CHAPTER 3: BETTER THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

Not for the first time, Chloe was glad her mother hadn't sold the aging treadmill. "The Vampire Queen has to exercise sometime!" Penelope Decker had decreed, but then usually bounced off to whatever new gym had opened that month to flirt mercilessly with the body builders. The treadmill gathered dust, tucked away in the guest room upstairs just past the double bed and beneath the low slanted ceiling of exposed wood. It looked out of the room's only window over the neighborhood and toward the far mountains, and at six in the morning, it was awash with orange smog-reflected sunlight.

As the detective pounded along in a steady mile-consuming run, sweat coursed down her face, dripping off her chin and elbows. Seventies music blared from her cell phone on dresser, loud and tinny, spurring her efforts with a glam rock beat. With the house to herself, Chloe didn't need to be concerned that footfalls on the ceiling or funky, kinetic music would wake Trixie or disrupt morning off-to-school rituals. She usually got her daily workout at the LAPD gym, half-cardio, half-strength training, quick and efficient, but when she really wanted to think she preferred the silent house, the suburban view, and the game whirring and squeaking of the old treadmill.

Her first fifteen minutes had been mindless, sleepy slogging, but as the exercise woke her brain, she found herself mulling over yesterday's events at the skatepark. She had certainly recognized the two men in somewhat flamboyant costume who approached Lucifer, had watched them out of her peripheral vision even while she questioned as many teenagers as she could. Just as they had at Lux, the men moved as a coordinated team, and Lucifer reacted similarly—first with overt unconcern, then restrained hostility, and finally, abrupt violence. At which point Chloe had thrown a handful of contact cards at the kids and raced to reach her partner before . . .what?

What exactly had she expected? That they would attack him there on the public beach? Or that Lucifer would attack them? Replaying the scene in her mind, she had to admit that she genuinely wasn't sure. As at the nightclub, her police-honed instincts shouted that danger was imminent, but she couldn't swear from whom or in what form. Lucifer had thrown the guy off his feet in a move worthy of an aikido master and released him, fury short-lived. And the pair had vanished before she got to them without offering either defense or offense.

Even more disquieting, Lucifer had stubbornly deflected her every effort to understand what had just gone down. She peppered him with questions on the drive back into the city, which he blithely didn't hear or misunderstood or simply refused to answer. How did they know him? What were they after? How had they located him at Venice Beach, a place completely outside of his usual haunts, as far as she knew? Why did they display such a bizarre mixture of deference and aggression? Were they dangerous?

Was he?

She hadn't asked that one directly, of course, but she felt him bristle at the insinuation, even as he took the conversation in yet another irrelevant direction. He had dumped her on the sidewalk in front of the police station, speeding the little car back into traffic with barely a farewell. Afterward, she'd spent a restless evening at her dining room table, perusing case files again and trying not to worry that her strange partner and sometime friend was actually some sort of expatriate London mobster.

Chloe kicked the treadmill speed up a few notches, pushing harder. Her sneakers struck the belt in an even rhythm, arms pumping, breathing deeply.

It wouldn't be the first time she'd thought about the possibility that Lucifer was a criminal of some sort. So much of his entire persona fit the template: his arrogance and air of assumed control, his unaccountable physical strength and bursts of anger, his refusal to share a single aspect from his past with her. Even his employees at Lux raised eyebrows. Well, one of them certainly did. Chloe had never reported the actual events at the youth center garage when Mazikeen, weaponless, wreaked havoc on a room full of armed Latin Kings gang members. Broken bones and displaced joints could be explained by special ops training, but her presence in that location at precisely the right time was uncanny. How often had the woman followed them on a case, unnoticed?

By her own admission, Mazikeen had been with Lucifer since his pre-L.A. days. They shared a long history, complete with a strange coded language, a system of comprehensive and consistent religious metaphor that marked locations, times, and events while masking them to the uninitiated. "I followed him through the gates of Hell," Mazikeen had told her at their first meeting. What had once seemed overblown hyperbole now took on more sinister overtones.

Who needed a special ops-ninja-bodyguard on retainer? A drug lord? A cartel boss? A semi-retired mafia godfather? Could she actually imagine Lucifer in any of these roles?

Yes. Horribly, she could.

Chloe ran faster, ducking her chin and focusing on balance, speed, the inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale pattern of her breathing. The treadmill belt whined beneath her.

And now there were two strangers, practically bowing and scraping, begging Lucifer's favor while courting his wrath like something out of The Sopranos. All of it was suspicious—their persistence, their air of latent threat, their use of a similar coded language. All of it pointed to something more seedy than just Lucifer the playboy nightclub owner. Whatever it was that Lucifer had run away from five years ago, it seemed like it might be coming back to bite him in the ass.

Either way, there was no doubt that he was keeping secrets from her again—offering telling silence instead of lies. She understood playing things close to the vest, and lord knows she wasn't sharing every detail of her life with him, but some secrets grew more dangerous when hidden and tended to erupt like a bomb when least expected.

