"You feel a special connection to this family."
It wasn’t a question. Somehow, he knew.
"Three people, yet there’s four heartbeats," Lucifer said. "Why is that?"
Serah hesitated. "Samantha is pregnant."
"How far along?"
Serah stared at the house, seeing shadows move around inside. She could hear faint, childish giggles and realized they were making the best of the blackout by playing a game of hide-and-seek as a family.
"A few weeks," she said. "A boy."
"Five weeks and six days, to be precise," Lucifer corrected her. "Curious, isn’t it? They were only fated to have one kid. But yet, there’s another, conceived the very same afternoon lightning struck the sky from Michael’s blade of fire."
Coldness swept through Serah as her head grew dizzy. Her body seemed to slump back against Lucifer, his arms wrapping tightly around her as the lone word tumbled from her lips. "Samuel."
"A daughter, named after her father," he said. "And now a son, named after his mother—Sam."
"My brother."
"Not anymore," he said. "He’s her brother now."
"How?" she whispered, her vision clouding with tears. "How can it be?"
Sighing, Lucifer pulled her tighter to him, his arms enveloping her in a strong, warm hug. He rested his chin on top of her head. "I told you, when you fall, your mortality is secured. But what I haven’t told you is that when Michael takes your wings with his blade, the wounds are fatal. A mortal is no match for his blade."
Serah’s knees went weak at those words. "I’ll die?"
"You will."
She lost her battle with her tears again then as a sob tore from her.
"Samuel died free from sin," Lucifer said. "His soul was given a second chance. A clean slate."
"But not me."
"Not you."
She closed her eyes, fixating on the soft flutter of the tiny heartbeat inside the house, a life just beginning, the world at his fingertips.
"Will he know?" she asked. "Will he know what he is, what he was? Will he remember his other life? Will he remember . . . me?"
"Short answer? No."
If not for his strong embrace, she would’ve hit the ground.
"But it’s not that black and white," he continued. "Nothing is. How many times do I have to tell you that? He won’t know who you are, or what you were to him, or what he was, but if ever someone utters your name in his presence, he’ll feel a squeeze in his chest, a familiarity where your souls were connected. And he’ll know then—he’ll feel it—he just won’t understand."
Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Serah pulled away from Lucifer and slowly strolled over to the house. She paused outside the living room window and peered in. Through the darkness, she could see Nicholas and Sam running around the room, purposely pretending they couldn’t see Nicki, who was wrapped up in the curtain, hiding. Serah raised her hand and pressed it to the cold glass, conjuring up every ounce of energy she could as she sought out that connection, the one that had been missing since the day Samuel fell.
Closing her eyes, images hit her fast and manic: a tiny baby taking his first shaky breath; a dark-haired toddler with bright eyes smearing paint all over the wall instead of a piece of paper; a young boy going to his first day of kindergarten, a nametag reading "Sammy" pinned to his dark blue polo shirt; an awkward preteen trying out for chorus; a teenage boy strumming the brand-new guitar he got for Christmas; a handsome young man forming a band with his friends. There were girls, first loves and second dates, high school dances and a wedding. There was a long life, filled with friends and family, children and grandchildren. There was music and success, love and happiness.
The perfect life for Samuel.
Serah opened her eyes again and turned back to Lucifer. "He’ll be okay."
"He’ll be more than okay."
"I won’t be."
He stared at her, his eyes watery as he whispered, "I’m so sorry, Serah."
Serah. He’d never called her by her name before.
"They have terrible insurance," she muttered.
Lucifer’s laughter struck her. "That’s what concerns you? I tell you you’re going to die, that Michael is going to kill you, and you’re worried about this family's health insurance plan? Unbelievable."
Despite the heartache, she managed to smile through her tears as she cast another glance at the house. A burden was still a burden, no matter how trivial it may seem to be.
"You’re taking this a hell of a lot better than I thought you would."
She sighed. "I have no one to blame but myself."
"You could blame everyone else, too," he said. "Me, Michael, even Samuel. . ."
"I could, but there's no point," she said. "It won't change my fate. Besides, how can I fault them, or you, when it was my free will that did it?"
Deep in the eerie woods in a remote part of Europe, a medieval castle was alive with activity for the first time in centuries. The half-dozen towers jutted ten stories into the sky, the fortified stone structure flanked on all sides by a massive moat of toxic sludge. All hundred rooms were filled with figures, some in normal form, while others were mere monstrous shadows and overbearing masses of solidified evil.
The large conference room took up nearly half the second floor of the central tower, thousands of square feet of marble floor, a tattered velvet carpet leading from the doorway to a magnificent throne perched on a platform. The gold throne glimmered and sparkled under the candlelight, the seat occupied once again by a king.
This time, it was the King of Hell.
Luce held a small gold knife, haphazardly twirling it in his hand, running his fingers along the sharp blade. He deliberately sliced his palm, wincing as blood oozed from the cut, and watched with fascination as his body absorbed it again, the wound healing instantly, the scar fading in a matter of seconds.
It was usually a bitch, being caught between mortality and immortality, not quite human while no longer full-fledged Archangel, but he was enjoying it at the moment. Specks of Serah’s Grace still lingered in his cells, tipping the scales back to his supernatural, indestructible half.
