I.
I'm in L.A., Baby
—
I'm not in the room, I'm in L.A., baby (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Wasteland, Tierra Whack
—
Bass.
Neon lights.
The muddled music of a hundred voices mingling in a darkened room, thick with a thousand different desires. A Laphroaig single malt neat in a heavy-bottomed glass.
Lucifer Morningstar took a slow sip as he leaned against the bar, scanning his eyes over the Friday night crowd at his nightclub, Lux. The first night of the weekend was typically the rowdiest. Most people were dying to shed their 9-to-5 costumes so that they could drink, dance and fuck their weekday memories away. Good for business. Even better for him. He couldn't understand the particular human need to tuck away ones inhibitions depending on a work schedule. It seemed such a stifling way to exist, especially given that they only lived a few decades on a world that didn't care for their existence.
A group of younger men swathed in thick cologne and untucked dress shirts noisily walked past, two of them eyeing his black dress jacket and crisp white shirt. Envy? Ridicule? He studied them back, a cocky grin creased along his five-o-clock shadow. He would have to have a word with David at the front door about guest dress code policy again.
"Try hard much, bro?" One of them turned his head back and shot Lucifer a sneer.
He responded with a shrug of his shoulders.
The herd made its way to the end of the bar where the lead buffalo—bro-ffalo he chuckled to himself—stopped next to a pair of lovely ladies in the process of clinking glasses. A toast to another night of trying to dance, drink and fuck. They listened with scowls on their faces as the head of the bro-train continued to spew his words, oblivious or most likely not caring about the negative response he was getting. Soon the other members of the group had the ladies partially surrounded and were trying to engage in conversation all at once. The women at the bar leaned back, drinks clutched against their chests, trying to create some space in what must now feel like a pack hunt.
Taking a long swig from his glass and placing it onto the bar, Lucifer stood, adjusting the hem of his suit jacket. There was always a place for flirting but never a place for harassment. Bad for business. Five deep strides brought him to the edge of the semi-circle, where the waft of department store cologne and desperation offended his senses again.
"Ladies! I was wondering where you had run off to." He turned on his "switch"—the innate ability he possessed to flip on the most charming, magnetic and fascinating parts of himself. Maze called it his Hollywood Lucifer or Lucifer Juiced, a larger-than-life aura that made humans instantly pliable to his will.
The woman on the right visibly relaxed, her drink tipping slightly in her hand as she turned her attention to the dark figure towering over the half-circle of men she had internally labeled as the Hyenas—the one on the end had an annoying laugh to match. Her sleepy eyes slowly climbed his shadow. She was unable to see much detail given that the strobe lights were behind him, casting an ethereal glow around his broad frame. Like an angel. She shifted her body towards his, and when she felt movement on her left, she saw that her friend had done the same. Everything seemed to fade, or at least blur, as she focused entirely on the new stranger. Shit, like I would ever disappear if someone like that was looking for me.
The dude standing in front of Lucifer did a half turn and nudged him with an elbow. "Hey, what's the deal, man? You're all up in my shit, back off." He looked up into Lucifer's face and a spark of recognition passed. "Oh, it's Mr. Try Hard. Why don't you go bounce some other Sunset bimbo on your dick and leave these girls alone."
"As lovely as that sounds—and I do plan on adding that to the agenda later tonight—I'd kindly like to ask you to leave. You and your roving posse of cheap mega-mall shirts and bad manners." Eyes shifted to the other four men who were now turning towards him, equal looks of anger and confusion on their faces.
"Hey! Who are you? What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Lead bro-ffalo yelled.
"I'm doing these two ladies and, frankly, the entire club a favor." Lucifer turned and motioned with his arm towards the stairs.
"Yo, this guy thinks he's gonna kick us outta here!" The one closest to Lucifer laughed. "Like he owns the place or something!"
"Oh, bro," one of the middle pack members raised a fist to his mouth, "I think that's that Lucifer dude."
"Glad to see there's one smart member in this class of high school dropouts." He scoffed.
"Lucifer? Like the Devil? Owns the club?"
This was getting very boring, very quickly. He looked towards the top of the stairs and motioned for the security guard to come down.
"Oh shit, man, sorry, we didn't know." The lead pointed towards the dance floor. "We don't want any trouble. We'll get outta your hair. C'mon, let's go."
The guard shouldered his way to the group and firmly grabbed one of the red-faced men by the arm. "Okay, you gotta get out of here." He pulled him, gape-mouthed, towards the stairs. The others stumbled in tow, like lemmings over the cliff edge.
Sighing, Lucifer turned his attention back to the two women at the bar. "I'm dreadfully sorry about that. May I buy you two a drink as an apology?"
They nodded slowly, parting a small space so that Lucifer could wedge himself along the bar. Throwing up three fingers to the bartender, he gleefully turned around to face them with three shot glasses in his hands.
"Cheers, ladies! I feel like whiskey is always great at clearing away the taste of lackluster aftershave and desperate—"
A familiar face floated towards him from behind the taller woman's head.
No.
His left arm twitched slightly, a cold spill of whiskey dribbling down the back of his hand. The women didn't seem to notice as they took two of the glasses, giving him doting looks as they threw back their heads. Lucifer didn't hear their words of thanks or the questions they were asking, his gaze and attention were fixed solely on the person walking towards him.
"I'm terribly sorry, ladies, but you'll have to excuse me." He absently handed his glass to one of the women and slid past them, garnering an exasperated sigh.
He pushed through the people clustered near the stairs towards the main stage where vinyl-clad dancers twirled in go-go boots and high heels. The crowd parted away as he crossed the hardwood dance floor and met face-to-face with his mirror image.
"Michael."
"Why, it's good to see you, brother. Although anytime I see my reflection it feels like a family reunion." His twin brother stroked his clean-shaved chin. "You looked shocked to see me."
"It's been—"
"Eons. Yes."
Lucifer motioned to Michael's slightly sloped shoulder. "Glad to see that didn't heal very nicely at all."
A deep sigh. "Hm, I always thought I would miss this: the dramatics, the excess, the witty retorts to deflect anything significant from affecting you." Michael looked around the club. At the laughing bleary faces, the outfits bought on maxed out credit cards, the strobing lights and clumsy drunken dancing. "I can't say that enough time will pass where I possibly could."
"Have you come down to offer unsolicited business advice or is there a purpose to you being here?" Lucifer asked.
"Oh, yes. Amenadiel and I—"
"Amenadiel? Don't tell me that wet blanket is here too?" Lucifer threw up his hands in mock surprise. "Of course you'd come together. You and Amenadiel meddling around in my life is my own personal Hell loop."
