CHAPTER 2: RIDING SHOTGUN WITH THE DEVIL

Lucifer appeared at the station in the late afternoon, looking bright-eyed, well-rested, and meticulously pressed, exactly the opposite of how Chloe felt. She lifted her head off her arms and stared up at him wearily. "Oh, so now you decide to come in," she groused, pushing herself upright in her chair and feeling her neck and shoulder muscles protest painfully.

He beamed at her. "I assume I haven't missed much. The case didn't sound particularly invigorating when you described it. And Lux ran a bit later than usual this morning. There were stragglers. Several of them." His grin suggested that those stragglers had found some added entertainment, probably upstairs in his penthouse bedroom.

Chloe raised a quelling hand. "Stop. I do not need to know any details."

"Leave it to your imagination?" He looked intrigued. "Do you often imagine what I'm up to after hours, Detective? Pun intended."

"Hardly." Seeing the amused gleam in his eyes, she sighed, too tired to feel flustered by him. "Right. I said 'hard.' You really are twelve."

He chuckled, irritatingly smug.

Stretching, she rolled her head from side to side, popping vertebrae audibly. "Well, all I'm imagining right now is getting some sleep—alone," she added when he opened his mouth to comment. "Which isn't yet a possibility. So, instead, I'm going to get another cup of coffee and go talk to the latest family reporting a missing person. There was a new one just this afternoon. Missing Persons can't seem to catch a break, so neither can idle Homicide detectives."

Lucifer leaned down to peer into her face, brow furrowed. She could imagine him taking in what she looked like this morning, tousled hair caught up in a messy half-bun, dark circles beneath her eyes from lack of sleep and the stresses of working cases for another unit, her clothes from last night unchanged, wrinkled, and—she glanced down at herself—slightly coffee-stained.

"Right," he said decisively. "I don't think that your horrible station swill is going to be enough of a pick-me up, given what I'm seeing. I could offer something more potent, a quick hit of whatever your preferred substance?"

"You are not offering a police officer drugs in the middle of a police station," she said flatly.

"Of course not," he lied, smooth and obvious. "I'm offering to drive, first of all. You seem like you might be a hazard behind the wheel just now, and as my immortality seems to be on the fritz, it's best not to take chances. And I'm offering to stop at Beelzebean on the way to wherever you need to go next." He straightened, pleased with himself.

His little-boy pride made her laugh. Had he actually just looked at her, taken a measure of what she seemed to need, and then offered to support her through the next steps of her interminable day? His rare moments of thoughtfulness always took her by surprise, and, vexingly, made her wonder if she should feel badly for suspecting ulterior motives. "Yeah. Okay. Drive if you want. But I'll warn you, it's going to be boring by your standards."

"So is restocking the Lux bar," he shrugged, rattling his car keys in invitation.

She grabbed her jacket and the case folder and followed him to the elevator.


Chloe wondered if she had dozed off as soon as she fastened her seatbelt. It seemed no more than a few minutes before the rumble of the little sports car stilled, and she was stepping groggily out onto the sidewalk in front of the popular coffeehouse. How had Lucifer managed to find parking on Sunset Boulevard on a Saturday afternoon? She wished she hadn't slept through that trick. "You know, I'm not sure people are likely to take me seriously as a cop after seeing me riding shotgun in this mid-life crisis."

"'61 Chevrolet Corvette," he corrected indignantly. "A classic, like its owner."

"So, form over substance?" she suggested, just to ruffle his feathers. "I see."

"0 to 60 in under 3 seconds, actually, thanks to a few tweaks," he argued, looking pleasingly insulted. "Very useful in L.A. traffic, I'll have you know."

"Mm. No doubt legal tweaks," she said, giving the gleaming black car another glance. It was a stylish thing and probably cost more than her annual salary.

Pocketing his keys, Lucifer joined her on the sidewalk. "Why do youcops creep around in those clunky, nondescript mom-mobiles? I mean, what happens when you're chasing criminals who drive things like this?"

She ignored him. "Is your license plate really "Fallen One"? You definitely take this whole devil thing very seriously."

"I didn't have much of a choice in the matter, actually."

