Charlotte Richards had been checking her office clock for the better part of the past three hours. Amenadiel had texted to say he was on his way to discuss their continued plotting against Chloe's love life, and he was not the type to keep her waiting.
She pursed her lips and ruffled the papers in front of her. A water polo team was trying to escape charges related to a decidedly immature hazing ritual they'd been caught administering to a new teammate. The case was just this side of boring, and not worth the time of the lawyer she'd once been.
But this was New Charlotte, who woke up screaming from Hell-inspired nightmares and thought maybe if she atoned in just the right way she'd avoid returning.
Sometimes she even wanted to be a better person. Rarely. Mostly she thought of how scared she was of Hell, and how even knowing the King of Hell wasn't enough to guarantee her metaphysical destiny.
It wasn't fair. She'd built her career on a kingdom of networking skills, clutching her way to the top of her game and giving herself a reputation which invoked fear and fury in those who stood against her. Lucifer ruled the place she feared; Amenadiel was supposedly God's favorite son. How was that not a strong enough network?
Whining about it didn't help. Therapy didn't help. Helping Amenadiel might help. He was one step removed from Actual Literal God. Helping with his oddly specific mission had to count for something.
She had to believe that; she'd go mad with terror otherwise.
She checked her phone. Amenadiel had texted her nearly three and a half hours ago. This wasn't normal. If he'd been delayed, he would've texted or called.
She texted him to ask where he was, if he needed to meet somewhere, and considered adding a phone call to the effort.
No. Not yet. He might just be stuck in traffic. She wondered if traffic annoyed him more than humans, considering he'd once been literally above means of human transportation. She'd ask him when she saw him again, which would be soon. He was fine. Just a few hours late. Nothing to fret over.
She texted Lucifer to see if one brother had laid eyes on the other. Just a casual check. She watched the words until the seen indicator flipped. Three dots shuffled across the text box. A message was incoming.
Lucifer sent her actual words more often than not, mostly because she'd given him a stern lecture on wasting her time with "child-level cartoons." His message only included one purple devil emoji.
He left earlier. Busy, will let u know when I see him next. -?
There, see? She scolded herself. Completely fine. Held up by his brother's weirdness. Clearly.
She typed a response.
How long ago?
Three dots appeared, fluttered, disappeared. Appeared again.
Miss Lopez says at least two hours.
Charlotte set the phone down. She drummed her fingers and looked at the utterly boring water polo case. She couldn't imagine God cared very much about this case. Certainly not over His favored son. Besides, she needed a break.
If boredom was the primary reason she picked up her purse and left the office, that was between her and God.
Chloe was old enough to remember the days before cell phones. She remembered passing notes to other children when she encountered them between her tutoring lessons and acting classes. She remembered the advent of pagers, and later phones which could text. She had once auditioned to be the child in a commercial for a Blackberry, with a father who coolly checked his emails while kissing his wife, who was feeding their children cereal for the day ahead.
She remembered learning which numbers carried which letters, and when keyboards were first introduced, how many people insisted they just couldn't get used to them.
She remembered not being at the beck and call of a small powerful computer that might be smarter than her. She remembered laughing once with a colleague about how people were starting to respond to text messages and phone calls immediately, and the hurried lives they seemed to lead. She'd told herself she'd never be one of those people. She'd never be so glued to her phone that she was offended when someone didn't respond to a text within seconds.
Times changed, and so had she.
She stared at the messages she'd sent to both Marcus and Lucifer, watching as both were read in varied amounts of time. Lucifer, of course, read her text almost immediately. He always had his cell phone close at hand and nothing would stop the built-in distraction from taking a moment of his time.
Of course, Detective.
Of course, he said. She mused that he and Ella must not be busy at the moment. She shut that thought down and pushed the jealousy away.
Name the place and time.
Making it seem like he was coming to her, giving her control over the meeting, and efficiently absolving himself of judgment should she neglect to provide the details.
My car is at Miss Lopez's.
Oh.
I will need to collect it.
Ok.
Miss Lopez says I can be available by 4 pm.
Oh, she did not like this feeling at all. She typed a response through gritted teeth.
LUX, 7:30 pm?
