Cherry Pies, You and I (P.S the Devil Lies)

Broken

Of all the people Lucifer could have sent, it just had to be the criminal brother of the man she was in love with. It had been less than twenty-four hours since she had the realization that she wasn't just falling in love with Caliban, she was in love with him.

Now, he was somewhere, likely no more than a few streets away, fulfilling her mindless request of blueberry pancakes. She should've stifled the hunger pains with a cup of coffee, or taken him up on his offer to shower with her. If she had, they might not be in this situation right now, but it was unrealistic to believe that they could've stayed in their own little world forever.

They, no, he would've had to stray from the safety of his home, and her arms, for necessities sooner or later. Sabrina just wished that it was later instead of right now.

At some point, her body had drifted onto the couch, the same couch they had curled up on the previous evening, and her glass of water made its way onto the table. Her breathing was unsteady and she was sure that Asmodeus could hear it through the phone. "What do you mean Caliban won't be back anytime soon? Did you do something to him? Because I swear to god, if you did I will choke you to death on your own blood."

"Relax," his voice sounded grotesque, like he had smoked a pack of cigarettes a day for the last fifteen years. She didn't have a problem with cigarettes. In fact, the faint smell of one lingering in the air was a source of comfort for her. A subtle reminder of the presence of her Aunt Zelda, but her voice never sounded like nails on a chalkboard. "We just cut the fuel line on his bike."

"We? Who's we?" she demanded. Her voice was surprisingly steady, despite the growing sense of dread in the pit of her stomach.

"A friend of mine. I believe the two of you have met."

"I doubt that," Sabrina said, "We run in different social circles."

"She's got bright red hair. Left you a necklace. Ring any bells?"

"A few," she admitted. She remembered the woman with a curtain of red hair flowing behind her. Well, sort of. There wasn't much about her to remember. Sabrina hadn't even seen her face. "How do I know you really work for my father?"

"You require further proof?"

She pushed herself off the couch and walked over to the window, tentatively peaking past the curtains, "I think it's in my best interest. Didn't your mother tell you not to wander off with strangers?"

"She did, but yours didn't."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Because your mother's dead."

She imagined that he was expecting some kind of reaction from her, but she gave none. She had known that her mother was dead all her life. She stopped being sad about it a long time ago. "You could've gotten that information from anywhere. The crash was all over the news."

"Her middle name was Regina, and her maiden name was Sawyer. He said she liked lilies."

"Yeah," she confirmed, thinking of her parents' wedding photo, a bundle of lilies in her mother's arms, "She did."

"Glad you're satisfied. Because it's time to go."

"I don't want to go," she murmured plaintively. It was childish, too, and it reminded her of the way she used to dread getting shots when she was younger. She knew she needed them, even then, but she hated needles. Still did. It's funny the things that fear will bring to the forefront of one's mind.

"We both know you don't have any other options."

"If I go with you, Caliban and Marie stay out of this."

"Your father gave his word that nothing would happen to your precious waitress or my brother."

"Why don't I believe that?"

"Because you're smart," Asmodeus said, "And if you want to keep being smart you're going to walk out that door right now. Understand?"

She backed away from the window and flung the curtain shut. She found herself pacing between the window and the coffee table full of photos Caliban had shown her the previous evening. There was a framed photo of him and his siblings with Sycorax. She couldn't remember who was who except for Caliban; he was the youngest.

She reached for it and tried to remember who was who. Or, more specifically, who in the picture was Asmodeus. The person who was risking Caliban's life just by doing this. But, for the life of her, she couldn't remember. She had been too focused on the way he smelled, and the passionate tone in his voice as he talked about his work.

She doesn't even realize she's thrown it clear across the room until the sounds of glass shattering pierced the veil of silence that had fallen over the room. It was followed by another, less deafening and less symbolic sound; the sound of the frame clattering to the ground.

Walking out that door was her only option, but that didn't mean she had to like it. She would go, but she wouldn't do so quietly. Lucifer would see it as her resignation to her fate, her life with him. She would stomp her feet and rebel just enough to quell any suspicions he might have. But, she would plot and scheme behind the scenes for her freedom and her family.

"Five minutes," she managed, "Luc- my father gave me some jewelry. I'm sure he'll want to see me in it."

"That is more like it. You have your five minutes. Any longer and you'll be late for dinner."

The line went dead. The phone made its way back onto the table next to her, now room-temperature, glass of water. Her feet moved on their own accord until she was kneeling in front of the broken picture frame. She reached for it and pricked her finger on the glass.

Red droplets painted her finger as her hand jerked reflexively up to her lips. Her tongue was met with the taste of iron and she reached for the picture, more carefully this time, and managed to avoid any further glass-related injuries. She ran her fingers over every inch of it, and she debated crumpling it up but paused when she felt faint indentations on the back of it.

It was writing. Names and dates. It shouldn't have surprised her. Sycorax was a mother. Her Auntie Hilda did the same thing with all of the pictures she took. Except, Hilda's handwriting was dainty and light, and Sycorax's was loud and bold. It reminded her of Caliban's, a fact that would've made her smile if she wasn't on a deadline.

This could be her way of letting him know that she didn't leave of her own free will. But if she was going to do something, she only had five minutes to figure it out.

She pushed herself off her knees and walked back into the bedroom, where she dumped the contents of her bags onto the bed. Clothes were scattered every which way. A sea of mostly black and reds, dotted with the occasional spot of warm gold, rich plum, or navy blue.

Two articles of clothing stood out. A beige apron marked with the faint outline of a coffee stain wrapped around the pale pink of her uniform. She frantically shook out the bundle of work clothes, and two black velvet boxes spill from the apron's pocket.

She lunged for them, fingers curling around the edges of the boxes like claws. A piece of thick paper crumpled under her grip. It was stuck out from the slim box containing the bracelet. It was Lilith's card. She could call her, but she wouldn't get here in time.

But, maybe she didn't have to get here in time.

Her finger was still bleeding when she reached back into the pocket of her apron for a pen. She hastily added to Sycorax's handwriting with her own.

Turns out you were right. Your brother is involved in a lot more than just a few drug deals. He's involved with my father.

She was not sure if she should write anything else, but her lack of time made that decision for her. She did her best to smooth out the crumpled business card, and she attached it to the picture with the pen-cap.

It ended up by the phone on her way out of the house, next to her half-empty glass of water, and just a few feet away from its broken frame.

Walking out the door after that felt like a dream. An awful, hazy dream.