Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Greendale wasn’t Greendale anymore, and Sabrina Spellman (“Morningstar,” the voice in her head corrected begrudgingly. “This is who you are now.”) was at a loss on how to call such an unfamiliar place home again. The mortuary was empty most days, with Aunt Zelda building the newly-formed Church of Lilith from the ground where Blackwood’s poisoned institution once stood, and Aunt Hilda still yet to return from her trip to find a safe place for the young witches and warlocks who lost so much in the Academy’s destruction. Even Ambrose forgot to call home every now and then, caught up more than any of them in bringing the former High Priest to his knees.

Sure, they were all off in their separate ways, but Sabrina was proud of them. Who would have thought that the pariahs of the witching world would be the ones to save them all in the end? Still, it did nothing to lessen the loneliness of going home to an empty house, dining at an empty table, and falling asleep to the empty sounds of untouched bedrooms and cold coffee (just the way Zelda liked it, black and bitter, waiting next to the morning news. It didn’t matter if an unread stack was getting ready to topple over on the kitchen counter. Sabrina would always make sure a fresh copy was added everyday).

Sometimes Zelda called from her new office (“Of course the High Priestess needs to have her own wing, child. Don’t be ridiculous.”), or Hilda from the confusing cellular phone that Dr. Cerberus taught her to use (“I don’t understand. So it’s a very expensive telephone that also takes photos?”). Most times, though, it was Sabrina who found herself dialling their numbers in the dead of night, sometimes falling asleep with the telephone pressed against her cheek, just comforted by the warmth of their voices.

Days went by slowly, with no Academy to run to, and no Nick to hold her hand when the sadness hit her like a truck everytime the sun went down. Her friends tried to visit her when they could, but their lives didn’t revolve around her, she knew that much. They had school and family and problems of their own, and sometimes, in the back of her mind, she felt as though it was safer to distance herself from them, too. It wasn’t exactly the best idea to have three mortals attach themselves to the hip of Satan’s literal spawn. Slowly, she would learn to let them go. Not today, though. She wasn’t ready for that yet. Maybe in a few months, a few years (a few lifetimes, if I could), but not today.

So it was that fateful Friday night when she found herself sprawled in bed, eyes glued to the ceiling as Salem walked in circles around the room, restless in the growing silence. Tomorrow would bring no Baxter High, no Academy, no aunties or Ambrose, no Nick, no Harvey, Roz, or Theo. No different than today. With a sigh, she buried her head under the covers and beckoned her familiar to lay by her feet. If change truly was inevitable in the young witch’s life, then perhaps it was time to make some changes of her own.

Greendale wasn’t Greendale anymore, and Sabrina Morningstar was running out of reasons to stay.

It didn’t take much to convince her aunties to let her go on vacation. No one was going to argue the fact that Sabrina could handle herself quite well, and with her father effectively sealed back up in hell, nobody was going to bring her any trouble that she couldn’t manage on her own. Besides, the girl deserved a much-needed change of scenery after all the nightmares she witnessed in their sleepy old town, even for just a few days.

The flight was shorter than she expected, though the feeling of hovering thousands of feet above ground was a different kind of magic than flying above her house with an old broomstick. Nick would’ve found it jarring, but would have marvelled with her all the same. Her heart clenched at the thought, and she quickly pushed it out of her mind. Painful as it was to admit, she escaped Greendale, even just for a little while, to run from the mess the past month left behind. And in the middle of that mess was her selfless, caring, wonderful boyfriend who took her heart with him when he disappeared out of her life, possibly forever.

If she wanted to keep her sanity intact, she had to escape him, too (Not for long, though. She would bring him home, if that place still existed, even if it killed her).

As she followed the steady stream of passengers who exited into the airport, one of the attendants asked for her I.D. and she handed over her passport, one that her aunties had issued for her when she first mentioned her trip a couple weeks back. The man took it with a smile, though it quickly faded when he read her name out loud with a quirk of his brow. “Sabrina…Morningstar?”

It was odd, that much she could admit, but a lot of witches and warlocks all over their sleepy town and beyond did not agree with her Aunt Zelda’s ideas regarding the reformation of their Church. Though there was no real threat against them, her aunties believed that it was best to hide any ties to the Spellman family for the time being, at least while she was away from the safe wards and protection spells of Greendale. Besides, not many people knew about her true parentage, and if they did dare seek her out, the thought of using her actual name would never cross their mind.

For once, she was glad that Nick had her father trapped in hell. Heavens knew she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing she took his name, albeit temporarily.

“Yes, I’m Sabrina Morningstar,” she edged out in a clipped voice, smile just as forced as the way the name rolled off her tongue.

The man looked confused, then amused, then impossibly polite once again. “Alright, Ms. Morningstar.”

He handed back the travel document with a smile, and she pocketed it quickly. This place seemed a hundred miles closer to the sun, if it was possible, and the newfound heat was something she was yet to grow accustomed to. There were a million things left to do before she could find the relief she’s been chasing after (hail a cab, find a decent hotel, get some lunch that doesn’t taste like plane peanuts), but still. She was here, and she was free, and she had all the time in the world (“Just one week, Sabrina, and then you come home,” Aunt Zelda’s voice echoed in her head) to figure things out before she dove headfirst into the problems that always seemed to trail after her. One way or another, she was going to find herself, and inevitably find her peace. And something inside her gave her the notion that this – this – is the place to do it all.

“Welcome to Los Angeles.”

Chapter Text

The devil’s daughter in the City of Angels. Sabrina almost scoffed at the thought, but in truth, the irony of it wasn’t lost on her. Admittedly, the irony alone made the spot more appealing when she first set out to find a place to get away. Not to mention, the glaring heat and sandy beaches stood in such contrast to the gloomy weather and still rivers of Greendale that it was almost impossible to resist the promise of a place that could take her mind off of everything she’s ever known.

As the sun was beginning to set, she found herself wandering aimlessly around a random park, the single suitcase she bothered to pack sitting heavy in her hand as she drank in the fading colors of the sky. Normally, she always had a plan. Which spell to study, what tea to make, which record to play as she did the dishes. But surprisingly, for the first time in her life, she found her mind drawing up a blank on what to do next. Maybe after all the surprises the universe sent her way these past few months, she finally came to terms with the futility of making any plans, at all. Or maybe, just maybe, she was merely an exhausted young girl who eventually grew tired of figuring everything out.

And so, when the taxi driver asked where she wanted to go, she simply leaned back against the cracked leather seat and asked for somewhere with a good view of the jagged skyline.

The park was a modest choice, sitting on some obscure hilltop with well-trimmed trees and colorful flowers along the pathway. Quite quickly, she was able to find a spot for herself on one of the benches scattered across the place, and in a matter of minutes, her nose was tucked into a worn copy of An Exploration of the Lilim: Demonic Invocations and Incantations. It was hardly her first choice for pleasure reading, though Aunt Zelda snuck it into her bag at the last minute and left behind the collection of sensible poetry that she planned to bring. (“Oh, I’m afraid you’re running late for your flight. What a shame, no time to change it back. You’ll just have to make do, Sabrina.”)

Surprisingly, the text wasn’t an absolute bore, and she was reluctantly engrossed. Just as she was about to finish the first chapter, however, she felt a sudden chill down her spine as a gun was pointed directly at her forehead, rough and cool against her skin.

The man holding on to it did not look the part of a criminal, dressed in everyday clothes no different than the hordes of people she came across in the few hours she traveled Los Angeles. She sensed a vulnerability to him, though, as if he had no other choice (You had a choice, and you chose to hold death in your hands).

With a defiant look in her eye, she held his gaze pointedly as she crossed her arms and quirked up a single brow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Look, lady. Just give me your purse.” His eyes darted back and forth around them, a fear buried deep in his gut that someone might see.

(“There’s no one else to fear around here,” Sabrina thought, chagrined that fate played its hand so early. If the forces of the universe were truly adamant on bringing hell wherever she went, then she must remind them that it would not break her. Hell was her birth right, after all. “I am your every fear brought to life.”)

She pursed her lips. “No.”

He pulled the safety down, but she didn’t flinch at the slightest. “I wasn’t giving you a choice.”

The young girl held up a hand and the clouds began to darken, lightning dancing ominously against the sky. “Well, I’m giving you one.” Head quirked to the side, she regarded him curiously. He was trying hard to keep up the tough and violent façade, but she could sense him cracking. A month ago, she would have pitied the man.

But now? Well, he simply caught her at the wrong time.

“Drop the gun and walk away, or find out for yourself why everyone’s so scared of powerful women.”

Weak laughter bubbled from his mouth, but it was of the hesitant kind. His shifting eyes and shaking hands gave him away. “You think you’re so powerful, bitch?”

With a pointed glare, the gun flew into the hand resting at Sabrina’s side, and the thief’s clothes burst into flames, bright and blue as the fire that claimed the Greendale 13. With a smirk, she watched as the man erupted into screams, his knees giving way and bringing him down to the ground as he rolled around in the dirt, hoping to put the fire out. She crouched down to his level and looked him in the eye, the sheer terror in his meeting the cool indifference in hers.

“Witch. I think you meant to say powerful witch.”

“You’re the devil,” he ground out through gritted teeth, tears beginning to pool no matter how hard he tried to keep them from falling.

“Close.” She nodded her head, seemingly in agreement with his words. The girl hated the way her chest swelled at the thought, hated how the fear in his voice drowned out her mother’s smile and the moral compass that came with it. “Close, but not quite.”

However, the young woman was not able to revel in her satisfaction for very long when an ambulance and a police car suddenly showed up out of the blue. In a blink of an eye, she was quickly pulled away by a man dressed in all black with a simple leather jacket. He grabbed the firearm that was still held loosely in her hand and pocketed it immediately, all the while keeping a firm hold on her elbow.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re gonna have to come with me.”

Sabrina struggled against his grip, but he leveled her with a gaze that said he wasn’t to be trifled with. There was a fear in his eyes, too (it was very rare that she met anyone who didn’t look at her with fear these days), but a kindness shone in them, still. With a huff of her breath, she relented and let him lead her from the thief whose screams still echoed in her head even as he was carried away by the medics. With a surprisingly gentle voice (Tired. You are not capable of gentleness. You’re just tired), she asked, “Who are you? Where are you taking me?”

He gave her a good hard look. When some random park-goer made a call to the station that there was an altercation involving a gun between a teenager and a man in his 20s, he expected the usual bout of juvenile delinquency they encountered almost everyday. The caller didn’t go into much detail, quickly hanging up in a panic (he was left scratching his head at the sudden shout of “Good God, he’s on fire!” but learned to push it aside), so he just assumed it was the everyday case of hostility between a drug dealer and some teenage junkie. To his surprise, however, he was met with the scene of a very calm and put-together young woman holding a gun in her hand while she watched a man get eaten away by flames, unfazed as if she was unimpressed with how slowly he burned.

Still, even as he kept a tight hold on her, she didn’t seem the least bit inclined to run, entirely unlike the brunt of flighty teenagers who were willing to jump every fence in their way as soon as they saw a squad car. She was young, that much was clear, but there was an age in the way her shoulders slumped ever so slightly as if she carried a heavy weight. She may very well have been a pyromaniac who burned people alive, but she was also a child.

He sighed as he pulled a pair of cuffs from his back pocket and locked her hands into place. “I’m just here to sort all this out.”

She didn’t make a sound as he led her to the back seat of the car and closed the door behind her. Even as he loaded up the rest of her things in the trunk and began to drive them back to the station, she stayed silent as a grave. He wondered what was going on in her head.

“Hey, we’ll fix things, alright?” He gave her a look through the rear-view mirror. Her head was in her hands and she looked conflicted at best. “What’s your name, kid?”

She looked up with a resolute tilt of her chin. “Sabrina.”

He nodded his head in acknowledgement, storing the name in his mind. She seemed like a lovely girl, though there was something eerie, almost chilling, about her. Earlier, when he went to pick up her things, there was a book lying open by her bags that was filled with all kinds of demonic symbols and unfamiliar text. At the back of his mind, he wondered if it had something to do with the spontaneous combustion of the man at the park. Quickly though, he shook the thought away. He was not a religious man, but he didn’t believe in the existence of the occult, either.

“Well, just sit tight, Sabrina. We’re almost at the station.”

He looked at her again, and this time, she met his gaze. There was something familiar in her eyes that he couldn’t place. They blazed, in a way, and seemed to be able to search the depths of his soul. He shivered at the thought and quickly looked away, trying to break the edge by engaging in his usual awkward small talk.

“By the way, before I forget, my name’s Dan.” He shot her a kind yet apprehensive smile. “Detective Dan Espinoza, LAPD.”

Chapter Text

“Again? She couldn’t possibly have-” Chloe closed her eyes in exasperation as Trixie’s principal called her for possibly the third time that week. The middle-aged woman at the other end of the line was a pleasant enough presence when your child was being praised for exemplary behavior, but once your daughter starts “acting out” (Linda’s words, not hers), she hoped against all hope that the school head would find her way to an early retirement by the next month or so.

“Alright, her dad will be there soon. Thank you.” With a hard sigh, the detective ended the call and pocketed the phone in a swift motion.

Her daughter was a nice girl, raised with a sound set of values and discipline. Save for the occasional sugar rush and exploits in the name of chocolate cake, Trixie never got in trouble. But ever since some new kid transferred to her school and started picking on her, a few of Maze’s child-friendly self defense techniques (God knew if those even existed) made a surprise appearance and shocked the school administration to their core. She couldn’t fault her eccentric roommate, though. Deep down, Chloe was glad that Trixie was learning to stand up for herself. She just hoped that her daughter would do it in a way that didn’t have to hurt anybody else.

“Why so glum, detective? Has there been another murder? It’s been a while since we’ve had a good murder.” In his usual disregard for personal space, her partner was already hot on her heels as she marched her way to Dan’s desk, her jaw set in annoyance. Most of the time, she would have found Lucifer’s behavior tolerable, or amusing, even. But at that moment, with his confident strides and trademark grin, she couldn’t stand the unnecessary amounts of enthusiasm.

She shook her head and spoke in a tone that any overly-inquisitive five year old would be familiar with. “No, Lucifer. That was Trixie’s principal. She wants us to bring Trixie home from their classes’ overnight camp.”

“Oh.” Immediately, his face fell and she could sense his interest slipping by the second. “What has the little beast gotten herself into this time?”

The detective rolled her eyes. If it were anyone else, she would have snapped at their audacity to insult her daughter, but remembering that it was Lucifer (“Oh, don’t take it personally. I hate all children in general, not just yours.”), she learned to bite her tongue on the whole matter a long time ago. “Nothing you should concern yourself with. I’m just gonna ask Dan to pick her up since I’m still waiting on an update on the Brenner case and I can’t leave this early.”

Thankfully, the only sound that came out of his mouth after that was a hum of acknowledgement, probably grateful that he didn’t have to feign concern for the child anymore. It was probably better that way, too. She didn’t think she could handle another one of his condescending rants about the many ways that kids ruin people’s lives.

Soon enough, she caught sight of Dan slumped over on his chair, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. Her ex-husband was hardly the most energetic person in their precinct, but even she had to admit that he looked more tired than usual.

“Hey Dan, got a minute?”

It took him a second to answer, torn between continuing his work and answering what was probably another one of Chloe’s favors. It didn’t seem to be much of a debate, however, when he quickly nodded his head and got up from his desk not a moment later. “Sure. What can I help you with?”

Chloe frowned in concern. “Are you sure you’re not busy? You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Dan sighed and scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s probably not even a big deal, but I just got back from the park on this armed altercation call and I’ve got this teenage girl in custody. I know there’s nothing new about these things, but it’s the girl, alright? There’s something off about her.”

“Letting a child delinquent drive you crazy, Daniel? I suppose that’s a new low even for you.” Lucifer barely made an effort to hide his amusement as Dan seethed in irritation.

“You don’t get it man, okay? It’s hard to explain. I still have to question her and get a word from the witnesses before I make sense of everything.”

Chloe placed a comforting hand on his shoulder to try to relax him. “Calm down, Dan. Lucifer and I will handle it, alright? In the meantime, would you please bring Trixie home from school? I’d do it myself, but I still have some work to do.”

“Principal called again?” He asked with a quirk of his brow, already knowing the answer.

The other detective merely nodded her head in response and Dan let out a breath. “Alright, I’ll pick her up.” He swiped his car keys from the desk and placed it in his back pocket, seemingly ready to go. Chloe thought that he would make a move to leave, but surprisingly, he remained glued to the floor, a conflicted look on his face as he stared off into space.

“Dan?”

He shook his head. “It’s just-” He shot the confused pair a look. “Be careful with the kid, okay? She seems like a nice girl, just really...troubled.”

Chloe gave him a sympathetic look. She knew how he felt. He probably thought about their own daughter when he had to bring the girl into custody, knowing full well that good kids could easily fall down a rabbit hole with just a bit of misguidance. “We won’t give her a hard time.”

Dan still looked unsettled, but the thought seemed to be out of his mind. “Okay.” He exhaled sharply. “Okay. Her stuff is on my desk. I haven’t gone through them yet, but let me know what you find.”

Lucifer knew that Dan wasn’t the most interesting mortal his father could have created, but the sad man was reaching record levels in his capacity to suck the life out of someone. This conversation alone felt like an entirely new circle of hell. “Alright already, Detective Douche. Treat the girl like the child she is, yadda yadda. We get it. Now shouldn’t you be somewhere else by now?”

The detective shot Lucifer a narrowed look but said nothing more, and short of a few choice words muttered under his breath, he made a relatively uneventful exit. Lucifer sighed in relief once Dan was out of sight.

Chloe shook her head as she began to pull on her latex gloves. “You should really stop giving him a hard time.”

Lucifer scoffed in response. “Oh please, he’s got thick skin. He’ll be fine.”

The detective picked up the half-written report on Dan’s desk and read through the text. “It says here that the teenage girl was with a man in his 20’s at the Ridgeview park. They were apparently in some sort of argument, and one of them had a gun. It’s still unclear who it belongs to, but someone saw the firearm and called in the disturbance.” Chloe set the paper down and shot her partner a confused look. “I don’t know why Dan’s so worked up over this. It seems like a pretty straightforward case to me.”

“Nonsense, detective.” Lucifer held the paper in his hands and set it under his gaze. “There must have been something about the case that made Daniel tick. He may be a simpleton, but he’s seen a lot of things. It’s not so easy to unsettle that man.”

A few seconds of silent reading suddenly made him look up at the detective with a triumphant grin. “Aha! Here it is. In the middle of the fight, the man allegedly caught on fire, but there was nothing at the scene that could have driven him to combustion, and with blue flames, no less. That’s when Dan arrived and saw the girl with the aforementioned gun in her hand, watching the poor bloke burn to death.”

He pursed his lips and mulled over the thought. “I must admit, that’s quite impressive. I’ve yet to see a mortal burn with hellfire in Los Angeles.”

“I’m sorry. Hellfire?”

Lucifer shot his partner an excited smile. “Why, yes. If you would look at this photo here,” he flipped to the back of the folder and pointed to a graphic picture of the man loaded inside the ambulance, skin still on fire despite being coated in extinguisher foam. “This fool is clearly being eaten alive by hellfire. Hottest flame in existence, nearly impossible to put out. I should know how it works; it’s one of my preferred methods of torture, after all.”

Chloe raised her eyebrows in a way that usually responded to her partner’s I’m-the-king-of-hell delusions. “Right.”

“I’m not going to lie, I’m really excited to meet this young lady, detective. This might just be our most intriguing case yet.”

The detective merely rolled her eyes as she began patting down the bags in Dan’s desk. “Definitely not a runaway.” She opened up the old suitcase and made note of the clothes and personal toiletries, nothing that said she was escaping her family or moving to a place of permanence. Next, she zipped open the small purse and dug out a boarding pass and some travel documents. “I’d say we’ve got a little tourist in our hands.”

As she scanned over the girl’s passport for any personal information, her eyes widened marginally and she had to shut the little booklet to a close.

“Well, detective? Don’t keep a poor devil waiting.” Lucifer chuckled, making a move to grab the passport from her hands but she quickly turned away and held it farther from his reach. “I’d hardly think this behavior appropriate, Detective.”

“This might not be such a good idea, Lucifer.”

The nightclub owner let out a little huff of annoyance and crossed his arms. “What the heavens are you going on about, woman?”

Chloe dropped down on to Dan’s chair and tried to think logically. She soon found out that it simply wasn’t possible.

(Sabrina Morningstar. Her name is Morningstar. Lucifer said none of his family carried his name, and yet here was a girl sitting in a room a few feet away from them with the same words defining her identity. If it was merely a coincidence, then it was almost too good to be true.)

“Lucifer, I need you to be honest with me.”

“I’m always honest, detective.”

She let a beat pass, then two, before she realized that there was no delaying the inevitable. “Does the name Sabrina mean anything to you?”

(Everything. It meant everything.)

With the mention of her name, Lucifer’s smile quickly faded and in its place was a solemn look. He had to hold on to the back of the detective’s chair as he suddenly found himself winded.

“Lucifer?” Chloe asked, placing a hand on his arm.

He quickly shoved away from her touch and straightened his posture. “I’m fine. I just-” He took a few steps back. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to be here. “I have to go.”

Before the detective could get another word out, her partner was already out the door and driving away from the precinct. With a heavy sigh and about a million unanswered questions swirling in her mind, she got up from the seat and made her way to the interrogation room.

It was about time she met this Ms. Morningstar.

Chapter Text

A quickly-downed glass of whiskey neat, a penthouse enveloped in early evening darkness, and a restless lightbringer in the middle of it all. It was not a normal Thursday night in Los Angeles, and every force in both heaven and hell knew it to be true.

“How could we have been so careless, brother?”

Another move for the nearly-empty bottle. A worried glance. A sharp exhale cutting through the air.

(And just like that, the walls seemed to cave in on themselves, and in their place, the twisted woods of Greendale, awake more than ever on the witching hour of October 31^st. After 16 years, he still remembered. Even after the earth is consumed by sulfur and stone, it would probably be the last thing he forgets.)

“I’m sorry, we?”

There were a lot of things that Amenadiel let his younger brother get away with. Even more so when the eldest angel learned to get away with a few things, himself. But this time around, he was not going to sit still and let Lucifer pass even the tiniest grain of blame onto him, especially when he had warned Samael from the very beginning that his pride would get him in trouble (And it did, didn’t it? First, the fall, and now this).

Lucifer’s narrowed eyes quickly met his brother’s. “I know the fault is mine, but don’t act like you haven’t forgotten. You gave me your word, Amenadiel. And you broke it.”

“I had no choice! Father said I had to watch over you, and that meant following you to earth when you deliberately left behind your place in hell.”

“And you said you would watch over my daughter, but look where we are!”

Amenadiel sighed out loud and quickly got up from his place on the couch, marching up to his brother and grabbing the glass of alcohol from his clenched hand. It was a rare thing to look the devil right in the eyes and stand unflinching through it all, but he supposed a few centuries with divinity gave you the uncanny power. “I try to understand you, Lucifer. I really do. But sometimes, I have to stop and wonder if you truly know what it’s like to put someone else first.”

(A soft cry pierced the silence of the night, and all at once, there was no heaven or hell or mortal plane in between. There was nothing left but her, delicate and beautiful in the flush of new creation, safe but for a moment in her mother’s arms. He wanted to hold her, too; to promise her everything his own father once promised him. But he was tainted and corrupted and all the things she was not to know, not if he had anything to say about it.

There was no question why he left that night. There was no question why he turned his back with no more than a final look and a heavy heart. They assumed that it would end as swiftly as it began. What they didn’t know was how he looked back with every step he took.)

“Trust me, brother,” he snatched back the glass of whiskey and downed it in one sip, the liquid setting his throat on fire in a most welcome way. “I know.”

Amenadiel’s eyes softened and he pulled himself on to one of the bar stools, sitting directly in front of the other angel. In all his years, Lucifer was always the proud, confident one, and it showed in most everything he did. But now, with his head in his hands and slumped over his second bottle of alcohol, he looked nothing like the powerful force of divinity who once dared to defy God, himself.

He looked nothing more than a man. A very tired man who let go of the world (his only world, he would come to realize, when he returned to hell that fateful night and there was no trace of a silver-haired infant whose smile brought him the sweetest, most innocent pain) because he had no choice.

“I’m sorry for what I said. I forgot how difficult this must be for you.” He placed a comforting hand on Lucifer’s shoulder, and the younger angel wanted to scoff at his brother’s misplaced pity. But instead, he decided to swallow whatever sarcastic comment he had planned when he saw the sincerity in Amenadiel’s eyes. It was the same sincerity that convinced him to trust his older brother all those years ago. Now he wondered if he made the right choice.

(“I can’t watch over her from where I am, Amenadiel. Even if I can’t, someone needs to make sure she’s safe. Someone who’ll keep her best interests at heart.”

“Angels don’t interfere with mortal affairs, Luci. You know you’re asking for too much.”

“Well, she’s not mortal, is she?”)

There was absolutely no cause for him to reason with his older brother, none at all. It wasn’t like he still gave a damn of what Amenadiel thought of him. Still, the words fell from his lips before he could choke them down for a few more millennia, and soon, Lucifer found his mouth empty and the air suddenly full.

“I just wanted to be a good father.”

With a questioning quirk of his brow (and what a question it was, to hear his younger brother speak so vulnerably for probably the first time since their youth), the other angel asked softly, “And what makes you think you aren’t?”

Lucifer could only smile dejectedly at the thought. It was one thing to be a relatively normal parent, raising a relatively normal child. It was another thing altogether to be the literal devil, watching his half-angel daughter grow from afar. In retrospect, it sounded like the punch line of a bad joke, but as it happened, there was no humour in the hand he’s been dealt. “Well, for one, I’ve had a rather shitty role model.”

“Must you always be so harsh towards Father?”

(How was that even a question?)

“Yes,” Lucifer looked at his brother like he was talking the most profound nonsense on earth. “How could I not? The petty bastard abandoned me in a fiery inferno because of a single mistake.”

Amenadiel regarded Lucifer thoughtfully. “And you think that makes him a bad father?”

 “Among other things.”

The older angel leaned back against his seat. “But aren’t you doing the same thing with Sabrina?”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Lucifer’s brows knitted at the absolute audacity. “I may not be the best at raising my child, but I am leagues away from Dad’s horrible parenting.”

“Think about it. At the very least, Dad abandoned you because you were in open rebellion against him. But despite all that, you know deep in your heart that he’ll hear you out on the off chance you call.  What about your daughter? She doesn’t even know there’s a father she can reach out to.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes at Amenadiel, but the other merely shrugged, looking wholly pleased with himself. “You know I stayed away for a reason. It was for her own good.” Another sip of liquid fire, another reminder of the things he left behind (but it’s not too late to return to them, either). “It’s different.”

Amenadiel raised his arms up in surrender, though in the back of his mind, he knew he got to Luci. It was an utter shame that his brother was as stubborn as they come, but if Lucifer only learned to accept that even he made the wrong call every once in a while, then perhaps the whole debacle would have been over and done with a long time ago. Still, Amenadiel was not one to fight a losing battle.

He pursed his lips. “If you say so, brother.”

There was something off about the other angel’s tone that set Lucifer on edge. “I’m telling you, it is.”

“And I’m agreeing with you,” Amenadiel argued unconvincingly.

An unsure glance into his brother’s eyes. A reluctant nod of the head at the truth (or rather, the lack of it) that he saw.

“Alright.” Lucifer shifted in his seat and regarded Amenadiel’s saccharine smile with an uneasy frown. He turned back to his empty drink, nursing it in his hands while his mind settled into a newfound storm. “Good.”

It was most definitely not good.

Quite the opposite, actually. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, but Lucifer found himself unhinged at Amenadiel’s impromptu foray into clinical psychology (Although what did he expect, really? The guy was sleeping with a therapist, for Dad’s sake), so much so that he found himself driving back to the precinct at breakneck speed not five minutes after their little chat.

Detective Decker was pleasantly surprised that her partner was back so quickly after his dramatic exit. Usually, when he takes off out of the blue, he doesn’t return till the next day, probably with some wild sex story and a box of unintentionally-illegal donuts in tow. This time, however, he didn’t look as put together as he normally did. Granted, he seemed somewhat calmer than he was when he left, but there was a trace of tension in every move he made, subtle as it was.

“Hey, Lucifer.” She tried to send him a kind smile, but his eyes refused to meet hers, instead roaming all over the place as if looking for something he couldn’t find. For a split second, she wondered if he was pumped full of drugs again, but she quickly shook the thought away. She saw how he reacted earlier when she brought up the teenage girl’s name. There was no question that all this had something to do with her. “What happened to you? Are you okay?”

Still scanning the precinct for any sign of his daughter, Lucifer quickly brushed off the questions. “I promise I’ll explain myself another time, detective. But right now, I’m not here as your partner, hard as it is to believe.”

“You’re not?” Chloe tilted her head in confusion.

With a tight smile, Lucifer nodded. “Normally, you wouldn’t catch me dead in this place outside of my work hours. But as it happens, I’m here as a concerned citizen instead of an outstanding civilian consultant.”

The detective almost scoffed at the thought, but she decided to hold it back with a bite of her tongue (if she had to bite down hard enough to draw blood just to keep a straight face, then she had to take it in stride as an occupational hazard). “Oh. And what exactly are you concerned about?”

Lucifer finally stopped his pacing and straightened up, eyes meeting hers in full seriousness. “My daughter has been unjustly detained, and I’m here to bring her home.”

All at once, the stack of folders in the detective’s hands dropped to the ground, and even as hundreds of pages of confidential case files pooled at her feet, she stood unmoving, mouth slightly ajar. Faintly, she could make out Lucifer mouthing a few words in concern, but none of them found their way into her ears. In fact, a serial killer could have waved a gun in her face, and she would have been none the wiser.

She didn’t know what she expected, but it definitely wasn’t this.

Chapter Text

“If you’re quite done with your dramatics, Detective,” Lucifer sighed with arms crossed, patience dwindling by the minute. He didn’t break at least ten different traffic laws on the way to the precinct just to have the detective harass him with annoying questions at the very last second (who knew medicine tasted a lot like irony?).

Chloe was currently sprawled out on her chair, fearing that her legs would give way if she tried to stand up. Most of her partner’s so-called “secrets” were ridiculous at best (“I am the literal devil, detective.” “Sure you are.”), but she was used to them. This, though? This had to be the biggest bombshell he’s ever dropped, and worst of all, it actually made sense.

“I don’t believe this,” Chloe breathed out, probably for the third time in the past ten minutes (not that Lucifer was counting...or internally calculating the repercussions of just storming past the Detective and dragging Sabrina home).

Lucifer closed his eyes, counted to ten. When he opened them, his amusement was still running dry and he internally cursed the self-help pamphlets scattered around Linda’s office. “Yes, you’ve made that very clear.”

“I mean,” Chloe laughed in disbelief. “You hate children.”

“Detective.”

“And I think you would have mentioned a daughter after two years of working together.”

“Detective.”

“Besides, I’ve met the girl. She said she has no relatives in L.A.”

“Detective.”

“I mean, just the idea of you as a father is really unsettling.”

Something in her tone of voice, or perhaps the barely-held amusement in her eyes as she convinced herself it was all a joke, struck a chord within the growingly-impatient devil, and it didn’t sit well with him at all. It was one thing to find humor in his truth (whether or not she believed them was besides the question), but it was another thing altogether to have her make assumptions about his ability to raise his own child.

“I do hope you’ve got nothing more to say, Detective, because I have had enough.”

Sensing the shift in his voice and the unbridled irritation on his features, the rest of Chloe’s words died in her throat and she swivelled around in her chair to face him. “Come on, you cannot be serious about all this.”

He raised a taunting brow, unimpressed. “Try me.”

The detective waited for the inevitable dirty one-liner to follow (the opening was practically served on a silver platter), but it never came. Something was wrong. Horribly, painstakingly wrong.

It wasn’t rare for Lucifer to pull the odd prank every once in a while, but every time he did, it was always so easy to see that he had something up his sleeve. Whether it was the way he buzzed with excitement, or the delighted glint in his eyes that he never bothered to hide, he had a tell that was unsubtle enough to be caught by the untrained eye. Now, though, standing stiff as a board with arms crossed, emotions schooled into something impassive and borderline hostile, his usual tells were nowhere to be found. Chloe shivered as the thought finally dawned on her that she might have been laughing at a non-existent joke.

“Okay, you’ve got me. You can drop the act now,” she chuckled, unsure. (God, let this be a long-overdue April Fools prank.)

He shook his head and exhaled in exasperation. “Oh, no one’s acting, Detective. Acting foolish, maybe, but it definitely isn’t me. Now if you’re too immature to help,” he swiped Sabrina’s file from the desk and began to scan through any new developments. Chloe quickly wrestled it from his grip and he narrowed his gaze. “I’m not one to get on my knees and beg.”

The detective tucked the file under her arm and sighed out loud. “Look, if what you’re saying is true,” her eyes shot up to meet his, and he promptly looked away in indignation (she should have known by now that he never lied). She stood up from the chair and straightened her blazer. It was preposterous (and still probably a prank), but she would have to trust him. Lucifer was her partner, and that should have been enough. “I’m with you on this. One hundred percent.”

“I swear to Dad, if you start laughing again…”

She looked at him with as much sincerity as she could muster. “Hey, I won’t. Okay?”

He opened his mouth, strung together a few choice words that would have deserved a separate circle in hell, but ultimately stopped himself before the venom could fall from his tongue. (The last thing he wanted was another mistake to regret in the morning.) Drawing in a shaky breath and counting to ten (and twenty and thirty and forty), he nodded his head once and cleared a path to the interrogation room.

 “Very well. Let’s just get this over with.”

It seemed very simple in hindsight. Waltz into the precinct, sign some random documents, and then bring Sabrina home (although the location of said place was still up for debate). What he failed to consider in his spur-of-the-moment decision-making, however, was probably the most significant part of the whole equation: actually meeting his daughter.

Lucifer never thought the day would come, if he was being honest (and he’s always honest). It was always just a passing thought that tied him up in metaphorical knots before he would brush it away, fearing the mental and emotional repercussions of entertaining an impossible idea for too long. A child’s fancy, it seemed like; a lingering, innocent hope for something that would never come.

Except it was finally here and he was not prepared at the slightest.

“Lucifer,” Chloe’s voice seemed to permeate through his rigid wall of thoughts, and after blinking his eyes for a few moments, he registered the sight of her knitted brows and tapping foot. “Are you even listening?”

He quickly shook any other stubborn thoughts away and ran a hand through his hair, already dishevelled after the day’s exhaustion. “Yes, sorry,” he tried giving her an attentive smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes the way it used to. “You were saying?”

“I was saying,” the detective said pointedly, giving him an odd look. Her eyes were soon averted as she glanced back to the folder in her hands. “The officers already interviewed the witnesses, and they all testified that it was the man who harassed her and brought out the gun in the first place. The suspect, an Oliver Hayes, just woke up from his emergency surgery for third-degree burns. He claims that Sabrina was the one who set him on fire, though forensics already checked the scene and couldn’t find any trace of something that could have ignited him. Witnesses also confirmed that the girl never touched Oliver.”

Third-degree burns. The little girl Lucifer knew was the sweetest salt of the earth. She had strong, unique magic, that much he could remember, but everything she did with it was nothing short of beautiful. He distinctly recalled quiet summer afternoons when she would practice simple herbology spells in her aunt’s greenhouse, unfurling flower petals with a twirl of her fingers before closing them back up again. Granted, that was a long time ago, back when she was just barely starting to read and life was simpler (as much as the devil’s life could be simple, really).

Now his daughter was sixteen and summoning hellfire, a feat that required the darkest of thoughts and the deepest of hatred. He felt a pang of guilt echo throughout his already twisted, acid-drenched insides. (Who ruined my darling girl while I wasn’t looking?)

“Anyway,” Chloe continued, closing the file back up. “We don’t have enough evidence to keep her here anymore, so she’s free to go. She just needs a parent or guardian to sign her out since she’s a minor. That’s where you come in, I guess.”

“Yes, I believe so,” Lucifer mumbled absently, though his mind was elsewhere. (What exactly did he miss while he was in Los Angeles?)

The detective nodded her head. “Alright, then. I’ll just get the paperwork together.” She moved to turn away, but paused at the last second and gave her partner a little nudge to the side. “You know, if you want to talk to her, she’s just through the door.”

With one last encouraging smile, she was gone. Alone with his thoughts for probably the first time that damned (blessed) day, Lucifer drew in a shaky breath and looked to the ceiling. It was nothing spectacular, just the normal set of cobweb-covered boards and foggy fluorescent lights. But for the briefest second, the pristine white paint reminded him of home (his real home, with the stars and the silence), and he thought of calling for his Father (I’m not strong like you). Almost as soon as it came, though, the idea slipped through his fingers much like everything fleeting and unsure in the world, and he lowered his gaze back to the floor (But why would I want to be like you?).

He counted to ten, to twenty, to fifty.

(There’s no running away anymore).

He pushed the doors open.

“Are you letting me go now?”

It was the first time in all his life that he’d ever heard her voice, he realized, once he shut the door behind him and the girl looked up from her solitude in surprise. There was only so much Amenadiel’s stories could tell, but eloquent as his brother’s words were, they never did capture the wonder of everything she was.

For instance, he was never told how her eyes were bright and endless as a starless night, how her skin shone like porcelain even in the dimly-lit room. How could his brother possibly describe the angel wing white of her hair? The delicate resolve in the way she carried herself, determined and unafraid? She was ineffable, really. A creation too radiant for words (and you said I could only create destruction, father).

At just the right angle, under just the right light, she looked so much like Diana that he had to wonder if he was actually met with Sabrina, and not her mother’s ghost come back to haunt him. (He owed that woman everything, and he never even got to thank her. Maybe in the next life, when everything has been said and done.)

He stepped closer to the table with small steps, slow and measured, not quite eager to let the moment slip from his fingers too soon. Sabrina watched his every move with careful eyes (she knows better than to leave strange men unguarded), and he did the same. When was the last time he saw her in the flesh, breathing and brilliant and being? It must’ve been too long ago, when she was but a babe in her mother’s arms in the woods.

Finally, when she was close enough to touch, he felt his arms ache with the urge to gather her up and never let go (I should’ve held you when I had the chance), but he remembered himself, all that he was, and all that he was not. He lost the right to reach for her when he walked away the first time.

He stopped at the edge of the table and pulled a seat for himself. “Hello, child.”

The young witch regarded the man curiously, trying to read into his soul with a sharp look that should have told her everything, but for once, her mind came at a blank. Perhaps her magic was prone to exhaustion, as well (or she just didn’t know that her powers did little against the man who passed them on to her in the first place). Still, it did not deter her at the slightest, and she simply leaned back against the chair with her arms crossed, setting her gaze apprehensively on her newfound companion.

“The detective said we were done. I should be on my way to a hotel by now or something, not trapped in this room playing staring games with you.”

She spoke with a surprising bite that her father did not expect, though he could not bring himself to be cross, not when her spite sounded so familiar.

“You must be so tired.” The devil’s words were dipped in sympathy, and she hated how pitiful he made her sound. The way he took note of the weariness of her shoulders and the dark circles under her eyes didn’t escape the girl, and she had the sense that the man across from her wasn’t just referring to the events of the day.

She hummed in response, gave him a critical look. “Maybe I am. But I don’t see how it’s any of your business, anyway.”

“Oh, my dear,” Lucifer chuckled. “It is my business. More than anyone’s.”

At this, the witch’s eyebrows knitted together and she leaned in closer, scanning his face for anything that would give him away. It was not often that you would meet a person who could be confident, anxious, and sad all at once. But somehow, the man across from her was able to be all three.

She spoke in a low breath, the beginnings of a threat coloring her voice. “Who are you?”

Lucifer kept his facade calm, movements measured. But inside, his head was spinning too fast for him to keep up. (Doesn’t she already know? She took his name, set out to Los Angeles. Why else would she be here?). He tried to find any trace of a lie in the way she moved, the way her steel-like gaze narrowed ever so slightly at him. Still, there was nothing but an honest question in her eyes, and how could he not oblige her with an answer? For someone who loved the truth so much, it was a wonder how he had gone sixteen years hiding from it.

“I’m Lucifer Morningstar.”

Her mouth drew into a tight line, and she set her features into something cold and unamused. He didn’t know if it was just him, but Lucifer felt as if the lights inside the room had gone a bit dimmer. “You should really know better than to lie.”

“I’m not lying,” he urged, meeting the silent rage in her eyes with a patience he didn’t know he had.

“And why should I believe you? You’re nobody to me.”

(But you’re everything to me).

Lucifer sighed out loud, lowered his head. He was sure it would be difficult, but all he knew at that moment was a unique agony that no circle in hell could replicate. But then again, he had already come so far (never in a million years would he have imagined being in the same room with her, let alone talking to her face to face). He was not about to give up on her now.

“You may not know me,” he stared deep into her dark eyes (so very much like his own), and hoped that she would see his sincerity, his pain, anything at all. “But I know you.”

Sabrina pursed her lips and let the silence stretch between them. This man had a way of dragging things on for far too long, and she did not appreciate it at the slightest.

“Funny,” she finally uttered, though her tone held no humour in it. “I knew a Lucifer Morningstar once. Not a nice man at all. Now I detest the very name.”

She leaned in closer, as if telling a secret. All the while, a smile so obviously forced, yet threateningly sweet rested on her face. “I think you’d understand how unwise it is to even mention it in my presence.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes at her, tried to make sense of the things she said. (Another Lucifer Morningstar? It wasn’t possible.) “What are you talking about?”

The girl smirked and leaned back against her chair, arms crossed smugly. “Like I said, it’s none of your business.” She raised a brow. “Still think you know me?”

She may have looked like her mother, but her stubbornness, her pride, it was all his. Lucifer wanted to be mad, but he soon found that he couldn’t. There must have been another way to get to her, short of unveiling his wings and bringing out his devil face.

Suddenly, a thought came to mind, stemming from a certain book he spotted amidst her belongings earlier in the day. It could have very well been a futile gesture, but it was all he had at the moment.

“Ek ken vir jou. Vertrou vir my, kind. (I know you. Trust me, I do.)”

Sabrina was taken aback. In all honesty, she thought nothing more of the man than another infuriating investigator who wanted to give her a hard time because of her name (the Chloe woman earlier sure couldn’t move past it), but when he started speaking the most smooth, fluent Lilim she’s ever heard, she had to step back and wonder who it truly was who sat across from her.

“Wat is jy? (What are you?)” She answered back, brows furrowed.

Lucifer couldn’t help but sigh in relief, glad that they were finally getting somewhere. Granted, he didn’t have the faintest clue when his daughter began to grasp hell’s de facto language so effortlessly, but the thought gave him the slightest hint of pride, all the same.

“Ek veronderstel dat ons die selfde is. (Same as you, I suppose.)”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Is jy ń Oorlogsluit dan? (A warlock, then?)”

Lucifer glanced at the watch on his wrist, took note of the time quickly passing by. He needed her to agree to come with him before the Detective could come back with the paperwork and notice how the two were too unfamiliar to be family. 

He shook his head, gave her an apologetic look. “Dit is 'n verhaal vir 'n ander tyd, my kind. (It’s a story for another time, child.)”

Sabrina gave a little huff of annoyance, but began to ponder on a new thought forming in the back of her mind. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that she ran into someone else with extensive knowledge of hell in the few hours she spent in Los Angeles. Even in Greendale, the magical allies she had were few and far in between, most all of them off to tie up their own loose ends. She didn’t know what game fate was playing at, but if she wanted to march back into the underworld and free Nick, she needed all the help she could get.

“Can you get me out of here?” She asked in her normal voice, tone shifting to something raw and vulnerable. Lucifer’s heart warmed at the thought. From the moment they met, she had been nothing but guarded and cold (and understandably so), but he hoped that she would soon realize that she had no need for such precautions anymore, not when he was there to keep her safe now.

He gave her a small smile, kind and tender in a way only a father could give his child (though he never remembered his own father ever looking at him like that). “Why else would I have come?”

Her face broke out into a grin, bright and untamed, and the universe was suddenly golden. “Then we have all the time in the world.”

Chapter Text

Sabrina didn’t question it.

When the well-dressed stranger with the surprisingly gentle eyes signed her out of the precinct under the guise of her father (she was yet to be sure if he actually shared the same name with her deplorable dad; if so, it was a coincidence too great for words), she didn’t say a thing, even as the exasperated detective sorted through the paperwork and took in the sight of her with an unspoken hesitance, even as the unfamiliar man (though she could have sworn she knew him, that the goosebumps she felt when she first saw him had nothing to do with the cold) led her to an expensive car parked outside the building and drove them through the darkness of early evening LA.

The city lights all seemed to blur together as she stared straight ahead at the road, eyes unseeing as her mind found itself wandering back to Greendale, to everything she left behind. Was it selfish of her, to just pack her things and go? To abandon the war when it was still far from over? She knew she never left; not fully, not really. Because even as she found her body maneuvered through foreign streets in a vintage black car, her heart was in hell, her spirit was with the Spellmans, and her mind was on her father, relentlessly working to unravel the tapestry of deceit he wove around her existence. She leaned back against her seat and closed her eyes.

One week. That was all the time she would give to put her plan together, before she came marching back home to end the fight herself. If she still didn’t make sense of things by then, she would nonetheless find a way to hell, armed with nothing but a deadly union of hatred (for her father and his wickedness) and love (for Nick, for her family, for all of witchkind), bowing down to no evil but her own. But then again, what was the power of her fury against the very entity that passed it on to her? Her rage had to have come from somewhere, and it wasn’t from her mother.

She opened her eyes again and drew in a shaky breath. Peace did not have a place in her life, but it didn’t mean she never longed for it all the same.

The silence she was just beginning to embrace was suddenly broken as the strange man beside her (Lucifer Morningstar, if what he says is true) finally gave life to a question that occupied his mind ever since the two met.

“Would you have gone?” He asked, brows furrowed, voice quiet so as not to shatter the stillness completely, though colored with an unbridled curiosity.

She shifted in her seat to face him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he explained, eyes darting to her for the briefest of moments, “if I hadn’t come for you, would you have stayed at the station all night? We both know you could have just walked out of there if you wanted. I doubt a few sets of locked doors could have held you back.”

Sabrina pondered the question for a second, only having thought about it for the first time. In reality, there was no defining moment where she sat herself down on the plain interrogation room chair and decided to wait for her saving grace (though the man driving the sleek Corvette with anxious eyes and restless movements wasn’t particularly graceful, if you asked her). She just did. After a few beats of silence, she surprised even herself by shaking her head no.

“I don’t think I would’ve,” she admitted, forehead creased as she finally came to an answer. “I’ve broken enough rules for one day. I don’t think running into more trouble would’ve done me any good.”

“A bit of a troublemaker, are we?”

She scoffed, turned her gaze back to the speeding scenery. “It’s a bit hard to avoid the things that always follow you around.”

Lucifer stole a glance at her face, saw how heavily exhaustion set on her shoulders, her eyes. She was a runner, his daughter; chased by her innate darkness from one heartache to the next. It made a lot of sense, though. Her father was a runner, too.

He gave her a sad smile (how fitting it was that they were the only ones who understood each other’s pain). “I couldn’t have said it better, myself.”

If the strange man with the pained eyes seemed to be locked in a battle with grief even greater than her own, Sabrina didn’t question it, either.

Their drive ended at Sunset Boulevard, at a lavish nightclub called Lux. Stepping out of the car, Sabrina trailed after Lucifer (yet another thing she was yet to question) who headed straight for the entrance doors, past the pooling patrons and velvet ropes.

“I don’t really think a bar is the best place to be right now,” Sabrina called out, frowning as she stepped past the large bouncer who kept giving her a critical eye. It was easy to forget that humans looked down on teenagers going into establishments like this, especially when Dorian’s Gray Room had its doors open to her whenever she pleased.

“Don’t worry, I own this club,” Lucifer answered over his shoulder, still pushing past the swarm of sweaty, dancing bodies straight ahead. “It’s the safest place we can talk.”

It was a fair sentiment, Sabrina could agree. Talks of hell, witches, and dark arts weren’t the types of things to discuss in public. Conquering the crowds, the pair stopped in front of a single elevator.

Lucifer pressed the button going up. “We’ll have to head up to my penthouse. It’s quieter there.”

Though the man had been nothing but warm and patient ever since they met, Sabrina was yet to trust him (sometimes, she felt as though she forgot what the word even meant). She gave him a sidelong glance. “I’m grateful for what you did for me today, but if you try anything funny-”

He cut off the rest of her words with a sharp look, alarm seeping into his tone. (The thought of anyone laying hands on her against her will pushed him over the edge.) “Why? Has anyone tried anything funny with you before?”

She broke away from his probing gaze, eyes downcast as she pursed her lips. (Her thoughts drifted back to being stripped naked in front of the entire coven, exposed in the most vulnerable way to hordes of witches and warlocks who knew her body before she knew their names. If anyone dared touch her then, she would’ve unleashed hell unknown to any of them. But in the end, their skin didn’t even have to meet hers; witch mark or not, she was branded all the same. It was a shame that Hilda only arrived when everything had been said and done.)

The girl sighed, a faraway sadness in her breath. “The funniest.”

Lucifer couldn’t even begin to imagine what his daughter meant, but he assumed the worst. He clenched his fist in anger, yet calmed himself enough to keep it at his side. Now was the time for reunions and reconciliations; rampage had no place in the picture (not this soon, at least). Whoever hurt her would have to wait (soon, reckoning would come and its name will be Morningstar).

“Well, you don’t have to worry anymore,” he uttered, voice barely above a whisper. She turned around to face him at the softly-spoken words. The devil returned her inquiring look with a small smile. “You’re safe with me.”

She regarded the words with deep thought, but never got the chance to respond as the pristine elevator doors parted open just then. Still, as the two stepped inside, Lucifer could have sworn he heard a faintly-mumbled “I hope so,” before the doors slid shut behind them once more.

Chapter Text

Lucifer needed a drink. Hell, he needed ten (and maybe a line or two of cocaine). His heart was pounding, his head wasn’t in the right place, and the remorse churning in his gut was an acid straight out of the sulphur sea. As the doors slid open to his penthouse, though, he thought better of it (the full brunt of his devilishness and drug addiction seemed a bit much to unload on his spawn in one night), and resigned himself to a spot on the Italian leather settee, instead.

He half-expected Sabrina to follow suit, but he couldn’t say he was surprised when her first few steps took her to the bar instead. A rocks glass was already in her hand as she ran her fingers over the ornate bottles before settling on an aged whiskey (he couldn’t decide if it was misery or irony that she went for the same drink he had earlier in the night).

“You don’t mind, do you?” she asked, gaze seeking his in silent question just before her hands were set to pour.

A frown set deep into her father’s brow as a silent apprehension clouded over his features. “I’d rather you didn’t poison yourself so soon,” he chided, tone fixed into something final. (She was sixteen, a child – his child. It was out of the question). But he saw the subtle twitch of her fingers, the way they snaked around the bottleneck like a lifeline (something told him that liquor was her friend just as much as it was his). The sting of alcohol down her throat stole the trouble from her mind, if only for a moment, and he understood the need. It was why he built his earthly empire out of drinks and debauchery in the first place.

She set the bottle down with a dejected glance (her thoughts were beginning to overflow, and they needed to be drowned. Ever since things went to hell – quite literally – a strong drink was usually all it took to ease her back), and Lucifer sighed aloud. “But if you must,” he gestured for her to go on with a wave of his hand (just this once, he would give her this), “then don’t let me stop you.”

“Just one,” she promised, lips pulled tight into something sullen, something grateful. Filling her cup to the brim (she never said exactly how much that one drink would be), she made her way to the living room, settling in the seat across from his. Not a moment later, the girl held up her glass in a silent toast, before tilting her head back as she took a large sip.

“It’s not a way out – drinking. I know that,” she clarified, eyebrows knitted together as she set the glass down on the table. She had no idea where the sudden need to defend herself came from (not when the man in front of her didn’t seem the least bit judgemental), yet it was a safety, she supposed, another wall she was in no hurry to tear down just yet. “But it’s something.”

Lucifer nodded, familiar with the escape of one good drink. (He kept her at arm’s length all her life, and she still managed to follow in his footsteps. He didn’t know how to feel about that.) “And something is better than nothing,” he whispered back.

She merely hummed in response, leaning back against the smooth fabric of the couch. A beat passed, then two (Lucifer couldn’t stand the baited silence no matter how much he tried), before she finally put her father’s misery to an end when she breathed out the one question that stood between them the whole night. “Why did you bail me out?”

(Because no one was coming for you. Because I thought you didn’t need me, but maybe you do. Because I’m the reason you’re hurting, and you deserve better than being abandoned a second time. Because it breaks my heart to see you lost and alone, and how in the world could I stay away after all of this?)

“You needed help,” he answered, short and clipped and not quite a lie (though the truth ran deeper than he cared to admit). “I just happened to be there.”

Sabrina paused, considered his words for a second, before nodding her head once. It took all of her willpower not to touch the half-filled glass on the table. “Would you help me again?”

Lucifer’s eyes softened (if only she knew that she never had to ask). “As much as you need me to.”

She didn’t quite know him, didn’t quite trust him (yet everything inside of her was telling her to), and if she had to back away, now would be the time to do it. She could have simply thanked him for his time, took the elevator downstairs, hailed a cab to the airport and flew back to Greendale with not so much as a second glance back.

But she didn’t.

Sabrina Spellman (Morningstar) knew what she wanted, and she wanted a fighting chance. And if fate was going to take away all of her allies, then by God, she would find a new one.  It wasn’t a mere coincidence that he was sitting right across from her at that very moment.

She took a deep breath, thought it over once, thought it over twice (though it was fruitless when her mind was already made). This would be the moment that would put everything back together.

“I need you to take me to hell.”

This time, it was her father’s hands that reached for the whiskey on the table.

“Oh, you don’t know what you’re asking for, little girl.” By then, Lucifer had moved to the balcony, cigarette in hand as he stared out at the fading city lights. It was this kind of peace, this kind of stillness, that made the world difficult to leave. He brought the tobacco to his lips, the nicotine filling every nook and cranny of all that he was before he let it out in a slow breath. The smoke scattered with the wind and blew across the night air. “Hell is not what you think it is.”

Sabrina did not like the way he spoke to her, as if she was some child asking for a toy that couldn’t be bought. He had no idea what she went through, what she was going to go through all over again, and yet he acted as if he knew better. She abandoned her place on the couch and marched out into the cold evening breeze to join her father, jaw set in determination. “I know what’s there. I know what’s waiting on the other side,” she ground out, brows furrowing in insistence. “I can handle it.”

Lucifer sighed and put his cigarette out, turning to face her completely (if her stubbornness was anything like his, it was best to get her delusions over and done with before they got out of hand). “All right, I’ll play along. Let’s pretend you know all about the horrors of hell, and are fully ready to face its consequences,” he looked her right in the eyes, just daring her to prove him wrong. “What makes you think I can – and will – bring you there?”

Sabrina crossed her arms, stared him down (the way only a stone cold witch raised by Zelda Spellman could do). When he didn’t so much as flinch, she knew right then and there that she was dealing with the best of them.

“Look, I can see you have some sort of powers. And you speak hell’s language so flawlessly, which not even our high priest could do. You and I both know you’ve been there before.” She broke away from his gaze and let out an exasperated breath, setting her sights on the skyline, instead (the glass towers probably wouldn’t take much convincing to stand with her). “Besides, I’ve opened its gates once. I’m sure I could do it again, I just need to figure out how.”

Lucifer almost wished he had a drink in hand just so he could spit it back out. (It didn't help that she looked so sure of herself, looked as if cracking open the gates of hell was just another Wednesday morning).

"You mean,” he tightened his jaw, trying his best to be patient but edging closer to temperament with every passing breath. (He promised himself long ago that his daughter would never live to see the flames of the pit, would never know of its agony. To find out that she had already experienced it first-hand was to negate the very reason he stayed away in the first place.) “You’ve been to hell?”

She shook her head, a faraway look on her face. “No, I never went inside. Just saw a glimpse, but that was all.”

“And?” Her father urged, somewhat appeased but unsettled still. “Did you like what you saw? Enough that you want to do it again?”

Sabrina had the sense that she was playing a losing game, and no matter what she said, her dark-haired companion wouldn’t understand. It took everything in her not to pull her hair in frustration, in fear of being mistaken for a petulant child (and even if she did have a certain notoriety for petulance in the past, it would do everyone well not to bring it up). “It’s not like that, okay? I’m not going there to have the time of my life. I’m risking my life because someone down there did me dirty, and I’m gonna make them pay.”

