In retrospect, Amenadiel did not have a plan that morning when he decided to visit his brother in Sunset Strip.
Which was out of place for him, really, considering how good he was – or used to be, in any case – at making plans. When Father asked him to aid the Canaan Conquest, the walls of Jericho fell within a week. When the Renaissance was beginning to stagnate, and with it, that whole mess with the two popes that nearly broke the Catholic church, he dropped an apple on Newton's head and kicked the period of discovery back into high gear. Even the smaller, internal complications in his own family (Gabriel's harp, for instance, that he strategically "misplaced" for the sake of everyone's sanity), he managed to solve without breaking a sweat. But lately, what with his recent failures and powerlessness and general inability to enforce God's great will, Amenadiel came to a realization that was staggering, if not a bit overdue:
Planning was pointless.
At least, any and all plans where Lucifer was concerned.
To put things into perspective, Amenadiel liked chess. A lot. He enjoyed the rules, the structure, and if he was being honest, it was one of the first few human inventions that he actually came to respect. As a whole, the game required precision and strategy, and he knew well enough of both that he rarely ever lost.
(He even beat Michael once, and childish as it sounded, it might have been the happiest moment of his life. His younger brother just sneered and turned up his nose, and said his time wasn't worth such an insignificant game anyway. Shortly afterwards, Remiel came up to him and called him her hero.)
But then there was the matter of his other brother. Luci. The devil himself. To his credit, in the handful of times he managed to sit Lucifer down for a match, his playing wasn't nearly as bad as his twin's, but that was in the very rare instance that he finished the game at all. See, Lucifer didn't make plans – he just moved in a string of haphazard patterns that mystified Amenadiel to no end, and even though he managed to get ahead of his older brother every once in a while, he always got so bored in the middle of it that he'd bow out and suggest they play poker or blackjack, or most recently, Monopoly, instead.
("I don't understand. You would've won with three more moves. Why did you stop?"
"Oh, please. Why would I want your boring old king when I could just tax you within an inch of your life and acquire all your property assets?"
"...What?"
"For heaven's – It's a surprisingly addictive board game that the Urchin introduced me to, alright? I just bought my own set. Here. You can be the shoe today. If you manage to not suck, I might even let you be the top hat next time, but that's a very big if."
"Again…what?")
However, despite doing most things with no rhyme or reason, Lucifer seemed to have it best out of all of them. He had friends, family. A mildly successful nightclub (the whole thing was hemorrhaging more money than it made, but what did it matter when Luci's pockets were about as deep as the Mariana Trench). He even stumbled his way into getting his wings back even though he never wanted them in the first place, while Amenadiel had to resort to backing Mom's machiavellian power plays only to end up just as fallen as before.
Amenadiel was a chess player, and his brother was not. But life wasn't won with sixty-four squares and a strategy, and just as he was starting to embrace the thought, things went quickly downhill like always. Now Lucifer was somewhere out there fighting God again in all likelihood — surprise, surprise — while across the kitchen table, Sabrina stared at him with her too-knowing gaze that made him want to squirm where he sat. The air was too tense. The silence hung too heavy.
(Dear Dad, he really should have made a plan that morning before coming over to Lux.)
"So," Amenadiel cleared his throat awkwardly, and his niece arched a brow. "How, uh, how are things going in school?"
Sabrina took a slow sip from her mug of coffee. Her second one of the day, in fact. She brewed another pot as soon as her dad left, and the angel wondered if drinking that much caffeine only calmed her down or riled her up after everything that transpired earlier, but then again, maybe it was a little bit of both.
She drummed her black-painted fingernails against the brushed white porcelain when she finally spoke.
"Are you seriously asking me that like you didn't just barge in here and threaten to send me to angel prison an hour ago?"
"Well, there's no such thing as angel prison–" he started to say.
"Yeah, no, my bad. I meant the Silver City."
Amenadiel opened his mouth to argue, before closing it again, unsure how to respond.
"I mean, am I wrong?" The girl asked, cocking her head to the side. "No free will, someone always bossing you around, those terrible excuse for clothes–"
"Alright, alright I think you made your point," Amenadiel chided lightly. He steepled his fingers under his chin, studying her; from the impatient tapping of her foot to the tight press of her lips that said she'd rather be out there, wherever Luci was, instead of here. "It seems you've been spending a little too much time with your dad."
