03. TO SEE AND BE SEEN

Chloe is naked, or, at least, that's what it feels like when she hands over her badge and gun.

"See you in ten days, Decker."

"Yeah. Ten days," she echoes, shoulders slumping.

Rodney Garcia, the bald, hulking Latino who's serving as acting lieutenant, shrugs behind his desk. "Consider it a vacation. You know this shit always blows over."

It certainly did for Dan after Palmetto Street, but then Dan's Dan, and Chloe's...well, Chloe has never been one of the boys.

They're threatened, she remembers Lucifer saying, on the very first day they met. You're clearly smart and have notable instincts.

That's still probably one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about her skills as a cop. Does the meaning change, knowing it was said by the Devil? Don't think about it, she chastises herself.

She makes her way through HQ. Even in her current fog, it's impossible to miss the stares and stage whispers. She's back to being the precinct's favorite pariah.

Ignore them, he'd said. Trust yourself.

Oh, but it's hard. And it's not as if she doesn't deserve some side-eyeing this time. She disobeyed a ton of protocol, going in that place "alone." Worse, her story, that Pierce and his men turned on each other at the most convenient time possible, is flimsy—ludicrous, even. Especially since it's coming from Pierce's ex. Especially since Dan and Ella just happened to bring in Pierce's lackey, John Barrow, on the same exact day.

Barrow. She hates knowing she'll never get to question him, or better yet, watch him squirm under Lucifer's voodoo. And his statements may yet prove detrimental to her career.

The only thing keeping the suits from making an example out of her is the baseball-sized bruise that's blossomed two inches below her collarbone, a souvenir from being shot. Again. Making an example out of a cop is one thing. Making an example out of a cop who got injured in the line of duty is another. Getting shot is something all cops fear and grudgingly respect.

Thank God for Kevlar—well, thank someone. Probably a wild-haired inventor in a basement somewhere.

And thank the Devil. She's no idiot. She may not remember everything that happened, much less how it all happened, but she knows Lucifer is the only reason she's alive.

Why does the Devil keep saving her life? As he's told her many times before, he's immortal. The concept alone boggles the mind. He can't honestly care about one little human, can he? And if temptation's really his angle, well, what a long game this has all been.

Chloe scoffs at what her life has become and jabs at the elevator button for the first floor. Now she's thinking about the metaphysical again, which, no, just no. She needs a break. She already spent all night contemplating her place in the universe while cuddling Trixie.

She's always been a both-feet-on-the-ground kind of woman. If she couldn't see it, couldn't gather enough evidence to support it, it wasn't real or it wasn't worth her time. No exceptions. Now there's evidence of the divine within driving distance. Huge ecclesiastical questions plague her at every turn.

Heaven and Hell, God and the Devil. Angels, demons, and who the hell knows what else. All real.

What bothers her most is how she is both surprised...and not surprised at all. All the baffling things Lucifer has said and done during their partnership click into place like LEGO bricks. The complaints about his otherworldly family, the magnetic charm and hypnotism, the sleight of hand, the endless wealth and questionably-legal wheeling and dealing, the superhuman strength.

It all seems so obvious that she wonders if she should just do the LAPD a huge favor and tender her resignation. How is it that the Devil has been strolling around L.A., solving crimes by her side? Why does he own a nightclub? Most importantly, how is it that she's never seen him for what he is, even when all the signs have been there, even when he's told her the truth every day?

How on earth did he become her best friend? At least... He was her best friend. Now, who knows? Is it really possible to be friends with the Devil? What are the eternal consequences of that?

Does she care?

In the lobby, she stops beside a trash can. Her constitution has been pretty touch and go. After not eating for nearly twenty-four hours, the coffee she forced down her gullet this morning is threatening to revolt one way or another.

Breathe, she tells herself. Nausea and cramps roll through her for several long moments before blessedly subsiding.

A "vacation" is the very last thing she needs when her mind is racing like a hamster on a wheel. The thought of sitting at home with all these thoughts and fears... Forget food. A stop by a liquor store is in order. She'll take a page out of Lucifer's book and subsist on stimulants and depressants. Caffeine, alcohol...calories are calories.

Outside, she climbs into her car, cranks the engine, and dares to merge into L.A.'s clogged arteries. She drives even more carefully than usual. One bad accident could throw her into an eternity she never believed in before now. Worse, without more answers to Life's Biggest Questions, there's really no telling where she's headed in the afterlife.

