IV.
ALL THE TROPES
—
I have a great amount of respect for the audience. They know narrative construct. They know all the tropes.
-Paul Scheuring
—
Detective Chloe Decker wiped the fog off her bathroom mirror with a damp palm. She examined her face closely through the streak, her nose nearly touching the glass. It hung haggard from a lack of sleep, the once supple skin starting to show wear from a decade of late nights, bad food and constant stress. Lets not even get into what's happening under the towel.
Her mother still passive aggressively sent creams, tinctures, retinols, retinoids, collagen—both legal and illegal—as she traveled from country to country, in pursuit of the next big blockbuster, fingers crossed, dear. This ritual had started early in young Chloe's life. Her face, her thighs, her ass was regularly poked, prodded and commented on since she could remember. It wouldn't surprise her to know that Penelope Decker had kept a meticulous journal of her daughter's measurements and eating habits until she had moved out at the age of 20.
She picked up a small vial and unscrewed the top, eyeing the golden liquid in the dropper. They ran down her cheeks in a heavy crawl as though she were crying dark, glycerin tears. Practiced hands massaged the serum into her skin and she gave her reflection a practiced smile. Motions that felt empty but still held emotional value in her heart. The year since her divorce had felt empty and much too quick, passing her in a blur of work and empty wine bottles. C'mon babygirl, it was way before that. And it was, wasn't it? Her feeling of listlessness had entrenched itself long before the divorce had been signed. When had things veered so far to the left in her life? Palmetto? Dad?
From downstairs she could hear the rattling of plates as Trixie fixed herself breakfast. A genuine smile replaced the practiced one. She quickly dotted moisturizer on her face and shuffled down the stairs to help her daughter and spend some time together before driving her to school. "Hey monkey, whatcha fixing to eat?" She turned the corner and saw Trixie standing near the kitchen island, her attention briefly flashing to Chloe before turning back towards the sink. "Monkey?"
"Mom, we have company." She pointed a shaky finger towards the far wall beyond Chloe's sight.
Immediate panic set in as she heard the tinkling of porcelain that was no longer her daughter's breakfast. She grabbed a heavy picture frame from the hallway table as she sprinted into the kitchen. Next to the sink, their back turned, was an unfamiliar figure standing too close to her daughter for comfort. She screamed Trixie's name and cocked the frame back to launch at the intruder, reaching out with her other hand to grab for her kid.
"Detective!" The figure whirled around, an empty coffee cup in his hands.
Chloe let out a startled scream, dropping the last minute weapon to the floor. A sharp crack rang out as the corner of the metal frame ate a groove into the hardwood. The picture of her mom and dad in Greece, all pale blue sky and white jagged puzzles of buildings flowing down into the Mediterranean, was fragmented through cracked glass.
"Still keeping it tight, I see." He motioned to her.
Fuming, she snatched the errant end of her towel which had come unwrapped in her panic and shoved it firmly back across her body. "What are you doing here?" Her eyes refused to meet his.
He lifted the empty cup. "Looking for an espresso machine but your little human is pretty sure you don't have one."
The heat of her face spread down through her toes. She shifted angrily but still refused to look up, instead fussing with her daughter's shirt. "You can't just break into my house!"
"Your…thing…let me in." He motioned to her daughter then turned around to rummage through her cabinets.
"I'm not a thing. I'm a girl." Trixie batted away her mother's hand and took her original place next to Lucifer. "Whatcha looking for?"
"That coffee you were talking about. Are you sure you don't have at least an Aeropress? I'll even settle for a Bialetti." He opened the cabinet to his left and pulled a faded can of Folgers. "Oh, dear."
Trixie giggled. "Mom, he's funny."
Lucifer turned to the girl, annoyed. "And you're standing much too close for comfort." He wedged the red can between them and pushed her back towards the detective.
Chloe grabbed her protectively, batting away the old coffee can. She opened another cabinet and brought out a bag of specialty coffee she had been gifted last Christmas, slamming it on the counter in front of Lucifer. "What are you doing here?"
"Well," he opened the top of the sliver bag, the waft of ground coffee perfuming the air as the vacuum seal released, "I tried to get a hold of you last night but you never replied so I thought the worst and came soon as the sun rose." He looked around. "Filter?" She opened a drawer and pulled out a crumpled white coffee filter.
"I was busy. Doing my job." She snatched the bag from his hands and poured the grounds into the paper cone then placed it into the Breville. "You can't keep doing this, Lucifer. Barging in where you don't belong, doing whatever you think is right without considering the welfare of others."
"I was considering your welfare, hence why I came over here first thing in the morning. I thought you had fallen ill or worse, what with the Bernards now knowing that you're sniffing around." He poured water into the top of the machine and closed the lid.
"I don't know how else to make it clear, Mr. Morningstar. We need boundaries. Now." She gruffly pressed the start button.
Trixie leaned her head on Chloe's hip, giving Lucifer a conspiratorial wink. "I think my mommy's mad because you saw her naked." The heat rushed back into the Detective's face and she quickly turned the girl towards her room, ushering her along silently.
Lucifer couldn't help the smile from spilling into a laugh as he watched Chloe's reddening back disappear into the child's room. Trixie managed to turn around just as they passed the doorframe, her small hand reaching up in a single wave before Chloe pulled it down. He could hear the Detective gently chiding her daughter about the dangers of opening doors for strangers. The coffee maker made its first slow gurgles as the water ran through the machine, soon filling the kitchen with its warm breath. He leaned against the counter, peering at the Detective through the half-open door.