Slowing the treadmill at the first whiff of smoke from the old motor, Chloe walked until her muscles felt comfortably stretched and cooled. She stripped off her sweat-soaked workout clothes, flung them in the hamper, dropped her cell phone on the back of the toilet playing overloud, energetic Bowie, and stepped into the shower. As the steaming water sluiced over her face and hair, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the music, trying to stop thinking about unanswered questions and vague worries and focus on the day ahead.

Automatically, she found herself swaying to "Rebel, Rebel," and, with no one to impress, began to dance a little under the water, as she had danced two nights ago at Lux. Whatever Lucifer was outside of their odd relationship, she couldn't deny that their dancing and bantering had been one of the most pleasant things she'd done in a long time. It took her back beyond some of the years of responsibility, perhaps, a reminder that she was more than the job, the mom, the failed wife, the scapegoat of the department—those core identities that increasingly drove her. With Lucifer on the dance floor, she had also been sexy, strong, witty, respected. It had felt good. He had made her feel . . .

She stopped that train of thought right there, pried off the wheels, and left it smoking on the tracks. Not going there.

She turned off the tap and toweled her face and hair vigorously. As soon as she stepped out onto the cool tile floor, the distinct smells of bacon and coffee hit her, rich, savory, and completely out of place in her empty—and well-bolted—house.

"Oh, no," she groaned. "Not again."

Chloe grabbed her terrycloth robe from behind the door, belted it tightly around her waist and slipped her firearm into her pocket—just in case. Cell phone still merrily singing behind her, she stomped down the stairs, glare already in place.

"I swear, it's like you enjoy being shot," she said, rounding the kitchen cabinets to see Lucifer prodding bacon out of the frying pan and onto plates already laden with scrambled eggs, toast, and fresh orange quarters. When he held up a staying finger while he finished, she continued dramatically. "No, your Honor. I really didn't recognize him. It was 6:30 in the morning, and I was fuzzy-headed from my workout and lack of food. Sure, I reloaded twice, but that was just reflex."

Glancing up, he gave her a dazzling smile. "Why, Detective! You'd go three rounds for me? I certainly admire the stamina, but perhaps we should eat first? You'll need your strength."

She would swear before that self-same imaginary judge that she didn't sputter and gape at him. While she was confident she could make an excellent case that shooting an unexpected intruder in her home was justified, the thought of the ream of paperwork that entailed was more than she could stomach. But only just.

He had draped his jacket over one of the dining room chairs and rolled his sleeves neatly up to his elbows, looking almost absurdly domestic even in his sleek shirt and trousers. "I don't shy away from a little pain, mind," he continued, returning the pan to the stove and picking up both plates. "If that's your thing. Is it your thing?" She watched his eyes flicker over her face, then down, lingering appreciatively on her bare legs.

She scowled. "Lucifer—"

"But, no," he continued, strolling past her to add the plates to the breakfast nook alongside complexly folded napkins, pre-set cutlery, and large mugs of fresh coffee. "I'm rather done with lead projectiles for now, I hope. Just popped in to see how our case was coming along. Can't help that you seem to always be in the shower at this hour, can I? Well, come on, Detective. I did the best I could with your rather pedestrian selection of ingredients."

She stood debating for a moment, common sense telling her to throw him and the entire breakfast out onto the porch. But she had worked up an appetite on the treadmill, the bacon did smell heavenly, and the coffee—oh, the coffee. Shaking her head at herself as much as him, Chloe sat and reached for her cup. "How do you do it, anyway?"

"What?" he asked, tucking into his own food with evident pleasure.

"Break into my otherwise securely locked house," she answered around a mouthful of lavishly buttered toast. Why was breakfast always loads better when someone else cooked?

He shrugged, disinterested. "Child's play, I told you." His head suddenly shot up, alert as if sensing danger, peering beyond her into the house. "No spawn today? Already off to school?"

Chloe snorted a laugh, trying not to spray crumbs (what was it with him and kids?) and wondering, not for the first time, at how quickly her irritation with him always seemed to cool. "Vacation, actually. She's in San Diego for a few more days with Dan's family."

"Good." Lucifer relaxed again, sipping coffee. "Must be a welcome break."

"Not so much. The house feels very empty," Chloe admitted. She abandoned her fork to pick up bacon with her fingers. Her house. Her rules. "Or it did before someone broke in."

"Happy to be of service."

She gestured at him with the bacon, "Then tell me how do you do it. So I'll know if I need to be worried about other people doing the same thing."

"Idle hands, you know. And uniquely talented fingers." He crooked the fingers of one hand in a far too suggestive way and smiled toothily.

Chloe huffed in mock-outrage, but would not be drawn off topic. "So, you know some lock-picking. If you wrecked my deadbolt mechanism, you're replacing it."

"Now, now," he crooned, looking pleased. "You'll find I've done nothing to your locks. All is tight and secure as ever. Just not against the Devil Himself."

"You do know that breaking and entering is a criminal offense? Stalking, too?"

"Nothing's broken, Detective. And is it stalking if you enjoy a hot breakfast with the handsome would-be-stalker before you report the crime? You tell me."