What does it take to get into Heaven, to be relegated to Hell? She's fired her share of bullets over the years, disobeyed her parents, lied; let her eyes wander when she was married, even if she never, ever considered acting on those feelings. Oh, and Hot Tub High School looms, topless as always. Ugh.

She falls behind a red Honda Civic that's seen better days. Lucifer's crimson skin swims before her mind's eye, making it difficult to focus. Memory or dream? It's almost hard to be sure. Almost.

The Devil, it turns out, is more and less disturbing than Hollywood imagines. Hornless, still standing tall and proud in a man's lithe body, in that damn tailored suit, Lucifer wasn't nearly so alien. Instead, it's the memory of the pain carved into his flesh that troubles her, for he looked like a scarred burn victim whose only treatment had been sunshine and saltwater. Who had no hope of healing.

Does his face feel as raw as it looks, or is it an illusion? A visual representation of what Lucifer has always said Hell is: endless torture, agony without panacea. Et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum.

Though she didn't grow up in a religious household, culture has nonetheless taught her the gist of the Biblical Fall. That there was an angelic rebellion, that pride cometh before. She can't imagine Lucifer leading a rebellion, but she knows firsthand how stubbornly proud he can be.

But even assuming a Heavenly bloodbath, she struggles to see how eternal punishment could ever be fair, which is worrying when she considers some of the killers she's helped put away over the years. She's not sure anyone, even Warden Smith, who killed her father, deserves eternal damnation.

Lucifer's existence is proof of God, but his existence also raises many questions about God. Questions, such as, Is God good and just?

What does it mean if the answer is no?

At home, it's so quiet that she doesn't know what to do with herself. Maze is still gone. Trixie is at school. She's never been one to sit around, but she also can't go far because the precinct may call her in at any time for more questioning during the investigation into Pierce's crimes and death.

No. No, not touching that today, either. Every time she thinks about how she had sex with him, how he is literally Cain, the world's first murderer, she wants to claw her skin off in a hot shower.

She pours a glass of cheap wine and glances at the door, half expecting Lucifer to waltz in and scold her for having poor taste. He certainly could bypass her deadbolt if he wanted. It wouldn't be the first time. What does a little lock mean to the Devil? No wonder stopping him from doing inappropriate things is like trying to hold back a tsunami with a fishing net.

Did he make it back to Lux? What face is he wearing now?

Biting her lip, Chloe grabs her phone. There's nothing wrong with checking up on him, is there?

But of course I'm fine, she imagines him crooning. I'm the Devil, darling. I'm immortal.

She shudders and unlocks her phone, only to cringe when she sees she has new messages from Dan and Ella. From Dan, a simple "Call me." From Ella, a plaintive "Heyyy, let me know when you're around." They have questions—lots of them. Some of them she can answer, but most she can't, or at least won't, not yet.

They barely managed to get their stories straight before they gave their statements. Chloe knows it was easier for her than it was for them, though they all received ten-day suspensions. Easier for her, because she knew what was truly at stake.

"You can't tell anyone Lucifer was there."

And they didn't. Whether they lied blatantly or by omission, they obstructed justice for her. If there's one good thing that's come from her warped love life and the unrest at the LAPD, it's been finding out who will "ride or die" with her. It's a small list of people, but a damn fine one.

She will talk to Dan and Ella. Soon. For now, she taps on Lucifer's cheeky grin in her contacts. Their message history is long, amusingly mundane, and laden with more innuendo that she cares to admit—and not all of it Lucifer's, either. Few days have passed in the last two years when they haven't teased each other or shared something funny, although the messages turned far more curt and coolly-professional during her ill-fated relationship with Pierce. Chloe scrolls up to simpler times.

Chloe: Mind gracing us with your presence? We have a case.

Lucifer: Be there soon. Gluttony called and I of course answered.

He'd attached an image of an open box of a dozen assorted doughnuts. One long, slender finger pointed to the powdered, lemon-filled doughnut at the center of the box. Her favorite.

A small thing, but Chloe's heart squeezes at the memory, which conjures several others like it. How bad can the Devil be if he remembers your favorite doughnut? Sure, he sometimes has selfish, ulterior motives, but not always. Sometimes he slow-dances with you simply because you missed out on prom.