She was crouched in front of her child, their heads close together, her strong hands placed gently against small knees. A tenderness had overtaken her features, painting her harsh lines in silky colors of goldenrod and orange. Ruthless eyes that typically burnished bright were now muted in shades of love and softness. There danced something in those eyes that Lucifer hadn't seen from her before. Adoration. Complete openness. She melted in the sight of her daughter—her tender spot. Here lush greenness grew, small but strong. Did all humans hold this kind of complexity? For Lucifer, the nature of man had always been on the rod of duality teetering between good and evil, right and wrong. Did he never notice the spectrum that existed in-between because he hadn't been paying attention? Or did he simply refuse to pay attention because then they became more than just playthings? Perhaps he was a little bit afraid of seeing them as living, breathing precious things.
The Detective closed the bedroom door and made her way to the other end of the kitchen island, her hand clasped firmly around the junction of her towel. "So I'm alive. I'm okay. Is that all you needed this morning?" She fidgeted, still unable to meet his eyes.
Lucifer pulled another mug from the dish rack and poured two cups of coffee. "No, now that I have your attention, I wanted to tell you that I found a contact at the Historical Society who was willing to loosen some lips in exchange for…well, for things they needed." He slid a cup towards Chloe. "There's a benefit gala in a few days. All the rich and famous of LA's wasp hive will be in attendance to support their new Hollywood restoration project."
"Any friends of yours?"
"A few. The usual hellos and howareyous."
"Can you get us an invite?" She took a tentative sip from her mug.
"It would raise a few eyebrows but I think I can wrestle one if I provide a little face time at their offices."
"What will they want in exchange?"
Lucifer snickered. "What makes you think they'd want anything from me barring my pleasant company?"
"Because that's not how these things work, right? You scratch mine, I scratch yours?"
"Yes, and I wouldn't mind a little scratching from you every now and again, Detective." He raised an eyebrow and motioned to her towel. "Especially in that little getup." Another swath of red tore across her face as she shoved the mug up to her lips. "They want me to sign Lux off as a historical building. Something new to hem and haw over as they increase their portfolios." He shrugged. "I have no interest in having these buffoons poking around in my business."
"So you'll dangle the carrot in front of the societal horse."
Another eyebrow. "Now I feel like you're just saying that on purpose. Takes the fun out of it."
She finally met his eyes, traces of embarrassment still swimming on her face. "Lucifer."
"Yes. They'll bite." His eye drifted to the soft flesh where her neck and shoulders met, highlighted in beams of good ole California sunlight.
Chloe felt his gaze and consciously placed a hand near her collarbone. "When can you setup a meeting?"
He glanced at the Cartier on his wrist. "I can get one for this evening. Stop by the club at half five. Wear something that doesn't make you look like such a cop." He pointed to her towel. "Wrap a belt around that, add a pair of heels and I'd say it's closer to couture than anything I've seen you wear off-duty."
Chloe's lips pulled down as she rolled her eyes. "Okay, five thirty." She motioned to the front door. "Now get out so I can get Trixie ready for school. I'm already late for work."
Taking one last sip from his cup, he made his way to the door. He paused, his mouth slightly open as if to make a comment. The detective raised her brows, waiting. Another bout of consideration danced over his face before he let out a sigh and gave her a sheepish grin. Well, sheepish wouldn't have been entirely correct. Wolfish. In sheep's clothing.
Cool nightshade eclipsed over her, giving the room a fisheye quality. Again that sensation of something crawling beneath his skin took a hold of her mind. She studied his features, enraptured—a deer caught in the lights. A fragile fear took residence in her as she tried to force her body to relax out of the thicket that was starting to entwine itself around her chest. There wasn't anything particularly malicious in that face. If anything it was handsome and friendly, observing her in a cool, amused way. Still, that feeling of othering, of something not quite right wouldn't detach itself. There was something lurking underneath. Waiting.
"Are you all right, Detective?" He shuffled closer to the woman, leaning his head down to study her pallid complexion. "You look like—" He reached out a hand and she winced, raising a hand to her neck. Lucifer snatched his hand back, surprised at her reaction. In the short time he had known her, he had seen her live a myriad of emotions: anger, exhaustion, joy, frustration, grief, even adoration only a moment ago. But this play of fear…of revulsion…was a first and he didn't much care for the way it made him feel. "Five thirty then." She nodded, unable to meet his eyes yet again.
He heard the click of the lock as he stepped down from the raised front porch, his dress shoes tapping smartly on the sidewalk. Sliding behind the wheel of his convertible, he placed the key into the ignition but didn't turn it. Why had he felt like such a predator in that moment? He flipped the palm of his hand towards his face and studied the grooves and lines that intersected familiar routes along the skin. Golden beams of that quintessential Los Angeles sunlight that had moments ago dappled the thin skin around the Detective's neck, now highlighted long fingers and clean, polished nails. They were good hands. Human hands. So why did he feel as though the Detective had seen what lay underneath? Wolf. Monster. Hellhound. He clenched his hand and beat it against the wheel. The familiar sting of self-loathing rose up in his stomach and he pounded his fist on the wheel again.
Weak.
Broken.
Unwanted.