"I'm seriously going to change the locks to something more state-of-the-art," she grumbled, adding lock-picking to her growing list of harmless if annoying Lucifer tricks.

"Oh, I love a challenge. Bring it, Detective."

" well." She popped an orange slice into her mouth, enjoyed the sweet burst of citrus, and stifled the urge to smirk. "I dare you to tell me about those men in rather flamboyant costumes who seem to be following you."

He paused, fork poised over his eggs. "This is the most annoying thing about working with an officer of the law, you know," he complained. "They simply cannot stop themselves from asking useless questions about things which really don't involve them."

She nodded, continuing to eat as if only moderately interested. "True. And since I can't help it, you won't mind me asking again. I'm usually pretty good at recognizing when someone I actually care about—the very tiniest bit—is in some kind of trouble." She held his gaze. "If the cop can't help, Lucifer, perhaps the friend can."

He shifted on the bench, looking suddenly awkward, and put his fork down. "That's a brave sentiment and a very pretty thought, Detective. But I'm afraid you're wrong. There's no trouble here." A faint twitch of a smile. "Well, not the kind you're thinking of."

Taking a chance, she reached across the table and pressed her fingers lightly against his. "Will you tell me this, at least? Were they threatening you?"

He sighed, his eyes drawn to their hands. "Not as such."

Neither of them moved. "Lucifer, please," she said quietly. "What does that mean?"

He seemed to consider, pursing his lips slightly, gaze flicking between her face and her fingertips resting across his. "It means, Detective, that you don't need to worry. They won't harm me, whatever their intentions."

She sat back. "Why can't they hurt you, Lucifer? Is it because you think you're immortal? We did disprove that recently, if you remember."

He scooped his half-finished plate off the table, sliding to his feet abruptly and dumping the remnants of his breakfast in the trash.

"Lucifer." She turned to watch him.

"No, Detective," he said, not looking at her, suddenly busy cleaning the kitchen. "Not because of my new-found mortality. They won't harm me simply because they're not significant enough."

"Significant how, exactly?"

"In the grand scheme of existence. Significance with a capital 'S.' That's all you need to know as a—" he actually seemed to catch his breath a split-second "—as my friend."

"The red-haired guy—Sam, was it? He's not a small dude, Lucifer. He holds himself like a fighter. I can't help but be a little concerned."

He tossed the frying pan into the sink with a clatter. "Enough, Detective." His tone was sharp, brittle. "I came all the way over here to talk about our case, not some random, unimportant personal matter you've happened to observe." It was a crude redirect at best, not nearly up to his usual standard, and Chloe fell silent for a moment, watching his back.

"One more question, then we can talk about the case."

"You are nothing if not persistent."

"I'm good at my job, yes. If they aren't a direct threat to you for whatever reason, are you-" She paused, considering her words. "Are you a threat to them?"

He turned and leaned over the island to look at her, his hands gripping the edges of the stove until their knuckles whitened. Morning sunlight angled through the nearby window and cast peculiar shadows on his face. "If pushed, yes." His voice was tight, teeth almost clenched. "Why, Detective? Afraid you'll have to take me in? Afraid I won't go easily?"

She ignored the bitter invective in his tone. "No. Afraid that they're pushing you, maybe. Setting you up for a fall."

"A fall, is it? How ironic."

"They found you all the way out in Venice, Lucifer."

He cut her off. "You said 'one more,' Detective. We're done with this now."

She rose to hand him her empty plate. "For now," she agreed. Patting his arm to signal surrender and giving him a brief smile, Chloe went to wipe the table.

Silently, Lucifer put dishes in the dishwasher, leftovers in the fridge, and straightened his sleeves, pulling cuff links out of a pocket and fitting them back in place. In a few minutes, the kitchen was spotless and Lucifer as neatly together as always. He stood looking unusually at a loss without any other immediate task and, taking pity on him, Chloe pointed toward the den. "All of the older case files for Long Beach are on the coffee table. Why don't you go see what you make of them while I get dressed? Look at Smythe, particularly. That's our first stop today."

She was four stairs up before he gathered himself enough to respond, the quip following her as she climbed. "Are you sure you don't need a helping hand upstairs, Detective? Uniquely talented fingers, remember? You know what they say about idle hands and the Devil's playthings?"

"No, Your Honor," she said loudly, glad to hear him recover his good-humor, "I don't know how the toaster fell off the counter onto his head. That part was simple coincidence!"


Nearly an hour later, they walked along the mixed commercial and residential streets of Long Beach, passing salons and bars and cafes wedged onto the palm-lined main drag. Lucifer peered into storefront windows, his attention caught by people and items briefly, then returned to Chloe as she brought him up to speed on the Peter Gross case.

"Did you tell her Lux was hiring? The blonde, I mean?" he asked, sauntering along beside her, craning his neck and seeming to bask the sun and the sea air like a slightly offensive cat.

"Of course not!"

"Well, maybe later. Did she add anything to the lad's parents' rather lackluster portrait of his wasted potential?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. Peter had been spending most mornings at the skatepark, pre-sunrise, practicing some mysterious new trick at a time when his friends and competitors wouldn't be there to watch. The girlfriend met him there around six."