Michael seemed unfazed. "Amenadiel and I were sent here. To warn you."
"Well, warning heard. Now off you go." Lucifer waved his ringed hand towards the door. So many assholes to throw out of the club tonight.
"Brother." Michael took a step forward. "Dad sent us here."
"Dad? Did he give you a vision or send you a dove with a loving note attached to its leg?" He let our a humorless laugh. "How would you know what Dad wants?"
His twin took another step towards Lucifer. "Because he told me."
"What?"
Michael responded with only a stare.
"What do you mean he told you? As in, he told you through a dream or…"
Again, just that pointed stare.
"He spoke to you? He's doing that again now, huh?" Lucifer ran a hand over his well-manicured scruff, the noise making a scratching echo in his ringing ears. "And what exactly did He want to warn me about?"
"That your life is in danger. Your celestial life." He replied.
"My life has been damned and in danger from the moment He turned His back on me. Why bother giving a shit about me now, after banishing me to Hell to drown in the muck and filth of His creations." Lucifer leaned in close to his brother. "Why does he suddenly care about my well-being?"
A deep voice cut through the noise from the blaring music. "Because you're a Child of God, and the death of His child is the greatest sorrow our Father could ever know." A tall man stepped out from behind Michael, a richly textured cloak hanging from his broad shoulders. Smooth dark skin covered a face that beamed a stern kindness, handsome even when stoic, or spouting the unfortunate "good news" of God.
"Hello Amenadiel. Didn't know Dad was even paying attention to what I was up to. Figured He was too busy playing with His toys." Lucifer motioned to the people around them.
"He has a plan for you, Lucy." Amenadiel stated. So firm was his belief in their Father, that the feel-good mantras of priest, popes and congregations screaming from pulpits and televisions became his brother Amenadiel's identity. Blindly trusting. Meekly waiting for the Big Reveal.
"His plan is to punish me for all eternity. Suddenly someone throws a wrench in His sadistic experiment and He sends His two softest sons to, what, protect me?" Lucifer let out a dry laugh, garnering a few questioning stares from the surrounding clubgoers.
His two brothers exchanged a glance. Of all the siblings, sending Amenadiel and Michael seemed, well, wrong, given that they were the two eldest and would spend most of their time fighting constantly for their Father's attention. Their sole connection was their lifelong membership in the Holy Father Fanclub.
"We're your brothers, Lucy. We want to help you." Amenadiel replied.
"Well, I honestly wish we were better strangers." He jammed his hands into his pockets, hard enough to make the coins within clink together. "I'm more than capable of handling myself particularly amongst these humans. So if you don't mind, I would like to get reacquainted with two lovely ladies at the bar." Swiveling on his red-soled shoes, he started to walk away from his brothers. His very estranged and annoyingly straight-laced brothers. Honestly if Dad was going to send down a few siblings to keep Lucifer occupied, why couldn't he send a few of the ones who liked to have a good time?
"Lucy, please." Amenadiel laid a heavy hand on Lucifer's shoulder. "There's someone—a celestial, a nephil, a demon—we're not sure who or even why, but they're very set on ending your time here on Earth and possibly your very existence. Will you not at least humor it by allowing us to stay and provide us with shelter and aid?"
Lucifer could feel the hot anger from a few moments ago start to soften. Amenadiel always had a knack for annoying the ever-loving shit out of him, but had also occupied a tender spot in Lucifer's heart since the beginning of their existence. Maybe it was the fact that he was the eldest and the closest thing they all had to a Father figure or maybe it was the overbearing but endearing way he held onto the goodness of all things. Maybe it was the fact that Amenadiel occupied the opposing traits to Lucifer's realism, cynicism and spirals into hedonism; he reflected back the things that the Devil had long forgotten. His eldest brother was, by all means, a dreamer and a scholar, using his mind to theorized and envisioned new futures and fates, led by the Hand of God. Lucifer was ever the "doer", using his hands, his body, his being to bring about predetermined futures and fates in the realms of Hell.
"Fine. You and, I suppose that little cretin, Michael, can stay upstairs in the spare room for the time being while we get everything sorted out. I haven't seen Maze tonight but I'm sure she'll have her knives at the ready when she gets wind that you and Michael are here." He shrugged off Amenadiel's hand. "But I don't want to hear the tired old, 'you have to go back to Hell' routine. That's off the table."
His brother raised both his hands up near his chest and took one step back. "Okay, not a word about taking you back to Hell, at least, not yet. But it is inevitable."
Yellow sulfur flashed in Lucifer's eyes. "Brother." He warned.
Another cautious step backwards. "Okay, Lucy. Michael and I will head upstairs so you can enjoy," he shot his eyes around the room, "all this without us hanging around."
With one last burning look, Lucifer turned on his heels and headed back to the bar. The two women from earlier were no longer there but he spotted a young, handsome face taking a sip from a bottle of beer. A sly smile crept along his lips. Yes, you will do quite nicely.
—
Chloe Decker pushed the yellow police tape up with gloved hands, taking stock of the greying walls of the warehouse and the bright spotlights from the portable LED scene lights standing guard over a body wrapped in a slick black material. A warped glow bounced off of the ground as she made her way over to Ella, the forensic scientist currently on the scene, who was hovering over the figure. As she approached, she noticed the slick black material that had looked like wet whale skin from afar was actually a vinyl bodysuit, pulled taut around the athletic body of a young Black female. A funhouse reflection of the detective's face undulated on the glossy surface of the victim's thigh as she hunkered down to take a closer look.
The victim's skin around her throat and arms were a deep purple, splotched and angry against her otherwise soft clear skin. Eyes open and already sunken, a pool of deep burgundy surrounding her head almost like a halo.
"What was the cause of death?" Chloe looked up at Ella. "Strangulation?"
"Surprisingly, no, I don't think so." Ella used a red ballpoint pen to point out the victim's eyes. "They're super clear, no telltale broken capillaries in these peepers. The strangulation must have happened post-mortem."
"And the blood?"
"From a possible puncture wound at the base of the skull. We're going to have to wait for the M.E. to give us an ID on what type of weapon it could have been." Again, the red pen demanded the blonde's attention. "And take a look at this. Under the ligature marks on the neck."
Chloe dropped a knee and leaned forward, close enough to smell the faint waft of perfume and beginning stages of decay. "What am I looking for, El?"
"There's what appears to be teeth marks underneath the bruising. Pretty deep, enough to puncture but maybe not deep enough to draw a lot of blood."
"Just like the others."