"Ah. Right."

"But I have realized that notoriety isn't always a bad thing. Surely you get that, given the general corruption of the police these days?"

"We're not all corrupt, Lucifer," she grumbled.

"I know!" he responded cheerily. "Believe me, I've noticed. Right from our very first case together. Your Palmetto theories notwithstanding, clearly at least some of the LAPD are on the side of the angels. Proverbially, of course. Angels aren't necessarily good, after all. That's just PR."

"So, fallen angels? Like you, supposedly."

He looked uncomfortable for a moment. "I'm rather a complex case, I think. It rather depends on your definition of good and bad—despite what your denuded biblical mistranslations say. But that's not my point. How often do people see your badge and assume you're hot-tempered and dangerous? You know, the 'bad cop' side of the equation?"

"Not that oft—" she began.

"Come to think of it, you're probably not the best example, are you?" he interrupted. "After all, I've seen you wield your gun, Detective. They wouldn't be far from wrong, in your case." He rubbed his long-healed bullet graze pointedly.

"No more talking," she said firmly. "You promised me coffee. And I need it before I can listen to you."

He followed her into the bright, sunlit coffee shop which, as usual, teemed with people hogging their little bit of table space, laptop keyboards clattering or elbow to elbow in conversation. She stood hazily in line and annoyed herself by being conscious of how her jacket hid both the badge and gun on her belt. In an effort to think about something other than public perceptions of police and corruption in the department, she read the garishly painted logo sign over the menu board. "Black as the devil. Hot as hell." She poked Lucifer's shoulder. "No wonder you like this place."

He sniffed disdainfully. "Maze likes it. More for the air of desperation, I think, but they also pour an acceptable espresso. Still, you have to admit it's truth in advertising. The Devil does indeed look good in black." He fingered his well-tailored jacket, smooth black Italian wool over an equally sharp black shirt.

Chloe kept her face unimpressed, despite agreeing that yes, the black-haired, almost black-eyed "devil" did indeed rock the finest black bespoke.

He seemed to sense her regard anyway and leaned in with a flirtatious "He'll let you judge how hot, if you like?"

The barista clearly had opinions on that front. Chloe ordered her large Americano three times and cleared her throat with authority twice before the young woman blinked and hauled her eyes away from Lucifer's lean, dark figure. He ordered with suave alacrity and a charming smile, then steered the detective to a tiny table just inside the front windows with a view of the bustling pedestrian walkway. Chloe watched passers by stop to point out Lucifer's car. A homeless man, thin and gangly in a worn grey Henley and ripped jeans, stopped to touch the hood with reverent fingers, even wiping an invisible smudge from the door with his stained sleeve.

"So, the case?" Lucifer prompted.

Chloe sat back, realizing that she'd been staring out the window for a few minutes in silence. Sleep-deprivation had never been a strong working mode. RubbIng her eyes tiredly, she propped her elbows on the table. "Right. I told you last night about what Missing Persons is dealing with. Nearly 40 people, all vanished from beachfront and port properties without a trace."

"All reported in the last two weeks?" he offered from memory.

"And the number is rising almost daily." She pushed the case file across the table toward him. "This one came in about two hours ago. Given it's location, there's a chance it's also part of this, despite being a juvenile." When he tilted his head slightly but didn't reach for the file, she explained. "All the other cases that might be connected are adults. This is the first missing kid across all of the waterfront area in recent weeks."

"And that's unusual?"

"Maybe. There are over 3000 missing adults reported each year in LA alone and almost as many kids. More, if you include those missing from the many smaller cities we surround. Most of them turn up quickly, and many even turn out to be voluntary disappearances, people who just choose to run-away from their lives for a while. That's typical for adults and juveniles both."

"Ah, the denizens L.A.," he said. "The desire to get away from who we were seems to be a common enough motivation."