It wormed its way into the darker parts of himself. The parts he let lay dormant and untouched. There were too many wounds that never quite healed in that darkness no matter how much time had passed. How could one subconscious movement—a trembling hand to the neck, a brief flash of fear—upend his composure? Why did it matter if she feared him? Because she sees you. The real you. Underneath your suit. Underneath your skin. Her quick gunfire eyes. Her methodical mind. They seemed to pierce right through to the muscles that burned with hellfire, the joints held together with the sins of man. He was the one who felt naked.
His left breast pocket vibrated. He pulled out his mobile and looked at the unfamiliar number. "Lucifer Morningstar." He answered.
Silence.
"Hello?"
A watery breath. "Lucy?"
A chill overtook him. That voice. "Mazikeen?"
Another long pause. "Lucy." Matter of fact.
He swallowed the hard lump that had been forming in his throat. "I—I don't understand."
She didn't sound right. Her voice had taken on a low vibrato as if she had awakened from a long sleep but it was still unmistakably hers. "I need you to come find me."
"Where? Where are you, Maze?"
"The Hills." She coughed. "I think." The line clicked and went blank.
"Maze! Mazikeen!" Lucifer turned the key in the ignition and gruffly pulled the car into drive, his heart thrumming hard. He peeled away from the curb, sending his phone flying onto the passenger seat. Thoughts jumbled together in a jagged heap but he knew where he was supposed to go. The Bird Streets in the Hollywood Hills where he kept a mostly unused home perched high atop the hillside. He hadn't been there in a few months but a housekeeper visited once every two weeks to keep the space tidy and dust-free.
He considered wrestling for his mobile to dial the Detective but remembered that flash of fear and thought against it. Besides, how would he be able to explain the sudden appearance of someone who was clearly supposed to be dead? Her body had beed released to the crematorium a few days ago, her ashes now tucked away in what used to be her living quarters. Lucifer had the wild inclination to stop by the penthouse and check the urn to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. No, the voice had been muffled, confused, but had belonged to Maze. And it had been real. The car took the first sharp curve towards the winding roads of The Hills, his foot pressing down a little further on the gas pedal as his car ripped up the blacktop on its way to another set of unknowns.
—
Chloe slammed the shot glass onto the bar counter and squeezed her eyes shut against the burning heat. She tapped the wooden counter and the bartender speed-poured another shot of tequila into her glass.
"Lime, please." She held out her palm and the man behind the bar picked up a lime wedge with a pair of silver tongs and placed it into her open hand. She flung her head back then bit into the wedge, bracing herself against its astringency. The burning sensation bled down into her belly, spreading its warmth and numbness to her thighs.
"Well, this is new." Amenadiel sidled up next to Chloe and pointed at her shot glass.
The detective slid her gaze over his face then shrugged. "I'm off duty. At least, I was as of 45 minutes ago."
"And this is where you chose to celebrate?" He palmed the glass of beer the bartender slid over. "Interesting."
Chloe groaned. "Not by choice. I was supposed to meet Lucifer here almost an hour ago."
"He hasn't been here since this morning. Left in quite a hurry too."
"Yeah. So I found out through our friend Jason here." She motioned to the person behind the bar. "No one knows where he is or when he's coming back." She shrugged. "I got thirsty waiting around for an answer."
Amenadiel took a measured sip from his glass. "Hm. Why didn't you just leave?"
"Holding out hope, I guess."
"Lucy isn't used to people relying on him, you know? I don't think there's much hope to hold on to when it comes to my brother."
Chloe toyed with crushed lime inside the shotglass. "I figured. Still, here I am, hoping." She pushed the glass away from her, leaving a wet trail on the bartop. "It would be too late anyways, even if he did end up showing face."
"Too late for what, may I ask?"
"He was helping me on a lead." She shook her head. Sudden anger overtook her. "I don't understand. He was the one who was pushing me to chase down and strong-arm leads. He was the one two steps out in front, waving his damned fists around and I was the one having to pull him back. Now…", she lamely raised her hands up towards the ceiling.
Amenadiel chuckled. "For as long as I've know Lucy—and I'm talking lifetimes—he's always been so adept at everything. He's one of the most capable people I have ever known, but that includes the good and the bad. He'll hold you up as far as he needs to then backpedal when it gets too complicated. His attention is like the moon: when it's full the world is aglow but the dark side of the moon…well, nothing lives there." He took another small sip of his beer.
"How do you live like that? With someone so conditional?"
He shrugged. "I don't."
"Is that why he left your family?"
"Lucy was cast out. By my Father. Big difference."
"'I cast you to the ground; I exposed you before kings, to feast their eyes on you'." She said emotionlessly, her face a glaze of memories.
Amenadiel flinched, sending a splash of beer over his hand. "Ezekiel 28:17. I didn't take you for the religious type."
"Old habits die hard, I suppose." She gave him a weak smile. "My dad's side of the family were devout Lutherans and they'd drag us to church on Sundays whenever we visited. I remember the pastor screaming that line and I had been so creeped out that I went home and tore it out of the family Bible."