"It seems that way, Chlo." Ella bit her lip. "I mean, the ligature and bite marks on the throat, it kinda tracks, right?"
The blonde let out a hard breath, one she wasn't aware was being held. "I mean, all the big MOs line up but if that's the case then that means—"
"Possible serial killer." Ella nodded her head solemnly. "A big baddie daddy at that too."
A familiar crewcut with unfamiliar dark bags under his eyes stepped out from the other side of the victim. "Ella, Chloe. Once the techs are finished documenting and photographing the scene, we'd like to turn the victim over to collect any further evidence."
"Thanks, Dan." Chloe managed to squeak out a half-smile at her ex-husband, their relationship still tense as they worked towards a new normal of colleagues, co-parents and former marital partners. It was in the midst of the "all-fucked-up" stage, but being out in the field had helped them step into familiar dynamics, at least enough to leave a lot of the hurt and anger at home where for Chloe, it was currently being nursed with bottles of wine and trashy reality television after Trixie went to bed. Dan seemed to be coping via a very new, very loud motorcycle and countless hours at the gym, a fact that Chloe resented, seeing that he looked five years younger now than he did when they had first met.
Back on the market, babygirl. Man's gotta put it out there.
"Were there any witnesses? Anyone patrolling the boathouses?" She asked.
"Right now, no. This area of the docks is privately owned by a shipping company and they don't have any staff on site. No security footage either. They used this place to store their outdated containers and equipment, nothing worth keeping an eye on apparently." He pointed to the sun bleached metal boxes stacked against the far wall. "Perfect place for a serial killer."
"Okay. Well I'll do a secondary walkthrough around the scene to see if there's any additional evidence to process. Let me know what you come across when you flip her."
Chloe pulled out her small silver flashlight from a jacket pocket and clicked the top button, the beam of light weak and yellow. She ducked behind a stack of splintering pallets and fanned the flashlight back and forth across the concrete floor, looking for anything out of place. Not that anything was in place amongst the trash heap of boating equipment and rusty metal. Dan had summed it up: it really was a perfect place for a serial killer. Every oil and water stain looked like a pool of blood in the shadows, every fraying rope fiber a cause for speculation.
She appreciated the approaching darkness that cocooned around her as she walked further away from the crime scene. Being around Dan, even in the familiar territory of their jobs, was still painful. He had broken her trust when he confessed his involvement in the Palmetto case, unwilling participant or not. The spiral it had sent her down only furthered the growing chasm that was splitting their relationship and they had agreed to pursue a divorce after a few rocky months of separation with no resolution. Their daughter Trixie had been surprisingly even-keeled about their decision, although Chloe had noticed a marked decrease in her usually over-bubbling personality. It was hard to put on a brave smile every day, a wavering promise to her daughter that "everything is okay" when it felt as though she was twisting at the joints in a crude puppeteers dance. Going through the motions but not with any semblance of control.
"Yo, Chloe!" A voice echoed from somewhere behind a pile of empty orange buckets near the crime scene.
"I'm coming to you!" She shouted. Halfway down what passed as an aisle teeming with non-descript oil drums, she turned a corner and ran into Ella.
"Oh shit! It's so frakking dark back here, I barely saw you!" The dark-haired technician pressed a shaky hand up to her heart. "We've got a possible ID on the body." She held out a small white piece of paper in a clear plastic bag.
Chloe shone her flashlight onto Ella's extended hand and saw that it was a business card.
Mazikeen Smith. Bartender & Bounty Hunter.
Odd.
She saw the business listed at the top was Lux, a posh whos-whos night club on Sunset, which was probably still going strong at this time of night.
"Any other ID found on her person? Has Dan already run her name through the system?" She took the business card in her gloved hand and ran her finger over the embossed font.
"I think he's doing that right now." They cautiously walked back towards the brightly lit crime scene; Dan was busy tapping through his phone, looking through their database for a positive ID on their victim.
"Hit?" She asked.
"Yup. I was a little skeptical about the bounty hunter bit but, here," he held out his phone, "this is her file from the state's insurance department. Mazikeen Smith."
Chloe brought the screen closer to her face and studied the serious yet very alive face of their victim. Her eyes were bored, a slight scowl smeared across her otherwise attractive and youthful face.
"Think this was a bounty-gone-wrong?" She handed back the phone to her former husband.
"Very possible. She looks pretty strong but her license shows that she's only been an active bounty hunter for two years. Could have been chasing a big mean sunuvabitch and shit went super sideways."
Nodding, the Detective focused her attention on the scarlet halo surrounding the victim's head, almost as if it were intentional. "Sure, but I have a strong feeling that this is connected with the Delaney murder and the one we found in Rancho Park."
"Yeah." Dejection permeated Detective Espinoza's words. "That's already three bodies in under six weeks…that's an insane pace, Chlo."
"I know. We gotta find the connection between the three victims." She rubbed the small white card through the plastic again and bit her bottom lip, speculating on next steps. "Give me a call when the scene's been fully processed. I'm going to pay her employer a visit to see if she was at the club earlier, try to backpedal her steps to get here."
Taking careful stock of the lithe woman's all-black vinyl outfit, she felt it likely the victim had either come or been taken directly from her bartending duties.
"All right, I'm headed back to the precinct to pull out the files on the other two and set up everything in Room Five. I'm gonna see what I can dig up on Mazikeen Smith and how we can start linking the three victims."
"Okay, I'll wait for a call from the ME's office. We can meet there early tomorrow morning." Heels clacked softly on the concrete as she walked past Dan, giving him a slight squeeze on the arm. On a well-toned arm.
Once again, she suppressed a surge of jealousy and managed to give him a warm look, hoping he couldn't detect the twinge of resentment that had popped its ugly little head.
Market Days, babygirl. You gotta let it go. Bigger fish to fry.
—
The outside of the mid-rise building was highlighted in intersecting beams of neon. Two large spotlights waving as they flashed against the warm night sky. A long row of well-dressed, beautiful people talked excitedly as they took pictures and waved to other social circles they recognized in line. Sequins glimmered, diamonds glittered, silk shirts glowed and hundred dollar manicures gleamed. Fridays typically meant long work hours for Chloe, the reports and call-ins were nearly non-stop from the moment the sun went down. What was it about leaving the gate towards the weekend that made people act as though civility no longer applied? The Detective had a slew of theories but knowing why and understanding why were two schools of thought she wasn't interested in putting together today, not that having the information would in any way deter people from casting off their inhibitions for the sake of living "in the moment" as if the weekdays were meant to live in some other time frame.
You're just letting the bitter spinster part of you speak a little too loudly right now.
