We were headed for bloodshed. Post-Underworld Penny would be just the ticket.
Two
Lucifer’s boots ground dirt between their soles and the sun-bleached, cracked sidewalk. Decrepit homes, shapes hunkering in the fading light, lined the right side of a narrow street, which played host to dented and scratched automobiles. A cemetery lurked on the left, devoid of tourists wandering around its walls.
A lone figure stood halfway down the block, opposite the pulse of his daughter, her demonic magic shining like a beacon in this dim world. He was on his way to her house in the Brink, a visit he’d spent the better part of two months planning. He wanted to get it right. There were…things to clear up. Things that would hopefully help them repair their relationship.
A door swung open in a pale green house, emitting a haggard sort of creature with too much padding around the middle and a face full of bristly white hair. It stopped on the front stoop, five steps up from the ground, and scowled at Lucifer passing by.
The look kindled rage in Lucifer’s gut, banked one moment and burning brightly the next. Magic seeped around him, fire licking his white button-up shirt and crackling through the air. He met that stare with his own, daring this creature to defend its territory. There were no masters in the Brink, not those silly were-humans, and certainly not the mortals. It was dog eat dog in this world, Lucifer knew well, and he was at the top of the food chain.
The man held Lucifer’s stare for a solid beat, longer than any demon would dare. Longer than most mortals that Lucifer could remember, as well. Its—his—fuzzy white brows stitched together, and he huffed and glanced down the street. To Reagan’s residence?
The human had plenty of reason to show fear—he must see that—but he didn’t, and the reason was evident in that look. He thought someone bigger and badder would handle this territory breach.
A surge of pride wormed through Lucifer’s gut. This was a rough neighborhood for humans. His daughter had clearly fought for her place, and she’d been recognized as owner of her domain. As a queen. Of course she had—it was a family right.
She belonged on the throne here just as she did on the throne he would soon offer her. He understood now why she hadn’t wanted to forsake this place. It was a small kingdom, but it was hers all the same.
The creature—man—on the other side of the street pushed back into the shadows as Lucifer neared. He lifted a square of power that brightened, blaring light onto a lined face and white hair. Were all these creatures old? Surely Reagan would’ve wanted a better challenge than that? Or was she protecting them from a greater foe…
Perplexed, he noticed the house reaching into the sky, taller and newer than its counterparts and expertly appointed. Ordinary flowers sat peacefully in little white boxes hanging off the railing, and the front yard was a carefully tended thatch of grass. Two polished wooden chairs sat on the porch, facing the cemetery opening, an interesting view for a dull day.
A man walked out of the house next to it, the residence a fading affair with chipping paint and ragged wood. Nails were trying to work their way out of the structure. The look on his dark brown face suggested such unspeakable menace that Lucifer had to laugh, delighted. His robust body, thick chest, and posture—hands hanging loosely at his sides—all suggested this human had some power strapped somewhere around his waist. He expected trouble and had no problem handling it with vicious resolve. Fantastic.
“Hello,” Lucifer said, and offered a light bow. “What is your role here?”
The man tensed, and his eyes turned shrewd, as if he were working through an internal debate. His gaze swept Lucifer’s person before flicking to what must be Reagan’s residence.
“I ain’t got no role with you fuckers,” the man said, his voice deep and rough, as though someone had taken sandpaper to it. As though he had been screaming for all his life and no one had heard. What wonderful havoc he would create in the Underworld.
“Tell me, are you magical?” Lucifer asked.
“Fuck that shit.” The man spat over the porch railing and onto the patch of dirt at the front of his house, dotted with weeds.
“How colorful.” Lucifer continued on toward Reagan’s house, and as he approached the steps, another presence caught his eye—a figure emerging from the bushes to the right of the porch. She approached him with a hunched posture, arms akimbo, a flurry of red hair around her head. Despite her strange hobble-walk, he recognized the grace behind her steps. “And a warrior fae. Quaint. It appears as though my daughter takes in strays.”
“Your daughter, huh?” The woman straightened up, as though realizing her strange antics did not influence him. “You are a black hole to Seers. Did you know?”