"Really? You think a week is too much?" She wrinkled her nose. "Well, thank granddad he didn't spend all 16 years with me then because that would've been overkill."
"You know that's not what I meant…"
Sabrina scoffed, stirring her drink around with magic. It was something Amenadiel remembered her Aunt Zelda did every morning. The older witch would hover one perfectly manicured nail over the rim of her cup, making little circles, while her other hand held tightly onto whatever foreign language newspaper her subscription service dropped off at the door.
"And how am I supposed to know what you meant?" His niece retaliated. "Half an hour ago, you were accusing me of murder, and now you're sitting here asking me questions about school of all places like we're just normal relatives chumming it up at a family reunion."
"We are normal relatives," the angel offered.
"Sure we are. And I'm totally not the antichrist," Sabrina said flatly, bringing the mug back up to her lips.
Amenadiel sighed and dropped his gaze to the identical empty coffee cup – complete with saucer, spoon, and all – sitting in front of him. He didn't know why, but the girl still made an effort to give him a place setting despite, well…everything. It was nice to think that it was her way of holding out the proverbial olive branch and wanting to start fresh, but chances were, it was just Hilda Spellman's infectious hospitality that stopped Sabrina from denying any guest a seat at the table.
(Even if said guest was an estranged uncle like him who'd made some terrible choices lately.)
Truth be told, Amenadiel didn't know how to talk to children. Which was never an issue, considering that archangels had very little need to interact with small humans, unless, of course, you were Azrael who escorted a regrettable number of kids to the afterlife, or Uriel who was tasked with welcoming them when they got to heaven's door. But now it posed a problem for Amenadiel because he didn't know how to tell his niece that he was grateful for the coffee she brought out, even if he didn't necessarily drink caffeine. Or that he watched all her pee-wee soccer games growing up and cheered along with her aunts everytime she scored a goal. Or that he was so incredibly moved by her 6th grade performance of The Crucible that the next time he visited Luci in hell, he checked to make sure if the original witch-hunting puritans were still locked up and getting what they deserved.
But despite all the things he didn't know how to say, there was one thing that Amenadiel has been saying a lot ever since he fell to earth, and he figured it was as good a place as any to start.
"I'm sorry," he said into the growing silence between them.
"That's nice," the girl replied.
"No, I'm serious, Sabrina."
At that point, his niece had already busied herself with her phone, (trying to check in with Lucifer, no doubt, if the long chain of emojis she was typing out was any indication), but paused when she heard him speak. She didn't lift her head, didn't meet his eyes, but he knew she was weighing him somehow. Her thumbs twiddled thoughtfully over the glowing screen.
"Do you even know what you're sorry for?" She finally asked, tone inscrutable but not unkind.
"I made a mistake."
"Yeah, I think that part's pretty obvious," she said, setting her phone off to the side and giving him her full attention.
Amenadiel found that Sabrina's doe-like gaze was surprisingly intense when met head-on; like a too-sharp paring knife peeling him back from skin to flesh, flesh to bone, but he fought the urge to look away. It seemed he owed her that much, at least.
"I shouldn't have…" He struggled to finish the thought, seeing as there were more than a few shouldn't have's in his recent track record, so the angel shook his head and tried again.
"It was wrong of me," Amenadiel said earnestly. "To leave you to fend for yourself just because my brother left hell. And it was even more wrong to see you again after all of these years, and the first thing I did was accuse you of something so heinous. I didn't even try to get the full picture. I just went ahead and assumed the worst. Linda says I have a tendency to do that, but that doesn't mean it's okay."
"You see Dr. Linda, too?"
Amenadiel scratched at the corner of his jaw. "In a way, I suppose…"
Sabrina seemed to pick up on his subtext quicker than expected, and immediately raised a hand. "You know what, forget that I asked. Consider the cat dead, massacred, absolutely slaughtered by curiosity."
Amenadiel was just about to answer, not sure if he should be offended or relieved, when somewhere near the girl's feet he heard a sharp meow. The angel glanced underneath the table and saw a black Shorthair that was glaring up rather indignantly at his niece.
"Oh hush, Salem, it's called a figure of speech," Sabrina said, rolling her eyes.
Another meow.
"Well, how was I supposed to know that?"
Another.
"Fine," the girl relented. "I'll use more feline-friendly language going forward. Happy now?"
In lieu of answering, the cat jumped onto the young witch's lap and nuzzled contentedly against her sleep shirt. Sabrina just sighed and carded her fingers through his dark fur as if they've been doing this for so long now that it's become second nature.
