Chapter Text
Silver wings and golden eyes, wild and crazy. The clash of blades. Fear.
Vaggi jerked upright in bed, a sharp breath tearing through her chest as she barely swallowed a scream. For a heartbeat, she didn’t know where she was—only the echo of those eyes, that terror, the sound of angelic steel meeting angelic steel.
Then the shadows settled, and reality came back into focus.
Home.
Their room.
Her bed.
She turned, exhaling shakily when she saw Charlie still curled beside her, sleeping peacefully. Vaggi hated waking her with these nightmares, hated the way Charlie’s face always folded with worry when she did.
Thank Satan I didn’t wake her. I can’t keep doing this to her. She deserves one night—just one—without worrying about me.
Running a trembling hand over her face, she tried to steady her breathing. But when she closed her eye, flashes of those golden, manic eyes shot through her mind again. She opened it quickly, pulse still racing.
Stop. Don’t think about her. She can’t hurt you now. Not here.
Charlie mumbled something in her sleep and shifted closer to where Vaggi had been lying, reaching for her warmth.
Vaggi’s heart twisted.
She always reaches for me… even when I don’t deserve it.
They had won. Vox was gone. For now, Heaven and Hell were… stable. Or as stable as either place could ever get. And though they’d lost Angel to Valentino, everyone was fighting tooth and nail to bring him home. For the first time in months, there was a sliver of hope.
But underneath that hope lay a truth that hit Vaggi like a blade to the spine every single night.
If Abel hadn’t been there…
She wouldn’t be here.
Lute would have ended her.
Lute.
Even thinking the name sent cold dread trickling down her back.
Vaggi had known she couldn’t match her. Lute was stronger, faster, taller with longer limbs. And Vaggi had been running on four hours of sleep stretched thin over months of crisis—not to mention the emotional mess she and Charlie had barely begun to untangle.
None of it mattered in the moment. Vaggi had thrown herself at the woman because someone had to keep Lute occupied. Someone had to buy Charlie and the others the time they needed to destroy the weapon.
And what did you accomplish? Ten seconds? Less? She wiped the floor with you. If Lute had killed you, it wouldn’t have slowed her down at all. Your big heroic sacrifice would’ve meant nothing.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Pathetic.
Vaggi slipped quietly out of bed and tucked the blanket more snugly around Charlie, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her temple. Charlie sighed, smiling faintly in her sleep.
That tiny smile softened the jagged edges inside Vaggi.
She still looks at me like I’m enough. Like I’m worth all this.
The clock on the nightstand glowed 3:04 AM. They’d barely dragged themselves into bed well after midnight.
But she’d never fall back asleep now. The adrenaline wouldn’t let her. The guilt wouldn’t either.
Moving silently, she grabbed some clothes and pulled them on.
One last look at Charlie—safe, warm, blissfully unaware of Vaggi’s spiraling thoughts—and then she slipped out of the room.
When they renovated the hotel, they turned one of the basement rooms into a training room. Vaggi was usually the only one using it, sometimes joined by Cherri Bomb. It was her favorite place to wind down from stressful situations. Ironically, that was still a left over from her time as an exorcist.
The room was cold and empty when Vaggi slipped inside, the neon glow from the hallway lights bleeding red across the mats. She didn’t turn on the lights. The shadows felt safer—less judging, more honest.
She grabbed a wooden practice spear from the rack, twirling it once through her fingers. It felt too light—wrong. She put it back and grabbed a weighted training spear this time—twice as heavy. When she lifted it, the old and faded scars between her shoulder blades twinged.
Good, she thought. Let it hurt.
She stepped into the center of the room, took her stance, and exhaled.
The moment her mind quieted, Lute’s golden, unhinged eyes flared behind her eyelid.
Vaggi’s grip tightened.
Then she attacked.
She launched into a series of strikes—clean, precise movements drilled into her since her Exorcist days. Every swing was punishment. The spear whistled through the air, a rapid flurry of strikes. Her muscles screamed, the weight dragging her arcs lower, slower. She adjusted, forced them higher, faster.
But no matter how hard she drove herself, she remembered:
Lute didn’t slow.
Lute didn’t tire.
Lute didn’t miss.
Vaggi’s heartbeat spiked.
She struck harder.
The spear slammed into the training dummy’s ribs, splintering the wooden frame under the force. She pivoted, spinning to drive the blunt edge into its shoulder.
The impact jarred her arms. Pain shot down both elbows.
Not enough.
She struck again.
And again.
And again.
