Chapter Text
"I want to know everything. How it happened, who was there, what was said . . . . And don't spare a single detail," Lucifer bellowed, yanking up the sniveling former human by the neck—or what would have qualified as a neck before he shed his mortal skin. The man absolutely would not stop whimpering. The choked sobs and desperate pleas for mercy, deliverance and some human female named Marge debrided Lucifer's tolerance, peeling away the thin layer of patience in which he'd shrouded himself prior to entering the newcomer's cell. Oddly enough, Lucifer hadn't even had to flash any Devil Face to reduce him to hysterics.
"Why do I look like this?" the man sobbed as he examined his hands and arms.
"What you're seeing is your soul. Now that you've left behind your body on Earth, this is all that remains of you. You didn't think you'd get to bring your body with you to Hell, did you?"
"I-I n-never gave it m-m-much thought." Glancing down at his arm again, he whined, "It's so black and leathery."
"I've seen worse. Then again, I've also seen better."
"Why don't you look like this? You're not all dark and shriveled. You just look like a regular guy."
"Well, if you must know, I've done some work on myself in recent years. Lots of therapy and self-reflection. Plus, I'm the Devil, so for me, it's more of a choice," Lucifer explained, treating the man to a brief flicker of his Devil Face. For the most part, his "devil bits" had been relegated to the back of the closet—merely a tool and a means to an end that he kept on hand because demons and sinners alike needed an occasional reminder that they should still fear him.
The case at hand was a prime example of that. At the sight of Lucifer's charred, crimson skin, the man had clapped his eyes shut and turned his head away. The halting string of prayers and denials that followed was nothing out of the ordinary. In response, Lucifer scowled and dropped the man to the cold, stone floor. Like a spider being released from the promise of imminent death, he skittered backwards into the nearest corner and curled his remains into a shaking, sputtering ball.
Normally, "initiations" weren't Lucifer's thing. It was a task best delegated to a particular set of his more sadistic underlings—the ones who rejoiced in the opportunity to dole out not-so-great news against a backdrop of shrieks, wails and occasional fainting spells. Recently, however, he'd taken it upon himself to personally welcome members of a certain demographic, and as much as his demonic henchmen might whisper and speculate among themselves as to why his interests had suddenly veered in that direction, his reasons were entirely his own.
"I don't kn-know anything," the man mumbled. "P-p-please don't hurt me. I need to see Marge . . . need to t-tell her I never meant to hurt her . . . that it was just the one time."
"No one ever means to do anything," Lucifer informed him, rolling his eyes. "And I'm sure Marge will be far better off without you and whatever sidepiece you taunted her with during your miserable existence on Earth."
"Her name was St-Stacy," the man blubbered, casting a quick glance up at Lucifer before losing his composure entirely and re-coiling into a piddling display of cowardice once again. "And it was just the one time."
"So you said. Now, before continuing, I want you to consider your next words more carefully. Are you really sure it was just once? Because if you're lying, well . . . . You should know that of all things in Hell and on Earth, I absolutely cannot abide a liar."
"Okay, okay," the man quickly conceded. "Twice. It was twice."
Clearing the distance between them in one long stride, Lucifer stared down at the man and nudged him rather forcefully with the toe of one polished Louboutin.
"All right, three t-times. That was what I meant to say."
One more nudge from Lucifer, and the man squeaked, "Or four. It could have been four. Oh, God!"
Lucifer clucked his tongue. "Don't bother with him. I'm afraid he's washed his hands of you at this point. Best to just accept your lot so that we can get on with it."
"Get on with what?" the man asked, raising his head slowly and with a pair of wide, red-rimmed eyes, he searched Lucifer's face for an answer that was sure to disappoint.
"Why, your torture, of course."
And that's when the wailing truly began.
"Surely, you didn't expect me to lie to you," Lucifer observed, crouching near the man's ear in an effort to be heard above the din. "Now, if you could tell me your name again, that would be helpful. You've been making such a racket that I'm afraid I've forgotten it, and whenever possible, I do like to personalize the experience. After all, it isn't every day that a man enters the gates of Hell."
Through strangled sobs, the man managed to stammer, "It's A-Arthur."
"Excellent," Lucifer commended him, returning to a standing position. He couldn't allow himself to get too close to the former human; maintaining a safe distance was key. Otherwise, he ran the risk of appearing too sympathetic, and if that happened, he'd never learn anything useful. "And now that we're better acquainted, Art, I feel certain that you'll want to fill me in on all the pesky, little details surrounding your demise. I have reason to believe that you might be in a position to offer information that's of interest to me."
"You do?"
"I know. It's hard to believe that a man such as yourself should be in possession of anything that would be worth my time. But so it is, and with that being the case, I'm willing to offer you a deal of sorts. You should consider yourself lucky," he added, "because it's not every day that this sort of opportunity is made available to a derelict in your position."
"If I tell you what you want to know, you'll send me home?" Art asked hopefully.