That way they could try to work around the worst of the rush hour traffic. Trixie was with Dan this week, and while Chloe had a hot date with a fuzzy blanket, she thought maybe this was more important.
I've been informed by Miss Lopez that I cannot return to LUX.
What did that mean? She was a detective; she followed the clues. They started with Lucifer and Ella came to work today and ended with Ella told Lucifer he can't go back to LUX and the only conclusion was that they had clearly done something so unspeakably obscene that the penthouse needed to be aired out by an industrial cleaning crew.
Obviously.
While Chloe pondered another location, Marcus responded. He'd taken thirty-seven minutes. She and Linda had parted by the time the read receipt flashed. Marcus actually worked, though. His delay could be understood and forgiven.
Sure. You at home?
Ever efficient. She responded that she'd be home in about thirty minutes. She knew Marcus would meet her then; he'd once smugly explained that the "LT" meant he didn't have to explain himself, including excusing himself in the middle of the workday.
It had pissed her off. She'd thought he was a complete asshole, and when he'd complimented her a few hours later, her head had spun. She'd loved hearing it, though, and even now the memory of him calling her "one of my best detectives" made her puff up a little. She'd been the department pariah, a punching bag everyone hated. Even when vindicated, she was only accepted because of the charming partner at her side. She wasn't used to recognition of any kind from her coworkers.
She had eaten it up, and when he'd proposed, the memory of the pleasure she'd felt at his honest compliment had pushed her into a "yes."
She was nearly home, which meant she needed to stop brooding and start planning. It was good that they'd have this conversation first. She needed to break this engagement off as soon as possible, regardless of whether Ella and Lucifer were now converting Ella's apartment into another biohazard zone. She didn't have to choose either of them, but if she had a choice at all, she knew Marcus wasn't first in line.
She stepped into her apartment and was overtaken by memories. Marcus had knelt there not a full forty-eight hours ago. Maze had cuddled with Trixie on that couch. Trixie had covered that wall in drawings to hide Maze's knife marks. Lucifer had laid there with a unicorn glittering on his cheek.
Lucifer had been upstairs only once, shouting about who knew what while blood poured from her nose. Marcus had been in her room many times.
Marcus had a tolerant attitude toward Trixie, who had told Chloe "He seems nice." Trixie's relationship with Lucifer, though…it was deep, and complex, and while she didn't accost him every time she saw him anymore – a casualty of growing up far too fast for her mother's comfort – she considered Lucifer a friend, even sought out his comfort and advice. Something she'd done almost immediately after meeting him, which was the start of her odd and equally deep friendship with Maze.
Chloe gave herself a mental shove. No brooding. Planning. She needed to think through exactly how she would break the engagement with Marcus. She needed to be firm, and clear, and not give him any wiggle room. She reasoned that she'd left him an in last time by not cursing his name and blocking his number from her cell phone. I'm not worth it. Her eyes prickled with tears. Lucifer had said those exact words once, referring to himself, telling her that she deserved so much better than someone like him. Whether he was right or wrong –
Stop. Brooding.
Right. Marcus. She checked her phone. She hadn't replied to Lucifer yet. She quirked her mouth, then grinned at her idea.
That restaurant you stood me up at. She smirked, imagining his scowl. You owe me that dinner. I hear the food is amazing.
He read the message within seconds. She could hear him rolling his eyes.
Very well. I will make a reservation.
And a huff of prideful irritation. She could imagine him showing the message to Ella. She pushed the thought aside. She didn't feel like laughing anymore. She replied while chewing the side of her bottom lip.
You better show.
He didn't need to know she was currently fighting a wave of jealousy, anger, and sadness. If it was over, it was over. She was a grown woman. She'd been through a divorce and was about to end an engagement. She could handle this.
There was a knock at the door. Chloe took a deep breath and went to dismantle a second marriage before it could begin.
Thousands of years ago, a baby was born to a young couple who'd never heard of a baby.
When Eve felt the first flutters of his life inside of her, she reasoned that she had eaten something odd and her belly was full of gas. The movements were soft at first, easily missed in between the duties of learning to live outside the Garden. Adam had planted their own garden for food by the time the kicks began.