“You think that’s all your life is worth? Revenge?” He looked at her incredulously. “You have no idea the lengths people have gone through to see you unharmed, and you’re throwing it away. And for what? A chance to get back at someone who’s already well on their way to damnation?”

Sabrina pursed her lips, gave him a hard glare. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her father pointed a finger back at her. “That’s where you’re wrong, darling. I know all about retribution. Heavens, it’s all I did for the past millennia. And let me tell you, there’s no sense in getting even with the dead. If the person you’re after is already in hell, I assure you, they will be paying for their sins tenfold. I can make sure of that.” He noticed his voice growing in volume with every word he spoke, and brought it back down before his temper could get the best of him (which was particularly difficult, not just with his daughter’s relentlessness, but with the thought of anyone having hurt her without his knowledge).

He calmed himself with a deep breath and looked at her, eyes imploring. “Please, child, spare yourself the trouble. Whatever needs to be done, let me take care of it. Trust me, nobody is worth going to hell for.”

Convinced that he has said his piece (and delivered it well enough to render the girl speechless), he turned his back to her, footfalls taking him inside as he sought out a much-needed drink. It was nice to see that his innate powers of persuasion haven’t surrendered to time just yet. Before he could get past the balcony doors, however, her voice suddenly pierced through the newly-settled silence, stopping him dead in his tracks.

“My father,” she called out.

(The sulphur in his stomach was burning more than ever, and he was out of words.)

Lucifer swung back around to face her, a hesitancy shrouding his worn features. “What did you say?”

Sabrina blew out a low breath. “My father is worth going to hell for. He built my life into some sort of charade and took away everything from me. And I don’t care if he’s already in the abyss, he’s still not dead.” She met his eyes then, and though he knew the beautiful, destructive rage kindled in them was not pointed at him, he feared for her (all that she was, and all she was to become) just the same. “And I won’t rest until he is.”

He never meant to lie to her, to keep things from her. Somewhere along the way, it just seemed safer to shield her from whatever it was that could bring her pain (yet he already caused her suffering, whether she knew it or not, and there was no sense in keeping out the light any longer). He walked back out into the night air to join her, bracing himself for the coming torrent all the while. Stopping in front of her, his eyes met hers in a hesitant glance. “Darling, your father is not where you think he is.”

The girl almost laughed at the thought (as if all their efforts were fruitless; as if she surrendered Nicholas, her life, her family for nothing). “No, he’s in hell. I made sure of it.”

It was inevitable. He was going to break her heart all over again, but it needed to be done. (It didn’t mean he was all too eager to do it either way.) “Sabrina…” he trailed off.

Whatever amusement she held ran dry when she heard him speak her name for the very first time all evening. There was a remorse to it, a trepidation, that steeled her insides and made her doubt everything she was ever sure of. (But then again, how could he know, how could he possibly know, when she, herself, didn’t know a thing about him?) “He is down there…isn’t he?”

(He’d been dreading the thought all evening, perhaps all these sixteen years, come to think of it, but time and circumstance had never been kind to him, and he didn’t expect either one to help him now). Lucifer drew in a shaky breath. “I think it’s best if you sat down. There’s something you need to know.”

Chapter Text

TWO YEARS AGO

“Amenadiel, brother,” Lucifer called out with a barely-contained grin as he glimpsed the angel wings swiftly descending into the pit. “What brings you here? I would’ve cleaned up had I known you were coming.”

Maze scoffed from where she stood, leaning upright against the throne he sat in. “Please, as if you weren’t looking forward to this day all year.” She rolled her eyes as she kicked a wayward skull away from her feet. “Make it quick, Amenadiel. Some of us don’t have the luxury of stopping time before we’re decayed maggot bait.”

Lucifer eyed her critically. “Mazikeen, no one forced you to be here. If you don’t play nice, you’re more than welcome to go back to those nice, fat terrorists you were blowing up earlier.”

Tempting as the thought was (there was a tenderness to the way they screamed; she would have guessed they’d have made better ballads than bombs), the demon stood her ground. Though left unsaid, both she and Lucifer knew that she counted down the days to every October 31^st as much as he did. She blew out a low breath and narrowed her gaze, but ground out an exasperated “Fine,” nonetheless.

Amenadiel tucked away his wings as he marched up to his brother’s throne, a smug smile fixed on his face. He nodded towards hell’s most feared demon as he neared the stone steps. “Always a pleasure, Mazikeen.”

 Maze snarled in response but said nothing more.

The older angel turned towards Lucifer, and the devil raised a brow in anticipation. “Well, get on with it. I don’t have all day.”

Amenadiel shook his head as a slight chuckle escaped his lips. “I thought you were playing nice?”

“No, Maze is playing nice. You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

“Well, I am overwhelmed with gratitude,” he replied with a tight smile. The angel pulled out a stack of photographs and passed them on to his little brother. “You’re lucky Hilda doesn’t make a fuss over these missing pictures. She just keeps assuming she lost them and prints out new copies.”

“Yes, all well and good,” Lucifer muttered absently. He couldn’t be faulted for it, though. As his eyes took in the faded sight of his child printed on the little sheets of paper (the only way he could see her, watch her grow over time), he was overwhelmed with an uncanny emotion, the same one that struck him on her birthday every year. On one hand, there was nothing he wouldn’t give to be the one who spent every day with her, dressing her up for dances, spoiling her with ice cream dates, and taking the same old photographs that he held in his hands. On the other, he knew that this was as close as he could go without ruining her. (The thought should’ve left him at peace, but when everything was said and done, the pictures tucked away, and his brother back watching over Sabrina from above, it only left an echoing emptiness that should have numbed him more than it did).

“Not such a little princess anymore, is she?” Maze mumbled, peering over his shoulder to look at a photograph of Sabrina biking through the park with her friends, a small smile on the demon’s face (Lucifer had to check if hell was freezing over, but thankfully, its fiery walls were still intact).

He sighed and passed her the rest of the stack. “No, I guess not.”

Amenadiel clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a kind, reassuring look. “There’s nothing to worry about, Luci. She’s a good, happy child, and the Spellmans are raising her well. Her intelligence is unparalleled at school, she’s doing exceptionally in controlling her powers, and all her friends adore her. I’d dare say you’ve got a little angel in your hands.”

Mazikeen made a loud noise from the back of her throat as she flipped to a new photo. “Define angelic for me, would you, Amenadiel?” The picture in question painted a very quaint scene of Sabrina kissing a red-faced Harvey Kinkle under the mistletoe. The lack of knives in Maze’s fingers suddenly felt like a phantom limb. “This is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Now, now, Mazikeen, let’s not get carried away,” Lucifer snatched the photo from her grip and tried not to grimace at the sight of his sweet girl making out with a boy. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation for whatever this is. Amenadiel?”

The older angel nodded his head. “Of course. It’s all very simple, really. Hanging mistletoe is a human custom where-”

“Nevermind. This sort of thing is obviously beyond you,” Lucifer exhaled, defeat coloring his tone. “Let’s just move on to less confusing things. Maze!”

Not a second later, the woman appeared with a little black kitten in her hands, a red bow tied around its neck. “For her sixteenth birthday,” Maze hissed in Amenadiel’s direction, unsubtle with her annoyance over the photograph. If she had been watching Sabrina, boys would have begged and screamed and writhed before they could even touch the heir of hell. With a narrowed gaze, she shoved the animal into his arms and stalked back to her place beside the throne.

“Sixteenth?” The angel asked. “But she just turned fourteen today.”

“Yes, and the ancient tome of healing spells I asked you to leave at her door should suffice as my gift for this year,” Lucifer intoned, already tired of the conversation. “This creature, however, is a very special one. You see, when witches turn sixteen, they will find themselves in need of a familiar. That restless pile of fur Maze has handed you will be Sabrina’s.”

Amenadiel eyed the animal curiously. “And it has to be this cat instead of any other familiar because?”

Mazikeen rolled her eyes. “Because the girl isn’t just any other witch, is she?” The demon snapped. “That cat houses a demon born in servitude to the child of the Morningstar, and its sole purpose is to devote itself to her every need. It will follow her to the ends of the earth if it has to. Its loyalty is the kind only the deepest bowel of hell could breed.”

(There was a thing or two to be said about Maze’s less-than-agreeable attitude, but if Lucifer was to be believed and this was actually her attempt at playing nice, then Amenadiel would just have to hold his tongue and appreciate her efforts, horrible as they were.)

Amenadiel adjusted his grip on the kitten and forced out a smile, the same kind he used to give his smaller siblings when he had to convince them that their parents weren’t fighting. “Alright. But why give it to her now instead of waiting two more years?”

At a loss for words, Maze’s gaze shifted to Lucifer, who shot back a reassuring look. With a perfected grace, the devil got up from his throne in one swift motion, straightening his suit as he got to his feet.

“You see, brother,” he began, wrapping an arm around the angel’s shoulders and leading him back down the steep stone steps. “Unlike all my other gifts, you won’t leave this one to her directly. By the time she comes of age, the cat will find its way to Sabrina all by itself. It just has to grow up on earth in the presence of humans so that its demonic nature won’t manifest in hostility towards the mortals it will come across. It’s all just a bunch of semantics, but you understand the need, don’t you?”

From their youth, Amenadiel prided himself on being the only one who truly understood Lucifer. When he led the charge against heaven’s hosts, he wasn’t the least bit surprised. After all, the eldest angel figured early on that it was only a matter of time before his little brother’s pride and power got the best of him. This time, too, he knew there was something off about Lucifer. He was plotting something. But in respect of his grief (his daughter’s birthday was meant to be something celebrated each year, but every time, he ended up lamenting his losses with her, as a life well lived was constantly waved in his face in the form of photographs that would never have him in the picture), Amenadiel decided to trade his suspicion for trust.

He was better now, surely, than the young angel who spat in their father’s face and eventually chanced upon the pains of fatherhood, himself.

(How wrong it would all turn out to be, Amenadiel realized too late.)

“Of course, I understand.” He adjusted his grip on the kitten and smiled back at his brother. “This is all, then? Nothing for her next birthday?”

“Almost forgot. Good thing you reminded me. Maze!” In a blink of an eye, the demon was standing next to them at the foot of the steps, a big white box clasped between her fingers. Just as callously, she shoved it into Amenadiel’s hands without another word and went to stand indignantly next to her boss.

The angel lifted the lid and stared puzzled at its content. “It’s a dress.”

“Congratulations, you have eyes,” Mazikeen deadpanned.

Lucifer raised a hand, and the demon silenced herself with no more than a roll of the eyes. “It’s not just any dress, though.” The devil explained, smiling quite smugly at his own thoughtfulness. “It was Diana’s wedding dress. Witch hunters burned down Edward and Diana’s first home soon after they wed, forcing them to move back into the Spellman house. This was one of the few things lost in the fire.”

“How’d you find it?”

Maze sighed in exasperation. “He had me dig through the ruins for it.”

“Only because it was so important,” Lucifer edged, a sternness to his tone of voice. “There are few things that Sabrina has of her mother. If I could keep Diana’s memory alive, just the tiniest bit more, then it’s the least I could do. I already owe so bloody much to the woman.”

Amenadiel had never met Diana, but from what he could gather, Lucifer always thought so highly of her. (When it came to Edward Spellman, though, it was a whole other story.) It was a sweet gesture, uniting a young woman with her mother’s most prized possessions. The mere fact that his brother planned it out spoke volumes on how much he grew from the selfishness he used to harbour.

“I’m proud of you, Luci,” Amenadiel moved to hug his younger brother while he stood stiffly, at a loss on how to respond with a kitten and a wedding dress sandwiched between them. “You’re a much better father than you think. Sabrina will realize everything you’re doing for her one day, and till she does, I will keep her safe for you. That’s a promise.”

Lucifer softened at his brother’s words, so much that he almost felt guilty on what he was about to do next. (Almost.)

“Thank you, brother. I mean it, sincerely.”

(“And I’m sorry. I really am. But it has to be done.”)

With one last proud (clueless) smile and the promise of next year’s photographs, Amenadiel uncovered his wings and flew out of the pit in one swift motion. Before Lucifer could even tear his eyes away from the empty space where his brother once stood, Mazikeen’s face was already dangerously close to his, a wild, affronted look to her.

“What the hell, Lucifer?”

“Ironic word choice.”

She pulled at her hair in frustration and stepped away, every ancient curse on her tongue. “I can’t believe you! You’re actually doing it. You’re leaving!”

Lucifer calmly sat himself back on the throne and crossed his legs nonchalantly, the least bit interested in whatever she had to say (nothing she did could ever change his mind, after all). “Oh, really? How’d you come to that conclusion?”

“Please, I know you better than you think," she said sharply. "Ever since you made me prepare the cat for Amenadiel’s visit, I knew what you were gonna do. Why else would you have sent out your presents for the next two years?”

“Careful, Mazikeen. You’re treading on thin ice.”

“You gave them today because Amenadiel won’t be back anymore. Because by the time she turns fifteen, sixteen, and all the other years after, you won’t be here!”

With that, the devil’s fuse ran short and he shot out of his seat, matching the demon’s temperament with his own. “And why on earth would I want to be here? Out of all the beings in hell, I am the most tortured, and the only consolation I have is that by holding up my end of the bargain, my brother will hold up his and my daughter will be cared for. But guess what, Maze? Sabrina doesn’t need my brother to watch over her. She’s grown now, and beautiful and powerful and everything a father could hope for his daughter to be. She’s going to be okay.”

Mazikeen shook her head, conflicted, pure acid on her tongue as she reasoned with a man who frowned on reason itself. “You don’t know that.”

“But I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me either if I spend one more minute in this place.” With a resolve set deep into his mind, he stepped away from her and unveiled his wings, towering and glorious and ready as ever to abandon the prison his father put him in. “I’m selfish, Mazikeen. It’s my one true fault. The only hope I have is that Sabrina can forgive me for it one day.”

(Little did he know that one day was only two years away, with his daughter undone in ways that he, himself, would never forgive. When he assumed that all would be well, perhaps he spoke too soon.)

Lucifer shook the thought away as he trained his gaze back to his daughter on the couch, nervous and restless as she awaited whatever it was that he was about to say.

“You were saying something. About my father,” Sabrina pressed, anxiety written clear across her face as she braced herself for something that would inevitably hurt, would inevitably force her to pick up the pieces again (not that she wasn’t used to it at this point).

He pulled on a tight smile (the kind that pinched so hard that it burned). “Yes, I do believe I owe you an explanation. Before that, though,” Lucifer stalled, trying to buy as much time as possible before he crushed his every hope under his own two feet and regretted every twist of selfishness that brought them where they were.

“Whatever happened to that cat of yours?”

Chapter Text

Much to Hilda’s dread and Zelda’s morbid amusement, Ambrose discovered early on that the quickest way to calm a certain fussy toddler (outside of herb-infused potions and silencing spells) was by sitting her in front of the telly to watch hours upon hours of gore-filled horror films. (Rosemary’s Baby was a particular favorite, though Sabrina never realized the irony until much, much later). As she grew older, the fascination carried into weekly cinema trips and an affinity for Dr. Cerberus’ shop. It was not so much the excessive blood and butchered flesh that lured her in, but rather, it was the chase, the will-this-screaming-blonde-die-yet thrill that kept her coming back each time. Above all that, though, the greatest thing about horror was the suspense.

As Sabrina sat with baited breath for whatever the club owner had to say (it could have been anything, really, from her father escaping hell to never having been there at all), she might as well have been in a horror movie of her own design, and for the first time in a long while, the fear threatening to clench her insides was more real than she ever felt.

(Can the screaming blonde still die when angels themselves couldn’t kill her for more than five seconds?)

Every passing breath stretched and lingered and dwelled, until she felt like an hourglass on the verge of tipping over. All the while, the man in front of her couldn’t even meet her eyes, a wistful, almost bittersweet look on his face as he stared ahead, unseeing. Had she been younger and kinder (and slightly less traumatized), she would have asked him about his troubles and offered to fix them, herself. But nowadays, sixteen was no longer young, Sabrina Spellman (Morningstar) was no longer kind, and trauma came as easily as dawn.

Waiting was a losing game, and she intended to win.

“You were saying something. About my father,” she urged, meeting his gaze and refusing to break contact the moment he snapped back from his thoughts. He had her on the hook now, and he will not shake her away, not until the suspense felt less like a pounding drum and more like the comfort it used to be.

The mirthless smile that she received in response was a weak attempt at solace that she was far too used to at that point.

(She first saw it when Hilda told her about the plane crash; since then, that smile never made its way out of her life).

“Yes, I do believe I owe you an explanation. Before that, though,” he sent a look her way, plaintive and familiar, and she felt haunted by something bigger than herself. “Whatever happened to that cat of yours?”

Sabrina blinked once, twice, then several times over. “I’m sorry, are-” She shook her head in disbelief, confusion clouding her thoughts. “Are you talking about Salem?”

Lucifer almost smiled (of course she would name her familiar over a witch massacre).

“Black fur, easily enraged?” He saw the disturbed bewilderment on her face and let out a slight chuckle. “I could go on and on if you’d like, but it seems we’re already on the same page.”

“How did you-”

“Granted, if I had my way, you’d be better off with one of the hellhounds for a familiar. But Maze put up a fight, said I had to be more subtle with these things. Of course, that was rich, coming from her-”

Sabrina held up a finger, the beginnings of a headache hammering clear against her skull. Chalk it to confusion, insanity, or whatever else was ripping her evening apart much like a sixteen year old band-aid, but at that moment, the only reprieve she could find laid waiting at the bottom of her whiskey glass. With not so much as a second thought, she tipped it back with eyes closed.

(If this rambling was to go on for the rest of the night, she needed far more than willpower to keep her heart from imploding by the apprehension alone).

“I realize that you’re trying to tell me something important, but if it’s gonna take a few more minutes of this before you get to the point, I’d really like to know beforehand so I can refill my drink.”

Lucifer almost bristled at the notion of anyone breaking a deal with the devil (she had, after all, only promised to have one glass when the evening started). Still, he couldn’t hold her to it. To be fair, he was probably the root of her debauchery and disobedience in the first place (turns out the forbidden fruit doesn’t fall that far from the tree).

“Right,” Lucifer sighed, shaking away whatever remained of his haphazard thoughts. (He had the chance to bide his time, all of sixteen years to be exact. Now there was nothing left but the truth, and his own pride and fear be damned, he will not keep it from her any longer.) “I apologize. My therapist says I tend to ramble when I’m trying to deflect painful conversation-”

Sabrina raised a brow. “You have a therapist?”

“Stay with me here, darling,” he intoned, holding both hands up in an effort to stop her from straying off course. “I promise there’s a point to all this, and I’m getting to it.”

She merely shrugged in response and gestured for him to go on.

“Thank you.” Lucifer nodded. “As I was saying, this bit of news I’m about to tell you is painful and difficult to admit out loud, but it’s long overdue, and you deserve to know.”

He looked at her then, at her eyes that would inevitably well up, at her mouth that would tremble and swear and curse at the father that left her. But in that moment, all he saw was Diana’s innocence in her doe-like gaze, Zelda’s steel in her hardened jaw, and Hilda’s gentleness in her upturned fingers, clasped almost in prayer as she hoped for the worst to be over. There was no doubt about it; his fears were unfounded.

(Perhaps he had it right the first time. Maybe she would be okay, after all.)

Lucifer took a deep breath.

(This. This was the moment that was both dream and nightmare alike. Since she was born, there was always a hidden need at the back of his mind that wanted her to know, “You are my daughter. My flesh and blood, my pride and joy, my beginning and undoing. You are the greatest light I have ever made.” The same way, he found himself held back time and time again by the silent truth, ringing clear against his ears, that all light is consumed by darkness, and more often than not, the empty void left behind is by his own doing.)

He cleared his throat. “It all started with a favor.”

Free will. It was the one thing his faith was built on. And in the beginning, when all that people desired was power and immortality, that’s when the first breed of witches was blessed by his hands. Magic was the only gift he ever gave them, after all. Whatever empires and revolutions they built from it was entirely of their own choice. Little did he know he’d come to regret such choices, himself.

“It was fun at first. They were praising me, building churches in my honor.” He smiled bitterly at his own misplaced vanity. “I felt like I was no less than Father, himself.”

Quickly, though, it would all spiral into madness that even he couldn’t contain.

(The obsession with goats was one thing, but eating each other’s flesh, drinking each other’s blood, harrowing children and leading virgins to the slaughter; it was horror no different from the deepest bowels of hell).

He was displeased, but he could not ask them to change. It would have been hypocrisy to preach freedom and choice, yet ask them to bend to his will (commandments and prophets kept on strings were Father’s way, not his). If the Church of Night truly was to be redeemed, it should have been of their own volition, of their own need to correct their errors. Unfortunately, every High Priest and Anti-Pope that coveted the seat of power inched the covens closer to damnation more and more each time.

Then along came Edward Spellman.

Lucifer almost seethed at the name, but held himself back. (That man had his poison, and now he was dead along with it).

“This new priest, he was young, idealistic, powerful. He had all the makings to be different than the rest of them. After all, he had the one thing that would forever set him apart from all the witches and warlocks that ever walked the earth.” He closed his eyes, tasted an all-too-familiar remorse on his tongue. “He had Diana.”

Sabrina’s heart lurched at the mention of her mother, but she steeled her insides before she could break. (She had questions, and doubts, and fears – too many to be exact – but she could not speak them now. If she did, they would never stop, and the man who seemingly had all the answers would never get the chance to finish). He looked at her, concerned, but she merely nodded her head for him to go on.

“I thought, ‘Maybe I could get to this one. Maybe he’d be the one to bring change after all these years.’ And I was right. The Church was reformed and he did all of it on his own.”

She caught his gaze just then and was surprised to see his eyes glow red with barely-held venom, no different than hers when rage first brought her back to life (Her blood sang to the tune of a new belonging, and it felt right, somehow. She knew who he was, but couldn’t admit it out loud).

“I should have known it was for a price, of course.” Lucifer scoffed, dark and hollow, disappointed at his own guilelessness. “Always for a price.”

With a sharp exhale, he got up from his seat and walked over to the bar, Sabrina’s eyes following him with a silent incredulity all the while. He continued his story even as he fixed himself a stronger drink than he would have liked.

“A small favor, come to think of it. He asked for a child. He and Diana were trying for years, but no spell or potion could give them what they wanted. I thought it simple enough. I mean, Father sent my brothers to bless humans with children all the time.”

His face soured as he emptied the glass in one gulp.

“It wasn’t like that, though.” He had a grim look to him as he sank back down to his seat across from her. “I soon realized that I didn’t have the same gifts as Amenadiel. I couldn’t channel the divine light of life the way he could. But…Edward was relentless, and I was, too. After all, the Devil never left a favor ungranted. So in the end, I did give him a child.”

Sabrina held her breath as the next words were softly uttered from his mouth.

“I gave him mine.”

Slowly, tears prickled at her eyes and she stood, affronted. She was out of air, out of words, but the room felt like a box that closed in more and more with every passing second, and she couldn’t take it any longer.

“So you’re my father, is that what you’re trying to say?” She inched closer, and though it escaped her, the light fixtures swung from overhead and the walls trembled and shook with every step forward. “That I’ve been lied to and deceived more than I thought?”

“Child, calm yourself.” Lucifer grabbed ahold of her shoulders when she stopped in front of him, but she only wriggled free from his grasp. Bottles behind the bar began falling off the shelves and the whole penthouse was filled with the violent cacophony of shattering glass and harsh winds whipping through the heavy drapes.

Sabrina chuckled humourlessly. “Calm myself?" (As much as she didn’t want to believe his words, everything about him, from his wry smile to his blazing eyes, was familiar. Though they’d just met, he was no stranger to her, and her own wry smile and blazing eyes knew why). “This isn’t the first time I heard all this, you know. You’re about the second Lucifer Morningstar to come up to me and call me his daughter. Knowing this, how do you expect me to feel after everything? And don’t you dare say calm.”

For a moment, Lucifer lost focus on his rage-filled child and the apartment torn into disarray before him.

(No one was supposed to know about Sabrina’s satanic nature. The truth was supposed to die along with Edward and Diana all those years ago. But to hear that an imposter took both his name and his greatest secret set him on edge).

He drew in a long breath, steadied himself.

(One at a time, Linda would say. One at a time).

“You can’t go around listening to every stranger that comes barging into your life.”

“Right, but I should listen to you, is that it?”

She looked at him sharply, and if given a choice, she would have done so for hours upon hours, but she soon found that she couldn’t hold her anger for much longer.

(Twice. Two times she was fooled about her parentage, and the first instance, she held onto her wrath as it twisted and coiled within her until she was on the verge of collapse. Now, as tempting as it was to allow the red heat of rage to carry her from one disaster to the next, her temper seeped out of her in stubborn flashes, leaving nothing but a tired, beaten-down girl who just wanted a father who wouldn’t leave this time around).

Sabrina looked at him, his calloused fingers, his grief-stricken eyes, and wondered how things would have worked out had he stayed (Would those fingers have tucked her in at night, drove her to school, taught her to dance in her pyjamas? Would those eyes have lit up at the sight of her each morning?) She shook the thought away with a shuddering exhale. It wasn’t much use mulling it over. It only mattered whether he stayed or not, and they both knew which one he chose.

“I-I can’t do this.” She wiped at her eyes and turned her back on him, and all at once, the room stopped shaking and the only thing that lingered in the air was silence. (She came to terms long ago that she was the Devil’s daughter. It was nothing new, nothing earth-shattering. What surprised her, however, was that the Devil was gentle and sullen and sad, and she wished she had known sooner, because maybe she would have turned out a lot better if he was the one who showed up at Greendale instead of the sadistic, goat-headed asshole that wanted to marry her). “This is too much right now. I have to go.”

With a flick of the wrist, her bags were back in her hands and she was already halfway across the room.

(If she stayed there a moment longer, she feared that she would have embraced him, accepted him, forgiven him. Not that he deserved it – he still abandoned her, after all – but at that moment, she was so achingly desperate for a friend, let alone a father, that she probably wouldn’t have given it much thought. She could only imagine the way Zelda would look down on the pitiful, pathetic mess loneliness turned her into).

She needed to leave before she became somebody she would regret.

“Sabrina, wait.” Lucifer understood her need to escape, to run away just like she did before (still a runner, no doubt). He didn’t plan on stopping her. After everything that’s been said and done, however, he couldn’t let her slip through his grasp again without hearing the words he should have said a long time ago. “You’re my daughter, and I...I never should have walked away from you. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I never left. I hope you know that.”

Conflicted, she glanced back at him, torn between empathy and anger. Eventually, she settled on a silent disappointment, instead.

“No,” she uttered with a shake of her head. “No, I don't.”

With one last lingering look, she shut the door behind her, and the only thing left of her presence was the wrecked penthouse and her newly-found father, standing exhausted in the middle of it all.

Stepping over the broken glass and downturned furniture, Lucifer made his way to the bar and picked up the nearest bottle he could find intact. As he set it down on the countertop and screwed the cap loose with one hand, he scrolled through his phone with the other, raising it to his ear as it started to ring.

“Mazikeen,” he breathed, chasing the greeting away with a swig of alcohol.  “I need your help.”

Chapter Text

The aftermath of the chaotic revelation at Lux should have been earth-shattering, catastrophic, disastrous…but all in all, it was surprisingly quiet. Lucifer mostly kept to himself the remainder of the night, staying within the confines of the exploded glass and splintered wood of what used to be an immaculate penthouse. Not even the pristine ivory piano keys could tempt him into making a sound.

(Drawn-out silences usually bothered him, left him unhinged. It was a peace too close to the Silver City. Now, though, he couldn’t really bring himself to care).

Instead, the only sound that filled the air was liquid sloshing around in a bottle as he paced back and forth across the room, drinking himself into a stupor. When he inevitably passed out from the tremendous amount of alcohol a few hours later, the silence remained unbroken for the rest of the evening (that was, until a certain graceless demon stepped out of the elevator and kicked his unconscious body awake with an all-too-familiar exasperation).

Even for Sabrina, the rest of the night was relatively uneventful (though, really, even a snowstorm in the heat of coastal California would have been a complete non-event compared to the recent developments in her already-confusing family history).

Still in a daze after the unexpected confession from her father (it was hard to believe that in a matter of months, that single title was already given to three different people), she spent some time wandering aimlessly along the Sunset Strip, deep in thought and with no clear destination in sight, just walking and staring and musing, no regard whatsoever for her aching feet and the sheer number of scantily-dressed club hoppers she kept bumping into. Eventually, though, she was awoken from her self-induced trance when she felt the unmistakable brush of fur against her leg.

“Salem?” She looked down, confused, at the little black cat that circled her feet. Putting down her bags for a moment, she picked him up, petting his fur as she cuddled him close. “What are you doing in Los Angeles?”

Before leaving Greendale, Sabrina debated for a long time on whether or not she should bring her familiar with her on the trip. On one hand, he could have kept her company, giving her a tangible reminder of home as she explored this strange new city. On the other, it wasn’t worth the risk of him becoming too fussy and hostile in the presence of other pets (there was a reason, after all, why familiars weren’t allowed at the academy).

In the end, though, she ultimately decided against it and left him in Theo’s care for the time being (if she wanted to leave all remnants of magic behind, stringing along a supernatural spirit would have been rather counter-productive).

Salem was never one to object once Sabrina made up her mind (which she actually found quite strange, hearing all her classmates groan and grumble on how long it took them to train their familiars into submission), so she knew he would be patiently waiting for her when she got back. Not that his presence wasn’t a comfort (somehow, he arrived at the perfect time, just when Sabrina needed a companion to brave the endless night with her), but it brought forth too many confusing questions that she wasn’t entirely sure she’d have the answers to.

Pulling him away from her chest and raising him up to her face, she levelled him with a stern look.

“Salem, you’re not supposed to be here. You know the rules. You don’t show up unless you’re summoned.”

For the passerby striding past them on the street, it painted quite a confusing picture. After all, you don’t go out past midnight at the heart of L.A. nightlife just to see a pasty teenage girl blocking the path, holding a cat at eye level as she gave it a good scolding. Even stranger, the animal had the audacity to look guilty, seemingly explaining itself with a series of frantic meows (if the girl somehow looked as if she understood every single word of it, you’d best chalk it up to the very good party drugs being given away at the club).

“What do you mean my father summoned you? You don’t even–” The rest of her words died in her throat as realization suddenly dawned on her. She put him back on the ground, voice suddenly soft, a weak disbelief in her eyes as they flickered to him. “You knew about him, didn’t you?”

The cat avoided her gaze and looked anywhere besides her, licking its paw in faux innocence.

“Salem,” she warned, her gentle tone betrayed by a hidden threat.

With a bristle of his fur, he finally relented, explaining as much as he could in a series of meows.

(He was never in the mood for a cross-state trip, actually. Theo was very liberal with the treats, and it was nice to just sit around all day without worrying about his mistress’s next reckless scheme. But then his true master and creator – her father, now that everything was out in the open – came calling for the first time, and before he knew it, he was dropped into the middle of L.A. just when his human looked to be on the verge of a mental breakdown.)

Sabrina blew out a deep breath and looked to the sky as she tried to process this new information. So apparently, her familiar always acted out of the ordinary because he was never a familiar at all, but rather a demon made especially for her guidance and protection by her estranged devil father. Beyond that, Salem knew about her parentage the whole time, yet never said a word (or rather, made a meow) even as she got into her latest hellish escapades, all because it was allegedly something she was never supposed to know about. Now that all gloves were off, though, he was quick to fill her in on his demonic origins and the apparent blood pact he had in servitude to the antichrist.

Trying to wrap her head around the latest bombshell of the evening (She took it back. It was shaping up to be quite eventful, after all), Sabrina started pacing around in little circles, hands on her hips the way her aunt always did while trying to clean up her messes.

“This is a lot to take in. So were you-were you spying on me for him or something? Is that why he made you?”

Salem made a disgruntled noise at that and Sabrina rolled her eyes.

“Yes, you mentioned your sole purpose was to keep me out of trouble.” She whispered the next part under her breath. “Not that you were very good at it.”

Affronted, the cat swiped at her feet, and Sabrina swiftly jumped out of the way, hands held up in defense.

“Okay, okay, that was out of line. I’m sorry.”

She sighed as she crouched down to his level, palms on her knees. The young witch held her arms out to the familiar, and hesitantly (her actions always straddled the fine line between making bad decisions and endangering everyone in close proximity; neither one boded well for the demonic feline at that moment), Salem jumped into them, clinging close to her as she stood, stroking his fur.

“You’ve saved my life more times than I could count this past year, and for what it’s worth, I think you’ve done an excellent job at keeping me alive.”

She rested her chin on the top of his head as a new thought came to mind. “I suppose Lucifer couldn’t be so bad, if he thought to put you in my path.”

(Dad. He was not Lucifer, or the Dark Lord, or the Prince of Evil. At the end of the day, he was just “Dad”. But after everything that transpired that evening, it didn’t feel quite right to call him by the name just yet. So at the moment, for all intents and purposes, he was simply Lucifer Morningstar; the jittery club owner who abandoned her at birth, left her to fend for herself, and showed up sixteen years later just to get her out of jail. He just so happened to get her an awesome demonic birthday present along the way, too.)

Salem snuggled closer as she scoffed to herself.

“Not that I’d ever tell him that, of course.”

Sabrina’s second day in L.A. got off to a rocky start. With barely five hours of sleep, she was already jolted awake by the sun filtering in through the broken blinds and shining on her closed eyes for a solid two minutes.

Both she and Salem spent the rest of the night wandering the length of Sunset Strip in search of a place to turn in. Just when she was on the verge of placing a numbing spell on her poor, aching feet, they chanced upon a budget motel that was pretty loose when it came to pets (though to be fair, Salem offered multiple times to possess a dead body for the evening just so they could get into a much nicer, non-pet-friendly place, but Sabrina wasn’t quite ready to add “sleeping next to a corpse” on her trauma roster for the year).

Not that Sabrina was ever used to a life of luxury (however, one would be surprised with how much a mortuary makes in a month), but the place was rundown even by her own easy-going standards. The sheets were scratchy, the bedside lamp was broken, and even Salem let out a sound or two over the questionable stains on the carpet. Thankfully, it was nothing a quick spell or two (or twenty) couldn’t fix. Still, it didn’t make for much of a comfortable evening.

And so, when morning came (despite a quiet pounding in her head and the eventual realization that she hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s breakfast), she was just glad to get out of there.

That was, until she noticed slight movement from the corner of her eye and whipped her head around to see someone watching her from the nearby armchair.

The woman in question had dark skin, with hair framing her face in large waves. She was dressed in black leather, legs crossed nonchalantly, all the while twirling a butterfly knife between her fingers.

(First a gun, and now this. Sabrina had to seriously wonder if Californians had a thing for violent assault weapons).

What was most unsettling, however, was the way she smiled, as if she was trying her hardest to look friendly but didn’t quite grasp the whole concept of it just yet.

“Princess, you’re finally up!” She put the knife away in her back pocket and stood, arms spread out as if to hug the girl.

Sabrina quickly drew a symbol in the air, and in a matter of seconds, it was inscribed on the floor, light bursting from every curve as it created an invisible wall of magic between her and the woman.

“Don’t you dare come any closer,” the witch ground out, suddenly alert. She shuffled out of bed, dragging the sheets along with her as if the cheap cocoon of cotton could offer much protection. “It’s too early in the morning for another death threat, and I am not amused.”

It was a charming sight: the antichrist with bed hair, glaring daggers at her from across the room. Mazikeen could only chuckle in response, sharp teeth bared as she looked on in fondness.

(What a feisty little thing Lucifer’s daughter turned out to be; it was hard to imagine she was the same baby in the photos who blew raspberries at her aunts during bath time and made silly faces everytime her cousin fed her vegetables).

The woman crossed her arms and stepped over the sigil on the ground with ease, the lines glowing a faint red but mostly leaving her unharmed.

“Well, I for one, find your little drawings here very amusing.” She grinned up at the teenage girl who only frowned at her in confusion. “Spell work might be a little rusty, but hey, what do I know?”

Sabrina shook her head in bewilderment. It didn’t make any sense. Yes, she was groggy and hungry and half-asleep, but the runes were drawn to perfection and they should have worked.

(Nick taught her the symbols, himself, back at the academy, and every single time, they held up an infallible layer of pure protective magic that instantly stunned any witch or mortal alike who dared cross it).

There was nothing rusty about her spell work (how dare that woman even imply such a thing), and Sabrina knew it. The only reason it shouldn’t have harmed her was if she was neither witch nor mortal in the first place.

Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place and the girl was so sure she had it right this time around.

“Tell me your name!” She demanded, authority clear in her voice as her confidence returned.

Maze smirked slightly (she was more like her father than she expected). With a practiced defiance, she ignored the order and sat herself at the edge of the bed, eyeing her nails in boredom.

“Nice try, princess, but no decent demon is dumb enough to speak their true name to a witch. Lucifer would never let me live it down if I got banished back to hell by a teenage girl.”

Her eyes flickered to the witch who was growing more and more disgruntled with every passing second. 

(A name, after all, was all she needed to create an Acheron, or call out a trapping spell, or seal her off in hell. She couldn’t believe a few unknown syllables were the only thing that stood between her and an upper hand).

“Just so we’re properly introduced, though, you can go right ahead and call me Auntie Maze.”

Sensing no imminent threat (Salem would have clawed out his fellow demon’s eyes the moment she stepped into the room if she was actually a danger to his mistress. Considering that the cat was still lazily stretched out in the carpet, watching the pair of them in humor, Sabrina figured her earlier panic was really all for nothing), the girl lowered herself into a deflated heap on the armchair. Running a tired hand down her face, she peeked at Maze between her fingers.

“Let me guess. My father sent you, didn’t he?”

(Sabrina was slowly starting to accept that this trip was going to be less of a vacation and more of a challenge on how much Lucifer Morningstar could fuck up her life in one week).

Mazikeen beamed her usual not-quite-smile.

“Good, you’re all caught up. Now,” she produced a paper bag seemingly out of nowhere and threw it to Sabrina. The girl, caught by surprise, made no move to catch it, but it managed to land in her lap just the same. “Lucifer sent this for you. He has a little note in there, I think. Or it might just be the receipt. Doesn’t really matter.”

Before Sabrina could make another sound, the demon was already halfway out the door, her next words thrown over her shoulder as she didn’t even bother to look back. “I’ll be waiting in the car downstairs. You have 15 minutes.”

And just like that, Maze was gone as if she was never there at all, save for the glowing rune marks on the carpet and the confused girl staring dumbfounded at the door.

She trained her gaze on Salem and gave him a flinty look. “You better explain to me what the hell all that was, or I’m leaving you here in California and I will not summon you back.”

The familiar shot back a wide-eyed meow in his defense and crawled back under the covers.

(The few short months they’d spent together, the demon found that it was best to retreat and ride out the storm whenever Sabrina started making empty threats. One wrong move, and they wouldn’t be so empty at all).

With a groan (for someone in a supposed blood vow to her service, her familiar held a blatant disregard for loyalty when it was no longer convenient), the young witch figured whatever answers she was looking for probably laid waiting inside the crumpled brown bag.

As she tore it open, the first thing that greeted her was the otherworldly scent of freshly-baked pastries, carefully nestled in an intricate red box (she didn’t miss the way it mirrored the exact shade of yesterday’s sweater) that looked to be more expensive than her hotel room. True to her word, stuck to the package’s lid was the letter that Maze mentioned, drawn out in loopy cursive that actually would have looked nice had the writer not scribbled it out in a half-drunken haze.

Dearest Sabrina,

I know I’m the last person you want to hear from right now, but this is really very important. We left things in a tense state last night, and though I don’t blame you at the slightest, I understand that it’s not the best start to a healthy relationship. Still, you’ve asked for some space, and I’ve given it. Now that we’ve both had a good night’s rest (at least, I hope you did. I’m still rather hungover), I’d like to try again in getting to know you a bit better.

You mentioned yesterday that you hadn’t eaten since your flight, and considering the hurry you were in a few hours ago, I think it’s safe to assume you’re quite hungry at the moment. Fret not, I sent over an assortment of treats from California’s best patisserie. I wasn’t really sure what you’d like (hence, the need for the getting-to-know-you part), so I sent over one of everything. Also, none of them are poisoned, if you’re worried about that.

I hope my demonic delivery person didn’t give you too much of a fright. Maze comes off a bit strong, but she wouldn’t hurt you…I hope. Even if she did try, you could just banish her to the pit till she learns her lesson. Her real name’s Mazikeen, just in case she’s being stubborn about it.

Lastly, do dress warmly for the day. The air-conditioning tends to run a bit cold where we’re going.  You can bring Salem along, if you’d like. Whatever makes you comfortable.

 Sincerely Yours,

Lucifer (Or father. Or dad. It’s up to you, really.)

As soon as Sabrina read through the words, she folded the paper back up with a quirk of her brow. She didn’t really think she could carry on unscathed with the rest of her getaway after the heavy truths she had to face last night. Like it or not, her father was here in the city, and it wasn’t the kind of reality that would go away no matter how much she ignored it. She wasn’t entirely ready to accept him into her life and act as if his absence early on hadn’t left a deep scar, a palpable void, but with all things, she had to move forward someway. And maybe that way involved facing him again today.

With a determined huff, she gathered up her things and headed into the bathroom to change (warmly, like he said).

She hummed to herself as she readied for the morning.

This should be quite interesting.

A few moments later, both she and Salem were cruising down the speedway with Mazikeen behind the wheel (the demon couldn’t be killed by petty mortal things, and she sure as hell drove like it), and though Sabrina was immortal herself, it was basic human instinct to strap her seatbelt on tight and hold on for dear life.

“Just out of curiosity,” the young witch began, struggling to speak against the rapid winds blowing against her face as they sped down in the bounty hunter’s convertible. “Where are we headed to, anyway?”

“Dr. Linda Martin’s office.”

“Who’s that?”

Maze smirked and pushed her foot deeper down the gas pedal. “You’ll see.”

Chapter Text

In hindsight, Mazikeen was having a pretty good day (she hooked two escaped convicts, bought a new pair of nunchucks, and met a guy who was into some pretty freaky stuff on Tinder, not necessarily in that order). But then of course, Lucifer had to ruin it by calling her in for some odd job that he weirdly didn’t want to discuss (he usually spared no detail, the gorier, the better). After getting the gist of the whole situation from his drunken rambling, though, she was pleasantly surprised to find out that the Devil’s little witchling was loose in L.A., and who better to reel her in than hell’s best bounty hunter?

(More than the eternal indebtedness to Lucifer, she, herself, was itching to know how the wide-eyed angel child turned out. At sixteen, she was already at a prime age to learn the basics of torturing).

Though Sabrina was more or less what she expected (beautiful like her mother and annoyingly self-assured like her father), there were a few new discoveries that came as a genuine disappointment to the demon. First, the girl did not inherit her dad’s glorious pair of angel wings (impromptu trips to the pit were out of the question, then). Second, she was short and skinny and was about as intimidating as folded linen. And third, she seemed to be more human than antichrist, and despite riding in a badass vehicle with two demons at her beck and call, she didn’t have an awful lot to share.

“I know I’m not the best at human conversation,” Maze began, eyes drifting briefly to the teenager before focusing them back on the road (she was one accident away from being blacklisted by every insurance company in L.A., and she’d rather not ask her former boss for another favor). “But I find it hard to believe that any child of Lucifer could go ten minutes without making a single sound.”

Sabrina made no move to turn away from her view of the speeding landscapes, chin resting on her palm as she stared out her side of the door (it wasn’t like she could make out much of anything with how fast they were going, but the trademark Starbucks green that lined every street corner was pretty hard to miss, and silently, she made a game out of counting how many of those stood between her motel and the so-called doctor’s office). Meanwhile, Salem lay curled on her lap, undisturbed from his nap despite the thumping bass of Maze’s party music blasting out the stereo.

“Maybe I don’t have anything to say,” the girl said flatly.

Mazikeen scoffed. “Well, that’s bullshit.”

Sabrina raised a brow, but remained relatively unfazed. (Inside, she knew it was complete, utter bullshit, indeed. But she wasn’t about to admit that out loud.)

“Really?” The feigned interest was a ballsy jab at the demon, but Lucifer said that Mazikeen was somewhat harmless, and the teenager was partly curious as to how far said harmlessness went. “How’d you come to that conclusion?”

Maze rolled her eyes and sent a smirk towards the witch, though it went unnoticed as the girl’s focus remained out the window (she was currently at Starbucks number 7, but she could see a couple more up ahead). “I know what you’re playing at, princess. It isn’t gonna work.”

“You sure about that?”

(The snark was too damn familiar, and Mazikeen almost wished that pictures could talk, because she was so sure that the photographs Amenadiel had stolen away and brought to hell would have been ten times more amusing with the sound of the little girl pissing off her aunts with the trademark Morningstar snideness).

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her grin from growing any wider. “You’ve got one demon asleep on your lap, and another chauffeuring you around Los Angeles at the request of your father, who, by the way, also happens to be Satan himself. You could not find a better conversation-starter in the whole universe, no matter how hard you try.”

(Of course, Mazikeen was right, and Sabrina knew it. Still, the fact remained that polite chit-chat was the last thing on her mind – it was under a lot of stress at the moment, thank you very much – and all she wanted was to go back to counting her coffee shops in peace even if just to distract herself for a while).

“You know what? Yes, you’re right. I do have a lot to say, but unfortunately, the one person worth saying them to isn’t here.”

All at once, whatever amusement the demon had on her face was wiped clean, and Sabrina let out a breath when she realized her thoughts had inevitably circled back to her father without her noticing. As much as she wanted to deny the impact of last night, it was clear that whatever truths she discovered sat heavy on her mind, and it would take much more than silent road trip games and a nosy demonic driver to put her at ease.

(Maybe an earnest conversation wouldn’t be as bad as she thought).

The witchling brought a hand up to her temple and closed her eyes in frustration. “I’m sorry, that came out of nowhere. I just-I don’t understand.” She shifted in her seat to face her companion completely. “If he wanted to fix things so bad, why didn’t he come get me himself? Why did he have to send someone else?”

“If it helps, I’m not technically a ‘someone’. You can’t really group demons into people categories.”

At the very least, Maze’s weak attempt at comfort was able to draw a slight chuckle from Sabrina. (She was obviously no good at it, but to her credit, she tried). “That just makes it worse, I think.”

Mazikeen was not cut out for this. Yeah, she was pretty good with giving advice, as long as it came to torture and sex and general human suffering. But feelings? (If they weren’t on a strict schedule, she would have pulled over and gagged behind the nearest bush). It was a good thing they were going to Linda, because Maze sure as hell couldn’t deal with this chaotic surge of teenage emotions on her own, but for the sake of the miserable-looking girl on the passenger seat, maybe she could stomach just enough of it to get them through the rest of their trip.

She tapped her fingers frantically against the steering wheel as she tried to figure out the right thing to say. “Look, I can’t really speak for Lucifer because I have no idea what his plans are. And honestly-speaking, they’re probably terrible and weren’t given much thought.”

Sabrina made an odd sound from the back of her throat. (She didn’t know which part of all that was meant to be reassuring). “That’s not very-”

“But,” Maze continued, ignoring the young witch’s interjection. “Knowing him, however stupid and reckless his plans are, at least where you’re involved, they always come from a place of…of…”

The demon had to pause as she struggled to get the despicable word off her tongue. (She was a bounty hunter, goddamit. Lucifer wasn’t paying her enough for this).

“A place of love,” she finished, trying her best not to cringe.

(She didn’t get why humans tended to slap on mushy sentiments like cheap band-aids whenever they had metaphorical wounds, but it always seemed to work in the cartoons she and Trixie watched before school, and she wasn’t about to question it).

All the while, Sabrina took in her little speech with a relative amount of sympathy. (From the looks of it, those few short words were physically painful to say. And if she was gonna be honest, it was quite painful to watch, as well).

Even though it didn’t do much in terms of comfort, she was grateful for the gesture all the same. (She was glad she knew some nice people in L.A., even if the so-called people weren’t really people at all and had a track record for clawing out of hell).

“Thanks, I guess. That was really sweet.”

Mazikeen brushed the compliment away with a wave of her hand. “Yeah, yeah, just don’t make a habit of it, princess.”

Distracted (maybe the demon’s methods worked better than she thought), Sabrina raked a hand through Salem’s fur as he began to stir in her lap. “Why do you keep calling me that, anyway?”

It was a valid question. There was nothing normal, after all, about the witch meeting a full-fledged demon that a) wasn’t sent to kill her, and b) called her by a name that wasn’t half-breed or whore. Still, it didn’t stop Maze from doing a double-take, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Because that’s what your name means,” she answered slowly, as if it was a common fact that the girl should have known a long time ago. “Sabrina means princess. Lucifer made that pretty clear when I kept bugging him about his random name choice.”

Sabrina’s fingers stilled halfway through combing her familiar’s fur. 

(Salem made a little meow of protest, though his petty complaints were the last thing on his mistress’s mind).

She shot Maze an accusatory look. “No, that can’t be right. My mother gave me my name.”

Mazikeen frowned back. “No, Lucifer did. Diana wanted him to name you, and he asked that you be called Sabrina. Not that you were ever supposed to find out, but he found it fitting for the king of hell’s only child.”

(Her whole life, she loved her name even if it didn’t tie her to the Spellmans – the women in their family always had nice, traditional names that were passed on through generations – because it tied her to her mother, instead. Sabrina was supposed to be her human side, her mortal side, connecting her to Diana. But now, she realized it was all a lie. At the very least, it was a testament to how her father actually cared enough to put some thought to what she was called. Still, much like every new discovery made in this trip, she didn’t know what to do with it).

This time around, when Sabrina grew quiet once again, Maze knew better than to get her to talk.

(Unfortunately, she was very good at breaking fragile humans apart, but pretty fucking bad at putting them back together).

The demon sighed as they pulled into the parking spot in front of the clinic.

(Maybe it was for the best. Linda could use a new challenge every now and then).

Linda was having a pretty good day, too. She had a spa appointment in the afternoon, the patients she had lined up for the day were relatively tame (and excitingly non-celestial), and the neighbor took his dog with him on vacation, so no incessant barking kept her up the whole night. All in all, it was shaping up to be a refreshingly normal morning.

Except it wasn’t.

“Good morning, doctor!” Lucifer greeted a bit too brightly, bursting through the door in his usual disregard for private property. “Apologies for not calling sooner, but I was hoping you could squeeze me in for a quick chat.”

The therapist made a mental note that door locks weren’t applicable to the devil (still, for the sake of her human patients, they needed to be replaced). She sighed and massaged a hand against her steadily aching temple.

“Lucifer, I can’t. I’m with another patient right now.”

The devil’s eyes drifted to the bearded man on the couch who was halfway through his second box of Kleenex. He scrunched his nose in disgust, but to Linda’s utter relief, the expected stream of insults never followed.

“Right. What’s wrong with you?”

“M-my wife left me,” the patient managed to mumble before erupting in a fresh wave of tears. The doctor closed her eyes in exasperation. 

(Just when they were doing so well. He was about to return the box of tissues before Lucifer came barging in).

“Hardly something to cry about. You should be celebrating, being a bachelor again and everything.” The club owner chuckled to himself, but his trademark grin quickly faded when the divorcee didn’t seem the least bit amused. With a roll of his eyes, he pulled out a thick wad of cash from his jacket pocket and tossed it to the other man. “Well, if you want a wife so bad, you can go buy yourself a new one. Maybe take a trip to Vegas. That’s where I got mine last time.”

“Lucifer!” Linda chided, appalled. (He wasn’t usually the most well-behaved client, but terrorizing fellow patients was a new low even for him). She levelled him with a stern look before shifting her gaze back to the man on the couch. “Jerry, I’m so sorry-”

The rest of her words went ignored as the divorcee took one long look at the cash, shrugged his shoulders, and swiftly walked out the door. To say that Linda was stunned was a complete understatement as she watched his retreating figure gingerly disappear from her line of sight.

Lucifer lowered himself on the newly-empty sofa with a self-satisfied smirk, crossing his legs as he addressed the doctor. “I take it you’re available now?”

Linda’s mouth was left hanging open for a few good seconds as she struggled to gather the right words that would capture exactly how she felt. Quite soon, however, she realized that such words simply didn’t exist, and settled on the most rational alternative, instead.

“What the hell, Lucifer?”

“Pun intended, I hope?” The devil laughed at his own joke (he was getting quite good at this), before realizing that he was the only one who found it funny. Linda was still looking properly pissed. He cleared his throat. “Alright, that was too much. But this is just really very important.”

“So important that you practically bribed another patient just to get his spot?” The doctor seethed in disbelief.

“Yes, and you’ll know why in just a minute.” He broke away from her glare and called his next words out the door. “Maze, you can come in now!”

At that point, Linda already had her head in her hands, so sure that she jinxed herself for planning such a perfect morning (really, she should have known by now that those things didn’t exist, at least not for her).

“Maze is here? Please don’t tell me you tried to kill each other again.”

Lucifer waved her away with scoff. “Don’t be silly, doctor. This little therapy session isn’t for her.”

Linda watched as her demonic friend marched into the room, an exhausted look on her face, followed by an icy-haired girl with a cat in her arms (the doctor didn’t normally allow animals in her clinic, but her curiosity over the whole scene was enough to let it slide just this once). The teenager was deathly pale by California standards, and the hesitant way she trailed after Mazikeen suggested that she wasn’t entirely sure of what was going on. As the demon went ahead and dropped herself on the nearest armchair, there was nowhere else left to sit but the couch, and so the girl carefully perched herself on the edge, making sure to place as much distance as humanly possible between her and Lucifer.

“It’s for my daughter, Sabrina,” Lucifer finished, beaming at the teenager who promptly looked away in indignation. He didn’t seem the least bit fazed about it, though, and continued to smile at the doctor as if the whole thing was perfectly ordinary. 

(News flash: it was not. It was so very not).

A few seconds passed as Linda just sat there, staring at the three with a vaguely unreadable look on her face (Maze saw the same thing happen to a man she stabbed in the neck before. Though, to be fair, her friend’s blood supply still seemed to be intact). Eventually, the silence was broken as the doctor’s senses apparently returned at full force, eyebrows nearly shooting out of her forehead as the devil’s words completely sank in.

“I’m sorry, what?”

(Maybe she just misheard. Her hearing has been troublesome lately. He didn’t say daughter. He probably said “water” or “otter” or something).

Lucifer closed his eyes as if just remembering something important. “Oh, how rude of me. I didn’t introduce you yet.” He turned back to the girl who only scooched away further, until she was mere inches from falling off the sofa. “Sabrina, this is Dr. Linda. Trust me, she’s amazing. She’ll solve all our problems before you even know it. And Dr. Linda, this is my firstborn, Sabrina. She’s not always this shy. Probably just first day therapy jitters.”

(Huh. So she wasn’t going deaf. He actually said daughter).

“Um, hello…Sabrina. It’s very nice to meet you.” Linda managed to edge out in a calm voice.

(Though on the inside, she was most definitely not calm. How does one respond, anyway, when meeting the devil’s secret children?)

To the doctor’s surprise, whatever cold shoulder the girl was planning to give her father didn’t extend to the therapist, and she quickly answered back with a tight (albeit uncomfortable-looking) smile. “Hello.”

Linda blew out a long breath. She had questions. So many, in fact, that to answer them all, she’d probably have to cancel that afternoon spa appointment (and just when she needed a solid neck rub). But as a therapist (a damn good one, too), no other question seemed to matter more at the moment than the most important one.

“So…what brings you here?”

Lucifer, who seemed previously distracted by trying to get his defiant daughter to talk to him (the girl appeared to have a talent at ignoring his attention-seeking habits), immediately perked up at the question and cleared his throat.

“I’m glad you asked, doctor. You see, Sabrina got in trouble yesterday for burning a man in hellfire. She may have also inherited a bit of my alcoholism and destroyed the penthouse in the process.” At that, Maze made an impressed sound from the back of her throat and Sabrina broke free from her impenetrable layer of passiveness just to glare at her father. “As for me, I may or may not have abandoned her at birth and only introduced myself sixteen years later. So there’s that.”

The doctor looked back and forth between the pair of them, dumbfounded (Now that she saw it, though, there was a bit of resemblance. The eyes, for sure). When Lucifer introduced his bodyguard/bartender/best friend who was a demon, she was taken aback. When he brought his handsome, soldier-of-God brother, she was all for it. Even when his crazy I’m-shooting-divine-light-out-of-my-stomach mother came marching into the picture, Linda thought, “Sure, might as well happen.” But this. This innocent-looking little girl who just met her father and apparently had access to hellfire had to be one for the books.