Ella had consoled with Chloe that it was a normal phase of ending a long term relationship to envision a future where love is nothing but a house full of adopted cats and microwave meals until you slowly shrunk into the grave. The detective had built a full-on life-and-a-half with Dan: kid, house, career, weekend getaways, holiday get togethers, PTAs, shared toothbrushes, late night emergency room scares…almost a decades worth of a shared life. After that many years with someone, walking away from it felt like restarting with only half of a life and only half of ones self. It was difficult to remember the person she was before Dan and Trixie.
To her, being known was being loved. The secret shared language of two intertwined lives; a language you will never speak with anyone else. The thought of having to start all of that over, of having to first find someone to even want to start over with…well, that seemed near impossible. She was a cop in her late 30s, divorced with a young kid and currently living in her opinionated mother's house. Not exactly a cream of the crop candidate on Tinder.
"You're gonna have to wait in line, honey." A bored looking bouncer pointed to the end of the street and then eyed her worn suede jacket and scuffed brown boots. "Also, we have a dress code."
Chloe pulled out her badge. "LAPD. I'm here to speak with the manager or owner."
Heaving a sigh, he shot a look towards the front door, motioning to a well-dressed man.
"Hi, what seems to be the problem?" With the look of someone who has seen it all, he took an uninterested glance at the badge Chloe held up. "Officer, how can I help?"
"Detective." The snap from the leather case reverberated as she tucked it into her back pocket. "I'm here to speak with the manager or the owner of the club."
"Is this about a noise complaint? Liquor violation? I can answer any questions about those types of issues, no need to get Ms. Smith or Mr. Morningstar involved." He said.
"This is about an ongoing investigation and I need to speak with Mr. Morningstar. Now." Her demeanor left no room for argument.
Not attempting to hide his irritation, the doorman pushed a small button that connected to an earpiece. "Can you let Mr. Morningstar know that someone from the LAPD is here to speak with him." He nodded his head as he listened to the response on the other end. "Yeah, I know. She said it's about an ongoing investigation. She's a…detective." He waited another moment before motioning to Chloe to follow him. "Zeke is gonna take you upstairs to the penthouse where Mr. Morningstar can meet with you but only for a few moments."
The large brass doors swung open and a rush of warm air blew past her face, the smells of alcohol, manufactured party mist and leather rushing up her nose. Deep bass punctured the dimly lit hallway, muffled by thick velvet walls and dark Persian rugs running down the length of the room. Ornate light fixtures dotted the ceiling, casting a delicate orange glow. The room reminded Chloe of the 1930's art deco buildings she had obsessed over during her childhood years of watching old black and white films at home while her parents worked. She would waltz around the living room while her nanny would chain smoke at the dining table, rolling her eyes whenever Chloe would beg to re-watch the dance scene from Swing Time. Even now, her favorite building in the city to find moments of solitude was LA's City Hall, its vaulted ceilings comforting in familiarity yet large enough to make her feel inconsequential.
Mr. Nice Suit pointed to another muscular security guard at the end of the walkway, standing in front of a dark heavy curtain. "Zeke can take you the rest of the way."
The man named Zeke pulled back the fabric. "It's packed in there so stay close."
She nodded, patting the notebook and badge in her back pocket before following after the man, wincing at the full blast of the upbeat music that was swirling around the room. A bevy of beautiful bodies were pushed together in all parts of the club: leaning casually on the stair railing, draped properly on leather sofas, standing cooly in small groups around high top tables. All with drinks, or each other, entangled between their fingers. A group of impossibly tall and impossibly beautiful women brushed past the Detective and she had a moment to address her own wrinkled shirt and plain jeans.
Zeke waved to her from a set of elevators tucked into the stairwell on the upper level of the club, away from the set that led down to the main floor. He turned his body as he punched a few buttons on the security pad, as if he were protecting spy-level information. Calm down, Nicholas Cage, I'm not here to steal the Book of Secrets. After a few moments, the silver doors opened and Zeke motioned for her to step inside. "It'll take you straight to the penthouse."
Nodding she pressed the close button and sighed with relief when the doors slid shut, dampening the noises of a busy Friday night in LA. When the doors slid open again, she was taken aback at the minimally designed furnishings that greeted her. Slick black marble dazzled its way throughout the intimately-lit room, a blend of midcentury modern, Byzantine revival and vintage leather, reminiscent of timeless libraries and old smoking parlors. Mr. Morningstar obviously enjoyed the finer things in life, given his penchant for luxurious details from the moment one stepped into the building.
Money affords good taste but doesn't mean you have good taste, monkey. Jack Decker's no nonsense voice echoed as she stepped out of the elevator. Her dad had been a blue-collar kind of guy, growing up with little financial means, a fact he mentioned whenever teenage Chloe had asked for a few bucks. He had a tendency to look down on shows of wealth, although how he had maintained his marriage to a famous actor who loved all things lavish while navigating his outward contempt for said lifestyle had always been a head scratcher to their only child.
Her worn heels clacked dully on the flooring, a gleam weaving its way towards floor-to-ceiling windows that opened up to an all-glass balcony overlooking the jeweled lights of Los Angeles. She took in the buttery orange leather sectional and swept her eyes towards the massive wall behind the bar as bottles of high-end liquors and wines towered towards the loft ceilings.
"Oh, I didn't know we were expecting company." A tall, slim figure walked out of the doorway that led to what appeared to be a bedroom.
"Mr. Morningstar, my name is Detective Decker with the LAPD and I need to ask you a few questions about one of your employees." Reaching behind her back, she pulled out a small black notebook.
"The police? Oh, that's one way to damper a Friday night." The man stepped towards one of the bar stools and hooked a foot on the metal rod that ran between the legs, his inky eyes studying her.
Chloe pulled a pen from inside her jacket pocket, setting her gaze on his wry, almost youthful grin, taking in his square jaw and clean-shaven cheeks. Her detective's mind quickly assessed, categorized and annotated the rest.
Non-descript tweed jacket. Pale grey sweater. Brown loafers more at home in a library than a multi-million-dollar loft overlooking the city. Slightly Midwestern twang. She could have sworn she read in some tabloid—a guilty pleasure whenever she was waiting in line at the supermarket—that he had a posh English accent.
Mister Morningstar, with his mud-colored jacket and well-worn jeans, did not look like a club owner, his outward appearance clashing with everything that surrounded them. His parted hair gave him a boyish quality, reminiscent of cold winters tucked away in a neighborhood library, sitting in the aisles and reading Hardy Boy books. His face was pleasant in a handsome reassuringly All-American kind of way. The kind of face that she would have fawned over in her own high school years and one that would have no problem with any takers from the club downstairs. Still, he struck her as, well…plain. Ordinary.