The demon at the foot of his throne rattled on and on about this and that, but Lucifer hardly heard any of it. Legions and clashes, poisons and infections, natural disasters and man-made catastrophes—it all went in one ear and out the other as he fixated on the serrated blade. It had been his ages ago and had taken him an entire week to track it back down after being freed. The blade, forged with the same material that made Michael’s sword, was his only means of protection against his brother.
The demon in front of him continued his incessant chatter. They all knew to step into his presence they had to take on their human form, but the lowlife before him didn’t seem to grasp the message. His form kept shifting, his face contorting from run-of-the-mill John Doe to something out of a nightmare.
It stirred Luce’s rage.
"Nukes," Luce said, cutting off the rambling fool. "You’re suggesting I set off nuclear bombs?"
"Well, yes," he stammered. "It would be easiest, no? Wipe them all out in one big swoop."
"To what benefit?" Luce asked. "What will be left for me? A radioactive rock with nothing left on it except for a bunch of pissed off angels and scum like you?"
"With all due respect—"
Before the creature could finish, Luce flicked his wrist, the gold knife flying through the room at lightning speed. It struck the demon in the throat, cutting off his words. He erupted into flames before exploding in a puff of black smoke, disintegrating when Luce nodded his head, the knife flying back toward him. He caught it in his left hand while he used his right to wave the next one forward. Dozens waited to speak to him, to see him, to get the chance to stand in his presence and say his name.
"‘With all due respect’ is an ignorant man’s way of saying ‘I have no fucking respect for you.’ If I hear another one of you say it, I’ll make you regret eve
r learning to speak at all."
One after another marched up to him, bringing news, offering suggestions. He listened to some, ignored others, destroyed a few, but took none too seriously. He was distracted, his mind continuously drifting to the angel who haunted his every moment. Thoughts of her fueled his frustrations.
He wasn't supposed to give a fuck, but she'd dug her way under his skin. And now she was in trouble—serious trouble. Although she blamed herself, Luce knew it was all because of him.
A particularly gruff demon stood before him, ranting about an unfair matchup between him and some angels. "They're just too strong. There are too many."
Luce twirled the blade in his hand again. "Do you know why I chose the castle?"
The creature hesitated. "No."
"On the first floor of this tower is the chapel," he said. "This throne sits directly above it. No man shall put himself above God. How many times have we heard it said?"
"Countless times."
"And yet, whoever built this place literally placed himself above God. In a time where everyone feared Him, this lone king blatantly defied His rules." Luce glanced around the room, his eyes falling on the demon once more. "Do you think that king would've sat here and whined that the enemy was just too strong? That coming out on top was impossible?"
The demon shook his head. "No, My Lord."
"Then why are you?" Luce asked. "Is a mere mortal king braver than we?"
"Of course not."
"Then get out of my face and do as I say," he seethed. "I'm not asking you to win the war. I'm only asking you to play your part!"
Luce stood up when the demon scampered from the room. He disregarded the next one with the wave of a hand as he strolled toward the exit, slipping the knife in his pocket.
"Where are you going, your majesty?"
"Pennsylvania."
"So close to home? It's dangerous there. They'll be looking for you."
"I'm not a coward," he barked. "I'm not going to sit here with you idiots and wait for them to come. Since you’re worthless on defense, the least I can have is a strong offense."
It was easy to track down Serah this time, still hunkered down in the desolate town of Chorizon. She sat in the corner of the empty community center, knees pulled up to her chest, her head down. Luce approached quietly, seeing her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling as she breathed steadily.
She didn't move from her spot, didn't react to his arrival. He stood in front of her, brow furrowed. Was she asleep? Was she that far gone?
"I can smell you," she whispered.
"My, my . . . how the tables have turned."
She opened her eyes and peered up at him. Her skin was flushed, her eyes bloodshot and puffy from crying. She looked more human today.
Luce wasn't sure what to say. He'd apologized, his regret genuine. He didn't regret doing it—he regretted he'd had to. She was an unfortunate casualty of war, a means to an end. It simply couldn't be helped. She was his way out of the pit. It happened all the time, innocents dying. He'd watched many angels fall, some he'd even considered friends at one time or another, but the thought of this one bleeding to death at his feet stirred up something inside of him: something vengeful, something dangerous. Something he barely kept contained.
"Dance with me," he said, holding his hand out.
Serah stared at it. "There's no music."
He snapped his fingers, his hand still extended. The room was instantly filled with a soft, classical song. "Now dance with me."
"Why?"
"Because there's music," he said. "Why would there be music if we weren't supposed to dance?"
She didn't answer his absurd question, but she gave him her hand and let him pull her to her feet. He wrapped his arms around her, swaying them to the music as she rested her head against his chest.
"I don't want your pity," she said. "I don't need you to come around and babysit me."
Despite himself, Luce laughed at that. Even as she plummeted from Grace, the fire inside of her burned strong, forever feisty.
"I don't pity you anymore than you pity me," he said. "Frankly, I'm just bored, and you’re half-decent company."
