation morphs into hunger as she says, “It looks like you’re going to spare that sinner.”
“Adam is an exception,” Lute stiffly says. “He will not be subject to the rules of Hell. Withdraw, Anastasia. That is an order.”
“There are no exceptions, Commander. You of all people should know that.” Anastasia continues forward. She shifts her scythe into a combat position, and without thinking, Lute raises her sword.
“Ooh,” Anastasia purrs. “Is this what I think it is?”
Lute hears footsteps behind her. “Lute—”
“Adam. Run,” she stiffly growls.
“Adam, if you care about your former lieutenant, stay where you are,” Anastasia trills.
“You rancid bitch,” Lute snarls. “This is your final warning—”
Anastasia laughs. “No, this is yours. Kill the sinner now, or it will be my authority as lieutenant and acting Head Exorcist to activate the treason protocol.”
A claws hand reaches out to grab Lute’s shoulder. “Lute, fucking don’t,” Adam hisses.
Lute doesn’t think. She doesn’t question actions. She cannot feel any fear for herself past the sheer terror that floods through her when Adam tries to shove past her. In the blink of an eye, she pushes him behind her again and hoists her sword into a combat position.
Anastasia is moving before she can even get that far. One of the fastest exorcists, the most bloodthirsty, the one with the most kills apart from Lute herself, she promoted her for a reason. That reason laughs in her face as she spins past her and, with a kick to her side, sends her careening toward a wall.
Lute regains her footing before she can slide more than a few feet back. That stagger is still enough to draw a delighted laugh out of Anastasia. “It’s amazing how quickly treachery can bring the strongest angels to their knees.”
Lute lunges at Anastasia with a screech. She brings her sword down on her head, only for her to bring her scythe up and catch her blade in its curve. “You’re the traitor,” she shouts, bringing the sword down with all of her force.
Anastasia’s arms tremble, but her mask remains contorted into a grin as she says, “Um, no. You should know this rule. You made it.” She twists her scythe to send the sword sliding over the edge. With a flutter of her wings, she twists a few feet into the air, and moves to swoop down on Lute.
She takes a punch to the stomach before she can land a blow.
Anastasia drops to the ground, but catches herself before she can hit the pavement. The seething hatred with which she glares at Adam it matched by the laughing mockery with which he sneers, “You were always a fucking joke, did you know that?”
“You’ve said,” Anastasia growls. “Wanna hear a better one?”
Lute takes off with a single powerful thrust of her wings. She dives down at Anastasia from above, only to find the handle of her scythe blocking the way. The traitor shoves upward in the same instant that she lunges forward, kicking Adam in the center of his chest. He flies backwards to slam into the wall with a terrible thud.
“You’re a fucking demon.”
“Adam!” Lute knows before she lands that he is unconscious, but she rushes to his side all the same. There’s horrible red blood seeping from a gash on his head, and there’s an extermination going on, and—
She barely has an instant to register the blow to her side before she’s hitting the wall beside him.
“See,” Anastasia sighs, barely audible over the ringing in her head. “This is why we don’t stop to worry about demons.”
Rough hands are ripping her helmet off and weaving through her hair before she can even think of standing up. Lute thrashes as she’s dragged backwards, but she’s slammed face-first into the cement before she can make any progress. The next thing she knows, there’s a knee pressing into her back and a hand pressing down on her shoulder.
“Let’s see, what was it that you did?” Anastasia hums.
There is no describing the way Lute’s stomach turns to ice. All that she can think is no, for more reasons than she can count, but she can’t bring herself to say a thing. She can’t do anything but thrash hopelessly until a hand grabs her halo with an exclamation of, “Got it! Won’t be needing this anymore!”
The feeling of her halo being torn away is comparable to losing her arm. There is no physical pain, but a sudden absence, a gaping nothing where there once was something as a part of her very being is torn away. Although she knows that she will hate herself for it later, Lute can’t stop herself from screaming.
The sound blends in with Anastasia’s laughter. It rings loud and clear as a sharp edge of steel presses against the edge of one of Lute’s wings.
Her voice returns to her in an instant, exploding outward in a shout of, “No! Ana, please—”
“Now, now, Commander. Did Vaggie beg?”
She cuts her wing off with one swift swipe of her scythe.
Someone screams. Someone laughs. It’s all drowned out by the feeling of the pain pulsating through her back, an agony so strong that is seems to have a sound of its own. It grows into a crescendo as that ruthless blade comes down on her other wing, permanently rendering her something far less than she should be. It happens too fast for her to think and seems to last forever at the same time. Hell and Heaven fade away, leaving only an all-consuming feeling of cold, of loss, of failure.
Anastasia manages to break throat it all by grabbing Lute’s hair and tilting her head back. Through her haze of tears, she’s able to make out the wicked smile on her face. Through the hell that is coursing through her body, she just manages to register the cold bite of angelic steel pressing against her throat.
“Don’t worry,” Anastasia breathes. “I’ve learned from your mistakes.”
Lute only has time for a single thought.
It is that she hopes that Anastasia kills Adam before he wakes up, that he doesn’t have to experience anything like this.
She only has time for one thought before they’re interrupted by a furious, “Get away from her!”
Anastasia hesitates. The scythe pulls a few centimeters back. And then the weight on her back is gone and that scythe has fallen to the ground beside her with a clatter. Anastasia’s spitting curses, and someone else is shouting back, and Lute must be hearing things, because it sounds like—
Lute can barely breath past the aching, screaming, stinging void where her wings should be. She is only able to pull herself to her knees because she has felt a worse pain once before, and no physical wound can compare to watching Adam die in her arms. She drags herself over to where he lays slumped against the ground, golden blood streaming from her back into a grotesque puddle. It practically escapes her notice as she stares at him, desperately searching for any sign of life, and movement.
She collapses the second she sees that he is breathing. Her head lolls onto his fallen form as she slumps against him in the wall, and she must be seeing things, because when she looks at Anastasia fighting for her life, she could swear that she sees…
“Vaggie?”
Then there is movement from beneath her, and—
Lute’s eyes fly open.
She stares at the ceiling. She will continue to stare at the ceiling until she pulls herself together enough to get out of bed, or at least turn the light on. Anything to keep herself from falling back asleep, to keep herself from slipping back into the memory, to make sure that she doesn’t close her eyes and see it all again.
At least she woke up when she did. If she had to remember how Adam looked at her when he saw what happened, there wouldn’t be anything she could do to shake the image.