"I'd like to ask you about Mazikeen Smith."
"Mazikeen?" He reached over and pulled a well-polished glass from a silver tray. "Is she in some sort of trouble? She has a tendency to do that."
The alarm in her brain gave a small ping. "And what kind of trouble is that?"
"Oh, the usual hell-bent demon kind of trouble: loose souls, sharp knives, probably something with lots of leather." He shrugged. "I didn't know her that well, so I'm just generalizing here."
"Knives and leather? As in BDSM?" Sexual power and control played a significant contributor to homicides, particularly when it came to serial murderers. Was this the thread that connected the three victims?
"Well, this conversation took an interesting turn. I feel like that calls for a drink." He reached for a bottle of tequila near the end of the bar. "Loosen us up a bit."
"Can you answer the question, Mr. Morningstar?" She pressed.
"Which part? The bondage and dominance or the sadism and masochism?" His lips parted into a small smile as he brought the tumbler up to his mouth. Michael pointed at her stony demeanor. "Hm, cop. Typical dom-sub relationships, right?"
A voice from the balcony interjected before she could reply. "I feel like that's an inappropriate question to ask a law enforcement officer."
Chloe let out a bark of surprise, a hand fluttering up to her chest, her other hand subconsciously jerking towards the holster at her side. Cool eyes darted to the figure walking up to the glass doorway.
"Apologies, Detective. I was just getting some fresh air when you arrived and happened to be eavesdropping when I thought it prudent for me to stop my brother from making an ass of himself." His broad frame took up the doorway as he passed through. "My name is Amenadiel."
She paused on the word brother. He surely didn't mean brother brother. She did a double take between the two men and put a mental band-aid on the rift in information; she would have to circle back later to figure out the how this new character fit into the investigation, if at all.
Turning back to Mr. Morningstar. "And what was your relationship to Mazikeen Smith?"
"Would you care for a drink, Detective? This bottle is exceptionally good." He held out the opened container as an invitation. "It is the weekend after all."
She shook her head. "Can you answer the question please, Mr. Morningstar?" Again.
A quiet bell sounded from the entrance as the doors to the penthouse slide open, pulling Chloe's intensity away from the man at the bar.
"Identity theft is a punishable crime, Michael. Especially when perpetrated by someone as boring as you." A thick English accent echoed from the foyer as a mirror image of the man she was interviewing stepped into view. He brushed between his brother and the Detective.
"Well, hello. If I knew that the department employed a hot cop division that made late night house calls, I would have committed a few more punishable crimes. Unless, you're from the ad, which in that case, kudos Craigslist."
"Detective Decker with the LAPD." Chloe replied, unsure.
"Lucifer Morningstar. The real one."
"Lucifer?" She took another hitching breath. The past ten minutes had been utterly confusing and now she felt that this was all part of some cosmic joke. "Is that a…stage name?"
"Goodness, no." A scoff.
"Like…The Devil?" Still, very unsure.
"No need for the 'like' at the beginning of that sentence. The Devil as you live and breathe." He motioned to his face and gave her an overconfident smirk. "No horns or pitchfork today, I'm afraid."
British accent. Cocky grin. Louboutin dress shoes. This version of the man seemed to be more aligned with their lavish surroundings. The bump of the music and the neon lights fit him perfectly, much like the suit he currently occupied.
She gave a reproachful look to the faux Lucifer Morningstar aka jokester twin brother, which he simply shrugged off.
Twins. Jesus Christ. This was starting to feel like a really bad soap opera.
I see you're getting acquainted with my brothers."
The Detective closed her eyes for a moment and took a grounding breath. "Brothers?" Her eyes scanned the three men individually then took a mental step back to take them in as a collective. "Um, biological brothers or is this a spiritual kinship kind of thing?"
"Both." Amenadiel's face remained gravely serious, a statement of fact.
"I—okay," she wrote their names in her notebook. More and more like a soap opera.
"Have we met before? Something about you seems so familiar." Lucifer studied her face intently and then snapped his fingers. "Have I seen you naked? Have we…slept together?"
"Excuse me?"
A dawning expression crept onto his face. "Decker…the actress, right? Hot Tub High School! That was my jam. Of course, how could I not recognize them earlier?" His dark eyebrows raised and lowered knowingly.
Chloe heaved a sigh. Not this again.
"Mr. Morningstar, does the name Steven Delaney have any meaning to you?"
"Delaney? Should it? A lot of people pass through in my line of work."
"And what line of work would that be?" She looked around the lavish penthouse and raised an eyebrow. No way that he could have all this and be on the up. Not all the way.
"Nightclub Owner, Punisher of Souls and Ruler of Hell. In order of preferred lines of work."
"Again. Excuse me?" The pen she was writing with stopped on the word souls, refusing to scribble out the remaining nonsense.
"Lets just say I'm a wheeler and dealer of Faustian proportions."
Jesus Fucking Christ, the weirdos of L.A. really do thrive after midnight. Her gaze fell on his loose demeanor, his full lips slightly turned up, his dark eyes unreadable. Still, something nefarious and raw lurked under the expensive Burberry suit, unable to hide a certain moral scarlet letter. Chloe had been in this line of work for over a decade and was gifted an uncanny ability to pierce right through to the meat and bones of a person. Beneath their social standings and corporate airs and well-manicured hands, feet and bodies, she felt their pulse. No frills. So, what was this Lucifer Morningstar persona hiding underneath the three hundred dollar Clive Christian cologne and top shelf whiskey? Excessive wealth—or the perception of exceptional wealth because this was Los Angeles after all—had a way of exposing old wounds and the small towns that people were so quick to leave behind in the name of reinvention.
"And your…brothers? Are they also involved in your line of work?"
A chuckle. "They're here at my Dad's request. Against their will, I'm sure. You could say Michael is heading up my personal security for the time being."
The Detective eyed the other twin's slim frame and the right arm he held firmly against his hip causing his body to keel ever-so-slightly to the left. He met her gaze with a twist of his lips. "Old War injury."
Amenadiel threw him an incredulous look.
"So, Michael…Morningstar?"
All three men visibly flinched.
"Um, no, definitely no. Demiurgos."
"Ah, so you're twins…but with different last names…". Rolling her eyes, she returned her attention to the man in the immaculate black suit. "Well, anyway, we have reason to believe that Lux or possibly someone connected to the club was involved in a string of homicides. Was Mazikeen Smith at the club earlier in the night?"
