Hello, guys! Okay, so here is another chapter. Thank you so much to those of you who have followed, "favorited" and left feedback on this story. And to those of you who are sticking with it, thank you for reading.

Please be warned that, while there is nothing explicit, the story touches upon the issue of child abuse.

Devil'sMiracle17 has a point. I should have put in an "implied child abuse warning" in the last chapter (or the story as a whole). I will make an edit to the first chapter so people know the theme is touched upon. What I can promise you, though, is that there are no graphic descriptions and/or depictions of any such situation. It will all remain implied and extremely vague.

SPCLjmm - I don't know if Dear Old Dad will get involved. He's always taken a rather "hands-off" approach on the show. ;-)

Anyway, without further ado, here is the chapter. I hope you enjoy it.

Some Kind of Game

Breakfast time was one of the happier routines Chloe used to keep her sanity in check. The coffee maker was timed to go off at 7, and half an hour later, Trixie would be climbing onto a stool and telling her about the latest fourth-grader drama, which usually involved some sort of dispute over lunchbox items. Chloe wasn't looking forward to the day those quarrels turned into something of a more mature nature.

But, today, Trixie's focus was on the graphic novel Lucifer had lent her. The theme wasn't particularly apt for children, but Trixie was mature for her age. Besides, as far as Chloe was concerned, whatever encouraged her daughter to read was always a plus.

Chloe placed the box of cereal on the counter next to the milk. They had come to a compromise when it came to breakfast choices. Trixie could have cereal instead of eggs, but not the sugary kind. In return, Chloe had vowed to limit her coffee intake to one cup at home and one at the office, tops. Without Maze there to tempt them both, the arrangement had been working out quite well.

The thought of Maze gave Chloe's anxiety a little jolt. Like Lucifer, the demon had respected Chloe's wishes and had stayed away. Not having her around felt strange. And kind of lonely. Maze had covered her share of the rent for the next three months, which gave Chloe's budget some highly needed breathing room. Keeping Maze's contribution when she had practically moved out, however, was neither fair nor honest. Paralyzing apprehension aside, they would need to address the situation sooner or later.

Chloe sighed.

One step at a time.

Her laptop sat on the counter top across from Trixie. Taking her first sip of coffee, Chloe browsed through the information she'd gathered the night before regarding Audrey Reynolds. The sixteen year old was a student at Lincoln High in Inglewood, and her mother had recently been diagnosed with glioblastoma multiform, a rare form of brain cancer. Her father worked for the DMV downtown. She had a thirteen-year-old sister named Kate. Audrey had been a good student, but her last report card had taken a significant dip right around the time of her mother's diagnosis. Her connection to Lucifer, or how her allegations against him came about, remained a mystery.

Chloe stretched her back and rubbed the ever-present knots on her neck. She couldn't remember how it felt not to be exhausted. She was tempted to break the deal with Trixie and go for that second serving of coffee. Instead, Chloe closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, and hoped the next cup at the office would make her feel a little less like a used rag by midmorning. She had decided to go to work on a Sunday, not just to make up for lost time, but to try and find out the missing link between Lucifer and Audrey Reynolds. Luckily, Trixie's soccer coach was taking the team out to lunch after practice. The extra time at the office was a blessing.

Pushing aside her half-eaten peanut-butter-and-banana toast, Chloe turned her attention to her daughter. Another mystery to be solved. Trixie was shoveling a spoonful of Grapenuts into her mouth, half of the milk spilling over her breakfast bowl. The comic book was beside it, absorbing all of her attention and a few droplets of milk.

"This book is wrong," Trixie muttered, eyebrows creased. "Look. Whoever drew Lucifer, made him blond."

Chloe rested her elbows on the counter beside her.

"Maybe the illustrator took an artistic license," she said.

"What does that mean?"

"It means whoever drew those imagined Lucifer with blond hair." Chloe ran her finger over one of the vignettes. Lucifer appeared menacing and commanding. Nothing at all like the easygoing, happy-go-lucky Lucifer she'd come to know. The author, however, had perfectly captured his poised elegance. "Kind of like the pictures you drew last night."

Trixie didn't acknowledge the left turn in conversation. She just turned the page, and ate another spoonful of cereal.

Okay. So she didn't take the bait. A direct approach it is.

"Baby, why is Lucifer so angry in your picture?"

Trixie shrugged. She refused to tear her eyes away from the pages. "I dunno."

Chloe exhaled. That was classic hermetic Trixie. If Chloe wanted her daughter to open up, she would have to pull her mom card.

"We haven't really talked about your little excursion to Lux the other night. It was late after I picked you up, and your dad and I let it slide, but it is something we need to address."

No reaction.

"Look at me," Chloe asked softly. "Trix, please, look at me."

Reluctantly, Trixie tore her gaze away from the book and met her mom's.