Linda blinked profusely. “What do you expect me to do about it, then?”

The devil gave her an odd look, as if the answer was obvious. “You help us work through it, of course! Sabrina and I got off on the wrong foot, but I’m sure we’ll get everything cleared up once you’re done with us.”

Internally, Linda made another mental note to cancel her spa appointment. And her dinner plans. And probably her trip to the Bahamas next summer.

(It seems she won’t be leaving this room for a very, very long time).

Chapter Text

Linda believed in the power of selective intervention. Sure, she could give patients a guiding nudge here and there, but in the end, they had to achieve breakthroughs on their own. Therapy was a self-introspective journey, after all.

For the now-growing Morningstar family, however, she feared that the process was less of a journey and more of a morning rush traffic jam that left you stranded in your car for hours on end. (Watching the two was fascinating at first, but by Lucifer’s sixth round of “Did you sleep well, darling? I hope you liked your breakfast. Should we head to the same place for lunch? Sabrina? Sabrina? Sabrina?”, the doctor had to step in before the girl’s eyes rolled permanently out of her head).

“Okay, this is clearly getting us nowhere,” she sighed, raising a hand to stop Lucifer before he could get another unanswered question out of his mouth. From the corner of her eye, she could see Sabrina’s shoulders sag in relief (What part of “I’m not talking to you” did her father not understand?). “I can’t help you unless you help me. I’m gonna need to grasp all of this before I figure out what to do with the both of you.”

Linda turned back to the teenager who seemed more preoccupied with her cat than anything else (the animal’s presence was more of a defense mechanism, the doctor now only realized, that gave the girl all the excuse she needed not to look her father in the eye).

“Sabrina, would you mind stepping out into the hall with Maze? I just need to ask your dad a few questions.”

Sabrina didn’t really understand the need for therapy. Mortals had a habit of blowing their sensitivities out of proportion (and her human side made her guilty of it once or twice), but witches would have laughed at the notion of spending hours upon hours working through something as mundane as feelings. When you had magic and immortality and the infernal energies of creation coursing through your very veins, emotions were an insignificant afterthought that weren’t worth the time of day.

(Still, the doctor must have been doing something right if she managed to get the devil himself, with all his power and divinity, to come by every week without fail. Sabrina would be lying if she said she wasn’t the slightest bit curious on how well the whole thing worked).

The young blond shrugged her shoulders and got up from the far end of the couch. “Sure.” She sent a pointed look towards her father (still annoyingly oblivious to the fact that fancy croissants and forced conversations would not win her over, not until he’s realized just how much damage he’s done). He answered back with a grin and her gaze only sharpened. “It was getting stuffy in here, anyway.”

She walked swiftly out of the room with a begrudging Mazikeen trailing behind her, already wondering if antichrist-babysitting was gonna be a full-time thing. As soon as the pair was out of earshot, Linda calmly shut the door behind them before turning around with an exasperated look that the devil should have known all too well by then. 

“Two words.” She strode over to where he sat and waited impatiently, hands on her hips and face twisted into something of sheer disappointment (really, two years of therapy and he never bothered to mention this one crucial detail). “Explain. Yourself.”

Lucifer blinked innocently up at her. “Well, what’s there to explain, doctor? It’s all very straightforward, isn’t it?”

“No, Lucifer,” she shook her head, eyes wide. “There is nothing straightforward about the devil showing up with a secret teenage daughter who apparently barbecues people alive. And frankly, I find it very alarming that you don’t see that!”

After the freakishly long evening he’s had, the last thing Lucifer wanted to do was recount sixteen years’ worth of fuck-ups on his part that the doctor would probably take worse than his initial devilish reveal (“I left my infant daughter in the care of two satanic witches and a warlock under house arrest for trying to blow up the Vatican” was a can of worms he’d rather not open up just yet).

Nevertheless, if he truly was in this for the long run (and what a long run it’s sure to be, with both his and Sabrina’s angelic immortality), then he supposed there was no sense in holding anything back. Linda needed to ask questions so that he would find the right answers, and tiresome as it was, there were worse things in the world (and all of them he’d endure for his little girl).

He sighed. “Very well. Which part of all this are you having trouble with?”

“Everything!” Linda exclaimed, dropping back into her chair. “I mean, where do I even begin? The thought of you even having a daughter to begin with is very hard to process.”

“So I’ve been told. Several times actually, by the detective.”

The doctor raised her brows in disbelief. “Chloe knows about Sabrina?”

“It wasn’t the most ideal circumstance, considering that she had my daughter holed up in interrogation. But yes, I had to tell the detective eventually.”

Now, Linda had two choices. She could either lose her mind over the disturbingly nonchalant way Lucifer handled the news that his teenage daughter was essentially arrested, or take everything in with as much calmness as possible, knowing that juvenile delinquency was probably the most normal thing she’d be hearing the rest of the day. Familiar with how most Morningstar family dramas went, she settled on the latter, letting out a long breath.

“I’m assuming this has something to do with the whole hellfire incident you mentioned?”

Lucifer’s mouth broke out into a proud grin that really had no place in a conversation about possibly pyromanic children.

“Let’s just say the mugger was the one who ended up getting robbed. Of his will to live, that is.” He chuckled, turning to the doctor in excitement. “Turns out she’s very good at punishing evil.”

(Apparently, Lucifer’s idea of good parenting was condoning his daughter’s infernal capability to torture mortals. She may not have looked the part, but Sabrina was one expensive suit and an ecstasy pill away from becoming her father).

Linda leaned back against her seat, already regretting getting out of bed that particular morning. “Remind me again how the devil has a daughter? Unless, of course, there are other secret children you failed to mention. Or should I just expect them to show up to future therapy sessions?”

“Oh, trust me, doctor. One hellspawn is quite enough. The balance between heaven, earth, and hell is already skewed enough as it is with just one antichrist in the picture.”

If Linda’s eyes could bulge out any further, they’d be rolling around on the carpeted floor. “Are-are you saying,” she scrambled to her feet, pointing one manic finger towards the door. “I have the antichrist in my waiting room, reading teen magazines and drinking vending machine coffee with a demon?”

“Two demons, actually. Her cat was bred in the bowels of hell.”

“As if that makes it any better!”

Lucifer sighed, holding up a hand to his head.

(This. This was the blasted can of worms he was trying to avoid. And they haven’t even gotten to the part of flesh-eating covens and goat-obsessed churches yet).

“Honestly, you’re making a big deal out of nothing, doctor. If we’re lucky enough, she might not even grow into her full power until she’s a few centuries old. And even then, I doubt she’d want to destroy the world. She loves her mortal friends far too much to obliterate their great-great grandchildren.”

“That’s besides the point!” The therapist marched back to her seat and buried her face in her hands, muffling a well-deserved groan. (God help her. The antichrist – His granddaughter, come to think of it - was a volatile teenager with daddy issues. And unless she played her therapeutic cards right, the apocalypse was probably one angsty meltdown away from sending them all to hell).

Linda sucked in a long breath, counted to ten, and straightened her back as she tried to pull herself together. (She could do this. Of course she could. She was the Morningstar family psychiatrist, dammit. Freud and Jung combined couldn’t deal with half the shit she’s seen. If anyone was gonna rationalize the devil’s erratic behavior and whatever godforsaken motivation he had to leave his potentially world-ending daughter behind, it was gonna be her).

“Okay,” she said softly, closing her eyes. (Breathe in, don’t think about the impending Armageddon, breathe out). “Okay.”

Lucifer frowned back at her. “Okay? What do you mean okay?” A strange look passed over his face as a concerning thought came to mind. “Heavens, I finally broke you, didn’t I? Maze always said the day would come.”

Linda shook her head. “Nope, not broken. Just compartmentalizing all of this.” She shifted her gaze back to him, head finally clear and heart rate back to a clinical normal. Lucifer was slightly unsettled with how calm she seemed, as if he actually did break her, but she was just doing an excellent job hiding all of it.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” She looked at him expectantly. “Hit me.”

“As much as I find it weird that you’re taking all this too well, I don’t think punching you would solve any of our problems.”       

(Linda did not map out her day with the thought of strangling the devil, but if Lucifer couldn’t bottle up his insufferable ignorance even just for the next few minutes, it looked as if things were about to head in that general direction).

“No, I meant-” She rubbed a hand down her face. “Let me rephrase myself. I am ready to hear whatever outrageous explanation is behind you having a sixteen year old daughter.”

“That’s splendid, doctor.” Lucifer smiled back at her, toothy and self-assured as ever. “Now we’re making some progress. Should I start at the beginning, or-”

“No, no, no. Just the Cliffnotes version.” The devil shot her another odd look, and she promptly waved him away. “Trust me, I’m sure it’s a wonderful story full of plot twists and Lucifer-brand escapades that you would just love to recount in explicit detail, but right now, we’re losing daylight and I need to understand most of it before I bring Sabrina back in here.”

For the record, Lucifer did not enjoy telling that particular story, considering he’s only told it thrice in a span of sixteen years (once to Amenadiel, another to Maze, and just last night to Sabrina). Frankly, the whole narrative managed to take him from mad to sad faster than any depressant, and it was downright humiliating to admit that he’d been duped by a bearded warlock (take away his youth and dress him up in ratty robes, and what was Edward Spellman, really, but a heinous version of Dumbledore?). Still, the devil took pride in telling stories exceptionally well, and he felt quite robbed now that Linda was asking for a summary, of all things.

Nevertheless, this day was about his daughter and helping her get better. He supposed the faster he got the doctor caught up, the sooner Sabrina would be back in the room and on track to emotional healing.

Lucifer sighed out loud.

“Fine. Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job.”

Linda hummed to herself. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Anyway,” he shot back, eyeing her dismissively (The audacity of this woman. First, she waters down his theatrical flair for storytelling, and now she won’t even let him finish). “Long story short, I got the mortal wife of a satanic high priest pregnant. As a favor, of course. Then, let’s see, there was a plane crash, and a prophecy, and a pair of witches who took Sabrina in when her mum died. There’s also this whole thing about a cannibalistic coven, but I don’t want to bore you with the finer details.”

The doctor glared back at him. “I know what you’re doing, Lucifer. You’re purposely stringing together the vaguest narrative known to mankind just so I’ll ask you for the specifics and you can have your way in telling the story.”

Lucifer merely shrugged his shoulders in feigned innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, doctor.”

(Linda was close, so damn close to strangling either him or herself at that point.) She narrowed her eyes at him even further and crossed her arms against her chest. (Still, you don’t earn a career in psychology without playing a few mind games of your own).

The doctor nodded her head and made a quiet humph from the back of her throat. “Either way, I think I got the gist of it. We’re done here.”

“But-but doctor!” The devil leaned forward in his seat, suddenly flustered. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about the flesh eating? Or perhaps the satanic church?”

“No, Lucifer, I think I’ve heard enough,” Linda said, getting up to hold the door open. “I’d like to talk to Sabrina now.”

Lucifer held up a finger, as if he wanted to say something more, but the therapist quickly shot him back a stern look and he got to his feet. Linda didn’t miss the way he scrunched his face at her as he straightened his suit jacket and marched out the hall.

(Who did she think she was? His stories were thrilling, epic, flawless. I’ve heard enough, my ass).

She chuckled smugly as she returned to her seat, giving herself a metaphorical pat on the back.

(She wasn’t gonna kid herself. Lucifer got to her, and the need to know the rest of the story would probably keep her up for a solid week. But she’d fill out the rest of the blanks eventually. For now, it was all worth it just to know she got to him first).

“Dr. Linda?” The rest of her self-celebration was cut short by a hesitant knock at the door. She turned her head to see Sabrina standing by the entrance of her office, demonic black cat walking in circles around her stocking-clad ankles. “You wanted to see me?”

The therapist knew that she was just a teenage girl and relatively harmless in her own right (antichrist status, aside), but she couldn’t help the way her spine went stiffer and the hairs on the back of her arm stood straighter as she looked her in the eye.

“Sabrina, yes, please come in.”

“You’re scared of me, doctor,” the young witch observed with an arch of her brow, watching Linda curiously as she took her place on the couch (which she could now thankfully enjoy without Lucifer invading her personal space). Salem promptly jumped up on her lap and she brushed magic-worn fingers through his fur, though her gaze never left the woman across from her. She quirked her head to the side in genuine thought. “Why is that?”

“Well, I-I,” the doctor felt herself drawn to the girl, defenses down and vulnerabilities exposed in a way that was too familiar to be new.

She felt her earlier horrors about the apocalypse being unearthed from their haphazardly-compartmentalized box and her mouth itching with the sudden urge to say them out loud. Realizing what the teenager was doing (if her father played with desires, then she played with fears, and dear lord, was she alarmingly good at it), Linda shook her head, breaking the spell halfway through. Sabrina couldn’t say she was surprised (two years working with the devil and the therapist was bound to learn a trick or two), but she found herself a bit disappointed, nonetheless.

Still slightly dazed, Linda tried to steer the conversation away to less frightening waters. “Where’s your dad?”

“Maze said she was hungry so they went to get a sandwich across the street,” the younger blond replied, stretching out her back on the sofa and staring boredly at the ceiling.

(With the amount of time it took for the doctor to talk to and eventually piss off her father, Sabrina managed to browse through all twelve magazines Linda had in her waiting room and make enough awkward conversation with Mazikeen for the demon to excuse herself to the bathroom and never come back. At that point, therapy was beginning to lose most of its allure and the girl had half a mind to sneak off to Lucifer’s expensive pastry place and stay there just long enough to worry him).

Linda nodded her head. “Okay. Now that it’s just the two of us, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Let me just get my notepad-” She made a move to get up from her seat, but staggered back to the chair the moment Sabrina lazily twirled a finger and her journal came flying across the room.

The witch had a subtle smile as she lowered the bundle on to the doctor’s lap with a flick of the wrist, a pen hovering mid-air for her to reach soon after. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

Linda always knew that the Morningstar family came equipped with a specific skillset. They had their immortality, their invincibility, their inane penchant to attract trouble wherever they went…it was commonplace for both Lucifer and Amenadiel, and hell, even their crazy mother, too. But even those three had their limitations, and it often required them to use their feet (maybe their gigantic angel wings once or twice) to cross the room and retrieve items with their hands like normal people. So for Sabrina to just go around summoning things at will, no one could really fault the doctor for leaving her mouth agape in concerned surprise.

“How did you-”

“Look, doctor. I’m gonna save us both a lot of trouble and tell you right now that I don’t think I’m the type for therapy.” Sabrina cut her off, still staring at the ceiling in thought as she talked aloud. “I don’t know what you’ve got my father doing here every week, but that’s his business, and it’s none of my concern. But I’ve seen things and felt things that I’m not sure any amount of science could fix. And honestly, you seem nice enough, but I don’t want to waste your time.”

The therapist studied the girl for a moment, the way she swung her legs back and forth over the couch’s edge, the absentminded way she drummed her fingers against the pillow. 

(Destroyer of worlds or not, in many ways, she was still a child. A child, who at the end of the day, still needed help).

Linda’s gaze softened and she felt the last of her fears dissipate into nothingness.

“Sabrina, I’ve put up with your father’s issues for a couple years now. You might want to cut me some slack. I think I must have done something right, haven’t I?”

At that, Sabrina pulled herself up a bit straighter yet continued to chew on her bottom lip, unsure. “I don’t know. I'm not like your other patients.”

“Try me.”

The girl was pretty sure that the doctor was in way over her head, but if things went south, she could probably just wipe her memory and escape back to her crappy motel with no one noticing. Still unconvinced that the therapist won’t run out of the room in shock following whatever she had to say, Sabrina shrugged her shoulders.

“I’m a teenage witch raised in a satanic coven by my two aunts who aren’t really my aunts at all, and my cousin who’s been under house arrest for seventy years for trying to kill the catholic pope. This past year alone, I’ve been sued by the dark church, forced into signing away my soul, and killed by two angels before I resurrected and burned them both alive. Not long after, this evil goat pretending to be my father came along and tried to marry me so I could rule hell by his side, but my warlock boyfriend stepped up and trapped him in his body so we could all be safe. Right now, I’m just here in Los Angeles to get my mind straight before I gather the necessary powers to open the infernal gates and get rid of him for good.”

Seconds passed as the therapist just sat there, blinking profusely.

Linda didn’t really know how to respond to all that, so she merely kept her lips sealed as her widened eyes took in the overwhelming amount of information.

(Sure, Lucifer had his episodes, but they usually came in weekly bursts of little celestial screw-ups. Divine problems in small doses were surprisingly easy to deal with, all things considered. A year’s worth of the antichrist’s issues poured out in one go, however? Not so much.)

Sabrina sighed aloud as she got to her feet, ready to start the forgetting spell. (It was a good thing Lilith gave back her powers. She couldn’t imagine having to sit through all of this until her father returned to the room – probably with half of Maze’s sandwich in hand – and had to save her all over again). She was almost to the doctor’s chair when Linda blew out a long breath, readjusted her glasses, and reached back for her pen and notepad.

The witch could only look on in wonder as the therapist turned to her with a determined glint in her eye. 

“Well, what are you doing? You better sit yourself back down, sweetheart. It seems we have our work cut out for us.”

Chapter Text

“Lucifer, you’re back.”

It wasn’t as though he planned on being back, make no mistake about it. Yes, granted, it was Friday, and Fridays (much like every day) usually meant boring detective work in the morning, and some outrageous party (slash rave, slash orgy, slash something or other) in the evening. But somewhere down the line, fate (or Father, it was most definitely Father) decided to throw his best-kept secret back at him in a fit of raging hellfire and black headbands, and suddenly, for Lucifer Morningstar, Fridays meant something more, something special. For all intents and purposes, Fridays now meant…Sabrina.

(Sabrina, who was too sad for sixteen. Sabrina, who was too proud to look him in the eye but still stared at him wistfully when she thought he didn’t notice. Sabrina, who could destroy him in every way that mattered even if she didn’t know it just yet.)

Lucifer jerked his head to the side, mouth pressed to a thin line. All the while, his fingers absently worked at the cuffs of his shirt, restlessly folding and unfolding till the crisp linen was peppered with more creases than when he began.

“Yes, well, slight change of plans.”

The detective nodded her head, lips pursed ever so slightly. Once upon a time she might have called herself an actress, but it was a fantasy short-lived and for good reason as she stood browsing through her folders, feigning nonchalance that clearly wasn’t there.

“I don’t suppose…a teenage daughter was in any of them?”

It was subtle yet probing, and with no more than an amused raise of his brow, Lucifer knew this was her way of collecting a debt once owed.  An explanation, he promised yesterday. Even free of hell, the devil was bound by many prisons, but the greatest one was his word.

(Maybe it was about time he stopped making promises).

His fingers suddenly stilled and he hummed in thought. (Pensive was the word for it, though Chloe didn’t find it such a right fit for her usually flippant partner).

“It’s quite funny, come to think of it.” His eyes drew to the sleeves undone by his hands, turned them over once, turned them over twice, somehow expecting the mess to clean itself up if he looked away long enough. “Every plan I’ve made, I’ve told myself that I had her in mind. Now that they’re playing themselves out, it seems that she was never in any of them at all.”

“Lucifer-”

“Wouldn’t you know it, detective?” His lips pulled upwards into a smile; tight, stinging, humorless. If he hadn’t already emptied out his flask on the drive to the precinct, he might have washed it away with some hard liquor. “Perhaps I’ve been a liar, after all.”

When he returned to Linda’s office after Maze pulled him away for some breakfast, he opened the door too quickly, too callously (damn the doctor and her faulty locks), and walked in on a sight that shouldn’t have hurt him so much but it did. Growing up, Amenadiel used a lot of words to describe his daughter. Strong, reckless, defiant. Yet walking back into that room, none of them seemed to fit the crying girl on the couch, face buried in defeat in her hands as her body shook and trembled much like the bottles she brought crashing down the night before.

It was a miracle that she didn’t catch him looking (else she would have shut her mouth completely and never spoken a breath to him again), yet the doctor did, and she quickly pulled him out into the hall before Sabrina could even notice.

(“Lucifer, I need you to leave.”

“But Sabrina, she’s-”

“She’s going to be okay. Just, go distract yourself for a while, and come back when I call. I’ll explain everything later.”)

The LAPD wasn’t much of a distraction (though, he supposed, no place was, considering that all the world’s alcohol, women, and reckless decisions couldn’t erase the guilt eating away at him with every passing second), but it was familiar and constant and normal. At times like this, when the world seemed to turn on its head (and the strong, reckless, and defiant broke down crying on cheap sofas), he could do with a bit of normal.

Chloe sighed as she pulled Dan’s empty chair from his desk and sat across from her partner, currently slumped over her own seat in an unnerving state of disquieted silence. For someone who never seemed unsure a day of his life, worry was not a good look on him. Still, it seemed familiar, making sense in a way it shouldn’t have. It was the same look she saw on her ex-husband’s face when Trixie got called into the principal’s office, or when she, herself, would scrape her knees in her youth and John Decker, still dressed in his uniform’s deep blues, would run over and scoop her up from the ground.

If she ever doubted that Lucifer Morningstar was a father, then the unrest in his eyes and the unbridled tension in his jaw just then proved her wrong.

The detective shook her head in disbelief. “God, I can’t believe you’re a dad.” She rested her chin on the table while peering up at him, half-awestruck, half-bemused. “When did that happen?”

Lucifer knew she was just wondering aloud. (She knew the answer, of course. She probably read Sabrina’s file last night more than a southern lady with her Bible), but he couldn’t help but wonder, himself. Biologically, yes, he became a father sixteen years ago. In all the ways that mattered, though, he wasn’t sure if he ever managed to become one even to this day.

(What did he do, after all, other than pass on blood and powers and an excessive pinch of impulsiveness? Even God did more for His clay-mold mortal children than the devil ever did for his only begotten daughter).

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucifer saw the detective watching him with the same curiosity that must have kept her on edge since everything that happened last night. (It couldn’t be helped, he supposed. Part of the reason why the detective was so good at her job was because she never ran out of questions). Still, he didn’t think he could answer any of them. Not now, at least, when he had questions of his own and his imagination ran away to places that scared him more than he would care to admit.

Before the detective could even word her next sentence together in her head, Lucifer was already well on his way to changing the topic completely.

“So, anything exciting happened while I was gone?” He sat straighter, crossed his legs, tried giving his most charming smile. No matter how chipper the face he put on, though, his eyes didn’t light up the same and Chloe could see right through him. “Still waiting around for a good murder. Dad knows it’s been too long.”

Chloe paused for a moment, caught between calling him out and letting him be. (Pick a subject, any subject in the world, and Lucifer Morningstar would have something to say about it. But bring up his own child and suddenly he forgets how to speak). No other word needed to be said at the moment more than “why,” but the detective fought against the syllables just begging to escape from her throat and decided to play along.

“No, just the usual open and shut cases. Except…” She looked down at the folders on her lap, pretended to be busy, occupied, anything other than bothered by another one of her partner’s secrets. “Dan came in early this morning, though. Kept asking about the teenage arsonist from the park.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “It was hardly arson. There was no destruction of private property involved-” Chloe shot him a bewildered look and he actually had the decency to look contrite (clearly another first in this two-day road show of madness that seemed to have no end), cutting himself short with a clear of his throat. “Sorry. So what did you tell him?”

The detective sighed aloud, finally putting down her folders (as a prop, they were essentially pointless, anyway) to glance at him pointedly.

“That I sent her home with her father.”

All at once, Lucifer was overcome with a sinking feeling, and he would’ve called it dread but he wasn’t quite sure if he’d ever felt it before. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of Sabrina. No, she could burn the whole world to the ground and she’d still be his greatest pride and joy. It was more of the fact that she had not one, but two detectives on her trail now, both cutthroat and unrelenting in their own right, who could follow her blood-stained path all the way back to New England and the unholy coven that took her in when he couldn’t.

(The Greendale witches were always exceptionally good at hiding, that much was true, but the times were changing and their defenses against the witch trials of old did little to protect them now. And with one of their youngest members running fast and loose with her own powers out in public, it was only a matter of time before Sabrina drew the wrong kind of attention, and the Spellmans – who did him the greatest service for over sixteen years even if they didn’t know it – would be caught in the crosshairs).

And it was all because he couldn’t keep a secret well enough.

“I’m assuming you also told him, then?” He looked down bitterly, worrying his bottom lip as he already half-expected the answer. “That said father is me?”

(What was he hoping for, really? He was her husband, and her friend, and her partner long before he came into the picture. Of course she told him every-)

“No.”

His eyes snapped to hers so fast that it made his head spin just the slightest bit, but seeing the plain earnestness on her face almost made it worth it. “You mean-”

The detective shook her head before he could even wrap his mind around the thought. “I didn’t tell him anything.” Slowly, she reached for his hand across the table and gave it a reassuring squeeze. (It didn’t pull on his heartstrings anymore, not the way it used to, but it was a comfort he didn’t know he needed all the same). She blew out a breath and leveled her voice with a certain gentleness before softly speaking her next words. “Look, Lucifer. I get that there are some parts of your life that you’re not ready to talk about yet, and I respect that. I won’t push you into anything you don’t want to do. But I just-I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to keep secrets from me.”

He grinned back at her, and subtle as it was, at least it didn’t seem so forced anymore. “I know.”

It would take some time, but one day he would tell her everything. He would tell her about Edward and his trickery, Diana and her gentleness, Sabrina and her smile that lit up the world more than any star he hung in the heavens. Maybe she wouldn’t understand most of it (would probably accuse him of talking in metaphors, most likely), but at least she would understand him, and that was really all that mattered, wasn’t it?

“Turns out you’ve been a parent way longer than I’ve been, but if you ever need any help…”

Lucifer chuckled lightly and squeezed her hand back before letting it go. “I’ll know just who to call.”

At the moment, though he would never admit it out loud, he was actually grateful to his Father. For whatever schemes and manipulations He had in mind when He created Chloe Decker, His son ended up with a friend. Now that could very well have been just another step in His grand plan to torment Lucifer, but right then, he found that he couldn't bring himself to care. He had other things to worry about, and the hand he was given to hold was the least of his complaints.

Almost as if on cue, Lucifer's phone began vibrating in his pocket, and he swiftly took it out to glance at the screen. “Speaking of calls,” he frowned at the words written in big white font (he played it off like it was nothing, but the detective clearly heard his sharp intake of breath at Dr. Linda’s name). “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to take this.”

Chloe gestured for him to go ahead and swiveled her chair back to her own desk the moment Lucifer got up to walk away.

(If he was going to talk through his issues with anyone, it might as well have been his therapist. The detective knew that her partner may have seemed chaotically lost at times, but he always tried to take steps in the right direction, and she could never fault him for that).

The moment he was a reasonable distance away (almost ironically, he somehow wandered back into the interrogation room where it all began), he held the phone up to his ear, heart drumming frantically against his chest all the while.

“Hello? Doctor? How did it go? How’s Sabrina?”

Linda had to hum in thought before she could answer, and if she had dragged on a second longer, Lucifer would have broken out his wings and flown over early L.A traffic all the way to her office, mortal onlookers be damned. “Sabrina’s doing fine…all things considered. Maze took her back to the pastry shop she seemed to love so much.”

“That’s good.” He nodded to himself. (Even as a child, the girl appeared to rest on the skinnier side, and her father had a strange inkling that the Spellmans – Hilda, in particular - must have been feeding her too much garden beans). From her tone of voice, though, Lucifer felt as though there was something the doctor was not telling him, and the both of them seemed to dance between a fine line that couldn’t be crossed over a phone call alone.

He heard Linda sigh on the other end of the line, and just then, he knew it was over. Nothing pleasant was bound to come from this conversation, and deep inside, he braced himself for the worst.

(It couldn’t have been nice, after all, whatever it was that broke his little girl).

“Lucifer, I think you should just head over here. The things I have to say,” the doctor smacked her lips together and he could just imagine her shaking her head. “They’re the type I’d rather say to you in person.”

Lucifer swallowed, thick and heavy, although at that point, whatever else he had to say had already turned to ashes in his mouth. “I see.”

“Are you sure you're oka-”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Before he could even drop the call, the phone was all but trampled under his feet as he went dashing out the door. When the detective came looking for him a few minutes later, she could do nothing more than shake her head at the cracked device on the interrogation room floor and hope to God (or his father, apparently) that wherever her partner was, he knew what he was doing.

He arrived at the clinic earlier than the doctor anticipated (how he managed to evade the freeway’s bottleneck in a little over five minutes was beyond her), and she nearly jumped out of her seat when he burst into the office with no warning (she had only meant to replace the door locks before, but it seemed even the hinges wouldn’t stay intact for much longer, either).

“Let’s make this quick, doctor. Who do I have to skin alive and feed to the vultures?”

From his demeanor alone, Linda could tell he was on edge, leagues away from the Lucifer Morningstar who bribed his way into an appointment at eight in the morning. (It didn’t help that his eyes were practically ablaze, and his whitened knuckles were more or less poised to punch and rip and tear apart). A chill ran down her spine at the thought that he could probably make good on his threat with no more than his bare hands.

With a frown, the doctor glanced back at her notes, scribbled with nearly unintelligible lines as she tried to keep up with Sabrina’s stories.

(Unlike her father, she had no affinity for talking in circles. Even as her voice broke and her eyes watered halfway through, she kept on going, determined to recount everything as she had promised. It meant quite a lot of disturbing details and disturbing people, but Linda had already guessed early on that this certain princess’s life was not the type to be told in fairytales).

She blew out a low breath at all the names she scratched in bold letters along the margins. “Quite a lot of people, it would seem.”

At that, Lucifer closed his eyes and muttered something darkly under his breath. One part of Linda feared that he would explode in rage right then and there, but the other part chose to believe in the devil’s humanity, the same one that gave him patience and compassion and sensibilities.

(She didn’t know how long said humanity would hold, the moment he found out just what his daughter had to live through this past year, but she had no other option but to rely on it, all the same).

“I’m not even supposed to be telling you all this, doctor-patient confidentiality considered,” she admitted, steepling her fingers as she looked at him seriously. “But since Sabrina is a minor, I'm ethically obligated to inform her parent of any potentially dangerous activities for her own protection. Although, I have to admit, your daughter has managed to protect herself astoundingly well up to this point.”

For a moment, Lucifer’s growing anger found a reprieve and his eyes crinkled just the slightest bit. (Still strong, reckless, and defiant, it turned out).

“She has?”

The doctor smiled back, nodding her head. “I’ve known her barely four hours and she might already be one of the toughest people I’ve ever met. The whole black magic and hellfire thing’s not too shabby, either.”

“Yes, well, she got it from me.”

Linda looked at him softly; his worry, his concern, his barely-restrained pride.

(He tried so hard to hide it, but he was a father through and through. Sabrina was lucky to have him, even if she refused to accept it yet).

“Yeah, I figured.”

His amusement left as quickly as it came, however, and not two seconds later, his forehead was creased, and he was back to thumbing the cuffs of his shirt.

“It must have been terrible, though, if it made her cry.” His eyes shifted to her uneasily and the doctor could almost feel the restlessness coming off him in waves. “I haven’t seen her cry since she was born.”

(“You've been gone sixteen years, what did you expect?” The doctor wanted to bite back, but she figured it was still a wound too fresh to pick at.)

“Well, a few things have happened since then.” She said instead, chin tilted resolutely as she flipped back through her notes. “And God, half of these things I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”

Lucifer grew quiet then, and Linda wasn’t sure if it was guilt that silenced him, or if he had merely run out of things to say.

(Looking back, it was probably a bit of both, although he wouldn’t be the first to admit it out loud.)

Before she could spill out everything, though, she stopped herself (Where would she even begin? The weird, cultish baptism that started it all? Or maybe even before that, when Sabrina’s mother and supposed father were left for dead and she was forced to grow up in the presence of flesh-eating witches and freshly-deceased bodies inside their mortuary home?) and gave him a hardened stare.

“You should know that I won’t be telling you everything. Most of this…it has to come from her. When she’s ready, when she trusts you, she’ll tell you herself.”

Lucifer appreciated what the doctor was trying to do, he really did, but sometimes he worried that she had too much hope in people. And it wasn’t always necessarily bad, per se, but when it got in the way of her perspective – especially when it came to him and just how far he’d gone – at the back of his mind, he feared she’d forgotten that she was dealing with supernatural entities who could literally bend the world to their will, miles away from her usual depressed divorcees and people who shoplifted for fun.

“After I left her? Stayed away long enough for all this to happen?” He let out a faint laugh, but there was no humor left in the sound. “I wonder when that could be?”

“Sooner than you think,” the doctor countered. “Sabrina has trust issues, yes, and it won’t be easy to relearn that same kind of belief in people. But part of why she struggled so hard in the past is because she kept everything bottled up and tried to deal with it herself. She doesn’t have to do that now, though, because she has me, and you, and maybe even Maze! The moment she realizes this, I’m telling you, it will all come much easier. You just need to have a little faith in the process.”

Lucifer’s face soured and he huffed out a tired breath. “Forgive me, doctor, but it seems a bit too much to ask the devil to believe in faith.”

“Then believe in me. You thought I could help you, that’s why you came to me this morning, right?”

(This morning already felt like a lifetime ago at that point, but for someone who’d lived through millennia, he couldn’t say his memory was failing him just yet).

“Well, yes,” he conceded.

Linda nodded her head once and rifled through the open journal on her lap. “Good. Now you better listen up, because I’ve got a long list of names here, and I wouldn’t want them walking around with their skin intact after what they did.”

Lucifer leaned in closer to peek at her notes, and she snapped it shut before he could read anything he wasn’t ready for.

(More than half of Sabrina’s stories made her shudder, and she knew it wasn’t her place to tell them out loud. Most of them, though, the girl already managed to resolve for herself – the demons, the plague kings, the witch sisters who tried to kill her but somehow ended up as her friends. It was the things she yet to fix, however, that the therapist wanted to help with, preferably with the aid of her devilish father who had an unmatched taste for revenge).

Even with her journal sealed to a close, the doctor knew all those awful names by heart now. How couldn’t she, after she heard them spat out in animosity and tears as she watched the teenage antichrist fall apart on her couch? And one by one, she would see them undone (the way they undid that poor girl's life even if they didn't know it), starting with perhaps the most wretched of them all.

She stared pointedly back at Lucifer. “What do you know about Faustus Blackwood?”

Chapter Text

After her little monologue at Dr. Linda’s, Sabrina fully expected that she would spend the rest of the day curled up in her stain-ridden bed back at the motel, half-relieved at finally venting out her frustrations, and half-worried at sharing maybe a bit too much.

(For someone raised to hide her magic in secrecy, it was troubling just how easily she could talk about it to a stranger, a mortal one, no less. Still, the doctor was calm and kind and impossibly understanding. Sabrina didn’t think she spent her spare time – if she even had any, between juggling the devil and the antichrist – hunting down covens).

Instead, the afternoon brought both her and Maze to a table at Jean Claude’s, the classy French café that’s overtaken her mind since breakfast (she didn’t realize how classy it was until both her and her pair of demons arrived to a busy lunch crowd and the bounty hunter had to flash Lucifer’s black card just so they could be seated).

Despite the steady hum of chatter around them, the moment carried with it a surprising peace as Sabrina sipped quietly at her pumpkin soup (rich and creamy, yet short of love and a few enchanted herbs to ever compare to Hilda’s) and Mazikeen sliced aggressively at her ribeye steak, Salem pawing playfully all the while at the soft sunlight filtering in through the windows (his mistress tried slipping him a few breadsticks under the table, but the fussy cat would only ever have his favorite canned tuna or nothing at all).

It might have seemed like the peace would have carried on forever (not that Sabrina was particularly averse to it. She would have sat on that vintage French dining chair and listened to the gentle violin notes that flitted through the air for hours upon hours if she could), but Maze was the first to break the silence with a lazy wave of her fork.

“So,” the demon began, tipping back a gulp of champagne to wash down whatever food was left in her mouth. “What did you think about that first therapy session?”

Sabrina wasn’t sure if the woman was actually interested or just trying to fill a desperate need for small talk (their earlier car ride definitely pulled her in favor of the latter), but she decided to humor her all the same. She couldn’t help it; she was in a good mood. Maybe an emotional breakdown was all she needed to release some tightly-wound tension.

Her next words came out surprisingly easy as she stirred absentmindedly at her food.

“I didn’t think I could ever admit it out loud, but I actually liked it. I feel…lighter somehow. Like a weight’s been lifted off me.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Maze frowned back.

(She always thought humans loved things that weighed them down. Like spouses and children and big houses with mortgages that still overtook their minds even as they were being tortured in hell).

The girl nodded her head with arched brows before bringing another spoonful to her lips. “It’s about as good as it gets when you’ve been lugging around the world as long as I have.”

“Sixteen years doesn’t seem that long.”

Sabrina scrunched her nose thoughtfully. “One would think so, wouldn’t they?”

Mazikeen must have been content with her answer, since she mulled over the words with no more than a shrug of her shoulders and left the conversation at that. Sabrina was silently grateful for it. The doctor’s appointment might have put her at the slightest ease, but she wasn’t ready for anyone to start prodding into her monsters again too soon.

As the demon’s focus shifted back to murdering the little meat cutlets on her plate a second time around, Sabrina had her empty soup bowl taken away and asked for a serving of vegetable pie.

(It would still probably fall short of Hilda’s, but she would take every chance she could to taste the Spellman kitchen again. It was ironic, in a way. She was starting to grow homesick for a home that she was apparently already sick of).

Before the witch’s thoughts could wander back to traitorous places that honestly would have put all her recent emotional progress to waste, the bounty hunter stepped in with another mouth-half-full attempt at conversation that tore Sabrina’s attention away from memories of the Spellman house (its sprawling green gardens, its cozy, time-worn furniture, its dated safety wards that did little to keep out murderous angels no matter how tightly she bound the door) and towards the demon across from her who was already gesturing to the waitstaff for another bottle of alcohol.

“How long are you in L.A. for, anyway?” She asked, trying to sound like it was an offhand question, though Sabrina had a feeling Lucifer set her up to it.

She had half a mind not to answer (just purely out of spite), but in the end, she supposed there was no harm in being honest. Her father and his right-hand demon could have her whole travel itinerary if they wanted and they still couldn’t stop her from boarding a plane back to Greendale at the end of the week.

“Another six days, then it’s back home for me.” The girl replied with a cheery smile, every inch the excited teenager on her first trip alone. Her tone, however, held something else. A hidden edge that the demon almost missed, had the witchling not said it with a pointed look and slightly bared teeth.

(“Home and only home,” it seemed to add. “You can’t keep me here any longer than that.”)

Maze stabbed another piece of meat with her fork and chewed on it slowly, narrowing her eyes at the little girl who was still evidently trying to figure out how to push her over the edge.

(She wasn’t mad. She respected it, somehow. Anyone who could look a demon in the eye and threaten them without a second thought was pretty alright in her book).

“Let me guess. Finally grew out of that small town?”

“No.” Sabrina picked up her knife and started slicing into the pie the moment it was set down in front of her. “Greendale grew even bigger, if you can believe it. I used to think I knew the place so well that it couldn’t surprise me anymore. Now I’m not so sure.”

The demon scoffed. “And you think New England can surprise you, but Los Angeles won’t?”

Sabrina unscrewed Maze’s new champagne bottle and poured herself a glass (she was almost convinced that the bounty hunter would stop her, but the other woman only raised a brow and said nothing more).

She smirked wickedly before taking a generous first sip. “Not to be smug, but I think I’m the one who’s gonna be doing all the surprising around here.”

Mazikeen couldn’t help the smile that crept up on her face.

(The young witch was so sure of herself that she was all but preening as she sat across from the demon, posture confident and chest slightly puffed out in pride. She was so convinced of her hell-raising abilities that Maze was almost inclined to believe her. Still, it did nothing to change the fact that the bounty hunter thought she looked like an adorably haughty little bird).

“You know when you talk like that, you sound a lot like someone I know.”

Sabrina rolled her eyes as she swirled the champagne flute in her hand. “You’re gonna say Lucifer again, aren’t you?”

Maze sighed out loud.

(This whole back-and-forth between the devil and his daughter was getting tiring to watch, and she was only pulled into their little reunion loop this morning, come to think of it. If a few hours already drove her to the brink of insanity, she couldn’t imagine what the rest of the week had in store).

“You’re both stubborn forces of hell who like their whiskey neat and won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Who else am I supposed to say?” She nudged her chin out towards the girl who was now picking at the bell peppers on her plate with a conflicted look. “You’re more alike than you think. You know, you might actually like him if you just gave him a chance.”

“Linda thinks so, too,” the witch mumbled back, chewing on her bottom lip.

(She knew that the doctor was friends with her father. Of course she was going to vouch for him. Personal ties aside, though, she made the girl feel safe and validated and heard. Linda said she could feel like that every day of her life if only she learned to let the right people in. Now, Lucifer was a far cry from the right person, but then again, she didn’t really know that for sure, did she?)

The demon smacked her lips together. “Look, you’re probably gonna say no, and you’re allowed to, but at least try to hear me out.” She topped up her drink and downed half of it in one gulp (for courage, Maze liked to think, but she knew she was just kidding herself. Spending millennia in hell was reason enough to drink every damn day). “Your dad wants you to move into the penthouse while you’re here in California.”

“Oh.”

It all boiled down to this, didn’t it? The hellfire-burning question of whether or not she was willing to give Lucifer the chance he’s been hoping for. At the back of her mind, Sabrina knew her father was expecting too much. If he wanted to prove himself, it made more sense if he asked for an afternoon together, or maybe tried for another joint therapy session with Linda. But to essentially ask her to live with someone she’s only known for a day? Even more, in an apartment that she was pretty sure she already left in shambles the previous night?

It was ridiculous.

(Maybe so much that she had no other choice but to say yes).

She nodded her head slowly as she swallowed the last bite of vegetable pie. “Okay.” (Even as she was agreeing to it, she couldn’t wrap her mind around the sheer impulsiveness of her answer. Satan, maybe Ambrose was right. She had a bad habit of rushing into things). “I’ll do it.”

“You will?” Maze asked, confused.

(She hadn’t even made her case yet. Granted, her argument mostly involved copious amounts of alcohol from the penthouse’s open bar and the endless nightly parties at Lux, but what else were angel-witch kids into, anyway?)

Sabrina shrugged her shoulders. “Sure, why not? What better way to experience L.A. than at the heart of its nightlife? Besides, I said I wanted a change from the slow pace in Greendale. Living on top of a nightclub should do the trick.”

(No offense to the antichrist, but she didn’t seem the type to go traipsing off into some spontaneous hedonism just for the hell of it. Maze saw how those witch sisters raised her. She was used to home-cooked meals and warm, fluffy sweaters hand-knitted by the chubby one. The bounty hunter was pretty sure Sabrina was in no rush to change any of it, at all).

The demon narrowed her eyes even further. “And you’re sure that’s it? No other reason than some healthy teenage rebellion?”

“Well,” the girl leaned back against her seat and nursed the half-filled flute in her hands. “That and the fact that I want to give Lucifer the benefit of the doubt. Who knows, this might turn out better than either of us expected. If not, at least I can say I’ve tried. Maybe by then, everyone will stop bugging me to give the devil a chance.”

Maze mulled it over with pursed lips.

(Lucifer told her to accept Sabrina’s answer only if she wanted it. Free will was still a touchy subject with the Morningstars, after all. Now, she wasn’t entirely sure if ‘I’m agreeing to this just to get people off my back’ was technically the same thing as ‘wanting it,’ but it was good enough, she guessed).

“Not quite the enthusiasm I was hoping for, but sure.” She clinked her glass against Sabrina’s and gave her another well-meant (yet still borderline menacing) smile. “I’ll take it.”

Sabrina expected she’d spend the rest of the afternoon curled up in her stain-ridden bed back at the motel, half-relieved at finally venting out her frustrations, and half-worried at sharing maybe a bit too much. Somehow, she wound up at an upscale restaurant, instead, with one demon batting away breadsticks under the table, and another trying to get free cake even though she could afford the whole menu ten times over with the Amex card Lucifer lent her.

(While she was off in the bathroom, Maze managed to convince the waiters to sing her a surprise happy birthday, though the witch quickly shut them down before they could even get to the first verse. She wasn’t too keen on birthdays anymore, not after her disastrous sixteenth).

When the afternoon reached its end, the antichrist went home (to a motel room that she soon packed up and stripped bare of all glamour spells) with a take-out box of not-really-birthday cake and new living arrangements that she still couldn’t believe she agreed to. If Mazikeen’s next attempt at car conversations on the way to Lux didn’t bother her as much anymore, or if she started singing along a bit too brightly when Magic Eyes came on the radio, she just chalked it up to one too many glasses of champagne.

(Or maybe, just maybe, some unexpected plans were exactly what she needed).

It may have taken some time smuggling a fussy cat and a beat-up looking suitcase through Lux’s early evening crowd, but Maze got the job done. Not long after leaning lazily against the elevator railings as the beginning hints of exhaustion crept up on her (Babysitting the witchling was no joke. If she thought getting her to speak was tiring, then getting her to shut up once she started babbling about horror movies was an entirely new level of torture), the doors slid open to a quiet, empty penthouse. Instantly, she was put on the slightest edge.

“Lucifer?” The demon called out tentatively, stepping out with her butterfly knife clutched loosely in hand. (His corvette was parked out front, and there was no trace of him at the club. It didn’t make sense for him to be anywhere else). She did a brisk sweep of the apartment before shifting her gaze back to Sabrina who was still standing timidly by the entrance. “There’s no one here.”

The teenager frowned back. “Well, where do you think he is?”

(She wasn’t expecting a welcome party by any stretch of the imagination, but he could have at least had the decency to actually be there when she arrived).

She put down her bag with an echoing thud, and Salem swiftly jumped out of her arms as she crossed them against her chest.

“I think I might have an idea.” Maze pocketed the knife with a sigh and began walking back to the elevator. Between the basement and the top floor, this building had an excessive number of rooms, all of which Lucifer could have easily run off to. “In the meantime, stay here till I get back and try not to destroy anything. It was a pain in the ass finding replacements for those damn Sumerian walls.”

Sabrina scanned the place with a curious look (by some miracle, it looked brand new, as if she never stepped foot in it at all).

“What am I even supposed to do around here?”

“Get settled in. Put up protective wards. Burn some incense. I don’t know.” Maze said just before the doors drew to a close. “For Hell’s sake, just don’t make a mess.”

Her descent to the bottom floor was relatively quick, and by the time her eyes adjusted to the dingy fluorescent lights, she could already see Lucifer’s suited figure hunched over a dusty table.

Unlike the rest of the rooms that were regularly visited by cleaning crews in the building, the bottom floor was closed off for reasons only known to the demon and the devil. Everything they brought with them from hell, they kept here, from Maze’s flame-forged weapons to Lucifer’s towering pile of Pentecostal coins. If it meant the place was slowly falling into a decaying state of cobwebs and broken bulbs, neither of them paid it much thought. They never had too many reasons to go down here, anyway.

“Maze.” Lucifer, suddenly disturbed, looked up and saw her hovering by the door. “What are you doing here?”

The demon hummed as she walked over, hands on her hips as she looked through the torture devices he had laid out in front of him. She took note of the medieval thumbscrews and choke pears with an arched brow (they haven’t used those in a few good centuries).

“The princess smells like sulphur.” She mused, running a finger over the ornate blades and pointed metal. “The first time I got near enough, I could think of nothing but hell. Figured you’d thought the same.”

Lucifer sighed as he haphazardly stuffed the weapons inside a discreet black duffel bag. “Well, she did admit to opening the gates and taking a peek inside. The scent must have rubbed off. Which reminds me, she should really have a potion brewed for that.”

(Maze didn’t know why he picked now, of all times, to busy himself for whatever reason at the storage room, and frankly, she didn’t have the energy to guess. All she knew was that she left a very volatile teenager with an annoyingly frisky cat inside a freshly-renovated apartment, and if she had to contact a team of underground interior designers and contractors again at four in the morning, she was going to be very pissed).

“She’s waiting for you upstairs. I don’t know what the fuck you’re still doing down here.”

That caught his attention. Lucifer’s hands stilled halfway and his packing was all but forgotten as his eyes drifted to Maze in disbelief.

“You didn’t tie her up and drag her here against her will, did you?”

“Didn’t have to. She said ‘yes’ alarmingly fast.”

Lucifer furrowed his brows in deep thought. “Now, that’s unexpected.” His focus shifted back to the items on the table, and as if remembering the very reason he was down here (whatever in the world it was), started zipping up the luggage in a more determined pace. “Not that I’m complaining. I think it’s splendid that she’s back.”

Mazikeen tapped her foot impatiently against the floor as she crossed her arms at him with a sour expression. “Doesn’t seem like it. You’re sure taking your sweet time getting your ass out of here.” She gestured harshly at the instruments on the table. “What’s with that bag, anyway? Don’t tell me you’re choosing now to take a trip to hell, because this room is chock-full of demonic blades and I am not afraid to use any of them on you.”

(If packing up his things and flying back down to the pit was his knee-jerk response to facing fatherhood, then he had another thing coming. The bounty hunter heard that the witchling had an affinity for hellfire. At the back of her mind, she wondered if the girl would be open to the idea of using it on her dad).

The devil scoffed. “Don’t be absurd. I’m not going anywhere.” He hauled the weapon-filled duffel off the table and dropped it into her arms, dusting off his hands once she had it in her grip. He gave her a pointed glance. “Can’t say the same for you, though.”

Maze shifted the weight of the load onto one shoulder and gave him an exasperated look. “Where are you shipping me off to now? You wouldn’t even let me catch a break after picking up after your daughter and her stupid cat all day.”

Lucifer raised a brow at her as he straightened his jacket and began walking back to the elevator. “You’ve been complaining lately about your bounties, haven’t you? Saying that they’re no fun and you’re not even allowed to hurt them that much?”

She hummed back in agreement, matching his pace with long strides. “They just see my knives and immediately start begging for their lives. For hell’s sake, the last thing I bruised was a fucking apple at the supermarket.”

“Well, what if I told you that you’ll be hunting down a man that you can bruise and scratch and flay all you want? What’s more, he’ll probably even fight back. Been a while since you’ve had a fighter, haven’t you?”

The demon turned to him with flinty eyes, pondering the thought. (Screamers and criers, she’d had by the dozen. Fighters, though? They were a rare breed she wouldn’t mind tearing apart just yet).

She nudged her chin out at him. “What’s so special about this one?”

Lucifer’s eyes darkened and he hardened his jaw as he stared straight ahead. Maze didn’t miss the way his nails dug ever so slightly into his palm as he curled a fist at his side.

“This one?” His lips pulled back into a snarl that held more malice than anything she's seen in a while. “This one hurt my Sabrina.”

The elevator doors slid open at the penthouse and he stepped out with a chilling heaviness to his step and a determined thirst for revenge that his right-hand demon knew all too well. She trailed after him in growing anticipation, just waiting for the final whip, the final crack, that would give her a glimpse of the glorious punisher he used to be.

(How she missed him, the one that wasn’t softened and sanded by the humans in Los Angeles).

He looked back at her with barely-held venom in his gaze. “And as you already know, Mazikeen, there will be hell to pay.”

(Maze could almost feel it. The scarred skin, the blood dripping down her fingers. It’s been a while since she was reminded of home). She smirked in delight.

“So there will.”     

Chapter Text

“Sabrina.”

Lucifer never meant for it to sound a little shaky, a little breathless, but after hearing everything the doctor had to say about the living nightmare his daughter endured at the hands of that abhorrent high priest, the sight of her curled up in a chair with a book in her hands, mundane as it seemed, was all it took to remind him that she was safe, she was strong, she was here. And at the end of the day, that was all that really mattered.

(She looked so young, too, with her knees tucked under her as she sat, and lips pursed in concentration as her eyes scanned fervently over the pages. If it weren’t for the demonic symbols on the leather-bound cover or the burn marks on the edges of her sleeves, he could almost pretend that time hadn’t passed them by; that the only horror his child had ever seen came from TV screens, that she grew up playing with dolls instead of fire, that he was actually there to see all of it happen.

Pretending was too close to lying, though, and he refused to take the chance. As long as she was okay – whatever that word actually meant – almost was good enough for him.)

Sabrina looked up at the sound of his voice and shut the book to a close.

“Lucifer,” she smiled tightly, voice a bit too clipped and warmth a bit too hollow. (She said she would give him a chance, not outright forgive him, after all). Salem jumped from her lap when she stood from the chair, ancient grimoire still clutched tightly in hand. “I went through your library. I hope you don’t mind. You’ve got a better collection than the Academy does.”

(Lucifer tried not to think about how she still called him by name instead of “Dad”. He supposed it was still a far way off, but maybe one day, they’d get to it. At least she was talking to him again).

“Nonsense. Read as much as you want. A little knowledge never hurt anyone.” He grinned back at her. “Take it from the serpent of Eden.”

The girl scrunched her brows. “Not really the best example considering humanity fell right after that whole apple thing, but okay.”

Maze stifled a laugh from where she stood behind her boss and walked over to the sofa, black duffel bag still weighing heavy on the crook of her elbow. She felt the hard gaze of both father and daughter on her (partly because they forgot she was there, partly because she purposely kept herself hidden) as she sank down on the leather settee.

“Don’t mind me,” she said, diverted, crossing her legs carelessly on top of the coffee table. “I’ve waited sixteen years for this trademark Morningstar banter. Might as well enjoy it with front row seats.”

The devil scoffed before swatting her boots away from the glass (Really, he just had the bulk of his furniture replaced. She could have at least waited a few days before leaving scuff marks on every visible surface).

“Well, sorry to ruin the show, but don’t you have somewhere else to be, Mazikeen?”

If “somewhere” meant chasing after a power-tripping Satanic priest who made the stupid decision of going against the antichrist, then sure, the bounty hunter was probably better off packing her suitcase instead of lounging lazily at the penthouse. As much as she was excited to tear the scumbag apart limb from limb, though, she wasn’t all too eager to abandon the two not-so-angelic angels without seeing some of that head-biting snark that was sure to drive both of them crazy before the week ended. Unfortunately, where the devil was involved, unless she was straddling the fine line between bloodthirsty torturer and glorified babysitter, she apparently had better things to do.

She rolled her eyes before getting to her feet (she almost stuck out her tongue, too, but that would’ve been a bit much, even for her).

“Fine, whatever.” She hitched the duffel bag onto her shoulder (a little goodie bag from hell, she liked to think. If Sabrina had spent her birthdays with them at the pit, this was probably the sort of thing the demon would’ve given away together with balloons and cake) and pushed past Lucifer back to the doors.

The teenager frowned at the bounty hunter’s retreating figure and caught up just as she was pressing annoyedly at the buttons.

“Wait, you’re leaving already?” She frowned, lower lip pouting out just slightly in a move that probably worked all too well on her aunts and cousin back home, but only made the demon raise a brow in amusement.

“Yeah, I just need to straighten some things out with my day job,” Maze replied smoothly, though her eyes wandered pointedly at Lucifer who was watching the whole exchange from the comfort of his bar stool. He raised a glass to her and the woman only scowled. She snapped her gaze back to Sabrina with a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but only came out looking more pinched than usual. “But don’t worry too much, princess, I’ll try to get back before you leave.”

Sabrina wasn’t too keen on letting her father know (the last thing she needed was for him to get all smug, seeing as he introduced the two in the first place), but she was actually starting to enjoy the bounty hunter’s company. Yes, there was a slight reservation considering that Maze was working for Lucifer (as all demons do, though the bond, dare she say the “friendship”, between them both seemed to extend beyond typical infernal servitude), but she could easily look past that; the woman’s earnest concern, poorly masked behind a veil of irritation, reminded her a lot of Harvey, Roz, and Theo who still begrudgingly looked out for her despite her seemingly endless list of shortcomings. After all the stuff that’s happened lately, it wasn’t the sort of thing she took for granted.

(And weirdly enough, something about Maze reminded her of Lilith, too, though she tried not to think of it as a bad thing; granted, the new queen of hell was cunning, underhanded, and manipulative, but she did give Sabrina back her powers, which, she supposed, was a point in her favor).

The witch blew out a breath. “Well, who am I supposed to hang out with while you’re gone? I don’t exactly know anyone else here in L.A.”

“Hmm. I must be chopped liver then,” Lucifer muttered a bit too loudly into his cup before taking a long sip. “Wonderful.”

Sabrina rolled her eyes at him. “Oh, please. You know what I meant.”

Maze watched the pair of them in growing interest, eyes narrowed in thought. 

(It was weird, seeing the devil meet his match in a sixteen-year-old girl. It was also kind of funny, too, but she’d sooner gnaw her own arm off before saying that to Lucifer’s face. Believe it or not, the guy deserved a break. She knew it must’ve already taken him every ounce of self-control to just sit there drinking his whiskey instead of going on a cross-country rampage to hunt for this Blackwood guy, himself).