"More motivated than I'd expect," Lucifer mused. "Unless 'trick' is being used euphemistically? If so, maybe we should go interrogate her again, after all?"

Chloe pushed on, rubbing her temples before a headache could take hold. "Yesterday, she said she left him there just after dawn to get them both some breakfast. When she returned, he'd already gone. She assumed the beat cops had chased him off toward school and figured she'd catch up with him later. She spent the remainder of the morning at her part-time job serving McMuffins, and that's all she knew until he missed their gig that afternoon. None of his friends had much to add. A few of them looked miffed that he'd been practicing without them, maybe."

"Murder by jealous skateboard rival? Was young Mr. Gross actually the dark horse of the wannabe X-games?"

"Maybe," she said with a shrug. "But I doubt it."

"Yes, me, too. More likely, I was right about him just being an uninteresting parasite in all of his social groupings."

The sidewalk was sparsely populated at this hour of the morning. Many of the shops and cafes were still closed for another hour or two, and several of L.A.'s many homeless citizens were still tucked beneath cardboard boxes and dingy blankets on the stoops. Some of them looked up with hopeful interest at Lucifer, but Chloe's badge seemed to discourage them. As usual, it made her feel conflicted—her compassion warring with the need to move without being accosted for hand-outs.

One man in a grey, sweat-stained shirt and ragged jeans pushed himself upright as they approached. He peered up at them through long, curly brown hair, heavy with grime, and held out an open, empty battered leather wallet on an unusually long chain, gesticulating but saying nothing. Chloe checked her steps, reaching into her pocket to find a few bills, but Lucifer stepped between them. With a soft, contemptuous noise, he roughly blocked the man's reach and growled at her, "Keep walking, Detective."

"Lucifer, what the hell?" she bridled, about to push him aside when he grasped her elbow and propelled her down the sidewalk, his grip so hard and unexpected that she was several feet away before she even began trying to turn back. "Hey!"

Behind them, Chloe saw the homeless man stumble to his feet and shuffle after them, wallet dragging across the ground behind him like a ball and than Lucifer and thin to the point of emaciation, he moved with a limping, loose-limbed gait, a Halloween scarecrow come to life. When Chloe looked again, he had fallen behind and finally stopped, standing in the gutter and staring intently after them. She imagined frustration and loss on his gaunt face beneath its thicket of unkempt hair.

Rounding on her partner, she snapped, "What do you think you're doing? Maybe you can afford classic cars and Prada suits, but not everyone in this city is so damned lucky."

Lucifer continued to walk ahead, his long strides forcing her to pick up her pace even to yell at him.

She did, jogging a few steps but somehow failing to break in front of him. "I knew you were arrogant, but I didn't think you were a complete asshole," she continued, shocked at his dismissal. "And if I want to help someone out, it's my prerogative. Not yours."

"Yes, of course." Lucifer nodded up at the street sign, moving purposefully into the narrower side street without missing a beat. "The shop you're looking for is down here, didn't you say?"

Seizing his arm, Chloe planted her feet and dropped her center of gravity, stopping him mid-stride.

He turned, looking impatient. "Right. Got it. You get to decide where to throw your paltry salary away. Now, can we get on with this?"

She stared at him, fuming. "No. I can put up with a lot from you—hell, I do put up with a lot from you. But you don't get to manhandle me, ever. Understand? In fact, maybe you don't need to work with me at all if you're going to be that hostile to some poor homeless guy!"

The muscles in his jaw corded as he ground his teeth. "Detective, he's not what he seems."

"Oh? What is he, then? Investment banker? Celebrity chef?"

"Perhaps. But, whatever he is, it is by choice and for some unpleasant end."

Chloe shook her head. "Really? I thought you had more sense than to believe that. There are lots of legitimate reasons for poverty, especially in this city. You can't just sit in your ivory penthouse and listen to what network television tells you about people. I guess you don't meet too many of the lower classes in your usual circles, do you?"

"In spite of what it may look like," he said with surprising bitterness, "I'm likely the most open-minded and least prejudiced person you know. Believe me, the complexities and inequities of the human condition are not lost on me. But that man does not deserve your sympathy."

"And how could you know that?"

"Because he's—" he sighed, looking vaguely defeated. "Let us just say he's an ex-employee. I know him."

"Former Lux staff?"

"Not Lux." He rubbed his stubbled chin. "From before."

"Before?" she echoed. "You mean before L.A.? Just like the other two yesterday, right? What did you do before, Lucifer?"

He was silent for almost a minute, and she waited, arms crossed over her chest. "I have told you, Detective. More than once. I can't help that you don't believe me."

"So, he's hellspawn? That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

Lucifer rolled his eyes. "Not hellspawn, no. Hellspawn are usually much simpler and, in most cases, less dangerous. Don't be deceived by the guise he's adopted. None of us always look quite like what you see."

"Yes, sometimes I'm very surprised by what I see from you," she bit out and marched away, not caring if he followed. Clearly, this conversation wasn't going anywhere, and she needed to check-in with some of these older missing persons cases before lunchtime.