"Thanks," she grumbled. "The apocalypse isn't entertaining enough for you?"
"Nah." He rested his head on top of hers. "It's kind of disappointing so far. I’ve waited for this moment for ages, and there hasn’t so much as been a surprise party in my honor. No one seems interested in celebrating my arrival. I guess nobody missed me up here."
She pulled back slightly to look at him. "Hard to believe, being as you're the life of the party and all."
He smirked. "They just don't know what they're missing."
Before she could respond, the room started shaking, the music cutting off in a roar of wind.
"Or . . . maybe they do," Luce muttered, spinning around quickly. He shoved Serah behind him, shielding her as half a dozen angels materialized in the room. He scanned them, assessing them quickly. All Powers, some of Michael’s best warriors based on their size. "Ah, you must be the welcoming committee."
"Stand down, Satan!" one of them demanded. "Retreat back to your cage!"
"Now why would I do such a thing?" Luce asked, raising his eyebrows. "I just got here."
"You’re not welcome on Earth."
"So you’re the non-welcoming committee then," he said casually. "Neighborhood watch, perhaps?"
"We’re Angels of the Lord and—"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Luce said, cutting them off. "Sorry, gentlemen, but it’s going to take much more than a few measly Powers to lock me back up. So spare yourselves the trouble and run along home before I have to hurt you."
"We’re not afraid of you, serpent."
"I’m not going to warn you again. Zap back out of here, or I’ll be forced to end you in front of this gorgeous being." Luce motioned behind him at Serah as she peeked her head around, fear in her eyes as she surveyed the angels. "And I’d rather her not see."
"We command you leave this place! You and the traitor!"
Lucifer slowly shook his head, rage hardening his face. "You’re the only ones who will be vacating the premises today."
In the blink of an eye, Luce reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold knife. With the flick of a wrist, it soared across the room, striking one of the angels between the eyes before any of them had time to react. The angel flickered, his form shifting rapidly between planes like his wiring was on the fritz, a signal struggling for reception.
"Shield your eyes, angel," he hollered, ducking as the Power exploded into a burst of fiery light. Luce darted across the room, snatching his knife before it hit the floor, and swung around, slitting another angel’s throat. The serrated blade tore at his skin as Luce plunged it deep, nearly decapitating him.
Another burst of light vibrated the room as the last four angels sprang at Luce. He fought off their attack, violently thrashing around and slicing skin, striking them wherever he could reach. One of the angels pulled out a small sword and swung it at Luce, but he wasn’t fast enough. Luce ducked, thrusting his knife into the thigh of another angel, using the distraction to grab the hilt of the Heavenly sword. He twisted the angel’s arm around and thrust the blade into his stomach as he again grabbed his knife with his free hand, stabbing another in the chest.
Explosions went off, one after another, the angels fizzing out as their Grace blasted from their chests. Luce stood up straight, the sword in one hand, his knife in the other, and turned to the last angel left. The Power stood still, eyes narrowed, making no move to attack.
"Pick your poison," Luce said, holding up the weapons. "Shall you go out by your brother’s sword or by your enemy’s knife?"
No answer came. The angel immediately vanished from the room, escaping unscathed. Luce shook his head as he screamed into the empty space in front of him, "That wasn’t one of the choices, you fucking coward!"
He dropped the sword as he turned around, slipping his knife in his pocket a
s he sought out Serah. She hunkered down along the back wall, gaping at him with shock, but the fear was gone in her eyes. "You killed them."
"Yes," he said. "I know they’re your family and all that, but it was either them or me, so I plead self-defense . . . or insanity. Either works for me, I think."
"I know," she said. "But you killed them—all of them. Alone."
He crouched down in front of her. "I’ve told you before—you Powers are a dime a dozen. You guys are a force to be reckoned with against my minions, you can slaughter thousands of demons without so much as even breaking a sweat, but you’re no match for me. Only one is."
Michael.
"Angels don’t sweat," she reminded him.
He reached over, cupping her warm cheek, feeling the dampness on her clammy skin. "You’re sweating."
"Like I said," she whispered, "angels don’t sweat."
He sighed. "Who’s to say what angels can or can’t do, anyway? It is like saying the wicked can’t feel remorse, or virtuous people don’t murder."
"They don’t."
"Michael does."
"Michael only kills the wicked."
"Nevertheless, he kills."
Her lips parted like she’d planned to argue her point, but no words came out.
"It’s not black and white," he said. "If it were, I wouldn’t be here right now, and neither would you. We’re the gray area, angel. We’re the pieces of the puzzle they don’t know what to do with, the pieces that don’t quite fit into their perfect little picture, so they choose to discard us, to keep their image untainted, but we can only be ignored for so long. Because eventually, whether they want to admit it or not, all of their black and white will bleed together, anyway."
"Stop this," Serah pleaded for what had to have been the twentieth time, sitting on the middle swing of the deserted playground, the bottom of her filthy dress brushing the ground. Six weeks had passed since she'd started her task, and she was no closer to succeeding as she'd been at the beginning. "Please."
Lucifer stepped forward as Serah shuddered violently. "I can't."
"You have to," she insisted. "It's gone too far."