She nodded her head towards Sabrina before stepping into the elevator.

“You know what, princess, I don’t think you’ll be needing me all that much.” She sent a smirk Lucifer’s way (smiles, she never seemed to get right, but smirks she perfected long before they left hell). “I’m sure the two of you should get along just fine.”

And just like that, as swiftly as she appeared, the demon was gone.

“It seems you’ve taken quite a shine to Maze, haven’t you?” Lucifer chimed in, a self-satisfied look plastered on his face (the exact one that his daughter’s been trying to avoid all evening). Sabrina didn’t indulge him with an answer, and instead turned on her heel to stalk back to the comfy armchair she was just beginning to enjoy before her father arrived. “Come on, you can admit it. You had a good time today.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” the young girl intoned, flipping open her book and focusing her attention on the pages just so she could keep herself from looking at him (nevermind that she kept reading through the same line over and over, not a word of it piercing her thoughts). “Yes, my second day here was slightly better than the first, but that’s just because nothing could ever top the awfulness that was last night.”

(Ah. There it was. Lucifer always knew the evening would circle back to the things left unsaid, but he still held out the slightest hope that maybe it wouldn’t; that maybe he could spend one nice, quiet night with his daughter, and everything that could ever hurt them both, they’d deal with in the morning).

The devil sighed, long and deep. He set his glass back down on the counter once he found that the sudden dryness in his mouth wasn’t the type to be washed away by liquor.

“So, we’ve come back to this.”

Sabrina realized that the conversation was one that needed to be had, that couldn’t be avoided any longer lest it grow into an elephant bigger than the room itself and trample them both in their sleep.

She followed his lead and put the grimoire down.

“No,” she shook her head. “No, we’re not coming back, because we never really shut the door on any of it. We just…we just left things hanging in the air. And I know it sounds stupid and pointless and tiring, but we’re gonna have to work this out, one way or another.”

“I know.” Lucifer answered, a somber tone to his voice as he stared at her face, all furrowed brows and biting wit and no trace of her mother (She was far too much like him that it was almost frightening. At some point, he had to wonder if the same paths that led him astray were also waiting for her down the road). “I know, darling. It’s just…must we do this so soon? I just got you back-”

“You never had me.” She snapped. “Let’s get that straight. And just so we’re clear, the fact that you left, I can accept. Big deal. Parents walk away everyday. It’s what you left me with that I don’t think I can ever forgive.”

“Sabrina-”

“No. You sit there and listen to everything I have to say, because I will not say it again. I don’t care if it hurts you or if it wounds your precious pride. You need to know what you did. You need to understand that this is so much more than just leaving a child behind.”

(Slow to reason and quick to anger. Lucifer never quite understood what Amenadiel had once told him about Sabrina until now. It was almost as if a switch had been flicked and she was now raising her voice at him from across the room).

Slowly, he nodded his head for her to continue. He was the same way when his Father never listened, and look where they were now. He wouldn’t make the same mistake with Sabrina.

The witch expected to be yelled at, like Zelda did when she got out of hand. Or perhaps calmed down with gentle words like Hilda when her tone got too harsh and her temper too far. She never had anyone look at her, really look at her, and decide that they wanted to hear what she had to say. When Lucifer did just that, she didn’t know what to make of it.

“There’s a darkness inside of me,” she whispered, voice shaky but softer than when she began. “It’s raw and potent and powerful, and I can just feel it eating away at my soul. For so long, I’ve wanted it gone, but all anyone’s ever told me is to embrace it. Take it. Let it define who I am. And no matter how much I don’t want to, it seems like I don’t have any other choice. I’m like this because it’s in my blood. I’m like this…because of you.”

Her eyes flickered to him, shiny with unshed tears, and Lucifer felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “You know, for someone who talks such a big game about free will, you sure didn’t think to leave me with much of it.” She smiled bitterly. “Now everyone expects me to save the day just because I’m stronger than the rest of them, but no one ever thought to ask if I even wanted to be the hero.”

Lucifer felt his grip around his glass tighten.

(How dare they? From what the doctor had told him, no one except for the Spellmans batted an eye when Sabrina was stripped naked in church, chased bloody through the woods, or led to hang by the neck on an old tree. She owed them absolutely nothing, yet those gaggle of ungrateful swine still wanted everything. He ought to send the detective and the douche on their trail, after all; take away their magic and see how fast those shriveled-up feet can run from their crimes).

“It’s not your job to be anyone’s savior.”

She looked at him, all chinked armor and strangled words. “But as a father, it was your job to be mine. Once, just once, you could’ve been there, you know, and it would’ve been enough.”

(And she meant it. She didn’t even care about the small moments. First words and missed birthdays were the last thing on her mind. The big moments, though, the ones that felt even bigger than herself and fell right out of her hands before she could even get a hold on them; she could’ve done with some help then. Because maybe she wouldn’t have died if he had gotten to those angels in time. Maybe Nick wouldn’t be in hell if he had gone up against the false dark lord. A lot of things would’ve turned out so much better if he had popped in at one of those times and asked his insufferable “What do you need, darling?” Maybe, back then, she would’ve actually indulged him with an answer).

Lucifer opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the right words. What was there even left to say at that point?

(All along, he’d thought that staying away would make him a good father. Turns out, all it ever did was make him a worse one. And perhaps even more horrifying, he’d spent millennia hating God for abandoning him, when in fact, though how much he convinced himself otherwise, he ended up doing the exact same thing).

“I-I didn’t know,” he sighed, a weariness to him. He closed his eyes, shook his head, steadied himself. When he opened them again, he looked right at her, and Sabrina had never felt quite so seen. “I should’ve known.”

“Yeah.” She nodded in agreement. A single tear managed to slide down her cheek, and the sight of it was a knife straight through his heart. It took everything in Lucifer not to reach out and wipe it away. “Yeah, you should’ve.”

“You didn’t deserve any of that, Sabrina. None at all. I’m…I’m so sorry.”

(There. He’d found it. The only thing left to say).

She frowned back at him. “At some point, you’re gonna have to stop saying it and actually start meaning it.”

(It seems he didn’t say it quite right, though).

He got up from the bar stool and walked over to her, all measured steps and hands in his pockets. Sabrina flinched away just the slightest bit when he took the seat next to hers.

“Darling, I mean it. Truly. And I know I wasn’t there for the longest time, but I’m here now.” Outside the window, the wind began to pick up and he had to wonder if her trembling fingers had anything to do with it. In a move that surprised even himself, he took one of her hands in his and gave it a little squeeze (gentle and reassuring, like the detective did, just to show that he was there with her). No more than a second later, the wind stopped howling. “I’d like to make things right.”

Sabrina looked down sharply at their clasped hands, brows furrowed, and Lucifer fully expected that she’d pull away. Instead, she only closed her eyes, almost as if in thought, and let out a shaky breath. “If you really want to apologize…you’ll help me fix everything.”

“Of course, whatever you need-”

“I need to go to hell,” she blurted out before he could even finish.

Lucifer stared at her for a long time, trying to understand. What was it about the pit that drew her in so much? Was it the screaming, the agony, the towering pillars of fire? (He wouldn’t actually be surprised if it was the last one. Her fixation with hellfire was rather difficult to ignore). Still, whatever she thought she saw when she peeked inside, it couldn’t have been enough to warrant such an unhealthy obsession. She had mentioned something before about getting revenge, and that he could understand, but even then, the idea was preposterous. Wasn’t hell punishment enough? No, it had to be something more, something deeper…

He pushed the rest of his thoughts away. 

(Whatever her reason was, he would not give in to it. As long as he lived and breathed, his daughter would never step foot in that wretched place).

“You already know my answer to that, Sabrina. It hasn’t changed.”

Almost instantly, her gaze hardened back to steel and she dropped his hand so quickly as if she had been burnt.

“Well then,” she said, clipped and distant and cold. She was still sitting right next to him, but Lucifer felt as though a wall had suddenly gone up between them. “It seems you’ve already made up your mind. No use arguing about it any further.”

“Now, just wait a minute-”

“It’s been a long day. I think I’ll just go finish this in my room,” she smiled tightly, grabbing the grimoire off the table and getting up to leave. Salem instantly curled up around her ankles and she bent down to pick him up, a sigh on the edge of her lips. She turned back to him with a curt nod, something polite but not quite so warm (no doubt the handiwork of one Zelda Spellman). “Good night, Lucifer.”

Before he could even think to answer, her heels were already clicking down the hall, and he had to sit back and wonder if he would ever get used to the sound. He shook his head (everyone always said teenagers were difficult, but bloody hell, he didn’t expect them to be so right) and got to his feet, himself, walking back to the bar to down the rest of his unfinished drink. By the time the last sip left a stinging trail down his throat, and the shadows began to dance eerily around the empty living room, he was too exhausted to think of anything but rest.

He took one last look at the skyline out the balcony before turning off the lights.

“Good night, Sabrina.”

She was back inside the desecrated church. Vines, twisted and tangled over years of untamed growth, sealed off the windows, crawled over the walls, and would have overrun the floors had enchantments not been placed to keep the wooden boards exceptionally clean (after a while, scrubbing off the blood after every black mass proved to be quite tedious). Under the faint glow of the candles, though, those very same vines seemed to come alive and trail closely behind her footsteps as she inched closer to the unholy altar.

The pews were empty and the only sound that reached her ears was her own ragged breathing. Something was wrong. She shouldn’t have been there. And yet her feet were dead set on making their journey to the head of the room.

Just as she was about to ascend the dark marble steps, she felt something sharp and cold pierce through her shoulder. Then her ribcage. Then her stomach. She looked down and saw three arrows stabbed at her flesh and pooling thick, crimson blood on the carpet. The confusion came first, and the pain came later. When it did, though, it arrived in waves, the heavy, crashing kind that sent her down on her knees and had her fingers clutching blindly at the sacrifice table just so she wouldn’t collapse completely.

Suddenly, a hand, strong and sure, grasped hers and she was pulled back onto her feet. She hadn’t expected any help, thinking she was alone, but she was grateful, all the same. She clutched at their shoulders to steady herself, and just when she turned her head to look at the face of her savior…

“Jerathmiel.”

She would know those murderous eyes anywhere.

“Ready to repent now, witch?”

Her vision was starting to get blurry and she could feel her knees buckling underneath her. From behind, she sensed a second presence lingering about. Their name was already on the tip of her tongue, but then it was practically ripped out of her mouth when she felt the crown of thorns being forced violently into her head. “Mehitable…”

Jerathmiel pried her hands away from his body and sent her falling to the ground, though if it was painful, she couldn’t really say; she had lost all feeling. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The two angels looked at her smugly, towering over her, shining with divine light that she wasn’t so sure they deserved. They joined their hands together, whispered a prayer, and suddenly, the church was overcome with the scent of burning flesh.

Hers.

And before she could do anything more to stop it, there was nothing left but darkness.

Lucifer woke up to the sound of screaming.

It was faint and distant (the soundproof walls were to blame for that), but it was the same voice that yelled at him from across the room just a few hours earlier, and he could recognize it in a heartbeat. Dread settled in quickly at the pit of his stomach, and he was rushing out of bed and down the hall before he could even fully make sense of what was going on. (All he knew was that Sabrina was hurt, or-or in danger, and fucking hell, he’s barely had her for a day and he already managed to put her in jeopardy).

He was just about to knock down her door when he realized that she left it unlocked (though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why. Given her guarded and untrusting nature, she seemed exactly the type to seal her room shut with layers upon layers of protective magic), and warily pushed it open with a suspicious edge to him (unless she did leave it locked but someone broke in. If so, he’d never killed a human with his bare hands before, but he supposed there was a first time for everything).

“Sabrina,” he called out uneasily.

The room was pitch black and his eyes couldn’t quite adjust to the dark, but his fingers shortly found the switch on the wall and soon enough, light was spilling into every nook and cranny of the open space. Salem hissed at him for the sudden intrusion.

“Oh, bugger off, you little cretin.” He hissed back.

(He meant it when he said that cats were detestable, contemptuous creatures. The only reason he even decided to shape his daughter’s familiar into one was because Amenadiel had once given a passing comment about how a young Sabrina got into a row with her aunts for refusing to buy her a kitten).

“You had one job, you know, and that was to keep her-”

A soft whimper sounded out from underneath the covers, and his eyes were drawn to Sabrina, dressed in cotton pajamas, clutching a pillow to her chest as she slept with brows furrowed. Her demeanor was the farthest thing from peaceful (the sweat on her forehead and the tears on her cheeks could very well attest to that), but at least she wasn’t bleeding or hurt or dead. That alone felt like a tremendous success.

“-safe.” Lucifer sighed in relief.

He pulled over a chair to her bedside and sat down, steepling his fingers underneath his chin as he watched her toss and turn in her sleep. She used to have severe night terrors, he could remember, back in her terrible-twos. They got so bad that Maze began grating on the other demons, so sure that one of them was responsible for invading her dreams and terrorizing her while she rested. Of course, none of them ever admitted to it. They didn’t even know who Sabrina Spellman was.  

After the first few weeks, it was Hilda who came up with the rather ingenious solution of sneaking calming draughts into warm glasses of milk before bedtime. Naturally, it was not without its flaws. Some nights, the girl was still haunted by a bad dream or two, but nothing the sisters couldn’t manage. Before they knew it, the little witch was three and had long grown out of her nightmares.

Far be it from him to have read Dr. Spock in his free time, but he was quite certain that teenagers weren’t supposed to be haunted by long-forgotten toddler-year monsters. But if they were, he could still probably remember Hilda’s potion that Amenadiel once described to him in great detail (his hellish visits did last excruciatingly long for a reason), though he wasn’t so sure where he’d find valerian sprigs and wormwood in L.A. at 2 in the bloody morning. He barely had any milk in the refrigerator.

“N-no, please don’t,” Sabrina murmured, cutting off the rest of his thoughts. Her breathing was rapid and her eyes were screwed shut, yet a few tears still managed to slide out and hit her pillowcase. “I’ll repent. Just-just don’t hurt me anymore.”

Lucifer wrinkled his brows. “Repent?”

(The word bothered him more than he would care to admit, particularly because it was a favorite in the Silver City. Left and right, it was practically the only thought on his siblings’ minds as they ran around trying to convert humanity. Nevermind that it meant reacceptance or forgiveness – he was never offered either of those things. It was a word often spoken in his Father’s house, and he never thought he would hear it in his).

Salem leaped down from his perch at the edge of the bed and nudged his head at Lucifer’s feet, meowing incessantly against the tense silence. The devil scowled at him and moved his legs out of reach.

“Yes, I’m well aware that she’s having a nightmare. You’re not the only one with eyes around here.”

The cat sneered at him.

“Well, of course I’m going to do something about it,” he shot back.

(Bloody demanding little demon. He was lucky the witchling had a fondness for him, else her father would have already turned him into a writhing, pitiful worm).

Lucifer sighed and brushed a hand against Sabrina’s forehead, gently smoothing back her platinum curls. She was still scrunching her eyes almost to a painful extent, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine what was going on inside her head.

(Was it the monsters again? Was it Blackwood? Or was it something else entirely, something that all his years away kept him from finding out for himself?)

He shut his eyes and whispered a string of unintelligible words under his breath; whether they were said in a language long gone or one that humanity was simply yet to discover, Salem wasn’t sure. Still, it didn’t keep him from craning his neck and watching the whole exchange in silent curiosity. Almost instantly, all the harsh lines of his mistress softened, and she visibly relaxed as if the bad thoughts had been wiped clean from her mind.

When Lucifer fluttered his eyes back open, Sabrina was sleeping peacefully under his touch. He smiled softly at the lack of distress on her face and pulled his hand away.

“Sweet dreams, darling.”

Salem returned to his place at the foot of the bed and looked on in quiet wonder as the devil – the same scarred angel who punished sinners mercilessly and forged him into existence at the deepest bowels of hell – leaned down to pull the covers into place over the sleeping princess. The demon almost expected him to give the girl a kiss on her fair hair, but he must’ve thought better of it (they weren’t quite there yet), and crossed back to the other side of the room.

This time, before Lucifer shut the door behind him, he made sure to leave the lights on.

Chapter Text

In hindsight, Chloe should have spent more time weighing her options before asking Maze to drive Trixie to school that particular morning. Not that her roommate ever backed out of a favor before (she always held up her end of a bargain, regardless of whether or not said bargain was a disaster in the making), but Chloe must have been really out of it when she actually considered the bounty hunter as her first choice for kid-friendly transportation. In her defense, she wasn’t expecting the precinct to call her up at 5 am and tell her that a new suspect on the Brenner case was just brought in for questioning, or that Ella apparently found a “ground-breaking” lead on the investigation that she absolutely had to check out right away.

And to think she went to sleep last night thinking she could make Hawaiian bread sandwiches for breakfast.

“So,” she asked Maze, pulling on her jacket and grabbing her keys off the counter. “Will you do it? Take Trixie to school for me?”

The little human popped her head up from behind the couch where she was watching her morning cartoons, a toothy grin on her face.

“Yeah, Maze, it’ll be fun! You can bring your knives to scare off that mean girl, Patricia. She won’t know what hit her.”

“Trixie!” Chloe chided, eyes wide. “We already talked about this. One more trip to the principal’s office and you’ll be suspended.”

Trixie only grumbled under her breath and crossed her arms before ducking back to watch her TV in peace. The detective brought a hand up to her head (when did sweet-toothed, angel-faced nine-year-olds become such a handful?)

Maze, in a surprising display of tact, only lightly snorted while polishing her knives instead of offering to get rid of the principal altogether (as per usual) or suggesting that Chloe loosen her granny panties (also as per usual). She set down the rag and swiveled around in her barstool to face her roommate.

“Sorry, Decker. I would, but I already promised Lucifer that I’d help out his little human today.”

The detective’s eyebrows knitted together, voice lowering to a whisper (while Lucifer’s daughter seemed nice enough – and that, in and of itself, was already a stretch – she didn’t need Trixie latching on to her as a prospective new best friend anytime soon. There was something…off about the girl, like Dan had suggested, though she couldn’t quite put a finger on it just yet).

“Wait…you know about Sabrina?”

“Of course.” The woman scoffed back. “I was literally standing next to Lucifer when she was born. So much blood and screaming and crying.” She bit into the charred toast she made when she realized that Chloe wasn’t about to start on those sandwiches anytime soon. “It was awesome.”

(At that point, Chloe was beginning to put a timeline together in her head – call it a fine-tuned side effect of her day job. Now, Lucifer and Maze always claimed to have been together for quite some time, but she never really chalked it up to be almost two decades, maybe even more, if she was already close enough to witness the birth of his sixteen year old).

“How long have you two known each other, exactly?”

“Since fire and brimstone, baby.”

Chloe nodded her head, smacked her lips together. “Right.” (She should have known better by now than to expect a straight answer from the so-called devil and his demon buddy). “So, all this time, you knew? And you didn’t think to tell me? Come on, I thought we were friends.”

Maze eyed her weirdly. “Well, it never really came up, did it? Besides, I have other friends too, but I don’t go around telling them about your spawn.”

The detective sighed, putting her hands up. “You know what, forget it.” (This conversation was impossible, and she was going to be late for work. Besides, she promised Lucifer that she would only start asking the important questions when he was ready to answer them, and she meant it. If only he could be ready sooner, because the curiosity was just about to eat her alive.) “You’re sure you can’t drive Trixie? It will only take about thirty minutes, and the traffic won’t be so bad if you leave now.”

The bounty hunter shook her head. “No, thirty minutes is already cutting it too close, and I have a flight to catch.”

“A flight? I thought you were gonna help Sabrina.”

“Yeah, I am.” Maze stood from her chair and wheeled out a luggage bag from behind the counter. A pretty hefty looking duffel was also placed on top of it, with a number of sharp edges and Mazikeen-brand weapons that shouldn’t make their way past immigration peeking out from the slightly-open zipper. “I’m hunting down this jackass that tried to kill her. He’s been on the run for a few weeks now, but I’ll find that human scum. I always do.”

“What?” Chloe couldn’t help her mouth from falling slightly ajar. “Kill her? Maze, that’s terrible. What happened?”

“Apparently, he’s the high priest at their church, and basically threatened Sabrina’s family with excommunication if she didn’t go to his stupid boarding school. Then on her first week there, he sent his daughter and some psycho friends of hers to haze the girl and pressure her into hanging herself. Good thing the little princess knows not to take shit from anyone.”

The detective brought a hand up to her mouth. (No wonder Sabrina was so troubled. Going through all that must have been a living nightmare).

“God, Lucifer must be livid. I don’t know what I’d do if anything like that were to happen to Trixie.”

Maze scoffed. “Please, that’s not even the worst of it. The shifty son of a bitch couldn’t handle the fact that a sixteen-year-old girl was beating him at his own game and poisoned his whole church before fleeing like the coward he is.” She grabbed her freshly-polished knives off the table and stuck them into the holsters on her leg. “He’s not getting away with it, though. Once I’m done with him, he’s going to hell in pieces that no demon would know to put back together.”

Her phone was already ringing incessantly in her pocket (no doubt Ella calling to know if she was on her way), but Chloe chose to ignore it. She was onto something, something huge, and if she didn’t get to the bottom of it, it might as well have been the biggest failure of her career.

“Now, hold on just a second.” She dragged a hand through her hair and looked at her roommate incredulously. “Hazing a teenager almost to death, poisoning a whole congregation, Maze, those are felonies. That guy’s a murderer! Why didn’t you go to the police about this?”

“And what? You’ll slap some cuffs on him and call it a day?” The bounty hunter chuckled, pulling on her own jacket and swiping her passport from the table. “Hate to break it to you, Decker, but a lot of powerful people want this guy dead, and he’s never left them much of a trail to follow. I think you’re a bit out of your league here.”

“Maze, I’m a homicide detective.”

The other woman only raised her brows, nonplussed. “Yeah, and ten of you couldn’t get this guy within five meters of a police station. I’m sure of it. So good luck with that.”

With one last smug smile, she turned on her heel and picked up the duffel bag, pulling the luggage behind her as she rounded back to the living room to hug Trixie goodbye.

(The nine-year-old couldn’t quite get why her best friend had to leave so long and so soon, but when Maze explained that she had to go help another little girl, all it took was an extra long fist bump and the promise to kick some serious ass, and the demon was sent on her way).

The detective trailed after her roommate in long strides, a worried disbelief about the whole thing painted plainly on her face.

(If Maze was telling the truth – another stretch, come to think of it, but she had to take her for her word on this one – then this man was a danger to society, and he just ran off to God knows where. For all they knew, he could be in L.A., waiting for a chance to strike back at Sabrina.)

“At least tell me that you’re bringing him in when you catch him.”

Maze was almost to the door, but she stopped walking and turned around to face Chloe. With a heavy sigh, the bounty hunter looked her right in the eye, trying to make her understand that her incessant goody-two-shoes route wasn’t gonna work, at least not for her.

“Unfortunately, Decker, you know that’s not my decision to make.”

(It was Lucifer’s. Or maybe even Sabrina’s. It really didn’t matter. Either way, both seemed furious and unforgiving when given the chance, and whatever choice they made regarding this Faustus guy’s punishment, it was going to end in hell one way or another, and Maze was completely fine with that).

“Well, it doesn’t have to be like that. We have laws in place for this, and all his victims will get their justice-”

“I’ll decide what justice is.” The bounty hunter cut in, taking a step forward. It was a surprising shift in demeanor, and the malicious look in her stare would have easily scared any other human, but the detective only tilted up her chin, unflinching. Maze pursed her lips and exhaled sharply through her nose. “Look, I don’t have time for this. Another second I waste here is another second that jackass stays one step ahead. So if you really want him to get what he deserves, you’ll step aside and let me do my damn job.”

Chloe crossed her arms and moved to stand squarely in front of the door. If her roommate’s eyes were beginning to roll all the way back to kingdom come, or if the phone vibrating relentlessly in her back pocket was absolutely going to earn her an earful at the precinct, then she just had to see them as little sacrifices for the greater good. 

(Numerous lives were at stake here, and she’d be damned before she let an erratic roommate or some shortsighted superiors get in the way of facing a homicidal maniac in court, putting him in chains, and sealing him off in prison: the only way it was meant to go. Not killing him, or severing him limb from limb, or whatever inhumane thing it was that Maze was planning to do. Otherwise, she’d be no different than any other murderer, herself).

“You said it yourself. The guy could be anywhere. How do you even know where to start?”

The demon effortlessly pushed her out of the way with a well-placed shove and yanked the door open before Chloe could even open her mouth in protest.

“That’s the thing. I don’t.”

She stepped out into the sunlight, unfolding a pair of sunglasses that the detective didn’t even notice was tucked into her jeans. “Gotta start somewhere, though. And I don’t know, Scotland sounds like a good place as any.”

Chloe raised a brow. “So that’s it? All the countries in the world and you start in…Western Europe?”

(Maybe she didn’t have to worry that much after all. With Maze’s haphazard plans and the sheer size of the United Kingdom she’d have to scour before setting her sights someplace else, the detective could get to him first before any more mass poisonings or Maze-induced butchering could take place).

The bounty hunter slipped the glasses on and smirked back at her roommate. She shrugged one shoulder with a practiced ease.

“Call it a gut feeling.”

(People always seemed to forget that her mother was the first witch. Like all the rest of the Lilim, there was little magic on earth that she wouldn’t be able to track down. And Blackwood? Well, that guy left a trail filthier than his soul). She walked over to her car, throwing a hand over her shoulder to wave back at the detective.

“See you in a few days, Decker.”

When Sabrina blinked her eyes open, she almost forgot where she was. The girl half-expected to see peeling floral wallpaper or the extremely fluffy quilt that Hilda made when she was seven, but when she was greeted by the sight of floor-to-ceiling windows and trendy furniture that tried so hard to look casual but obviously came straight out of a designer catalogue, it was fairly easy to get pulled back into the reality that yes, she was in L.A. And yes, she happened to live here now. With the devil. Who was actually her dad. And who seemed to have no interest in dragging her to hell with him this time around, much to her boyfriend-saving disappointment.

She sat up on the bed and dragged a hand through her sleep-mussed hair, the other one patting lazily at the empty space next to her in search of Salem (she knew she was dreaming again last night, just as she always did ever since those angels came to town, and her familiar usually curled up beside her when things got bad). To her surprise, though, he was nowhere under the pillows or tangled up in the sheets. Instead, a loud meow caught her attention and she found him standing vigil by the closed door (never locked, though; she’s had enough of locked doors ever since the witch’s cell), eyes alert and fur standing upright as if he hadn’t slept at all.

“Oh no, Salem, did my nightmares keep you up again?” The witch frowned, pulling on her slippers and picking him up from the floor. She sighed as she petted him softly. “They were pretty terrible again, huh?”

The cat cuddled closer against her neck and answered back with a low purr. Sabrina knitted her brows at his response and pulled away to look at him square in the face.

“What do you mean they weren’t that bad last night? It’s the same thing every time and they’re always bad. You know that.”

Salem ducked his head and murmured something against her wrist, and she ended up setting him back on the floor to give him a good staring-down.

(For once, she just wished he’d spit out whatever he had to say instead of stringing her along in exhausting little circles, but no one could really expect demonic servants to be perfect, could they? Otherwise, they’d be bred behind pearly white gates instead of the deepest crevices of hell).

“No, Salem, I don’t understand how dreams are magically wiped. If I did, then maybe I would have gotten rid of this problem a long time ago.”

The demon shot back with another irritated meow and the witch rolled her eyes. “Well, I don’t know how my father did it-” Sabrina closed her mouth mid-sentence when the reality of Salem’s statement sunk in. She turned to the cat with furrowed brows, hands on her hips, as she tried to wrap her head around the thought.

“Are you saying…that Lucifer came in here last night while I was in the middle of my nightmare, and just…whispered it away?”

(It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, that was for sure. He was the actual devil, the source of all witchcraft she’s ever known. If anyone was gonna tap into some ancient magic and apparently command the terror straight out of her mind, it might as well have been him. Still, Sabrina didn’t want to believe it. Because believing in whatever Salem saw would mean believing that her father actually cared, and she didn’t think she was ready for that thought just yet).

Salem made a little noise in agreement and Sabrina almost cursed under her breath. (What game was her father playing at, rushing to her rescue, manipulating her dreams, tucking her into bed? If this was his way of making up for all the things he missed out on when she was younger, then it was too little, too late. At that point, there was only one way to win her over, and even that simple favor, he refused to do).

The girl shook her head. “Whatever. It doesn’t change a thing.”

If the demon had hands, now would have been the perfect time to bury his face in them. She turned around to make the bed, and the cat could only look on helplessly at his mistress’s stubbornness.

(He was on her side, always. And he knew what she’s been through, how she’s been hurt, but her father was really trying his best, and it was immensely frustrating how she refused to see it. If only she realized how easier things would be if she just opened her eyes for once and saw that Lucifer was on her side, too).

Even with her back to him as she fluffed the pillows, Sabrina could practically feel Salem’s eyes boring into the base of her skull in his usual exasperated, judgmental fashion.

“Stop giving me that look. It’s off-putting.” She called out, still focused on pulling the sheets in place.

The cat grumbled something truly off-putting under his breath, but still turned his head and did as he was told.

By the time Sabrina had finished, her signature black headband was fixed onto her head and a new book was grabbed from the growing pile on her nightstand (Lucifer’s library was beginning to gather dust, and she liked to think she was doing him a favor by checking out a few of the more untouched materials). She picked the cat up gracelessly from the floor, much to his annoyance at the sudden disturbance, and opened the door.

“You can sulk all you want, but that’s probably just the hunger taking over.” She rolled her eyes as her feet padded to the empty kitchen.

It was still relatively dark with the curtains drawn, but Sabrina easily found her way to the light switch without much fuss. Salem found it a bit disconcerting how she was able to memorize the house so quickly given the precious few minutes she had to explore last night.

The girl turned back to her demon with a wicked grin once the bulbs flickered on and cast the whole room in an early morning glow.

“Now, I don’t know about you, but I think I saw a stash of pop tarts around here yesterday, and I am absolutely starving.”

Chloe ended up driving Trixie to school herself, even if it meant turning up half an hour late to the precinct. Ella didn’t mind waiting, and was understanding almost to a fault (like always), and the perp was still in his holding cell by the time the detective got to him for interrogation (as if he had anywhere else to go). All in all, the morning hadn’t turned out as bad as she expected, though it did nothing to stop the worried knot sitting at the pit of her stomach, or the way her mind circled back over and over again to her roommate’s latest bounty, no matter how many times she told herself Maze had it under control.

Truth be told, she was bothered (Who wouldn’t be, though? Murderous priests running loose wasn’t exactly the sort of thing to take lightly). And much like everything else that bothered her, she wouldn’t rest until she knew it was taken care of.

“Hey, Dan.” She walked up to her ex-husband’s desk, jaw set and eyes hardened, and he just knew she meant business. “You can get in touch with some precincts in Massachusetts, right?”

(Usually, when Chloe asked for a favor, she would rest her hip against the edge of the table, or flash that warm, inviting smile that won him over the first time he met her. This Chloe, though, the one who stood with lips pursed and forehead creased, fingers clutched tightly around the case file he recognized from the park altercation the other day, she was someone different. She wasn’t Mom Chloe, who read their kid bedtime stories at night, or Actress Chloe, who liked spending time undercover even if she’d never admit it. She was the Chloe who brought in criminals and took down syndicates and deserved her badge more than anyone else at the precinct. Dan, for one, would never stand in her way).

The man set his hand gripper down and sat up straighter in his chair. “Yeah, sure. Why do you ask?”

Chloe tried brushing it away with a shrug of her shoulder, but Dan was sure she wouldn’t bring it up unless it was something important.

“It’s probably nothing, but I think I’ve got a case that involves a local. Try and see if they’ve got record of any recent suspicious activities in Salem.”

“Salem? As in witch county, Salem?”

She nodded her head. “Exactly. And I know it’s already a pretty small place to begin with, but try to narrow it down further to one particular town. If this case is as big as I think it is, we might have to look into it ourselves.”

The other detective was pretty sure that any illegal activity over in Massachusetts was well out of LAPD jurisdiction, but if Chloe said it was big enough to concern them, then he would just have to trust her.

“Well, which town do you have in mind?”

Chloe gave Sabrina’s file another once-over as soon as Maze left that morning, and she knew where she had to start. She made a promise to Lucifer that she’d stop looking into his daughter unless he told her it was alright, but if this was essentially for the girl’s safety and the well-being of everyone else in the hometown she left behind, then he’d have to understand, right?

(Still, it did nothing to quiet the voice at the back of her mind that said her partner wasn’t the type who easily understood; and what he couldn’t understand, he couldn’t forgive. She didn’t know what she’d do to herself if it ever came to that).

The detective closed her eyes and shook the thought away. It didn’t matter. A life was a life, and each one deserved their justice. Her dad’s death taught her that. And she’d make sure this homicidal maniac learned it too, as soon as she was done with him.

She looked Dan right in the eye, a renewed vigor to her. “Greendale. There’s something going on in Greendale.”

Chapter Text

Sabrina was halfway done with her book and working through a second pop tart when Lucifer wandered into the kitchen, dressed in a very on-brand black and red robe that looked exactly how she imagined the devil’s sleepwear would be (though if she was being honest, it seemed less “infernal chic” and more “latest murder victim in an Agatha Christie novel”). She brought the book up closer to her face, pretending she hadn’t noticed him, but by then, his irritatingly chipper voice had already cut through the air and she had no other choice but to set it back down with a silent groan.

“Sabrina!” He grinned, rounding the table and pulling out the seat next to hers. She wasn’t much of a morning person (not many witches were), and everyone within a ten-mile radius could usually tell, but he didn’t seem to share the same set of eyes and basic observation skills. “Slept well, darling?”

She knew that he was well aware of how soundly she slept (mostly because of whatever dream-altering magic he used on her last night), and she hated that he had to ask, as if he didn’t have enough reason to be smug already. He was probably just going to use the whole thing as an excuse to bring up how nice and considerate he’d been, and how Sabrina owed him some gratitude now because of it. The question in itself seemed innocent enough, but she had him all figured out. It would take a lot more than a good night’s sleep to play Sabrina Spellman like that.

“Yes, surprisingly,” she admitted, a polite smile on her face, though her eyes were trained on him like a hawk, just waiting for him to slip and confirm her suspicions. “That was probably the longest sleep I’ve had in months.”

Lucifer smiled back in relief as if it were the best thing he’d heard all morning, and she was slightly taken aback by how genuine it looked. “Hmm. That’s good. Must have been the Egyptian Cotton sheets. They’ve done me wonders, actually. I had them shipped from-”

He started trailing off about thread counts and the underground fabric market, but she stopped listening halfway through.

(If he wanted to win her over and play the good guy, he had the perfect chance. For all he knew, Sabrina was fast asleep and knew nothing about how he saved her from another round of nightmares, and the reveal of what he’d done for her would’ve put him in a new light, made him seem less like a stranger and more like a father. In between his rambling about bedsheets and special cotton plants, though, he never said a word about it, and for the life of her, Sabrina couldn’t figure out why).

“Yeah.” The young witch was still looking at him curiously, trying to piece his ulterior motive together but came up with nothing. (The more she contemplated it, the more it seemed that he might have just really cared, and she wasn’t prepared for it at the slightest). “That must’ve been it.”

She looked far too distressed for someone who’s allegedly had a good night’s rest, Lucifer observed, but he just brushed it off as teenage mood swings. The parenting book he downloaded on his phone last night after her little episode said it was normal (her hell-related tantrums, probably less so, but he was yet to find a book that covered the topic).

His eyes darted around the table, looking for anything that could steer the conversation towards more engaging waters (he must’ve missed out on some fundamental hours of sleep while browsing through that decidedly unhelpful parenting manual, if the history of Egyptian bed covers was the best he could come up with on short notice) before landing on the stack of sugary pastries on her plate.

“Ah, I see you’ve found Maze’s secret pop tart stash.”

She’s only known the demon two days, but she was pretty sure the violent ball of sarcastic rage that almost made the waiter trip over his own feet during yesterday’s lunch wasn’t the type to hoard overly-sweet breakfast pastries.

“These kid snacks belong to Maze?” She frowned, holding up the half-finished piece and taking a bite. “I find that pretty hard to believe.”

“Well, not exactly hers, per se,” he conceded. “They did belong to a muffin-topped health guru first before she stole them out of his house. But since his untimely demise, I don’t think he’s been missing them all that much.”

“That makes sense,” she nodded through a mouthful of crumbling pastry.

Lucifer had expected her to stop eating altogether, or perhaps even take a second or two to process what she’s heard before reaching for another bite. In a matter of seconds, though, she was back to reading whatever book she’d snuck from his library, one hand on the page, the other on the toasted strawberry atrocity, completely unfazed.

“It doesn’t bother you, then?” He frowned. “That you’re eating a dead man’s pop tarts?”

“You ever had long pig?” She asked seemingly out of the blue, not looking up from the open book on the table.

He arched a brow, tugging on the lapels of his robe (he wasn’t sure what human flesh had to do with anything, really, when he was just trying to start an innocent conversation about empty-caloried breakfast choices).

“Can’t say that I have.”

Sabrina glanced at him knowingly and it was easy to forget that there used to be anger there (now, there was only a silent tentativeness and an odd sort of surprise that she was actually willing to give him a chance).

“Well, when you live in a mortuary with cannibalistic witches and the whole town’s general preference for closed caskets, you’re gonna have to stomach it once or twice.” Her lips tugged faintly at the thought (she was never the most enthusiastic partaker – she usually avoided it when she could – but it was often amusing, the lengths her aunts would go through to sneak the so-called rare delicacy under her nose). “At this point, I’ve had dead man’s everything. Well, the good parts, at least. The more…unsavory pieces usually get sealed up in jars at the greenhouse.”

She held up another pastry to her mouth and Lucifer couldn’t say he wasn’t slightly horrified (all he could think about now was that damned long pig, and – Oh Dad, he was going to have to throw away the perfectly good bacon in his fridge).

“So, really, his pop tarts are the least of my concern.” She finished with a nonchalant shrug.

(Occasional cannibalism wasn’t the type of easy morning conversation he’d hoped to share with his daughter, to be honest, though he couldn’t very well blame her for it. He’d stopped keeping tabs on his church after his deal with Edward, but ever since the insolent bloke found his way into an early death, he should’ve expected them to relapse into their old ways of flesh-eating and sacrifices, and now that he thought about it, probably those blasted goats again, too. He should probably look into that soon).

“Right. Well,” he grimaced at the thought. “That’s a ‘no’ on stuffed pork chops for lunch, then, I assume?”

She made an amused sound from the back of her throat, and she could very well have been smiling, though Lucifer couldn’t quite tell with her face hidden behind that infernal book again. Nevertheless, it was the most positive reaction he’d gotten from her since they’d met, and he could recognize small victories when he saw them.

He squinted his eyes at the spine of the hardback, trying to make out whatever it was that caught so much of her attention. (It was either well-written or incredibly raunchy – there was no in between - if a teenage girl found it more interesting than the devil himself who was sitting right in front of her).

“Novem tibi orbibus et de inferno,” Lucifer read aloud. “A bit on the nose, don’t you think, darling?”

He’d stopped by the study earlier to see what she’d taken, and noticed empty spaces in the shelves between Dante and Milton. He was expecting her to snag the first edition Shakespeares or maybe the scandalous personal journals of Emily Dickinson, but the more he thought about it, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that she went for something old and Latin and straight out of hell.

Sabrina scoffed, flipping to another page. “Well, you’re obviously not gonna help me open the gates. Might as well find new ways to help myself.”

(So far, she’d read through two grimoires and three ancient accounts of the pit, but to no avail. They all followed the same basic pattern – eternal anguish, torturous demons, lost souls – and the writers only ever seemed to see the place because of a quick brush with death, which, as she’d recently discovered, wasn’t applicable to her for more than a few seconds. Maybe she’d have better luck with the Sumerian scrolls she found stacked beside Lucifer’s desk, but even those would be tricky to translate without Ambrose’s help. All in all, it was safe to say that her research had hit a dead end at the moment, but she’d sooner take a wrecking ball to the Greendale mines than admit that to her glaringly unsupportive father).

Lucifer sighed and reached for a cigarette on the kitchen counter (he made no move to light it, just kept the lone stick dangling between two fingers). He should have expected that she would find a way to circle things back to hell (quite literally) until she got what she wanted. She was his daughter, after all. Still, it was eight in the bloody morning and he hadn’t had his vodka-laced coffee and did she really have nothing better to do with her time?

“Look, Sabrina…” He plucked the ancient tome right out of her hands, and she looked up at him, affronted. He set it on the far side of the table, beyond the reach of her non-celestially short arms (thank you, Diana), and the girl only slumped back in her chair, arms crossed and glaring at him with all the heat of a thousand charred park muggers. “I had a little chat with Maze yesterday, and she told me how you wanted to come to L.A. for a vacation. Wind down and see the sights and all that.”

“She what?” The witch snapped.

(Okay, so maybe she shouldn’t have rambled off to a demon about her vacation plans if she didn’t want her father to know. Yeah, Maze was funny and cool and liberal with the expensive champagne, but at the end of the day, she still worked for Lucifer. It was pretty stupid of her to overlook that, even for the few short minutes when there was nothing but bad country music on the radio and the demon asked her what she was doing in Los Angeles).

“Now, don’t be mad at Maze, she was just doing her job,” Lucifer said placatingly, holding up a finger. “You should be more mad at yourself, really, wasting a perfectly good day reading this…” He gestured vaguely at the Latin tome. “This drivel.”

“Need I remind you, that drivel belongs to you!” She bit back, brows furrowed. “Besides, do you really think you should be the one telling me to be mad at myself? Technically, I should still be mad at you!”

(“But I’m not.” The unspoken words hung in the air. Stupid dream wiping and Egyptian trivia and annoying cannibal jokes. “Dammit, why the heaven am I not?”)

Lucifer exhaled slowly and tried to fight against the growing urge to just gather up all of his hellish books and set them on fire (maybe then, Sabrina would give it a rest, though he had a sinking feeling she’d just walk straight into the flames and try to salvage every page she could).

“Listen, witchling,” he ran a hand down his face. “I’m well aware that once you set your mind to something, no force in heaven, hell, or otherwise can stop you.”

Sabrina gave him a conflicted look, not quite sure where this was going. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “Glad we agree on that. Seriously, though, I just want to get back to my research.”

She made a move to summon back the book with the twirl of a finger, but Lucifer only caught it mid-air and tucked it under his arm. With a sly grin (she was good, but she’d never dealt with the devil), he used his free hand to fish a chrome lighter from the pocket of his robe and finally light the damned cigarette between his teeth. He was almost the spitting image of Aunt Zelda, Sabrina thought disturbingly, leaning smoothly against his seat and puffing out gusts of smoke, satanic book pressed to his chest (granted, the Spellman matriarch would have a satanic bible, but close enough).

Lucifer caught the cigarette between two fingers before pulling it away with a practiced ease.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to set your mind to something else, though, darling. At least for today.” He gave her a pointed glance. “Because the answer is no.”

(Now. Now, he’d gone full Zelda.)

The witch scrunched her brows with all the air of someone who wasn’t used to hearing the scandalous word. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean,” he pressed on, “you can always go back to your hellish research another time, but you won’t be here for very long, will you? So why don’t you take a break from the pandemonium that is, well, Pandemonium...” he tossed the book clean over his shoulder for dramatic effect and Sabrina rolled her eyes. “And do what you came here for?”

(If she wasn’t so caught up in her promise to give him a chance – that, and the fact he could probably take whatever earthly thing she threw at him – he would be covered head to toe in spiders and she’d be halfway back to Greendale by now).

“I came here – well, in this kitchen anyway – to eat some breakfast and read in peace.” She ground out, irritated, pushing away from the table and stalking over to wherever it was the tome landed. His floors were impeccably clean (Maze mentioned yesterday that it was less magic and more six sexy cleaning ladies named Stella) but she dusted off the leather-bound cover just the same when she bent to pick it up. “Not to have you terrorize me an hour before therapy. Dr. Linda’s going to hear about this, by the way.”

Lucifer did a double take at that (the doctor must not have thought much of him already, what with the child abandonment and less than forthcoming approach to secret spawn).

“Now, that’s just uncalled for.” He gasped, offended.

(She was pretty sure it was impossible to offend him, in any case, being the most irreverent entity she’s ever met, but even if she did, she would count it as more of an achievement than anything else).

She gave her best saccharine smile before dropping back into her chair. “Can’t say you don’t deserve it.”

“Come now, don’t tell me you’re enjoying this. Shackled up at home reading books like some bizarre cat lady.” Salem hissed at him indignantly from under the table and Lucifer actually peered down and hissed back. He promptly looked back up with a smug expression when the demon stalked behind Sabrina’s feet in surrender.

“This is Los Angeles, darling, our city.” He grinned wickedly, hands spread out in invitation. “Might as well have a little bit of fun.”

The girl scoffed. “Thanks, but no thanks. I think you and I have very different definitions of fun.”

Lucifer thought back to her choice of drink (his favorite name-brand whiskey), choice of restaurant (Jean Claude’s only ever got its start because its owner asked for a favor), and perhaps most glaringly, choice of sinner punishment (back when he sat the throne, demons were notoriously pleased with his hellfire-inclined torture preferences).

“Do we, really?”

She leveled him with the straightest face she could muster, leaving absolutely no room for argument. “Yes. Yes, we do.”

He sighed aloud and took another drag from his cigarette.

(Sabrina could tell he was getting frustrated, exhausted – it was a familiar look in the Spellman family household – and she almost felt sorry, but at that point, her amusement over the whole thing won over whatever ounce of remorse she might have had).

“Well, tell me what you want to do, then. What passes as fun for the likes of small-town teenage spawn?”

“I’m telling you, I’m perfectly fine where I am.”

Lucifer hated, absolutely hated, that he had to resort to extremes (his Father did everything to the extremes all the damn time, and look where that got him), but it seemed as though the whole casual conversation approach was the exact type to get trampled over and burnt to a crisp by her inherent stubbornness.

“Sabrina.” She had already cracked open her book and would have gone on ignoring him again for a few good minutes, but there was something about his tone of voice that made her look up and meet his gaze. His eyes, a close mirror to her own, were dark and probing, and she couldn’t find it in her to look away. “Tell me. What is it you desire?”

“I…” The witch frowned deeply, trying to fight against her own mind that seemed to pick itself apart and push past whatever defenses she’s built over sixteen years. “I don’t-”

“Come on, darling, you and I both know you didn’t come here to dig through libraries and find a satanic Hail Mary to hell. So tell me. What do you really want out of L.A.?”

Sabrina recognized what he was doing (had all but mastered a slightly different version of it herself), and she should have known that her father was the source of her own uncanny ability. All along, she’d wondered why her aunties or Ambrose or any other kid at the Academy couldn’t do this fairly simple form of witchcraft, one that she picked up and used to her advantage from a young age. Now, it seemed like some sort of karmic justice, in a way, that for once in her life, she’d be on the receiving end of the same magic she’d cast on so many others before.

“I want…” She tried holding out a bit longer, however futile it seemed, but all at once, it was though a dam had broken and the words rushed out of her throat like they couldn’t wait to escape. “I want to see the ocean.”

“Excellent!” Lucifer clapped his hands together and Sabrina broke free from the trance, shaking her head in disbelief. “We’ll have a beach day, then.”

The girl pushed away from her chair, feeling slightly betrayed, if not outright surprised, that he would subject her to such invasive magic then carry on the next moment as if nothing happened.

(A logical voice at the back of her head argued that it was hypocritical of her to think so when she did the same thing all the time, but she just chose to ignore it. Listening was never her strong suit, anyway).

“How did you…?” (Okay, she knew exactly how. That wasn’t the right question). “What the heaven did you just do to me?”

Because whatever it was, Sabrina was convinced he must have done it wrong. She knew herself, she knew her desires, and the ocean, of all things, had no place in her list of priorities right now. (If she weren’t so furious, she’d ask him to do the whole thing all over again, just to prove he made a mistake.)

By then, Lucifer was already typing away furiously on his phone, slightly distracted as his eyes squinted at the screen (it was a rather cutthroat matter, trying to find an uncrowded beach in the heat of midsummer California).

“Oh, just a little bit of celestial – rather, divine intervention, if you will.” He chuckled to himself before pocketing the device and shifting his focus back to her. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

“You know, you can’t just go around-”

“Hold that thought.” Sabrina didn’t take too well to being shushed like a child, but still pressed her lips to a thin line when Lucifer held up a finger and glanced at the ticking clock on the wall. “Goodness, it’s already half past eight. You’ll be late for your therapy session.”

She held back an irritated growl. “I don’t care if-”

Her voice was drowned out by the sound of metal scraping against marble as Lucifer got up from his seat to hastily stub his cigarette into a nearby ashtray.

“Trust me, darling, Dr. Linda may seem rather mild in temperament, but you wouldn’t want to keep that woman waiting. I made the mistake once, and it’s cost me an inbox full of disappointed voicemails and a rescheduled appointment timed right to a bachelorette party that she bloody well knew I was looking forward to.”

He pulled the robe even tighter around himself before rushing to the bar to pour a shot of vodka (he never did get that coffee, but at least he could say he didn’t skip breakfast). “I swear, if she weren’t so brilliant, she’d do just as well a job tormenting poor souls in hell.”

Sabrina didn’t want to let him off that easy (this was the second time he’d used unwarranted magic on her in a span of two days, and both times, he’d left her feeling conflicted and agitated and just plain confused). Still, the young witch actually liked Dr. Linda, and Zelda always taught her that the greatest sign of disrespect was the waste of someone’s time. Now, she might have been raised in a cannibalistic mortuary, but it wasn’t a damn barn.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Fine. But this isn’t over.”

Lucifer was already halfway across the living room, but his steps slowed to a steady halt when she spoke. Slowly, he turned around, looking almost plaintive, with a grin that could only be considered as fond sitting on his alcohol-tinged mouth. Sabrina wondered if it was another ploy to play with her emotions.

“I figured as much.”

If things were different and Sabrina wasn’t so caught between not-quite-hating and not-quite-liking ­him, that would have been the time any other father playfully mussed his daughter’s hair and she responded with an eyeroll of mock annoyance. As things were, he was not any other father, Sabrina was glowering halfway across the room, and the way her eyes rolled almost to the back of her skull was too sharp to be anything but exasperated. He shook his head lightly before turning on his heel and retreating to his bedroom to get changed.

Once she was the only person left standing in the kitchen, Sabrina turned to Salem with a small scoff. “Can you believe that guy?”

The demon, for one, was watching their whole exchange with a growing amusement all the while. His mistress could deny it all she wanted, but it was clear as day that whatever delicately-strung balance of evasive conversations and hell-induced arguments that the devil and his daughter once held had now shifted. Sure, Sabrina was incensed and untrusting as always, but this time, she laughed and smiled and actually held back from setting things on fire (literally, metaphorically, and in every other sense of the word). For the first time in a long while since he’d been ripped out of Theo’s warm, overfeeding arms in Greendale and thrust into the unexpected, yet long-overdue, chapter in the Morningstar family saga, Salem was feeling hopeful.

He purred in agreement before Sabrina scooped him up into her arms and stalked back into her own bedroom.

(Now, she had to go pack a beach bag and enchant some sunscreen and – goddammit, why couldn’t she desire a nice, airconditioned movie theater, instead?)

Dr. Linda almost grew dizzy watching the supposed antichrist pace back and forth across the room, every bit as antsy and restless as her father as she recounted the very frustrating events that occurred over breakfast.

(And to think the doctor only asked, “How was your morning?”)

“-and then he did this whole desire hypnotism magic thing, which was very rude by the way, and he just…I don’t know, he caught me off guard.” Sabrina dropped into the sofa with a resounding groan. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have said something stupid like seeing the freaking ocean!”

“So you’re upset.” The therapist said. “Is it because he used his powers on you?”

“Yes.” The teenager answered a little too quickly. Linda cocked a brow at her, and the girl sighed, putting her hands up in surrender. “Okay, maybe not.”

“Why is that?”

Sabrina sat up straight, suddenly having to think the question through. “I guess…it’s not so much the magic that I’m mad about. I mean, I grew up with witches, you know? It’s not exactly out of the ordinary for us to use our magic on each other every day.”

(It would be weirder, really, growing up without Hilda lacing their honey cakes with truth potions whenever Sabrina and Ambrose were caught in a lie, or Zelda sealing the doorways when they fought so the girl would learn not to walk away from an argument).

She wet her lips, brows furrowed as she tried to piece it together herself. “So maybe it wasn’t the question that got me, maybe…maybe it was my answer.”

Dr. Linda leaned forward (she didn’t know if it was because Sabrina was still technically mortal, or if she was just taking to therapy that well, but at the rate they were going, she might actually reach a breakthrough faster than any other celestial that’s ever sat on her infamous couch).

“Yes. Yes, this is good. What bothered you about your answer?”

“Well, it was a dumb answer! And it came out of nowhere!” She gestured wildly with her hands, eyes wide. After a few good seconds, she threw herself against the backrest, throwing an arm over her face. “God…or Grandad or whatever, my greatest, deepest desire is to go to the beach? When I’ve got a boyfriend trapped in hell and a coven in shambles?”

The doctor sighed and readjusted her glasses. “Sabrina, why did you want to come to L.A. in the first place?”

The witch lifted her head slightly to look at Linda with curious eyes. 

(She didn’t know what the doctor was doing, circling back to this all over again. Didn’t they move past the whole vacation plan thing on their first session?)

“Well, like I told you yesterday, I just wanted an out. At least for a little while.” She shrugged. “I needed a change of pace, a change of scenery. L.A. seemed good a place as any.”

(Linda tried not to think about how her reason to visit the city of angels was from the exact same cookie cutter mold that Lucifer used to justify his own escape from hell).

“And what do you think that has to do with your desire?”

Sabrina scoffed back. “Trust me, doctor, I wouldn’t be here if I knew.”

(Very Lucifer, indeed.)

“I think,” the therapist began, “the ocean was a perfectly reasonable answer.” The teenager frowned at that, but thankfully didn’t interrupt, unlike a certain someone Linda knew. “You wanted something different, something to take your mind off things. You mentioned yesterday that Los Angeles was the polar opposite of Greendale, especially with its sheer number of beaches. Is it possible that it’s not really about the ocean, but what the ocean represents?”

Sabrina blinked. “Possibly, sure, but…” She scrunched her brows. “Would I really put it above my family? Above Nick?”

“For the longest time, you’ve put the people you love first. And that’s a great thing. But what if, after everything that’s happened, at the back of your mind, this is your way of putting a pause on the things that hurt and telling yourself you deserve a break?”

The witch’s face had grown conflicted, and for the first time since the teenager came marching in that morning, the room was met with complete silence. The doctor was convinced that Sabrina was on the verge of a very important realization, and all it took was one last push, one last lingering second for the silence to work its magic and-

A loud buzzing erupted from the teenager’s pocket and she quickly shook her head, whatever train of thought she was having abandoned as she patted at the sides of her skirt. Linda gave her very best effort not to pop a vein when Sabrina pulled out a phone and began typing at the screen.

“Oh.” The doctor said shortly, crossing her arms. “I thought you said you didn’t own one of those?”

(She was very impressed at that, too. It was rare to see teenagers walking around without a mobile device in coastal California).

Sabrina sighed, still not looking up from whatever text message she was reading. “Well, I told Lucifer I didn’t need one. I mean, I did perfectly fine back home, just using the telephone to call my friends and mirror communication to reach my aunties, and that was just when I really needed to. Usually, everything was close enough to walk, and all conversation’s better done face to face anyway.” She rolled her eyes. “But apparently, things are different around here. He wouldn’t let me leave the house without one.”

“Well, I’m sure your dad has a point-”

“Hey, do you know how to read these weird emoji things he keeps sending?”

All of a sudden, Linda found herself staring down at a phone screen filled with a string of unintelligible symbols. She pulled away slightly so her eyes could focus better on the text – or lack of it, thereof.

“Devil sign, siren, stoplight, squad car…I’m sorry, sweetheart, but if I understood how your father communicated, he would have been out of therapy a long time ago.”

Sabrina frowned at the device. “I’m usually good at puzzles. Now that I think about it, he did say he had some business to attend to at the LAPD. Do you think I should meet him there?”

The doctor shook her head fervently (as far as she knew, Lucifer was strongly against having anyone else, especially from the police, meet his daughter).

“No. No, no, absolutely not. We had an agreement that he would pick you up right here after your session.”