Just then, it dawned on Amenadiel that Lucifer was actually right. The angel recognized the cat at first glance; of course he did. It was the same demon kitten he'd begrudgingly delivered to earth all those years ago the last time he collected Sabrina's birthday presents in hell. Her mother's wedding dress, he conveniently stashed in the attic for one of her aunts to 'discover' later, but the cat, he released into the Greendale woods as soon as he got the chance. It was a moral dilemma of a sort, debating the ethics of just up and leaving a dangerous infernal creature to wreak havoc in the mortal realm, but ultimately, he had no other choice but to trust his brother.
("By the time she comes of age, the cat will find its way to Sabrina all by itself," Luci assured him.)
And looking at the pair now – the girl with the moonlit curls cooing at the transfigured demon on her lap – it appears the kitten did find her (or rather, they found each other) in the end, just like her dad promised.
Perhaps Lucifer didn't always break his word after all.
"Not a lot of people do that, you know," Sabrina said suddenly, jostling him from his thoughts.
Amenadiel blinked a few times to reorient himself. "Do what?"
The teen shrugged. "Apologize." She furrowed her brows slightly, thinking. "Well, unless you're my dad. But he practically hands out apologies to me like they're candy, so I don't think they count for all that much."
"My brother was expelled from Eden for his pride," he reminded her. "Pulling an apology out of Lucifer is like pulling out teeth. Believe me, each one of them counts for more than you think."
"I know," she answered, scratching at Salem's ears absentmindedly as she worked through her thoughts. And what big thoughts they must have been, because her answers came slow and measured; like cupfuls of molasses melting in the summer heat. "That's why I've decided to forgive him. Not for everything, of course, but…most things. The things I'm starting to understand."
She glanced up from her familiar then, and when Sabrina met her uncle's eyes, the paring knife seemed to be peeling back her skin instead of his. What lay beneath was a soft underbelly he didn't quite expect.
"We're finally getting to a good place, me and him. It's like a dream I never even knew I had. I mean, I grew up thinking both my parents were dead, and now I'm here in California with one of them, and it's just…it's…"
"Magical?" Amenadiel suggested.
His niece grinned at the ironic word choice. Seeing her smile again took him back to ten years ago – to New England and simpler times and a little half-witch who ran around the mortuary with a happy glow he never imagined would one day fade.
"Yeah, that's a nice way to put it," Sabrina said. "Magical."
Amenadiel smiled back at her.
And to think, back then, the angel didn't like where he was. He thought his days were empty, and his talents wasted, and he figured it was a blessing of some sort when Lucifer abandoned his post and he finally had a reason to leave Massachusetts for good. If only his younger self could see him now.
(Greendale autumns were calm and idyllic, and it was the easiest Amenadiel's life had been in a while. He was at full power. His family was mostly intact. It took clipped wings and a change in perspective before he realized that the chess board was set in his favor 2 years ago and yet he still found a way to lose.)
"Does it bother you that much? Losing?"
Amenadiel snapped back to the present with a jolt. Did Sabrina just…?
"At chess, I meant," she said, tipping her head towards the intricate antique set that Lucifer kept in his living room. "You keep staring at that thing every 10 minutes. If I had to guess, I'd say someone beat you real bad last time and you still can't get over it."
"Oh," her uncle replied, laughing slightly.
From what he could remember, the Spellmans were good at aura reading, and the young warlock boy in particular had a talent for memory manipulation. No witch in history had ever mastered mind reading, though, and while it wasn't impossible for Sabrina to be the first, he figured it would take another few centuries at least before she got there. She didn't even need the skill, come to think of it. She was always extraordinarily perceptive, much like Luci himself. More often than not, a pair of eyes and common sense told them all that they needed to know – no magic required.
"Well, losing is inevitable," Amenadiel said. "But to answer your question, no, I don't make a habit of it. In fact," he drew up his shoulders a little, and he could tell that Sabrina was resisting the urge to laugh. "Some might say I'm one of the best players they've ever met."
"Is that right?" The girl asked, and her tone sounded an awful lot like a challenge. She walked the short distance to the living room and picked up the chess board, setting it back down on the kitchen table between them.
"You know, I've been playing this game since it was invented," he warned her.
She only scoffed, laying out the pieces. He wondered if Linda would have written it down in her journal, the way his niece immediately set her side with the darker pieces and barely spared a glance at the lighter ones. Amenadiel collected them for himself and soon the board was complete.