"Yeah. Definitely." Less exhausted, she might have pursued that admission and its connection to events of the previous night. For now, however, she needed to focus on the case. "That means it usually doesn't take too long to unearth a lead or even solve a missing persons case. Canvass the hospitals, the homeless shelters, the coroner's offices and morgues, just to be sure, but a few conversations with family, friends and co-workers usually yields some kind of lead. These last two weeks, every missing person reported within a few blocks of the water has turned up not a single clue about where they might have gone. MPU has every cop working these cases, save two or three who are pursuing those from other parts of the city and surrounds. Those guys say everything seems normal outside of the waterfront. Within that area, however, they have nothing. Literally nothing. And after comparing notes with the MPU officers from Malibu to South Bay, it seems like we're not the only ones wondering if this is a pattern."

Lucifer nodded. She could tell that he wasn't especially interested but seemed to be making an effort, nevertheless. When his espresso came, he downed it like a shot of whiskey, one quick toss before it even had time to cool.

Chloe pried the lid off of her cup and settled in to wait until it was a drinkable temperature. Hot as hell, indeed. "One of the more frustrating aspects of working with Missing Persons is that there's every likelihood all of these folks will turn up on their own. It could be that they all went to the same underground convention or party or something. The fact that there haven't been juvenile cases before actually adds to that."

"Ooo, you mean they've all gone off to do something naughty that they don't want their loved ones to know about, like a penchant for breath play and leather?" Lucifer brightened. "I thought you said this was going to be boring, Detective. You should've started there! I might even have contacts that could help us run down a lead like that."

"Or," she continued, focusing on her coffee and pretending he wasn't actually talking, "it could be far more nefarious."

"Naughty or nefarious," he said with relish. "Or maybe both. This is improving every minute. Keep talking."

"Unfortunately, nefarious begins to look more like the right answer when we haven't been able to find a single connection between cases," she pushed on, blowing on the surface of the dark liquid before taking a test sip and scalding her tongue. "If even some of the missing people had common interests or contacts, then they might point to a reason for them to all go AWOL at roughly the same time. But so far, they seem to be unique cases, except for location. Even that ranges across miles of waterfront properties and includes everything from residential neighborhoods to commercial areas to storage warehouses and the docks. By most measures, it's hardly even a viable connection. Long Beach seems to be the most common, but just barely. It's all we have to work with."

"But your Lieutenant thinks it's likely to become a more serious crime than people simply sneaking off for a little BDSM action at a pop-up fetish club?"

"Seems so," she said, finally getting some caffeine moving into her system. "And I choose to believe that you're joking about there being pop-up BDSM clubs. If you say anything to damage that belief, I shall shoot you—again—without hesitation or regret."

He looked innocently back at her, but then couldn't seem to help himself. "So, that's a 'no' to playing bad cop after hours, Detective?" he murmured.

She prided herself on ignoring him and continued more seriously. "Random, numerous, complete disappearances begin to look like the work of a serial killer or a gang attempting some sort of coup. Which is why detectives from both Homicide and Gangs and Narcotics have been called in as fresh eyes. Partly for the manpower, partly to begin laying the groundwork in case of potential dead bodies or other criminal action."

"Ah, so multiple ways it might get more exciting. But not yet?"

"Not yet. And you can stop looking so hopeful about possible murders, you creep."

Lucifer watched her sipping determinedly at her coffee with that peculiar curious intensity he sometimes employed, as if expecting her to catch fire or reveal the secrets of the universe. "So, you spent all night and most of today duplicating the efforts of your colleagues? No wonder you're drained. All that pointless effort. All that dullness." He tsked. "Not that I could promise you would have gotten any more sleep if you'd stayed at Lux, but it would have been more—ah, stimulating."

She held her quickly emptying paper cup close to her, letting its warmth seep into her fingers and chest, imagining it beginning to chase away some of the weary heaviness out of her muscles and mind. "It's been a night of interviewing other detectives and pouring over case files, yes. Not that I've been able to see anything that they haven't already considered."

"I'm sure you will. You usually have superior instincts to your colleagues, I've found. And now you've got my help, too."

She smiled and drained her cup, warmed as much by his confidence as she was by the coffee. "And we'd better get started on that. The new report is a 17 year old male, Peter Gross—"

"Unfortunate name."