“It won’t be much trouble, really. I’ve been there before. It should be familiar enough to teleport to.”

(Teleport? Now, that was new).

“Sabrina, that’s not what I’m saying-”

Before Linda could even finish her thought, the witch had already mumbled a quick “Lenuae Magicae” under her breath, and disappeared into thin air right in front of her. The doctor would’ve been in a state of shock, if it weren’t for the fact that she already expected the Morningstars to somehow draw the completely wrong conclusion from every single conversation they had.

She rubbed a hand against her forehead before reaching for her coffee cup.

“That family will be the death of me.”

Sabrina managed to arrive right at the precinct’s doors without anyone noticing. All the officers in uniform were either hunched over their desks, chatting by the water machine, or hurriedly walking across the room with stacks of paperwork in their hands. Still, in a sea of navy blue and crisp white work shirts, there was no sign of the perfectly-tailored designer suits her father seemed to have a preference for.

As she kept walking further into the office, she caught sight of a vaguely familiar leather jacket and quickly raised a hand to wave at its owner.

“Detective Espinoza!”

Dan was still busy putting together a file for the Massachusetts case Chloe was working on, and was actually on his way to his desk to make a few calls when he heard someone calling out to him. He whipped his head around and saw the girl from the other day’s park altercation case standing in the middle of the station.

(She looked fairly different now, thank goodness. Well-rested and less shaken up, though he had a sinking feeling that she might have been here on account of another arrest).

He dropped his folder on the table and squinted at her just to make sure he had it right.

“Sabrina?”

Chapter Text

Sabrina hadn’t really spent that much time with Detective Espinoza, but the ten-minute drive from the park to the precinct the other day was enough to convince her that he was a good person. 

(She wasn’t really up for much conversation then, so the man took it upon himself to fill the awkward silence with what he hoped were funny stories, and constant reminders that everything would be okay. Of course, the latter seemed to be more for his sake than hers, but the witch was glad to hear it all the same).

“What are you doing back here?” Dan frowned, sneaking a glance at her hands to see if she was cuffed again. “Don’t tell me you get into more trouble.”

(Alright, the detective knew that the teenager wasn’t behind the incident at the park – he had a team of very confused lab techs who seemed to agree so – and for all intents and purposes, maybe she was just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t as innocent as she let on, and that broke his heart the slightest bit, knowing that kids these days couldn’t just be kids and they had to walk around dragging a hidden weight behind them. Just look at Trixie, for God’s sake).

“What? No!” Sabrina sputtered, giving him a critical look (Satan, you get arrested once and everyone thinks you’re some sort of delinquent). She stood on the tips of her toes and craned her neck behind him to take in more of the crowded precinct. “I just…I was just wondering if you could help me look for my father.”

(There was something to be said at how she didn’t just use the word ‘dad’ like every other teenager, but that seemed like a conversation for another time).

Dan crossed his arms. “You think he’s been arrested or something?”

The image of Lucifer in his well-pressed suit, harassing fellow inmates and whining behind bars entered the witch’s mind, and she couldn’t quite help the small smile that crossed her face.

“Huh. I wish.” She snorted. The detective looked faintly alarmed at her reply, but she was too busy scanning the place to notice. “But no, nothing like that. I was told he works here.”

Dan was about to ask why a child would want their parent in jail, even as a passing joke (kids in happy homes would hardly even entertain the idea), but he dropped the thought entirely when he heard the rest of what she had to say.

He raised a brow. “At the LAPD?”

When Chloe told him that Sabrina’s dad picked her up, he’d expected one of those burly, tatted up men who drank too much alcohol, or the polished CEO types who spent more time at the office than they did at their houses, or you know, just one of those guys whose kid seemed most likely to end up in a holding cell. Definitely not one of their own boys in blue who kept family photos in their wallets and always tried to get home in time for dinner. Dan, for one, was pretty friendly around the precinct (before all that corrupt cop notoriety, anyway), and he tried to remember all the other officers’ kids whenever they brought them up in passing conversation. Now, he could be wrong, but he definitely would’ve recalled a pale, white-haired Sabrina wandering into the annual family picnics, sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the sea of tanned teenagers who just usually huddled in one corner with their drinks and overpriced phones.

Sabrina shrugged one shoulder. “Not full-time, I think. You know, he hasn’t really explained it to me yet. All I’ve gotten so far are mixed messages from very emoji-heavy texts. I mean, for a grown man, you’d expect some sort of cohesive conversation, but apparently, even that’s too much to ask for.”

(Funny. There was only one person besides his nine-year-old who Dan knew used way too many emojis in text messages. Granted, said person also took the time and effort to use the alphabet every once in a while, but that was only ever to spell out the words DETECTIVE DOUCHE in big capital letters).

Dan shook his head. No, it had to be some sort of coincidence. That guy definitely didn’t have any kids. Okay, maybe a couple dozen scattered across L.A. (you can’t have that much sex without leaving behind a trail of illegitimate children), but none that he actually acknowledged in fear of cramping his solitary bachelor lifestyle.

“I’m probably wrong about this, and I hope to God that I am,” the detective chuckled, bringing a hand up to scratch at his jaw. “But when you say father, you don’t possibly mean-”

Just then, Sabrina caught the flash of a chrome flask being tipped back by a very tall, very loud individual chatting away in Queen’s English, and it was hard to mistake him for anyone else. 

(How many British day-drinking employees could one Los Angeles precinct have anyway?)

She waved Dan off with a distracted flick of the wrist. “Nevermind, I think I found him. Thanks anyway.”

The teenager adjusted the strap of the red leather messenger bag on her shoulder and ran off in the general direction of the interrogation room, Dan caught off-guard when she suddenly brushed past him. For someone with such short legs, she was deceptively fast, but the detective still managed to catch up with her just when she was about to go for the large double doors.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing? You can’t go in there!”

There was authority somewhere in his voice, and to his credit, it probably worked well enough with mild-mannered civilians and law-abiding citizens, though growingly-impatient antichrists generally didn’t fall into the same category. The girl tried circling around him with a roll of her eyes (there was only one authority she answered to, and that was Sabrina Spellman), but the detective caught her gently by the crook of her arm and held her in place.

“Seriously, kid, I’m not messing around.”

(Now, she wasn’t about to start lying to herself. If she really wanted to dodge Detective Espinoza, she could’ve easily knocked him out with a well-placed spell or just teleported into the room, all without breaking a sweat. But as things stood, using her powers in public was the exact reason she landed in LAPD custody in the first place, and she wasn’t about to make her second arrest any easier by already being in their precinct.)

The witch yanked her arm free with a light groan, shooting her best Zelda-brand glare towards the man. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, and Sabrina couldn’t quite deny the slight rush of satisfaction that came with the sight (still got it, Spellman).

“Look, detective. I’m not messing around, either. My father just sent me a very confusing text, and for all I know, he might be dying.” The girl said matter-of-factly, though she very well knew that all chances of the devil even getting a papercut were virtually non-existent. Still, Hilda didn’t raise a liar (not a bad one, at least), so she kept two fingers discreetly crossed behind her back all the while. “Now, I just saw him walk through these doors barely ten seconds ago, and you’re telling me I can’t even go in there and make sure he’s okay? I mean, I skipped out on my therapist just to be here!”

Exaggerated conclusions? Casual therapy references? At that point, Dan was pretty sure he knew who her father was, and it should’ve been surprising, but it only ended up making a lot of sense the more he thought it through. She seemed relatively harmless (he liked to believe the precinct wouldn’t spontaneously combust in flames within the next few minutes); still, the idea of another Morningstar left a bad taste in his mouth. He liked Amenadiel enough, sure, but man, that weird family didn’t need any more expanding.

“Yeah, I don’t think your dad’s about to start dying anytime soon.” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

(“Unfortunately,” he almost added, but that seemed a bit much to say, even to the child of the most narcissistic jackass he’d ever met.)

“Come on, Detective Espinoza. Please?”

Beside him, Sabrina was really selling it with those puppy eyes, and it sort of reminded him of his own daughter (then again, Trixie only ever asked for chocolate cake, not demanded to talk to annoying police consultants who were currently in the middle of an active murder interrogation). Still, if this really was Morningstar’s kid, she’d probably go ahead and do as she pleased, either way, so as he saw it, that only left him with one possible option.

“I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?” The detective sighed, running a hand down his face. His eyes flickered back up to Sabrina who was looking at him expectantly, somehow already knowing that she’d get her way (last time he checked, smugness wasn’t supposed to be genetic). He exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Okay, fine. But first, you’re gonna have to come with me.”

“Is this your really sad way of telling me I’m being arrested again? ‘Cos if it is, you did a much better job last time.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “No.” Sabrina watched curiously as he pushed open a door adjacent to the interrogation room. It was drab and unobtrusive enough that she hadn’t noticed it before, but then again, so was everything else in that boring building. “You just have to trust me on this.”

“So, Andrew Polanski…do you know why you’re here?”

Their latest suspect, a man in his late forties with graying hair and an unnervingly calm smile, only leaned against his cold metal seat and stared back at Chloe. An APB on him had been put out for a while now, and either by dumb luck or some horrible misstep on Polanski’s part, a couple of beat cops waved him down for speeding just when he was about to skip town earlier that day.

“Can’t say that I do, detective,” he clicked his tongue, far too amused for someone who’s just been accused of first-degree murder. He played with his thumbs, held tightly together by a pair of freshly-slapped cuffs. “Care to enlighten me?”

One look at him and most officers could tell that he was the tricky kind. Charming, passive, borderline psychopathic, probably, if they actually had the resources to call in a mental health expert at the last minute to dissect his issues. Every dragged-on lecture and overpriced textbook at the Police Academy advised caution and well-chosen words when dealing with the exact sort.

It had to be noted, however, that Lucifer Morningstar attended no such Academy.

(There were running bets around the precinct, in fact, on where he actually graduated. Chloe begrudgingly stood by Wharton. Dan’s money was on some random party college upstate).

“Most certainly,” Lucifer cut in, leaning forward and grinning widely towards the man before the detective could even think to answer. She only shook her head and let him be, already familiar with how most of their interrogation sessions went. She was pretty much resigned to the whole good cop – worse cop routine by now. “Slit necks? Box cutters? Pretty little club girls stuffed in the boot of a disgustingly outdated sedan? I mean, this must ring some bells, shouldn’t it, Andy?”

Polanski glanced at him, unimpressed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You know, with the staggering number of times I’ve heard that excuse in this room, one would think we’d have some sort of scoring system in place by now.” The club owner said dryly.

“Lucifer,” Chloe hissed from beside him.

Her partner always seemed to have a general disregard of time, seeing as he apparently had a lot of it, but other people had better things to do with their day. Including, but not limited to, finally closing the Brenner case, and going on an off-the-books manhunt for an allegedly mass-murdering Massachusetts priest.

“What? It’s bloody brilliant!” He retorted, looking wholly pleased with himself. “We can hang a little scoreboard by the door. Mark down every ‘I don’t know’ and ‘You’ve got the wrong guy’ with one of those red pens.” Lucifer had his scheming face on, the kind that suggested he was completely convinced he had a good idea, when in reality, it was almost always the exact opposite. “To make things somewhat interesting, the first to a hundred could even get, say, a piña colada.”

At that point, the smile had been wiped clean off Polanski’s face, and he was only frowning at the unnecessarily-enthusiastic police consultant, not quite sure if this was another one of their psychological warfare interrogation tactics. Across from him, Chloe sighed audibly and buried her face in her hands.

“You drive a hard bargain, detective. Very well. Two piña coladas.”

“Lucifer,” the woman ground out. “Focus.”

Dan took a step back from the two-way mirror and looked at the teenager beside him.

“What’d I tell you?” He jutted his chin out towards her father, the suspect all but forgotten as he argued the necessity of tropical cocktails. “Not dead.”

Admittedly, it was against protocol. He could have just led her to a chair and asked her to sit and wait like everyone else. She might’ve pushed and prodded and made a scene befitting of the Morningstar name (maybe then, the connection would’ve felt more tangible, more real), but she was in a police station. She would’ve had no other choice but to listen to the police.

Against better (and evidently, all) judgement, though, Dan somehow thought that bringing her to the observation room just on the other side of the two-way glass was the most logical choice. She said she wasn’t familiar with her dad’s job at the LAPD. What better way to introduce her than with front row seats right in the middle of all the action? (Well, not exactly the middle, per se. He could get fired for that. More like a safe distance away behind a wall of military-grade protective glass, but other than that, it was arguably the same thing.) Besides, it seemed like a much lesser evil than having her barge in while the adults (as much as Lucifer could be considered an adult, really) were grilling a soon-to-be convicted felon. It was a simple case of killing two birds with one stone.

Or so Dan thought.

Sabrina made a little humming noise, eyes still focused on the quickly-escalating scene in front of them. “Not yet, you mean. Detective Decker looks like she’s about to strangle him the second they get out of there.”

He turned his head at just the right moment to see Chloe stomping on her partner’s leather-clad foot under the table. It was a gratifying sight, he had to admit. Maybe he should’ve sat in on these interrogations more often.

“Yeah.” The detective shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder if the guy has any sense of self-preservation.”

And yet he had a kid. Some unknown force in the universe actually thought it was a good idea to make this man (who, to Dan’s knowledge, never even owned a houseplant or interacted with a pet for more than 6 hours) responsible for another human being. It would’ve sounded like a sick joke, had the living, breathing proof not been standing right next to him.

Sabrina, it had to be said, looked strikingly normal. There was not an inch of her that suggested she was the daughter of a multi-millionaire, or that she had a cocktail mix of attitude problems that usually followed around teenage children of the rich and arrogant. (Granted, she did manage to get arrested at sixteen, but since she’d been all but cleared of the charges, it didn’t really count, did it?) Maybe her mom was just smart enough to keep her from that life.

Of course, now that brought up the question of who her mother actually was (a few hundred scantily-dressed candidates came to mind), but trying to unravel that thread just seemed like more trouble than it was worth. Where Lucifer was concerned, it could be any number of things, really, from an angry ex-wife to a careless one-night stand (gun to his head, though, Dan would most probably bet on the latter).

Whatever it was, Sabrina’s parents obviously weren’t together, and considering he was raising a child from a broken home himself, the detective knew better than to pry. It wasn’t any of his business.

Back inside the interrogation room, things were somewhat getting back on track (as much as “on track” meant pulling whatever hypnosis-mojo-magic trick the club owner usually did), and from the corner of his eye, Dan saw Sabrina shift uneasily and step closer to the glass. Silently, he wondered if she recognized what Lucifer was about to do. (He sincerely hoped she didn’t. Lucifer was tolerable at best and downright insufferable at worst, but Dan liked to believe he was decent enough not to pull that kind of crap on his kid).

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were about to run, weren’t you, Andy?” Lucifer’s lips pulled back into a shit-eating grin, sly and catlike in a way that still managed to be inviting. Effortless as it seemed, Dan knew every inch of it was calculating and dangerous, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why it felt like sin itself to look away. “The question is, where were you running to?”

Polanski met him dead in the eyes and it was a testament to how hardened he was that he didn’t even flinch. “I wasn’t running. I was on the way to work-”

“Yes, because people normally put their houses up for sale and bring packed suitcases with them when they go to the office.”

“-when I got a call from a friend who needed help with some family emergency. That’s why I was speeding.” He shifted his gaze to Chloe and spread his hands out on the table, cuffs digging into his wrists in a way that should’ve been painful but didn’t seem to bother him at the slightest. “His name’s Stephen Wyatt. You can check my call history and everything, it’s all there. He’ll vouch for me.”

“I’m sure Stephen has plenty to say, but unfortunately, this isn’t about the speeding.” The detective pulled out a photo from the case file and slid it to Polanski, tapping a finger against the glossy surface. “This is about murder. A double one, in fact. And unless your friend can explain why the victims were found in an abandoned car registered to you, it just seems a little too convenient that you’d be caught skipping town so soon.”

Dan could see Andrew’s jaw working as he stared at the photograph. It was damning stuff, for sure. He’d seen the photos when they were first brought in by forensics earlier that week, and though he’d witnessed worse things on the job, it didn’t make the scene of two girls barely out of college, blood trailing down their throats and gracelessly shoved into the trunk of a car, any easier to stomach.

“Which brings us back to my question,” Lucifer’s voice was practically dripping with milk and honey when he spoke, and it was enough to wrench Polanski’s gaze from the pictures and snap his eyes back up to the consultant. “You’re obviously quite done with L.A. Already planning to drive off into the proverbial sunset somewhere else, even.”

Andrew’s withering look suggested that he thought very little of sunsets, and, probably even less so, of the club owner. Thankfully, he was the calm-before-the-storm type who voiced his displeasure with heated glares instead of scathing words, because the last person who interrupted Lucifer’s little desire monologue before he could get to the point ended up crying all the way back to his holding cell, and Dan saw how Chloe nearly dug circles into the floor trying to explain that to the lieutenant.

“So tell me,” Lucifer leaned closer. “What exactly are you chasing after? What do you desire that’s no longer in Los Angeles?”

Dan watched Polanski pause, stiffen, fight that silent battle in his eyes that no one ever seemed to win. He almost felt sorry for the man, seeing his boundaries pushed and prodded with no more than a few seductively-said words, but he deserved it, didn’t he? If he was really responsible for the death of those girls?

“I…I’m not chasing after anything.”

“Oh, come on.” Lucifer scoffed. “What is it, really? L.A. run out of lovely young women to disfigure? Off to try your luck someplace new?”

Dan had all but forgotten that there was anyone else in the room when Sabrina suddenly spoke out of the blue, jolting him to his senses.

“He’s doing it wrong,” she mumbled under her breath.

He frowned, turning to look at her. She seemed perfectly unfazed, just staring across the glass with a vaguely critical expression on her face as if she were watching a campy TV show instead of a real-life murder investigation.

“I’m sorry?”

She sighed and spent another second eyeing both Polanski and her father before facing the detective. “He’s doing it wrong,” the teenager repeated. “He’s not asking the right questions.”

“And what would the right questions be?”

He wasn’t Lucifer’s biggest fan, not by a long shot, but even he had to admit that the guy got results, dubious as his methods might have been. You sure as hell didn’t get the best closure rates in the precinct by doing it wrong.

Sabrina bit the inside of her lip tentatively, almost unsure if she should respond. She clearly had a lot to say but was holding back for some reason or another (which Dan found somewhat surprising, knowing that the Morningstars were never ones to hold their tongue). Eventually, though, she ended up deciding against it and just shook her head, turning back towards the two-way mirror.

“You’ll see,” she said instead, plain and clipped and not at all ominous.

“Uh huh.” Dan nodded tersely.

“Look, I just want to get out of here!” Polanski snapped, hands slamming down heavily. The metal of his cuffs came down hard against the metal of the table, creating a clashing, startling sound that made even Sabrina jump a few inches back. “Before I end up dead in a ditch. That’s what I fucking want!”

It was an abrupt shift from his earlier demeanor, taking both the detective and the consultant by surprise. From the looks of it, Andrew had no idea where it came from either, immediately drawing back his hands and tugging on the collar of his shirt.

“Apologies, that was…uncalled for.” He cleared his throat with all the air of someone who said something he wasn’t supposed to say, suddenly hesitant, furtive. (Bastard was definitely hiding something). “If it’s all the same to you, I think my lawyer should be present for the rest of this conversation.”

“Now, hold on just a second-”

“Andrew, we can talk about this-”

Lucifer and Chloe’s voices began to overlap as they grappled with a way to get to him, but Polanski quickly shut them down with a pointed look.

“I know my rights, detectives. It’s a counsel or nothing.”

The two interrogators exchanged a cautious glance, and with how long Dan’s worked with both of them, he could practically hear what they were thinking.

(Chloe probably wanted to coax the suspect with a few more well-placed words and see where that would take them. Lucifer, if his somewhat questionable track record was any indication, was just planning to shove Polanski’s head through a wall until he either talked or lost the ability to speak altogether).

Chloe exhaled sharply and narrowed her eyes at Andrew.

“Fine.” She pushed away from her seat, gathering up her paperwork and towering over the suspect in a move that should’ve intimidated him but only made him smirk in amusement. “We’ll get you your attorney, then you’re back in interrogation first thing in the afternoon.”

Lucifer looked as if he were still contemplating the prospect of testing the floor’s durability with Polanski’s thick skull when the detective tugged on his arm and jerked her chin towards the door.

“Come on, Lucifer. Let’s go.”

“But detective-”

She didn’t have time for this. “Now.”

As soon as Chloe managed to shepherd a begrudging Lucifer out of the room, Dan whipped his head towards Sabrina. She was still staring at Polanski, arms crossed and a contemplative look on her face.

“You knew. You knew he wouldn’t budge.” He pressed, brows furrowed (Because she had been right, hadn’t she? Sixteen years old and she already saw right through the whole damn thing). “How?”

She shrugged a shoulder as if it was all ridiculously simple. “You heard the man, detective. He’s scared. People don’t usually run unless they’re being chased.”

“Or he’s the one doing the chasing.”

The teenager turned her eyes on him, finally pulling her gaze from the suspect. Dan almost wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

(She wasn’t just looking, she was scrutinizing, and he couldn’t exactly say it was the most comfortable feeling).

“My father and I don’t agree on many things, Detective Espinoza, but the one thing we can both count on is that it’s very hard to lie to him. I think Polanski meant it when he said someone out there wants him dead. And that’s not something you should take lightly. Chances are, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“That’s a pretty bold accusation to make.”

Sabrina started towards the door of the observation room, and for the second time that day, Dan found himself trying to keep up. (Jesus, what did Lucifer feed this kid?).

She tipped her head at him as soon as they were out in the harsh fluorescent lights of the main precinct floor. “Maybe. But it makes sense, doesn’t it?”

He could see where she was coming from, he guessed. Lucifer’s little mojo thing often made people admit things they normally wouldn’t say out loud, and based on Polanski’s sudden outburst earlier, he was definitely no exception. Dan just couldn’t imagine what was so damning about admitting he didn’t want to end up dead in a ditch. Most people didn’t want to, either, so why bother being so sketchy about it? In fact, if he did just go out on a killing spree, it was a given that a lot of angry families would have a target on his head. It didn’t mean he was innocent.

“I don’t know, kid.” Dan scratched at the side of his neck, eyes on his feet as he made the tedious journey back to his desk. “It just doesn’t add up. We’re gonna have to do a little more-” The rest of his words fell through when he looked up and realized that the teenager was no longer walking beside him. “Sabrina?”

He stopped where he stood and looked around, expecting her to be a few steps behind him or maybe already at some desk or another, distracted by something bright and shiny like her dad always was.

“Sabrina?”

A few meters away, he spotted the interrogation room door swinging closed. It should’ve been wide open by now, if the beat cops already went and escorted Andrew Polanski back to his holding cell. There was absolutely no reason for anyone to still be inside. Unless…

(His stomach filled with dread when he finally put two and two together and realized where the teenager went).

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dan didn’t know he could run so fast, but in a matter of seconds, he was banging on the large double doors, twisting at the handles and pushing at the metal surface. “Sabrina! Goddamit, you better open this right now!”

“Or what? You’re calling the police?” Her teasing voice came out muffled from the other side.

“This is not a joke! Do you know how much danger you’re putting yourself in?”

God, he couldn’t believe it. The teenager actually went ahead and locked herself in a room with a murder suspect, just because she thought he was innocent.

(You know what? He took it back. That girl was a Morningstar through and through, and he didn’t know how he ever doubted it in the first place).

He kept pounding at the door even as he realized a crowd of officers and employees was beginning to form around him.

(What the hell was she even planning to do in there? Just sit politely and ask the right questions like she’d said? Polanski was accused of taking down girls no more than a few years older than her. Even if the guy was cuffed, a short and skinny thing like her didn’t stand a chance).

“Don’t worry, detective. I’ll try to make this quick. Just do me a favor and keep it down. It’s kind of hard to concentrate with all the yelling.”

He tried ramming down the doors with his shoulder, but they barely even budged (The stupid things held up exceptionally well for cheap building materials. God, it was as if they were magic or something).

“No! Get the hell outta there!”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Chloe push through the sea of onlookers, Lucifer trailing closely behind.

“Dan, what’s going on?” His ex-wife prodded, frowning in the direction of the interrogation room. “Who’s in there?”

He sighed and glanced between the two, finally leaning against the doorframe in defeat when his arm began to go numb.

“Sabrina,” he said pointedly, gaze landing on Lucifer.

The club owner stiffened for a moment or two and Dan could almost see the gears working in his head. The detective was getting hopeful, he had to admit. Maybe if the guy realized how much danger his daughter was in, he could burst into the room with his irrational strength and drag Sabrina out of there before she ended up doing something she would regret.

Lucifer, of course, had to go ahead and dash those hopes as soon as he opened his obnoxious mouth.

“Sabrina?” He scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth would she be here, of all places?”

“She said she was looking for you because you sent this text message-” Dan shook his head and threw his hands up. “Look, what does it even matter? She’s locked herself in there with Polanski, who, in case you forgot, is accused of murdering two other girls! I don’t know what’s gotten into her, but don’t you think you should at least try and stop her?”

Lucifer huffed in amusement, not at all the picture of a man who’s just been told his kid was in danger. “Bold of you to assume I can actually tell my daughter what to do.”

Dan stared at him, bewildered. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna…do absolutely nothing?”

“No, no, I’d like to see how this plays out, actually.” He had that scheming glint in his eye again, and it did nothing to ease Dan’s growing urge to call Child Protective Services on him (assuming he still had a child at the end of all this). Lucifer glanced at the pair of them with the same smug grin he seemed to have reserved for every damn occasion of his life. “This should be quite fun. If you’ll excuse me…”

The club owner straightened his suit jacket and pushed past them, leaving Dan and Chloe to watch his retreating figure as he disappeared into the observation room to just…stand idly, apparently. Dan exchanged an alarmed look with the other detective, and the woman immediately started kicking at the door, pure parental instincts taking over.

(Lucifer obviously didn’t give two shits about his own kid, but they sure as hell wouldn’t leave her to fend for herself).

Inside the room, a sharp yelp cut through the air and Dan felt his heart jump straight into his throat (Whatever happened in there, it was his fault. Christ, he should have never dragged Sabrina into this). He whipped his head around and stared wildly at the officers gathered around them.

“Don’t just stand there, someone get the fucking keys!”

Chapter Text

“Those cops must really have it out for me.” Polanski sized her up with a vaguely unimpressed look as soon as she entered the room, and the girl raised a brow in retaliation. “And here I thought they were gonna be decent enough to send me counsel that isn’t barely out of high school.”

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Sabrina knew there was no going back until she’d done what she came here for. Normally, she wouldn’t bat an eyelash if men who were even remotely capable of harming young girls were led away in cuffs and locked up for the rest of their miserable existence. Satan knew (or maybe he didn’t? She was starting to doubt all that Church of Night doctrine about her father’s supposed omniscience) she signed other people’s death warrants for way less. Even her mandrake snapped a handful of people’s necks just for calling her a whore.

Andrew Polanski was…different, though. He was hiding something. Something that could probably even exonerate him if given the chance, yet he chose to keep it to himself. For what reason exactly, Sabrina didn’t know (yet).

Outside, the frantic voices were growing. There was kicking and pounding and shoving (mostly on Detective Espinoza’s part, if his loud complaints of shoulder bruising were any indication), and the helpless rattle of keys against an expertly spellbound keyhole. Her little stunt was an…inconvenience, that much she could admit. Half the precinct was practically divided between making very loud plans outside the door (“For the last time, we’re not using C-4 to blow it up, Peralta!”) and running back and forth in search of more keys (“What do you mean this is all of them? My five-year-old son can beat you with his eyes closed at a fucking scavenger hunt!”).

She probably needed to send out a couple dozen apology baskets once all of this was over.

“I’m not your lawyer.” The teenager shook her head. Meanwhile, Polanski watched her carefully as she pulled out the seat across from him. “But do exactly as I say, and I can get you out of here.”

“I doubt that very much.”

She nodded towards the cuffs on his wrists, just the slightest bit looser than when he was being interrogated by Lucifer and Detective Decker. He’d been fiddling with them ever since the two left, not because he wanted to escape, but because they were digging into his skin a little too tightly. That’s what Sabrina caught him doing when she tapped a finger against his shoulder and he yelped in surprise. A suspect prying at his handcuffs wouldn’t have been the most innocuous sight had it been anyone else who walked through the door.

“Think you can do a better job on your own?”

Sabrina was expecting him to lash out, maybe bang a fist or two against the table (she was kind of hoping for it, really, just so she’d have a reason to try the new defensive magic she’d been reading about), but Polanski exhaled sharply through his nose and said nothing more.

The girl hummed in smug satisfaction. “That’s right. I didn’t think so.”

If Ambrose were here, he’d tell her she was treading dangerous ground. He’d tell her to be smarter, sharper, more careful. She had a loose tongue and a tight sense of pride, and one day, it would get her in trouble she couldn’t charm her way out of. Funny that he probably told her this a hundred times over, and the one time she actually heard him was when he wasn’t there beside her.

It didn’t mean she had any plans of actually listening (oh, hell no), but the sentiment was there. Her cousin was smart. He’d know to appreciate it either way.

“So here’s how it’s gonna go, Andy-”

“My name’s not fucking Andy,” he bristled.

Sabrina made a tutting sound and leaned back against her chair. It was surprising how touchy people could get with their names. Polanski must’ve been holding in that little outburst ever since Lucifer decided to throw the word Andrew out the window the moment he entered the room.

“Well, I’m not the one in cuffs.” She smiled wryly back at him, and she didn’t quite miss the way his lips curled in irritation. “I think I’ll call you whatever I want.”

“You little-”

The rest of his words were drowned out by the sound of an industrial power drill working through the door’s keyhole. Where in the world those officers managed to find one within the precinct was beyond Sabrina, but she had to give them credit for thinking on their feet.

(It didn’t matter, anyway. Nothing a reinforced barrier spell couldn’t handle).

Polanski’s brows furrowed at the noise. “What the…” Outside, Detective Dan was shouting, “More power! That thing’s obviously not working hard enough!”, his voice coming out slightly muffled from the other end. The suspect whipped his head around to stare at her accusingly. “Is this some kind of set-up? What’s going on out there?”

“Nothing you should concern yourself with.”  

The girl raised a hand and everything fell quiet, save for the ticking clock on the wall and their own light breathing. She heard Polanski audibly gulp from where he sat.

(Huh. It was easy to forget nowadays that not everyone was used to seeing magic in plain view).

“Now,” Sabrina leaned forward and folded her arms on the table. She couldn’t exactly blame dear old Andy when he flinched back the tiniest bit.

The witch knew what she looked like. She wasn’t completely oblivious. The flinty eyes, the ramrod posture, the self-satisfied grin that said she’d won the game without even playing. It was a page straight out of her father’s book, but it felt as though it was written just for her.

Even Andrew knew there was something sinister behind the enticing lilt that snuck into her voice when she finally spoke.

“Why don’t you tell me a little something more about your friend Stephen Wyatt?”

“Wow. You really meant it when you said you were just gonna sit back and watch, didn’t you?”

Lucifer didn’t miss the way the detective was eyeing him with complete, unadulterated judgement as soon as she stalked into the observation room, all big strides and clicking boots and hands on her hips that made her look more like a disappointed schoolmarm than anything else. It was all generally unsurprising, to say at the least. He imagined that humans didn’t usually take too kindly to the idea of leaving underage offspring with murderous strangers.

“First of all, I’m standing, not sitting, so joke’s on you.” He pointed out. The eye-roll he promptly received in response was nothing unexpected. “And second, Sabrina’s putting on a marvelous show. What kind of father would I be if I didn’t appreciate such a stellar performance?”

The detective had to take a second or two to process that concerning train of thought before tilting her head in question. “…You do know this isn’t some sort of talent showcase, right?”

“Yes, but if it were, I have no doubt she’s going to win. She’s fluent in three languages, you know. Four, if you count Lilim.”

Chloe didn’t have the first clue whatever the hell Lilim was supposed to be, but even if she did, there probably weren’t too many talent competitions based on language proficiency, anyway.

“I don’t see how that would be relevant.”

“Oh, it’s not, really.” He grinned back at her. “Just thought you should know.”

Lucifer had to admit, his parental pride had been sort of…misplaced, as of late. For the longest time, Sabrina was a well-kept secret confined to passing conversations with Maze and those faded yearly photographs stolen by his brother. He couldn’t talk about her the way other fathers did. When one of the officers bragged about their sons making the soccer team, or the detective beamed over her tiny urchin’s A+ papers at school, it took everything in him to hold his tongue and pretend to be interested.

(What’s that? Little Robin set up a lemonade stand for the summer? Lovely. Well, Sabrina learned both Greek and Latin at age five, and necromanced her first dead goldfish at six. Come back when your spawn tries a little harder, Susan).

Now that the truth about his daughter was finally out in the open, however, about sixteen years’ worth of bottled-up boasting was bound to spill out into every conversation he had with anyone who was willing to listen. 

(Dr. Linda already drew the short end of the stick when she had to listen to him drone on and on about Sabrina’s excellent spellwork the last time he called. If the detective thought this was the worst of it, she had another thing coming).

“How’s she holding up in there, anyway?” The detective’s voice grew closer, and Lucifer noticed that she’d moved to stand beside him in front of the two-way glass. “Poor thing must be terrified.”

“Quite the contrary, actually.” The club owner smirked. He saw how Sabrina had Polanski wrapped around her little finger, all calm words and biting wit. It was almost clinical, the way she worked, and it would’ve worried him how good she was if he were not exceedingly impressed, himself. “I’d say if he wants to walk away from this relatively unscathed, Andy better decide his next move very, very carefully.”

The detective raised a brow, clearly skeptical, and she was just about to tell her partner the same thing when the suspect suddenly spoke in hushed whispers from inside the interrogation room. Maybe it was the look of sheer terror on Polanski’s face, maybe it was the silent amusement in Sabrina’s own, but all at once, Chloe got the sinking feeling that Lucifer might not entirely be wrong.

“Why are you asking me this?” Andrew hissed. His hands were curled into fists, and for a good second or two, Lucifer thought he might actually be stupid enough to swing at the antichrist, but as it turned out, the man wasn’t completely suicidal. He kept his meaty arms firmly anchored on the table. “What do you know?”

“Not enough, apparently.” The teenager squinted. “For one, I still can’t figure out why you’re so scared of him.”

Sabrina’s particular brand of logic was…difficult to follow, her father had to admit. For whatever misconstrued reason known only to her, this Stephen Wyatt fellow was somehow a person of interest now, though for the life of him, Lucifer couldn’t see how she could have possibly arrived at that conclusion. Was there something Andy said that he had simply missed? Or did she just have a nose akin to one of hell’s sniffer dogs, so very adept at picking up the scent of sin no matter how deeply buried?

The club owner had an inkling that he was being watched before, back when it was him and the detective on the other side of the glass with Polanski. It felt like a faint chill, a low tremor, the same kind that followed Amenadiel whenever he arrived and time seemed to slow in its entirety. Of course, he just brushed it off as the familiar twitch of early drug withdrawal (it’s been what…3 days since he’d had a decent hit?), but looking back, he probably should’ve known it was the witchling’s divine presence weighing on him from across the room. As if she couldn’t have found a way to escape Dr. Linda if she so wanted.

(Speaking of which, he should probably go check on the doctor soon. Make sure she hasn’t been shrunk and trapped in some tiny box or other).

A surge of courage overtook Polanski, and in a twist of inexplicable boldness, he looked Sabrina right in the eye. Whatever he found in them must not have been too pleasant, however, and he quickly averted his gaze.

“No…No, I have nothing to say to you.” He didn’t look up once from the tiled floor. “I want my lawyer.”

“You know, I don’t think you do.” The witchling cradled her chin in her hand. “I think you want to get locked up. You want to be convicted for murder.”

Andy shook his head slowly. “No.”

“Because he can’t touch you here.” Sabrina ploughed on. “He can’t reach you the way he so easily could out there.”

“Stop talking.”

The girl tilted her head innocently to the side. “What’s the matter, Andy? Think these bars could protect you? What do you think happens when you sleep? When you dream?” Her voice lowered to a harsh whisper and she actually laughed, a mirthless, terrible sound. “When he claws his way into your mind and refuses to leave?”

 “I can’t-I don’t…”

“There’s no such thing as escape, Andy. There’s only fear.” Sabrina spoke with such resignation that it was easy to mistake her for someone older than she was. “And how long you’re gonna let yourself live in it.”

“That’s not true-”

“Then what is the truth?” She snapped. The witch pushed her chair away from the table and stood, the lights suddenly flickering overhead. Lucifer couldn’t be too sure, but when the bulbs came back on, he could have sworn his daughter’s eyes were flashing a pristine, colorless white. Then she blinked a second time and they went back to his own usual pools of brown. “Because you said that name for a reason, and there was a quiver to your voice when you did, and I just can’t figure out why! Why does he terrify you so much?”

“What on earth…” The detective muttered under her breath.

Lucifer didn’t see much fear in Andy’s eyes when he mentioned his friend the first time around, but that was then and this was now. With Sabrina towering over him like a rogue specter in the night, the man was the picture of petrified, a leaf shaking in the cold. Everything looked so very small, the devil realized, next to his daughter who seemed a force of nature all on her own.

“Oh, for Dad’s sake, just answer the bloody question.” He sighed.

(What big, obvious sign was the blundering fool even waiting for? A broken mirror? Cracked pavement? Sabrina’s annoying little black cat crossing the room and staring him down in that vaguely contemptuous way it always seemed to do?)

Polanski took a deep, shuddering breath. “Look, I-I…” He wet his lips. “You’re right, I’d rather stay here. At least it-it’s safe and I’m out of reach, but…”

“But what?” The witchling prodded.

“But I have to get out!” Andy pounded his fist against the table, and this time, Sabrina didn’t jump back. “I-I had a plan, okay? It was supposed to keep both of us safe. Now it’s all gone to shit!”

“Wait, wait. Hold on a second. Both of who?”

The man suddenly looked hesitant, withdrawn, like he said something he wasn’t supposed to. Lucifer started to worry that his daughter had hit a dead end. Polanski clammed up the same way when they got to talking about his desires a few minutes back.

Sabrina felt around for her chair, eyes never leaving the man’s face. “Andy. Andy, look at me.” He kept his gaze firmly trained on the wall. “Look at me.”

The few seconds it took for Andy to wrestle against his own force of will were tense, strained, no different than a flimsy piece of string being pulled taut from both ends. When the proverbial string finally snapped down the middle, however, there was something begrudging, almost resentful, in the way he stared back at the witchling.

(Lucifer couldn’t very well blame him. Humans, he found, acted no more than base creatures when their free will was wrenched from their grip. The same way that dogs kept on leashes were more rabid, more likely to fight against their chains and bite).

“Both of who?” Sabrina repeated.

He must have realized that there was no winning now, that the young girl with the piercing eyes across from him would always have the upper hand in ways he could never even begin to understand. Polanski swallowed thickly.

“Me. And Emma.” He paused. “My daughter.”

The teenager shook her head. “I don’t follow. What does this have to do with-”

“He has her, alright?” Andy snapped. His breathing started to come out in short little gusts of air, cuff-bound hands beginning to shake. “He has her, and h-he said he’ll kill her if I didn’t take the fall. And, oh God, my poor little girl-”

“Andy, calm down. It’s gonna be alright.”

“So I got myself caught, and I thought if I-I mentioned his name, the police would get curious and bring him in for a few questions. But they didn’t even catch on, until you came and-”

Sabrina placed a hand on his forearm. “Please, just take a deep breath. I can’t help you if I can’t understand-”

“And now she’s all alone with him in that house, and I don’t even know where her mother’s gone this time-”

"Tuum invenies pacis tranquillitas toto corde tuo.”

All at once, Polanski’s mouth fell closed in a relaxed, wordless stupor. Even all his bones seemed to soften like so much cotton, going slack and limp in sudden tiredness, propped up only by the cold metal of his chair. Lucifer couldn’t help the grin that slowly crept on his face.

(Oh, just wait till the doctor hears about this. Bloody excellent spellwork, indeed).

He felt the detective tugging on his sleeve.

“I’m not seeing things, am I? She just…” Her nose was wrinkled, eyes squinted in that slightly disbelieving way that said she hoped against all hope that someone was kidding. “Just said something weird and he…stopped?”

(Because that little scene with the questions and the flashing eyes, she could understand. The kid probably picked it up from her dad. But…those words. She’s never heard anything quite like them before. In church, maybe, but even that seemed like a stretch. She was pretty sure Lucifer wasn’t one to bring Sabrina to any of those growing up. She only ever went a few times herself, and that was just for Trixie’s christening).

“No, nothing weird, detective.” Her partner laughed. Chloe let out a little half-chuckle, half-sigh. Okay, good. She probably missed a few hours of sleep last night, that’s all. “Just an old Latin calming spell.”

“I’m sorry, calming what?”

“Calming spell.” Lucifer repeated evenly. “Now if you could keep it down, I’m trying to pay attention-”

Chloe closed her eyes. “Do I even want to know why your daughter is chanting these so-called calming spells?”

(God, just saying it out loud felt silly).

“Well, I imagine that’s what witches do. Aside from the ritualistic cannibalism, of course, but we already glossed over that during breakfast.”

“…Witches.” The detective parroted slowly. The whole cannibalism thing probably deserved a separate delusional conversation of its own, too, but she’d have to put it on the back burner for now. There were only so many of her partner’s mind-numbing remarks she could unpack at once. “And you’re the devil?”

He was smiling a touch too brightly for a man seemingly convinced that his whole family was made up of…different Halloween characters, apparently. Who knows? Maybe next week, Amenadiel will be the Loch Ness monster.

“Yes. Now you’re getting it, detective!”

“Of course.” Chloe sighed. She put a hand up to her forehead. “Of course. That just…sounds about right, doesn’t it?”

Back inside, Sabrina was still eyeing Polanski warily. He seemed much better than before – As he should. It would have been a pitiful waste of his witchling’s magic if he didn’t, Lucifer noted dryly - but it must have left him winded all the same, chest rising and falling in deep breaths and an odd look of confusion on his face.

“Are you okay?” The teenager tapped a finger against his forearm. He blinked up at her, slightly dazed. “Do you think we can keep going?”

“Yes, I-” Andy brought a hand up to his throat as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “Sorry. I’m just a little confused. What-” He shook his head. “What just happened?”

Lucifer could practically see the gears turning in Sabrina’s head, the way her features flitted from concerned to calculating to deceptively innocent in the space of a few seconds. Interestingly enough, it brought to mind some obscure nature channel documentary that Maze used to put on to fall asleep. Something about certain predators changing colors to better catch their prey.

“Are you sure you’re fine?” She chuckled uneasily, shooting him an unconvinced look. “I’m…I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

Polanski knitted his brows at nothing in particular. “I could’ve sworn-”

“We were just talking.” Sabrina shrugged innocently. “You were even telling me about this whole plan you had to expose Stephen Wyatt for murder and clear your name.”

“I was?”

“Yeah. We were in the middle of negotiating, actually. A full confession and court testimony in exchange for Witness Protection for you and your daughter. Her mother, too, if you think she needs it.”

Andy blinked rapidly in surprise. “You can…you can promise me that?”

“She can’t promise him that!” The detective hissed, hand already reaching out to grope for the intercom. “We don’t even know if he’s telling the truth-”

“Patience, detective.”

Her partner caught her by the wrist just when her fingers were about to graze the bright red buttons. Not that Chloe would ever admit it, but it was probably a good thing that he did. What was she even planning to say? Mr. Polanski, please step away from the frighteningly manipulative sixteen-year-old. I don’t think you should be making bargains with someone who was literally cuffed to that same chair all of 72 hours ago.

“Give the hellspawn a chance.” Lucifer offered lightly, looking very much like he knew something everyone else didn’t. The slight quirk to the edge of his lips, for one, was a dead giveaway. He glanced back at Sabrina. “She just might surprise you, that girl.”

The detective wasn’t really up for anymore surprises at that point. It wasn’t even noon and she already saw her partner’s teenage daughter rattle off a bunch of Latin to a hyperventilating murder suspect. Throw in the fact that the same girl managed to dodge a station full of police officers who, if her hearing serves her right, were still playing carpenter outside the interrogation room door, and that Maze was currently on her way to Scotland to hunt down said girl’s almost-killer, then yeah. Chloe was pretty much done with surprises.

“You have my word, Andy.” Sabrina grinned, sharp as glass and smooth as honey all at once. Only a desperate man would trust that voice.

Polanski took a deep breath. Years from now, both Lucifer and the detective would wonder what exactly was running through his head, those few seconds he had before taking the teenager’s outstretched hand. Was it regret? Relief? A mixture of both? Strangely enough, Sabrina seemed to be looking straight at her father through the glass when she wrapped her fingers around the man’s cuffed hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

And just like that, at 10:17 am inside a magically-sealed room in the LAPD precinct, Andrew Roman Polanski became the first ever mortal to strike a deal with the antichrist.

Partially from the silencing spell but mostly from the ridiculous high of solving her first murder case, Sabrina had all but forgotten that there was still a swarm of police officers pressed to the door and working at the lock. And so when she walked over to the knob and gave it a swift little pull…suffice to say, the boys in blue could now very well commiserate with the occupational hazard of circus clowns who spilled out of their tiny cars by the dozen each night. Detective Dan, especially, who somehow managed to land right on top of the stack of groaning middle-aged men on the floor.

“Oh crap, are you guys okay?” The teenager winced, quickly reaching down to help some of them up.

They seemed mostly fine, thank Sat – somebody. Just a little bruised at the ego and somewhat annoyed that the kid they were trying to save didn’t look to be in much danger at all. If anything, they were in worse shape than her.

“No, are you okay?” Detective Espinoza shot back, pointing a finger at her.

He had already brushed himself off and pulled himself to his feet, only to stare at the witch with the most disappointed glare she’d seen since Cookiegate 2010.

(She had Ambrose help her enchant the girl scout cookies so whoever tasted them could never seem to have enough. She’d won the bright red bike for most sales of the week, of course, but the thrill of that lasted for all of five seconds. When half of Greendale ended up with chickenpox – she slipped in too much eye of frog, apparently – Zelda had relegated them both to doing mortal chores for a month).

“You went behind my back and purposely put yourself in danger, knowing full well that none of us could protect you in there. God, it’s like you couldn’t even hear us-” Sabrina made an odd choking noise at that, but Dan chose to ignore it. “-and now you walk out here like none of it even happened. I mean, who does that?”

“I’ll tell you who, Daniel.” Both of them turned their heads at the same time to see Lucifer sauntering over, the most self-satisfied grin known to mankind plastered on his face. The witch had no idea why, but something about Detective Espinoza’s growing scowl gave her the impression that he was so close to punching it clean off her father’s mouth. “Someone who just closed a whole homicide case single-handedly, that’s who. I guess by now it’s pretty obvious who the hellspawn takes after.”

(Yeah, no. She was having none of that).

Sabrina shook her head fervently. “Nope, still mom. Definitely mom.”

“Well, I’ll say, darling-”

“Hold on just a second.” Detective Dan cut in before Lucifer could finish, earning him a well-deserved glare in the process. The man didn’t seem to notice, though. He clearly had bigger things on his plate. “What do you mean she solved the case? How is that even possible?”

Just then, Sabrina heard someone clear their throat very loudly a little way off the side. At the corner of their group was Detective Decker, giving Detective Espinoza some sort of urgent signal with her eyes.

“Uh, Dan…a word?”

The officer hesitated a moment. He apparently wasn’t done with the questions, and kept glancing skeptically between the club owner and his daughter. After a few good seconds of stalling where he stood, though, he quickly shook his head as if he thought better of it, and went to trail after the other detective.

“Yeah, sure. I’m coming.”

The pair walked off into one of those board rooms surrounded by glass windows, and the teenager watched them all the while, eyebrows raising just the slightest bit when Chloe whispered something in Dan’s ear and he reeled back, surprised.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” She wondered aloud, arms crossed tightly against her chest.

Lucifer made a slight humming noise from beside her. “My guess is as good as yours, hellspawn. Though I imagine it’s something boring. Paperwork, maybe. Humans here love talking about paperwork.”

“No, that’s not it.” Chloe started pacing around the room, and Sabrina narrowed her eyes as she followed the detective carefully with her gaze. “I don’t trust her.”

Her father followed her line of sight.

“The detective?” He balked. “Why not?”

“She asks too many questions.”

Sabrina thought he would argue, try to tell her she was wrong. It was clear as day that he had an unhealthy attachment to the woman. For what reason exactly, she didn’t even want to know. Again, the things he did in his free time (hanging out in precincts and talking to murderers, apparently) wasn’t any of her business.

So it just made it all the more surprising when he took one long-suffering sigh and nodded his head. If cigarettes were allowed in here, this was probably the best time for him to pull one out.

He glanced amusedly at his daughter. “Yes. I suppose she does, doesn't she?"

“Wait, wait, wait. Slow down.” Dan rubbed a hand down his face. “Are you seriously telling me that a sixteen-year-old girl gaslighted a full confession out of Andrew Polanski? Just like that?”

Chloe frowned. “It’s difficult to explain, okay? I…I’ve never seen anyone do that before, even at the Police Academy. I guess the closest thing I can think of is Lucifer, but even that seems too far-fetched-”

“So? Maybe she picked up a few things from her dad.” Her ex-husband shrugged.

“No, it’s still different. She’s-” Chloe shook her head. “She catches on to these little things, you know? The stuff you normally wouldn’t give a second thought. She’s good. Scary good.”

Dan walked over and dropped himself on to one of the chairs, looking like he’d just aged six months at once. Chloe couldn’t blame him. It probably wasn’t easy, running around trying to save a snarky kid who, as it turned out, didn’t even need any saving in the first place. There was even that thing with the door that she wasn’t even gonna try to understand.

“I guess it doesn’t really matter, does it?” He sighed, slinging an arm over his eyes. “I mean…Sabrina’s fine. Surprisingly. And you can finally close the case on those Brenner girls.”

She couldn’t argue the logic in that. From the start, Lucifer seemed perfectly convinced that his daughter could handle herself well enough. Of course, she just thought he was the kind of father who couldn’t be bothered enough to care (which didn’t sound quite right, either; not when she saw for herself just how much he’d worried over Sabrina yesterday). Then all of this happened and she realized that if anything, anything at all, had went awry, he would’ve been the first one kicking down that door.

There was also the matter of the Brenner case. Oh God, she’d agonized over it for days. It kept her at the precinct for too many early mornings and a few inexcusably late nights, and she just wanted it done. So much, in fact, that she was willing to jump on the first suspect even if all evidence against him just seemed like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that they were trying very hard to force together.

“And to think we were gonna put away the wrong guy.” Chloe groaned, burying her face in her hands. It was unspeakable. Polanski was…shady, yes. But he didn’t deserve that. No one did.

“You know, I still don’t get that part. Why was he willing to take the fall, again?”

The detective ran a hand through her hair. “Apparently, this Stephen Wyatt guy he was trying to mention is his ex’s new husband. Threatened to hurt his daughter if he didn’t admit to the murders. He was so clever about it, too, stuffing the girls in Polanski’s car so he’d be tied to the case no matter what.”

“That’s sick.” Dan muttered in disgust. “Why didn’t he just say this dude was blackmailing him in the first place?”

“He said he wanted to. Just didn’t think anyone would take him for his word. The authorities aren’t usually too quick to believe former drug addicts.”

“But Sabrina is?” He raised a brow.

“She’s a Morningstar.” Chloe said pointedly, as if the name alone was reason enough. At Dan’s probing look, she rolled her eyes. “You know people can’t lie to them.”

The other detective scoffed and kicked his feet up the table. If they were at home, Chloe would’ve swatted his legs away, but they were at the station and he was technically free to do whatever he wanted. What more, he’d moved out a couple years ago and it wasn’t even her job to pick up after him anymore. She didn’t think unmarital bliss could be this sweet.

“All that money and influence and weird magic mind tricks.” Dan mused, stretching out on his seat. “Must be nice to have the Morningstars on your side.”

“They are on our side.”

“Yeah, but for how long?”

Chloe didn’t have an answer for that.

She swatted his feet off the table. “Come on, get up. They’re probably waiting for us out there."

Prudence could feel the woman watching them just over her newspaper.

She and Ambrose had arrived in Scotland a little over two hours ago, when Mambo Marie’s blood magic had pointed them to this place and they combined their abilities to teleport cross-continent, a taxing feat that no ordinary witch could perform with ease, much less recover from quickly. And so the afternoon found them both sitting at an outdoor café, sipping at large mugs of coffee and hoping to regain some energy.

“Ambrose,” she said carefully. The warlock looked up from his tourist’s map (The mere thought of Europe excited him, she could tell. He hadn’t been home, really home, since his arrest had plucked him and Hilda straight from England and dropped them back at Greendale) and spared her a glance. “Don’t turn around, but that woman behind you has been eyeing us for a while now.”

The young man merely smirked. “Come now, Prudence. Perhaps she’s just enjoying the view.”

“I guarantee you, she’s not.” The witch leaned forward, staring at him sharply. She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve been watching her, too. I fear she might have been sent by my father.”

Ambrose drew himself up suddenly. “Your father?”

“She has an air to her, I can’t quite put it to words. But I know she’s not human. Not a witch, either.”

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” The warlock put his hands up placatingly. “Do you honestly think Father Blackwood would entrust a woman to do his dirty work for him? To throw us off his scent?”

“Possibly.” Prudence tipped her cup at him before taking a long, dainty sip. “Desperate times and all that, right?”

Ambrose blew out a low breath. These days, desperate times seemed like all the time.

“…Right.”

The witch huffed and leaned back against her chair. Every day since they left the coven (or what could barely even be called a coven, really) a little over a month ago has been exhausting, to say the least. She and Ambrose had scoured what felt like half the United States in search of her father, all to no avail, of course.

She has had enough of losing.

“I don’t know about you, Spellman, but I’m not one to back away from a fight.” Her fingers traced over the hilt of the sword at her side. No mortal could see it, enchanted with a glamour to fade into the folds of her skirt. It didn’t mean it could kill them any less.

Ambrose was eyeing her weapon warily, but she also knew he had a dagger strapped to his left leg, self-forged wand in the right. He was in the same war as her. Still, she didn’t miss the way he glanced back longingly at his tourist’s map.

“And here I thought we could actually take a minute and just enjoy some coffee. You know, like normal people.”

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “We’re not normal people.”

“Yes, but sometimes, I wish we were.” He sighed.

Prudence stood up, fully ready to hex and slash and stab at whatever withered hag her father sent her way this time. (Ambrose could deal with the onlookers. He was always disturbingly good at memory-wiping spells, anyway). When she set her sights on the table, however, the one where the pretty woman with the paper and the black curls kept sending covert glances their way…it was empty. Chair tucked back in, dishes cleared, and no trace that one of Father Blackwood’s henchmen (henchwoman?) had ever been there at all.

She staggered back over to her seat.

“Everything alright?” Ambrose frowned. “Where’s the woman? I thought-”

The witch held up a hand before he could rattle off any more questions. Her head was already pounding from the power drain their teleporting cost them, let alone the disappearing assassin in head-to-toe leather.

“Nevermind that. Just…order us another pot of coffee. We can afford to be normal for a few more hours, I think.”

The warlock leaned over and squeezed her hand. “That might just be the best thing I’ve heard all week.”

With Ambrose inside the shop, waiting by the counter for their next drink, Prudence knew she was alone. Not that she minded the silence much. It was peaceful.

Still, she could’ve sworn she saw something move in the shadows, there by the corner of her eye.

Her hand remained rested on the hilt of her sword all afternoon.

Chapter Text

Ella Lopez was pissed.

The precinct was quiet most days. Not the still, harrowing quiet of death (she had hung around Rae-Rae long enough to know that she could never work in a place like that; otherwise, she would’ve just gotten a job at the Detroit morgue like her mother wanted. Better dental plan and all that). But a quiet that was mundane, routine, expected.

She was dying for some non-lunch-break conversation every now and then, she wasn’t gonna lie, but her stack of late 80’s rap music made the solitary lab work at least somewhat bearable. Lucifer, too, on the days he would pop in for ten minutes at a time before getting bored and wandering off to annoy Chloe.

In short, nothing interesting ever happened around here, no matter how much she wanted it to. The crime scenes, the high-speed chases, the undercover work; you could only find those things out in the field. Never inside the precinct.

So of course, the one time something even remotely exciting came up in that building, she just had to be outside taking a damn phone call from her idiot brother.

(Nevermind that his reason was valid – apparently, he’d gotten on the bad side of another loan shark. She would give absolutely anything just to see Abuelita rise from the grave and chase Ricardo around with a chancla like she used to).

