Chapter Sixteen
Olympus hovered proudly above New York City, arrogantly sporting the image of true opulence. Once off the elevator, a cobblestone bridge lined with torches will lead the way, widening into a path that splits off in different directions. The parks, massive and well-kept, harbor statues and monuments commemorating the god's accomplishments and deeds. Or, in other words, feeding a few of their egos. The ancient buildings, their majestic palaces of gold and pillars of white, served as reminders for where they used to be, where they used to reign supreme.
All of it irritated Lucifer.
He was used to luxury and splendor, but not this. It was too bright, too show-offy, and just too much. Lucifer would like it . . . if he wasn't tied up and wheeled through the crowded streets with everyone staring at him like he was a criminal.
A flurry of emotions overwhelmed the god, making his heart pound against his ribcage like an animal roaring to be freed, his mind to run rampant with fear, and his pressure to rise in rage at the thought of whoever wanted to meet him hurting his mother. Fighting against his Celestial Bronze chains, Lucifer grunted in pain, every word out of his mouth a creative insult that would deflate the ego of even the most prideful of the prideful as the marks on his wrists grow purpler by the minute. His nostrils flared with indignation, growling and snarling in frustration each time he couldn't loosen his restraints. If he didn't know any better, he could swear they were tightening. His suspicions were made true when he found himself a whimpering mess, tears brimming in his eyes, his hands and feet feeling oddly tingly.
A smirk tugged at Adam's lips, subtly hinting the smug satisfaction he felt watching Lucifer's amusing and pathetic display. He almost breathed a sigh of relief that the boy had shut up.
A gleaming palace surrounded by a fence of hedges and a fountain in the middle of a circular driveway loomed ominously overhead, the mystery of what lay inside draining the color from Lucifer's face, his eyes widening. Again, he tries to teleport away, thinking of his bedroom and the kitchen where he helped his mother bake cookies; his father's study, the smell of old, leather-bound tomes wafting through the air as a pen scratched against paper; and his godfathers, Bob and Damasen, and Small Bob. And again, his powers failed him.
As they enter the palace grounds, they're greeted by the warm, sweet scent of the deep crimson roses, gravel crunching beneath them. Lucifer's wrists and ankles begin to throb in agony, worry gnawing at him as he realizes he can't feel his hands and feet. With great hesitation, he lifts his head – his eyes widen, his face paling in terror.
His sturdy hands and long fingers were now swollen, a tinge of blue mingling with his tanned skin in a horrifying shade of ombre.
The knowledge that he was immortal and death wasn't that big of a deal was thrown out of the window as panic forced control over his every thought, discarding logic for the overwhelming need to escape no matter what. His first idea was to cry for his mother. However, a small voice in Lucifer's head feared she'd never hear him all the way from the Pit, but it was worth a try.
As he inhales, Lucifer's chest rises like dough in the oven, and with a piercing scream that could only be formed by ten thousand men, a roar indistinguishable to a devastating earthquake, and the wail of an infant in distress, he calls for her.
"MAMA!"
Darkness sweeps across Olympus, its murderous eyes and sharp claws bringing with a warning that will lead to death if disregarded. The residents' blood ran cold, some frantically running in search of shelter, others covering their ears and falling to their knees; cracks scale and skitter across structures, gleefully revealing how easily they could be torn down.
Then, everything falls silent.
An eruption of inaudible voices, their tones ranging from concern to outrage, wash over Lucifer's passed out form. His ears twitched, attempting to understand what they were saying. They sounded close, almost a few feet away. A few people were yelling, a couple of sobs here and there, while an older male stayed stern. None of them sounded familiar.
Not one.
His hope that his mother would hear his call and come to his rescue disintegrated into disappointment, and for a second, he felt he'd die here.
As Lucifer stirred to life, his skin ran across satin sheets, the coolness of which made him breathe a sigh of relief. He could feel his hands and feet again. I'll never take you for granted again, Lucifer thinks to himself, a wave of gratitude washing over him.
He stays still, his eyes opening slightly, not wanting anyone to see he was suddenly awake. Lucifer could barely make anything out with his blurred vision, but could tell he was in a bedroom – and an elegant one by the looks of it. He just wished it was his bedroom he was in. Longing grips his heart, a nonexistent tear threatening to fall. As much as he wishes to dwell on these emotions, they're not useful to him at this moment, so he shelves them. Focus.
At a snail's pace, Lucifer turns his head, taking in the newfound sights – the chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling, the light-blue walls adorned with lightning bolts, the deep purple curtains he identified as associated with royalty, and the Aquila constellation hovering above him. He internally groaned at the realization of whose room he was in – Zeus.
Ugh. I hope I don't get an STD or STI from laying in his bed. That would suck so bad.
The voices are clearer now, a mixture of male and female. The urge to raise his head and scan their faces arose as an option, but Lucifer remembers the lesson his parents taught him: Use the element of surprise whenever the opportunity is provided. He returned to his earlier position, closing his eyes and steadying his breathing to appear asleep.
