Nothing could be more boring than being forced to time the geniuses as they take their mock exams. However, she's the study buddy—tasked with impartiality on grading their paper. Apparently it's one of the many 'sacred' duties of study buddy to monitor the club members when they're in their 'zone'.

After a while, Chloe observes a pattern with them. Dinesh finishes first, hardly checks his answers twice. Laura spends at least half an hour double-checking her works. Lucifer drums his fingers on the table, waiting to pass the time. Gina doodles on her paper. Mark uses his extra time to nap. Ludwig chews on his pencil's eraser. Philip licks his thumb before flipping each page.

Even their scores has a pattern to it. It's not always noticeable. Take chemistry; Philip's the best, Dinesh's the lowest, and Lucifer's third highest. Ludwig needs a little help with his biology.

And she picks up these little facts on them. Like how Gina and Mark excel in history, writing in details that seems plausible. Gina says the ancient text to back it up. If only Chloe could read Hebrew, let alone ancient Hebrew.

Ludwig, despite his limitation in speaking English, easily tackles languages like fish to water. Dinesh is a mathematic expert. Laura has high hopes of making it big as a lawyer, both domestic and international circuit. Philip's extremely proud of his accomplishments in chemistry. Biology and physics are Lucifer's strongest subjects.

When their time's up, she collects the papers. Grades them based on the answer sheets. Dinesh goes straight for the snacks. Mark and Gina discuss their answers. Ludwig takes out his tablet, returns to his comics. Laura plays a quick game of Pokémon on her Nintendo DS. Philip hovers around her. Lucifer's content with sitting in his seat, gazes at the windows—his face unreadable.

The other leaves the club—to freshen their minds up. Their results can wait for tomorrow. They've done tons of these—the excitement of anticipating their scores died out the first three mock exams. All except Philip. Lucifer still has LUX Club to run.

But sometimes, the pattern changes. Lucifer's slowly catching up to Philip's scores for chemistry. Last week, he scored the highest mark for chem. They chalked it up to Lucifer being lucky. After all, Lucifer himself said he based his answers on his gut feeling.

It's been two weeks in a row, Lucifer took over Philip's best score.

"Are you done?" Philip asks, peering over her shoulder.

Chloe nods. "This is the last one," she tells him, tapping on the paper. She sets the papers down on the desk, pushing her chair backwards.

Philip picks the stack up, gripping them tightly. "You've graded everything, just as like in the guidelines we gave you?"

Philip's so touchy—and bossy—when it concerns the grading rules. Chloe resists rolling her eyes. "Yeah."

"Exactly the same?"

"Yes."

Chloe gathers her things, and says, "If you don't mind, I want to get home before it's late." She forces a smile, and heads for the door.

She's halfway towards the corridor's end, when she realises she left her water bottle on her desk. Races back to the club. The club's door is partially open. She walks up to the door, hand on the doorknob. Hears stuff crashing against the floor. As if someone grabs the nearest thing they could find and starts throwing them around the room.

Chloe cracks the door slightly open. Sees Philip, his composure cracked, surrounded by fallen test papers.

He stares at his feet—his eyes transfixed to the floor. His face red with anger. He exhales a noisy breath out, collects the scattered papers in eerie calmness. Stacks them nicely on the table.

That answers it. Whether Philip Smoak has enough rage to kill a person. He does indeed—especially chemistry-related.

Her water bottle, she doesn't need it now. Chloe turns her heels away. And leaves in haste, once again.

Philip has the brains to pull off a murder without difficulties. But what are his motives to kill Ramon Valdez? If so, how did he kill Ramon and frame Gordon Kaluta? Chloe need some solid evidence. What's the use of theories but she can't substantiate them?

There must be something in the official reports she missed.


A speck of dust mots the spoon, Mazikeen thumbs the dust away. Familiar footsteps tapping against the polished mahogany floor, languid and confident. She doesn't avert her gaze, fixes a misplaced silverware on the dining table.

"So, how's the plan to trap the real mastermind coming along?" Mazikeen questions, heading for the wine cabinet. Procures two wine glasses from the shelves. And a bottle of Chateau Margaux circa 2009.

"Swimmingly well," Lucifer sighs, sinking into the dining chair. Props an arm on the table, his palm supporting his chin. He eyes the table brief, and his attention slides from the nape of her neck down to her curving spine. A satisfied smirk sneaks on to his handsome face.

The oven rings, beckoning for their attention. The scent of a well-done steak permeating through the air. Mazikeen pops the wine's cork open, smooth and expertly with her thumb. Fills the wine glasses, full to the brim.

Lucifer gets to his feet, and murmurs, "Allow me."

It's almost like a second nature to her Lilim's temperament; reading Lucifer Morningstar. To know when she could be blunt, to know when not to push her limits with him. And yet, a thousand upon thousand years, he's still an enigma Mazikeen's drawn to and unable to decrypt. All she takes away from him, from her servitude to him; Lucifer Morningstar's a rarity—and an oddity among his angelic siblings, leagues ahead from the demons festering in Hell.