“-you can’t just let her do things like this. If she were my kid, she would’ve been grounded as soon as she entered that room.”

“Well, lucky for her, Daniel, she isn’t. So you can take those douchey little opinions that no one asked for, and shove them up your-”

“What the hell, you guys?”

All eyes shifted to Ella as she marched up to them, phone still clutched tightly in hand. Dan and Lucifer quickly broke off their argument, but judging from the heated glares they kept throwing at each other, they obviously weren’t done. Chloe just rolled her eyes at them and rested a hip against the edge of her desk.

Ella threw her arms up. “I step out for like, twenty minutes, and next thing I know, some psycho teenager’s already locked herself in with a murder suspect!” She gaped at them incredulously. “Twenty minutes!”

The club owner exchanged a look with the two detectives. Ella tapped her foot insistently, waiting for one of them to speak up.

“He’s not a suspect anymore, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Lucifer offered idly.

The forensic scientist stilled. “Woah. Did he die, or…?”

“God, no!” Chloe’s eyes widened. “No. Nothing like that.”

Lucifer made another dry remark about dragging his dad into things, but Ella was too busy sighing in relief to listen. It was hard not to imagine the worst when she first stepped off the elevator to see a few officers holding ice packs to their backs, others staring blankly at the interrogation room door as if they forgot how those things worked.

It left the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. Unconsciously, her mind wandered back to an old neighbor they used to have, a Mrs. Laveau who seemed to leave everyone in a similar kind of daze wherever she went. Ella liked her; she wore cool head wraps and never looked at her funny for talking about ghosts (well, one ghost). Her mother, unfortunately, was never too fond of Mrs. Laveau.

It was the first time she’d ever heard someone use the word bruja.

“Well,” Ella sighed. “It still sucks that I missed all of it. I would’ve picked that lock in under a minute, you know. You guys didn’t have to run around like a bunch of headless chickens.”

Dan crossed his arms. “Trust me, you were better off outside. It was complete chaos in here.”

“Yes, and that’s coming from headless chicken number one,” Lucifer said snidely.

“Alright, that’s it.” Dan drew himself up, looking perfectly ready to pick a fight. “I have had enough-”

“Stop!”

Their heads snapped to her so quickly it was almost funny. That seemed to be the knee-jerk reaction to hearing the bright and bubbly Ella Lopez raise her voice. Which she always found somewhat strange, honestly. It was like people kept forgetting she grew up with four brothers.

“Seriously, just stop.” She smoothed a hand against her forehead. “Jeez. It’s like I’m dealing with children.”

“Welcome to my world,” Chloe muttered under her breath.

“Speaking of children by the way,” Ella ploughed on. “Will someone please tell me what happened to that kid? I mean, everyone I ask just keeps going on and on about how the kid is not okay, but on the other hand, she’s also completely fine, apparently?” The forensic scientist squinted. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

Peralta said the same thing. A couple of the other guys, too. Talking about the sixteen-year-old seemed to give them genuine war flashbacks, which might have just been the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard from a bunch of grown men. And she used to do group therapy!

“It means-” a new voice joined the conversation. Ella was just about to look for the source when Chloe’s desk chair swiveled around, revealing a teenager dressed in red who’d probably been sitting there the whole time. It was easy to miss her with Lucifer’s figure blocking her from view (like he was protecting her in a way, but from what, Ella didn’t know). “-the kid’s doing great, thanks.” She smiled, tight and scathing and somehow familiar. “And she’d like the adults to stop talking about her like she isn’t in the room.”

Ella felt her cheeks burn. She should’ve been more careful before running her mouth.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea-”

The girl held up a hand. “It’s okay.” She narrowed her eyes at Dan and Lucifer. “I wasn’t talking about you anyway.”

From the way the two were squabbling earlier, they were probably arguing about the kid (in direct earshot of her, no less) long before Ella came marching in. Dan, at least, had the decency to stare shamefully at the ground. Lucifer just dug his flask out of his jacket pocket and took a long swig.

“Put that away. You know there’s no drinking in the precinct.” Chloe chided through gritted teeth.

It was a weird thing to say, considering that the whole LAPD was so used to Lucifer’s day drinking at that point that it would’ve honestly been weirder if he didn’t drink. But Ella knew what the detective actually meant. She was just too sensible to say it out loud.

No drinking in front of children.

The club owner apparently picked up on it, too, because he immediately jerked his head in the teenager’s direction. “What? You think she minds?” He laughed. “Hate to break it to you detective, but if she can do whatever she damn well pleases, so can I. Where do you think she gets it from, hmm?” Then he tipped back the flask a second time as if to prove his point.

Before tensions could rise any further and she had to stop not just one, but two detectives from throttling Lucifer where he stood (wouldn’t be the first time, would it?), Ella quickly stepped forward and stuck out a hand to the girl who was openly rolling her dark brown eyes from the desk chair.

“I’m Ella Lopez, by the way. I probably should’ve led with that earlier, but, you know…” She let out a sheepish laugh. “I kinda didn’t see you there. Sorry about that. Again. You can just call me Ella.”

The teenager’s grip was surprisingly firm.

“Sabrina Spe-” She paused, catching herself. “Morningstar. Sabrina Morningstar.”

It took Ella about half a second to make the connection. She looked from Lucifer, to Sabrina, to Lucifer again. “Niece?” she tried.

He let out a scoff at that. “As if any of my holier-than-thou siblings would actually be bold enough to break our Father’s rules.”

The scientist felt her forehead crease. Rules? What rules? She was just about to ask when Sabrina jumped in and filled the blanks for her.

“Daughter,” she supplied, looking as though they were playing a card game and she’d just been dealt a very bad hand. “Unfortunately.”

Ella’s mouth dropped open. “No way.”

Except, yes. Yes way.

That smile. Those eyes. The way Lucifer was acting all weird and protective. It shouldn’t have taken her this long to connect the dots.

(Besides, the precinct had a long-standing bet on whether or not the club owner had any secret children running around Los Angeles. Ella always thought the answer was obvious. As soon as she heard about the stakes, the casino shark in her tallied up the odds and went all in. Now she was pretty sure she just won 300 dollars).

Ella rushed forward and wrapped the teenager in a tight hug. “I can’t believe it, a mini Morningstar!”

Sabrina stumbled a bit when the scientist suddenly latched onto her like a t-shirt clad leech, but to her credit, didn’t shove her away on contact like Charlotte Richards and hell, even Lucifer, used to do. She just stood there helplessly for a few good seconds, arms plastered awkwardly to her sides.

“Yeah, hard pass on that one,” the girl winced, trying (and failing) to wriggle out of Ella’s grasp as politely as she could. Eventually she just kind of gave up. “I think I prefer Psycho Teenager a lot more.”

“I don’t know, darling. I think mini Morningstar has a rather nice ring to it,” Lucifer said amusedly.

Sabrina rolled her eyes at him. “It doesn’t even make any sense. I look nothing like you!”

It was true. Without her heels, she was probably five foot nothing, with a pretty alabaster complexion and platinum white curls that stopped just right under her chin. Save for those eyes and that little devious smile, she couldn’t look less like her father if she tried.

“That’s right,” Lucifer sighed. “You’re the spitting image of your mum, aren’t you?”

“Huh. And here I thought you already forgot what she looked like.”

The air around them suddenly turned heavy. Chloe pretended to be busy with a folder and Dan picked on some loose lint on his jacket. It felt like they were intruding on something private. Ella didn’t even know about Sabrina half an hour ago, let alone who her mother was or why Lucifer looked like he’d just been slapped across the face.

For a second or two, remorse flickered in Sabrina’s brown eyes, and it almost looked like she’d take it back, everything she said, but the moment passed too soon and it was gone.

Ella finally had the good sense to let the teenager go.

“So…” she trailed off awkwardly, suddenly wanting to be anywhere else but here. Like a crime scene, maybe. A nice, bloody crime scene where the victims couldn’t talk, much less stir deep-rooted family drama with offhand comments.

(Now that she thought about it, she probably wouldn’t be too mad if Ricardo decided to call again out of the blue).

Her eyes roamed all over the place, looking for something, anything, to talk about. Somehow, all her brain could think to spout out were just more questions about Sabrina’s mother, and even she wasn’t crazy enough to circle back to that conversation. (Nu uh. No, thank you).

Eventually, her gaze landed on a simple black book sitting on Chloe’s office chair. It was nondescript enough with subtle red trimming and a fairly-sized crucifix printed on the cover. She even recognized some of the Latin text on the spine from the missalettes they handed out in Church. Finally, something she knew. The Big Guy really was looking out for her.

“Hey, what are the odds?” Ella grinned, picking up the book. Chloe wasn’t much for religion, so she figured the teenager must’ve brought this herself. She held up the tiny gold cross hanging from her neck. “I’m a Christian, too! Badass Bible, by the way. Where’d you get it?”

It took Sabrina a few beats to answer. She even looked warily at her dad, like she didn’t know what to say, and suddenly, it was like all tension melted between them and he gave a reassuring nod back.

“Um…school.” The teenager said slowly. “Everyone’s issued one of those.”

“Cool, you go to one of those fancy private places, then?”

It was ridiculous that she even had to ask. With Lucifer’s bottomless supply of cash, he probably sent her to one of those high-end Swiss boarding schools where all the Fortune 500 kids went.

Sabrina chewed anxiously on her bottom lip. “Not exactly.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “You’re holding it wrong, by the way.”

“Holding what wrong?” Ella asked.

“The book. You have it upside down.”

The scientist glanced at the Bible in her hands. Sure enough, Sabrina was right. The opening was in the wrong direction, and the silky black page marker stuck out of the top instead of the bottom.

Ella chuckled in embarrassment. “Oh, my bad. I must’ve been too distracted to…oh.”

When she turned it over, the plain red crucifix on the cover was clearly inverted. St. Peter’s cross, she told herself. Except it wasn’t. All the hairs standing on the back of her neck knew it wasn’t.

She swallowed thickly.

“Maybe we should go,” Sabrina said unsurely, glancing at the door.

“No, no. It’s fine!” Ella backpedaled. “Seriously. I was just…surprised. That’s all.”

She didn’t have a problem with other religions. Really, she didn’t. Over the years, she’d made friends with Jews and Mormons and atheists, and she’d always respected their right to believe (or not believe) in something as much as she did.

Satanism, though? She didn’t know what kind of effed-up school Lucifer was paying for, but if their idea of education was assigning this to their reading list, then his kid needed to transfer somewhere else. Like, right now.

“If it makes any difference, I was a Catholic too, at some point.” Sabrina offered. “Until I…shifted.”

“Shifted?” Chloe pried the book from Ella’s suddenly-clammy fingers and took one long look at the cover. “Wait a minute. Are you telling us that you’re a Satanist?”

“Used to be,” the teenager said defensively. She plucked the not-a-Bible out of the detective’s hands and shoved it back into her messenger bag. “I’m kind of between Churches at the moment. Not that it matters. I mean, they’re all just the same bullshit propaganda.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “What, your dad told you that?”

Lucifer, as expected, looked perfectly geared up to respond with something clever and dipped in sarcasm, but before he could even open his mouth, Sabrina beat him to it.

“He doesn’t have to tell me anything. I know a sham when I see it.” Then, as if suddenly remembering, “No offense, Ella.”

The scientist blinked a few times. “Uh, none taken, I guess?”

“Look, you guys are free to believe whatever you want to believe. ‘Do what thou wilt’ and all that.” Sabrina held up her hands. “But as far as I’m concerned, all religion’s just different versions of the same lie, and I’m not falling for it twice.”

Hot damn, Ella thought. This might just be the most cynical kid she’s ever met.

The teenager glanced at the clock on the wall. “Anyway, this is probably the longest I’ve ever stayed in a police station.” Her eyes found her dad’s. “We’re pretty much done here, right?”

“Well, we’re not sticking around for the paperwork, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Lucifer said. He got up from his perch on one of the desks and straightened his jacket. “Best leave all that to Detective Douche. He seems to be the expert in all things dull and nauseating.”

“Seriously, man, I swear to God-”

“Okay, I think this is our cue to leave.” Sabrina raised her brows. She looked up at Lucifer while tugging on the strap of her messenger bag. “Can we stop by the penthouse first before heading to the beach? I forgot to leave Salem some lunch.”

“I don’t see why you pander to that little beast so much. No demon ever died of starvation you, know.”

Ella’s eyes widened marginally at that, but then she remembered that this was Lucifer, the most dedicated method actor she’d ever met. He had a tendency to let demons and angels and other obscure religious references seep into casual conversation. Even Sabrina seemed perfectly unfazed by it.

The teenager crossed her arms. “Well, if you’re not gonna take me, I may as well just go there myself-”

“Fine, fine.” Lucifer sighed. From the corner of her eye, Ella could see Dan and Chloe exchange an impressed look. It was easy to understand why. The club owner had never broken this quickly before. “I’ll give one of the bartenders a call, have them bring some leftover food up to that blasted feline. Happy now, hellspawn?”

“Maybe,” Sabrina grinned.

Lucifer just shook his head and walked off, grumbling under his breath as he dug the phone out of his pocket. Eventually, the forensic scientist was the only one left alone with Sabrina when the two detectives excused themselves to get started on the paperwork.

Ella nudged the teenager lightly.

“Got him wrapped around your finger, huh?” She teased, nodding approvingly. “I wish my dad were more like that. Papa’s about as sweet as the Carajillo he drinks in the morning.”

Sabrina scoffed. “Trust me, mine’s not sweet. Just trying to make up for a lot of things.”

“Why? You two been fighting lately?”

It wasn’t that hard to imagine. When she was Sabrina’s age, Ella used to get in a riff with almost everyone back home. Her mother blamed it on the raging hormones. She blamed it on the four dunderhead brothers who kept hogging the bathroom.

The teenager looked off to the side. “Sure. Something like that.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

Sabrina shook her head, lips pulling tight into a polite smile. “Not really, no.”

Ella nodded in understanding. She could respect that.

“But thank you, though,” the teenager quickly added.

It was quiet for a while after that as the forensic scientist struggled to change the topic for what must’ve been the second time that day. She normally didn’t have a problem striking up a conversation (and really, just talking in general), but she found herself trying to be extra careful this time around. All her previous attempts weren’t particularly glowing.

“So the beach, huh?” Ella finally decided. The ocean was about as harmless as she could go, right? “That must be pretty exciting.”

Sabrina shrugged. “I guess so. Lucifer seems to look forward to it. He made me pack a ton of sunscreen before leaving the house.”

The scientist was about to agree, go in a little rant, even, about the importance of SPF, but then the rest of Sabrina’s answer caught up with her like a looped-back tape and she suddenly paused.

Lucifer? She thought. Why not just call him dad?

Ella wanted to ask more about it (and by that, she meant her curiosity would slowly start to consume her until sleep became damn near impossible), but the question officially crossed into “touchy subject territory” and she told herself she wouldn’t get into that. For the time being, it was better to push it out of her mind.

“And you don’t? Look forward to it, I mean.”

The teenager hummed. “Not as much.” Her fingers absently worked at the metal clasp of her bag, locking and unlocking in a haphazard pattern. “I still think there are better places to be.”

“Really? Better than a cool beach in L.A. heat?” Ella shot her an unconvinced look. “Where else would you want to be?”

“Home.”

The answer was so simple, but it must’ve meant a lot to Sabrina because she suddenly had her eyes fluttered shut. She took a deep breath, the soul-filling kind, and Ella could tell she was trying to imagine it, the scent, the feeling. “Hugging my boyfriend. Drinking tea with my aunts. Setting the table for a round of chess with my cousin.”

It left the scientist reeling with nostalgia for something she didn’t know. She had a big family too, but the way Sabrina talked about it, the teenager sounded like hers was just a distant memory.

Ella added that to her growing list of things not to ask about.

“That sounds nice,” she said instead.

When Sabrina opened her eyes again, they looked glassy. “Yeah. It is.” Then, as if suddenly remembering where she was, she inhaled once and a brittle smile was back on her face. “But I’m probably just being oversentimental. I’m sure the beach is great, too.”

Outside, storm clouds were beginning to gather in heavy clusters of grey. It had been overcast all morning, but the weather reports all held out hope that the skies would clear before noon. Now it was nearing lunch break and the sun seemed to be nowhere in sight.

Almost as if on cue, a loud peal of thunder rolled through the air.

“I don’t know,” the scientist said, frowning out the window. “Might have to give a rain check on that one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you just hear that thunder?” Ella asked, turning to the girl. “The downpour’s gonna be abysmal.”

Sabrina cocked her head to the side. “What downpour?”

“The rain! It’s literally about to-”

She found her throat suddenly dry when she followed the teenager’s gaze and lost all words. Outside the very same window, the skies had brightened to a clear blue, dotted with the fluffiest white clouds and birds singing midflight.

“What the…” Ella rubbed at her eyes. “No, no, that’s not right. It’s meteorologically impossible-”

“Nothing’s impossible.” Sabrina cut in, a knowing smirk that looked eerily like her father's on her face. “You’re a woman of faith. Out of the two of us, you should be the one who believes in miracles, right?”

“I mean, yeah, but…” the scientist gestured vaguely around them. How could she put into words, exactly, that none of this felt like a miracle? That, instead, it felt too much like her childhood, with Mrs. Laveau letting her skip rope in her eternally-green lawn because the old lady somehow managed to keep it dry after a thunderstorm?

Thankfully, Lucifer chose that exact moment to come strolling back, because Ella wasn’t too sure if she had enough brainpower to explain all that without being called cuckoo again.

“I hope you’re satisfied, hellspawn.” Lucifer said, eyeing his daughter. “All the leftover food from Lux’s dinner crowd last night was already thrown out, so the kitchen staff had to sear fresh salmon for your infernal feline.”

Sabrina raised her shoulders. “Salem usually prefers tuna…”

“But instead, he’s getting a fifty-dollar cut of prime seafood, and a whole penthouse to himself.” The club owner said dryly. “You’re absolutely right. How horrible this must be for him.”

The teenager scoffed. “Whatever. Just don’t go acting all surprised when he scratches up your couch because you fed him the wrong fish.”

Lucifer actually seemed to pause at that, and for a few seconds, Ella could see his fingers hovering over his pocket, no doubt thinking about giving the bartenders another call. She couldn’t blame him. His furniture was probably expensive as hell.

Not a moment too soon, though, he shook his head and dropped his hand completely.

“Well, that bloody little hellion can destroy as many Italian leather sofas as he wants. I promised my daughter a beach day, and she’s getting one right now. No more distractions.”

To prove his point, he even pulled out his phone in front of them and turned it off. “There. Let the beaching begin.”

“I’m pretty sure no one says that.”

“Well, I just did, witchling.” Lucifer grinned. “Deal with it.”

Sabrina rolled her eyes, but it was hard to miss the way she was fighting back a smile. She just hid it behind a discreet little cough and turned to Ella.

“Thanks for being really nice,” the teenager said. She pointed out the window. “You should catch a bit of sun later when you have the time. Wouldn’t want to waste a perfectly good miracle, right?”

“I thought you didn’t believe in all that?”

Sabrina stared thoughtfully at her. “I believe in good things when I see them.” Just then, she caught Lucifer tapping at his watch from the corner of her eye and sighed out loud. “I guess that’s my incessantly annoying cue to go. Take care of yourself, Ella.”

The scientist smiled. “You too, kiddo.”

All the way out the door, the club owner talked overexcitedly about catching a Dutch stroopwafel food truck, something that Sabrina was both unaware of and apparently had no interest in, since her eyes kept rolling to the back of her head in sheer exasperation. Ella wondered how long she could keep that up until they literally fell out of their sockets. Abuelita always warned her about that when she was younger.

Weirdly enough, as soon as the pair was gone, Ella could feel the hairs on the back of her neck go down. Even the air seemed different in a way, like an invisible weight was lifted and carried out of the room.

Somehow, her mind wandered back to the thunderstorm, and her mother, and that one awful word she only ever used on Mrs. Laveau.

She’d seen stranger things than miracles, that’s for sure.

Chapter Text

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 woosh 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.

Chapter Text

“Was that really necessary?”

“What?”

Sabrina stared back at her father, eyes wide. “You started pelting those guys in the head with volleyballs just because they asked me to join a game!”

The Morningstars only arrived at Long Beach a little over twenty minutes ago, but the younger of the two was already convinced that this whole thing was a bad idea. No, scratch that. A terrible idea.

So far, the only thing they’d managed to do was set up an obnoxiously large beach umbrella (dark red, of course) and scare off a bunch of teenage surfer boys (who, by the way, were just genuinely looking for more players to join their team), all before Sabrina could even think to sit down and catch a goddamn breath. Lucifer, on the other hand, was already stretched out on the overpriced deck chair he bought from the gift shop, sunglasses on, and sipping at a piña colada.

The teenager had half a mind to rip the stupid pineapple shell from his hands and chuck it into the ocean.

“Oh, please. Those boys just wanted to ogle you.” The devil scoffed, stirring his drink around with a bright yellow straw. He gave his daughter a pointed look over the rim of his undoubtably expensive glasses. “You know, they’re quite lucky I aimed for those particular heads instead of their other ones.”

“Their other ones…?” It took a full second or two for Sabrina to figure out what he meant, but the moment she did, the witch swatted at her father’s arm with the oversized bottle of magic sunscreen she had in hand. “Lucifer!”

The club owner held back a laugh as his daughter continued to assault him with SPF 200. “Well, you’re the one who brought it up, hellspawn. I’m just answering a question.”

“You didn’t have to answer like that.” She grumbled under her breath.

Sabrina always thought Theo and Roz were just being overdramatic when they used to complain about their dads during the occasional sleepover back at the mortuary (fathers were a sensitive topic around Harvey, so they had to wait till he wasn’t around before they could bring it up).

Rev. Walker, apparently, was so overbearingly protective that he had to check if Roz made “God-fearing” fashion choices before leaving for school each morning. Mr. Putnam was arguably even worse, Theo pointed out, considering how he liked to coddle his son like a seven-year-old at every given chance.

The witch just used to smile and nod along during those conversations. She didn’t have much to say about dads who were annoying and smothering and somewhat embarrassing, mostly because she never even had one of those to begin with.

It wasn’t until now, a couple of years later in a public Californian beach, that she finally understood what her two friends meant.

“For the record, they weren’t ogling me.” She said matter-of-factly, plopping down on her own deck chair next to Lucifer’s. “I don’t know why they’d even want to. I mean, their grandmothers probably have a picture wearing the exact same bathing suit as mine.”

The red 1950s one-piece was the most modest thing she could find, stopping just a few inches below her upper-thigh and with a discreet halter neck that flaunted her collarbones more than anything else. After the whole witch mark incident a few months back, she wasn’t all too keen on showing off any unnecessary skin to strangers (save for Lupercalia, of course. That was a special occasion), even if it did make her look ridiculously overdressed compared to the other teenage girls walking around Long Beach in bright, stringy bikinis.

Then again, Lucifer was sitting right next to her in a full-blown white linen suit and Louboutin boat shoes (which came packed in a perfectly pressed garment bag in the trunk of the Corvette), so really, maybe overdressing wasn’t as big of a deal as she thought.

“Darling, those are teenage boys.” Lucifer muttered annoyedly into his piña colada. “And you’re a pretty girl. They wouldn’t care if you pranced around in a burlap sack, much less if you decided to resurrect their dead grandmother’s summer clothing.”

“I never said the grandmothers were dead.”

“Well, they most certainly will be in a few years. I think America’s life expectancy rate speaks for itself.”

Sabrina sighed and tossed her hands up in defeat. Roz and Theo were definitely gonna hear about this in their next sleepover (well, assuming she got them up to speed on her latest infernal family drama).

“Look, what does it even matter, anyway? It’s not like I’d ever go out with one of them.” She scoffed, blowing the short platinum curls away from her eyes.

There had to be a reason why beautiful blond surfer guys kept getting killed off in every single B-rated horror movie she’d seen at the Greendale Paramount, and she wasn’t gonna stick around long enough to find out. Besides, she was already in pretty deep with a certain Mr. Nicholas Scratch. She wouldn’t trade that for all the seasalt smiles and board shorts in the world.

“Precisely. Because boys are nasty little parasites. I’m glad we agree on that.” Lucifer nodded, finishing off the last of his cocktail.

“What? No!” Sabrina shook her head with such force that it was a wonder she didn't strain her neck. “It’s because I have a boyfriend. A wonderful, sweet, caring boyfriend who even went to he-”

“It’s not that awkward miner boy, is it?”

That stopped the witch right in her tracks. (Did he just…?)

She turned and glanced suspiciously at the club owner. “Say that again.”

“The miner boy. Or it’s the miner’s boy, I suppose, till he inevitably follows in his father’s pickaxe-wielding footsteps.” Lucifer rolled his eyes. At Sabrina’s blank, wordless stare, he set his jaw and tried explaining a little further. “You know, that stiff-looking lad who only dresses in awful plaid shirts.”

The witch knew exactly who he was talking about, but she had to take a few seconds to let it sink in just the same.

“Do you…do you mean Harvey?”

Lucifer snapped his fingers. “Yes, yes, that’s the one! Harvey Crinkle. I remember Maze wanted to gouge out his eyes once, when you pulled him under that dreadful mistletoe. Now I almost wish I hadn’t stopped her.”

“Wh- Maze? How…?” Sabrina’s mouth opened and closed a few times, fumbling for the right words. “How on earth do you even know about that?”

It all happened a few years ago, when the world was much simpler and smaller and saner, and the members of the Fright Club were still awkwardly dangling on the edge of thirteen. The music was just starting to die down in Mr. Putnam’s annual Christmas Eve party, and Harvey was the first to hold out his hand. Sabrina remembered feeling warm, in her cheeks and down the tips of her toes. Theo (who still went by Susie back then) nudged her in the stomach and told her she looked like a tomato.

She kissed the miner’s boy that night. Harvey’s two left feet somehow led them across the living room and all the way out the front porch, and when their mindless dancing sent them swaying under the mistletoe, she was the one who leaned in first. It was shy and innocent and magical in a way the grimoires never talked about, and Aunt Hilda caught it all with a giddy click of her disposable camera.

(Strangely enough, though, that very same photo went missing just a couple of days later).

Lucifer shrugged, pushing his straw around the now-empty pineapple shell. “I have my sources.”

“Uh huh.” Sabrina said, unconvinced. She had one brow arched so perfectly that even Lilith would be proud. “And what source would that be, exactly?”

“The annoying, holier-than-thou kind.”

The teenager had to work very hard to resist the steadily-growing urge to just pack up her beach chair and walk as far away from there as humanly possible. First, the confusing string of emoji text messages, and now this. For someone who’s lived well over a million years, her father had no idea how to communicate like a normal person, and it really, really shows.

“Would it kill you to give a straight answer?” She groaned, sitting up on her elbows. “Like, I don’t know how it works for the devil, but does it physically hurt you to have an ordinary conversation?”

“Well, that depends on who I’m talking to, hellspawn. If it’s Detective Douche, for instance, then yes, my soul is slowly roasted from the inside.”

“Lucifer…”

The club owner took one long look at her and folded faster than a cheap tent.

“Fine,” he breathed out, all long-suffering and theatric in a way she was slowly getting used to. (No wonder all his coworkers thought he was a method actor. The guy was the dictionary definition of a drama queen). “I may or may not have asked your uncle to keep an eye on you while I was off doing Dad’s dirty work in hell.”

Sabrina paused. Squinted. Tilted her head to the side like a vaguely scrutinizing owl (Roz said she looked like one when she made the same face during their first pre-algebra class. Now she couldn’t get the image out of her head).

“But I don’t have an uncle,” she finally said out loud.

The Sawyers only ever had one child (her mother), and the older generation of Spellman warlocks had already died off a long time ago (her stepfather). Technically, the closest thing she had to an uncle was Father Blackwood, being Aunt Zelda’s murderously misogynistic husband and all (at least until Prudence kills him off or hauls his ass back to Greendale for a divorce – whichever comes first), but she was pretty sure even the devil himself wouldn’t cohort with that walking piece of magical garbage.

(Unless, of course, she was wrong. That seemed to be the new normal these days.)

The witch suddenly snapped out of her thoughts when Lucifer started to laugh, a bright, open sound that took her completely by surprise. Blame it on the stack of 70s horror films she snagged from the discount bin at Dr. Cee’s, or the yearly Church of Night passion plays Aunt Zelda kept forcing her to go to, but she always just assumed the Dark Lord’s laughter would sound a lot different in person. Sinister or menacing, maybe. The kind that sent chills up and down your spine.

Oddly enough, though, it just sounded warm.

The club owner shook his head. “You kill me, hellspawn. A world without your uncles. Oh, I bet your aunts would’ve had a field day with that.”

“My aunts? Why would they…” Sabrina looked around. Nothing seemed to be out of place, just the typical picture of overheated Californians swarming a cool ocean on the onset of summer. If anything, the two of them were probably the weirdest ones here. Designer suits and grandma-inspired swimwear weren’t exactly what you’d call beach chic. “What the heaven is so funny?”

Lucifer was trying – and failing (spectacularly, she should add) to suppress the rest of his decidedly un-devilish snickers. “I’m sorry, hellspawn. I just keep picturing the look on Remiel’s face when she finds out she doesn’t have to go hunting with Michael anymore.”

“I have no idea who those people are.”

“Your family’s favorite comedy novel is the King James Bible.” Her father snorted. “Trust me, witchling, I think you do.”

Ambrose and Aunt Zelda were part of a weird pseudo-bookclub (which, unsurprisingly, only included the two of them) where they’d sit in front of the living room fire and laugh their faces off at the Book of Genesis – and all the other books, really.

(“Oh, would you look at that. These ignorant sheep actually believe Eve was the first of women.”

“If you think that’s golden, Auntie, just wait till you hear this bit about Noah’s floating zoo.”)

It meant the sitting room was magically sealed off every Friday night from 9 to 10 as soon as Aunt Hilda left them with a steaming pot of tea (Satan forbid anyone from the coven – especially that catty bitch, Sister Shirley – walk in uninvited and catch the Spellmans reading a Christian Bible. Auntie Zee would sooner bury herself alive in the Cain Pit).

It also meant Sabrina picked up a copy herself just to see what all the fuss was about.

(And just like that, the names Remiel and Michael suddenly came back to her like a sucker punch to the gut).

“You…you’re talking about angels.” She whipped her head up to stare at Lucifer with those wide, brown doe eyes that really had no right to look so betrayed. “The False God’s emissaries. You seriously had one of them spy on me?”

It made her skin crawl as if she’d just been thrown headfirst into a pool of Aunt Hilda’s spiders. Her mother might not have had any siblings, but her father – her real father, the one with witty jokes and expensive suits and that sharp scent of cigarette smoke and alcohol that she was just getting used to – did. A whole heavenly host of them, in fact.

She subconsciously brushed a hand over the healed arrow wound on her left shoulder.

“Well, I wouldn’t call it spying,” Lucifer argued. He pushed his sunglasses up his head to get a better look at her, and for a split second, Sabrina almost thought he was gonna try to mojo her again. Not that she’d let him. “I’d say it was more ‘protective surveillance’. And maybe a few rounds of petty theft from your aunt’s photo album.”

The witch’s mouth dropped open. “That was you? Ambrose smoked the whole house with sage ‘cause we thought ghosts were stealing my preschool graduation photos!”

“Correction: it wasn’t me, it was your Uncle Amenadiel.” The club owner pointed out. A few seconds later, his lips pulled back into a small grin. “Though I always did find you quite adorable in that little cap and gown.”

While Lucifer was very evidently caught up with his impromptu trip down stolen memory lane, Sabrina, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than for the ground to just open up and swallow her whole.

“…you saw that?”

“I kept that.” Lucifer chuckled. “You looked positively murderous. I’ve never seen Maze look so proud.”

She only ever had one picture wearing that stupid graduation outfit. The teachers made them put it on for a surprise song number dedicated to their parents, and she didn’t see why she had to be part of it when she only had aunties waving at her from the crowd instead of a mom and dad. She’d stomped off the stage before the first few piano notes could even begin.

Incidentally, Aunt Hilda decided to snap a photo just as she was raging down the exit stairs.

The teen pressed a hand to her face. “Any other embarrassing childhood stories this Amena-dill person told you and your demon buddy about?”

“Oh, just about fourteen years’ worth of them.” He smirked, all shit-eating and amused, and she finally understood why Detective Dan kept itching to punch it off. “Didn’t want to miss the big things now, did I?”

“Well, you missed some things. Like basic math classes, apparently. I’m not fourteen. I’m-”

“Sixteen. Born on 3:03 a.m. on October 31^st, 2002. Six pounds, six ounces, and with a shriek so loud that all the Greendale banshees went into hiding till next Samhain.” Her father finished proudly after listing it off his fingers. “Really, hellspawn, you think I wouldn’t know?”

Sabrina huffed, crossing her arms. It was easier to be mad. Hell, she wanted to be mad. That seemed to be the only logical response to finding out that the devil’s been using an angel (who, if memory serves her right, was probably just another homicidal witch hunter in disguise) to keep track of her all these years. It was sneaky and underhanded and frustrating, and she would’ve just hexed him then and there, should’ve just hexed him then and there, if only…

She looked at him. He still had that smug little grin plastered on his face, obviously quite pleased with himself for keeping such a thorough mental log of all things Sabrina Spellman. (The image of Lucifer hunched over a tiny computer screen, typing out her Wikipedia page in agonizingly specific detail suddenly came to mind, and it took everything in her not to burst out laughing).

The girl exhaled sharply through her nose.

…if only her father didn’t make more of an effort than any other goddamn person she’s ever met.

“Whatever. You still got it wrong. Fourteen’s not sixteen.” She said instead, because she’d finally reached that chaotic point in her life where arguing was less work than figuring out what she felt.

(“No. Nope. That’s not what we talked about.” She could already hear Dr. Linda’s inevitable, well-meaning rant in their next therapy session. “Emotions are difficult, yes, but they’re necessary. You can’t keep running away from them!”)

Fortunately, she was somewhat of an expert at tuning out the stuff she had no intention of listening to.

“Contrary to what Lux’s IRS investigators would have you believe, I know how numbers work, thank you very much,” Lucifer sniffed, flipping his sunglasses back down. He just needed a fancy cigarette ring and two fingers of gin, and he might as well have been Aunt Zelda soaking up some morning sun from her seat in their front porch. “Besides, the only reason I say fourteen instead of sixteen is because your bloody uncle’s decided to neglect his guardian angel duties ever since I’ve gone topside of hell these last two years. If anything, you should blame it on him.”

“…I should blame an angel for refusing to babysit the antichrist while the devil went partying in Los Angeles?”

“Exactly. He and I had a deal, you know.”

Sabrina could use her own piña colada right about now. (This conversation was too ridiculous to have while sober). “Great.”

To be fair, she could see how it all made the tiniest bit of sense. Her life’s been relatively uneventful (by a witch’s standards, anyway), until she turned fourteen and the town unknowingly got its first incubus when Dr. Cee set up shop, the Weird Sisters suddenly had the guts to start picking on her after Black Mass, and the Greendale Woods was slightly darker than it used to be when she walked home alone at night. She’d just brushed it off as an ill turn of the wind (“It can’t always be the witch’s season, love,” Aunt Hilda used to tell her), but now she realized it probably went much deeper than that.

This Amena-dill person (was there seriously an angel flying around out there named after a pickle?) presumably stopped his so-called “protective surveillance” ever since Lucifer left hell to put up a nightclub on earth. She didn’t really trust the guy (she learned her lesson the first time she got murdered by angels, thanks), but she couldn’t exactly blame him, either. One teenage witch in some obscure mining town wouldn’t be high on the list of anyone’s priorities when you had the actual devil running loose in the City of Angels.

It would explain why Lucifer seemed to know everything about her childhood, but nothing about the absolute shitshow that’s been her life since last October. Hell, it would explain how he could just sit there with his stupid overpriced shades and his stupid overpriced deck chair, and chuck volleyballs at unsuspecting surfer boys like his daughter wasn’t just harrowed and killed and almost forced into marriage while he wasn’t looking.

“Where’d you get that drink?”

“At the tiki bar next to the giftshop – Sabrina!”

She’d already gotten up and was starting to walk away. Somehow, her father had managed to take a fun, innocent day at the beach and turn it into yet another emotionally exhausting L.A. field trip.

On one hand, he actually cared about her, which would’ve been nice if he didn’t care about drugs and drinks and debauchery almost just as much (That’s why he left hell - and probably her - in the first place, right? To go party?). On the other, he irritatingly fit the mold of everything she imagined a father would be (both the good, the bad, and the annoying), and she was around 87% sure he would've stood up for her through the past year's craziness if he only knew what was going on. 

The problem was, he didn't know a damn thing. And she wasn't entirely sure who to blame for it anymore. 

(Maybe she should just take a page out of Lucifer’s book and blame everything on her grandfather. That seemed to be working well enough for him.)

“Witchling, would you please just slow down?”

Sabrina turned around to see that the club owner had already caught up with her, falling into step so easily as if she didn’t just get a thirty second head-start. Those unfairly long celestial limbs (which he didn't even bother to pass on to her, by the way) were seriously pissing her off. 

She huffed out a breath.

“Look, I just wanted some air.” She threw up a hand before letting it fall limply back to her side. “And maybe one of those fun tropical cocktails they don’t serve at Dorian’s Gray Room. You didn’t have to follow me all the way out here.”

“Well, then we’ll get some air and one of those fun tropical cocktails together-”

“No! That’s not the-” Sabrina groaned and buried her face in her hands. She needed some air away from him. She needed to think away from him. And she would’ve told him just that, should’ve told him just that, if only he wasn’t staring at her with the most earnestly concerned expression she’d ever seen, and she could feel the tension in her chest uncoil the slightest bit.

Fuck.

“You know what?" She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fine. Fine! One drink-”

“Bold of you to assume I would’ve let you have more than one.”

“-and then that’s it. That's all we're getting.”

Heaven knew she didn't want to be one of those miserable kids who only ever had their dad as a drinking buddy. More than that, she didn't want to be one of those miserable kids who only ever had the devil as a drinking buddy. 

It sounded like the plot of some crappy sitcom pilot that never made its way to TV. 

The club owner nodded along. “Well, that seems like the most logical choice, hellspawn. I imagine it’s rather difficult to build sandcastles when you’re pissed out drunk.”

Lucifer almost collided into her back when she stopped walking altogether.

“…what?” She glared, eyes narrowing. 

“Sandcastles!” He grinned a touch too brightly. It was putting her on edge. The devil wasn't supposed to look like that unless he was devouring souls or setting off a third world war or something. “I picked up some supplies earlier in the gift shop. I thought you might like it.”

“You do know I’m not five years old, right?”

“You really want to go through this again?” Lucifer raised his brows. “Yes, I'm quite aware you're not toddling around in diapers anymore. You were born on 3:03 am, October 31^st, 2002. Six pounds, six-”

“Alright, alright, I get the picture!”

Sabrina crossed her arms and grumbled under her breath their whole way to the tiki bar.

Turns out she was gonna need something a lot stronger than a fun tropical cocktail if she wanted to make it out of this insufferable beach day alive. 

Chapter Text

Detective Dan Espinoza has heard a lot of bullshit in his life.

He once arrested an off-meds schizophrenic on Santa Monica Pier who claimed to be Jesus himself (highly unlikely, considering that the miraculous bearded man his mother periodically worshipped wouldn’t be caught dead — or was it alive? He never understood that whole resurrection thing — wearing mismatched crocs and a Black Sabbath t-shirt. Nor would he be caught pissing all over the boardwalk, for that matter).

There was also that unfortunate incident involving a box of Thin Mints his friend sent over from Massachusetts once. They were supposed to be the best girl scout cookies of his life — or so his old Academy buddy said (what the hell was that son of a bitch Tom Keller doing these days, anyway? He still owed that guy a drink) — but all they did was give him chickenpox. Him. A 26-year-old police officer. Now, he would’ve found the whole thing knee-slapping hilarious, really (35-year-old Dan would’ve killed with a scenario like that at improv night), if only a very pregnant Chloe hadn’t spent the entire week laughing at his blister-covered face.

(The doctor was pretty sure all that hysterical giggling caused Trixie’s early delivery.)

Point is, he’s heard a lot of things, seen a lot of things — fallen for a lot of things, too, but that was more wide-eyed naivete than anything else; “I told you so,” all the women of his life had said at some point or another — yet none of them even came close to whatever Stephen-King-Twilight-Zone-Sleepy-Hollow horsecrap the Greendale sheriff was desperately trying to pull on him right now.

“-so you’re telling me that you found a high school principal’s corpse, a handless body hanging upside down in the woods, and also a mile-long list of kids who mysteriously went missing in the middle of Christmas…” Dan shut his eyes, exasperated, telephone still pressed tight against his cheek. “And the only lead you can give me is satanic witches?”

Whatever the hell his ex-wife was up to, he hoped to God (the miraculous, bearded, non-crocs-wearing kind) that this case of hers was actually going somewhere. You know, besides a Massachusetts mental institution.

“You’re a hundred percent sure? Wow...Okay...Uh-huh.” Dan nodded a few times as he scribbled something down on his notepad. He checked the words over once, twice, before capping back the glittery pink pen Trixie got him for his birthday (“But Lucifer said this was your favorite color!”) and shutting his novelty Weaponizer booklet to a close. “Alright, alright. I think I got it. Thanks.”

He hung up the phone with blessed relief as soon as the other end of the line went dead.

When the homicide detective first made the call to the Greendale precinct a little over 30 minutes ago, he had no idea what to expect. All he knew was that they were some rinky-dink puritan town made famous by a recent mining accident (he saw it on the news once; tragic but not Shakespearean enough to make the morning headline, apparently), and that was it. No tourist spots, no local celebrities, no sports teams, nothing. It was like the whole place was hell-bent on attracting as little attention as possible — not an easy feat, considering that the serial killer hovel right next to them (Riverdale, he thinks Tom called it) seemed to be doing the exact opposite.

(Man, and everyone said L.A. was weird.)

To be honest, when Chloe first told him about the case, he was convinced that the whole thing would be another dead-end fluke. It was nothing new. Some leads panned out to absolutely nothing all the time. It didn’t mean they were bad detectives, it just meant they hadn’t found their right footing yet.

As soon as he received the emailed police reports from Massachusetts, though, he knew footing wouldn’t be the problem. 

Dan sighed and pushed his sneakers up on the table.

The whole Greendale police force had already lost both their goddamn feet.

“Pudding for your thoughts?”

Dan looked up to see Chloe standing in front of his desk. She was eyeing his mud-caked shoes with thinly-veiled distaste (“I’m just saying, we spend all day walking on crime scenes, and your first instinct is to put your feet up on the furniture. Our daughter eats on these places, Dan”), but thankfully said nothing more as she tossed him a chocolate Snack Pack and pulled out one of the empty chairs.

(He swung his legs off the table, anyway.)

“So,” she cleared her throat, absently straightening his crooked desk calendar before glancing back up at him. “What did Greendale have to say?”

“Well, you know, the town didn’t really do much talking. It was actually the sheriff who-”

She rolled her eyes in a way that lost all heat after more than 10 years. “You know what I meant.”

Dan bit back a laugh and turned over the pudding cup in his hands. She actually got him the non-diet version this time. She even stuck it in the fridge. Either his ex-wife changed her mind about Snack Packs being Type 2 Diabetes in a cup, or she was just in a really good mood after closing the Brenner case.

(But then again, who wouldn’t be? That thing kept Chloe up for days, and in the end, maybe it was a blessing in disguise that Sabrina decided to lock herself in that room and do whatever it is that Morningstars do. Aside from raising his blood pressure to dangerous levels, of course. He didn’t find that blessing-y at all.)

“Look, I’m gonna be honest with you,” Dan sighed, tapping a finger against the growing stack of Manila folders on his desk. “I wouldn’t touch this case with a ten foot pole.”

Chloe frowned. “What? Why not? What did you find?”

“A lot of bull, that’s for sure.”

“For goodness’ sake, Dan-”

“I found witches,” he said point-blank. Chloe closed her mouth and shot him the same look he used to give Boardwalk Jesus. It wasn’t entirely pleasant. 

(Maybe he owed Boardwalk Jesus an apology.)

Dan cleared his throat and tried again. “When I opened the police reports, every major crime in Greendale, from murders to missing persons, they pinned on witches. And what they couldn’t pin on witches, they pinned on devil-worshippers and some ridiculous satanic church-”

“What church?” Chloe suddenly cut in. Her eyes were slightly widened, flickering with a vague sort of recognition that made Dan feel like all of this was some sort of weird inside joke he wasn’t let in on. (And he was supposed to be the funny one.)

“Really? I just told you about modern-day witches from Massachusetts, and the first thing you latch onto is the probably fake church?” Dan asked. “Didn’t we already go over this with the whole Church of the Dark Prince thing a few years ago?”

Chloe pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yeah, I know, I know. Just...tell me, alright?”

Dan gave her a long, hard look, but in the end, didn’t pry. They weren’t rookie beat cops in their early-20s anymore. As a detective (and a good one, at that), she wouldn’t ask unless it was absolutely important. And as a partner (ex-partner; a rather bad one, admittedly), the least he could do was try to believe her.

“Fine,” he huffed. “It was something out of a cheap horror movie. Church of something. Church of…” The detective twisted his mouth in thought. He really shouldn’t be having a hard time remembering this. He literally had to stifle his laughter when the Greendale sheriff first told him the name half an hour ago. “Church of Fright. No. Church of Night! Yeah, yeah, the Church of Night.”

“And let me guess, the Church of Night just had a mass murder?”

“Well, not so much a murder. The police seem to think it’s a Jonestown group suicide thing—” Dan paused mid-sentence and whipped his head up to look at her. “Wait a second, how did you know about that?”

Chloe waved him off breezily. “I think Maze might have mentioned it once. You know how she likes to talk about gory massacres during breakfast.”

“She likes to talk about gory massacres in L.A., not weird little mining towns that hardly even show up on the map.”

“Your point is?”

Dan crossed his arms and nudged his chin out at her. “My point is, I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Despite Lucifer’s incessant (and very vocal) claims, at the end of the day, Dan wasn’t actually stupid. He might wear the metaphorical dunce cap on his head every now and then, especially when it came to the trickier parts of life like finding a good woman (been there, done that, failed that) and making the best choices (the Palmetto case, no matter how hard he tried, would always be fresh on his mind), but when it came to his job, that was one thing he was sure he did better than most.

That’s why even without this long-winded investigation, he knew exactly what was going on in Greendale.

(Old puritan town that used to burn people at the stake. It was obvious to anyone with two eyes that the place never made a rational arrest ever since witch hunts became a pivotal part of their history, and the Greendale police force very much liked it to stay that way. After all, it was easier to blame witches and satanists and other scary things that fed into the citizens’ paranoia, rather than actually solve murders and do their damn jobs.)

Question was, why the hell was Chloe — one of the few detectives he would gladly admit could turn him on his head — acting like she didn’t know it, too?

Dan sighed and picked up the glittery pink pen on his desk. 

(Of course.)

“This is about Lucifer again, isn’t it?”

Chloe raised her brows in surprise. He had caught her off-guard. More than a decade of playing the same game over and over again, of course they already knew each other like the back of their hands. (Though he’d appreciate it better if she just told him things outright instead of making him guess like their whole relationship was one big Trebek-less version of Jeopardy.)

“I mean, it’s okay if it is-”

“Woah, woah, woah. Slow down,” she laughed, shaking her head. “Who said that it is?”

“You did,” he pointed out. “That’s not a denial.”

She quickly dropped the smile and narrowed her eyes (“Glower,” Penelope Decker used to say. “Good Lord, Daniel, when my daughter looks at you like that, she’s not thinking, she’s glowering. Get your head straight.”), and at that moment, he knew he hit the jackpot.

(Double. Freaking. Jeopardy.)

“Look,” he said, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re not the only one who read Sabrina’s file. I know she was born in Greendale. That’s what all this is about, right? Unravelling the truth about Lucifer’s secret daughter?”

“Dan, no. It’s not that-”

“Chloe,” he said evenly. She hesitated, just a fraction of a breath of a second, but eventually, pressed her lips tight and looked up at him. “There’s no case here. Nothing that involves us, anyway. If those Greendale cops want to run around, using their same 19th century old excuses, then that’s their business, not ours. But if you’re really that curious about Sabina — and I know you are ‘cos who the hell in this precinct isn’t? — just do us all a favor and ask Lucifer about it. Please.”

Chloe, and Lucifer, and Chloe and Lucifer (whatever they were; Partners? Almost lovers? Wouldn’t he like to know) was something that mystified Dan to no end. Just when he thought those two were on the verge of something, anything, a bombshell like this always seemed to drop at the worst possible moment and send them flying back to square one. Not that he was complaining. 

From the start, he always told Chloe that the myth of Lucifer Morningstar was too good to be true. Single bachelor with a shit ton of money and every attractive woman (and man; Heaven forbid he forget the whole skillet thing) at his disposal? It was like the guy just picked up a comic book one day and suddenly decided to become Tony Stark — you know, minus the robots and intelligence and overall impulse to be a good person.

(He would’ve said Batman, really, but let’s face it. A guy masquerading as the Devil had no place in the DCEU. Dan had it on good authority as a former comic book geek.)

The minute Sabrina came bursting into the precinct, though, it was like the illusion was suddenly shattered. Lucifer wasn’t this smooth, untouchable jerkface living a dream life. He was...human, almost. Someone with a (hopefully ex) wife and a kid and a white picket fence somewhere just like the rest of them.

Someone like him.

And Dan wasn’t one for ironic twists of the universe, but damn if this wasn’t a welcome surprise.

(Now, he wished he could say the same for Chloe, that this was treating her all well and good, but he knew better than most that she was taking this harder than she let on. Finding out your partner had another significant woman in his life — two of them, actually, since daughters often came part and parcel with their mothers — could drive a person to extreme lengths. Like, say for example, launching a completely unrelated murder investigation and dragging her ex-husband along for the ride.)

Whatever this was, he just hoped it would be over soon ‘cos he was far too old and far too divorced to be dealing with Chloe’s relationship drama with the most insufferable man on earth. Well, that and the fact that his chocolate pudding was starting to melt into room temperature goop.

(Would she notice if he got up for a few seconds to stick it back in the fridge?)

“Are you done?” Chloe asked flatly.

“Done with what?”

“Reading too much into this. I swear to God, you’ve been bingeing those pop psychology things on youtube again.”

He dropped his gaze and looked casually off to the side.

“Dan!”

“So what? They’re entertaining!” He said, tossing both hands in the air. “Honestly, why are you even grilling me on this? What does it matter? You know I’ve got your back either way.”

The woman blinked. Honest-to-God blinked like a skeptic, cynical deer in the headlights. “You...you do?”

“Please. If I didn’t, I would’ve slammed the phone down the second I heard ‘satanic witch rituals in the woods.’”

Honestly, it was a miracle he was still even here in the precinct. Any lesser man would’ve walked out after the Polanski-Morningstar clusterfuck he had to endure all morning. No, scratch that. Any lesser man would’ve rolled over and died after doing everything he’s had to do the past two years.

(He deserved a freaking medal.)

“Those Greendale cops really said that to you?” Chloe asked in disbelief.

“Among other crazy things, yeah.”

“Care to elaborate on those crazy things?”

“That depends,” Dan said, raising a brow at her. “Care to elaborate on why we’re actually doing this?”

“Dan, again? Why-”

“Look me in the eye and tell me this investigation won’t end with us hopping on a plane to Halloweentown, Massachusetts. Go on. Just try it.”

Chloe opened her mouth, undoubtedly thinking up a storm in that sharp, stubborn head of hers. You’d think that after a whole decade he’d be used to it; watching her treat every conversation like a verbal tennis match, especially when she thought she was right (and oh, was she rarely ever wrong). But this wasn’t one of those tennis match conversations. In fact, it wasn’t even a conversation at all. Because a full 10 seconds had already passed and no sound came out of her mouth, and ever since she came to him with this case in what now seemed like an impossible few hours ago, a strange feeling in his gut already knew he’d be packing his bags before the week was through. 

“That’s right, you can’t,” Dan said. “And there’s nothing wrong if you can’t. I just think the least you can do is tell me what we’re in for before you make us dive headfirst into the modern-day version of The Crucible.”

(He absolutely hated The Crucible. He fell asleep reading the book back in high school and failed an english exam because of it.)

“Fine.”

“What was that?” He asked.

“I said fine,” Chloe said through gritted teeth. He knew he was pushing his luck, but it wasn’t everyday that you could get Chloe Decker to admit someone else was right. This was his way of Carpe-ing the Diem, or however the saying went. (Come to think of it, he was probably asleep for that part of english class, too.)

His ex-wife sighed and rubbed at one of her temples. “Look, you weren’t wrong. This is about Sabrina-”

“Called it.”

“-but not in the way that you think. I have reason to believe she may have been a member of that church you mentioned, the Church of Night. Maze let it slip that her previous high priest murdered their whole congregation, and you heard Sabrina say it herself; she used to be a Satanist. Put two and two together, and I don’t think any of it was a Jonestown group suicide thing at all.”

Dan knit his brows as he let the information sink in. “So...Sabrina somehow didn’t get murdered and managed to flee to L.A.?”

“Yeah, but here’s the thing,” Chloe said, leaning on her elbows as she drew forward on the desk. “The priest was never caught either. So now we have a mass murderer wandering around, and a survivor of a religious massacre who absolutely knows what he did. Say he wants to hunt her down and finish what he started…”

“Then there’s a chance he might follow her to Los Angeles.”

“Exactly,” Chloe finished, leaning back on her seat.

It all made sense, in a weird, fitting sort of way. Like jamming two random puzzle pieces together and seeing that they stuck. When Chloe first dropped the name Greendale, he could have sworn all this was a ploy to pick at Lucifer’s background. Sniff around the place he raised his child in, maybe coincidentally run into the woman he gave a baby to. His ex-wife’s M.O. was usually to ask her questions point-blank. If that didn’t work, then she was more than capable of finding the answers herself. He could've sworn to God that that would be the end of it. 

But then she finally gave in and had a chance to explain, and well....turns out he’d misjudged her (Again, really bad ex-partner. He needed to work on that). She was Chloe. Of course she had a reason for everything. She never let her personal life interfere with her work. That was more Dan’s thing, and at that point, it was already long-established that Dan’s things were terrible things. She didn’t deserve to be grouped in with any of that.

And so even if she didn’t know it, even if he’d never tell her, Dan made a mistake and he needed to make up for it. Before they got married, he once told himself he’d follow this woman to the ends of the earth. Well, it was ten years too late, and Greendale wasn’t the end of the earth, but he had a feeling it came pretty damn close.

He flipped open his Weaponizer notepad and slid it over to Chloe.

“What’s this?”

“Proof,” Dan answered. “The sheriff said he didn’t expect me to believe everything he was saying — because, really, what sane person would — but this is apparently the one piece of evidence he can offer that their guys are telling the truth. And, you know, if we plan on working with them, looking into their only lead might be a good place to start.”

Chloe stared at the name written in glittery pink script. 

“And...how is this supposed to help us?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, earnest in his cluelessness. “But we’re about to find out, won’t we?”

A beat passed, then two, before she finally sucked in a breath and nodded at him once.

“Yeah. I guess we will.”

As the two detectives headed to the lieutenant's office to inform her about their plans, the Weaponizer booklet was left forgotten beside the abandoned cup of pudding on Dan’s desk. In it were mostly inconsequential things; grocery lists, reminders, little scribbles from cases that came and went.

All save for the bold, bleeding ink of the words on the last page:

Thomas Kinkle. The resurrected man. 

Chapter Text

The truth came in the late afternoon, sun-drenched and speckled in loose sand that felt more like sandpaper between Sabrina’s often stocking-covered toes, but before either of them could even try to deny it out loud, said truth had already grown into a massive thing, complete with windows and spires and the most attention-seeking facade that the curious passerby at Long Beach, California had ever seen in their lives.

...The devil and the antichrist just built a sandcastle.

(And they weren’t gonna lie, they were pretty damn good at it, too.)

“I don’t know,” Sabrina hedged, taking a few steps back to inspect their handiwork. She had her father’s vintage Vuarnet sunglasses on her left hand, a tacky neon orange bucket on the right, and to top it all off, an appraising tilt to her brows that made the whole thing seem more ridiculously high-stakes than it actually was. “The scale still feels a tiny bit off.”