"What has that little hellion done now? Has she gone on and slaughtered an entire cow to make more of those leather pants she loves? Crimes against fashion?" A glass clinked onto the bar top as he poured himself something brown from a thick-walled decanter, the rubber cork making a hollow noise in the thickening silence of the room.
"When was the last time you had contact with Mazik…um, Maze?"
Michael stepped into her sightline. "One of the bartenders downstairs had mentioned she was here earlier in the afternoon setting up for the night."
Amenadiel nodded solemnly in agreement.
"What about you, Mr. Morningstar?" Her attention remained focused on Lucifer who was absentmindedly taking a sip from his tumbler.
"Hm, yes, the afternoon sounds about right."
"And what was your relationship with—"
"Pardon, 'was'?" He threw the last few gulps into the back of his throat and slammed the glass down. All playfulness suddenly dropped, giving him an insidious air, the threat of something twilight and slurping pacing underneath his flesh. Some of that good quality, honest meat and bones. "What do you mean, 'was'?" A black dress shoe took a half step towards the blonde. "What exactly is this about, Detective Decker?"
Another heavy silence filled the penthouse as Chloe studied his face for any telltale signs of deceit. He stared right back, full faced, his eyes slightly wild but she could see his mind start to piece together the true purpose of her visit.
"Mazikeen Smith was found murdered earlier tonight near the docks. I'm the lead detective on the case and I'm trying to retrace her steps and link any information that could be helpful to the investigation."
"The LAPD on the case? Oh, just lovely!" There was a slight quaver in his voice as it reverberated in the loft. "A bunch of idiots bumbling through something they have no idea how to handle." Both of his hands gripped the counter, the knuckles turning pale under the bar lights, willing himself to calm down. Mazikeen, his oldest tried and true, dead? No, the Detective must be mistaken. Lucifer couldn't imagine any scenario that would end in Maze's death; she was a fucking demon. A really good one at it too.
"Are you sure it was Maze? Absolutely sure?" He continued to stare at the gleaming bar top, his vision seeming to double.
Chloe recognized the beginning signs of shock and softened her rigid all-business stance, taking a small step towards the man, trying to tether him to reality with her presence.
"We found her business card in her back pocket and we double checked it against her personnel file with the state's insurance commission that regulates her bounty hunter's license. The fingerprints match."
A wheeze escaped his lungs. "I don't understand."
Chloe reached out and touched his wrist with the tips of her fingers, hoping that the contact would ground him. "Mr. Morningstar, I'm sorry, I know it's quite a shock." His skin felt unnaturally hot. "Would you like to sit down? Have a glass of water?" She glanced over at his two brothers who were standing near the living room, giving them a pointed look. They seemed unaware of how to react. Or maybe they were in a similar state of shock. Or maybe they just didn't care all that much. Given the tense back and forth between them, she assumed they weren't necessarily the fucking Brady Bunch. And right now little Bobby was having a synaptic meltdown.
Jesus Fucking Christ. For what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Why am I always having to play caretaker to a bunch of idiotic assholes? If Dan had come to question Mr. Morningstar instead of Chloe, she was pretty sure he wouldn't be doing so much goddamn emotional labor. He wouldn't be up in this technicolored penthouse donning his cool-boy leather jacket, fawning and cooing over a drama-crusted family tree that was pretty close to imploding into a typical holiday get-together: everyone wallowing in drunken resentment and suppressed feelings with the only manageable outlet being to punch a hole in grandma's drywall. Happy Holidays, see you next year!
The man next to her moved his hand to grab the empty cup on the bar, still in a daze but not threatening to lose his complete and utter shit. She tapped his wrist again. "Mr. Morningstar? Do you need to take a seat for a minute?"
"Tell me, Detective, what would you possibly know about handling justice and punishment?" His ashen face turned to regard her from the corner of his eye, taking in her diminutive build. The gentle curve of her nose giving way to a pair of innocent pink lips. Down to a delicate chin and long slender neck. Besides her altogether practical plain black t-shirt, suede bomber jacket and dark wash jeans (why do cops always look like cops?), she seemed like she would be more at home with the humans downstairs than as some sort of big bad Punisher. He would know, he practically invented and perfected the title.
Taking a deep breath as he took physical inventory, Chloe steeled her wavering heart. All her career she was overlooked, judged and sexualized for her appearance and somehow its correlation to the capacity to do her job. Actress-turned-cop-turned-detective was treated as a joke to some of the folks in the department; she remembered the photoshopped image of her topless Hot Tub High School character seductively pointing a gun, cartoon speaking bubble with the words 'Stop, or I'll…uh, shoot, Mister' that was taped to her desk computer the first day she had made detective. So to see this same kind of sizing up—or moreso this sizing down—that was taking place from someone she had just met, well, it was most unwelcome.
Prick.
"I've been doing this a long time and, if you can believe it, I'm really good at it." She snatched her fingers away before they dug ditches into his wrist. "I believe the person who did this needs to be brought to justice and punished for his crimes. I'm going to find him and I'm going to make sure he pays." Misplaced anger was a typical reaction from people who were undergoing emotional duress, particularly over the death of a loved one, but knowing it and living through it were two different animals. Especially when they came from someone as duplicitous as this Morningstar.
"Yes." The top half of his body turned to her, locking onto her small frame, his almost seeming to double in size under those intense eyes. "Punished for his crimes, I know a thing or two about that. Is that what you desire? Punishment?"
She didn't flinch when he started to stalk towards her, getting close enough for her to smell cigarettes and aftershave. And that certain smell that crazy brings, right?
"Tell me, Detective, what is it you truly desire?" The heat from his body brought Chloe's fight-or-flight response to all-the-fucking-way-up.
Strap it up, baby girl.
"What is this?" Her face twisted in disgust, pushing him away with the back of her hand. "Are you trying to intimidate me?"
He took a jerky half-step back.
"Is this some sort of joke to you, Mr. Morningstar?" She flicked her notebook shut and brought it down to her side, squaring up her shoulders. "You're reacting very oddly for someone who was told that one of their employees has just been murdered."
"What—how did—" he snapped his mouth shut and scrutinized her angry face, seeing if there was an answer to this sudden big mystery taking place. His persuasions seemed to have no effect on the woman in front of him or at least not the one he was hoping for. Quite the opposite, in fact. She's pissed.
Michael interjected himself between his brother and the Detective, giving an apologetic look. "I'm so sorry, Detective Decker. You'll have to excuse my brother, he can be such a selfish pain in the ass, particularly when he hasn't had his midnight scotch. Go on, brother, take a breather." A sharp nudge dislodged Lucifer from his internal dialogue.