"—last seen at the Venice Beach skatepark around sunrise yesterday. His family didn't think anything about him keeping odd hours, but when he didn't show up for some informal skater competition this afternoon, his girlfriend called it in. The detectives in MPU are already run off their feet, so I agreed to take this one for now and do the preliminary work-up. We can start with his family."

Lucifer flipped open the file and glanced down at the boy's photo. "Looks like an ad for acne cream and discount piercings. Not sure why they'd even want to have this child returned. Seems a great opportunity to get out from under that particular burden, if you ask me."

Chloe snatched the file back. "Are you serious?"

"Yes?" he answered, a little cautiously. "Why wouldn't I be? After all, you have offspring. You understand their basic parasitical nature."

She bit back the words that formed on her lips, aware that her barely caffeinated brain probably wasn't going to give her an appropriately cutting retort. This was Lucifer Morningstar, after all, a man who said ludicrous and offensive things about once every three minutes. He was also her ride for the day.

"How is seventeen still a juvenile, anyway?" Lucifer continued, once back behind the wheel of his car and they were speeding along toward Venice Beach. He spoke loudly over the road noise, wind snatching at their hair and clothes, whisking his words away. "And you humans wonder why your spawn don't get out and start earning their own living before they're 30 these days."

Chloe rested her head back against the seat for a minute before shouting back. "Promise me you won't say stupid things like that when we're talking with his parents!"

"What?" he echoed, but his rather arch smile told her he had heard perfectly.

Questioning the family at their meticulously manicured and restored craftsman home in Oakwood proved largely unenlightening, except to confirm her suspicions that they had mostly given up expecting their wayward son to amount to anything. Despite attending some of the best private schools in the city, he spent most of his time on his skateboard or playing skater video games in his room, which looked to be a typical teen's cluttered wreck. A brief shuffle through his belongings turned up nothing out of the ordinary—unused school books, scattered small gears and other skater paraphernalia, discarded gaming devices, and (thanks to Lucifer) a few well-worn porn magazines crammed beneath a loose board under his parents had looked scandalized, and Chloe had to shove Lucifer out the door to cut off his efforts to complement them on the boy's taste for print porn in the age of easy internet access. She had literally closed the front door on his suggestion that their do-nothing kid could actually have a lucrative career in the pornography industry, after all.

In spite of Lucifer-inspired embarrassment, the family had at least been able to provide descriptions of his girlfriend (a "too old for him," "beach bleach blonde dropout" who "fantasized she was going to make it as some kind of dancer") and his friends ("skate punks" with "bad families" who were "bad influences"). Chloe asked them to text her a few more photos, and got the sense that they had no idea what routine their son kept, especially on days when he skipped school-as he had most of the previous week. Despite their general estrangement, they had still cried at the door as Chloe was leaving, begging her to find their only child.

Lucifer tutted, waiting impatiently for her back in his car. "I just don't see the problem. I mean, it's not like they just can't make more."

Chloe looked sidelong at him as she buckled her seat belt. "What does that mean?"

"You misplace one apparently worthless kid or he takes off into the wild urban jungle on his own, fine. Humans are all about the procreation, so they can just make another one. Why all the fuss?"

Chloe gritted her teeth, exhaling slowly through her nose. "I can't even talk to you right now. Will you just drive to the skatepark before I decide I need to walk?"

"What did I say? Over 7 billion humans on the planet these days. Clearly production isn't a problem." He revved the engine a few times and whisked them into the crush of end-of-day traffic, dodging slower cars with a casual one-handed grip on the wheel. "I actually commend you for not popping out several more with Detective Douche, by the way. Stopping with just one at least shows some concern about the quality of the human gene pool. I mean, how ever did you decide to be the mother of his children?"

Chloe was pretty sure he could hear her sputtering even over the road noise, but he ignored it, continuing earnestly. "Sometimes I worry about your taste in men, Detective. Although that would explain why you're so reluctant to sleep with me."

She cut him off with quick slash of her hand. "No. No!" Glowering, she found it easy to shout over the wind this time. "Those people have lost a child, Lucifer. Just because you don't understand doesn't mean it's not serious for them. And what I do with my personal life isn't part of this investigation, so I'll thank you to leave me and Dan out of it!"