Lucifer scoffed from where he sat on the ground. His Prada suit jacket had long been discarded in the afternoon heat, and the pristine cornflower sleeves of his dress shirt were now pushed carelessly up the elbows. Normally, he’d rather lick a cheese grater (Maze dared him to try it once, it wasn’t as bad as he thought) than be caught looking so disheveled in public, but as it stood, his daughter had very strong architectural ideas that she wanted done even at the cost of his sand-ruined clothes, and try as he might, those fierce chestnut eyes of hers were rather difficult to refuse.

“Hellspawn, the bloody thing’s already taller than you! A few feet more, and we’ll have a second Tower of Babel in our hands.”

(He could still remember what an absolute headache the first one had been. Dad’s stupid language barrier extended all the way to Mesopotamia’s newly dead, and he had to spend the rest of the week teaching world languages to the torture demons. Suffice to say, he quickly realized why most hell loops took place in a school setting.)

“So?” The young witch shrugged. “We build a Sandlux so big that it pisses off the False God. Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

Lucifer quirked an amused brow. “Sandlux?”

“Yeah, sorta like a play on sandbox — oh, will you stop laughing? It’s not even that funny!”

The sandcastle — or Sandlux, as his daughter had now immortalized in a dad pun to end all dad puns — was born out of an argument that the pair had while downing their second round of Whiskey Smash back at the tiki bar. 

(Sabrina managed to flutter her impossibly long eyelashes at the bartender while her father wasn’t looking, and yes, Lucifer had a one-drink rule, and yes, it was frankly terrible parenting to let her get away with it, but she did flirt for those cocktails fair and square, and maybe there was a teachable moment buried in the bottom of all that. He just wasn’t sure what it was.) 

Once he talked Sabrina into the idea that sand sculptures weren’t necessarily just for five-year-olds and socially-inept art school dropouts (“You’re one to talk. You didn’t even go to school.” “Yes, well, not the point I was trying to make, hellspawn.”), the real challenge came afterwards, when the subtle buzz of alcohol was just beginning to kick in and it became increasingly clear that both father and daughter were cut from the same cloth: proud, obnoxious, and incapable of having a healthy conversation without disturbing everyone within a 10-meter radius.

(“So I was thinking, something like the Neuschwanstein Castle or the Windsor, perhaps? I mean, not to toot my own horn, but I did design their original plans as a favor to the royal-”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that you’re like a billion years old and stuff, but you don’t have to make it painfully obvious.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, calm down, Bob the builder. All I’m saying is there’s nothing wrong with going a bit more modern. You know, something fun and hip and challenging!”

“Now you’re just stringing nonsense words together. You sound like an iPhone commercial.”

“For heaven’s — Okay, how about this? The glass pyramid at the Louvre. It’s cool. It’s iconic-”

“It’s also just a big bloody triangle.”)

Eventually, when he’d listed just about every medieval building in continental Europe, and Sabrina countered each and every one of them with ridiculous suggestions of her own ranging from the Guggenheim to the Met (so his daughter was inexplicably fond of art galleries; probably that sketchbook-toting miner boy’s fault), the bartender surprised them both by slamming a hand down on the wooden counter and staring at them with tortured eyes that probably would’ve alarmed Lucifer had he not spent millennia seeing the exact same sort back in hell.

(“For the love of God,” the man said, practically begging. “Just pick a building and go. The other customers have been complaining about you two for the past half hour. This lady at table 3 says if she hears another word about gothic vs. contemporary architecture, she’s gonna scream.”

Lucifer scoffed, staring into his Whiskey Smash as he swirled it around. “Well, she can scream all she bloody well wants. We’re not leaving until we make a unanimous decision.”

“Come on, there’s gotta be something...Your house! You folks look like you live in a big, fancy place. Why not just go with that? Please just go with that.”

The devil paused mid-drink. Across the bar, Sabrina caught his gaze and gave a contemplative tilt of her head.

“That’s...not half-bad, actually. Not bad at all.”

“Oh, thank Jesus-”

“Yes, I’d stop with the religious references now if I were you,” Lucifer said, holding up a hand. He leaned back against his seat and picked at the mint leaves stuck to the side of his drink. “Say, you don’t happen to be looking for a new job now, do you? Because I own this lovely little club on the Sunset Strip, and I’ve already got a bartender that kills people and a bartender that’s a bit heavy-handed with the alcohol. All I’m missing is one that gives good advice, and the collection would be more or less complete.”

“No offense, buddy,” the man said, already clearing away their glasses. “But I’d rather not see you two again for the rest of my life.”)

Which brings them to where they were now, exactly two hours later, blacklisted from a tiki bar and standing in front of a five-and-a-half-foot-tall sand version of Lux.

“I still think it could be bigger,” Sabrina grumbled under her breath, blowing away the sleek platinum curls that fell over her eyes.

Lucifer almost laughed at the petulance of it all. He liked seeing her like this, it turned out; pouty and irritated and childish. It made her seem younger than she was. It made 16 feel less like a number and more like a suggestion, and time was just a nasty little construct that told him things like “you’re too late” or “you missed your chance,” when in reality, all that mattered was that he was here, and his daughter was here, and they were here together.

He’d stop the clocks right now if he could, but that was always Amenadiel’s thing more than his.

“I could say the same thing for you, hellspawn, but you don’t see me making a big fuss over it.”

Sabrina’s mouth dropped open and she mock-punched him in the shoulder.

(At least, it felt like a mock punch. It could very well have been a real punch, but the witchling probably never bothered to learn fist-fighting when she could just burn people to a crisp like she did with the mugger at the park. Which reminds him, he should really teach that girl some non-flammable self defense methods.)

“And whose fault do you think that is?” She said, eyeing him accusingly. “You can pass on world-ending supernatural powers but no, a couple inches of more height is apparently off-limits.”

“Well, excuse me for following the same rules of genetics as everyone else. I mean, have you seen your mother? You can pluck that woman off the ground and put her in your pocket!”

“That’s just ridiculous.”

“A very large pocket then.”

Sabrina crossed her arms and gave him a withering look. “Do you really have to drag Mom into this?”

“Biologically, yes,” Lucifer said. “She is responsible for half of you. I don’t know why you’re so intent on pinning everything on me.”

The witchling shrugged.

“Because I can and I will. Like I’d ever blame Mom for anything,” she scoffed, brushing it away as if it were the most insane thing on earth. “Mom was an angel.”

“Are you kidding—” 

Now it was Lucifer’s turn to give her a withering look. 

“...You do realize that of the two of us, I’m the actual angel, right?” He said, using the bright pink shovel in his hand to gesture for emphasis. “Not to say that your mother wasn’t an absolute light to the world, but if celestial status is the sole criteria, then I don’t think I should be the one taking all this verbal abuse on a perfectly fine Saturday afternoon.”

“Verbal abuse?” She raised a brow. “Really?”

“I don’t know, witchling,” he sniffed, folding his arms against his chest. “My emotions were rather bruised today. I might have to tell Dr. Linda about this.”

Sabrina mock-gasped.

(Or it could have also been a real gasp. Her acting skills were a bit touch-and-go. Maybe he could get Dan to drag her along to an improv class one of these days.) 

“You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, trust me, I would. I very much would,” he nodded. “I can see it now. The doctor scribbling away on that little notepad, gut-wrenching disappointment clear on her face-”

“Now you’re just playing dirty,” the teenager said sourly.

He grinned back, a devilishness to the pull of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes.

“Well, hellspawn,” he poked her in the stomach with the plastic shovel, and she quickly swatted him away as if he were a very irritating fly (or maybe Beelzebub. He could definitely see her swatting away Beelzebub). “Can’t say you don’t deserve it.”

Sabrina’s back was already turned to him, but she paused and glanced amusedly at him from over her shoulder. “Have you just been waiting to say that to me since I sassed you at breakfast this morning?”

“...Maybe.”

She outright snorted at that and shook her head, silver curls catching in the yellow light. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, witchling,” he said, going to poke her again with the shovel, but this time, she had the incredible foresight to laughingly inch away. That was another thing he liked, he found out. The sound of her laugh when it came unbidden. Like faraway church bells, only without the judgement or the hauntingness. Like Diana’s. “The rather sizable chunk of Devil worshippers around the world seem to find me quite believable.”

“As if that means anything,” Sabrina rolled her eyes. “Anyone can have worshippers. Charles Manson had worshippers.”

“Are you calling your father a cult leader?”

“I’m calling my father a megalomanic man-child who thinks he’s more charismatic than he actually is,” she said, smiling sweetly. Like she didn’t just burn him better than she did the mugger at the park.

(He always knew Zelda letting her watch Drag Race at 9 years old would come back to bite him in the backside one day.) 

“Now scooch over.” She tossed her neon orange bucket to the ground and sank to her knees beside him. “I still think Sandlux could use a couple more inches at the top.”

“You are absolutely relentless, aren’t you?” He said in disbelief. Still, he started scooping up more sand and water before she could even ask.

(It was those big brown eyes. She could start a cult of her own with just those eyes. She’d be better than Manson and Jim Jones combined — who, ironically enough, shared the same cell back at the Pit, in full earshot of the constant musical stylings of Chet Ruiz — and he wouldn't be the least bit surprised.)

He must’ve let the last part slip out loud because she stifled a laugh and suddenly the church bells were ringing all over again. 

“Yeah, well,” Sabrina bumped her shoulder against his and Lucifer paused to stare suspiciously at her, wondering if this blithe, affectionate version of his daughter was simply drunk on more whiskey than he managed to keep track of. “Can you blame me? Like you said. I’m half you.”

Lucifer hummed. “Right. Remind me again, is that the good half or the bad half?”

The teenager slipped the vintage Vuarnet sunglasses over her eyes and gave her father a flippant shrug.

“Let’s just call it the irrationally-annoying-but-slowly-growing-on-me half, and let’s leave it at that.”

The words flitted through the air and settled somewhere in the back of Lucifer’s ribcage, warm and mellifluous and splitting him open with an incessant burst of fondness. 

(You’re growing on me.)

Suddenly, he felt like downing some celebratory shots of whiskey himself (uncharacteristic shoulder-bumping be damned), if only the nearest bar within walking distance didn’t just ban the two of them for life.

“What does hell look like?”

The question came later, when Sandlux was finally deemed complete at a whopping six-and-a-half feet (much to Lucifer’s utter delight and Sabrina’s eye-rolling exasperation when tourists started coming up to take pictures — why yes, we are professional sand sculptors, how very kind of you to notice), and the two now found themselves back on their overpriced beach chairs, passing what little was left of Lucifer’s flask tequila back and forth as they watched the sunset over the saltwater horizon.

The devil sighed and twisted in his seat to look at her. “Sabrina—”

“Relax. I’m not asking you to take me there. I’m done asking, honestly. Just...” His daughter trailed off, shrinking into herself the slightest bit. It left an odd pang in Lucifer’s chest. Sabrina Spellman may have been rather small in stature, but she wasn’t made to feel small. She usually towered over everyone else in both confidence and bravado, so to see her as anything but bothered him more than he could put into words. “Tell me about it. Please.”

Lucifer let out a breath and glanced back out into the sea; its crashing waves, peaceful shores. He still didn’t know why his daughter was so insistent about hell (Well, perhaps he did know. Something about revenge, she says. He was too hesitant to ask; afraid that he wouldn’t understand and she would push him away all over again when he’d barely even gotten anywhere close.)

Today was supposed to be a reprieve from that. A few hours of simple, mindless fun to distract her from the things that weighed down on her delicate shoulders and bled into her dreams every night she went to bed. And for a while, it actually seemed to work, didn’t it? She got sand stuck between her toes, and she scrunched her nose at invasive tourists, and she laughed and laughed and laughed with him like he was someone that had been around all her life. 

And it was good, as Dad used to say.

Of course, he should’ve known that as soon as the sun began to set and their laughter dissolved into calm, easy silence, that was all the window her mind needed to come wandering back to the thoughts that he’d been trying to keep her from all day. Thoughts of whatever drove her away from Greendale. Thoughts of hell.

And he would’ve been perfectly content to just keep dancing around it all like an endless, infernal game of ring around the rosie (the black death; of course it was her favorite childhood nursery rhyme) if only she didn’t look at him that way. Without magic, without malice. Just the plain vulnerability of a daughter asking a father for something he couldn’t deny.

He blew out a breath.

“It looks like this,” he said at last, relenting. He swept a hand to gesture at the sprawling space around them. “Hell looks a little like this.”

“Hell is...a beach?” She frowned.

“Well, no. Not entirely. Just a part of it, the Shores of Sorrow. Then there’s the Field of Witness, the Forest of Torment. All along a blood red road that leads right up to Pandemonium.”

“Pandemonium...that’s where you lived, isn’t it?”

Lucifer could feel the hellfire lapping at his shoes at the mere thought.

“For torturous millenia, yes.”

“Well,” Sabrina frowned to herself, fiddling with her fingers. He hadn’t the faintest clue what was running through her head. “Did you like it there, at least?”

The devil scoffed and reached back for his silver flask. “Darling, if I liked even the smallest iota of that place, I would’ve taken you from those witches and raised you there myself.”

“I’m sure that would’ve gone well,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Maze could’ve changed the diapers. We would’ve had a blast.”

“You would’ve had a heart attack, more like.”

“Witchling, you severely underestimate your father,” he tutted.

She seemed to take that as a challenge and pushed herself up on her elbows, peering at him from over the edge of her sunglasses.

“The only plants that manage to survive in your penthouse are made of plastic,” she said dryly. “Trust me, you would’ve handed me back to the aunties within a month.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to retaliate, before realizing he didn’t really have anything as cutthroat to say to that. Babies really were quite horrendous, even one as exceptional as his. All that wailing and screaming and pooping…

(Besides, he wouldn’t put it past Maze to let a toddler Sabrina run around with demon blades just for the fun of it.)

The devil cleared his throat awkwardly. “You know what, you’re probably right.”

“Are you even surprised?”

After that, they lapsed back into a comfortable silence, their eyes returning to the water which was now a steady canvas reflecting the orange light. A colony of seagulls flew past somewhere above them. Those birds must take comfort in it, Lucifer supposed, knowing wherever they went, they could always return together.

“Why do you ask?”

“Huh?” Sabrina looked up from where she grabbed the flask back from him.

“About hell, why do you ask?” Lucifer repeated.

The teenager stilled for a moment. The question must have taken her by surprise because this time, she didn’t have something quick and sardonic already sitting on the edge of her tongue. Instead, she just sat there with brows furrowed, fingers absently screwing and unscrewing the silver cap of the flask as she sunk deeper into her deck chair.

“I have people there,” she said finally, simply. She looked down at her hands with a soft frown. “I guess a small part of me just hoped they’re not having it as bad as I thought.”

“Your family, you mean? All those witches and warlocks from the Spellman side?”

She shrugged one shoulder.

“...Something like that.”

Lucifer sighed and gave her arm a comforting squeeze. To her credit, she barely seemed to notice. Didn’t even try to hex him all the way to Alaska this time, which was probably what Dr. Linda meant by progress. 

“I wouldn’t worry about them too much, hellspawn. They knew what they were in for. They probably even spent their whole lives thinking they’d go to hell, so none of them should’ve been particularly surprised when they actually got there.”

“I know.”

“But you’re still worried,” he said.

“I’m still worried,” she agreed. 

She tilted her head to the side, both younger and older at once, and Lucifer was struck with the wistful thought that if only she’d been born with wings like his, she could escape to anywhere in the cosmos. Heaven, hell, wherever she pleased. And he would have nothing to be afraid of because wings, much like the birds that kept circling them overhead, meant she would always be able to come back.

“But you’re far too human to come back,” he murmured softly under his breath.

“What was that?”

(“If I take you to hell and we somehow lose track of each other, no magic in the world can bring you home and that terrifies me more than anything,” he almost said.)

He smiled tightly, reassuringly. Even gave her arm another soft squeeze for good measure.

“Nothing,” he said instead.

Sabrina frowned curiously at that but didn’t press any further. That was where they differed, him and her. Where Lucifer would keep digging till he got what he wanted, proud persistent creature that he was, Sabrina knew when to stop. She knew when to be kind. As if she’d been pushed and prodded to explain herself all her life, and now she understood that discomfort far too much to expect it of anyone else.

“So…” She trailed off, legs swinging back and forth from where they dangled over the side of her deck chair. Thinking, he thought. He noticed she swung her legs or fiddled with her hands too much when she did that. Maybe she did it as a child, too, but he was never really around to pay attention.

Her gaze locked back to him. “What do we do now?”

It seemed such a silly thing to ask in hindsight, after they just talked about hell and death and satanist relatives navigating the afterlife, but Lucifer recognized it for what it was. An out. She was giving him an excuse to steer their conversation away from volatile waters back to whatever precarious line between civility and familiarity they barely toed before.

“Whatever you want, I suppose,” he shrugged. “We are at the beach. We could go for a swim, if you’d like. Take your grandmother-y bathing suit out for a test drive.”

She rolled her eyes at that, but it came off as more fond than anything else.

“Please. Do you even know how to swim? Because I am not coming after you when you start to sink out there.”

“I’ll have you know, hellspawn, your grandfather threw me headfirst into a lake of burning sulfur,” he said, the slightest bit smug. “I wouldn’t exactly be here right now if I didn’t learn to freestyle my way out of there.”

(It was true. Painful and skin-searing, but also oddly satisfying once he got out. You truly do feel like you can do anything — even ignore your father’s orders and one day abandon hell — once you’ve clawed your way through liquid fire.)

Sabrina gave him a weird look. “That’s actually more sad than impressive, but go off, I guess.”

“What do you mean sad…” He crossed his arms in indignation. “I’d like to see you try then, hellspawn!”

“Why? Are you about to start throwing me into sulfur lakes anytime soon?” She raised a brow.

“No—”

“Are you gonna let anyone throw me into a sulfur lake?”

“Of course not—”

“Then I don’t see what it matters!” She said, doing some sort of exasperated gesture with her hands that had Lucifer half-convinced she was trying to curse him. “Besides, I don’t really like swimming anyway. Witches float by default, so whatever I do, I always end up on my back. I feel like a turtle turned over on its shell. It’s embarrassing.”

He suddenly imagined Sabrina as a red turtle with platinum hair, and he couldn’t quite help the spurt of amused laughter that bubbled from his mouth.

“You know what, darling, I’d pay good money to see that.”

Sabrina shot him a world-ending glare. Somewhere in Europe, probably, a field of flowers burst into flames. He’d wager a cheekily-shaped highway in greater London was up next.

“Maybe not then,” Lucifer said, pressing his lips shut.

His daughter hummed in satisfaction and turned her face back towards the water. 

“Actually, there is something I’ve been meaning to do,” she said suddenly, getting up on her feet. His eyes followed her curiously as she rummaged around in her tote bag (stamped with a big, fat logo of The Fright Club, whatever on earth that was) and pulled out a camera that seemed like it’s been plucked straight from a 1980’s thrift shop. “I should probably get some pictures of Sandlux before it gets too dark. I mean, Roz and Theo are not gonna believe—”

Thump.

Both Morningstars glanced up at the sound only to see the aforementioned Sandlux now a large heap of nothing, a vaguely familiar volleyball still rolling around where it once stood.

“My bad, bros! I didn’t see—” The blond surfer boy with tight blue trunks and a bandaged nose slowed his jog, eyeing the pair of them warily. “Oh no.”

“Oh no, indeed,” Lucifer snarled.

It was one of those Abercrombie rejects that kept circling his daughter like a pack of vultures earlier. They were just looking for more players for their little sports game, they said. Oh, but he saw right through them. Those roaming eyes, those charming smiles. He could call Amenadiel right now and even that socially-clueless brother of his could piece it all together.

The devil marched right up to the teenager and grabbed him by his tacky puka shell necklace, inching dangerously close to the face he'd hit square with a volleyball just a few hours before.

“One would think you wouldn't come back here after I knocked some sense into you and your Billabong-wearing friends. Or was the message simply not clear enough?”

“Look, dude—”

“No, you look here, Baywatch.” Lucifer jammed a finger into his chest. If the lad stumbled a few steps back from the sheer force of it, then that was the overtanned beanpole’s problem, not his. “First, you eye my daughter like a piece of prime rib, now you casually destroy the very thing she spent half a day working on. You need to understand. When you disrespect her, you disrespect me.”

He let his eyes flash a glowing, embering red. He couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy the delicious thrill of power that came with watching the boy tremble where he stood. 

“Do I look like the kind of person you disrespect?”

“N-no, sir…”

“Then why do you insist on—”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Sabrina caught the teenager by the shoulder and pulled him away, taking his place in front of her father. She ran a hand through her seasalt-mussed hair. 

“God, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…” She shook her head like she was about to say something abhorrent. “Maybe violence isn’t the answer?”

Lucifer raised a brow. “That’s a first.”

“I know. It feels strange even thinking about it,” she frowned, rubbing her arm.

Off to the side, the teenage surfer boy was still staring blankly into space, barely aware of himself, much less the two infernal celestials conversing right next to him.

(Lucifer should probably do something about that. He thinks the medical term is “shock,” but then again, everything he knew about healthcare came from whatever Dr. Oz episode was re-running while he rode out his drug highs at 2 a.m.)

“Look, all I’m saying is, maybe there’s a better way to handle this. You know, less fire and brimstone, and more…” Sabrina was twisting her fingers again, not even aware that the shapes she kept making with her hands were a latin incantation away from overrunning the whole beach with plague-like locusts. “Mortal,” she finished.

“Mortal?” Lucifer wrinkled his nose. “What, you want to film his lecherous behavior with your camera phone and hope the internet cancels him?”

“That’s a thing?”

“I keep forgetting it’s your first time in L.A.”

She furrowed her brows at that, but then cleared it all away again with another shake of her head.

“Well, no. Nothing like that. I just think there’s no harm in dealing with this like a normal person.”

“Normal’s awfully boring.”

“Besides the whole using-magic-on-a-murder-suspect thing, today was pretty normal,” Sabrina argued. “And today was...nice.” She looked down at her feet as if they were suddenly the most interesting things on earth. “Really nice, actually.”

Lucifer paused. She’d threatened to slash the Corvette’s tires at least twice today with one of the ceremonial knives she kept tucked inside her pocket (he had a feeling Maze had something to do with it; he didn’t even want to know), but in all the time they’d spent together, this was the first time she paid him a compliment that wasn’t backhanded or sarcastic or buried under seven hundred layers of subtext.

His insides suddenly felt all putty-ish in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

(It wasn't entirely unpleasant.)

“Fine,” he said.

“What?”

“I said fine. We’ll do it your way,” Lucifer shrugged amicably. “What my daughter wants, she gets. And if she wants normal…” 

He made a sweeping gesture to the space around him, the universal sign for ‘be my guest.’

Sabrina’s gaze darted from the volleyball to the frozen boy to the group of teenagers huddled around, watching them from the distance. He could see something devious light up her eyes just then. He just wasn't sure what it was.

“Hey,” she said, snapping her fingers. 

The surfer boy broke off his trance with a jolt, and Lucifer recognized the stream of Latin that Sabrina quickly murmured under her breath to clear his mind of the traumatizing events of the past 10 minutes.

(That was her mother in her, he'd wager. If it were up to Lucifer, he would've let that boy grapple with the fear of hell for an hour or two longer. Even just for shiggles.)

She tossed the volleyball back to him.

“Up for a game?”

“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

It was a little over 9 pm now, and both father and daughter were on the elevator going back to the penthouse, Lucifer with the two ghastly deck chairs tucked under his arm (he’d wanted to chuck the plastic things to the nearest dumpster as soon as they were done, but Sabrina kept insisting they’d make a nice addition to his balcony) and Sabrina with a smug, self-satisfied look on her face the whole ride up.

She’d challenged the group of surfer boys to a beach volleyball match, her and Lucifer up against all four of them. The odds were very clearly stacked against their little two-person team, but with Lucifer’s inherent competitiveness and Sabrina’s surprising athleticism (turns out she was a flyer for their cheer squad; he never knew that before), they somehow managed to pull through.

Well, that coupled with the fact that she enchanted the volleyball to bounce off their competitors’ heads at every given chance.

“Tell me, though, whatever happened to doing it the mortal way?” Lucifer asked, stepping off the lift as soon as the doors slid open.

The folded chairs in his arms practically weighed nothing, but their sharp angles and boxy shape made them cumbersome to lug around all the same. He was just thankful that Sabrina didn’t make a case for the gigantic beach umbrella, too.

“Bold of you to assume the mortal way doesn’t involve cheating and a healthy dose of deceit.” She said, stepping off the elevator after him.

“Those witches taught you well.”

“Those witches have names,” Sabrina chided lightly. “But yeah. I think they taught me pretty damn well, too.”

Soon enough, when the newly-acquired patio furniture was tucked away, Lucifer too tired to even pour out his celebratory whiskey, and Sabrina once again enamored with the insufferable black feline in her arms (it was alarming how the little gremlin attached itself back to her the moment they arrived), the two now found themselves at a standstill, awkwardly hovering around the living room without the faintest clue what to do next.

“So…” He began.

“So…” She echoed, idly bouncing on the balls of her feet.

The last time they stood here, she was engaged in a one-sided screaming match about hell, and he was trying very hard not to lose his mind (the jury was still out on the latter). But now, almost 24 hours later, the air had already shifted into something lighter, softer. Not to say that either of them had really grown so much in the space of a day, but there was a possibility there now. A potential.

Like maybe they could grow together if only they weren’t so helplessly lost.

“Thank you,” Sabrina said quietly, breaking the silence first.

She had her lips pursed and couldn’t quite look him in the eye, but her hands absently dragging through Salem’s fur gave her away. She meant every word of it.

“What for?”

“You know what for,” she scoffed, pinching her brows at him. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Well, what’s so hard about—”

She shot him a warning look.

“I’m kidding!” He laughed, holding up his hands. “God, you’re far too easy to wind up. You’re like an angry little alarm clock.” 

Salem gave an affirmative meow, and Sabrina bristled like grass in the wind. He had a passing thought that she might chuck the familiar out the window. Not that he would be particularly averse to it.

“You’re welcome,” Lucifer said after a beat. “Though I wish you didn’t have to thank me for a good day. Every day should be a good day, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, well, that’s impossible.”

“If anyone deserved the impossible, hellspawn, I think it would be you.”

Her eyes softened slightly.

Lucifer thought she might say something else, maybe even a snarky comeback about how cheesy he’d become or how he’d better not say embarrassing things like that in public, but she quickly turned her back and started down the hallway before he could utter another word.

(As if the witchling actually thought he wouldn’t notice how her lips pulled up at the last second; how her cheeks warmed with a small, unexpected smile as she went.)

“Well, I guess that’s good night to you, too.” He said, grinning, into the empty hallway; turning out the lights one by one as he headed into his room himself.

Sabrina was dreaming again.

Lucifer wasn’t nearly as unprepared for it this time, just calmly walked through her door at the first sign of distress, smoothed back her hair, muttered the softest enochian protection wards he could pull from millions of years of memory.

Still, when the evening had grown quiet and he felt confident enough to return to his bed, this time, it was the devil tossing and turning in his own Egyptian cotton sheets at the dead of night.

Just before the pull of celestial power took her under, he was so sure he heard Sabrina muttering angel names in her sleep.

(Jerathmiel. Mehitable. All that nasty business again of repentance and the Silver City.)

And if he wanted to get to the bottom of it, he knew he needed another angel on his side.

"Brother."

“Luci? It’s 3 in the morning. Why on earth would you possibly call—”

“What do you say to a long-overdue family reunion?”

Chapter Text

Maze didn’t have friends.

She had a friend (period) in Linda, but the very short list seemed to end there. She had Lucifer, she guessed, but somewhere between their excruciatingly long journey from torturers to fuckbuddies to club runners to whatever the hell their dysfunctional, semi-dependent relationship was called, he started to feel like family more than anything else.

(Though she'd sooner take a carving knife to the esophagus than say that to him out loud. They didn’t do “feelings” — blech — in the Morningstar household, regardless of whether or not she still lived there. He didn’t ask about her emotional bullshit, and she didn’t ask about his, and when the day was done, the lowlives of L.A. punished, and his daddy issue of the week done and dealt with by someone else, they just clinked their whiskey glasses over his stupid grand piano and started again tomorrow.)

Amenadiel was immediately out of the question because reasons. If besties were like sisters (at least, according to Trixie’s in-depth explanation of elementary school social dynamics), then Amenadiel was like the brother-in-law she used to screw but was only barely tolerating now because they both loved Linda, and at least one of them had to play nice.

(She didn’t know why it had to be the demon, but whatever. She was a 21st century bad bitch. Far be it from her to wait for the man to do all the hard work.)

Decker was pretty close to making the cut, but that still depended on the outcome of next month’s roommate meeting. If she finally took the dishwashing out of Maze’s chore list, then fine. They could be gal pals. They could have matching t-shirts and roll around in pink glitter, for all she cared. As long as she stopped nagging at her to soak the damn cereal bowls after breakfast. 

("Maze, I told you this like a thousand times already. Vodka and toasted sugar frosties leave stains-"

"For the love of everything unholy, Decker, just shut up.")

Dan was a wussy little asshat. She said that to his face once, and he didn’t even flinch. But she respected asshats who were at least honest about their past asshattery, so maybe there was hope for him yet. 

Besides, he was pretty baller with the whole Russian mob thing. Mikhail (big guy from Kazan; she met him after beating his brother senseless with a sock full of soap) tried to shake his hand after making their Perry Smith deal, and Dan almost pissed his pants. Maze would be lying if she said it wasn’t the single most gratifying experience of her entire life.

All in all, if she ever wanted to have a fun night out and talk about awesome stuff like torture and knives and really hot sex, she’d either have to wait for Linda to have a client-free weekend so they could get totally shitfaced on a Friday, or she’d cave in and call up Lucifer, only for their evening to end with him wondering how he managed to screw things up with the detective for the 50th time, and her wishing she could just throw him off a building one of these days and be done with it. 

(Who the fuck told God to give his kids those stupid fall-preventing wings anyway? She didn’t want any trouble. She just wanted to talk. Preferably at an abandoned Denny’s parking lot at 3 a.m.)

At that point, she was just biding her time till Trixie became the President of Mars. Who knew? Maybe by then, she’d have more than one person to drag over to the nearest extraterrestrial watering hole. She could even hit it up with some aliens, provided they looked as hot as those green-skinned chicks from the space show Ellen can’t shut up about. 

(What was that nerd fest called again? Star Tech?)

She mulled it over, listening to her sharp-heeled boots crunch on the wet grass of the Scottish countryside. 

“I’m just saying, if you had listened to me and we took a left at the last creek, we wouldn’t be going around in these infernal bloody circles—”

“Spellman, so help me, I have two swords, and I can carry on with my day perfectly well even with one of them lodged between your ribs.”

Maze snorted as she listened to the two witches arguing behind her. (They wanted her to walk ahead of them which was, okay, fair. Turning your back to a demon was probably witchy no-no number one. If anything, at least they weren’t idiots.)

She heard the whoosh of a blade being unsheathed, the frantic rush of a disarming spell spilling out of the warlock’s mouth. Bit back a laugh.

Now that she thought about it, maybe that friend list of hers wasn’t gonna stay so painstakingly short, after all.

It had been three days since Maze, Prudence, and Ambrose started roaming Western Europe like a bunch of backpackers on steroids. The demon's sense for Blackwood’s magical trail led her to the general vicinity of Scotland before drawing up a blank, and the same went for the Creole voodoo ritual that took the Greendale witches to the outer fringes of the countryside and not a step more.

It likely meant the guy was using a different kind of magic now. Something older and rarer and smarter that Maze never had to deal with before.

(And she'd dealt with almost everything back at the Pit. From overly-ambitious Satanists to Ouija-board-toting hipsters who thought they were slick enough to bend the laws of nature and actually get away with it. Of course, none of them ever did. Not if she had anything to say about it.)

The fact that this Blackwood bastard was one-upping her over something she didn’t know only made her want to skin him alive with a nail clipper even more.

“Which one of you suckers has the map this time?” She threw over her shoulder, not even bothering to look back as she kept marching into the growing darkness. 

All manner of flies and field insects were buzzing around them, but none of the flying fuckers dared land on her. It probably had something to do with how she stabbed Beelzebub between the ribs for April Fool’s that one time.

“I’m a witch,” Prudence sniffed, all too smug for someone who’s been discreetly putting healing magic on her foot blisters for the past hour and a half. “I have sun and stars and magic. I don’t need maps.”

“Yeah? And how’s that working out for you?”

The witch shot her a glare. Maze sent a mocking smile back.

“You know what, funny story,” Ambrose cut in with a strained laugh, sensing tension in the air and trying to move past it with whatever breezy English charm he thought he had. (News Flash: he had none. Lucifer could walk circles around him with his pompous Prada shoes.) “But I remember back in my day — before I took off for university — the navigation courses at the Academy were absolute shite. I mean, this one teacher we had, Brother Stine, gave all his lectures with a glass of bourbon in hand. He even passed out on us once or twice. You ever taken one of his classes, Pru?”

Prudence gave him a flat look. “Call me that idiotic name one more time, Spellman, and I swear to Hecate you’ll never touch me again.”

“I was just asking—”

“Never,” She repeated, staring him dead in the eye. “Again.”

The warlock gave up trying to make conversation after that.

The first time she’d met them — when the two (hundred-year-old) kids tried attacking her like a pair of amateurs and she beat their asses like nobody’s business — she wrestled the role of lead navigator away from them just like she’d had to wrestle for everything else in her life. It was pure instinct, really. Nothing personal. 

She’d been kicking and screaming from the womb the day she was born (“Weed out the weaklings,” Lilith ordered her children, slitting the throat of the first one that dared cry. “I have no use for weaklings.”), and she’ll probably be kicking and screaming the day she dies. Lucifer told her it was poetic once and she rolled her eyes, elbowed him a touch too violently in the gut.

(“Of course that’s what you think. You're an angel. Everything’s poetry and pretty things to you.”

“Oh, really? What’s everything to you then, Mazikeen? Sex? Blood lust?”

“Survival.”)

Still, once they spent the better part of a day walking around in circles and she figured out how mind-numbingly useless her bountyhunting tactics were (stupid fucking Blackwood and his stupid fucking magic tricks), she let Ambrose take a whack at it since he was calm and logical and reminded her just the slightest bit of Amenadiel, and that in itself made her feel like he wouldn’t let her down.

(Tell any of that to God’s Right Hand, though, and she’ll personally gut you like a fish.)

“Alright, if either of you ladies want to stop at any time or have any useful suggestions, feel free to speak up,” he said, grinning like a theme park attendant on his first day of work. His enthusiasm was rolling off of him in waves as he charted a course on the still-bloodstained map he got from the voodoo priestess. “This might be quite a long trek, but there’s some water if you’re thirsty, and snacks in the—”

“Just get going already!”

She should’ve known, of course, that like Amenadiel, the warlock also had a sense of leadership that was so deeply scrupulous, well-meaning, and democratic that if she were to smuggle him into Capitol Hill, he’d be fed to the wolves within a day. Maybe even less. It was pathetic, really.

So after leading them this way and that using secret wayfinding witchcraft he allegedly learned from Crowley himself — surprise surprise, the dead guy’s methods didn’t work — Ambrose was quick to admit that maybe he needed some time to reevaluate his plans, but until then, it was only fair that Prudence got a chance to lead the group, too. You know, like he was one of those suffocating suburban moms who made sure every kid at the sleepover got to play Super Mario. 

(Also known as Chloe, everytime Trixie had friends over for the weekend.)

Which brought them to where they were now, tired, grumpy, and hungry (the snacks were just a bunch of granola bars, what a fucking bust), being led through a magical forest adventure by Greendale's knockoff Cruella de Vil. That is, if Cruella ate the puppies instead of wearing them, which she guessed wasn’t outside the realm of imagination for the Class A cannibals traveling with her.

“Maybe we should just stop here for the night,” Ambrose said, leaning against a tree trunk and chugging from his water skin like it had the elixir of life. She wouldn’t be surprised if it did. “Set up camp.”

“Finally he says something useful,” Maze groaned, already shaking her hair from its ponytail and dropping down, spread eagle, on the grass. 

She normally didn’t like grass (unless it was the kind that could be rolled up and smoked), but in the absence of the goose down pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets that Lucifer got her addicted to, this was the next best thing. Humans weren’t exactly setting up bed & breakfasts in Scottish no-man’s-land, so they didn’t have much in the way of options.

Just when she was cozying up to the thought of some well-needed rest, however, Prudence decided to open her perpetually hostile mouth, and Maze almost wanted to bury her head in the ground like a godforsaken ostrich because holy hell, not this again. 

“But I’m not done,” Prudence said through gritted teeth. “We’ve barely covered enough ground—”

“Well, you had your chance, little miss sun-stars-and-magic, and you blew it,” Maze bit back.

She’s been riding out this bitch’s — witch’s? Fuck it, what’s the difference — temper for days now, and yeah, at first it was kind of fun, and the kid was kind of cool, but even a demon had her limits, and the limits very clearly said, do not disturb when it’s time to sleep. Seriously. Don’t even try.

She stretched out her limbs, trying to get more comfortable. She even dug out one of the blankets from Ambrose’s Mary-Poppins-like endless knapsack.

(“You ever seen that movie? With the dancing penguins?”

“No. Aunt Zelda says it’s a blasphemous exploitation of witch culture. Like the Harry Potter series. We shouldn’t condone it.”

“...Your aunt has a lot of opinions, doesn’t she?”)

When Prudence did nothing more than scoff at her in response, the demon added, “What? You wanna go home and cry to mommy about it?”

You know, as all chaos-creating hellions do.

She should’ve known by the resigned look on Ambrose’s face (like he was in a slow motion car crash or something, and he’s had time to make peace with it) that by then, their whole evening had already gone to shit.

“I’ll have you know, demon, my mother is dead,” Prudence hissed, lips pulled back into a snarl as if she had something sharp in her mouth to show for. Maybe she did. Maybe Maze wanted to poke at her some more and find out. “My father killed her. And now he’s running around out there, doing Satan knows what.”

“Satan doesn’t know what,” Maze drawled. “That’s what I’m here for, so I can find out for him. But I can’t do that now, can I, when I can barely think in the morning ‘cos you’re keeping me up with your mommy issues!”

“Maze—” Ambrose began.

“Oh, don’t tell me. He killed your parents too?”

She swore to everything unholy, these people had one hidden agenda after the next. Their backstories were like Russian nesting dolls that just got more and more depressing the further you got.

Ambrose drew in a patient breath. “Well...no. My parents were killed by witch hunters when I was ten. But that’s not the point—”

“The point is, you’re a coven of motherless Disney princesses with such deep-rooted Abandoned Child Syndrome that it’s a wonder your faces aren’t printed on the DSM-5,” Maze said dryly.

The two witches stared at her, surprised.

“What? Linda talks a shit ton of therapy when she’s drunk.”

Ambrose looked visibly relieved, like even the prospect of an educated demon would’ve been enough to topple his worldview.

(And honestly? Same. Maze’s siblings were already smug and insufferable when they were as dumb as a bag of doorknobs; just imagine them with college degrees and all the pretentiousness that came along with it. She’d rather gnaw off her own foot.) 

“Maybe I should join your sad little cult,” the torturer mused. “Maybe Lilith will finally get the hint and throw herself off the nearest cliff. ‘Cos, you know, she’s petty and dramatic like that, and she’s nothing if not a whore for the aesthetic.”

“As if Her Unholiness would ever want you in her church,” Prudence said snidely under her breath.

“Church? She doesn’t have a church. She doesn’t even have a parking space,” Maze retorted, narrowing her eyes at the younger woman. “What kind of hardcore drugs are you on and why the hell didn’t you give me any of it? You know, I’m starting to think you don’t like me very much.”

Prudence just gave up at that point and flipped her the bird, and Maze flipped her one back, but the witch didn’t even notice because she was already far too busy folding herself against the tree trunk and finding a comfortable position in her boyfriend’s arms. As if their demon companion needed any more reason to be repulsed.

“Hey!” 

“Hey what?” Prudence said, annoyed, not even bothering to open her eyes once she found that nice, solid spot on Ambrose’s chest to rest her head on. She even snuggled deeper into him as if she didn’t just threaten to stab that same chest with her dual swords a few hours back.

“Um…you call my mother ‘Her Unholiness’ like she’s some kind of respectable person, casually  mention she has a church, and you’re not even going to explain?”

“I thought you wanted to sleep, demon,” Prudence ground out.

“Well, I did, but now that you’ve got me worked up over your stupid little throwaway lines, it’s sort of impossible now, isn’t it?” Maze said, pushing herself up on her elbows. 

So much for curling up on the grass with an enchanted blanket.

Ambrose dragged a hand down his face. “Look, Maze, can we talk about this in the morning? It’s getting late.”

“Oh, please. Everyone knows you people stay up past 3 a.m. to drink virgin blood or sacrifice goats or whatever it is you do at the witching hour. I’m pretty sure you can spare me 5 minutes of your time.”

“We don’t sacrifice goats—”

“Disturbing,” Maze said, pulling a face, “that that’s the first thing you found wrong with that sentence.”

“—but if it’s so important to you, then fine. Lilith is the new queen of hell. She’s been the ruling monarch ever since Sabrina gave up the throne. But it’s basically common knowledge at this point, isn’t it?”

The demon grew unnervingly quiet at that.

“Erm…” Ambrose frowned, raising a tentative hand to poke at her shoulder. “Maze?”

"Lilith is what!" She suddenly exploded. 

The warlock reeled back like he was afraid she might rip off his face. To be fair, his fears weren’t entirely unfounded.

“Why am I only finding out about this now? You could’ve at least mentioned it in your long-ass story three days ago!”

“I thought you knew!”

“How the hell was I supposed to know?” She roared back.

“But...but you’re a demon,” the warlock fumbled. “At the very least, shouldn’t you be aware of who’s ruling over hell?”

She threw him a nasty look. “What, you think I get an infernal newsletter every month? That my mother has a fucking mailing list on family milestones?”

“Well, I’m sorry, alright!” Ambrose said, narrowly dodging the handful of grass she ripped from the ground and aimed at his head. It carried with the wind and landed in a pathetic heap next to his knapsack. “I’ll be sure to lead with that information next time.”

“Forget it,” Maze snarled, already climbing to her feet.

This couldn’t be happening. Screw what the warlock said about common knowledge. If Lucifer had known about this, he would’ve flown down to hell with her the first chance he got.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Prudence said, rolling her eyes. “You said the other devil was an imposter anyway and the real one’s partying in L.A. Who better to occupy the throne than one of us?”

“One of you?”

“A witch,” she said like it was the only obvious answer.

Maze curled her lip. “Yeah, right, like that’s any better.”

She started picking up her things one by one — fingerless gloves, knives, half-eaten granola bar — and stuffing them back into her duffel bag. With a satisfied nod at the bareness of where she used to be, she slung the weight of her belongings onto one shoulder and began her trek deeper into the woods.

“Wait, where are you going?” She heard Ambrose call after her. She didn’t bother looking back.

“I need some fresh air.”

“But we’re already outdoors,” he said, the confusion clear in his voice even in the thick of animal howls and darkness.

The demon turned a sharp corner, disappeared from view.

With the all same stealth her mother used to praise her for (break her for), Mazikeen Smith faded into the night like all things free and fearsome, and should the witches dare seek her out in the morning, they would be left with nothing but the memory of the name she refused to give, and the thoughtless trail of blood she planned to leave behind.

(“This is what you were made for,” Lilith used to tell her. “This is all you’ll ever be.”)

“Well, mother,” she whispered at nothing in particular, knives hanging dangerously at her sides. “We’ll see about that.”

The flick of a blade. Sacred symbols on the soil. The harsh glare of the late evening moonlight.

She ran one of the hell-forged knives down the length of her arm, and with glazed, empty eyes, watched the gushing stream of crimson as it pooled to the ground.

Chanting. For as long as she could remember, there was always a hell of a lot of chanting involved.

Maze was curious about her mother’s rituals once. Back when she was younger and dumber and eager to please. Demons were never children the way that humans were, but for a brief, shining moment, there was a lull before they were given cells to guard and souls to punish, and that was when she foolishly thought Lilith was the greatest power in the world. The woman who stole faces and shrugged them on every other day like a new coat. Who bent reality to her will as if it was nothing more than putty between her fingers.

Now, after knowing true power — angels and antichrists and a god who played them all like cheap, plastic pawns — Maze recognized her mother for what she actually was in the grand scheme of the universe.

Her mother was nothing more than an ant. 

And she wished she realized it sooner, because then, she wouldn’t have wasted so much time trying to love something that she could’ve already crushed beneath her boots when she had the chance.

"The blood of hell I spill as I seek the soul I claim. Earth unshroud him, heaven betray him, Faustus Blackwood is the name.”

Maze waited, brows screwed in concentration, as her words echoed through the air in the exact same cadence her mother always used: loud, steady, and just the slightest bit enraged. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she felt something rush through her, old and powerful, and she was almost impressed with how easily it came.

(“You’re my mother. We’re the same. I don’t understand why you can’t teach me what you know.”

“You were born from the stolen seed of man, while the False God himself molded me from the clay of the Garden,” Lilith practically spat, the sneer on her lips a permanent fixture no matter which face she took. “Don’t make me explain what makes me different from you.”)

Soon enough, though, the feeling faded, and everything stayed as it was — still and undisturbed.

The demon cursed quietly under her breath and sliced another deep red gash into her palm to try again.

Of all her siblings, she was the only one fascinated by her mother’s magic. They feared it, the cowards. They knew Lilith used it to keep them in line. But Maze? Oh, she craved it. She wanted that power. She wanted to enter a room and see the same petrified sheen on everyone’s eyes. 

And she knew she was capable of it, too. She had her mother in her. The worst parts, sure, but it was Lilith all the same. The Mother of Witches. The Mother of Demons. The Mother of Maze. But it was clear from the beginning that she only ever considered one of them her true children, and funny enough, it was the proud, posturing flesh-eaters that didn’t even come out of her womb. 

"The blood of hell I spill as I seek the soul I claim. Earth unshroud him, heaven betray him, Faustus Blackwood is the name.”

A slight gust of wind. A murder of crows flying calmly in the horizon.

Maze grunted in frustration and switched to a different hand.

After rising through the ranks in hell and catching Lucifer’s eye, she was able to convince her mother that she could serve the Dark Lord better with a face that wasn't half-mangled, that was easier to stomach. An archaic thought that made her want to gag at the time, but she knew it was Lilith’s weakness if she ever had one. The woman was a puppet master by nature. She’d pull every string possible if it meant someone she could manipulate was going to end up on top.

So after years and years of pestering, the old hag finally relented. 

She taught her daughter a spell.

(“Just a simple glamour to hide that wretched half of your face. Nothing more, nothing less.” She eyed Mazikeen with thinly-veiled displeasure. “All the proper magic in the world still belongs to witches, so don’t go around thinking this makes you any special.”)

It was the most bare-bones of magic by any standard, but it was enough. It was extraordinary. It was the most powerful Maze had ever felt.

And she hated that some deep, twisted part of her knew that so long as she went down this path, she would only be as powerful as Lilith allowed her to be.

“The blood of hell I spill as I seek the soul I claim. Earth unshroud him, heaven betray him, Faustus Blackwood is the name.”

Maze detested all magic after that. She still kept using the glamour, if only because it was easier to prowl after the humans when she looked like one of them (except on the rare occasion she could remove it to go trick-or-treating with Trixie), but beyond that, she was determined to rise out of her own power and not the table scraps her mother begrudgingly gave.

That never stopped her from learning, though. She gleamed bits and pieces from the witches she tortured. Little insights from Lucifer when he started teaching her the cheat codes to hell.

(“See, the trick is in the wording. Satanic witches don’t know this — and I would very much hate for those wretched goat worshippers to find out — but everything becomes that much more powerful when you invoke the three planes. Heaven, earth, and hell. I thought at least one of them would figure it out by now, but I guess all that cannibalism rots the brain.”)

Still, she never had any reason to try it out for herself. It was always enough, she thought, to know these things that reminded her she didn’t need jack shit from Lilith.

Well, until now.

Because now, more than anything, what she needed was for Lilith to get the fuck away from the Morningstar throne.

Squeezing her bleeding palms harder over the perfectly-drawn pentacle on the ground, she summoned in a voice, low, guttural, and just daring the universe to cross her, “The blood of hell I spill as I seek the soul I claim! Earth unshroud him, heaven betray him, Faustus Blackwood is the name!”

Lightning streaked across the sky like a white-hot knife to the heart. In a blink of an eye, all her blood on the ground pooled into a black, bubbling stream of tar, almost something alive as it drew a line that breached the pentacle and moved forward and beyond. Lightning struck a second time, and it was uncanny, the way it lit a spot in the heavens that the stream of tar seemed to follow on its own.

This was it. Three days of witches and warlocks, her mother’s favored ones, and in the end, the answer was her all along. The thought left a gratifying glow in the dull chasm of her chest, but Maze tried not to dwell on it too much. After all, her work wasn’t over yet.

Bring Blackwood to Los Angeles. Let Lucifer exact his punishment. Maybe have a word or two with the little princess about all the secrets that weren't hers to keep. Only then, when everything was said and done, would she find a way to rip the gates of hell off its hinges and throw Lilith off the throne.

It was time to crush the ant under her sharp-heeled boots.

She smiled, clutching her knives in the darkness, and followed the tar-like trail of blood to wherever it led her next.

Chapter Text

It was five o’clock on a Wednesday morning, and Lucifer — slumped over his piano stool, cigarette slowly burning to a stub between two fingers — had already been up since late last night, all thoughts of bed and rest and sleep-inducing multicolored pills abandoned when Dr. Linda sent a large package to his door. 

He was expecting some food, maybe. Or a nice bottle of wine. Whatever it was that normal people sent to their friends. Instead, in a move that seemed to surprise no one but himself (he called Maze about it, and the woman had the audacity to laugh at his face before rudely hanging up — “Get lost, I have a shit ton of blood to clean up”), all he got was a big box of parenting books, topped with an angry-looking sharpie note that said:

Educate yourself. Please. Hold your questions till you’ve read them all, and trust me, I’ll know if you did. 

P.S. Really. I’ll know.

Looking back, it was probably wrong of him to call the doctor at odd hours every time he had a Sabrina-related question. Something told him that phoning her at 3 am yesterday just to ask about healthy teenage alcohol options was the final straw.

(“Are you being serious right now?”

“Yes! Why else would I call? It’s just that I’m trying to ease Sabrina off of whiskey and towards some of the softer liquors, you know, like cognac and vermouth, but then she starts pouting at me like a kicked little dog — hello, doctor? Doctor, are you there?”)

Lucifer took a long drag of his cigarette and flipped to another page. 

“Well, this feels very deja vu-ish.”

The devil looked up and saw the hellspawn standing over his shoulder, voice still thick with sleep and two steaming mugs of coffee in hand. She looked rather un-antichristic, he thought, with cartoon frogs on her pajamas and a nest of messy platinum curls. Even the demon cat circling her feet seemed a little worse for wear.

“I was under the impression that witches weren’t morning people,” Lucifer noted, sliding over to make room for her on the piano stool. She plopped down next to him with all the grace of someone half-awake, but still managed to fit there so easily as if she belonged no place else. “Why, pray tell, are you haunting these halls so early like some pasty Victorian ghost?”

“You know, I’ve met actual Victorian ghosts at the academy, and I would much rather deal with them at this hour than you,” Sabrina mumbled, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

“Really? Weird 1800’s outfits and all?”

“Weird 1800’s outfits and all.”

“Do you think the clothes have anything to do with it, then, or…” At his daughter’s dry, unimpressed look, Lucifer smiled and cleared his throat. “So why are you up so early, hellspawn? Has the witching hour been moved to a new timeslot?”

Sabrina, to her credit, instead of hexing him six ways to Sunday, just snorted and pressed one of the mugs into his hands. 

“You play when you think,” she answered, tilting her head towards the piano.

“I do?”

“Yeah.” She tried — and failed — to hold back a yawn as she pushed delicately at one of the keys.

Watching her then, idly sounding out the notes to an unfamiliar melody, Lucifer realized she had pianist's fingers. All long and elegant. A part of him wondered if he might teach her to play properly one day, if she let him. The most she ever shared was that she was part of the satanic church choir back home (because of course she was; those Greendale satanists were just knock-off Catholics in disguise), but she very firmly put down her foot before he could coerce her into singing some ironically-named devil songs for a duet at Lux.

“I think I recognized the tune from one of Ambrose’s old records. ABBA, was it?” She squinted, trying hard to remember. When a few seconds passed and she still couldn’t place it, she just shrugged her shoulders and moved on. “Anyway. Very hard to sleep when there’s disco music drifting through the living room.”

Lucifer glanced at the topmost book in his pile. Mamma Mia: Raising Motherless Daughters Without Completely Screwing it Up. He must’ve gotten the song stuck in his head and subconsciously played it out.

“Right,” he grimaced. “I blame the doctor and her poorly-titled reading selections. Brightside, at least we'll have something to throw at her the next time she chews us out for missing an appointment.”

“You know, the only reason we miss appointments is because you have the attention span of a goldfish and keep driving us off to heaven knows where before we even reach the clinic.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining when we ditched therapy the other day to go to Madame Tussauds,” he pointed out.

The teenager kept her lips pursed at that. She was all preachy and judgmental about skipping out on Dr. Linda their whole way to the museum. That was, until they actually arrived, and she promptly dropped the whole bleeding heart act and demanded twenty pictures next to Hannibal Lecter.

(“Holy Hecate, you’re terrible at this. How is your finger in every shot? Do it again.”)

“Alright, fine. Point to you,” she conceded, hair swaying like a moonlit curtain as she shook her head from side to side. “Still, you’ve got to stop pissing off the only therapist that can work with us in this city. ”

“She gave me homework,” he deadpanned. “Me. A timeless celestial being. And I don’t know why you're not worked up about this. Didn’t said homework inadvertently destroy your sleep schedule? Like I said, we're blaming her for the disco music.”

The hellspawn seemed thoughtful at that. “Between seances at midnight and blood rituals at dawn, I never really had much of a sleep schedule to begin with.”

“That’s very concerning.”

“I grew up in a mortuary. Concerning’s sort of a running theme where I’m from,” she said, something fond in her eyes. “Like, this one time, I got up ‘cos there was this really bad smell coming from the kitchen. Turns out the aunties were just pickling some long pig for the Feast of Feasts.”

He gave her a confused look that begat further elaboration.

“Aunt Zelda wanted to one-up Sister Shirley, so she brought appetizers to the church potluck,” Sabrina explained.

Lucifer could almost picture it. The Spellmans, marching into their weird little cult parties, armed with deviled eggs and devil’s food cake and some particularly choice meats he was rather glad not to have his name on. It almost made his stomach turn. But then that made him think of stomachs, and intestines, and long pig, and…

“You know, I’m not quite sure how I feel about our conversations always taking a turn towards cannibalism,” Lucifer frowned, taking another puff from his cigarette. It had already burned well past the filter, and he was debating whether to get up from his very comfortable perch next to his daughter just to walk across the room and get a new one.

(She smiled at him. He stayed right where he was.)

“Don’t worry. You get used to it,” the witchling laughed.

There were a lot of things he was getting used to now that Sabrina's been with him in L.A. for about a week now. Not that he was complaining, of course. His daughter was tidy and quiet as far as housemates went, save for the times she would loudly try out incantations from the ancient tomes in his library. He already told her that none of them would work — he’d never allow them to work, where her reckless, hellbound plans were concerned — but she was nothing if not persistent, and at some point, he just let her be. Everything she could do, he could undo later, anyway.

(They already had an incident involving a mistakenly-summoned hellhound that Sabrina swears wasn’t her fault. He got to see her atrocious cat get chased around the penthouse, at least, so the whole experience wasn’t a total waste.)

Since then, they’ve learned to fill their days with mundane things that, in retrospect, neither one of them got to enjoy much in their lives. He took her to places like Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm. She snuck in red pocket squares (deep and blood-colored) to his suits so they’d match whenever they went out. They still didn’t talk — not about the big things, at least, but maybe she wasn’t ready for it, and maybe that was okay. Either way, between her hour-long rants about horror movies and his colorful commentary on her cooking skills (“How is it that for a master of hellfire, you manage to burn our breakfast every single time?”), they settled into something warm and comfortable and familiar, that while not entirely perfect, was theirs and theirs alone.

“So what do you want to do today, witchling?” Lucifer asked, taking a sip from the mug that she gave him. For all her god-awful kitchen attempts, the hellspawn was surprisingly good at brewing coffee.

“I don’t know. You choose,” Sabrina shrugged. “Just make sure we won't stay out too late. I mean, I still have to catch an early flight tomorrow. Aunt Zelda said she's sticking me with Ambrose's undertaker duties if I don't get home after a week like I promised.”