Her breath tore ragged from her chest, each inhale too sharp, too fast.
A memory flashed—Lute’s blade catching the pole of Vaggi’s spear, twisting it free like it weighed nothing. Steel against her throat.
A laugh dripping with divine mania echoed in her memory.
You’re not worthy of dying for her.
The memory of those words made her swing too hard. Her foot slipped. She hit the ground on one knee, breath knocked out of her.
Weak. Useless. You’d be dead if that were real.
Vaggi squeezed her eyes shut, nails digging into her palms. Her breathing stuttered.
Why wasn’t I stronger? Why does she still scare me? Why can’t I just move on like the others?
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Vaggi struck harder.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Vaggi’s vision blurred with red. Her breaths turned ragged. Each movement came sharper, more frantic, more desperate. Sweat trickled down her spine.
She screamed—wordless, raw—and drove the spear straight into the dummy’s sternum. It punched deep, cracking the internal support beam. She wrenched it free with a grunt, nearly losing her balance as the weight swung wide.
The spear clattered from her grip and hit the mat.
Vaggi stared at her trembling hands.
You lasted seconds. Seconds. How are you supposed to protect anyone like this? How are you supposed to stand beside Charlie if you can’t even stand up to one deranged angel with a sword?
Her stomach churned.
She forced herself to pick up a pair of short swords—not training weight, real ones. Heavy, sharp, slightly chipped at the edges.
Maybe it’s time for another strategy. Maybe it was time to let her spear rest.
One blade slashed high, the other low, her feet twisting across the mat. She spun, ducked, cut through an imaginary throat, stepped back, lunged forward. Every strike was explosive, fueled by adrenaline and something darker—fear, shame, fury.
The metal sang.
Her arms burned.
Sweat dripped into her eye.
But she didn’t stop.
Stopping meant remembering the moment she lost.
Remembering the moment she died in Lute’s eyes.
Remembering Abel’s words stopping her at the last second—
Useless. Weak. Dead weight.
The thoughts hit harder than any blade.
Her swing faltered.
The sword slipped from her grip.
She didn’t see the second sword’s arc until too late—its momentum carried it across the back of her forearm, slicing a shallow line of gold.
Golden angel blood. Another reminder of what she used to be—and how Lute was everything she wasn’t.
Vaggi hissed, pressing a hand against the sting. Blood welled between her fingers
Good. You deserve that.
She switched grip, forcing the pain out of her mind, and moved toward the heavier training dummy—the one built for demons twice her size.
She attacked it like she wanted it to die.
Slash.
Strike.
Kick.
Headbutt.
Elbow.
Slash.
Slash—
SLAM.
Her final blow cracked the dummy’s jaw loose. The entire structure tilted, groaned, and collapsed in a heap.
Vaggi dropped to her knees, chest heaving.
Her vision swam.
Her arms shook so violently she had to brace herself with both hands.
This is why she beat you. This is why she laughed. This is why you nearly died and Charlie almost had to witness it.
Her throat tightened.
Tears burned at the corners of her eye.
She wiped them away with a furious swipe.
Then she forced herself to her feet.
Her legs wobbled.
She didn’t care.
She picked up the fallen sword. Her grip was unsteady, fingers slick with sweat and a faint smear of her own blood.
She staggered back into position.
Everything hurt.
Everything trembled.
Her lungs, her shoulders, her legs—every inch of her felt raw.
Good.
If I ever face her again… I will not go down like last time. I will not freeze. I will not fail Charlie again.
She tightened her grip.
“Again,” she whispered.
Her voice cracked, but she didn’t stop.
She raised the sword and pushed herself into another sequence. Her strikes slashed through the air, fueled by adrenaline, memory, and spite. She moved until her arms felt like lead, until her shoulders burned and her lungs screamed.
She didn’t stop.
Couldn’t stop.
Stopping meant thinking.
Feeling.
Seeing those golden eyes again.
By the time she finally stumbled to a halt, her body was shaking violently. She dropped the swords. They hit the ground with a dull clatter.
Vaggi braced her hands on her knees, panting hard.
You lived. She didn’t kill you. You should be grateful.
So why do you feel like she still has you by the throat?
A tear slid down her cheek.
She angrily wiped it away.
No one could see her like this.
Especially not Charlie.
So once she had steadied her breathing—barely—Vaggi picked up the weapons, placed them back in their racks with shaking hands, and straightened her posture.
No more trembling.
No more weakness.
Not when the sun rose.
Not when others were watching.
But alone, in the dark…
She felt every fracture.