Before the next cross street, the detective saw the tell-tale garish electric blue awning described in the case file. It stretched over the sidewalk, an enormous painted cannabis leaf and blocky rainbow letters spelling out "UP IN SMOKE EMPORIUM" across its front. Scrawled across the windows in white paint were the words "pipes - medical weed - legal paraphernalia - exotica - antiques" and showcased below were a hodgepodge of objects, from leather-bound books and old pharmacy bottles to gem-colored hookah pipes, bongs, and hydroponic equipment. A neon "open" sign flickered fitfully above the door, reflecting red in the large display of glassware. Chloe peered in and noticed Lucifer come up beside her, shading his eyes with one hand to see more clearly against the glass.

"A head shop?" He sounded more cheerful, as if making an effort to recover from, if not apologize for, his bad behavior. "Why, Detective, you do take me to the nicest places."

"You can't tell me you've never been in a head shop before," she grumped, pulling open the door with a musical chime and stepping into a wall of sickly sweet incense. Long and narrow, the shop overflowed with glass cases, wooden shelves, every surface scattered with mismatched wares. Racks of black grunge clothing and studded leather gear competed with the bright primary colors of Grateful Dead memorabilia, faded posters, and row after row of marijuana-related merchandise. Windchimes and witch balls and other bric-a-brac dangled and twirled from the star-painted ceiling. Chloe's eyes started watering almost immediately in the thick atmosphere, and she had to clear her throat to call, "Anyone here?"

Lucifer pushed past her, looking around with interest. "Quite the mix of goods. Something for all occasions." He hefted a walking stick with a silver serpent head and glittering red gem eyes, appraising it, then vanished behind a tall bookshelf in the middle of the floor. Three human skulls perched on top amid tangles of ribbon and tiny plastic dinosaurs. "Oh, hello," she heard him comment delightedly. "I haven't tried one of those before."

"Not asking. I never ask a question when I really don't want to know the answer," Chloe said over her shoulder as she approached the counter where a small bell sat beside an old-fashioned push-button cash register. The glass counter below brimmed with a collection of worn clay pipes of various sizes and lengths, all with small bowls, stained and pocked. A handwritten scrap of paper noted these were "antique pipes" and "for use with legal substances only." Yeah. Right. She tapped the bell.

A rattle of bead curtains heralded the arrival of a rotund older woman with flyaway purple hair, gauzy multicolored shawls, and tight black spandex leggings. A large cut-glass heart bounced comfortably on a chain around her neck. She waddled through the shop, a brilliant smile of welcome on her well-lined face. Nearly a foot shorter than the detective, she peered up at her for a moment, then reached out to press her hands warmly. Her skin was dry and soft, her grip featherlight. "Why, hello, my dear," she sang, crows' feet crinkling in pleased surprise. Chloe noticed that although her eyes seemed a little watery, they were also a striking tawny color-clear, bright, shining with enthusiasm. "What can I do for you today?"

Chloe returned the infectious smile. "Are you Ms. Abigail Smythe?" she asked politely, releasing the woman's hands. "My name is Detective Chloe Decker. I'm with the LAPD."

"Oh!" The shop owner startled, then laughed wheezily as Lucifer emerged from behind the center shelf, a massive leather-backed volume tucked under one arm. "I didn't see you there, young man."

He took her proffered hand and bowed over it with his best five star smile. "Lucifer Morningstar."

Chloe stopped herself from rolling her eyes unprofessionally. At least he was behaving himself now.

If his name surprised her, the little woman didn't show it. "Get all kinds in here, dear," she prattled comfortably, gesturing around at walls plastered with heavy metal flyers and tarot posters. "What can I do for such a pretty couple? You'll be here with a prescription, perhaps? Got to see the actual documentation, you know." She bustled around behind the counter, pushing boxes and stacks of paper aside with her feet. "Or is it something else you're hoping to find?"

"Ms. Smythe?" Chloe repeated, thinking the shopkeeper might be just a bit deaf.

"Yes? Detective, did you say?"

"Detective Decker, ma'am, with the Missing Persons Unit. I'm here to follow-up on your brother. I'm afraid there's no news to report on our end, but we were wondering if anything more had occurred to you since that first week. I hope you don't mind us stopping in. I'm sure it's been a hard few weeks. We are still hopeful."

Owlish eyes blinked up at her. "What's that? My brother?"

Chloe smiled sympathetically, noticing that the woman's hands trembled a little as she began lighting candles and fresh trays of incense behind the register. "Yes. Is there anything that you haven't told us already? Perhaps he's been back in contact since we haven't heard from you lately?"

Smythe shook her head, frizzy purple hair wafting like the rising smoke. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, my dear." She looked back and forth between Chloe and Lucifer blankly. "I don't have a brother, much less one that's missing."

Nothing in the case notes had indicated that Smythe might suffer from memory loss or dementia of any kind, although Chloe realized that the prolonged use of cannabis had been known to have deleterious effects. When she got back to the station, she fully intended to have a sharp conversation with the MPU officer who had overlooked that pertinent detail during their initial investigation; of all things not to notice, even if it were an intermittent condition. Chloe felt a pang, looking across at the older woman. At least it explained why no one had called to check up on the case in over two weeks now. "Listen, ma'am," she began again. "Is there anyone else here that you work with? Do you have other family in the area?"