He glanced sideways at her. "Touchy. Sore spot, Detective?"

She folded her arms over her chest and watched the traffic in stony silence. Unexpectedly, Lucifer seemed to take the hint. After a few minutes, he flicked on the radio and beat out a garage blues rhythm on the wheel for the rest of the trip.

They rolled into a parking lot near the park, tires gritting on the sand. As he cut the engine, Lucifer turned to her looking a bit chastened, but Chloe lifted a finger to stop him. "I think perhaps you need to sit this one out for now. I'm really not in the mood to talk to you or navigate your—" She flailed a hand at him, at a loss for words.

"'Luciferness'?" He supplied with a put-upon expression.

"Yes. That." She peered through the windscreen down across the beach and onto the concrete moonscape of the skate park. "The family said his friends usually spend every day after school here until late." She squinted, watching groups of teens and twenty-somethings standing or skating, boards flying off the edges of ramps, bodies tumbling hard when a trick failed. "There. Bright blond hair, just sitting on the steps with a few guys, right in the way of other skaters but no one seems bothered."

Lucifer clicked his tongue appreciatively. "That's the girlfriend, you think? Didn't they say she wanted to be a dancer? When you're finished with all your boring questions, ask her if she wants a job at Lux, will you? I've got use for that."

Chloe slammed the car door without responding and stalked off across the sand to the park.

"No?" he called after her. "I'm just trying to help!"


Lucifer stared after her, nonplussed. While he wasn't particularly interested in what the blonde or those rolling accidents she called friends had to say, he did enjoy watching the Detective work up close. And he was rather curious if she'd pass along the job offer. Maze could work with an athletic figure like that, even if her skills weren't yet up to par, and the demon had been complaining recently about the turnover of Lux's dance staff this season.

He wandered over to the edge of the skate park, eyeing the young humans who soared and clattered and crashed with vigor. Didn't the hospitals have enough to do with gang violence and drug addicts without these idiots adding broken limbs and missing teeth to the mix? Most of the skaters wore their trousers sagging around their hips like penguins on high-speed icebergs. Fashion accident, indeed. He supposed the tattoo parlors along the strip were putting their own spawn through college off all that ink and all those piercings, at least, so that was something.

Lucifer scuffed across the sand to peruse some of the graffiti walls and noted CCTV cameras scattered down the walkway and perched high in several of the many palm trees around the park. Worth mentioning to the Detective when she was talking to him again.

Idle and a bit annoyed at being banished to the sidelines after he'd been so helpful today, he leaned against one of the palms closest to the edge of the concrete basins and ramps and watched the detective confront the gaggle of youth on the steps. She was silhouetted against the stone and sand, her stance authoritative but approachable, one hand resting briefly on the young woman's shoulder in a move he suspected was less calculated and more instinctive, inviting confidences. Admirable, really, in someone who lacked innate powers of persuasion. Of course, he could have cut the effort down to nothing if she just wasn't so bloody short-tempered about some things.

"This is what you gave up the infernal throne for, Morningstar?" came a low and faintly incredulous voice from behind his left shoulder.

Controlling the instinct to whip around, Lucifer rested his head back against the tree, pulling confidence around himself like armor. "Samyaza," he said flatly, more acknowledgement than greeting. "And Azazyel, too. You lads are spending a rather lot of time together. Something you're trying to tell me?"

He could feel them moving up to either side of him, their tainted presence intensely familiar, conjuring unwelcome memories of his home for the past several billion years. The sea breeze suddenly seemed a pale imitation of the sulfuric winds that scoured the courtyards of Tartarus, the salt air newly pungent with charred hair and bone, the screams of laughter from park observers echoing with the guttural, broken, never-ending cries of damned and tortured souls. Impassive, unmoving, Lucifer cast his eyes up into the pale sunlit sky and waited.

He knew they were staring around the busy skatepark, boardwalk, and beach, their distaste for what they saw palpable in their silence. Finally, Samyaza's rumbling baritone repeated, "For this, you abandoned Hell, the great palace of Dis, all your subjects, all your many endeavors." Not a question this time, but spoken with an undercurrent of disbelief. "We heard the rumors, of course, but scarcely credited them."