"What did Lucifer say to you before we left?"

Trixie broke eye contact.

"Come on, Trix. You know you can tell me anything."

"I want to tell you," the child said weakly. "I just don't want to make things worse. Please. Don't be mad."

Chloe's heart did a weird summersault.

"I won't be mad." Chloe tried to sound reassuring. "What did he tell you?"

Lucifer parked the Vet in the decrepit parking lot at the seedy no-name motel in Reseda. His car stood out like a hooker in a convent against the beat up Corollas, Versas, and Civics that surrounded it. The note had been concise, but clear:

34.1494° N, 118.5505° W

Room 24

Sunday, 09'00"

Why any of his siblings would send him to one of the most sordid motels in "Raunchville" using a cheesy note worthy of a B-rated movie, was not only baffling, but annoying. Discretion was probably a factor. But, for goodness sake, Reseda?

Lucifer walked over to room 24 and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Brilliant. He could hear a murmuring voice inside, someone either whispering or talking really quietly. Then silence. He knocked again and waited. Nothing. Okay, if this was a prank, exile or not, he would storm through the gates of Heaven and rip to shreds whoever made him waste his time in such a vile way. Another knock, another stretch of uneventful silence.

Bloody hell!

Seething, Lucifer pondered whether to blast through the wretched door, or just leave. The latter won. If there was something he hated viscerally was being manipulated. His siblings knew as much. Whoever had concocted this stupid prank would pay. Earth might cease to exist, but the Devil's grudge would live on.

With a nasty expletive, Lucifer turned away. The sound of the door clicking open at his back made him turn back around.

"Come in," a female voice came from inside.

The room was dark—all curtains drawn and not a single light on. The low light wasn't a problem for Lucifer, whose eyes could see equally well in the darkest pits of Hell, as in the middle of a blue-skied sandy desert. He spotted the young woman standing in the far corner of the room immediately.

"Are you the messenger?" he asked.

"I guess you could say that."

She offered him a shy smile, her body trembling visibly.

"I am not going to hurt you," he said quietly. "Amenadiel must have assured you of that. Things are different down here."

The girl seemed hesitant, still afraid. His reputation preceded him, apparently. Lucifer had been ruthless during the Great War. Pragmatic. The Celestial Council had feared his thirst for power way before he, himself, had felt the first stirrings of desire to rebel against his Father. His resolve to destroy the status quo had grown inside him like a cancer. Once he'd realized entire armies were willing to bow before him to fight for a common goal, there had been no stopping The War. He had been cunning. A worthy adversary, according to the heavenly scriptures. But still no match for his Father and his loyal host of angels.

The quest for free will by those who fought beside Lucifer had resulted in a bloodbath. Those who hadn't died by the sword had been cast out of the Silver City along with him, condemned to roam the depths of Hell for eternity. That final battle in which he'd been forced to surrender had happened eons ago. Yet, at times, he felt like only yesterday Amenadiel had stood above Lucifer's battered body with a scythe to his throat.

"Don't turn on the lights, okay?" the girl said, her voice shaking.

Lucifer stood by the bed. "All right," he said. "But time's running out, darling. Waiting for the second coming is not exactly the best of plans."

She walked up to him, her lips glistening with freshly applied lipstick. Before he knew what was happening, she had wrapped her arms around his shoulders and was kissing his neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth…

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Lucifer yelped. He did not see that coming. He grabbed her wrists, forcing her still until she stared up at him, eyes wide. "Is this some kind of game?"

The young woman yanked her wrists free of his grasp. "No game," she whispered tightly. Tears clung to her eyelashes. "I'm sorry. I really didn't want to do this. I'm… I'm really sorry."

Police sirens could be heard in the distance, fast approaching. The girl ripped open her blouse and stormed out the room screaming.

"Help me! Somebody! Please, help!"

Realization dawned on Lucifer almost immediately.

He had been set up.

Not by a celestial scheme, but a human one. The girl had been alerting the police while he'd been foolishly pondering whether to enter the room or not.

A patrol car skidded to a stop in front of the room, and two uniformed cops jumped out, guns drawn and aimed squarely at Lucifer.

"Don't move! Hands where I can see them!"

Lucifer had heard the detective recite Miranda rights countless times to the thugs and suspected thugs they arrested on a regular basis. He'd always found the ritual rather absurd. You're either guilty, or you're innocent. No attorney is ever going to change that fact.

The pounding headache that had been following Lucifer around for the past several days intensified. He allowed the cops to cuff his wrists behind his back, and thought it prudent to simply shut the hell up and take things in stride. They couldn't lock him up forever, after all. For one, he could easily afford bail. Well, assuming bail wasn't denied in the first place, though Lucifer was confident he could bamboozle any judge into setting a reasonable fee.

Of course, there was another pesky problem to worry about.

Armageddon was already upon them.

[To Be Continued…]