"Are you sure you want to do this? Last chance to back out," he said.
Sabrina crossed her arms and leaned back against her seat. "As opposed to what? You sitting there, all awkward and apologetic? I get enough of that with everyone else, thanks. I'd rather pass the time with something you might actually take me seriously for."
The angel felt a wave of guilt wash over him. With everything he heard from her that morning, people probably spent the last few months walking on eggshells all around Sabrina, fear – or worse, pity – staying their hands. The last thing she must have wanted was another person treating her like some sad, fragile afterthought.
Amenadiel picked up his knight and made the opening move.
"Who taught you how to play?" He asked idly, watching her counter him at every turn, fingers quick and eyes dancing.
"My cousin," she answered, capturing another one of his rooks. "House arrest left him with a lot of free time, and the Ambrose Spellman school of sit-there-and-I'll-teach-you-everything-I-know-about-everything is surprisingly effective, despite the curriculum being all over the place."
Amenadiel caught her bishop. Sabrina inched dangerously close to his king.
"Favorite defense?" He asked.
"Caro-Kann."
"Favorite match?"
"Rubinstein's Immortal. 1907. I've read the books, but Ambrose was able to watch it in person and he says no other grandmaster ever came close."
The angel hummed in agreement, cutting off her last knight.
"Favorite move?"
"That's easy."
The switch all but blindsided him, like something pulled out of thin air, but in hindsight he should've seen it coming. While the teen kept him distracted with her more formidable pieces – towers and royalty and horses constantly in motion – she'd managed to push one of her pawns to the other edge of the board.
"You take the piece that nobody notices," she said, plucking the carved marble figure and placing it on her open palm. She held the tiny pawn up for emphasis before replacing it with one of the biggest players on the board. "And you turn her into a queen."
(At that point, it had become obvious. Sabrina was the kind who made plans, but unlike his, they weren't pointless. Not at all.)
Immediately, Amenadiel's king was trapped with no exit, and the angel tipped his head in acknowledgement of what would inevitably follow. The witch smirked as she dealt the killing blow.
"Checkmate, uncle."
"Rematch?" He asked.
Before she could answer, Sabrina's phone buzzed to life with a response to whatever text message she sent her dad earlier. It was the typical string of emojis he'd come to expect from Lucifer: a car, some breakfast food, devil face, fire…wait, was that a cathedral? Judging from her knitted brows, his niece seemed to be just as confused as he was.
Eventually, she just shook her head and turned off the screen.
"I don't know what the heaven he meant by that," she shrugged. "But I guess we have the time. Sure, Amenadill. Rematch it is."
Mazikeen was used to playing mind games, but that didn't mean she fucking liked them.
In hell, they were a basic requirement, and that much she could understand. Most torture was psychological, after all – probably why she gravitated to Linda in the first place. They used the same weapon, just in different ways. But while her friend stuck to armchair therapy and her style was more make-someone-cry-while-they-dangle-in-chains, Maze ultimately found the whole exercise boring, and nothing compared to the cool, sharp press of a blade. So she focused on everything from butterfly knives to broadswords, and left the rest to Lucifer who was almost too happy to oblige. You couldn't tell just by looking at him, but the man knew how to crush a soul without lifting a finger. It was almost masterful, the way he could unravel people. Like hooking onto a lone thread until it loosened, every little stitch falling apart.
("Your turn," he would tell her cheerfully, walking out of a cell while a sinner stared after his retreating form, all red-eyed and pale-faced and terror come to life.
Those were her favorite kind, Maze decided. It was the pre-broken humans who always screamed the best.
"Thanks," she would answer, pulling the door shut with one hand while she twirled her weapon of choice with the other. "Let's get to the fun part, shall we?")
But the devil wasn't with her now, and as far as mind games went, that meant she couldn't tag-team her way out of this one.
"I'm not his employee anymore, but fuck if I don't deserve a raise after this," Maze seethed under her breath, hands still sore in all the places she cut into for her tracking spell.
It didn't help that she was leaking blood like a broken faucet despite all the mummy-esque rolls of bandages she wrapped around them as she walked. Truth be told, she didn't pay much attention to her wounds until the first Judas boy showed up and she realized the full extent of Blackwood's network. She just smiled through the pain. The bastard was toying with her – good thing it took just a few more steps before she could toy with him right back.