She had hid it under her pillow for the two weeks they had stayed in Aunt Cathy's cramped house. It had stowed away in her jacket pocket on the drive back to Los Angeles, her fingertips picking incessantly at the corners of the carefully folded page. It had felt like a dark talisman, trailing black vapors behind them like a morose wedding train. It marked their drive from Idaho to LA in its inky marker, following her into her bedroom where she re-read the passage for the hundredth time that day before tucking it into one of her notebooks. Two months later, when the school year had restarted, she had opened her half-used green notebook and the folded paper had fallen near her shoe. An instant revulsion overtook her and she stomped on the Bible page as if it were a cockroach. Her deskmate had given her a curious look but remained silent. Slick sweat sprung onto her forehead as she quickly reached down and grabbed the yellowing paper. I cast you to the ground. Literally. It hung like a stone in her shirt pocket until she had flushed it down the toilet during her free period. I cast you to the LA sewer lines, asshole, she had thought as she watched the wadded sheet circle the bowl before disappearing into the mouth of the toilet. The sweating had stopped but the feeling of revulsion had remained through the rest of the day.
"Desecration. You surprise me, Detective." Amusement danced in his eyes.
"I uphold the laws of man, not the laws of God." She motioned to the bartender and he set her up with another shot of tequila. She smiled when he slid a lime wedge on a napkin next to the glass.
Amenadiel laughed and motioned for his own shot. "I'll cheers to that." They clinked their glasses together.
"So you keep calling him 'Lucy'. What's the deal with his whole Devil persona, anyways?" She waved her hand when Jason the bartender held up the tequila bottle. "Why do you humor his delusion?"
The man stilled, his eyes taking on a thoughtful countenance. "You think Lucifer is a persona? A delusion?"
"Well, obviously. I mean, the actual Devil?" She cocked her head and studied his face. "Do you believe he's the Devil?"
"I believe he's built what he needs to keep himself safe." Amenadiel's voice was measured. Careful. "He's been away for a long time and I couldn't imagine the loneliness he must have felt. I refuse to be the one to take anything else away from him during his time here on Earth."
"So it's like a suit of armor. A metaphor of protection."
He shrugged. "That's not for me to tell. You'd have to ask him yourself."
"Is he…safe?" Am I in danger, her eyes asked.
Again, he shrugged. "Depends on which side you're on, I guess."
"I'm on the side that wants to catch this killer. I'm on the side that's been letting the small shit slide; the side that's compromising for the 'greater good'." Again, that feeling of duality from the night at Polivey's resurfaced.
"If you're morally compromising for the bigger picture, I'd say Lucy is having the intended effect on you."
Chloe clenched her fists. "I'm still a good cop." Was she? The last few weeks had been spotted with grey areas. Decisions that would raise a few eyebrows at the precinct, maybe even cost her some "down time" to get her head on straight. Or figure out better ways not to get caught. Daddy Decker had always been the shining example of coloring-in-the-lines and Chloe had used that as the compass to guide her through the thickets of her own career. So what would John Decker think about her venture outside the lines into the ambiguous shadowy spaces? Slippery slope, honey, he would say. Her mind turned to the deflated bodies of Mazikeen Smith and Stephen Delaney. To the bacon-charred body in Rancho Park. To the gruesome medical precision of their deaths. Burning liquid sloshed in her stomach. Fuck the slope. She had played Palmetto by the book and look where it had gotten her. Divorced. Lonely. Lost. Weak. "I'm a good cop and I'm going to catch that fucker. Whatever it takes." She took out her wallet and flipped a fifty onto the counter, mumbling a goodbye to Amenadiel.
Climbing up towards the main door of the club, she looked back to see Lucifer's brother in conversation with the bartender. She waited for the bouncer at the top of the stairs to disappear behind the thick curtain and slipped into the small hallway towards the private elevators. The number pad beeped as she entered the code, remembering how uselessly secretive the bouncer had been the first night she had gone to the penthouse. Cool faded eyes watched as the elevator doors slid open onto the black marble glimmering like dark waves. She entered purposefully, allowing the click of her boots to echo loudly into the room.
"Michael?" She looked around the bar and into the sitting room. Around the slick black piano. "Are you here?"
Muffled footsteps from the study. Michael's surprised face peered from around the corner. "Chloe?" A smile crept along his lips. "What a pleasant surprise. Are you alone?"
She nodded. No questions on how she had gotten in or what she was doing up here. So trusting. "I need your help."
"Okay." He met her with bright eyes. "What would you like me to do?"
"How's your British accent?"
—
It had been close to noon when Lucifer pulled his convertible into the arched driveway of his hillside manor. Golden arms of sunlight bounced off the windows that encapsulated the entire first floor. Barely used white furniture dotted the sparsely but intentionally decorated living room, standing frozen like sentinels, welcoming their owner back home. His heels clicked along the bleached brickwork leading up to his sprawling front door, the meticulously groomed hedges on either side swaying in long forgotten greeting. The fingerpad near the door took a moment to scan his thumb, giving him a jovial beep once it recognized his print. Bleach and lavender wafted up to meet him as he pushed into the foyer, not bothering to take his shoes off as he paced across the white marble floors, leaving behind sooty footprints. Another smell arose as he darted from room to room, calling out for Maze. The tinged metallic smell of death. Here and there he could see little imprints of others who had been here not too long ago, a few hours at most. Down the hallway past the open kitchen, where appliances gleamed in their lustrous disuse, he spotted a small drop of blood. It had already turned rusty with oxidation. A dried blot the size of a quarter. He saw another one, slightly smaller a few feet away in front of his closed bedroom door. He placed his ear against the heavy white wood, listening for any indication that he wasn't alone. After a few long moments had passed, he carefully turned the knob.