Fear coiled deep inside of her. She hid herself away at first, terrified of what might be happening, uncertain of how Adam might react. He found her on the fourth day in a copse of trees, weeping silently, babbling about the creature inside her. He carried her home and bathed her in the nearby river, then laid her down in their shelter. She showed him where the movements were, and terror gripped him too.
By then, they had both seen parasites emerge from the posteriors or mouths of animals. They did not speak of what might be happening to her. If she died, it was God's will.
As her belly swelled over several months, Adam thought that God might be exacting a new vengeance upon them. Perhaps his second wife would be taken by the creature growing within her; perhaps a new beast would erupt from her, and kill him too.
He might not love his wife, but he was fond of her. He did not want to live alone, without companionship. He fed her boiled grasses and thick lamb. He wove her a bed of wool, the softest he could manage. He tended to her swollen feet each morning and evening, rubbing the thick toes and heels as she whined in pain. Her breasts became heavy and sore, and what they thought was pus oozed from her nipples.
She was scared, and he was too. But he couldn't let her see that.
When water poured between her legs, he thought this might be the end. That she would die before him now, writhing and weeping, and he would be left alone. She screamed and screamed, her breaths staccato in between. She clutched at the ruined wool bed; she bit her tongue. He could do nothing but watch her agony, hold her hand, try to hide his anguish as she slipped from him.
Eve did not die. Instead, a small creature slid from her onto the wool. Adam might have some small instinct, as he moved to pick up the creature, to detach the cord from Eve's and its body, to clean its mouth of debris. After he finished these tasks, he stared dumbly at the tiny babe. He did not know what to name this animal. He did not know its name.
Eve might have been created with some small instincts too. She was the one who first realized it needed a covering to protect it from the cold. She directed Adam to cut a clean section of wool and wrap the babe, her eyes misted over with pain and exhaustion. The small creature wailed as its mother had moments before. She took it to her breast, and its mouth found her nipple, and it quieted as it nursed. The first mother and father met each other's eyes over the tiny infant's body.
Eve and the babe slept soon after. Adam cleaned the space around them and began weaving a second wool bed to replace the ruined one beneath his wife. He still had not thought of a name.
The child grew, as children will. In time he was old enough to toddle after his father, who brought him into the fields and showed him how to plant seeds where they could grow, away from weeds and vermin. He showed his child how to divert water from the river to irrigate the land. The child broke a reed from the riverside and presented it to his laughing mother.
"A little qaneh," she'd said, and Adam found his name: Qayin.
Cain.
A brother came close behind. This time, Eve knew what was happening. She prepared Adam for their second child, and they worked together to ready their home for another screaming babe. Neither of them warned their son of what was coming. They were the first parents; they didn't think to.
Cain watched his mother's body change. He watched her moods swing. He watched his father's fear grow, watched his mother shift in discomfort and pain. He wept when his mother went into labor, certain she was about to die. When the tiny creature emerged from her body, he vomited.
And then he had a little brother.
Cain was the first son, and the first brother, born to the first parents. God was never far from them, and His influence touched every aspect of their lives. The boys grew up knowing God had judged their parents and would judge them as well. They grew up knowing that paradise had been taken from them. Cain grew up knowing the horror Abel's arrival had unleashed on their mother, never knowing that he himself had unleashed worse simply by being first.
Eve favored Abel. Cain never knew why. Perhaps because Abel was younger, or brought her baby lambs to pet. Perhaps because Abel had a softer temperament, while Cain took after his stoic father. He didn't know that Abel's birth had been less traumatic for both parents only because they knew something of what to expect. He only saw that his mother's eyes brightened for Abel in a way they didn't for him.
Jealousy speared his heart. He'd anointed Abel in resentment the moment the child emerged bloody and screaming from his mother. That resentment settled in him, cloaked his every action. It tinged his speech with anger; it tainted his looks with ire.
He couldn't pretend to love his brother, this first son of a man who didn't love his wife. And when God demanded their offerings and found Cain's wanting, he snatched up the rock and beat his brother to death.