"No, no. Nothing like that," Lucifer responded, waving away the suggestion with a flick of his wrist. "But if you give me the information I'm seeking, I won't turn you over to Asmodeus. I'll give you to Ziminiar instead."
"Who's Asmod-Asmod—"
"As-mod-eus," Lucifer enunciated. "And Ziminiar. You may not know much about the way of things here, but let me assure you that as demons go, this is a very good deal for you, Art."
"Demons?!"
Lucifer sighed. The immersion process could be so tedious. "Yes, demons. Surely by now, we've established that you're in Hell, where there are demons whose job it is to punish you for your Earthly misdeeds. Having said that, I hope we won't need to revisit all of that unpleasant wailing and screaming again."
Art didn't immediately answer but at length, to Lucifer's immense relief, he finally muttered, "What do you want to know?"
"Now we're getting somewhere. I'm interested in learning about the details surrounding your death. Please fill me in on all of the particulars." With a snap of his fingers, Lucifer summoned a chair. Sitting down in it, he crossed one leg over the other and waited. "Go on. Tell me what happened," he prompted. "And don't leave out anything."
"There's really not much to tell," Art said. "I was visiting a friend at this place downtown, and I got shot. Now I'm here."
Lucifer cleared his throat, steepling his fingers and leaning back in the chair. "A bit more detail, please."
Art hesitated before finally explaining, "It was the Hollywood Palms. I'd been visiting a friend there—"
"Stacy, I presume?"
"Yeah, it was Stacy," he admitted, but not without some reluctance. "We have a standing lunch meeting there every Wednesday. We get together to talk about—business. I own—"
"Owned."
Art's head drooped. "I owned a few car lots in L.A.," he amended, "and she was always real good about looking over my books to make sure everything was on the up and up. Plus, she saved me a mint in taxes last year. Stacy's a real whiz with numbers. Took some of those accounting courses they offer down at the Community College. That was actually where we met. I was over there taking a night course in—"
"Focus," Lucifer barked suddenly, causing Art to wince. "I don't care about your extramarital dalliances, except as they apply to the day you died. Those are the only details I want to hear. Don't give me a reason to change my mind about our deal."
"Right. Details," Art agreed instantly. "I can do details. Well, we were meeting for our usual Wednesday appointment. It was Suite 405 in the back right corner of the fourth floor. Stacy checked in before me, and by the time I got there, it was a little before noon. The guy at the desk gave me a key card, so I went up in the elevator and let myself into the room. When I walked in, she was waiting for me on the—er—bed. She asked why I was running late, and I said it was because I got hung up at the car lot. One of the salesmen had a beef about his commission. Stacy said I must be awfully stressed out about it and asked if I'd like a massage. I said, 'Sure,' 'cause what guy's gonna' turn down a free mas-"
"Boring," Lucifer groaned. "I don't care about any of this. Fast forward to the part where you've both got your clothes on again."
"Okay, clothes back on. Right." Art nodded. "She asked me if I wanted to grab some lunch, and I said I couldn't because I had to get back. I had a meeting with a wholesaler at two. I asked her if we were still on for the following week, and she said she needed to switch it to Tuesday because her sister was gonna' be in town from Minneapolis."
"Move on," Lucifer told him. "This means nothing to me."
"You said you wanted details," Art pointed out.
"Not those details."
"Well, which ones do you want, then? We're getting pretty close to the end of it."
"I'll let you know."
"So I changed the date on my calendar to the following Tuesday—"
"Nope. Don't need that detail."
"We locked up the room and went downstairs—"
"Or that one."
Lucifer made a motion with his hand to signal his impatience, and Art sped up. "We checked out, walked through the lobby, got intercepted by some nosy cop and then I got popped in the chest. The bullet came from a car outside, I think, because I heard some glass breaking. Then, there was the sound of tires squealing, and I was on the ground. Felt like a linebacker was marching back and forth across my chest."
"Okay, now you're moving too fast," Lucifer complained. "I need to know the details, Art. You walked through the lobby and stopped to talk to . . . . a nosy cop?"
"Yeah, it was a lady detective. She had some questions for Stacy. Stacy's ham-fisted brother had told her about our standing appointment on Wednesdays, so she showed up at the Palms looking for Stacy."
"Tell me more," Lucifer encouraged him, dropping both feet to the ground and leaning forward. This one was starting to look promising.
"About which part?"
"About the detective, of course," Lucifer snapped.
"Um, let's see. I didn't catch her name, but she was a real serious type. All business. Long blondish hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Blue eyes. She was all buttoned up, but my guess is that she'd be a real firecracker in the sack, if you know what I mean."
"Watch your language!" Lucifer leapt from the chair and charged at Art, forcing himself to stop just short of pulverizing the guy. With his nostrils flaring, Lucifer breathed, "You'll show the proper respect or I'll summon Asmodeus right now. He has a real gift when it comes to incendiary devices, and I think you'll develop an appreciation for his artistry once you've witnessed his work firsthand."