What met him was a grizzly mural of bone and blood.
Atop his white bedsheets in a thick, congealing mass of red had been scrawled HOW YOU ARE FALLEN FROM HEAVEN, O DAY STAR, SON OF THE MORNING! THE VIEW IS BEAUTYFULL. At the foot of the bed, propped up like an offering on a sacrificial altar, had been the severed head of a deer. A pale tongue lolled out of its open mouth, its glassy dead eyes turned up to the ceiling. Darkness seeped out of the rough cuts where the head had been severed, creating a black pool of clotted blood spreading from its neck.
Lucifer lifted his arm to his nose, narrowing his eyes against the heavy smell of animal fur and entrails. The body of the deer was nowhere to be found meaning that this bought of rough woodsman's surgery had taken place elsewhere. He would take that small miracle. Red footprints layered the carpet in various heaviness, some saturated, others mere outlines of boots and sneakers. Most of them were large. He wasn't able to spot any that would fit Maze's feet. Maybe she had been carried. Or maybe she had never been here at all. Or maybe you completely imagined that it was her. He had been sure an hour ago when he had gotten the phone call and was pumped full of adrenaline but now he started to doubt himself. Wishful thinking had a dangerous way of twisting the mind, even one as cunning as his.
His eyes slid over the words on his bedspread, trying to decipher what message he was supposed to receive from its messy taunting. Obviously it was someone who knew him as the Devil, or was at least very familiar with his supposed persona. He hadn't been referred to as the Day Star in many, many years. Perhaps even centuries. Was this the doing of whatever Amenadiel had warned him about? The nephilim or angel hunter or whatever fuckface spirit that wanted to do him harm? Okay, so it had lured him here, but for what?
The first part of the message was a passage from the Bible, when Isaiah had gone to confront the King of Babylonia. But the second part—THE VIEW IS BEAUTYFULL—with the peculiar misspelling, was unfamiliar. What was is supposed to mean? His gaze remained on the word BEAUTYFULL and he thought that perhaps it was in reference to the picturesque landscape of Los Angeles that could be seen from the back balcony. Taking one last look at the room, he exited, closing the door behind him, wondering what kind of cleaning company would be discreet enough to give it a good once-over.
A big blue sky powdered with thin clouds and a nearly imperceptible layer of smog met him on the sprawling balcony. The glittering blue of a small lap pool waved in a beckoning dance of dappled sunlight, begging him to throw away those nasty memories of severed deer heads and go for a nice dip instead. The water would be warm. Soothing. He reluctantly peeled his eyes away from the shimmering mass, focusing his gaze on the sprawling vastness of the city below. This view alone had been the reason Lucifer had signed the lease without a single counteroffer, much to the chagrin of his accountant. It had been a pretty penny indeed but the feeling of grandeur at the jagged landscape of buildings and stunted greenery filled with a million individual lives filled the gap in his wallet. Yes, the view certainly was full of beauty. BEAUTYFULL. What else was he supposed to see though? Was there something behind the beauty that was meant to be an answer of some sort? The answer to what happened to Mazikeen?
Lucifer sat on the edge of a sunchair and pulled out his pack of Gitanes. He flipped the top and started to pull one out when he noticed a squat blunt tucked into the corner of the box. Small miracles indeed. Grabbing it by the twisted end, he brought it up to his face and studied it. The paper was brown, not his usual brand of rolling papers. It had also been pinched and rolled almost surgically, the lines where the edge had met the body was perfectly straight. Lucifer Morningstar had definitely not rolled this joint. Squinting his eyes against the bright sunlight, he turned the blunt over a few times, trying to remember where he had gotten it and when. Did it matter? It's all brain food. He smiled. Maybe a relaxing toke would help him unravel the mystery behind the message. Open a third or fourth eye.
He lit the tip, shaking out the flame, and placed the filter end between his lips. Thick smoke filled his lungs on the first drag and he scooted back, allowing his feet to prop up against the long body of the sunchair. A brief cough rose from his throat and he fanned away the puff of smoke. Okay, this was some good shit. A buzzing heaviness settled onto his chest and thighs. He took another deep drag. Oh yeah, really good shit. He laughed, pulling out a pair of sunglasses from the inside pocket of his suit and placed them on his face. Maybe a little R&R was good for a weary soul such as his. Another small drag raced the heaviness all the way down to his toes. Yeah, that deer head isn't going anywhere. A few more tokes and we'll get our head on straight. Our deer-head on straight. He gave another quiet giggle and rested his head against the back of the chair.
—
"Mr. Holloway will see you now." A slim blonde wearing a smart shift dress motioned to a pair of wide polished doors. "We just ask that next time you keep to your appointment time." She gave them an annoyed scowl. Instead of calling me in a huff an hour after you no-showed.
Chloe gathered her purse and gave Michael a brief look. He nodded and held out his arm, currently clad in a dark blue Moschino suit jacket. Sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow, she gave a small squeeze and they pushed through the door into Jacob Holloway's office.