"No, dear. It's just me and the shop these days. Only open when I can be here." She brightened suddenly, tugging at her shawls and nodding at the book in Lucifer's hands. "Oh-ho! That's what you're about, today, is it? Well, then," she turned to Chloe with a very un-grandmotherly wink. "I don't blame you one bit, boy like that, but you'll need to come to the back room for that kind of thing. Get a lot of kids in here, you know."

Lucifer's face split into a disconcertingly wide grin. "That so? Detective, I suggest we inspect this back room, just in case there's someone else to answer your boring questions."

The shop door chimed again, and Chloe turned to see the homeless man from before shoulder inside and stop when he saw the little knot of people staring in his direction. He coughed, fingered his wallet chain nervously, then looked away as if perusing the window displays.

When Lucifer stiffened beside her, the detective quickly placed a light, restraining hand on his sleeve. His eyes flashed down at her, anger in the hard set of his jaw, but he didn't move or speak. Watching this small byplay, Smythe also reached out to them, her pudgy fingers patting them both. "Oh, don't worry yourselves about old Bat. He's just part of the furniture. Come on in, Bat. There'll be coffee and a pipe in a minute. Got us a little cake, too, this morning."

Lucifer rolled his shoulders, glaring as the skinny man wandered in and veered off toward the far wall and its display of home growing equipment and how-to magazines. The top of his greasy hair could still be seen above even the tallest shelf, bobbing between the skulls and eclectic junk.

"Old Bat?" Chloe asked, leaving her hand on Lucifer just in case. He didn't seem to mind, and after a moment, she felt him heave a breath and turn away from the front of the store.

"Bartholomew, I expect. But who wants to have to say that whole mouthful, eh? Goes by Bat. He's harmless. Wants a bit of food and a stoop to sleep on; I let him have a tobacco pipe once in awhile. He blends right in with some of my regulars, you know, though he don't say much himself. Now," she shifted back to business, "you just come with me. Don't be shy." She pulled them both through a multi-layered bead curtain and into a tiny, cramped room filled with brightly lit displays.

Lucifer hummed, grinning like the canary that ate the cat. "Well, well. The nicest places, indeed, Detective."

Chloe sighed, dropping her head into her hands. Of course it would have to be sex toys. Bright neon colors, variable shapes and sizes, and was that supposed to be a strap-on dragon dick?


Lucifer closed the shop door behind them before the detective finally burst with indignation. "Why the hell did she assume we wanted sex toys?" she hissed, with the most striking flush still painted over her cheeks and throat. He wondered idly if she knew that happened when she was flustered. Did it also happen when she was aroused in even more interesting ways? He'd love to find out.

"No need to be embarrassed, Detective," he purred, watching the rosy color deepen as he leaned into her. "We're both adults. And, as you make no secret that young Beatrice isn't adopted, we both know you must have hadsex at some point in your life. Although it wouldn't surprise me if that ex of yours was exclusively vanilla in his skills." He loved that face, the one where her fine eyebrows dipped over stormy eyes, her lips twisting down at just one corner. Marvelous. "And, of course, she expected to sell me this." He held up his parcel, its square form swaddled in several plastic bags.

"That extraordinarily expensive book," she said. "I'm totally going to regret asking—but what is it, then?"

He offered it to her and watched while she peeled back plastic to reveal the dusty, dark red cover with its gold-inlaid Sanskrit characters. Puzzled and suspicious, she opened the tome to its frontispiece, its scroll-like text also unreadable to her limited grasp of historic world languages. Thumbing through the excellently hand-stitched pages, she frowned. "What—? I don't—"

"It's not Vātsyāyana's original, of course. Just a hand-copied recent edition, maybe four hundred years old at best. But it is quite beautiful, and it's always amusing to see how even its most well-meaning and scholarly admirers bungle the translation." He tilted his head. "You still don't recognize it? I guess without the pictures your modern printings add, it's not quite obvious. I don't need the pictures myself, never really did, but some of them can be helpful for partners."

That downturned corner of her mouth deepened. "It's the Kamasutra, isn't it? Fancy that. Ancient porn. Of course it is." She shoved the book back into his hands and strode off up the side street toward where they had parked the police cruiser.

"Surely you've tried these, Detective. Don't tell me you haven't?" He followed, his longer legs catching up quickly. "You know, you really need to get over your hang-up about sleeping with me. The delights I can plan for you! Some of these positions have been popular as far back as the Babylonian conquest, and for good reason. And Vātsyāyana left a few of the more exciting ones out just to avoid shocking the clergy of his day over much, too. Completely worth the effort." When she didn't respond, he offered, "If you're still going to be stubborn, how about I loan you a copy with pictures for a start?"

She lengthened her stride. "If you even try to mansplain the Kamasutra to me, you will need both hands, a flashlight, and a mirror to read it in its new home."