"Yes, yes, um, terribly sorry…" Still murmuring, he quickly excused himself to find the nearest human downstairs, a gnawing need to make sure he hadn't somehow misplaced his gift nipping at his heels.
His mirror half gave the blonde detective a full lipped smile, disarming her enough to relax the death grip she had on her well-worn notebook. "I'm really sorry about Lucy, he has a tough relationship with authority."
Amenadiel made a noise skirting the line of humor and annoyance. "Since the beginning of time." He sat down on the edge of the leather couch. "Nearly tore our whole family apart."
This earned an eye roll from Michael. "He just needs some time to cool off, process what's happening and he'll be right back up to help you in whatever way you need him. I promise."
The Detective let out a shaky sigh. "Okay, yeah, I get it. Not a lot of people like cops. Or the messenger."
A wiry laugh from the dark-haired twin. "I did time as a bad-news-delivery-boy for a spell and I will heartily agree with you on that. I know you're on the clock so how about some caffeine instead of a drink while we wait for Lucy to gather his bearings?" He pulled down a saucer and cup without waiting for an answer. "Would you mind pouring me about two-finger's worth of that anejo while I get you setup?"
Reluctantly, Chloe palmed the glass bottle near her left hand and uncorked the top, allowing the sharp sting of alcohol to swirl around her senses, a hefty promise for what hopefully awaited her once she got home. Today is a full-on two-glasser, Chlo.
A guttural hiss came from behind the bar as Michael waited for the espresso machine to finish pulling the dark liquid into the cup. He placed it onto the matching saucer and slid everything over to Chloe.
She handed him his glass of tequila, their fingers touching briefly in the exchange and he gave her a soft smile, one she returned somewhat shyly. That same face had only minutes ago screamed hot fury in her face, and here, like a drama mask, the other side of the same face disarming and almost sweet.
"You look like you're about ready to serve up some Asshole Justice for yourself."
"Yeah, I'm sorry. Its just been a long night and I was hoping to get some easy insight into Mazikeen Smith." Also, the fact that Mr. Morningstar had touched a very tender nerve didn't help.
"Lucifer has a way of getting right under your skin, it's an unfortunate gift. It's only compounded when he feels emotionally out of his element." He shrugs. "When Lucy falls into the well of his vices, he loses sight of all boundaries. Gets a little out of control."
"So, what? You're the responsible twin while he goes out to play wayward son?"
"Something like that. I stuck around in the aftermath after Lucy was kicked out, put in the work to reassemble our lives and our bodies. Left a lot of scars, some worse than others."
She flicked her eyes towards his slumped right shoulder. "And how long did you serve?"
A nervous twitch touched his cheek. "Still active, I'm afraid. Just on leave for a little while to check up on my brother."
"Does he require a lot of checking up on?" Bitter coffee flooded her mouth as she took a sip.
Amenadiel chuckled. "Constantly. Lucifer has always had a rebellious streak. He would fight with our Father about his choice to live freely and," motioning to the penthouse around them, "lavishly. Selfishly."
Michael sighed into his tequila as he tipped it back. "Heaven knows I've really missed this though."
"So this lavish, selfish life, you don't approve?" She asked.
"It's a den of sin, built strictly for Lucy's pleasure."
"Don't forget bravado." Michael added.
Amenadiel tipped a finger towards his brother with an agreeable look. "I believe they call that hot dogging."
The Detective snickered at the outdated lingo then motioned over to the slick black baby grand piano in the middle of the room, its top board cutting through the room like a shark's fin. "So that thing's not just for show?"
"Have you seen the one downstairs in the club?" Ice tinkled against crystal as Michael swirled his drink. "The big boy grand?"
"Not yet."
"It's his most prized worldly possession. When he's not drinking or notching his bedpost, he's almost always at that bench, punching away on that damned Yamaha."
"It's a Steinway and you know that." Lucifer walked out from the elevator adjusting his black suit jacket. "You're just trying to get a rise out of me now, aren't you?"
A smug look passed across Michael's face. "Good to have you back, brother. Everything the same?"
"Yes, well, I seem to be in fine working order." He thought back to the string of people downstairs who had all too willingly succumbed. "So the question is, what's not the same up here?" A pointed look towards the blonde sipping espresso at the counter. "Detective, I apologize for my uncouth behavior earlier. I'm ready to sort myself out and say that Lucifer Morningstar, The Devil himself, is at your service. Whatever you need from me to find the person who did this to Maze and make him suffer for his transgressions I am here to help. Once we catch him I elect for the Hell Loop where we slide burning hot pokers into his—"
"Lucy." A warning from Amenadiel. Typical.
"Well, Mr. Morningstar, if you could come down to the station to photo identify the body and give an official statement, that would be helpful."
"Right now?"
She responded with a raise of her eyebrows. No time like the present, they said. Besides, she wanted to power through at least half a bottle of wine while looking through Dan and Ella's notes from the crime scene and this asshole was the only thing standing in her way.
"Right. Shall I meet you there, Detective?" A long arm pointed towards the elevator, inviting her to lead the way.
"West Bureau on Wilcox, ask for Detective Decker at the front desk." The trusty notebook disappeared into the back pocket of her jeans as she walked to the elevator and got in alone.
The outside crowd had thinned considerably since she first arrived. A glance at her watch told her it was close to one in the morning. Shit. The babysitter was probably pissed at this point and Chloe tried to tabulate how much extra tip she would have to give Sarah in the morning for staying overnight for the second time this month.
An eerie echo followed her down the street to the parked Chrysler in front of a darkened high-end pet boutique that sold embellished dog collars and embroidered hats for cats. Quality goods for your little darlings, a little cream placard stated in the window. The detective rolled her eyes as she got into the car, sliding the key into the ignition without looking, a practiced motion in a well-worn car. It gave a small cough before the engines caught and roared, vibrating the seat under her, sending a slight tremor down the back of her thighs. She shivered. Jesus, when was the last time she got laid? A memory of Dan's firm bicep flashed and she batted it away.
She peeled out a little too aggressively onto the main road and silently thanked God that there weren't any oncoming cars. A quick look into her rear view mirror showed a flashy black convertible a few cars back that she bet her year's salary belonged to none other than Mr. Morningstar. Again she wondered how he amassed so many luxury goods on a club owner's margins, particularly since she read that Lux had only been open a few years. Chloe drifted into reverie on what type of shady business dealings he was involved in to provide for his appetites, a daydream practice she liked to partake in when a victim or suspect was particularly odd or interesting. A curtain of exhaustion, sexual frustration and worry hung over her thoughts as she made her way back towards the precinct, cutting into a narrow side street to avoid the never-ending traffic that awaited at the stoplight on the main strip.