"I'm sorry," Art wheezed, covering his head with his arms and leaning away from Lucifer. "Didn't realize you kn-knew her."
"I didn't say I knew her," Lucifer seethed. "And regardless, I'd advise you to stop imagining her in the sack or I'll put you in a Hell loop so horrifying that you'll beg to be extinguished from existence."
"What's a Hell loop?" Art asked, but before Lucifer could answer, he whimpered, "Never mind. I don't want to know . . . ."
Easing himself back into the chair, Lucifer nodded. "Go on. Tell me the rest."
"Well, er, like I said before, she was looking to talk to Stacy. Stacy had gotten clean a few months back and this detective had some questions about her former dealer. The guy was being investigated for murder. Gang-related, I think . . . I can't remember the whole story."
"That's fine. As we've established, my interest is in the detective. Do you have anything more to add about her? Was she alone or with a partner?"
"By herself, as far as I know. I always thought they worked in twos, but this one was alone."
"And how did she seem?"
"What do you mean?"
"Was she happy? Enthusiastic? Sad? Depressed? Tell me about her demeanor."
"Well, she was working a murder, so I'd describe her as determined, reserved . . . . Maybe kinda' sad? I don't know. She just seemed like she wanted to get the information and get out.
"But I'll tell you, when I went down, she was right there telling me to stay calm and calling for an ambulance. The paramedics never got there—at least not before I checked out—but she stayed with me the whole time. Stacy was running around like a crazy woman, but that detective, she hovered over me like I was her long-lost brother. She said something about applying pressure to the wound, and it hurt like a sonofabitch when she pressed her hand against it. I remember telling her I was going to die, and she didn't disagree 'cause she knew it was coming. She just sat there and waited with me."
"Was there anything else you noticed about her? Before you died, that is."
"Just this one other thing she said to me when I was starting to slip away." There, Art seemed to hesitate. "It didn't make any sense, but if there's a chance I can get a better deal down here, I might as well tell you."
"What? What did she say?" Lucifer demanded, standing up and advancing on the man again. At the sudden movement, Art scurried along the wall away from Lucifer.
"She said, 'Tell him I miss him.' It was the last thing I remember before, well, you know . . . . Doesn't make much sense, but you said you wanted to hear it all."
Lucifer leaned against the wall, running a hand through his hair as he closed his eyes and consumed several deep breaths of the stagnant, ashy air surrounding them. Minutes passed as his mind listened again and again to what Art had just told him, allowing the words to sooth his discordant spirit.
"Who was she?" Art asked tentatively. "Someone important?"
"Important," Lucifer echoed quietly, more to himself than to the blackened soul he was supposed to be punishing. He no longer cared if Art saw him as a monster or a man. Lucifer had gotten what he needed, and that was all that mattered to him. "Yes, she was important. And I was so close. You have no idea. Now, I'm just . . . alone. And so is she. That is, of course, if she still feels the same way after all this time. I know I do. I always will."
Pushing away from the wall, Lucifer turned toward the door. "A promise is a promise, Art. Someone will be with you soon enough."
"Remember that you promised me Ziminius. Not the other one."
"Ziminiar," Lucifer corrected him. "He's far less likely to light you on fire than Asmodeus. Ziminiar's more of a gentle giant. Unless, of course, you have something against branding irons."
Lucifer pulled the heavy metal door shut behind him and slouched against it, feeling relief wash through every synapse in his body. It had been a while since he'd had a message from the Detective. Two months and fourteen days, to be exact. In the meantime, Hell had admitted forty-two homicides from the L.A. area, and Lucifer had interrogated every one of them.
Since his return to Hell, her messages had always been sporadic—owing, he presumed, to the unlikelihood of a homicide detective actually being present at a crime scene prior to the victim's death—but he'd never had to wait so long before. And during those barren months, in the nooks and crannies of his battered soul, Lucifer had begun to doubt the Detective's continued affections. He'd started to suspect that her feelings were waning or even that she'd replaced him with someone else—perhaps someone named Tim or Derek, who had a stable job and a lovely, suburban home in which to raise her progeny.
It seemed, however, that this was not the case. Not yet, anyway. Lucifer smiled to himself, relaxing into his good fortune as if it were a bottle of Glenfiddich 1937. The Detective had said that she missed him. During the nine months since he'd returned to Hell, Lucifer had received five "I love yous" and four "I miss yous." In this instance, a combination of the two would have been nice, especially considering how long he'd waited. Then again, perhaps it was like playing a game of telephone. The decedent's condition, the timing of the death and the person's overall mental acuity could all be responsible for confounding a message, resulting in only a partial transmission, or perhaps none at all. With that in mind, he glanced into Art's cell through the door's single window, silently thanking the man for holding onto the message he had conveyed—no matter the length or content. On a list of preferences, the Detective's continued reassurances ranked an admittedly distant third behind actually being in her physical presence or being able to speak to her directly. The messages were all he had, though, and since his return to Hell, they'd become the sole reason he was able to subsist in the bleak, joyless world he'd once called home.