Stroopwafel, Sabrina decided, might just be the best thing she's ever had.

No offense to the literal magic cooking she grew up with, but the Dutch obviously knew something that none of them did. (Not that she'd ever admit it to anyone else. It was basically Spellman Family sacrilege to place Aunt Hilda's recipes second to anything in the world).

Lucifer used his Ruby's Dutch Oven app ("Funny story, it used to be called Freddy's Dutch Oven," he said through a mouthful of powdery oliebollen. "Before he went and caught a faceful of bullet in the middle of lunch service. Shame about all that ruined hagelslag, though. He really should've considered bleeding out somewhere else.") to track down the food truck which was evidently a big hit around here. Sabrina was starting to understand why. Luckily, the little restaurant-on-wheels (they only had ice cream trucks in Greendale) was right on the way to the beach so it was easy enough to make a quick stop.

"Hold on. Let me get this straight." The teenager pushed her brows together, a hand held up in midair. The other one was still clutched tightly around her second stroopwafel. "There's a goddess of all creation-"

"Your grandmother, yes."

"-and you just pushed her into a giant space hole?"

Once they were back on the road, Lucifer decided to forego the radio in favor of telling stories about his various misadventures in L.A. Sabrina was only half-listening, really; she didn't need to know about Misty Canyons and how she convinced the devil to set up shop in the City of Angels. Some parts were a bit difficult to ignore, though, especially when her father started going on weird tangents about stolen wings and miraculous detectives and celestial grandmas who apparently wanted to storm the gates of heaven with a flaming sword.

"I'd say it's less hole, more portal-to-another-universe." Lucifer looked at her through the rearview mirror. "But essentially, yes. Mum's probably crafting her own Daniel-filled earth as we speak."

Sabrina didn't even want to ask what he meant by that (just knowing her grandmother had a short-lived relationship with Detective Espinoza while possessing a dead lawyer's body was enough of a mental image to scar her for life, thanks), but a lot of questions were left teeming in her mind just the same.

She never met any of her grandparents before. Francis and Lydia Spellman were long dead by the time Edward married her mom ("Oh, it was all for the best, really." Aunt Zelda told her once when she had a family tree assignment in preschool. "Imagine, their only son betrothed to a mortal woman. Mother's heart would've given out before Diana could walk down the aisle."), and she didn't even know what her grandparents from the Sawyer side looked like. Ever since they lost to her aunts in a big, messy custody battle after the plane crash, the sisters made sure the elderly couple kept their distance. Sabrina got Christmas cards from them each year, though, which was nice.

The witch traced a finger across the soft polyester lining of her seatbelt. "What was she like? The goddess?"

She didn't have any illusions that this not-so-heavenly grandmother of hers would've liked her. God's ex-wife apparently thought that humans were just another one of her husband's disgusting pet projects, so that was already one half of Sabrina that she'd hate by default. Not that her granddaughter was particularly fond of her either. She must've been a crappy excuse for a goddess if it was so easy for the False God to weaken her powers and imprison her in hell for thousands of years.

Still, the woman (alright, not exactly a woman; disastrous deity more like) was at least partially responsible for Sabrina's existence. The teenager had a hard time believing it herself, to be honest. At six years old, shading in her first family tree with mismatched crayons, she certainly couldn't have imagined that its roots extended down to hell and crawled all the way up to high heaven. Her kindergarten teacher (who, ironically, was engaged to the local pastor) would've probably given her an F if she drew something even mildly close to it.

"Well, she calls Mac and Cheese 'cheesy noodles,' for one, so that's already a glaring red flag." At the unimpressed look Sabrina was giving him, Lucifer sighed and flexed his hands on the steering wheel. "I don't know what you want me to tell you, hellspawn. Mum was…well, Mum. Arguably the most erratic and overbearing creature in the cosmos, with a horrible taste in men to boot. I swear, if she didn't keep coming up with such bloody elaborate plans to sabotage my life, I would've thought she'd gone senile a long time ago."

The girl watched her father talk, all snide and flippant and scathing, but there was something else there, too. A faint sort of fondness in the crinkle of his eyes that made her wonder if he was actually as bothered by his mom as he let on.

"In any case, it's highly unlikely that she'll be bothering you anytime soon, so you can thank your lucky stars for that. I can only imagine all the deliciously catastrophic ways she would've screwed up grandmotherhood had she caught you here in Los Angeles."

Lucifer leaned back against his seat with an audible thud as they suddenly found themselves stopped at an intersection. To no one's surprise, his first instinct was to dig out the cigarette case from his jacket pocket, a shiny, intricate thing with silver plating. Sabrina stared at it thoughtfully. Auntie Zee had the exact same Marlboro-filled case tucked away in their hearse's glove compartment back home.