"And yet you're not satisfied," she points out, nonchalantly. She twirls the glass, wine sloshing against the glass's rim in between her fingers. And tastes the red wine on her tongue.

The smirk on his face falters, he shrugs. His silence speaks for itself. Bare-handed, he opens the oven's door, takes out the tray and sets it on the table. Cuts a slice of steak for her. Another for himself.

She cocks her head sideways. "I take it that it's not enough to dazzle the judges?"

Lucifer scoffs, feigning offense at her doubt of his abilities. "Don't be silly, Mazikeen. It has more than enough to impress the judges." He makes his way around the table, placing her plate in front of Mazikeen. Retreats to the other end of the rectangle dining table. He settles on his seat, starts to eat.

"I sense there's a but," Mazikeen remarks, fingering the appropriate silverware. And cuts her steak into smaller pieces. She sticks her fork into a piece of meat, and chews slowly.

Dinner's a silent affair, for most part. But tonight is a step up from their usual comfortable silence. Mazikeen's words linger in the air, uncertainty hovering around them. With their steaks all consumed, and Lucifer smears his finger through the gravy. Sucks his gravy-stained index finger, and glances at Mazikeen.

"It won't draw him like a moth to flame. It's too mundane. Although what I've prepared will astonish simple-minded folks. Philip Smoak is not part of the 'normal folk' unfortunately," he says, wiping his finger clean with a moist napkin.

She lifts a brow at him, sips the red wine, and replies, "So you're saying you need a little help from the other side," it's not a question, but takes a shape as one anyway.

"I'm not saying anything," Lucifer responds, his forehead creasing. He rubs his chin, lost in his private musing. Reaches for his wine glass, he drains the glass empty. He amends, "But you may have a point. I need something potent, one that does what it's designed to, with no room for misfire."

He gazes into the distance. Red-lined lips curving into a smile. A spark of burgeoning ideas twinkling in his tawny eyes. Dessert's postponed, she supposes. Mazikeen rises from her seat, about to gather the plates.

Lucifer's hypnotic voice of molten lava halts her from her intention to clean up, "Fetch the phonebook, will you?"

She retrieves the 'phonebook'—a grimoire with its spine's stitching loose, the leather cover's cracked and dry with age, and smells faintly of brimstone, dust and tobacco. It isn't large in size, nothing like some spell books you'd see on supernatural TV shows. In fact it could be mistaken for a weathered first edition of some English classics. The 'phonebook' is what it is; except it contains the names of all magic users, of the past, the present and the future.

Mazikeen hands the grimoire to him. Resumes her cleaning routine. Placing the dirty dishes inside the dishwasher, she refills their glasses with Chateaux Margaux—it will be a waste to let good wine grow warm.

"Marvellous," he says, cracking the grimoire open. His lips twitching into a thankful smile, as she hands him his glass.

"I doubt most would want to make deals with the devil. Arabelle Crane isn't answering any of our calls since that angel dust incident," she counters.

A week of coma, or dying, will impede any social interactions they're trying to keep from wilting. Crane's far cheaper than Constantine. One could almost say, Crane might pass herself as Constantine's twin or sister. Less flirty. And reliable—no worries about being screwed by humans, if it's Crane.

He runs a finger through the list, tapping triumphantly at two names. "Perhaps, but Constantine is rather enamoured by you—" Lucifer's voice trails off, the implication's not lost on Mazikeen.

"It's your pants he wanted to get some action with," she retorts, and emphasises, "first."

"Tomayto, Tomahto," he motions a free hand, dismissive. "However, your assessment on Constantine isn't far from my own. His tricks could backfire if he tweaks it without my consent or knowledge. I'm thinking of cousins with a penchant for backwards incantations."

Mazikeen fetches the dessert from the fridge. Two slices of Red Velvet should be enough. She returns to the table, cakes in tow. "Does Decker know?"

"She'll only get in the way of things, should she be aware of it," says Lucifer, composes a message to the cousins with similar names—lots of Z's in them—and presses the send button. Slipping his phone into his pocket, he closes the grimoire and pushes it aside.

"You're going to torture a confession out of him?"

"I suspect a boy like him, is impervious to the things of fantastical nature."

"It's going to be hard to sell the idea of Hell then." Mazikeen licks the cream off from the spoon, digs her spoon into the cake, and probes, "And what's the purpose of Decker while you're catching the killer?"

Lucifer bites a mouthful of Red Velvet cake, smudges his upper lip with whipped cream. He shrugs. "She does what she does what, gather the breadcrumbs left by the killer."

"The scuttle work. How noble of you to get her hands dirty," she notes, clucking her tongue in disapproval.

He raises a dark brow at her, tipping his head to a side. "Are you objecting to my methods?"

"Me?" Mazikeen's lips widen to a puckish grin. "Never."