Lucifer cut his eyes over at the red-haired man. Sam was still clad in his plaid duster and scarf from last night, his heavy boots looking hot and uncomfortable in the sand. At least, Lucifer had to admit, the hipster attire wasn't so out of place in this neighborhood, probably even less so than his own. "Surprises you, does it? It shouldn't," he replied shortly. "I was weary of Hell, so I left. It's not rocket science. You, of everyone, know that I have ever demanded to choose my own way, eschewing order and routine for freedom." He looked away again. "Besides, I find the company to be much improved on this plane."

The smaller man, Azazyel, circled like a shark, peering at the landscape, at the humans going about their rituals and activities, even at the tree at Lucifer's back. Lucifer couldn't fault him for his air of confusion as people flung themselves pell-mell across concrete obstacles, careened down stair rails on the pointless wheeled boards, and narrowly avoided shattering their skulls or slamming into onlookers at every turn. Aza removed his hat after a minute, running his nails through thinning hair, puzzled and aghast. He looked back and forth from the skaters to Lucifer a few times, pale eyes wide. "This is what you do with your valuable time, lord?"

"Told you before, Aza. Not your lord. Not here. Not now. Not ever."

The little man grimaced as if in pain. "Everywhere. Always. Forever. The Devil reigns over Hell and the Fallen for time everlasting."

"Obviously not." Lucifer looked at him with a hint of disgust. "And what I do with my time has never been a subject for your concern."

Aza fumbled with the hat in his hands, plucking at the feathers with unsteady fingers. "But, lord, this is unseemly. It makes no sense. It is beneath your dignity."

Lucifer sighed, long-suffering. Gods below, he hated the gentry of Hell. Give him demonkind or humans any day.

"You are the Prince of Darkness," Azazyel continued, voice high and nervous. He waved the hat around in a wild, all-inclusive gesture that took in everything from people to sky. "What would you need of this place or these creatures when you have all the wretched souls of history at your fingertips and for your pleasure?"

"We never found pleasure in the same things, I think," Lucifer said dryly.

"But you choose to consort with these specks?" Another gesticulation of the hat. "They appear, draw breath, soil their souls beyond redeeming, and then die in the space of a minute to us. What delight is there in that? How are they worthy of an instant of your time?"

"Those 'specks' might surprise you, Aza, if you gave them that instant of your precious time." Lucifer bridled a little, surprised at his own response on humanity's behalf. Perhaps it was because he could still see Detective Decker just beyond the little man, now speaking intently to other teens across the park, showing them her phone. Probably the boy's rather unimpressive photo. "Yes, some of them can be far more intriguing than I first imagined, too," he added, thoughtful.

"But—but—" Azazyel's overwrought stammer had always grated on Lucifer's nerves. "But you are the Ancient Enemy, appointed by your Father Himself—"

"Appointed?" Lucifer growled, pushing away from the palm tree. "What part of your own fiery fall from the heavens felt like appointment and not like punishment, Aza?"

"Even so, even so," the little man whined, flinching hard and stepping quickly back. "The Great Work. The task . . ." He trailed away, muttering incoherently, staring at the hat in his hands.

"He's not wrong, even if you'd have us think otherwise," Samyaza spoke again. He pulled his long hair back, knotting it into a tail as if to keep it from tangling in the sea breeze, eyes on Lucifer as he did so. "Your story is not ours. Your Father cursed and bound us. But to you he gave a task, a throne, a very plane of existence, a divine purpose—"

"—which I've finished with now," Lucifer snapped, interrupting. "What's this about, Sam? My Father didn't send you. Wouldn't have even deigned to acknowledge any of you. What do you care about what I do?"

Samyaza flipped his coat open and hooked his thumbs into his pockets, a picture of utter indifference. "I've never cared what you did, Morningstar. But Hell is my home, and it's missing its Master. What? You imagined that everything would function as usual without you? With the throne empty and unclaimed?"