Hey, are you okay? She sends the message before she can overthink it.

And then she waits. And waits. And waits.

On the third day of her suspension, Chloe stares blankly at the Bible in front of her, unable to focus on the dull cadence of Deuteronomy's endless shalls and shalt nots. It's her first time reading the holy book, and so far it's both a drag and an acid trip that can't possibly offer much insight into the truth. Right?

Unable to cope with the boredom of suspension and the thoughts rattling around in her brain, she's given into studying, or at least trying to. Anyone who sees her now might think she's dived headlong into church life.

Stacks of religious tomes, apologetics, literature, and academic ponderings tower on her kitchen table, most courtesy of the Los Angeles public library. She can't help but notice the majority of the books are in excellent condition. No one ever borrows them.

Unfortunately, studying religion feels a lot like doing paperwork, perhaps worse, and she finds she has nearly the same attention span for tedious reading in her thirties as she did when she barely got a C in English literature in high school.

She can almost hear Lucifer: "Why waste your time on that rubbish when you can go straight to the source?" How apocryphal.

Even if she's ready for that—and it's hard to say if she is—two days have passed and Lucifer still hasn't responded to her messages. Is it wrong or stupid for her to worry?

Could he have been injured without her realizing it? For all his claims of immortality, she's seen him get hurt. He bleeds like any other man.

"I don't wanna go to school."

Chloe blinks out of her trance. She's slipped down another rabbit hole, and her coffee's grown cold beside her copy of the King James Bible.

She opens her arms for her daughter. "Why not, monkey?" she asks as neutrally as possible. The past few days haven't been easy for Trixie, who's had to learn that both Charlotte and Pierce are dead, not to mention the PG-rated version of her own mother's latest brush with death.

Trixie weasels onto her lap, all gangly limbs and warm, reassuring weight. Chloe buries her nose in daughter's hair and breathes deep. It won't be long before Trixie doesn't want to climb all over her like this.

"Brayden's being mean to me."

Brayden, Brayden, Brayden... Try as she might, Chloe can't remember the boy's face, and wonders if that makes her a bad mother.

"What's he doing, baby?"

"He told everyone you're not a cop anymore because you..." She whispers, "Because you killed somebody. That's not true, is it?"

"I didn't kill anyone." Not for lack of trying, but still. "But I'm on a little break during the investigation. Tell you what, I'll talk to Miss Rawlins about Brayden when I pick you up this afternoon."

"I want Lucifer to do it."

Chloe frowns. She can imagine how Lucifer might "talk" to Rachel Rawlins, who is pretty, perky, and barely old enough to drink. She refuses to think about why that bothers her so much.

"Baby, Lucifer can't—"

"But he always fixes it."

That stops her short. "Since when?"

Trixie gasps and throws her hands over her mouth. "It was supposed to be a secret," she says through her fingers.

"Well," Chloe starts, eyes narrowing, "there aren't any secrets between Lucifer and me." She's such a liar, but Trixie hasn't figured that out yet. "So you can tell me."

Burying her face into Chloe's shoulder, Trixie mumbles against her neck, "He sometimes talks to the other kids for me. I'm not good at it."

That...can't be right. Lucifer hates children and only tolerates Trixie because he grudgingly respects her burgeoning negotiation skills. The thought of him speaking to other children on her Trixie's behalf... Well, she isn't sure whether to cackle or cry.

"I tried texting him, but he didn't reply," Trixie adds morosely.

Chloe's dumbfounded again. Since when do Trixie and Lucifer text one another? She really should be more diligent about monitoring cell phone use.

Suddenly, she's desperate to see Lucifer, even knowing what she knows. And what's stopping her from going to Lux, anyway? Her gut decides it for her. She'll see him. No more hiding, no more agonizing. Grow a pair, Decker.

"I'll talk to him, monkey, see what he can do. But you're going to school, okay?"

"Okay," Trixie grouches.

"Go on. Get dressed or we'll be late."

Hopping down from her mother's lap, Trixie makes her way back to her bedroom. At her doorway, she turns and points a small finger. "He owes me a favor." At that, she disappears into her room.

Jesus, her daughter's been making deals with the Devil.

After dropping Trixie off at school, Chloe navigates to Lux, her hands clammy against the wheel. She calls Lucifer on speakerphone, but the connection rings several times before going to voicemail.