It was manageable, almost laughable, at first. Judas boy number one showed up when she started to close the distance between the high priest and herself at about 500 meters according to the spell. He was a short, skinny thing who looked way over his head, but Maze was polite enough to indulge him in conversation before knocking said head to the ground.
("Crawl back to hell, demon. You'll never find Lord Blackwood," he all but spat, brandishing a cute little dagger that shook in his slightly trembling grip. When she was done with him, Maze could probably keep it as a souvenir – she'll strongarm Chloe into throwing a welcome home clambake when she gets back, and maybe they can use it to shuck the seafood.
"I only know one lord, dipshit," she said, stepping forward, and delight rippled through her when he took an instinctive step back. "And your cult leader just pissed him off big time."
"The Church of Judas is not a cult. Faustus Blackwood is a visionary–"
"And Lucifer Morningstar will see him burn just like everyone else." She inclined her head, grinning. "Funny how things work out sometimes, isn't it?"
"Lies," the warlock answered. "The great Satan looks favorably on all sons of night."
"You really believe that? After you dared to make power plays against his only daughter?"
He looked marginally less confident after that.
Still, the boy stood his ground. "She has no power over us. Lord Blackwood said so. Sabrina Spellman is a half-breed mortal whore–"
When Mazikeen snapped his neck, the wet, squelching crack seemed to echo through the entire Scottish woods. When a tree falls in a forest, does it make a sound? She supposed that answered the question.
"Don't worry," Maze tutted, stepping over the motionless body that now laid crumpled at her feet. She grabbed the dagger still held tight in his grasp and shoved it into her boot. Oysters. She'll use it to shuck oysters when she gets home. "I'll make sure to send Sabrina Morningstar your best regards.")
However, easy as the first warlock-shaped headache had been, the ones that followed weren't necessarily convenient. At 400 meters, three more Judas boys showed up. At 300 meters, there were six. Maze had barreled through the bulk of them like a very angry bowling ball knocking down some pins (this she meant literally – at some point she ran into a group of them huddled together and started stabbing before anyone could even think to get up), but by the time she was just a few meters away and there were roughly 20 Judas boys flanking her at all sides, she knew their annoying little organization wasn't playing around.
Blackwood had obviously saved his more skilled followers for last. Because while the first wave of them were pretty much just moving practice dummies – armed with small weapons and big egos and not much else – those who made their final stand had an edge in terms of sheer numbers and half-decent combat magic that left Maze slightly breathless as she took them on all at once. Not to say that she lost (Her? Losing to witches? Not a chance) but it did delay her win by a handful of minutes, which only made her that much more sadistic as she drove her knife several times into the last cultist.
When she finally locked eyes with the high priest, her entire body drenched in blood from both his followers and her own aggravated ritual wounds, the brief flash of horror in his face was probably the most gratifying thing she'd ever seen.
"Where are my acolytes?" Blackwood said, recovering quickly, but by then it was too late. She'd seen him falter. He was backed into a corner, trapped with no way out, and they both knew what was coming.
"You mean your Judas Boys?" Maze asked mockingly, inching closer as she twirled her hell-forged blade between expert fingers. Up close, the warlock looked even more unpleasant than she expected. His hair was wild like a crow's nest, his manic stare even wilder, and he was standing weaponless in the middle of nowhere, which only meant he trusted his own magic so much that he (stupidly) thought he'd need nothing else. "I've met the real Judas, by the way. You should hear him in his cell. He cries out to God every night, asking why he wasn't made good enough to be loved. Asking why the Great Plan needed him to be a traitor when he could've been anything, anyone else. It's pathetic, really."
The demon tilted her head at him, derisive. "Then again, I suppose I see some of him in you."
Blackwood curled his lip, visibly insulted, but if that was all it took to set him off, then clearly Maze was going to have so much fun.
"What are you? A mercenary? A hedge witch?" He threw back at her. They were circling each other now, a slow paced, deadly dance just waiting to see who would make the first move. "No doubt you're aligned with the Spellmans. Ruinous malcontents who never know when to stop. Well, whatever it is they've offered, I can give you tenfold."
"What in the seven hells could you possibly offer me?" Maze barked out a laugh.