The yelling dies down, turning to small talk. A door opens and numerous footsteps fade in the distance. Five minutes later, footsteps drew closer to where Lucifer was, and it took everything he had to not give himself away. The space beside him dips under the stranger's weight, fabric stretching, getting sucked in like a boat gets sucked into a whirlpool. Their body heat overwhelms him with anxiety, making him ask himself if he should attack now. He recalls his mother, his father, his godfather's, Small Bob, and his aunts, using them as his anchor to remain patient.
Not yet, he reminded himself.
Lucifer's skin crawls with revulsion as a hand gently lays on his cheek, the thumb caressing him.
It's a woman, he surmises, fingers twitching in anticipation. Although, men can have dainty hands, so it could be a man. No, no, it can't. With how this person is touching me, it has to be a woman. She smells like a mortal. That makes sense, mother did say the gods rarely, if ever, showed any type of affection. What was her reason for it again? Protection – something? No, I think she said – what the fuck are you doing? You're in the King of the God's house, getting touched by some lady, get with the goddamn program!
Lucifer's eyes shoot open, his bluish-red hues locking with warm blue ones. Before the woman could react, he pulled back his arm and punched her in the face, splitting open her cheek. The woman cries out in pain, alerting the others.
Without a moment to lose, Lucifer throws up the blanket and jumps out of bed. His fist clenches on the blanket, pulling it off the bed. A man – the same one who he hit on the head with a glass bottle – stood before him. The man glances at the woman, his expression unreadable, a hint of protectiveness flickers in his sea-green eyes. Lucifer pauses for a second, realization washing over him.
"Hello, grandfather," he drawls, his tone laced with animosity.
Those words grab the man's attention, and his expression softens. "I see she told you about me."
Lucifer's muscles tense, his grip on the blanket tightening. "No, actually, Adam did. I only recognized you because you have mother's eyes."
"You don't," the man points out.
Lucifer huffs in amusement. "Genetics aren't consistent. In fact, I've heard your existence is proof failure has a sense of humor," Lucifer quips, his lips quirking upwards into an arrogant smile. "It took you bastards a year to realize my mother married Tartarus."
The man frowns. "Enemies of Olympus don't exactly show much interest in demigods aside from killing them."
"Yeah, well, at least those enemies don't turn on their own," Lucifer raises a brow, "now do they?"
The man bristles in anger, his hands curling into fists. Yet, there's a softness to his eyes as he takes a calming breath, studying Lucifer from head to toe. At the moment, Lucifer had taken on a human form to blend in. A boyish version of his mother, so to speak. From his Mediterranean skin tone to his disheveled jet black hair, he looked like his mother. Except for his eyes, which he could never get right.
Three people rush into the room, their eyes bouncing between the woman, the man, and Lucifer. The man raises his hand, gesturing for the others to not approach. "Lucifer, I need you to stand down," he says, raising his other hand, palms out towards Lucifer. The woman rushed up to and left with a blond-haired, bronzed guy, who made Lucifer think he needed to stay out of the sun. "Your mother wouldn't approve of this."
"My mother wouldn't approve of an ancient deity with so little fashion sense, he goes around dressing like a homeless fisherman to blend somewhat with the mortals and her ex, whose ego dwarfs the thing he calls a dick, kidnapping her child. But it happened, so let's fucking go." Lucifer discards the blanket, putting his fists up and getting into a defensive position.
The man's voice grew stern. "Stand down. Now."
Lucifer's eyes narrow into a glare, staring defiantly at the older god. He could back down. There was nothing stopping him from not doing so, but he also had no reason to trust him. He knew there were more people outside the door, just waiting to ambush him.
"Why should I?" Lucifer questions, keeping his fists up, carefully shuffling to the side.
"I don't want to hurt you."
Lucifer snickers in disbelief. "Really?"
"Yes, really," the man insists, sounding offended that he had been questioned. "I care about you, Lucifer –"
"Yeah, you cared about me so much you knocked me out, kidnapped me, and tied me to a fucking chair! What were you trying to do? Ruin my life to spite my mother?"
"Of course not!"
"Then, what? What do you want from me?" Lucifer's voice rose in anger, his teeth bared.
"Your mother," the man states plainly, taking a tentative step forward. "I want to see her again."
"You do, do you? Well, newsflash, buddy! She doesn't want to see you."
The man's features easily shift to hurt. He pauses for a moment, his gaze lingering on the floor before meeting Lucifer's eyes. "We just want to talk to her. If you could just call her maybe?"
Lucifer vehemently shakes his head. "No. I'm not betraying my mother like that. Now, I'm going to leave, and if you fuckers stop me, I'll –"
The doors to the room thrust open, hitting their respective walls with a deafening thud. There, in the doorway, with a face darkened with fury only a mother hellbent on protecting her child could possess, was Doria.