"Hello," the latest version of his answering message purrs, "I'm rather busy at the moment, but do feel free to tell me what it is you desire."

Chloe rolls her eyes. That recording isn't any better with context.

"Look," she says, her voice high and nervous, "you can either talk to me now or in twenty minutes. I'm on my way over."

He doesn't answer or return her call, but she stays the course. A strange sort of anger builds in her chest as she nears Sunset Boulevard. The situation—this whole Lucifer Morningstar is literally Satan thing—is no reason for him to ignore her and leave her assuming the worst. That is not what partners do.

Still, that sentiment doesn't stop her from groaning and lightly bashing her forehead against the steering wheel in the parking garage below Lux. What is she doing here?

But, then, somewhere deep down, she knows, doesn't she? If she plucks at that dark part of her soul, she knows exactly what has drawn her. Lucifer has been the biggest mystery of her life, and she loves a good mystery, will dive headfirst into danger for the sake of solving one. And now that she's so close to understanding him... Well, there's a lot she's willing to risk.

A gun and a badge do not a detective make. Instead, as Lucifer tends to suspect, the key ingredient is desire. Good detectives desire to know the truth, no matter what it is. That's either in your blood or it's not. It has always burned in Chloe Decker, and so she finds her bravery and climbs out of the car.

"Hey, Detective Decker! That you?"

Chloe turns. One of Lux's bouncers, a big teddy bear of an old white guy named Henry, waddle-marches across the lot. Eager to be on her way, she smiles tightly. "Hey, Henry."

"Mr. Morningstar's closed everything up for the week."

"Oh, I'm not here for the bar." Her brow furrows. Shutting down Lux isn't like Lucifer.

Henry stops a few feet away and clears his throat. "No private visitations, either."

"Private visitations" is very loaded, but the rejection stings a little, especially after years of easy, line-skipping access to the building. But then she rolls the idea around in her mind and decides refusing all guests makes sense if Lucifer looks anything like he did a few days ago. He wants to run a nightclub, not a haunted house.

Maybe the edict isn't meant to include her, and maybe it is. It doesn't really matter. She's here now, feeling ballsy enough to look the Devil in the eye. She's not in the mood for his bullshit.

Digging into her back pocket, she produces her parking ticket and waves it. "No problem. Can you validate my parking before I leave?"

Henry's immediately sympathetic to her plight. Got him, she thinks, and feels only slightly guilty for the manipulation. The flat thirty-dollar fee to park under this building is a crime against humanity, especially when you consider Lux has a cover charge and overpriced drinks.

"Sure thing," he says, and takes the ticket. "I'll be back in a minute."

She watches him retreat. When he's halfway across the lot, she turns and bolts for the elevators. Her heeled boots pound on the concrete, echoing loudly.

"Hey!" Henry shouts. "Stop!" He breathes out in giant puffs as he gives chase.

"Sorry!" she cries, slapping the elevator call button with the flat of her hand. "I promise I won't let him fire you!" And then a hysterical laugh bubbles out of her as she wonders if the Devil might actually be able to fire someone quite literally. Who knows? Anything seems possible now.

By some stroke of luck, the elevator is already on P1, so the doors open immediately. She throws herself inside, heart racing. Henry is a mere fifteen feet away when the doors slide closed.

Using the small panel above the building's generic floor buttons, she punches in the four digits that will carry her to the penthouse. In recent months, and for reasons known only to him, Lucifer changed the PIN from the intentionally-insecure 0000 to something more exclusive and difficult to remember. But Chloe knows the number by heart, and the elevator jerks skyward.

"Oh my God," she laughs, collapsing against the back wall. And then again, "Oh my God." Busting in like the Kool-Aid Man isn't part of her usual repertoire. If this were any other situation involving any other people, Lucifer would be cheering on her temerity, but it's only her and her resolve comes and goes in sickening waves.

The elevator shakes to a stop, and the doors open with a ding. No going back now. She steps into the penthouse.

"Lucifer?" she calls quietly. "It's me."

Sweat beads at her neck, and gooseflesh prickles across her arms. She's not sure what she should expect, but is relieved to find no white sheets covering the furniture. Maybe she's crazy, but the thought that Lucifer might leave has been more terrifying than the truth of who he is.