"I imagined nothing. I … don't … care enough to spare the thought," Lucifer enunciated carefully. "You seem to be missing my point, and you, at least, are not usually that stupid."

"No, not stupid. But I am proud, a trait that all of the Fallen share, I think you'll agree. Proud of the work I've done in the service of the Adversary, that is to say, in your service. I am proud of what we created together. Why aren't you?"

"What we created?" Lucifer laughed, mirthless and nasty. "What creation was there in Hell? My Father holds the demiurgus for Himself and Michael alone."

"You know what I mean." Sam's words were clearly meant to sound placating, but somehow missed the mark, falling flat and distant.

"I know that the humans took the raw materials of Effrul and twisted the red sands into a wonderland of tortures, layer after layer of hideous, protracted nightmare." Lucifer glanced at Aza again, who was still muttering to himself. "Your bonefires and pain fields. The monstrous devices of the Malebolge. Judecca's frozen waste. Azazyel! Are you listening? That isn't creation, you pathetic sods, that is just the manifestation of what humans require to torture themselves, to fortify their sad, scrambling efforts to purify their own depraved souls." He snorted. "As if the Silver City were any more fun. As if it were worth all that pain."

Samyaza watched him closely over the rim of his glasses with a serpent's unblinking gaze. "Tell me, Lucifer, when did the Lord of Hell lose his pride?"

"My pride?" Lucifer was taken aback for a moment.

"Your reputation, then. When did it become acceptable for the Devil Himself to abandon the Great Work and allow it to slip into festering ruin? Even if he no longer finds fulfillment in the task, what would cause him to let millennia of effort fall to naught?"

"He," Lucifer adopted the other man's the third person reference, sneering, "is surprised that some of the Fallen haven't annihilated each other in desperate efforts to claim the vacant throne. If the state of the realm matters so dearly to you, Sam, why aren't you there, shoring up the fault lines and retooling it to your tastes? My presence matters not a whit." He paused, thinking. "Unless. . ."

Both men looked at him now, preternaturally still.

Lucifer considered. He didn't believe for a minute that Hell was sorely missing him or falling apart without him. It had existed before him, if in an admittedly different form, and it would continue without him. What was there to fall apart, after all? Hell was chaos, desperation, unrefined and shattered, an ever-evolving landscape shaped by the damned souls that poured through the one-way Gates.

Azazyel interrupted his thoughts, finally refocused. He hurried forward, cramming his hat on his head. "My lord," he pleaded. "You waste your gifts here in this land!"

"My gifts?" Lucifer barked a laugh. "Being Hell's overlord? Overrated, I'm telling you. You've seen Lux, my new "den," as I think you called it. It is enough to manage in my retirement and much more fun. What other gifts? Ah, yes. Punishing bad people. Well, I've been surprised at the opportunities that arise even here." His eyes flicked again toward the Detective, now on the farthest side of the skatepark with the blonde woman, again.

"But Lightbringer, Lord of the Morning!" the little man continued, ever more frantic, but something in his pale eyes, like in Samyaza's words, hinted at performance more than earnest entreaty. "Hell expires without you!"

Lucifer's lip curled in a wicked half-smile. "Then let it."

Closing the distance in a short rush, Aza clutched at Lucifer's sleeve with both hands. "What would your Father think?"

"I'd advise you not to speak of my Father to me," Lucifer snarled, wrenching his arm away, a hint of flame igniting behind his dark eyes. "I doubt sincerely he thinks about any of us—or any of them—" he gestured at the humans around them—"at all. What would he think? He wouldn't."

Samyaza glared at his companion and the other man seemed to shrink in on himself, tucking his hands into his pockets self-consciously. "Apologies, Morningstar. Aza has not adapted well to the stresses of these environs."

Lucifer sighed, suddenly weary. "Then what is it you hope to achieve by coming here?"

Sam turned to him, gaze direct, tone matter-of-fact. "I should think that was abundantly clear by now. Your return to Hell."

"Not gonna happen," Lucifer answered immediately. "Not sure how much more clearly I can put that for you, pal."

Samyaza shifted his stance slightly, rolling his shoulders. "So I'm beginning to understand. You have truly turned your back on all you stand for? You have no stake in the Great Work, after all?"