"So…not really the warm hugs and sweaters type." The teenager nodded once. It was probably for the best. An angry goddess with knitting needles just seemed like one big safety hazard, anyway. "Got it."

"No, no, Mum's plenty warm. Like a blowtorch, really." Lucifer took a slow drag of his cigarette. "Just ask that Ruiz chap with the burned head. I bet he's already churned out a few terrible rap songs about it by now."

"Isn't that guy dead?"

The devil smirked, barest hint of teeth glinting in the sunlight. "If his charred corpse is any indication, then yes. Yes, he is. That tends to happen when you wave a gun at a goddess."

Sabrina thought back to the hellfire incident at the park. Maybe the same thing could be said for waving guns at the antichrist, too.

"But, lucky for him, his music career hasn't kicked the proverbial bucket yet," Lucifer continued. "We usually let the awful musicians in hell keep with their singing and playing and general noise-making. Saves us all the trouble of having to torture their cellmates."

Sabrina raised her brows, impressed. "That's…actually pretty smart."

"Well, I'm sure Maze would be happy to hear that. She's always complaining that her ideas are underappreciated. As if getting promoted more than any other demon in the history of hell isn't enough."

Above them, the traffic light was still doing its tedious countdown from sixty. Sabrina fidgeted in her seat. She didn't like waiting. A side effect of growing up with instantaneous, world-bending magic, she supposed. But tempting as it was to just twirl a finger and watch the glaring red bulbs turn a steady green, she kept her stroopwafel-free hand firmly glued to her side.

Dr. Linda said it was good to slow things down every now and then.

"What about the False God, then?" She asked, trying to take her mind off the ticking numbers and wasted time. Aunt Hilda always told her small talk was one of the best, most harmless distractions. "What's he like?"

Considering that her grandfather's angels did try (and for a few seconds, actually succeed) to kill her, she felt like she already knew the answer to that particular question. She's always hated him anyway (as Satanic witches often did), so really, what was a chestful of arrows to keep her resentment simmering for a few centuries longer?

The traffic light was down to forty now, and she found herself wondering what Lucifer had to say. (What? She couldn't help it. Turns out he wasn't a half-bad conversationalist when he wanted to be, and his jokes were even somewhat funny – well, the ones that didn't make her do a full-body cringe, anyway. You really can't have it all.)

Lucifer scoffed, flicking off some ash out the open window. "Oh, I assure you, hellspawn, there's nothing false about your grandfather. His whole benevolent, holier-than-thou persona, maybe, but other than that, he's a very real, very colossal asshole."

Almost as if in response, the sky started to rumble. Clouds gathered into heavy clusters of grey and lightning danced in places where it really shouldn't in the heat of California daylight. Before either of them could think twice, they were suddenly caught in the middle of a very real, very colossal downpour.

(Okay, maybe Aunt Hilda was a little wrong about the whole harmless part).

"See? What did I tell you?" The club owner scowled and quickly took off his jacket, draping it over Sabrina's head in one fell swoop. She blinked at the sudden onslaught of wooly fabric and readjusted the edge so it wouldn't fall over her eyes. "That petty bastard."

Meanwhile, Lucifer was getting drenched by the second. Sabrina felt a little guilty, knowing he sacrificed his own comfort to keep her dry, so she quickly muttered a short deflection spell to stop the rain from seeping into his crisp white shirt. He probably didn't even notice the difference, though, considering how busy he was with glaring at the sky.

"I really hate to ask, but do you think you could-"

The witch already had a hand poised in mid-air. He didn't even need to say it out loud. "Yeah, I've got it."

With no more than an easy flick of the wrist, the dark clouds began to pull away, moving almost in time with the steady countdown of the traffic lights overhead.

Three.

The rain stopped.

Two.

The heavens cleared.

One.

The angry red light finally flashed green.

Lucifer caught his daughter's eye and shot her a proud look, head shaking just the slightest bit. "You truly are something else, hellspawn. You know that, right?"

Sabrina was silently grateful that the jacket he gave her was still covering the sides of her face. Otherwise, she would've had a hard time trying to explain the small grin that subconsciously worked its way up to her mouth.

She bit her lip to keep the damned thing from growing any wider.

"Will you please just drive the car?"

Over in Scotland, the weather wasn't faring much better. Prudence and Ambrose were on the move through the marshy wetlands now, having abandoned their spot at the café the moment they emptied their second pot of coffee and decided it was high time to get back on their feet. They had a lot of ground to cover and not nearly enough magic to search the whole country with the precious few days they had.