She looks left and right, taking in the extravagant bar, piano, library, and living area. Recent discoveries put the penthouse, with its numerous Old World artifacts, in a different light. Suddenly, it looks far less like expensive replicas and far more holy-shit-authentic. Just look at those old books, at that stained glass leading into the bedroom. Wow.

Chloe rounds the tan, leather sofa and freezes, holding back a gasp. Lucifer lies flat on his stomach in nothing but black boxer-briefs. His skin is still that unnatural, ruinous scarlet, from his eerily bald head, to his bare feet. Dark veins twist beneath the surface, and bright red, braided cords of scars layer his back, shoulders, and thighs, as though he's been whipped many times.

He is the definition of a monster, but knowing this doesn't diminish the strange sense of protectiveness that grabs hold of her lungs and tugs. "Lucifer," she whispers, and steps closer. His face is turned toward the back of the sofa, nearly buried into the crevice. "Are you okay? Are you awake?"

No response.

Empty scotch bottles are strewn about the floor. Orange pill bottles and drug paraphernalia litter the glass coffee table: half-smoked joints, pipes, and what looks suspiciously like the biggest brick of heroin she's ever seen. Just laying right out there.

Any other time, she'd be appalled. But nothing here reminds her of Lucifer's hedonistic benders. This reeks of self-medication.

Whether he's asleep or deep in narcosis, he doesn't stir. Far from being terrified of the Devil, she is terrified of his stillness and the dried bloodstains that have soaked into the fine leather. Now that she knows who he is, what could possibly reduce the force of nature that is Lucifer Morningstar?

She kneels beside the sofa, careful not to disturb the glass bottles. "I'm going to sit with you, okay?" She considers turning him over and checking for wounds, but worries she might do more harm than good. What does she know about supernatural injury or pain?

Her palm damp and fingers trembling, she places a hand on Lucifer's bicep, careful to avoid what looks like a half-healed knife wound. The muscle twitches, startling her, then settles. His devilish flesh is rough and granulated, like fruit leather or animal hide, and feverishly warm.

"Please be okay," Chloe murmurs.

She doesn't move for a long time. Her feet fall asleep beneath her. As she watches the shallow rise and fall of Lucifer's maimed back, she is strangely out-of-body, everywhere and nowhere.

As she waits, she has time to think again about all the signs there have been over the years, all the clues. A mantra cycles through her brain: He's the Devil, the Devil, the Devil. But somewhere else, somewhere deeper, she thinks it doesn't matter. He is more than the stories others have made up about him. He is more than his hair-raising family. He deserves someone on his side. Why not her?

Shadows shift beyond the penthouse, until high noon arrives and devours them. Sometime later, Lucifer stirs and releases a deep, troubled groan.

"Shh, shh, shh," Chloe hushes, like she does when Trixie's sick and buried beneath blankets. "I'm here."

Lucifer mumbles incoherently. And then, "De-Detective?"

"I'm here," she says again, caressing his rough skin.

Lucifer breathes quietly. She thinks he's fallen asleep again, until he says quietly, "I don't want you to see me like this." His words are thick, but intelligible.

"Too bad," she whispers.

"This face isn't meant for you."

"I can handle it."

Slowly, careful not to move his body, he turns his head. She forces herself to look at him, and he regards her with eyes lit by dancing hellfire. As much as he may say he doesn't want her here, there's a challenge in his gaze that she thinks he wants her to meet. He expects her to run away, screaming, but he hopes she doesn't, too.

"Why are you here?" he rasps.

"Because you're my best friend." Chloe dares to touch his bare head. The burnt flesh there is uneven and shifts disconcertingly under the weight of her hand. "I told you. You don't scare me."

"But how?"

She shrugs, a tender expression softening her. "I know you." Swallowing hard, she blinks away tears. "Why didn't you tell me you were hurt? I would've come sooner."

"I'll be fine. I'm just...healing slowly."

"Are you supposed to heal fast?"

"I wouldn't have been the lord of Hell for long if I'd ended up like this every time some upstart tried to off me."

"Right," she breathes, trying desperately to keep from falling down that rabbit hole. Of course there's violence and politics in Hell. Lots of politicians, too, no doubt. "What do you need me to do?" She glances around his apartment, as if by looking she might conjure a hospital room and doctor schooled in the supernatural. "I know some first aid."

"I'm all right. Go home."

"And leave you all alone? Not a chance."