Marcus Pierce knew what the text message meant. He had lived long enough and known enough humans throughout his years to recognize the intention. He'd wanted Chloe to love him again, had hoped that his attempts to reconcile swayed her. He'd pushed her away from Lucifer, not bothering with subtlety; he wanted it clear that the man who called himself the Devil would not be welcome in his home.
It was a terrible, gut-deep instinct, learned as a child and carried through his ancient life: the feeling of second-best. Of knowing he would be found wanting, that God's judgment would never smile upon his bloodied hands.
He'd entertained the thought that perhaps God hated his own rejected son more than the first murderer. That perhaps, in this one situation, God might grant him mercy, shine a rainbow of promise into his darkened heart. With his mark gone, he thought God might be sending him a sign: this is the time. You are no longer alone.
God remained silent as ever, and now Chloe was ready to leave him. He considered that he had more than one chance now; he reminded himself that he was mortal now and could fall in love with another. The world was no longer so grim, so full of poisoned dreams. He could step outside and die today. He could take a chance.
But it was Chloe who removed his curse, her love which had given him this chance at a life, and her presence which he craved. He couldn't accept another in her stead. No one could compare. He loved her, and perhaps, with convincing, she might love him again.
He'd ridden to her apartment within minutes of receiving her message. The ride gave him time to think through a strategy. The simplest solution was to get rid of Lucifer. The challenge was to do it in a way that she could mourn with Cain at her side, never knowing his involvement.
Easy enough. He had a massive network at his disposal, and some of the arms had gone too long without a job. He would weather this storm now, and return when Chloe no longer had a choice.
If he must be second-best, he knew how to fix the problem. He'd done it before, after all.
He dismounted his motorcycle, set his helmet on the handle. Straightened his hair. And went to knock on Chloe's door.
Cain was never certain that the murder itself doomed him. After the blood had dried in the dirt, God asked where his brother was, and Cain lied, just as his parents lied about their transgressions in the Garden. God cast him from mortality as He cast Adam and Eve from the Garden.
Cain wandered, yes. He suffered. He also built. He was human, despite his curse, and he craved civilization. He fathered Enoch first, his own first-born son, and then built a city named Enoch as well.
Time passed.
His first spouse, his own sister Awan, died long before the city of Enoch crumbled. He buried her near the original Garden and wished her peace. His son's namesake crumbled hundreds of years later. He grieved the loss of humans he knew, his own children, his spouses, any semblance of a human life.
Cain fled the region, seeking out new mortal comforts.
Each destination brought joys at first. His interests rose and waned with the tide of human life around him. Humans were not meant to endure beyond a single mortal lifespan, and God had gifted him no additional mental fortitude. He felt the pain of loss over and over; he felt the repeated agony of death. He lost hope as the centuries passed, unable to remain in a single location longer than a few decades, unable to form lasting connections with the humans around him. Inevitably, they died, and he lived on.
With hopelessness came bitterness. He felt his mark was born from cruelty, and he embraced necessity as his master. He steadily built an empire in the shadows, taking young orphans under his wing and training them to be loyal to him alone. He changed the origin, his name, his identity – but the empire continued to rise. He accumulated wealth and power, tucking both close to his chest. He murdered men he'd raised from boys, bedded women whose names he never bothered to learn. He became apathetic, his emotions dulled to the point of non-recognition. He was both efficient and bored, and his silent empire needed protection. He gravitated toward those who investigated crime: he needed to learn their methods, to keep up with new ideas and technologies to stay ahead of them. This mission became his primary focus, his only sense of worth in an ever-changing world.
He was weathered but ultimately the same. And yet, when he heard of a woman who made the Devil bleed, a flicker of hope pierced the ever-present despair of perpetual life.
Chloe opened the door to her fiancé with a strained smile.
"Hi," she offered. He returned the smile, matching her quiet mood. She stepped back to let him in, and Marcus passed her by with the slight scent of Earth and oil.
Chloe shut the door and collected herself. She was psyching herself up for what she thought would be a hard conversation. When she turned, she found that Marcus was standing near her, jacket still on, a file in one hand. She looked at the file, eyebrows raised, then met his eyes.
"We need to talk about Lucifer," Marcus said.