"Mr. Morningstar. It's been some time since we've shared a room together. It's good to see you again." Jacob Holloway—otherwise known as Bono to his mutuals—rose up from a green leather settee against the far wall of the office and extended a hand. He was a thin man with soft white hair slicked back into a small ponytail. His eyes retained a youthfulness that didn't match his pallid scalp. In his younger years his head of hair had been jet black and thick enough to wear loosely around his neck, a look that gave him heavy rockstar vibes. A hefty glass filled nearly to the brim with gin slowly condensed on the marble coffee table. As he approached, Chloe could smell the strong odor of juniper and coriander; this was clearly not Holloway's first drink of the night. Small red veins stood out like riverbeds on his cheeks, marring skin that was still taut with the aftereffects of wealth. His brown eyes gleamed in the classic had-a-few glassiness. She inched a little closer to Michael, not liking the slightly carnivorous light dancing in those dull eyes.
Michael took Hollway's hand and suddenly Chloe could feel something in the air change.
No, change wasn't the right word.
Shift. Shimmy. Hokey-pokeyed as Daddy Decker would say. Her gaze fell on Michael's face, except it no longer felt like Michael's face. It had…shifted…like the sleight of hand in a magician's illusion, into the mask of his brother, Lucifer. On the outside everything looked the same. Nicely pressed suit, carefully combed hair, a spattering of Eau de Richfuck: all was as it had been when they had left the penthouse after Michael's costume change. But now…well, it felt as though his entire being had changed. Like a really good actor stretching into a role, filling out the lines on a page into a breathing character, Michael was shouldering into a very convincing Lucifer Morningstar. She couldn't help but stare nakedly in surprise.
"This is Miranda." She gave a slight start when he placed a light hand on the small of her back. A hot flush crept along her neck as she brought up a smile, forcing her eyes to meet Holloway's.
"It's an absolute pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holloway." She extended her long arm towards him and shuddered when his cool, clammy hand enclosed around hers. "I've heard so much about you and the Historical Society."
Jacob Holloway raised an eyebrow. "You have? That's a bit of a surprise." He turned to Michael, his hand still clutching Chloe's. "It felt like our last meeting was left on…unfavorable terms."
"Priorities change." He gave a pointed look towards Chloe. "I've got other things in my life that outweigh something as small as a piece of property."
Holloway studied the detective's face. Her doe eyes and smooth complexion. At her smattering of makeup and plain loose hair. She didn't strike him as the type of woman that would cause life changes in men like Lucifer Morningstar. He swept his eyes quickly over her off-the-hanger silk shirt and unadorned neck. Over her clean but rough hands. Was he missing something?
Her mouth parted into a full-lipped smile that fell on Holloway's face like sunlight. Cool blue eyes eased to calming summer waves as she took a half-step towards the man who had commandeered her hand. She gently placed the other one over his and gave it a small squeeze, allowing her softness to envelope his air of juniper and suspicion. I'm swinging for the Oscar here, babygirl. He gave a nervous laugh, unable to break his eyes away from hers. "I was adamant that Lucy reconsider your proposal. It's so important for us to preserve and celebrate the bygones of our city, isn't it?"
Holloway nodded absently.
She released his damp hands, fighting the urge to wipe them on her pants. Instead she wove them around Michael's arm, giving the temporary Lucifer a heavy-lidded wink. "I think he'd like to take up the conversation again." She giggled. "If that's okay with you, Mr. Holloway."
"Oh. Yes, why yes, of course." He shook his head and stepped aside to motion to a pair of matching green leather chairs across from the settee. "Have a seat and let me pour you a drink." Holloway drifted towards the bar cart on stilted legs. "What's your poison?"
"A gin will do nicely." Michael unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down, just as he had seen Lucifer do countless times.
Chloe nodded in agreement and Holloway returned with two overflowing rocks glasses. He had regained his composure, blaming his third nightcap for the jarring dizzy spell that had taken over him earlier. Looking at Miranda now, he saw that she was just another pretty LA girl, albeit a little plain. "So where did we leave off last year, Lucifer? You seemed pretty hellbent on keeping Lux out of the historical renovation project. It had felt too archaic, you said. Too much like new money trying to pass a lineage steeped in the boring family traditions of old money. Henry had nearly blown his top over that one." He took a big gulp of his glass and shot Michael a hurt look. "Not a very kind thing to say to a few folks just looking to upkeep the legacy of our city."
"Well, like I said Mr. Holloway, my priorities have changed."
"Right." He took another suspicious glance at Chloe. "Priorities."
The detective could feel the man's misgivings and she cursed herself for not taking Lucifer's advice about dressing the part. Like a shark who could smell blood from miles away, business men like Holloway had a way of sniffing out bullshit. They had entered the room already pegged as the odd couple and her brief bought of feminine charm didn't quite win over the hardened paranoia of Jacob "Bono" Holloway. She noticed the gold band around his left finger. "You know how it is, Mr. Holloway. Marriage has a way of reassessing what matters in life. At least that's what my father always thought. He had all the money in the world but the minute he met my mom, well—" She giggled, reaching across the space between the chairs and intertwined her fingers around Michael's. "It's important for us as a family to keep our priorities and our legacies intact."
Holloway paused, regarding his wedding band. "And what legacy is that, Missus Morningstar."
"If we agree to add Lux to the Society's restoration project, which by the way would be an enormous acquisition, I want to sit on the Board. Just as my mother did at the Historical Society in Chicago." A cunning smile graced her lips. "Family tradition, if you will."