"Don't be stubborn. Maybe I won't look like...this, next time you see me." He flashes her a fragile, awkward smile that sends a chill down her spine. "There's no denying I'm much more dashing normally."

"I couldn't care less what you look like right now," she admonishes, her voice sounding unnervingly like her mother's on the brink of meltdown. "I just want you to be okay."

He searches her face. "You're not lying, are you?"

"Of course I'm not lying," she retorts.

"Fine." Rolling a shoulder, he winces. "Light a joint for me, will you?" He squints. "Take a drag while you're at it."

Chloe turns to the coffee table, flicks open a nearby Zippo lighter, and brings one of the half-smoked blunts back to life. She doesn't hesitate to take a puff before handing it to him. Twenty years have passed since she last smoked up—once, back in her acting days. Her throat and lungs burn with a vengeance until she hacks into the crook of her elbow.

The sofa shudders beside her. It takes her a moment to realize Lucifer is laughing. It's a chilling sight in his devil face.

"You're an asshole," she sighs, and then laughs, too. This situation couldn't be anymore bizarre. If she looks too closely at it, she fears she might fall apart.

"I'm going to sit up," he says.

He waves her away when she leans up on her knees to help him. Her heart lurches when she realizes he was warning her, not requesting assistance. As if she's a deer that might dart away from any sudden movements.

Sitting on his sofa in nothing but his underwear, the Devil is somewhere between larger-than-life and so oddly incongruous as to be cartoonish. His long legs settle beside her, where she still kneels on the floor. She doesn't miss how he digs his toes into the plush rug to hide charred-black nails.

Lucifer affects sobriety. Forced as it is, he does look more whole for it. There are no gaping wounds on his torso, no signs of where all the bloodstains have come from. So, where is he injured?

The room begins to smell of marijuana, thinly-veiled with vanilla. He expertly puffs smoke rings before offering the joint to her again. "No, thanks," she says. "I drove here."

He refrains from poking fun at her, like he normally would. "Henry wasn't supposed to let anyone in," he remarks. "You weren't even supposed to make it into the garage."

"Don't blame Henry. It's not his fault I made it up."

"That I don't doubt," Lucifer sighs. "I should've changed the code, but I didn't think—" He looks out the window, smoke billowing out his nose.

"You didn't think I'd come see you," she finishes.

They're quiet for several moments before Chloe puts a hand on his knee, which is endearingly knobby in a way that helps her accept the color of his skin. He twitches, his eyes darting to the point of contact, but he doesn't move away. "Let me help you," she pleads.

"I told you, Detective. You can help me by going home." But when he leans back against the sofa, a barely-controlled panic contorts his already-warped features.

Her fingers dig into him. "What's wrong?"

He hesitates before admitting, "My wings. It's always the bloody wings."

"Your..." She frowns. "Your wings?"

If he has any, Chloe doesn't see them, but even so, more LEGO bricks snap together. All his complaints about his wings these past few months... Oh, and the loft. In her eagerness to put that day behind her—and her inability to think of much other than Lucifer's face and Pierce's corpse—she somehow forgot about all the feathers.

She sits back on her heels, her jaw slack. "We flew, didn't we? Up to the rooftop. Those were your feathers."

"Yes."

"You saved me."

"No, I brought all of this into your life," he corrects.

What a ridiculous belief. "Just let me see them."

As uncomfortable as he is, her bossiness seems to amuse him. "Detective," he chuckles weakly, "at least buy me a drink first." The skin where his brows normally are lifts high on his forehead. Licking his thumb and index finger, he snuffs out the remaining nub of cigarette and tosses it back onto the coffee table.

"I'm not going to let you sit here in pain when you saved my life."

"Do you think you owe me?" he snaps. "Because you most certainly do not. Anyway, don't you suppose you're getting enough of an eyeful as it is? Let's not push it, shall we?"

"I'm looking right at you, aren't I? And I can handle your wings. I already saw the replica, remember?"

"It isn't the same. I've no desire to turn your brain into mush."

"Don't flatter yourself."

He snorts, taken aback. Despite his fiery gaze, he regards her coolly, hunting for some sign of weakness. "Very well," he acquiesces a moment later, and pushes to his feet with a grunt. "It's your own mind, I suppose. Stand back, please."

Chloe rises and takes several steps back. When he's satisfied with her distance, he bends and grips his knees, his shoulders rolling. A gruesome crack resounds, and he lets out a string of curses, some in English and others not.