The high priest smirked, a pompous, shit-eating pull of the mouth, and pointed a finger at her. "See, you laugh now, woman, but what I have to say will drain all joy from you. The Dark Lord has forsaken us. Soon enough, his churches will be stripped of power; his followers becoming no more than mere mortals at the face of his neglect." He pounded his fist against his open palm. "What I offer is a way out. The reign of the Morningstar is over, but the Church of Judas will live on for eternity."
"What church? You're all that's left now, asshat. If you haven't noticed," Maze gestured to herself, red covering her from head to toe like the angry prom queen in that horror movie Sabrina loved so much as a kid, "no one's clawing out of hell to follow you anytime soon."
"Weaklings, then. Anyone so easily crushed has no place in the new order of the world."
His words shot through the demon with a pang.
("Weed out the weaklings," Lilith's voice echoed in her head, sharp and taunting so, so difficult to please. The first witch had just killed dozens of her own children without batting an eye. Every day since, Maze wondered when she would be next. "I have no use for weaklings.")
Maze exhaled loudly through her nose. Blackwood arched a brow.
"Don't worry," she assured him. "I'm sure you have no place in it, either."
She broke from their dance first, lunging at him with her knife drawn. The priest was able to dodge the attack, but just barely, his arms crossed in front of him as he muttered a quick "Lenuae Magicae" that transported him a few meters to her side. Snarling, she turned on her heel and dove in his direction. Again, he disappeared and popped back up out of reach.
"Why don't you just leave, warlock?" She challenged, saying the word with the same vitriol she'd associated with it her entire life. With witches and magic and everything her mother ever held dear. "You're a coward, aren't you? That spell can take you miles and miles away from here, so why don't you hide from your reckoning like you've always done? I mean, I will find you again, make no mistake, but I won't be surprised either." She bared her teeth. "What else can you expect from a predator trying so hard to pretend he's not prey?"
His gaze flickered, ever so fleetingly, to the lake beside them. Anyone else would've missed it, but Maze was not just anyone, and immediately, she understood.
"You found something," she said, lips spreading into a malicious grin. She walked towards the still, unmoving waters, reaching out a hand to touch it. "I wonder if–"
"Prohibere!" Blackwood growled, stretching out his hand and squeezing the air as if to choke her. It did nothing to Maze, of course, but she stopped regardless, waiting to see what he would do next.
With his other hand, he made a series of intricate gestures as his mouth spilled out some Latin nonsense that she had neither the patience nor energy to decipher, and within a matter of seconds, a magical sheen settled over the lake's surface, not unlike the shield Sabrina tried to use the first time Maze had met her. And exactly like that time, the demon just snorted and broke the barrier easily.
"Impossible," the high priest breathed out, and Maze ignored him, rinsing her hands in the lake water and watching the dried blood between her fingers wash away. It was a shame, really. In just a few minutes, she knew she would get them dirty again. "No witch or mortal–"
"Yeah, yeah," she rolled her eyes. "Pure protective magic. I'm not exactly new to this bullshit." The bounty hunter got up from where she was crouched low on the ground and regarded the man with a curious look. "What I am new to is an unhinged zealot being so goddamn paranoid over a lake."
Blackwood's jaw clenched.
"It is not just a lake, you fool," he hissed. "Under that water is an ancient power that has laid dormant for eons. You have no idea the horrors that await you–"
"Await me?" At this, Maze actually cackled, the sound full and unencumbered. It used to strike fear into the hearts of every prisoner in hell. "What about those that await you, Faustus Blackwood?"
With each word, she drew closer, and the high priest only raised his chin, stubborn even in the face of certain doom. "What about the Dark Lord you said you worshipped, and his daughter you cursed so carelessly in the same breath?" She spun her knife. "What about all the schemes you plotted? The lives you destroyed?" The demon stopped in front of him, eyes alight. "There's a cell waiting for you in the eighth circle, and I swear on everything unholy, I'll put it to good use."
Of course, Lucifer hadn't permitted her to go home – her real home – in years, but she was sure he could make an exception. Just this once. Just so she could slip back into old habits, relive the old motions, and feel like herself again in a way she hadn't in a long, long time.
(She wondered if the weapons she left behind were still intact. She only had her siblings to blame if they weren't – and by then, it would only be a matter of cutting a few throats to set an example.)
"Ah. So that's what you are," the warlock said, unimpressed. "A measly torture demon."
Maze wanted to smack him across the face. So she did. Hard.
His neck reeled with the force, and he spat blood out onto the ground, wiping the remnants from his mouth. Still, his features remained schooled and unperturbed. Maze hit him again.