"I have chosen my own path. I won't follow dear old Dad's plan any longer. And, quite frankly, I suggest you do the same. You seem to have found your own way topside. Look around you. Lighten up. Enjoy it!"

The other man looked away, scowling now, his stoic facade cracking. "It is so easy for you. We are not free, as you know well." Abruptly, he held up his left arm, displaying the burnished chain bracer, its links looped over his hand and running between each finger. Even in the brilliant late afternoon sunlight, its surface seemed unnaturally dull, resisting reflection. Beside him, Aza fingered his pocket watch chain. It, too, lay shadowed and heavy against his waistcoat.

"You're here, aren't you?" Lucifer said. "Free enough."

"This from the advocate of freedom and free will?" Dropping his hand, Samyaza sneered. "Will you break our chains, then, Lucifer Morningstar? Let the Grigori be as unfettered as you are? For unlike you, archangel, we remain tethered beyond the Gates by your Father's word."

Lucifer tensed, eyes narrowing. "Not within my power."

"Nor was leaving Hell. Once."

"Times change. You have managed that much yourself-or as good as."

"Hardly. We are here only briefly, our actions curtailed on this plane. Unlike you, it seems, we must return to Hell."

Lucifer drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. "I cannot undo a command laid into the foundation of the antediluvian world by other than me. But even if I were able, I would not elect to fully unleash the Watchers on humanity again. The humans do enough damage to themselves without the machinations of your kind."

Aza snarled suddenly, the sound reverberating between the palm trees and across the beach, loud and inhuman. "Our kind? We are nearly brothers, you and I!"

With a lunge, Lucifer crossed the space between them, the fingers of one hand burying themselves in the little man's cravat, twisting him off his feet and down into the sand in an instant. Eyes blazing with inner fire, Lucifer hissed, "Thee and thine are as far from the archangels as night from day, creation from destruction, being from nothingness. Do not dare suggest otherwise, little Watcher, or I may have cause to demonstrate how little I mark thee."

Aza flailed beneath him, body curling in a defensive arc, but Lucifer could see his nearly silver eyes gleaming, flat and dispassionate, in the otherwise apologetic face.

"You criticize us for our sins against the humans, Adversary?" Samyaza's voice was bitter but calm, returning to the previous conversation as if neither of the others had moved. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, observing the fate of his partner with only mild interest.

Disgusted, Lucifer released the smaller man with a shove that scattered sand in all directions. "Pride was ever my sin, Sam, but it is not yours. What you do with the capital vices is abhorrent, even to me. You can sate yourself in the lands I have left you. If you tire of that, well, Tartarus and Dis themselves are yours now. Go back where you belong, Grigori, if you cannot do otherwise."

Sam started to speak again, but Lucifer cut him off. "And know that I remember well how lies and misdirection are your primary currency. Just because you are beneath my contempt does not mean you are beneath my notice."

"Lucifer!"

He snapped his head around to see the Detective jogging toward them, her hand at her hip, clearly alerted by the violence and feeling defensively inclined on his behalf. He liked the strange curl of warmth in his chest that image inspired, but stifled it to growl at the two fallen angels. "I suggest you be elsewhere. I'm busy."

He was a little surprised and a little relieved when they both bowed slightly and stalked away over the sand, vanishing behind a particularly dire art installation that reminded him of something growing in the Malebolge. When the Detective skidded to a halt beside him, her very compelling blue-grey eyes searching his face, he let himself smile. "Yes, Detective? Are you finished? Ready for my help again?"

She just gaped at him, so he led the way back to the car, looking forward to shaking the sand out of his shoes.


A/N: Hope this chapter is enjoyable and moves us a small step in the direction of a plot, both in the case and in Lucifer's past as it returns to bother him. First time writing from the Devil's point of view-fun exercise; hope I did him (and Chloe before him) justice. And I took a note out of the series' playbook with our missing porn-reading skatepunk's name ... because why not?

All comments and kudos loved. (Of course!) It means a lot to know people are still reading, especially when chapters are long and somewhat information-heavy.