"You know, it's times like this that I really miss Sabrina." Ambrose said, frowning at the thick mud that stuck to the soles of his boots with every step he took. "She would've cleared up the sky ages ago like it was nothing."

"So your cousin is just a glorified weather machine, is that it?"

Prudence was already a few paces ahead of him, completely undeterred by the rain trailing down her cheeks and the muck coating the edges of her skirt. Even her sword was out in broad daylight now that there were no more mortals around to see.

"No, of course not. I just…" The warlock paused. "I worry about her sometimes. After everything that's happened, I don't think it's good for her to be alone in that big, desolate house. Maybe we should've just brought her along with us when we left Greendale."

The thing was, he knew Sabrina. That fussy little baby in the basket that magically showed up in their living room one day. She was tough and relentless and spirited in her own right, yes, but she could be vulnerable, too. He'd seen it himself when she went to grab his hand the time they buried (and promptly resurrected) her first bunny rabbit over a decade ago. He saw it again when he went to grab her hands as she pleaded for help in stopping the dark prophecy with a mandrake double a couple weeks back.

The thought of her with her hands suddenly empty and none of them by her side didn't sit right with him at all.

Prudence used her blade to slash at the tall grass that stood in their path.

"You're forgetting the golden rule, Spellman." She threw him a sharp look over her shoulder. "Never underestimate a woman. Least of all a witch."

"I'm not underestimating her. All I'm saying is-"

"I bet you she's sitting in that hideous restaurant right now-"

Ambrose furrowed his brows. "Dr. Cerberus's?"

"-plotting with her mortal friends on how to break Nicky out of hell. That seems like something she would do, doesn't it? She's probably kept herself so busy that she doesn't even notice you're gone."

Truth be told, Ambrose had no idea what his cousin was up to these days. He'd stopped all communication with the mortuary ever since he and Prudence began their hunt, not because he didn't miss his family (quite the contrary, actually), but because witchboards and mirror spells could easily be traced by Blackwood. Even mortal phones were being tapped by the Judas Boys, Agatha warned them before they left, so they had no other choice but to make like ghosts and drop completely off-radar.

Rallying up Harvey, Roz, and Theo to break sacred law yet again and infiltrate hell in all their non-dead mortal glory, though?

It sounded completely ridiculous. And it sounded a lot like Sabrina.

"Maybe you're right." The warlock sighed. "I hope you're right."

Because he'd take a catastrophic, world-ending Sabrina any day over one that sat sad and mopey in their home. He didn't even care about the consequences anymore. He'd been cleaning up her messes for so long that it stopped feeling like a chore a long time ago.

"Maybe?" Prudence scoffed. "I'm always right. That's the second golden rule."

Their conversation soon died down after that (as it always does once Prudence gets the last word) and they walked in relatively uneventful silence, save for the patter of rain and the distant croak of mud frogs as they splashed around in nearby puddles. It felt strangely calming, like a respite even, and Ambrose was just allowing himself to get used to it when the faint sound of snapping twigs suddenly rang through the air.

The warlock grabbed for his wand the same time Prudence spun around, sword already lifted at the ready.

"What was that?" He asked slowly, turning where he stood to survey the thick greenery that surrounded them. It was a good place to hide, he supposed. A good place to bide your time and jump out to murder two witches just when they least expect it.

The weird sister raised a finger to her lips. "Shh."

Another twig snapped, and there was a slight bristle in the tall, towering grass.

Prudence drew herself up. "Who goes there? Come out this instant!"

"Prudence, I don't think that's such a good idea…"

"Come out," the witch repeated in a tone that left no room for argument. "Right. Now."

At first, there was nothing. Just the complete utter silence of the rain and the mud frogs. Ambrose was still clutching at his wand, and Prudence at her sword, and it lasted for a few good seconds, the pair of them standing with their weapons drawn at something that was perhaps never there in the first place.

Then, just when it seemed more and more likely that maybe it was all just a vision in their paranoid, sleep-deprived heads, the grass rustled a second time. Footsteps echoed once, twice, thrice, and before they knew it, a woman was stepping out of the weeds and into the clearing, her dark hair whipping in the wind as she went.

She smiled at them (if it could even be called a smile, really), the edged, tooth-baring kind that made the warlock's hairs stand on end.

"You rang?"

Before she could move any closer, Ambrose felt for the dagger strapped to his thigh and straightened the grip on his wand. "Not another step further," the warlock warned. He nudged his chin at the newcomer. "Who are you?"