The older man allowed his own greedy smile to meet hers. This was territory he understood and knew how to navigate well. Just another negotiation with another hungry wolf. She just happened to be wearing a cheap pair of boots. Probably trying to throw you off your game, Bono boy. He leaned back on the couch, propping his drink against his shoulder. "Well, as a married woman you're already aware, but my wife wears the belt in this family. You'd have to do a good bout of convincing Mrs. Holloway. She heads the Board."
"I would love to meet your wife, Mr. Holloway." She shot a look to Michael. "Wouldn't we, honey?"
"Darling, if that makes you happy, I'm happy." He gave Jacob Holloway a light roll of his eyes. Let the women play their cute power games, they said. "I'm sure your father would be willing to fly in and oversee the negotiations sometime next month."
Holloway grimaced. Whoever this lady's father was, he sounded like he had too much money and too much experience for Jacob's liking. The restoration project was slated to begin in a few weeks and Lux would be a crowning jewel to have listed as the headliner for the first phase. Waiting until next month for this mystery tycoon to rear his head against the Historical Society's small legal team seemed like a ticking bomb of drawn out negotiations. "Why don't you two come by the benefit next Friday? I can introduce you to Mrs. Holloway as well as a few key members of the Society." Maybe even get you pretty licking drunk and get some papers signed away.
Chloe brightened, giving Michael's hand a hard shake. "Oh, Mr. Holloway, that would be heaven! What do you think, Lucy? Could we clear our schedule for next Friday night?"
Michael stroked the backs of her fingers with his thumb. "Of course, darling." He turned to Holloway and raised his glass before downing the last of his gin. "We wouldn't miss it for the world."
—
Jacob Holloway watched the pair leave through the large wooden doors of his office. Mr. Morningstar had his arm wrapped around his wife's narrow shoulders, tamely scolding her for drinking too much the night before an important meeting. She had laughed, a mild lilting vibrato that ate up the room in its music, trailing after them and into the hallway. He took out his phone to text his wife about the new additions to the benefit's guest list, steeling himself against the fuss she would inevitable put up about the last minute decision. She would understand though. The meaning of an acquisition as big Mr. Morningstar's property on Sunset would bolster their fundraising efforts and give him a bigger share of the spotlight. Miranda Morningstar had been a surprise; Holloway didn't take Lucifer as the marrying type, especially not with someone so…civilian. But he had sensed hard steel in her and that accounted for something. It accounted for a lot, actually. Here was a woman absolutely driven to get what she wanted and maybe that was enough to lockdown rich playboy billionaires.
He didn't pursue the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach. Didn't chase the string of questions that had popped up in his more lucid moments before he had poured himself another glass of gin. Why wasn't she wearing a wedding ring? How come he hadn't heard any gossip about Lucifer's new marriage status, especially as someone who ran in high profile circles such as his? What was the deal with her goddamn knockoff department store boots? Jacob Holloway rubbed his throbbing temples and opened a car service app. Maybe he would give those questions some thought later, but right now, he needed to get home, take a handful of aspirin and sleep away his half bottle of regret.
—
Chloe waited for the elevator doors to slide shut before letting out a wild laugh. My fucking God, they had pulled it off! They had gotten into the Historical Society's benefit and she didn't need Lucifer Morningstar and his everlasting connections to get it.
"I take it you're relieved just as much as I am." He gave her a sideways glance.
She choked back another laugh, giving him a nod. Michael was just Michael again. Still in his Lucifer costume, but wholly his own genial, boyish self. That brought her a measure of relief. As astonishing as it was to watch the transformation that had taken place in Holloway's office, it had made her skin crawl in its ease. "Jesus. I thought for sure he was going to scream us out of there as frauds."
"Chloe Decker, actress extraordinaire." His voice was not without a measure of appreciation. "You still got it. Get up on stage and take your damn Oscar."
"And that secretary. My God, she was pissed." She snorted, covering her mouth with her hands. "Speaking of Oscars, how did you do that? I saw you change into your brother."
He shrugged. "Live with a shared face all your life and you tend to pickup on the things that make you different." He shook the arm that was still draped around her shoulder. "Besides, you did all the hard work. Mrs. Morningstar."
Another peal of laughter sprung out and she hid her face into the side of his suit jacket to muffle the sound. "I'm surprised he believed someone like Lucifer would actually get married. To someone like me." She dabbed the corner of her eye and looked up at Michael. They shone with the hysterics of good nature. Of having won something. "My God, we were actually believable."
"I don't think it was too hard a reach to imagine myself with someone like you." He couldn't help the grin that creased along his mouth. Couldn't help the way his arm tightened around her shoulders. "It didn't feel like acting at all."
Chloe blinked in surprise, allowing her smile to drop to a light twist of the lips. She drew back slightly at his gaze, becoming all too aware of their closeness. Too aware of the errant collar of his dress shirt that had gotten twisted under the lapel of his jacket. Too aware of the Eau de Richfuck that swirled around her head. Too aware of the intense thoughtfulness on his face.
His hand moved from its place around her shoulders and rested near the small of her waist. Light, almost as if it were too afraid to land. He remained still, his brown eyes taking in the curve of her lips, the tip of her nose before daring to alight on those all-too-seeing eyes. They still held the glow of triumph, of having won. They also held a fearfulness that made Michael's breathing pause for a moment. A small war had broken out along her features, wavering her emotions like a movie projected against smooth pale skin.
Michael leaned forward.