"Oh, so you are familiar, Detective," he chuckled, letting her go this time, enjoying the view from behind. "You know it's not just a sex manual!" he called after her. "It's actually a treatise on the nature of desire. A philosophical and practical master class, if you ask me. And I should know!"

A sudden acrid taste in the air, sweat and gasoline and scorched sulfur, stopped him cold. He stood still, listening, letting the Detective hasten away without him. After a moment, he growled a wordless threat into the silence, low and animal.

"We fell for you, my lord." The answering voice was smoke edged in broken glass, rasping and soft and directionless, floating to him as if from a great distance. "We fell like embers, forever burning, forever bound. For you."

Long, spidery fingers seized Lucifer's arm in an iron grip. Incensed by the effrontery, Lucifer snarled, twisting away. But the hands clutched at him again, clawed up his body, dug beneath his jacket, scrabbled at his collar. A too-heavy bony form clung to him, groping, inhumanly strong. "For you! For you!" the homeless scarecrow of a man wailed, broken teeth gnashing in Lucifer's face.

"Batraal," the Devil raged, trying to seize the fallen angel in his own vice-like hands and failing as preternatural limbs slid and scrambled around him. "You dare? You should have learned your lesson the first time you came at me, Watcher."

"You owe us!" Batraal gasped, breath rattling in his pseudo-lungs, spittle flying. He slipped out of Lucifer's fingers like oil only to flow behind him. "For you, we've lived epochs of suffering and shame. Fallen, like you. Fallen, for you."

Lucifer spun, teeth bared and eyes flaming red, the scent of brimstone in the air. "You fell for yourselves," he snapped, attacking with words when the thin body eluded him once again. "For your own lusts, consorting with demons and with humans against their will, your greed and gluttony slaked in blood and marrow. If you claimed free will as your banner, it was not out of allegiance to me!"

"It was for you, Adversary. We followed your path." The cracked, whispery voice echoed in the empty street. "And so you owe us. You will always owe us."

"I owe you nothing," Lucifer grated. "But show yourself, Bat, and I can still give you the quick and ignominious death you have ever deserved."

"Hell lacks you, lord. Take up your mantle, and follow us home." Shadows flickered against the shop walls on either side of the street. "Ignore us at your peril."

"Lies and empty threats. You haven't the will." Lucifer whipped around at a rush of air behind him, freezing when he saw Detective Decker, gun raised in both hands. She had positioned herself back to back with him, covering the other end of the road, hard-eyed and fierce. Something molten and ancient inside him answered her ferocity with exultation.

"What the hell, Lucifer?" she whispered.

He blinked the fire out of his eyes, pulled himself back from the brink. "Yes, exactly," he muttered, scanning around him, all too aware that the human woman bravely—if uselessly—defending him was more vulnerable than she could realize right now. "You shouldn't be here."

"Shut up. Is he gone? Where'd he go? He was right here!"

With a fiendish scream, Batraal drove into Lucifer with force enough to stagger him and fling the detective aside like a rag doll. Icy links of chain wrapped around the Devil's throat, a choking pressure that turned into a searing pain, dragging him backward, pulling him inexorably down. Shocked at the strength of the lone Fallen, Lucifer struck out and caught only air. Steel fingers gripped his hair, fetid breath burned at his ear, and the flash of a curved dagger cut viciously across his vision.

And Lucifer Morningstar began to laugh, silent and agonized, as Mazikeen of the Lilim carved one of the clutching hands off in a spray of black ichor. Tar-like blood and wriggling flesh tumbled through the air, igniting, burning away into smoke before they touched the earth.

Strangling chain loosed, Lucifer lurched forward to crouch in the street. He rubbed his battered throat and watched with pride as Maze leapt onto his assailant's shoulders, riding him down, boots gouging into sternum and spine. The tip of a hell-forged blade hooked deep into his fragile-looking throat, and he gurgled as she hauled upward, holding him trapped beneath her weight, balanced impossibly.

When the Watcher twitched, she licked her parted lips. "Please try it," she begged, breathless, aroused. She slid her slender body down the skeletal form of her prey, drinking in his helplessness and pain. "He may not miss home, but I do. Give me some sport, little angel."

Batraal shivered, unresisting, but his eyes roved wildly over the scene, over Lucifer on the ground, Mazikeen's feral stare, his own thick black blood burning in the air as it poured from his severed wrist. "Lord," he mouthed, silently, fixing his gaze on Lucifer at last. "I had to. Forgive me."

Lucifer straightened, flicking road dirt from his jacket. "Not my job," he said flatly.

With an obscene moan, Mazikeen completed her stroke, ramming blade and fingers fully through the fallen angel's throat. The body collapsed beneath her, flashing into white fire before coalescing into smoke to be whisked away in the ocean breeze. Maze watched it for a moment, satisfied, then shoved the dagger carelessly back into its hidden sheath at the small of her back.