The woman was all but a shadow in the rain. She was standing tall in black leather, from the fingerless gloves on her knuckles all the way to the heeled boots that laced up to her knees. Even the weapons hanging by her fingers faded so easily into the darkness. Ambrose had never seen a stranger pair of knives in his life.

Prudence stared at her with flinty eyes. "This is the woman I was telling you about. The one watching us at the coffee shop."

"Again, not a woman." The figure smirked. "Not even human, actually."

She took another step forward and Ambrose quickly matched her stride, the tip of his dagger pressed clear against her throat in a blink of an eye.

"I told you not to move." He snarled.

The woman (whatever in the seven hells she was) only laughed and brought up her own knife to lightly trace the sides of his face. "You're a gutsy one." She hummed, nodding her head in what almost seemed like approval. "I can see why the princess likes you."

"I don't know any princesses."

"Are you sure about that, warlock?"

Ambrose was just about to ask what she meant, why she looked so smug and insouciant and frighteningly unflinching even with a blade pointed at her neck, when the sharp whoosh of Prudence sheathing back her sword suddenly caught both their attentions.

"Alright, I have had enough of this nonsense." The weird sister huffed, shifting her whole focus to the woman in black. She lifted her fingers into the air. "Abi in malem cur-"

In what seemed like a heartbeat, Prudence was flat on the ground, the woman's boot sitting square over her voicebox. Even Ambrose found himself locked in a chokehold, unable to breathe or scream or speak the simplest spell into existence.

It was a witch's worst nightmare.

"Now," the woman said, her grip only growing more and more vicelike the further they struggled. She'd already managed to kick all their weapons far out of reach, so there wasn't much else left for them to do. "Seeing as you two only have a few minutes left before you run out of oxygen, I'll cut right to the chase. I'm looking for someone. Rumor has it you're looking for him, too. So I'm thinking, why don't we just hunt for the bastard together and call it a day?"

"Are you insane?" Prudence croaked out, clawing at her assailant's leg so sharply that blood dripped from the thick, dark fabric of her jeans. Either the woman felt nothing or she was too indifferent to care about anything, because she only stomped her foot harder on the witch's throat in retaliation.

"My best friend's a therapist. I think she'd tell me if I were."

"Y-your friend," Ambrose wheezed. "Should find a new job, then."

The woman gave him a dry look. "Do you really want to spend your last breath insulting Dr. Linda Martin, the greatest psychiatrist that's ever lived?"

Ambrose didn't have an answer for that. He barely had enough air left in him to keep standing, let alone wonder who in Satan's name Dr. Linda Martin was.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." She sneered.

The woman took a good look at the two of them, the witch with her chest rising and falling heavily on the ground, the warlock with his fingers curled around the forearm that pressed tight against his neck. She did a long-suffering sigh and rolled her eyes.

"Look, I'm gonna break this down in simpler terms because you people just don't seem to understand." She shook her head. "I am a higher demon. The Devil's right hand. Hitler, Stalin, Khan, all the most ruthless asshats in history, I tortured their souls for breakfast. So when I ask you whether you want me on your side or against it…"

In one quick move, she let the both of them go, and the witches immediately scrambled to catch their breaths, panting and heaving and gasping for air.

"…you don't think twice."

Prudence pushed herself up to her knees and stood with great effort. "And why, pray tell," she asked shakily, chest still heaving as she dusted off her hands and narrowed her eyes to thin slits. "Would a torture demon chase after a measly high priest? One that's still alive, no less?"

While she spoke, Ambrose staggered over to where his wand and the rest of their weapons lay in the mud, reaching for them with one hand while massaging his soon-to-be-bruised neck with the other. (He really should have grabbed a bottle of Aunt Hilda's pain-away salve before leaving).

The woman's teeth glinted in the scarce daylight when she smirked. "He won't be alive for long. Trust me."

"Oh, I'm not trusting you." Ambrose shook his head, mouth pressing into a thin line as he passed the sword back over to Prudence. "No way. Not a chance in seven hells."

He could still taste the blood quite vividly in his throat, and he wasn't in any hurry to forget the sensation anytime soon. Call him reticent or cautious or cagey, but he'd read Marlowe's Dr. Faust enough times to know that no warlock worth his salt would go around colluding with demons. It was the first thing they learned in Black Sunday school.

"How about your cousin? Would you trust her?"

The warlock froze.

"If you even think about hurting Sabrina-"

The demon stared at him boredly. "Why would I do that when I'm out here hunting the fool that tried to kill her?"

Ambrose almost dropped his wand to the ground.

Oh, no. Oh, heavens no.

"Sweet Satan," the warlock groaned, low and heartfelt. He rubbed both hands down his face. "Please, please, please don't tell me Sabrina summoned a higher demon just to get revenge on Father Blackwood."