He brought his lips gently against hers.
Waiting.
Taking in her shallow breathing.
After a moment she too leaned forward, timidly pressing her own lips against his. A shaky hand crawled up the front of his suit and found a home against the thin skin of his neck. Bright, rich goosebumps radiated from her touch, cascading their way down his back in a hot river flood. After a few long moments they parted, his lips buzzing with the taste of coriander and clove. The taste of herbaceous gin and the faint dab of lipstick and her laughter.
The elevator door had slid open to the front lobby and closed again. Now it lay still, heavy with their shared embrace. Her hand remained on his neck, spreading its slow warmth behind his ear, down his spine, down into the floor and straight into the furthest reaches of Hell for all he knew. He briefly wondered if Lucifer had felt that kiss through the spiritual umbilical cord tethered between host and home. If he had heard the music that her lips had made in the hazy drift of his brain.
He thought back to the first time be had heard Tchaikovsky pluck out the light, ethereal notes to Arrival of Clara and The Prince in Russia's Mariinsky Theater before the end of the 19th century, give or take. It had been close to the human holiday that celebrated the birth of Christ, a fact that most heavenly hosts found downright laughable. Still, curiosity had gotten the best of Michael and he had made a snowy visit that December, seeking the Shchelkunchik (or as was more widely known in the western world as The Nutcracker) and its alien sounds of the celesta. Act Two had started with a bright introduction to The Magical Palace of Sweets and had ebbed into the sweet, thunderous few notes of a song that had moved him to tears halfway into the first ten chords. The remainder of the piece had been lovely, but that first movement before it made way into its bright major chords, had loosened a part of the divine and had filled it with something human. For ninety whole seconds Michael had remained a hostage in that body; a mortal thing made of flesh and hair and gurgling organs. Felt the dark notes pluck a taut string in his chest. He had excused himself, not bothering to watch the rest of the ballet, nearly tumbling out into the slick, grey streets of St. Petersburg. Bitter cold bit into his skin as he wrapped his thin useless human arms around himself, having left in such a hurry that he had left behind his wool jacket at the coat check. Tears had pricked the corners of his eyes, unable to articulate why he had felt so moved by something so ordinary. His shoes had slipped in the snow as he rounded a corner into an empty alleyway. He had torn out his wings in a panic, ripping the white dress shirt down the back into two pieces. He had blindly shot back up into the cloudy folds of what he understood, a trail of tears following close behind. It had been hundreds of years before he was able to muster enough courage to come back to Earth, afraid he would crumble under the ordinariness of human existence.
That fearfulness returned as the first few chords of that song thrummed their notes here in the steel casing of the elevator. He had felt the light notes on her lips—chaste and unsure. He stood in her slow breath, afraid to allow himself to meet her flesh again. Afraid that he would tear out his wings and escape into the darkening streets of Los Angeles, just another lost angel amongst the streetlights.
The elevator doors silently opened again. This time a woman, her finger still on the call button, met the pair with surprised eyes. "Going up?", she squeaked.
Chloe cleared her throat, snatching her hand away from Michael's neck and gave the lady a shake of her head. She darted down the hallway. Michael dashed after her, unsure of what one was supposed to say in situations such as this. Why had she seemed so embarrassed? Wasn't this a natural thing that humans did regularly with each other?
Bursting through the revolving doors and into the warm night air, she took a few deep breaths before Michael caught up to her. She whirled around, hard steel finding traction in her gaze. "We can't—we can't do that." Motioning to the building. "I'm not…". Long fingers braced against her temples.
He reached out, making sure he was still leaving enough distance between them, and placed a gentle hand on her arm. "I'm sorry, Chloe. I shouldn't have."
"I—we just can't, okay?" Her eyes darted back to the elevator at the end of the hallway. To the way he had pulled her to him. The way his skin had felt under her fingers. His lips.
"I understand. I'm sorry, I really am." He pleaded.
She shrugged his hand off of her arm and wrapped them around herself. A shiver ran through her although the air was filled with yet another bout of perfectly balmy California weather. Any previous complaints she had made to herself over the last few months about being touch-starved seemed like a bluff now. Michael had been the second person she had kissed since her wedding day to Dan, the first in the year since her split. Those first kiss jitters had been long forgotten in her decade of stability and predictability. I'm not a fucking teenager so why do I feel like one right now? Insecurity nibbled at her in spaces she thought she had long grown out of. Something close to panic had dug its way into her chest.
Michael opened his mouth to say something but the pierce of her phone cut him off. Grateful, she pulled the device up to her face. "Decker."
"Detective." Soothing. British.
Anger flared as she furrowed her brows but she was quietly relieved at the distraction. "Lucifer! Where have you been. I've been trying to get—" She stopped when she heard ragged breathing. "What's happening?"
"How long will it take you to get to Echo Park?" A panicky hitch took up residence in his voice.
She stilled, thinking. "Half an hour. Twenty if I book it. Do you need me to book it?"
"Yes." A sigh. "I think so. Be quiet when you get close." He gave her the address then hung up.
Michael studied her as she took down the street number and name. At the deep groove that ate into her forehead. Lucifer had sounded shaky on the other line, something so unlike him. "Do you need me to drive?" He motioned to her phone. "I assume you need to make some calls on the way."
Chloe thought for a moment then handed the keys to Michael. They ran towards the car together without another word.