"You know you're just wasting your time. Tell me your name and let's be done with this," Blackwood said through bloodied teeth, the skin on his upper lip broken, and yet he stood firmly, infuriatingly calm in front of her.
In all the times the bounty hunter imagined this moment, he was doubled-over in pain, or begging for his sorry excuse of a life on both knees. Seeing him still intact sent a shot of pure outrage down her spine that made her want to ignore her orders completely and extinguish him from the earth right then and there.
Surprisingly, though, the voice of reason in her head ("You're here to do one job, Maze, and one job only.") won over the blood lust, and her arms remained plastered to her sides.
"Now, why the heaven would I do that?" She asked.
The high priest laughed. "As if it warrants an explanation. Because my bidding is yours to obey, of course. It began with Faust and Mephistopheles, and for every witch and warlock since, all the powers of hell including its demons are offered up to us the moment we sign the Book of the Beast. Or is that something you weren't taught, woman?"
Not a woman. Her hands curled into fists beside her. Demon. Torturer. I am nothing like my mother.
"That's why if I ask for your name so I can banish you back to the Pit where you slithered from, you will do as I command–"
Thud.
Faustus Blackwood crumpled to the ground, unconscious, after a sharp slash to the neck that cut the blood flow of a certain nerve Maze never got around to learning. Lucifer told her about it a long time ago. Something about a quick way to shut up assholes who were too proud to see it coming.
The demon pocketed her knife and stepped back to look at her handiwork.
"Ek is Mazikeen van die Lilim, fok gesig (I'm Mazikeen of the Lilim, fuckface)," she said in her native tongue, kicking the motionless warlock in the nose just for shiggles. She felt the delicate bones of it crunch under her boot and she smiled, digging her heel in even further. "En moet jy nooit vergeet nie (And don't you ever forget)."
She picked up one of his legs, ready to drag him across the marshy wetlands and back to civilization, when a loud crying noise suddenly pierced through the air. It came from a wicker basket stashed at the foot of a nearby tree. Maze exhaled once and dropped the priest's leg gracelessly back to the ground.
"Well, well, well, look what we have here," she muttered under her breath, staring at the squirming figures inside.
There were infants. Two of them, to be exact. She had a vague recollection of a story Prudence told (she was surprised she even remembered; Maze usually tuned out the witch the second she opened her mouth) about how Blackwood disappeared into the night with her twin siblings, and chances were, these little bundles of dread fit the description.
The demon raised her knife high above the basket.
It was an act of goodwill, she reasoned. Their father was a monster. They would spend the rest of their lives quivering in the shadow of his dark legacy, whether he was still there to cast the shade or not, and it would only ruin them in the long run. Heavens knew the kindest thing Lilith could have done for Maze was kill her as soon as she slid out of the womb. But her mother was many things – kind not one of them – and here Mazikeen was, still fractured from it centuries later.
She tightened her grip on the weapon. This was the right choice.
(And yet…)
Images of a young Sabrina flashed in her mind's eye. A lot of people wanted her dead because of her father. And to an extent, Lucifer too, just because of a ridiculous spat with his own dad. But if any of the asshats who threatened them ever succeeded, Maze would probably go on the unholiest of rampages because it's unfair is what it is, and who the fuck gave anyone the right to judge someone else because of blood? Family is what you make of it. And as it stood, for her that wasn't Lilith or Beelzebub or any of her other siblings, but a ragtag bunch of celestials, a therapist, two cops, and a gap-toothed urchin waiting for her back in California.
With any luck, the wailing twins in front of her won't do so bad for themselves, either.
"I'm getting too soft for this job," the demon sighed, shaking her head indignantly as she straightened her back and walked away.
When Prudence finally caught up with Maze's blood-red trail, hours and hours later, it led her and Ambrose to a clearing; empty save for a placid lake and a wicker basket left somewhere close to the shore. Moving closer, the witch dropped to her knees as soon as she saw what – or rather, who – was inside.
"Judith. Judas," she breathed, pulling them out of the basket and into her arms. "But where…"
Her eyes locked onto a scrap of paper next to the twins' pillow.
Not so dear witches,
I did what I came here to do. Don't bother looking for me. Or Blackwood, for that matter. This is the part where he gets what he deserves. In any case, consider us even. One life for two. A hell of a deal, in my opinion.
Maze
(P.S. You can finally get rid of your map now. It was fucking useless anyway.)