Wading through the crowd, stiff cocktail in hand, Zelda retreats from the din of celebration. The thick copse of grey birches to the south of Moon Valley provides seclusion. It’s her first moment of peace in Hell knows how long.
High Priestess. Directrix. Matron of Dishonour. Each role is as demanding as the last.
Hilda’s daily assurances that she needn’t take on every responsibility herself fall on deaf ears. She tells Hilda that she’s fine. That it’s her duty as High Priestess and older sister. That she’s the Spellman with the eye for detail, thank you very much. What she doesn’t tell Hilda is that overwhelmed is preferable to every other thing she’s feeling.
Even now, the quiet is too quiet. She longs for another task, another fire that needs putting out, some distraction. But the ceremony went off without a hitch- no dead antipopes or would-be assassins. The luncheon has been served and even Sabrina is on her best behaviour- not a single demon released or universal law broken in at least a week.
It takes two flicks of the lighter to send the fortifying rush of nicotine singing through her.
She downs the drink and vanishes the glass as she hears footfalls approaching. Doesn’t look up when the figure casually leans against the tree next to her.
“Wasn’t sure you’d come.” Eyes forward, Zelda takes another deep drag and holds it.
Manicured fingers pluck the Victorian smoking ring from Zelda’s finger before the Queen of Hell answers. “I’m not fond of weddings as a rule.”
Zelda hums, releasing a stream of smoke. “Nor am I.”
When silence stretches, she speaks to fill it.
“Beats the last wedding I attended.” Biting the inside of her cheek, she wishes she could take it back.
Lilith doesn’t comment on the bitter attempt at levity. Puffs out a series of perfect O’s. “The groom’s certainly an improvement.”
Zelda nods, her thumb brushing against the smooth base of her ring finger.
“A low bar, as grooms go.”
She watches Cerberus watching Hilda. Aesthetics aside, he’s alright. He’s gregarious and gentle and far too terrified of his sister-in-law to ever hurt Hilda. No one will ever be good enough for her baby sister, but this is her choice.
Their shared cigarette dropping to the forest floor catches her eye. Zelda barely has time to appreciate the beauty of overlapping shades of red before it’s crushed beneath a patent black stiletto.
“The bride, though, she was…”
“A fool,” Zelda finishes for her, silently kicking herself for downing her whiskey sour so quickly.
“Not the word I would choose.”
Chancing a glance, Zelda finds those eyes, deep and bright as hellfire, trained on her with a softness she can’t stomach.
She crosses her arms and returns to tracking the happy couple in the distance as they make the rounds among the guests. Draped in pale lace and happiness, Hilda is a bride worthy of the name. Her husband kisses her knuckles and whispers something that makes her snort with laughter. Sabrina trails after them, animatedly chatting with Ambrose who drapes a proud arm across Hilda’s shoulders.
A lump burns in Zelda’s throat.
Blinking, she takes a sudden interest in the treetops. “I prayed to you last night.”
There’s a crunch of leaves as the Queen steps closer. “A blessing for your sister and her incubus, was it?”
“So you do hear our prayers.” She’s proud of the ice in her voice. It freezes the threatening tears. “I’d wondered.”
“I do, but as you might imagine, taking over Hell keeps me rather preoccupied.”
“Really?” Her lips curl into a sneer. “Because leading a coven of traumatised young witches, recreating our religion and battling a misogynistic council has all been a cakewalk. Somehow I still manage to prioritise the needs of those in my charge.”
“Do let me put off quelling demonic uprisings in order to help third years with their exams.”
Hackles rising, Zelda finally faces her Queen. “Don’t you dare mock them! They’ve lost everything and everyone they care for! They’re adrift and alone and the only comfort I can offer them is your story! Yet when they turn to you, you ignore them!”
“Babysitting adolescent witches wasn’t part of our deal, but if I’m such a disappointment, perhaps you’d like to restore your Dark Lord to the throne! You remember how pleased He was to answer prayers!”
It’s a hollow threat, but, nevertheless, a sick, sinking feeling pours over her at the thought of Lucifer on the throne. “We will not bow to that- that tyrant! Never again! Nor will we waste our breath beseeching a silent goddess! If our prayers are such a burden, we will gladly turn elsewhere.”
Lilith advances on her and Zelda braces for a blow, a curse, some untold suffering for daring to reproach the Dawn of Doom. But she refuses to grovel. Not anymore. Never again.
Somehow she manages to loom over her even in Mary Wardwell’s form. With her body angled to the right and her left arm caging Zelda against the pale bark, Lilith blocks any possibility of retreat. As if Zelda would pull back now.
Lifting her chin, she dares the Queen of Hell to strike her down.
Soft knuckles just barely graze Zelda’s shoulder as they toy with an amber curl. “Goddess, hm?”
Hooded blue eyes track her swallow. Drop lower. Lower. A forgotten heat thrums through her. Clearing her throat, Zelda fights to keep her tone formal. “You may not care what becomes of us-“
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Zelda’s gaze is drawn to that smirking, red mouth only inches from her own.
“They have my blessing.” The stolen smoking ring sears a trail of warmth up her finger. “And so do you, Zelda Spellman.”