“Have you packed your passport?”

“Yes.”

“Clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Did you upgrade your seat to first-class like I asked?”

“Also yes,” she sighed. “I still wish you hadn’t made me do that, though. I got here perfectly fine in coach.”

Lucifer wrinkled his nose. “Nonsense. If you had your wings already, you wouldn’t even need to fly in that giant metal bird. The least you could do is do it in style.”

“For the last time, I’m not getting wings,” she groaned, rubbing her forehead. “I don’t want them, I don’t need them, and despite your very insistent claims, no, I will not self-actualize myself into a flying angel witch princess. Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?” 

“Ridiculous?” He asked, raising his brows. “Or awesome? Hmm?”

“Ridiculous,” Sabrina answered with a straight face.

“See, you say that now, but when you suddenly wake up one day in a pile of feathers-”

“I’ll cry myself a river, build a bridge, and get over it,” she assured him.

Lucifer huffed at that (every nephilim in history had wings; there was no use fighting the inevitable), but for his own peace of mind, some part of him hoped she’d get them sooner rather than later. Wings meant more than just flight. They were weapons, protection. And with her leaving for Greendale again, with her on one side of the country and him on the other, he wanted her to have every safeguard available just in case the same unspoken things happened and he couldn’t get there in time to save her.

(Just once, he needed to know that he could save her.)

“Hey, Lucifer,” Sabrina said, halting his train of thought. He glanced up from his coffee and looked back at her. “When all this is over. When I’m done…taking care…of the stuff I have to at Greendale, I can come back here, right? Or you can come to me?” She seemed timid, almost, voice small and thumbs twiddling. “You’re not just gonna disappear again?”

He felt something in his chest cave in.

“I — Of course not, darling. What brought this on?”

“I just needed to know.”

A few minutes back, Sabrina was the same as she always was; confident, carefree, maybe even a little caustic (though he could hardly fault her for it; not when she did it so well). But the person in front of him now was someone different. Perhaps someone he even recognized from a lifetime ago.

In the hunch of her shoulders and the uncertainty in her eyes, Lucifer saw a younger version of himself, standing scared in front of his Father. But he wasn’t scared of what Father would do. No, he was scared of what Father would say. Father, whose love hung by a tether. Who turned His back once you lost your resplendence. Father who giveth and just as easily taketh away.

Lucifer’s gaze softened. 

(When his daughter was born, he swore he’d love her differently than the way his Father loved him. And by Crowley’s Claws, he swore he’d do it right.)

“I won't disappear again,” he promised. “You have my word, hellspawn. And my word is my bond. This — us,” he gestured between them. “This is for life. Be it Greendale, Los Angeles, or the nine bloody circles of hell. Alright?”

Sabrina met his eyes then, searching. He didn’t know what she was trying to find. But she must've found it quickly enough, because finally:

“Alright,” she said. The witchling took a deep breath, shook out her already messy hair. “Alright. I believe you. And for reasons I barely understand, I think I trust you.”

“Is that meant to be a compliment, or…?”

“I think it's about time I told you some things,” she said abruptly, the words spilling one after the other as if they were lodged in her throat for too long and were only now finding a way out.

All at once, the air around them was overcome with a sudden thickness, like it had grown as coiled and fretful as his daughter as she gauged his face for a response. Lucifer had no idea where this was headed. But judging by the way her leg shook restlessly under the piano, the way her pulse beat so loud he could see it through the skin of her wrist, feel it from where her arm pressed against his, it was something important to her. Therefore, it was important to him.

(I'll do this right, I'll do this right, I'll do this right.)

With a nod, he urged her to go on.

Sabrina steeled herself like a child about to pull off a bandaid. “Greendale was…well I thought it was my safe place. It was home, you know? But then something happened a few weeks ago and—”

“Lucifer!”

Both their attentions snapped to the elevator where loud, impatient fists pounded against the closed doors.

“Lucifer, I think your elevator's broken!” Said the voice inside. 

(He didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing that he could recognize that self-righteous timbre anywhere.)

“Hold that thought, darling,” Lucifer sighed, patting her hand reassuringly as he pushed himself up from the piano stool. “I just have to deal with…whatever fresh hell this is…and we'll talk later, yes?”

Sabrina didn't answer. Just kept her gaze trained on the elevator with something dark and foreboding written plain across her face.

Lucifer stopped in front of the sealed metal doors. “What is it now, brother?”

It was times like this that he deeply regretted some of his earlier architectural choices. To anyone visiting Lux (and pompous older siblings who had no regard for personal space), all it took was one ride up the lift and the penthouse was basically just a boozy, free-for-all gift shop.

“I can’t get in,” Amenadiel said.

“Well, yes, I can see that,” Lucifer replied tersely, arms pressed tight against his chest. “Have you tried, I don’t know, pushing a button? Any button, for that matter?”

“Don’t patronize me, Luci. I know how to use an elevator.”

“Considering our present circumstance, I’m not inclined to agree.”

“Look, will you help me or not?”

Truth be told, the devil was very tempted to just say ‘no’ and be done with it.

Of all the things he could be doing right now (having a much-needed talk with his daughter, for one; getting back to his mountain-high homework pile, for another), he never imagined he’d be teaching his insufferable, soldier-of-God brother how to do something that the average pizza delivery man could accomplish with his eyes closed. It was almost funny if it wasn’t so dreadfully annoying.

“What are you doing darkening my doorstep at this hour, anyway?” Lucifer demanded, exasperation clear in his voice. Still, he ran his hands over the smooth metal panes, trying to find any evidence that the elevator was, in fact, broken, and God’s Greatest Warrior wasn’t just a few bricks shy of a load.

“Need I remind you, you’re the one who called me!”

“Yes! A full four days ago! When you didn’t show up, I figured you’d been roped into one of Detective Douche’s traveling improv shows again, and seeing as those things are punishment enough, I didn’t bother checking in.”

He heard his brother exhale through the doors. “I wanted to look into some stuff before coming here. You know, those names you gave me.”

“And?” Lucifer said impatiently. 

Pulling his fingers back, he noticed they’d come away with some chalk. The scratchy blackboard kind that Sabrina seemed to have an endless supply of as she practiced her sigil-making all over the apartment.

“Sabrina,” he sighed, in the way of every parent who’d been left with the aftermath of their spawn's mess. “What did I tell you about your little witch drawings? You can practice your spellwork all you want, just make sure to clean up afterwards. I thought we already established this with the hellhound incident—” He looked over his shoulder, only just registering that the witchling was gone from his sight. “Sabrina?”

“What’s going on? Have you figured it out?” Amenadiel asked.

Lucifer stared pensively at the markings on his doors. “Almost.”

He stepped closer and looked at the sigils inscribed along the edges of the elevator; Theban reinforced with Malachim reinforced with figures from the Lesser Key of Solomon that were rather impressive, if not a touch too outdated for his taste.

It’s been a while since he’d had to decipher some proper rune marks again. Los Angeles wasn’t exactly a hotspot for occult activity, and in the rare instance that it was, pentagrams and healing crystals were a far cry from whatever rigorous education Sabrina had received from her coven. Not to mention all the forbidden texts she'd been privy to these past few days alone.

“These are protective wards,” Lucifer frowned, tracing the slope of every symbol, every curve. “Meant to keep out…demons?” He tilted his head to the side. “No. Angels. But why—”

“I think I can answer that,” his brother said evenly. “Just deactivate the ward, Luci, and let me through.”

“I don’t understand.” He shook his head. “I’m an angel as much as you are, and yet I’ve never…”

Lucifer paused. Glanced at the inscriptions again.

There, in the heart of her sacred geometry, she’d written his name right beside her own. Lucifer, Satan, Samael. Every incarnation of him from the Ars Goetia to the Agrippa texts, she’d sealed with layer after layer of protective magic that shielded him from outside harm as much as it did herself.

(“I believe you,” she told him earlier. “I trust you.”)

And if her words weren’t proof enough on their own, she’d gone ahead and transformed the penthouse into a fortress — able to withstand the presence of God’s mightiest, even if said mightiest was actually just a billion-year-old Daddy’s Boy who had a penchant for therapists and hipster-inclined fashion choices. 

But a gnawing feeling in his bones told him there was something larger at play here. Something headier, graver. The magic was too meticulous, the drawings too paranoid and overlined, and no, this wasn’t meant for just Amenadiel. This was meant for things that terrified his daughter so much she had no choice but to put it into witchery instead of words.

“Brother,” Lucifer asked slowly, fingers twitching at his side. “What did you find?”

“Aren’t you going to open the doors first—”

“Please,” he said. “What did you find?”

The devil didn’t beg. But Sabrina did. Like clockwork, he heard her every night. Jerathmiel. Mehitable. Tears on her pillowcase, and the awful, gut-wrenching sound of someone being tortured in their sleep. 

Lucifer had been away from her for too long, and that was on him. But he’ll be damned if all the pieces were laid out in front of him and he still couldn’t put it together. The wards, the nightmares, whatever happened in Greendale, the obsession with hell…they all fit into one cruel, twisted picture and he just needed to figure out how so he could make the worst of it go away.

Amenadiel grew silent for a moment, and he could imagine the angel gathering his words, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He’d spent enough time — way before time was even a concept, in fact — with his brother to know how he acted when he was on edge.

“You were right,” Amenadiel began cautiously, like treading water before starting to swim. “I thought those names sounded familiar, too, when you first called about them. Like something that would come from home. But I couldn’t go up there to ask our siblings, what with my wings being gone. And even if I did have them back…” A breath. Tired, heavy. “Well, you know how our siblings are. A touch too pious towards anyone who’s ever fallen.”

Lucifer hummed in response. 

(He knew. He knew all too well.)

“So I had to wait for one of them to come to earth.”

“Let me guess. Azrael?” He quirked a brow.

“Azrael,” Amenadiel said. “I borrowed Dan’s police scanner and waited for reports. Shootings, accidents, anything that might beckon the angel of death. But if you can remember, she’s always worked the quickest out of all of us. A lot of souls to collect in the world. It took a couple of days, but I managed to catch up with her at a car collision at 10th and Swanson.”

“How is she?” Lucifer asked despite himself. 

It had been centuries since he’d last seen his sister, but even after everything, she was still little Rae-Rae. All bright eyes and big hugs and cries he’d heard all the way down in hell when she wept for the exile of her favorite brother.

Amenadiel smiled behind the doors. Lucifer could hear it in his voice. “She’s good. Really good. Changed her hair again, if you can believe it.”

The devil snorted. “I can believe it.”

Azrael used to run around the Silver City, long dark hair brushing her ankles. Every season (back when seasons were still a working project; before summer was called summer and rain dropped instead of leaves during fall) she’d find a new way to reinvent herself. Flowers that Lucifer braided into her hair. Deep purple dye that Gabriel bled from Father’s new plants. Fringes and pins and quick, precise cuts from the celestial blade she was just learning to use.

She was a restless creature, his sister. Lucifer thought she and her niece would’ve gotten along quite well had things been different with their family.

“Anyway,” Amenadiel ploughed on, and the devil felt the sudden shift of it; that slight hitch in his voice that said he was bothered by the next thing he was about to say. “She said she recognized the names. She said…”

His brother suddenly paused, either out of hesitation or anticipation, and in that moment, something a lot like dread slithered up Lucifer’s throat.

“What did she say, Amenadiel?”

“Nevermind. Maybe this was a bad idea—”

“Tell me what she said,” Lucifer demanded, low and terrible. 

It was the same way he spoke in the Pit. The clear, irrefutable command of someone who shall not and will not be denied. Amenadiel must have felt this too, because he could sense his older brother warring with himself on the other side of the wall.

“She said,” the angel exhaled sharply. “Please don't do anything rash, Luci, but…she said they were part of the host.”

“The host?”

“Yes! But not in the way that you think, alright? They're not…they're not our siblings. Just regular angels. Foot soldiers. The ones Dad made to carry out his bidding on earth.”

(Ah. There it was. Dad. All the torment he — and now his hellspawn — had gone through, and in the end, it always came back to dad.)

“And what of these,” Lucifer worked through a swallow, the word coming out like poison dripping from his mouth, “angels?”

“I’m not sure. Azrael said it was the oddest thing. She was supposed to collect their souls, but by the time she got to Greendale, both of them were already gone—”

With a flick of the wrist and a rush of Enochian, the elevator doors suddenly flew open, Sabrina's wards falling powerless as Lucifer made his way through. It was almost instantaneous. One moment, Amenadiel had his feet on the ground, and the next, he was kicking air, pinned against the wall by the devil's inescapable grip.

“Brother, tell me, what were two angels, two celestial foot soldiers, doing in Greendale?”

Amenadiel could feel himself struggling for breath, but he stared back at his brother, unyielding. “Trust me, Luci, I wouldn’t know. Even Azrael only had their names to go by—”

“What. were. they. doing. there?” Lucifer repeated, eyes alit with the fires of hell.

A beat passed, then two, all measured breaths and patient stares before Amenadiel gave an answer.

“You're angry. I understand that,” the angel replied calmly. Lucifer hated how much it reminded him of their father. “But you're focusing on the wrong thing.”

“Oh, really? And what should I focus on, then?” The devil challenged, knuckles turning white around his brother's shirt collar. “That angels are suddenly popping up in Greendale? That Dad is a puppet master, and you, his leading marionette, most certainly have something to do with this? Please, by all means, brother, tell me what to focus on!”

“That two of our kind are dead, Lucifer!” Amenadiel replied, incredulous. “Angels don’t die unless it’s by each other’s hand! You of all people should know that! And there was no other angel in Greendale at that time except—”

The rest of his words fell away like dust scattering in the wind. 

Lucifer followed his brother's gaze and saw Sabrina standing outside the elevator, chin raised in defiance, fingers slightly shaking, but held up in a defensive spellcasting sign all the same.

“Go on,” she said, tipping her head at her uncle. “Finish what you were about to say.”

Lucifer set Amenadiel back on his feet. “Sabrina…”

“No, no. He was about to say something. Come on.” Her voice was surprisingly steady for how much her hands trembled in front of her. “Say it.”

“Sabrina, I didn’t mean it like that,” Amenadiel began.

“Call me a murderer. Better yet, call me evil. That’s all I am to you people, isn’t it?” She stepped closer to them, and Lucifer saw the tears threatening to spill from her (his) soft brown eyes. “The sadistic, unrepentant antichrist.”

The youngest angel stopped in front of the oldest. “Are you here to kill me, too?”

All at once, Lucifer's stomach dropped. His blood ran cold like the freezing rivers of his old dominion, and suddenly, he couldn't move; body seized by an inexplicable rigor.

“Darling, what…” He swallowed thickly. Heavily. Like a pound of lead had just taken refuge in his throat. “What are you talking about?”

Sabrina still refused to look at him, gaze locked on Amenadiel as if he'd pounce on her if she so much as turned her head.

“Remember what I said at Disneyland the other day?” She asked. “When we were in line for that big ride?”

(“I don't think we make very good choices,” she said to him then. 

They'd just stuffed themselves silly with corndogs, and were now in line for the highest, loopiest rollercoaster the theme park had to offer. Just looking at it made him feel sick.

“No,” Lucifer agreed, stepping to the front of the queue with her regardless. “No, we don't.”)

Her face crumpled.

“I made a bad choice,” Sabrina said, barely a whisper even in the quiet of the room.

“Sabrina—”

“But I don’t regret it,” she kept going. “Not even a little bit. Not at all.”

“Sabrina, if you could just tell me what happened. I promise, I will make everything okay—”

“I don’t think you can.”

His daughter stood there, cheeks wet, lips quivering, and in that moment, Lucifer wanted nothing more than to hold her close the way he never got to do when she was a child. She carried an untold weight with her all her life. Once, just once, he wanted her to feel safe enough to put it down.

“I killed those angels,” she said finally, simply, as if peering into his mind and giving him what he wanted.

(Dad, this is me putting it down.)

“I killed those angels,” Sabrina said again. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, raised her head. 

She tore her gaze from her uncle and looked her father straight in the eyes.

“...Because they killed me first.”

Behind him, Amenadiel started speaking, but the devil heard no words.

(“Lucifer? Luci, are you hearing this? Lucifer!”)

Not a sound save for the drumbeat of fury, pounding loud, fast, and unmistakable in his ears.

(No, this isn't right, this isn't right, this isn't right.)

It was six o’clock on a Wednesday morning, and Lucifer Morningstar’s whole world had just come to a crashing halt.

Chapter Text

The day Sabrina died felt a lot like this.

She woke up just like every other morning, had some earl grey, pushed around the breakfast on her plate. The songbirds perched outside the window even sounded kind of beautiful. Of course, back then, she hadn’t known that in a matter of hours, the finches would be replaced by crows. Maybe if she had – if she’d bothered to read her tea leaves like Aunt Hilda taught her when she was ten; saw the cross and the coffin and the broken bridge scattered all over the cup – she would’ve stopped to listen just a little while longer.

Sabrina was sixteen then. Closer to seventeen now.

She knew it was a crippling way to live, but every day since that fateful songbird morning in the heart of Greendale's perennial autumn, she’d treated every good thing like a clock ticking down to the next arrow in her chest. The kind that would come out of nowhere. That would have her breathe the freshest air before choking her, relentless, like a noose.

Because isn’t that what death was in the end? All the good things in life taken away at the very last moment.

(And this golden California summer was one of the best things she'd ever had.)

“Sabrina,” Lucifer said – quiet, too quiet – and it echoed through the penthouse like a prayer in an empty church. “What did they do?”

He looked at her as if he was grieving her somehow, a strange mix between the lump in her cousin's throat and the anger in her aunties' eyes when they first found out about what happened to her, and suddenly, Sabrina felt like all the birds had flown away and she was dying all over again.

“What didn’t they do?” She wanted to say.

Before the angels – before her blood on the floor and the malice in their eyes and no, this can’t be happening, I can’t do this alone, please, please, please, someone help – she’d never been scared. She’d never felt the terrible, gut-wrenching swell of fear a day in her life. Sure, there were Blackwood and the Weird Sisters; even the handful of demons who’d taken to following her around since her sixteenth birthday. But some part of her always knew she’d overcome them. She was strong and aggressive and had generations of powerful witch blood flowing through her veins. Other people survived on way less. And Sabrina Spellman had never been less.

That was, until she came back from the dead – voice dark and hands blazing – and all at once, she was less than everything she used to be.

(“Does it ever get easier, Ambrose?” She remembered asking one day, staring at herself in the living room mirror after putting on the glamours that masked the sallowness in her face, the scars that exploded like starbursts across her stomach and her chest. “Living life the way we do?”

The young witch could’ve meant any number of things. Their longevity, their seclusion, their ability to simply wave a hand and pretend the years were much kinder to them, when in fact, they hid more hurt than everyone else. But one long look at the exhaustion that seemed to roll off of her in waves, and her cousin understood. More than a century he’d been swept up in his own current, too.

“To tell you the truth, it doesn’t,” the warlock admitted, shifting from where he was stretched out on their old, weathered chaise lounge. He folded up the book on his chest, a history of Vatican architecture that she picked up from Dr. Cee's as a half-joke, and with the same single-minded attention he paid most everything else, he mulled over her question in earnest. “But it becomes…tolerable, after a while, you know? You find strength in the little things. Like a good song, the people you meet,” a grin overtook him as he watched one of their aunts wrestle a large platter through the kitchen doorway, “Aunt Hildy’s vegetable pie.”

Sabrina raised a brow at that. “Really? Your reason to live is vegetable pie?”

Ambrose shrugged, dropped a quick kiss to the crown of her head as he left to help set up the table. “Makes everything better, doesn't it?” He chuckled breezily, trailing after their aunt like a too-tall shadow in silken robes. Over the years it had become an open secret that Hilda was his almost-mother, as much as Zelda was hers.

Sabrina stared at the empty seat her cousin left behind, suddenly aware of the silence, the stillness. And in the middle of it, the witch standing by her lonesome, not quite sure what to do with herself and the sinking feeling that she was running out of little things to call her own.

“No, Ambrose. Not everything.”)

But the worst part wasn't the listless days or the sleepless nights. It wasn't even the terror, cold and gripping, that seeped into her bones like a malignant thing and clawed at her flesh, taking it pound for pound till there was nothing left for even the oldest gods to weigh.

The worst part was in the knowing. Knowing that a piece of her – an important piece; the piece that feared nothing and no one, and would hex to kingdom come anybody that dared suggest otherwise – was shot down in the desecrated church that night and didn’t resurrect along with the rest of Sabrina Spellman.

The girl shook the thought away with a bitter twist to her lips.

“It doesn't matter,” she said instead, because she didn't know how to put all that into words without feeling like she'd just burst into flames. “I dealt with it. It's over. It's done.”

“Darling girl,” Lucifer tutted.

Something about his tone sent shivers down her spine, and when Sabrina looked up to meet his gaze, the warm brown eyes staring back at her felt like they belonged to someone else.

“Nothing's done till the devil says it is.”

Outside, the wind did not pick up and the early hours of the day remained unbothered in all their restfulness. The last time they talked like this, really talked, Sabrina remembered whipping drapes and broken glass and her voice that almost shook the room to its foundation. 

But now…

Now, there was just a single thread of restraint, paper-thin and razor-sharp, pulled taut across the air. For a moment, everything was calm. Quiet. The deceptive bliss of an animal paused on its haunches, waiting to strike. When the phantom thread would inevitably snap down the middle, however, only Lucifer knew – and that was perhaps the most jarring thought of all.

“You’ll hate me,” she warned, ignoring the lump that slowly lodged itself into her throat. “You’ll think I’m too much, like everyone else.”

If her mind flitted none-too-kindly to Amenadiel, who was trying very hard not to look at her from the other side of the room, she chose to be the bigger witch and kept it to herself.

“Too much?” Lucifer echoed. A sardonic grin tugged at the edge of his mouth, and for a moment, his terrible mask slipped and she saw a glimpse of the devil she used to know. (It comforted her, somehow. The reassurance that he was still there.) “Hellspawn, I’m the patron saint of too much. And I could never hate you. That's simply out of the question.”

“And if the question is whether or not those angels deserved it?” Sabrina asked.

She watched as Lucifer's features darkened, as if stealing every shadow cast by the rising sun and letting them dance over the sharp ridges of his face.

“Well then,” he said curtly, and where his voice was always melodic even without meaning to, now it was a fierce, low rumble in his throat. “That's up to me to decide, isn't it? If they broke the sixth commandment as you said, then angel or not, they’re getting tried in hell's court just like every other sinner. And in my court, I am judge, jury, and–” Lucifer tipped his head to the side, assessing. “I’d say executioner, but it seems you’ve already got that part down pat, haven't you, witchling?”

“I’m not a murderer,” Sabrina said instinctively, although it didn't feel like the whole truth even as the words slipped off her tongue.

“Never said you were,” her father mollified. “But it's not really murder, is it, if turnabout’s fair play?”

If things had been different, Sabrina would've laughed. It sounded like something her Aunt Zelda would say after leaving her sister for another overnight check-in at the cain pit.

“If you want to get technical about it,” Lucifer went on, “I believe it was one of my more successful followers that said, ‘If a man smites you on one cheek…’”

Sabrina didn't even have time to process the whole thought before she finished, “Smash him on the other.” Almost like a reflex. Pulled from half-faded memories of childhood Black Masses that felt so long ago she was surprised she still remembered.

It was one of those snapshots from her youth that lost most of its window dressing over time. Where she used to recall Sundays with a certain hint of fondness, bracketed by bumpy rides in the family hearse before going home to a literal magic lunch, now it was hard to reconcile the thought without acknowledging all the religious propaganda that came along with it; spouted by crazed fanatics on the pulpit while a smaller version of her watched, discomfited, from the hard wooden pews.

“Precisely,” the devil hummed back.

His daughter was just about to ask what he meant. Whether he was angry or proud or any of the thousand different reactions she'd expected when she debated telling him the truth (“I killed those angels and it haunts me. But I'm not sorry. Should I be sorry? Tell me what to do, please. I just want this to end.”) but before she could get any of the words out of her mouth, her estranged uncle had somehow beat her to the punch.

“Really, brother?” Amenadiel asked, swiftly moving out of the corner he'd retreated to earlier when he decided to give them some space. Sabrina wasn't sure if it was a display of tact or just simple barefaced shame that drove him away, but regardless, he'd stayed so quiet until then that she almost forgot he was there. “She admits to the gravest of errors – murder, Luci – and you talk about fair play? Don't tell me you tolerate this kind of behavior!”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes at the older angel. “This is my house, Amenadiel. And my family,” he added, a warning in his tone. “I think you'll find that I tolerate whatever I damn well please.”

“Yes, but not this,” the angel shook his head. “Never this! When I agreed to help you all those years ago, you swore to me you would take every precaution possible so she would end up on the right path. And look where we are now!”

“Yes. Look where we are,” the devil replied – frigid, biting. It was the kind of cold that burned. “The very niece you swore to protect just said she was hurt, and your first instinct is to judge her instead of asking if she’s okay. Tell me, brother, has the thought even crossed your mind? Hmm?”

Amenadiel's face reddened faintly, but he gave no response.

Lucifer scoffed. “Well, there you go.” His lips twisted into a vicious scowl. “Thank you for making it abundantly clear that I was wrong to trust you with my daughter, and obviously, I won't be making the same mistake twice.”

“Come on, you know that's not fair!” Amenadiel protested, taking a step closer to Sabrina, and involuntarily, the teenager flinched. She hadn't meant to do it. Something in her just...reacted to the thought of another angel being so near, and her body betrayed her before she could even think. Regardless, Lucifer must’ve seen how she recoiled, because all at once, his icy gaze simmered into a steady boil; brimstone and ash and other molten things. Her uncle took another step forward. “She hasn’t even told us what happened and–”

Snap.

The proverbial thread holding the devil back had finally broken down the middle, and suddenly, Sabrina found herself engulfed in a flurry of white, Lucifer’s wings spreading from his shoulder blades like nothing she could've imagined and coming up protectively around her. The girl gasped – a soft, light sound at the sight of them. It felt like heaven itself had opened up at her fingertips, and for the first time in the history of satanic witches, divinity was well within reach of someone who's been taught to fight against it her entire life.

(What little mortal part she had left wanted to cry and fall to her knees. The stronger, infernal part wondered if it might not be the worst thing in the world – waking up with remnants of paradise fastened to her bones, like Lucifer said.)

“I suggest you stay where you are, brother,” the devil cautioned, the inflection of each word a kind of poison of its own. It was fitting, in a way. Some books still called him Samael. When she asked her aunt about it, years and years ago, Zelda said it meant the venom of the false god. “Otherwise, I swear to everything unholy that you will regret it.”

Almost like a portent, his feathers rippled, stroked by an unseen wind, and up close, Sabrina realized that they came sharpened to a point like a thousand tiny blades. Across from them, Amenadiel's shoulders clenched reflexively.

Sabrina hadn't caught much of their earlier conversation – she'd gone to find Salem in case they needed to escape – but she did hear that her uncle lost his wings somehow. For what reason, she didn't know. Still, the feeling pulled at her chest that maybe he still carried the phantom weight of them on his back, much like how she would always brush her hair tentatively over the places where the crown of thorns had dug into her scalp. Or how she never locked her bedroom door because being sealed up while she slept reminded her all too much of the witch’s cell. It was something she understood more than anyone. The relentless chase of running from (or in his case, toward) things that were no longer there. 

(Whatever resentment she harbored fizzled out just the slightest bit. Maybe the angel in front of her was different from the ones at the church. Maybe he was more human than she thought.)

Amenadiel exhaled forcefully, brows meeting in a thick frown. “Lucifer, you’re being ridiculous. If I wanted to hurt your daughter, I would’ve done it when she was a helpless little baby and you were in hell. Especially when I was at full power. If I wanted her dead, she. would. be. dead.”

The span of her father's wings circled closer around her.

“Is that meant to be a threat?” Lucifer asked darkly. 

All along the wall sconces crawling up to the crystal chandeliers, the lights of the penthouse seemed to glow brighter. Too bright, even. Like at any given moment, they would surrender under the surge of raw power and each one might explode.

“No,” his brother answered, “it's a reminder. That in all the time I watched over Sabrina, she didn't get so much as a cold or a scrape to the knee, and I did that. I held up my end of the bargain for as long as you held up yours.”

“That’s called sheltering. It only hurts your spawn in the long run. All those damned parenting books said so,” Lucifer clenched his teeth, gesturing vaguely to the half-finished stack abandoned somewhere in the living room. “Sabrina’s a person, not glass or – or porcelain. She was supposed to scrape her knees and make mistakes and learn not to do them again. That’s what childhood’s bloody for! I never asked you to keep her from it!”

“Well, you asked me to keep her safe and I did it the only way I knew how,” Amenadiel said conclusively. There was an underlying thread to unspool there, Sabrina thought. Her father once told her in passing that her uncle was a soldier. The greatest in all of heaven. And she’d learned enough about history and feuds and (holy) wars to know that when soldiers swear to protect their comrades in battle, they do it with full force. With everything they’ve got. It was practically a blood oath, athame-sealed or not. Anything less was unacceptable. Before his brother could open his mouth to argue, the angel tipped his head to the side, eyes boring straight into the devil’s. “Besides. How could I let any earthly thing harm that girl, when everytime I looked at her, I saw you? Or at least, whatever version of you existed before The Fall.”

Sabrina felt Lucifer pause. The lights were still buzzing in their terrifying electric dance, and his wings were ready to slash and strike as ever, but his face…his face was different somehow. The anger he wore on it faltered just the slightest bit.

“I couldn’t help my brother then, and that was my fault and I’m sorry. But I sure as heaven wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to his daughter. Just…just tell me it wasn't a mistake, Luci. And I swear to Dad I'll drop it. Tell me it was the right choice to keep her from our siblings and the Silver City and people who actually knew what to do with her, because right now, I’m not so sure.”

“It wasn’t a mistake, Amenadiel–”

“Then prove it.”

For a long time, the siblings stared at each other. Older and younger. The serpent and the soldier. Cain confronting Abel, stone in hand. Sabrina didn’t understand what strange force it was that drew siblings together, and in the same breath, wrenched them apart. The closest she had was Ambrose who wasn't even her brother (not even her cousin, in retrospect). Just someone who was already there the day she showed up at the mortuary and willingly moved one seat over to make room for her at the table.

Then there were her aunties who seemed to be locked in the same endless tug-of-war as the angels in front of her. Hilda, always in the garden; Zelda, waiting with the shovel or the knife or the 2x4 plank of wood leftover from when Mr. Putnam built a pen for Black Phillip the goat – they never did get a chance to sacrifice him after Sabrina fled from her dark baptism all those months ago.

(“Be grateful no one else ever popped out of your mother,” Zelda said to her once, smoke-warmed voice filling the quiet of their parlour. It was a Thursday, 8 am. The dead wouldn’t come in till noon and Hilda was in the kitchen making breakfast. Something fragrant with honey and apples. “Sisters are insufferable creatures. You kill them, and it feels good for a moment. But then that moment stretches a touch too long and you feel like you've killed a part of yourself along with her. Like...like a wretched vestigial organ. Unnecessary, but attached to you all the same.” The older witch shook her head, tapping her cigarette against a delicate porcelain ashtray she’d bought sometime in the 1920’s and gazing out the cobwebbed windows of the mortuary. Her eyes lingered somewhere far. Past the gravestones and the trees and all the way into Greendale’s deep, dark woods. “Have I ever told you about the dream I had with Batibat?”)

Surprisingly enough, it was Lucifer who broke first. He folded back his wings with a tight whoosh of air, and almost immediately, Sabrina felt the loss of them. Like a dull ache between her shoulder blades that had never been there before.

“I'm sorry, hellspawn, but it seems as though we've reached an impasse,” her father said, voice hard against the soft hush that fell across the living room. “Your uncle appears to have gotten it in his shiny, bald head that you – whom he's had a hand in raising, whether he wants to admit it or not – are a psychopathic killer of some sort that needs to be brought to justice. How he plans to accomplish that as a wingless sad sack, I don't know.” Amenadiel bristled lightly at that, and Lucifer only smiled, the corners of his mouth upturned in open derision. It reminded her briefly of Maze. “Either way, it's about time we proved him wrong, yes?”

“I never called Sabrina any of those things–”

“I’ve heard enough of you for one day, brother. Let the witchling speak.”

Amenadiel clenched his jaw, looking very much like he wanted to retaliate. Sabrina couldn't blame him. Everyday since she arrived in California, there was always someone – roadside pastors, cuckolded husbands, a well-meaning detective who was also kind of a douche – itching to pick a fight with the club owner. But unlike any of them, the angel just took a deep, fortifying breath and held his tongue. It was a therapy trick Sabrina recognized from Dr. Linda. Absorb all the negative energy in the room (In this case, her father. When was it ever not her father?), and in one go, let it out.

Soon enough, two pairs of eyes landed on her – one, black as an eclipsed sun, and the other, brown like the earth that covers a grave. Both were watching her expectantly, and suddenly, Sabrina felt like one of those insects under the microscope in Baxter High, being picked apart and pulled back together by something so much bigger than herself. In a way, maybe she was. 

“I…” The teenager swallowed, looking down at her feet. They were bare against the cold floor of the apartment, but yesterday, she was wearing an old pair of heeled oxfords that Lucifer accused of being grave-robbed from a 1960's corpse. She'd threatened to unleash Salem on his Italian leather couch again after the fact, but then he laughed and ruffled her hair. Said he was only kidding, hellspawn. That whatever she wore or said or did, she should know by now that he'd adore her for it anyway.

“Arrows,” Sabrina said slowly. “They had…they were burning witches at the desecrated church. Something about repentance or conversion,” she shook her head. “It all happened too fast. I can’t remember everything, but…”

The way her body hit the ground, lifeless, after the arrows entered one way and pierced through flesh and muscle out the other. The awful gurgling sound of Melvin and Elspeth choking on their own blood. The terrible, dark in-between where she lingered for what felt like eternity before some higher power finally decided she could come back again.

Sabrina balled her hands into fists to keep them from shaking at her sides.

“...There are some things I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

The witch set her jaw decisively and turned to the two men in front of her. “I’ll tell you what happened. All of it. Just this once. But then I’m burying it back in whatever box my mind keeps it in, and we’ll never speak of it again. Do you understand?”

Amenadiel nodded back, but Lucifer’s mouth was locked in that sharp, stubborn way of his that meant every part of him wanted to say ‘no.’ Which was par for the course, really, since her father was never the type to leave well enough alone. Still, after seeing the pleading look on his daughter's face, the devil begrudgingly gave his assent with no lack of effort, and Sabrina felt herself calm just the slightest bit.

She closed her eyes and breathed in, long and deep.

“I guess it all started when the missionaries came to Greendale…”

By the time she'd recounted everything – from Jerathmiel's innocuous first knock at their door, to the surreal, otherworldly feeling of floating above everyone at the church – her uncle had a look on his face that could only be described as ‘disturbed,’ while Lucifer was deathly silent in a way that bode well for no one. It was such a stark contrast to the loud, effervescent club owner she’d grown accustomed to that it almost unnerved the young witch. Almost.

Sabrina shifted her weight from foot to foot, hoping that one of them would speak first.

“Look, I…” she licked her lips, suddenly dry in the tense, suffocating air. “I understand if this is too much to process. People don’t usually make a habit of believing me, and probably for good reason. But I swear I’m telling the truth–”

All at once, she was pulled into arms that felt as steady as they were safe, and it surprised her, just how easily she let herself sink into them.

“I believe you, hellspawn,” Lucifer murmured softly into her hair. His hands had come up around her – one resting on her shoulder, the other cradling the back of her head – and her entire life, Sabrina wondered what it would feel like to be in her father's embrace, and somehow, this exceeded every expectation and more. Slowly, hesitantly, she wrapped her arms around him, too. “I don’t say it enough…haven’t said it at all, really, but…” He held onto her even tighter. “I love you and I trust you and you're the most important person in the world to me. Doubt everything but not that. Never that. Alright?”

Sabrina's eyes turned glassy despite herself, and she nodded, burying her face deeper into his chest. 

He smelled like cigarette smoke and cologne. She didn’t know when, but at some point over the past week, she'd catalogued the scent along with so many others that reminded her of home. Like embalming fluid and garden soil, and now, ostensibly, well-pressed Prada shirts that felt all too warm against the skin of her cheek.

It had been a long time since Diana last hugged her. But Sabrina knew her mother did it when she was young, and often enough that her daughter could probably still remember the exact feel of it if she tried. Mom was all soft lines and gentle smiles and a faint scent of lavender and bergamot that lingered in the air even when she was a spirit visiting for last year's solstice.

For her dad, though, there was no early memory. No reference point to look back on. And some days she still begrudged him for it, for not being around when she was growing up, but he was here now and he said he loved her, and so she etched every detail of it into her mind so that even when she inevitably loses him someday – like how she lost mom; like how everyone loses everything in the end – Sabrina would never forget.

“Darling?” Lucifer asked, bringing her racing thoughts to a halt.

“Yeah?”

“You never did tell us,” he pulled away slightly to look at her face. “How did they go?”

There was a frown wrinkling her father’s brows, and the witch tipped her head to the side, unsure what he meant. But then it caught up to her that, technically, the story she told wasn't done. She just ended with the details of her resurrection and left it at that. Both Lucifer and Amenadiel knew that she killed those angels (of course they did; it was what started this whole mess in the first place) but Sabrina never got so far as to tell them how.

“Oh,” the girl blinked her wide brown eyes, darker now in the dim light. “I burned them alive.”

“Hellfire?”

“Always,” she replied. “It was the least they deserved.”

Lucifer smiled ruefully at that, equal parts proud and punishing. “How right you are, hellspawn.” He gave her arms one last squeeze before finally letting go. “Though I’d argue those miscreants deserved so, so much more.”

With a brand new resolve seeping into him, he reached for the suit jacket he’d draped over the couch late last night, and slid it easily over his shoulders.

“Wait...” Sabrina frowned as she watched him do up the buttons. “Where are you going? There's nothing else you can do. I just told you. I killed them. It's over.”

“What tender mercies you must have, witchling, if you think the worst punishment worth inflicting is a little bit of death.”

“I…I don't understand.”

Lucifer straightened his clothes with one final tug and turned to face his daughter. 

“Sometimes I forget how young you still are,” he sighed, though his face held nothing but genuine, eye-crinkling fondness. After a beat, he shook his head. “No matter. All you need to know for now is that death…well, it's just one part of the equation. Making the pain of it last, however, that's the ideal. A million tiny deaths stretched out across eternity. Based on what happened to your attackers, I’d say perpetual immolation is the way to go. Keep them nice, crispy, and tortured till the demons exhaust themselves. Or until the nine circles freeze over, whichever comes first.” He started fixing his cufflinks as if they were having a normal conversation about the weather, or the news, or maybe what to eat later for breakfast. “Lucky for you, their souls are most likely in my domain already, so it's just a matter of passing down the right orders to the right sycophants, and we should be done.”

“So that's where you're going right now? To hell?” Amenadiel seemed to have found his tongue, sputtering out in disbelief somewhere close to her.

“What? Of course not. Why waste my breath on something I can accomplish with a five minute salt circle when I get back?”

“Well then where are you off to?” His brother demanded.

“I'm afraid that's my business more than yours,” Lucifer answered crisply, moving towards the elevator. “Though, do me a favor while I'm away, will you? Keep an eye on Sabrina.” He nodded towards the girl. “Preferably with a lower mortality rate this time.”

The elevator doors slid open with an easy flourish, and the club owner stepped inside.

“You can't keep doing this, you know,” Amenadiel called after him.

“Doing what?”

“Leaving,” the angel said. Her uncle sighed and rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Look. I needed you to stay and do your job in hell before, so I never stopped you when the mortal woman died–”

“Diana,” Lucifer interjected, “her name was Diana.”

“Okay,” his brother amended, something in his eyes softening. “When Diana died, I supported your disappearing act because I thought it was for the best, and at the time, maybe it was. But now, I can’t…” He trailed off and cast a significant glance at his niece. “I can’t in good conscience let you walk away when people need you, Luci. Not again.”

Her dad's fingers were already grazing the control panel, about to press the command for the ground floor, but then he paused. “There’s nothing to worry about. I'll be back soon, I promise.” Sabrina wasn’t sure if the words were directed to her or to her uncle. His gaze immediately found his daughter's, however, and just like that, she knew; the assurance sitting warm and hopeful in her chest. “It's different this time, alright?”

“How?” Amenadiel countered. “How is this time any different?”

A shadow of old ghosts seemed to pass over Lucifer’s face. The faint, flickering remorse of someone still being haunted after so long. 

“This time,” he said, gruff but quiet, “there's no one else to blame but Dad almighty himself. In fact, since you’re so desperate to know…”

He straightened his back as if drawing himself up for battle, and pressed the elevator button going down. The words just barely made their way out as the smooth metal panes drew to a close. But Sabrina heard. So did Amenadiel. It wasn't the kind of thing to go unnoticed, like a drop in the ocean turning into a wave, rising to a tsunami that could so easily drown them all.

“...I'm going to speak with him right now.”

The sound of the devil's footsteps echoed hard against the old mosaic floors of St. Sebastian. The church had been empty for weeks now, tarps and scaffolding taking up space as the tiny parish near Sunset Strip closed its doors for renovation. Fresh paint, new lights, and a restoration of the stained glass windows, the notice board said outside. To God be the glory.

Lucifer scoffed and slowed to a stop in front of the great gilded altar.

“You know, your sheep really are beyond saving if their idea of glory is an interior redesign. Must've missed that part of the beatitudes. ‘Blessed are those who grab the two-for-one paint deal at Home Depot.’”

Silence. 

(When it came to his Father, it was always that damned, insufferable silence.)

Lucifer sighed and fished a cigarette from his breast pocket, his lighter flashing a deep blue as it clicked to life in the darkness of the boarded-up windows.

“But, ridiculous as your worshippers are,” he brought the stick to his lips and blew out once, the plumes of white smoke rising to the high ceilings, “we both know that's not why I'm here.”

All around him, the eyes of the wax figure saints seemed to follow his every move; watching, judging. It brought Lucifer some measure of satisfaction, knowing he’d watched and judged most of them too everytime a new martyr showed up in hell, thinking some last minute act of devotion would save them from the aftermath of their sins. But there was no salvation to be had. Not from the Morningstar, who was made to punish and pursue, and only ever did what he was told.

“See, I’ve talked to you many times about my daughter. Usually on her birthday, which I’m sure you know because you know everything, don’t you?” He tipped his head to the side, sardonic. “‘Father, protect her. Father, preserve her. Father, give her happiness in every way that I can’t.’ Does this ring a bell to you, old man, or should I keep going?”

The first time he did it – praying after so many eons since he Fell – it felt like some kind of blasphemy. Not to God, but moreso to Lucifer himself. To reach out for the very same hands that starved him of heaven, and resist the urge to bite. 

But Sabrina was so little then. So fragile and helpless. And he knew that his Father had a soft spot for innocents who were yet uncorrupted by the world (He even had Matthew the living doormat spell it out in his book, 19:14), but Lucifer wasn’t stupid enough to think that his Dad would ever love her like the rest of them. Sabrina was the spawn of his most hated son. If anything, anything at all, happened to his witchling, it meant a one-way ticket to hell and none of the merciful compassion that welcomed all the children up in Eden. 

And so, to remedy that, the devil was forced to do the unthinkable. He was forced to swallow his pride. 

Diana was long out of the Catholic Church at that point, by virtue of having spent nearly a decade as a satanic priest's wife, but Lucifer asked her to go back. “Just for an hour,” he said. “Probably even less.” He told her to take their daughter and one of the Spellman sisters as a witness, and have Sabrina baptised just a few weeks after she was born. He was paranoid and anxious in the way that all new parents were. Even more that one of his siblings could easily descend at any time and take her away. Not that he'd ever let them, of course, but still…the worry lingered. That Ibriel or Raphael, or heaven forbid, even Michael, arrive under the cover of night and steal his baby from her cot while she dreamed her infant dreams in the witch house.

The Silver City was a hellscape of its own fashion, devoid of free will and any joy unwrought by zealotry, but even then, it had its rules. The greatest of which was that no angel could harm a living being blessed in the name of God. And Lucifer held onto that rule because it had never been broken. Because so long as a servant of his Father said the right words and poured the right water, Sabrina would be safe. She would be spared no matter her parentage.

That was, until God decided to throw the whole bloody rulebook out the window, because that was what Lucifer did when he rebelled, and the petty bastard was hellbent on punishing him for it even now.

“Whatever quarrel you had with me, you should've left between us. That was your first mistake.” 

He glared up at the cross in front of him. It wasn’t his Father, not exactly, but close enough. 

“Then you had the gall – the temerity – to drag her to the forefront. My only child. Now, I know you can’t possibly understand, because you have enough sons and daughters that you can cast one of us down to hell and not give a damn, but Sabrina's all I’ve got. My brightest light, and you put her out like she was nothing. Another insignificant chess piece to be pushed around in your game. But she's not, alright? She's my little girl and you slaughtered her. Shot through with arrows like...like some kind of trophy animal. And it doesn't matter if it didn't last long or that you brought her back. You still took her from me. That was your second mistake.”

Lucifer took a long drag from his cigarette and flicked off the ash, pieces of it falling like snow to the sacred ground beside him.

“Have I not given enough?” He asked imploringly, face turned to heaven in a way he hadn't done since Father Frank. “I've kept my daughter at arms-length all her life, to save her from my influence. I had her blessed in your stupid church. I haven't…” His breath hitched and he shook his head, eyes screwed shut. “I haven't even hugged her. Told her I loved her. Not until today, when I found out she was gone from me and I didn't even know. What more did you want, Dad?”

That was the worst part, Lucifer realized. That Sabrina was so easy to love, but even if she weren’t, God would’ve detested her all the same. Amenadiel said it himself – every time he looked at Sabrina, he saw Samael in the garden. With all of his resplendence and none of the shame that came from Falling. Was that why Father hated her? Because to see Sabrina was to see the son He never would’ve lost, if only He’d done things a little differently?

“After you abandoned me in the Pit, I never prayed. Not once. Not until my witchling was born and her mother died, and I was overwhelmed with the fact that there are so many things out of my control, and yet they remain firmly in yours. I just…” The devil exhaled shakily and ran a hand through his hair, knocking the pristine curls out of place. “Was it wrong of me to ask you? For millennia, I’ve never asked you for anything, save for that one time I begged on behalf of Chloe’s life, but even before then, all I’ve ever prayed for was my daughter. Like clockwork, each Samhain. And everything I asked was within reason, too. Nothing any other parent wouldn’t want for their child. Was that so intolerable? So unbearably loathsome to your divine ears? Well, hear this, Father.”

Lucifer gestured to the empty space around him.

“I’m in your house, with the stained glass and the bullshit saints on the wall, so maybe you'll listen to me now, yes? This was your third and worst mistake.”

He took one last pull from his cigarette before throwing it by the foot of the altar. With a wave of a hand, light blue embers began to rise from the floor, and almost instantly, the whole thing was covered in intense, roaring flames.

“You've underestimated the lengths I'm willing to go for my family.”

The fire spread quickly after that. From the tabernacle to the cross, to the wax figure saints, seemingly weeping now as the paint ran melting down their cheeks. Even the windows began to crack under the mounting heat. Meanwhile, Lucifer stood unbothered in the midst of it all, already used to the inferno that forged and fortified him for so many years down in hell.

“You wanted the devil, Dad, now you've got him. You've made him.” The flames were climbing up the walls now, and Lucifer let them – brick, mortar, and wood being eaten away like so much kindling. “This will be the first of every church I burn if you dare hurt my daughter again, and there will be nothing left but the ashes of all your houses under my feet. There will be no survivors. No rock upon which to rebuild. And you know me, Father, I don't make empty promises like you.”

The sound of the devil's footsteps echoed hard against the old mosaic floors of St. Sebastian, walking leisurely down the aisle as the roof started to collapse and smoke blanketed the air like a too-thick fog. Hellfire worked fast. In a matter of minutes, the church would be reduced to charred stone and whatever trinkets the clergy would manage to dig up underneath all the rubble. Some would call it an act of God. Others would blame it on the devil. But none of them would ever know for sure, because Lucifer spent enough time in law enforcement to learn to cut all the cameras before he entered and damage the right pipes to make it seem like a convenient little gas explosion. Somewhere, somehow, he thinks there's a universe out there where the detective would be proud.

Just before he exited the double doors, all but an archway of flames now, Lucifer glanced at the cross again, scorched and disfigured as it overlooked the entire place.

“Make a fourth mistake, Dad, and this will only be the beginning. On that, you have my bloody word.”

And with that, just as swiftly as he arrived, the devil was gone; leaving nothing behind but ashes and burning and the deafening scream of silence.

Chapter Text

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 Lucifer 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 once or twice, 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, 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 began.

“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 had 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, passive.

“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. He shook his head and tried again. 

“It was wrong of me,” Amenadiel said finally. “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 and 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, shoving the knife back into her boot and walking 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. The words looked like they were written in blood.

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.)

Chapter Text

It was dark in Pandemonium, as all of the nine circles were, but in the heart of hell there was a more sinister way in which the shadows fell. Deeper. Woeful. Sunless. Moreso now that the Morningstar was gone, and the creature that rose up to take his place only reveled at the loss of light. 

Something terrible was brewing. Nick could feel it in his bones.

As soon as he was delivered to hell however long ago (Had it been weeks? Years? Time passed weirdly in this place, a river constantly in flux), whatever entity trapped inside of him escaped the moment they arrived. In fact, Nick had barely registered the “prisoner” that he was supposed to share a cage with. The warlock was asleep, a flesh acheron when he left Greendale – and when he woke up, he was in a disgusting, dark cell in a disgusting, dark dungeon. And he was alone in his own body. He didn’t know if he should have been more thankful or afraid.

There was one thing Nicholas had known for sure, though, and this truth only solidified in his mind the longer he stayed in Pandemonium: whatever that bastard inside of him was, it was not Lucifer Morningstar.

It was powerful, yes. But Nick knew power. True power. It surged through you like a lightning strike, and it was thrilling, fearsome, overwhelming. He got a small taste of it just a few months ago when he basked in the glow of the Lupercalia moon. He felt it prickle at his skin the night they stood at the pentagram in the Greendale woods, calling back Agatha’s soul from the dead. He drank it in mouthfuls every time he kissed Sabrina Spellman and it felt as though he was drinking from the well of magic itself. It wasn’t until later that he understood it was never his power that coursed through him in those moments, it was always hers.

Her body lying next to his, fingers intertwined, after anointing themselves with blood for the lupercal. Her voice leading the incantation for the weird sister’s resurrection. Her name on his lips, a kind of prayer, a benediction; one he’d gladly repeat, over and over, for the rest of his life.

Sabrina was power unlike anything he’d ever known. And if she was just a fraction of her father, a drop in the ocean of the Dark Lord’s might, then whoever it was they’d devoted themselves to all these years was just a pale imitation. A fake. What the warlock couldn't wrap his head around was how no one in their entire coven – masters of lies and deceit because it was the only way they could survive – noticed it sooner. Nick didn't notice it sooner.

Maybe they were all so desperate for a god that they kissed the feet of the first one that stood in front of them.

But Nick didn't want to believe in gods anymore. Not the False God whose angels hunted them down for sport. Not this imposter Lucifer who played them all for fools while they blindly followed. Not even the real Lucifer who never did anything to them. He never did anything for them, either, and that was arguably worse.

No, Nick didn't believe in the gods, but for being the one decent presence in his life, he believed in Sabrina. 

(Some days, he had to wonder if those were just different words for the same thing.)

And as one tends to do for those they believed in – what he’d done day after day, night after night, in this wretched place – he put his hands together and called out.

“Te voco, Sabrina,” he began, voice strong, each word heavy with the weight of conviction. “Regina inferni. Stella matutina. Discedite a Pandemonio, et manete in plano mortali. Qui affecto protego, mixtisque iubas serpentibus et posteris meis stirpique.”

It was everything: a warning, a plea, a promise. Wherever she was, Nick knew she was finding a way to him, and that was what worried him most. Spellman was stubborn at best, and downright self-destructive at worst. Hell hath no fury like his half-witch bending the world to her relentless will. But it wasn’t so much the journey to Pandemonium, but rather what waited for her here, that gripped his heart with an ice cold terror. 

Over time, Nick had come to realize that all of it, each move and counter-move, every act of power and greed and open-mouthed spite that led them here, was just a drawn-out game that had a single end goal in mind:

Capture.

It was the only thing that made sense. The False Lucifer had multiple chances to kill Sabrina where she stood, but never did. Instead, they let her grow in power and influence, and then escaped back into their infernal territory just when the whole realm was ripe for the girl to claim.

For what reason, Nick didn’t know. But he would be damned (more than he already was) if he let Spellman step foot in this place long enough to find out.

“Te voco, Sabrina,” he said again. “Regina inferni. Stella matutina. Discedite a Pandemonio, et manete in plano mortali. Qui affecto protego, mixtisque iubas serpentibus et posteris meis stirpique.”

Nicholas had never learned devotion in his life. It was something taught at youth; parents praying with their children, sabbaths spent in long morning sermons illuminated by stained glass.

He had none of that. Instead, he had Amalia who taught him that love was something sharp, with claws and teeth. Instead, he had a high priest who picked him up like a stray from the woods and said surrender was the closest thing he would ever get to salvation. The only way forward is on your knees, Blackwood said. The Dark Lord will take whatever he demands and you will be grateful to have served.

But Nicholas Scratch knew no god.

(Non serviam.)

And yet…he knew Sabrina. Sabrina who was soft in all the ways he was not allowed to be, but never fell to her knees for anyone. Sabrina who glowed with the fierceness of the sun, but for all her brightness, he could never find it in himself to look away.

If hers was the church he was meant to serve, then he would gladly do so. Even if it meant staying in this hell for as long as he needed to.

“Te voco, Sabrina. Regina inferni. Stella matutina. Discedite a Pandemonio, et manete in plano mortali. Qui affecto protego, mixtisque iubas serpentibus et posteris meis stirpique.”

It was on his sixth repetition that the heavy cell door swung open. In walked a dark figure that seemed to drag all shadows behind them, large, looming, and inescapable like the worst kind of curse. The one that couldn't be undone.

Nick clamped his mouth shut.

“No need to stop your prayers on my account,” the figure smiled, slow and languid. “Hell is definitely no stranger to the sound.”

Like they did most days, his warden stopped in front of him, eyes narrowed in a searing sort of fascination that he could feel down to the smallest atom. The only thing the warlock could do was stare back, hoping that his own gaze was sharp enough to cut.

“Hell is a stranger to you. It’s not yours to take.”

His response only seemed to further delight the entity in regal black robes. 

“Is that so?” They hummed, lips stretched in a dangerous grin. Poison dipped in honey. “Then all your beloved witch has to do is march down here and take it back. It is well within her power, don't you think?”

“She’s smarter than that,” Nick said.

“Is she? Smarter than you, surely,” the figure replied mockingly. “Your hands unbound, your door unlocked, and yet you stay here all of your own accord.”

Nick bristled at the reminder. It was true. They never bothered to put him in chains or even position a guard outside his cell. The door was a simple slab of wood with no lock in sight. By all means, he should’ve been able to get up and walk away at any time.

And yet it was his body that failed him. His limbs, heavy as lead, tethered him to the room, held by some unseen gravity that kept him from leaving. Even worse was his own mind, whispering awful things beneath the surface of his thoughts. Reminders of how he left Amalia, the one family he knew, chained to a cave and did nothing for her as she died. Flashes of how he willingly deceived Sabrina for the impostor Dark Lord and had the gall to call it devotion.

(I have sinned, the voice inside of him repeated, incessant as a war drum. I must pay, I must pay, I must pay.)

“It takes a special kind of cruelty for the False God to design a prison like this,” the figure said, sardonic. “Yet He’s the one that’s supposed to be kind.”

Nick scoffed. “And what do you know about kindness?”

The entity’s mouth hardened at that, a flicker of some past bitterness ghosting their face. Everyday they wore a new one. Yesterday they were an old crone with skin like wrinkled leather. Today it was someone younger, always with the dark hair and piercing eyes they defaulted to the most.

“Kindness is weakness, Mr. Scratch. Along with love. And sacrifice.”

The figure drew closer. Nicholas stepped back. His hands ached with the phantom buzz of magic, but it was no use inside this prison. The most he could do was stay deathly still while the being in front of him dropped their voice as if sharing a terrible secret.

“It’s what makes the Morningstars so fallible. And mark my words, I will see them fall.”

They drew back and smiled, saccharine and so very sure.

Nick only let himself breathe again when Lilith took all shadows with her and swept back out of the room.