The black Corvette swung onto the empty street shortly after, its heavy engine purring through Chloe's open window. Suddenly, another boxy car peeled around the corner, swerving undecidedly along the street, coming up towards Lucifer's car. With a squeal, the green sedan side swiped into the convertible, emitting an animal-like screech as metal scraped against metal, almost overturning the small car. Lucifer slammed on the brakes and spun into the oncoming lane as his car lurched dangerously up onto the curb. He grimaced as he felt the front end collide with the brick wall of an old pharmacy, his body pinwheeling in the seat as the car took one more neck-bracing half spin before shuddering to a stop. The green sedan continued to peel down the street, its dinky engine revving comically as it jetted forward and rammed into the stunned detective's back right tail light, crushing it in a flurry of broken plastic, pushing the old squad car against a lightpost.
Chloe's head flew forward as the crunch of metal crashed behind her. Glass flew into her lap as a jerk flung her against the half-opened window, shooting pinpoints of light and electricity around the chaos. Bright flashes of green and white and yellow and blue cascaded into a tornado of blurs until she saw a growing seeping wound of black blot out her field of vision and she collapsed into the darkness.
Lucifer jumped out of his car as the green machine backed up a few feet and pointed its wheels away from the detective's car, leaving a trail of spent rubber and old exhaust. He ran around to the passenger side of his beloved Corvette and grimaced at the gaping tear from the collision.
"Oh, bloody Hell." He hunkered down and ran his finger along a craggy scrape of metal then stood up to frown at the crushed front end. The sound of ripping fabric turned his attention to the sleeve of his jacket, a large tear greeted him with a smile.
"Bloody Hell!" He screamed. His favorite Burberry suit jacket.
The detective's car gave out a sad honk. Lucifer stood up slowly and assessed his options. Leave? Call the ambulance? Get on the police scanner and call for help? He made his way to the driver's side and peered in at the bloody face of the detective. Glass clung to her hair and rained down into her lap, a gash zigzagged at her hairline matting her thick blonde hair. Her mouth hung down in a grimace and he saw that a large split on her bottom lip had smeared red across her cheek. Sighing, he reached in and unbuckled her seat belt, sliding his hands under her legs and back as he hoisted her out. Small beads of glass rained down from her slack body as he walked her back to his car, a thin arm in a torn suede jacket hung down sadly in a lackluster wave. She was surprisingly heavy for being so small and he held her closer to his body as he shuffled for the door handle.
Maze was dead. Someone wanted him dead. There was an annoying but beautiful detective prying around his business. It felt as though Michael and Amenadiel had brought about their own plague on their descent from home. He placed the limp body into the passenger seat of his car and prayed that his mechanic knew a good upholsterer.
The closest hospital was a few blocks away and was already in a frenzy of late Friday night activities as he pulled into the emergency room roundabout. He tried to eye one of the technicians but saw that a few of them were dealing with a rowdy group of post-clubbers. Sighing, he gathered the detective in his arms once again and walked through the sliding glass doors into the ensuing noise and stark smell of disinfectant. Lucifer pushed past a huddled figure sniffling into a wadded tissue, putting on his most charming smile as he approached the front desk.
"Darling, I have a detective from the LAPD here who has been in the most dreadful car accident and she may need a little love and attention." He motioned to the lax woman in his arms. "Also, she's frightfully heavy, if you wouldn't mind."
The middle aged nurse behind the counter looked up and her face softened. "Oh, yes, of course. Anything you need." She dreamily picked up the phone from the desk and pushed a button. "Clyde, can you bring a gurney down? We have a possible TBI." The receiver dangled loosely against her cheek as she continued to sleepily blink at Lucifer. "What else can I do for you?"
"Darling, where in this hospital can one get a glass of scotch?"
—
In a darkened room on the fourth floor, Lucifer placed his palms together and closed his eyes. The noises of a bustling nurse's station outside the room softened as he projected his inner voice towards his eldest brother. Time took on the quality of honey as it thickened and with a warbling cry Amenadiel appeared in front of Lucifer.
"Its been quite some time since you've done that." The eldest tucked his long wings back into his shoulders. "I almost didn't recognize that it was you."
"Well, you're on a long list of family members I've stopped sending Christmas cards to since getting kicked out." He replied.
Amenadiel ignored the comment and motioned to the room around them. "The hospital? Why did you call me here?"
"Well brother, looks like you might be right about someone trying to poke the Devil. And not in any of the ways I'd prefer." Lucifer fussed at the rip in his sleeve, prying away the loose threads that sprouted up from the fabric. "Some idiot in a cheap sedan almost ran me off the road and I would be remiss to say it was any sort of accident."
"Were you…injured?"
Lucifer pulled his attention away from his arm and gave his brother a snort. "Hurt? Of course not. It would take a lot more than a little car accident to start worrying about getting hurt."
"Then why are you here?"
"Oh. That detective from earlier. She was run off the road by the same idiot. She didn't fare as well I'm afraid." Lucifer shrugged in a "humans, what can you do?" way.
"Is she…dead?" A frown touched Amenadiel's mouth.
Lucifer waved his hand. "Dead? No, no, she's in the next room over, just knocked about and taking a bit of a rest but I'm sure she'll be fine."
A tinge of annoyance. "Then why did you call me here, Lucy? Why couldn't this wait until you got back to the club?"
"Calm down, brother, no need to get so testy. I called you because I didn't want that little cretin Michael slinking around." He looked around suspiciously. "He has a way of just…oozing his way into things."
"All right, so what was such a secret that you didn't want Michael around to hear it?"
"Precisely. Why is Michael around? Of all the angels on His roster, why would Dad send Michael? Why not Azrael? I'm sure she'd be happy enough to come down for a spell to swing that sword of hers and do a little cleaning up."
"We can't begin to understand what Father has planned for us, He—"
Lucifer waved him off, "Not this again. Yes, yes, we get it, brother. He works in mysterious ways, we have to have faith, filled with the Holy Spirit and whatever else you rub all over each other in the Silver City." He took a step forward and closed the gap between the two of them. "What I want to know is Why Michael, of all the children he could have asked to get their hands dirty in the name of preserving the Devil's safety, Michael doesn't fall very high on the list of willing participant."
"Only Father knows what—"
"Ah, this again! I don't know what I was expecting from Daddy's Number One Fan." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks, turning away from his brother. "This calls for a little detective work", the corner of his mouth turned up slightly, "and thankfully we have a little detective around to show us how to do just that."