She turned to Lucifer, the curve of her body sultry and sated with the kill. The socket of one eye had darkened with a skull-like shadow and the outline of grinning teeth gleamed along her jaw just beneath her human skin. Reaching him in two smooth strides, she ran her hands up his chest, pushing inside his jacket, popping buttons off his shirt to reach warm skin, arching up against him to kiss his bruised throat. He felt her breath, the familiar force of her teeth, the wet slide of her tongue along the ache left by the chain. When she pulled back to stare steadily up at him, his blood was smeared across her lower lip. Though her gaze was alluring, her words were sharp. "He'll be back. You know I can't kill him. I don't like this, Lucifer."

He wiped the blood away with his thumb. "Don't you? Could have fooled me."

She pushed off of him, eyes narrowing. "What is up with you?" she demanded. "Since when can a single Grigori harm the Devil?"

Lucifer shrugged at the rather provincial line of questions and turned away to attend his detective. Chloe had fallen on her side, her hair splayed out in disarray and the shoulder of her light coat torn at a seam, but otherwise seemed unharmed. He touched her gently, murmuring her name, trying to call her back from wherever human consciousness goes when shoved.

Mazikeen stood over them, head cocked, raptorish. She sneered down at the prone policewoman. "To serve and protect, was it? I forget."

"I don't need her protection, Maze," Lucifer responded, settling the detective more comfortably on her back and tapping her cheek with light fingers.

He could feel the demon's gaze on his garroted neck. "So I see," she said pointedly.

"Not when I have you to bring the sarcasm and sacrificial daggers, Mazie." He gave her a glimmer of a smile to show that he really was genuinely grateful for her assistance, if not her commentary.

The demon shrugged. "Yes. You do. But that makes three of them now, out of place and in your way. As embattled as they may be back home, you can bet they'll all know before long that one of them, alone, made the Devil bleed."

"And they will also know I am still well-attended." Lucifer shrugged, unconcerned. "What can they do but offer us some sport we haven't had in years? I thought you longed for a taste of home? A change of pace? "

"I do. But it's the change in you that worries me. It needs to worry you more, too, especially if Hell's leaking challengers." She bent to run rough, stinging fingers over his abraded throat. When he pulled away with a warning glare, she smirked and strode off up the street, leather-clad hips swaying. From one moment to the next, her lean, sinuous form was there and and then not, leaving behind only the rhythmic echo of stiletto heels.

Lucifer growled to himself about uppity demon torturers, asinine fallen angels, and reckless human detectives. He hefted the Detective's limp form into his arms, tucked his book and her firearm securely into her coat, and carried her back to the parking deck followed by the eyes of surprised morning shoppers. Chloe groaned when he propped her in the passenger seat and buckled the seat belt to hold her up. By the time he'd circled the car and slid in himself, her eyes were blinking open and her athletic body tensing for battle.

"Easy, Detective," he said, fishing her keys out of her jacket pocket with deft fingers.

"Lucifer?" She rolled her head forward, long hair falling over her face in a messy wave. She gingerly felt her shoulder and elbow. "Ow. My God, what happened? I feel like I fell off a ladder."

"It would be an inordinately high ladder if He were involved. I doubt you'd feel much of anything in that case," he answered cheerfully. "Except immense boredom while waiting on Uriel to get on with the orientation."

"What?" She fingered the torn seam.

Lucifer pointed the painfully slow police sedan toward the highway and dropped his foot on the accelerator with disappointing results. At least it wasn't rush hour. "Well, to review, I do believe we were discussing the merits of avoiding certain unsavory characters that I—" He paused, a mock-frown furrowing his brow. "I do believe I feel an 'I told you so' coming on. You may need to take the wheel." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her sit up straighter, remembering, turning to him with sharp green eyes that took in his own less-than-coiffed state."Yes, Detective?" he prompted, knowing he couldn't stop her.

"He attacked you. He was like—like some kind of acrobat or martial artist. You were saying something about—about demons? And free will and allegiance. He said you owed him. Or them. Or someone. You were disagreeing, I think."

"A mostly fair assessment of events."

"And you threatened to kill him." She covered her eyes with her hand as if trying to ward off a migraine. "You didn't kill him, did you?"

He harrumphed. "No, Detective. I didn't."

"Is that blood on your collar? Are you bleeding?"

"Not anymore."

She flung her head back against the seat, wincing as she did so. "What the hell Is going on? Who are these people? What do they want from you?"

He stared out at the road. "They appear to be seeking favors I will not grant," he said after a moment of consideration.

"You have limits on the favors you'll do for people?" Her follow-up question was, in his mind, not perhaps the most valuable or direct one she could have asked. Perhaps she had hit the ground a bit harder than he thought.

"Believe it or not, Detective, even I know there are some boundaries better not to be crossed," he replied seriously. "And that was hardly the way for them to ingratiate themselves or inspire my generosity!"

And that, he decided, was his final word on a subject he wasn't entirely sure he understood himself. "How do you feel about a quick stop at yours and mine for a change of clothes? And can we change vehicles while we're at it? Honestly, this drives with all the finesse of a theme park bumper car and looks about as attractive."


A/N: As always, thanks tremendously for reading. Reviews truly loved! It's always great to know what folks are thinking . . . and even if they made it to the end of these long chapters. ;-) Apologies for slow updates; the academic year is eating my life a bit. Still writing, though!