One minute, the Devil stoops, dark and snarling. In the next, Chloe shrinks away from the explosion of raw matter that has taken shape. Her ears lightly pop around a soft flutter.

Lucifer was right. No replica could ever prepare her for his true wings, which span at least ten feet on either side of his body. The pale feathers, though coated in a layer of dust, still seem to catch all the light in the room, mirroring it back with a warm glow. Heat rolls off him in waves, as if he's burning some fuel from within.

"Happy now?" he quips.

"Holy shit."

"Literally that, yes." He flashes a grin before his head lolls and his wings droop.

Chloe rushes forward, snagging him around the waist as he topples. She's unable to ignore the cat-tongue roughness of his skin as his size and weight draw her down to the sofa with him. He moans in agony as his wings are crushed beneath them. His body gives one last defiant twitch before going slack.

Scrambling away, she openly gawks. There's nothing remotely human about the devil-angel hybrid before her. It's almost impossible to see the man she knows beneath all these layers. Yet, isn't this exactly who he's always said he is, deep down—the Devil, a punished and punishing angel?

Awe wears off in increments, until she can finally recognize how damaged the feathers actually are. What a second before looked like pink and red patterns in his feather vanes is now obviously dried blood.

Circling him, she finds the source of at least some of the blood, where his wings peek up above the back of the sofa. These are not just any wounds, either. She knows a gunshot wound when she sees one, even among all the plumage.

What she can see of his back is a minefield of dried blood and torn and blown out feathers. The wounds have clotted, but the surrounding flesh, which is clearly meant to be pale white, is nearly as angry and red as the skin on the rest of his body.

It's only now that she realizes how dire the situation with Pierce was, the great price Lucifer has paid for her life. He used his own body to shield her. It's the ultimate gesture a cop's partner can make on the job. Tears sting her eyes.

"How could you be so stupid," she chides, unsure whether her ire is directed at herself or the unconscious angel.

Cleaning these wounds will be a very big job, one that's she's not at all equipped to handle, even at the best of times. But who else does he have? Who else knows the truth—and, more importantly, believes it? She glances at a clock on a nearby wall and feels like she's being torn in two. Trixie's school will let out soon, and there's still Brayden to deal with.

She rounds the sofa again and leans forward to touch Lucifer's shoulder, which she carefully shakes. His eyes snap open immediately, and she stumbles back, her calves bumping against the coffee table. They stare at each other.

"I have to pick Trixie up," she says, apologetic. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Lucifer, eyes half-lidded, looks away. "There's no need. As I've explained, I will heal."

"But you'll heal faster if I help you, won't you?"

He grimaces, but doesn't lie. "The bullets are a problem. But—"

"No buts." Chloe can tell he's mere moments away from banning her return altogether. "Can we make a deal?" she blurts out.

Even if he knows she's playing him, he can't help perking up. She barely contains her shudder as his red eyes swivel back to her. The way his wings splay around him, it almost looks like he sits upon a throne, a red lord of otherworldly origins. How she ever missed the authority built into his bones, she'll never know.

"You have my attention, Detective. What is it you desire?" He quirks one of those hairless brows. "And what will you offer in exchange?"

"I'll clean you up if you'll do whatever it is you do for Trixie at school."

He snorts, disappointed. "That's hardly your desire. In fact, I believe I already owe your offspring. More importantly, why hasn't she learned to keep secrets? No one likes a gossip."

How is she having this conversation with Satan?

"She's nine, and I'm her mom."

"Yes, well."

"She's having trouble with a boy named Brayden." Oh, God, is it wrong to bring down the Devil on small children?

"Ah, yes, Brayden McNeil. A repeat offender." Chloe feels less guilty now. "Foolish boy, but then he is the son of a rather spectacularly amoral solicitor, so what can one expect? Say no more."

"So, it's a deal?"

"It's a deal," he affirms. "Tell Beatrice it will be taken care of by tomorrow. Remind her I will not owe her after this."

"There's no rush."

"You've my word, Detective. Now, be a dear and fetch me another Dalmore before you go."

As she hands him his absurdly expensive whisky, she forces herself to stare into the yawning abyss of his eyes. It's getting easier to do. "You have my word, too," she says. "I'll be back tonight."

Lucifer raises the bottle at her snidely. He doesn't believe her at all.