He should have known his cousin would do something like this. It was impulsive and reckless and naïve. How could she not? It was her favorite combination in the world, right up there next to pissing off all forms of higher authority and giving the aunties weekly heart attacks.

Did it mean she borrowed a spell from one of the forbidden demonological texts and ripped her soul to shreds in the process? Quite possibly. Did he have any idea how to fix it? Not a bloody clue.

(See, none of this would've happened if she just went to Black Sunday School with the other little witches instead of staying in to watch weekend horrorthons on the telly).

"Would you stop freaking out? Jeez, you look like you're having an aneurysm." The demon raked a hand through her damp hair. "She didn't summon me, okay? This is my job. I protect the royal family. Even though there's only, like, two of them."

Ambrose frowned. "Do you…Do you mean the Morningstars?"

He imagined no other royal family could possibly matter more to a demon than the one that ruled over hell. Come to think of it, she was probably even talking about Sabrina when she mentioned a princess earlier. It didn't mean he liked the thought.

In his mind, his little cousin was still a babbling toddler who rubbed mashed peas all over the living room carpet which Aunt Zelda made him scrub clean ("From now on, when you watch her make a mess, you deal with it."), not a full-fledged infernal monarch with direct ties to the Dark Lord himself.

"What, you think I care about all those snobby jackasses with their faces printed on postage stamps?" The woman scoffed. "Of course I mean the Morningstars."

Prudence eyed her skeptically.

"Where have you been all this time, then, demon? You-"

"Maze," the dem-Maze cut in. "Call me Maze."

"Is that your real name?" Ambrose asked. He needed insurance. If this woman was going to stick around, he needed to be sure they could banish her back to hell in case things went south.

"As if I'd ever tell my real name to a witch."

She spat out the word witch like it was something dirty or abhorrent or infected, and it made the warlock wonder. Where was all this derision coming from when, in fact, her mother Lilith was the first of witchkind?

"Well, Maze," Prudence said pointedly, crossing her arms. "If you're such a protector, where were you when your king got trapped in a flesh Acheron? When your princess was slaughtered to death by holy angels?"

The demon looked her up and down. "Are you sure you're not the one who's insane?"

"Oh, I've been called much worse." The witch bit back.

"Okay," Ambrose said slowly, holding out his hands between the two of them. One was already twirling her knives between her fingers, the other unsheathing her sword, and it didn't take a genius to figure out where all of this was going. "Let's take a deep breath, ladies. In and out, there we go. We ought to bring the fight to Blackwood, not to ourselves, yes?"

"I thought you didn't trust her. Now she's suddenly coming with us?" Prudence questioned, not once breaking free from her apparent glaring contest with Maze. (He had no doubt the weird sister could win if she wanted to. As if her stubborn witch's pride would ever let her lose.)

The warlock sighed out loud. "She's doing this for Sabrina."

That was all the reason he needed. Don't get him wrong, he certainly didn't like the demon, definitely didn't trust her. He'd probably sleep with one eye open as long as she was with them. But there were already so few people fighting for Sabrina in this world, that he figured adding another one to the very short list wouldn't hurt.

("We're all she's got now," Aunt Hilda sniffled during Edward and Diana's funeral. He could still remember the thin blue line of tears and mascara that ran freely down her cheeks. "We can't ever let her down, the poor lamb.")

Prudence looked at him as if he'd just lost his head. "Are you hearing yourself? How can you believe her? She doesn't even know what happened to your cousin-"

"Then tell me."

Their attention snapped back to Maze to see that she had tucked all her knives away and was now standing empty-handed in the rain. Granted, she still looked vicious and vaguely threatening even without her weapons, but Ambrose figured this was as much of a gesture of goodwill as they were ever going to get.

"Tell me what I don't know and I'll make sure it'll never happen to the princess again."

The warlock furrowed his brows. "I...don't think that's a promise you can make."

"Try me."

Ambrose pursed his lips. (Bloody hell, he better know what he's doing).

And so he told her.

He told her about the failed baptism, and the satanic council, and the resurrection of Tommy Kinkle. He told her about the mandrake, and the angelic missionaries, and Nick's sacrifice to trap the Dark Lord. Hell, he even told her about the harrowing Sabrina endured at the hands of the weird sisters, however uncomfortably Prudence fidgeted where she stood.

By the time he finished, the rain had stopped coming down and the skies were beginning to clear. It was shaping up to be good hunting weather for Father Blackwood.

And as for the demon? Well, maybe she won't be needing those weapons after all.

Maze looked perfectly ready to kill with her bare hands.