Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there stood a shining castle ruled by a king of great power and greater pride. He was admired by all and had everything his heart desired.

Then, one winter’s night, a cold wind rushed into the castle, bringing with it a wild, rebellious magic. No one knows what passed between the king and that magic but, by dawn, the castle was changed forever.

A terrible curse was cast upon the castle's walls and all who dwelled within. A horrifying Beast with a cruel and selfish heart sat upon the throne.

Disgusted by his grotesque reflection, the Beast concealed himself, never to be seen again by the outside world. The once-radiant castle fell into disrepair.

The magic had but one rule: if the castle’s master could love another and earn that love in return before the end of the seventh year, the spell would be broken. If not, the curse would take full hold, and all would remain as they were forevermore.

As the years passed, the king despaired and lost all hope.

For who could ever learn to love a Beast?

Lucifer had long given up hope of escape. Ever since that horrible night seven years ago, it was as though some unseen hand had reached deep inside his chest and pinched the wick of whatever star had once burned there. Once snuffed out, that was that. The lightbringer had been reduced to a mere lightholder. A waxy, rusted, dusty lightholder whose candles sputtered and flared with his emotions — a feature of himself that was too humiliating to put into words.

And Charlie — dear, sweet, fiercely stubborn Charlie — had never stopped trying to cheer him up. Even though she’d been reduced to a mere candlestick, she still shone brighter than a summer’s sun. Her flames constantly danced in almost manic enthusiasm, always eager to welcome just about anyone into their abode. When she’d been human, her voice had the power to coax the sun through even the darkest clouds, a little party trick she’d inherited from her mother. She used to sing just to make Vaggi smile.

But she had not sung such a song in seven years. Lucifer suspected she no longer remembered the tune. And even if she did, he’d never ask her to; it was far too painful for him to remember what once was.

The groan of the castle door snapped him from his thoughts. The wind slithered inside, dragging in tiny flurries of snow across the thick marble. Despite himself, Lucifer shivered. Cold as the air was, it made a single droplet of wax that had begun beading at what he’d consider his forehead freeze before it could fall. His mind was already flitting to who would need to clean it up. Despite falling white across the earth, snow was often far dirtier than it needed to be. Lucifer could only thank his lucky stars that he hadn’t been turned into a mop or something.

Then, she stepped through.

A woman — auburn curls damp from the storm, cheeks flushed slightly from cold — walked into the foyer. She was wrapped in a wool cloak gone heavy with sleet, her figure soft and full beneath it. Bright and curious amber eyes blinked up at the imposing hall before she turned and shut the door with effort. Once done, she leaned against it, exhaling slowly as the storm continued to rage outside. Then, after a beat of silence, she straightened.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

Her voice was rich and melodious, warm despite the cold that had welcomed her. It was the voice of a sunset, awash with echoes of humming cicadas and lazily drifting fireflies. Lucifer watched as her gaze scanned the room, taking in the sweeping staircase, the tarnished chandeliers, and the long-neglected tapestries. Her mouth — so clearly used to smiling — twitched downwards slightly as her eyes narrowed upon what was once a grandly upholstered bench.

Lucifer froze where he stood on the side table, quietly counting down the seconds to when he hoped she would realize that no one was coming to greet her, then leave. Part of him half-wondered if it’d be better to actually move or speak, considering the fact that humans tended to scream and run when furniture moved.

But… that would mean she would be driven outside. Into the cold. Into the storm. Into a world filled with wild beasts and sharp tree branches and drops so steep one would think that the ground and sky had reversed.

And Lucifer, no matter how much he wished to be left alone, would never subject someone to that… at least, not someone that didn’t deserve it.

A tiny movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned, barely managing to repress a groan when he saw Charlie. Her column creaked slightly as she turned towards him, the flame upon her head highlighting the earnestness in her eyes.

“Ohmigod, Dad! We have a gue—”

“Shh!” he hissed, flinching slightly when his voice echoed far louder around the foyer than it should have. Now that the door was closed, his candleflames were starting to flare up again, meaning that the previously frozen drop of wax was now moving once more. It landed on the table below him with a soft plink. The noise was enough to make the woman pause and look around, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline.

“Hello! Is someone there?” she asked. When no one answered her, she frowned, then shook her head, muttering something about the wind under her breath.

Charlie bristled a bit when she turned away. “She’s cold. We can’t let her freeze.”

“Uh, yeah. We can,” Lucifer muttered. “Charlie, you know we can’t do anything. It’s safer that way.”

“She’s going to wander around, Dad,” Charlie hissed insistently, the flame atop her head burning a bit brighter. “And if she does… he’ll notice.”

As though summoned by her words, a floorboard creaked overhead. The three of them stilled, heads turning upwards. The faint, grating scrape of metal against stone echoed in the distance. If Lucifer still had a stomach, he had no doubt it would curdle with unease.

The woman tilted her head at the noise. A crease formed between her brows. Her eyes scanned around, assessing. It was as though she were somehow trying to analyze what strange object — or creature — could produce such a noise. After nothing and no one came forward, she shook her head once again and turned towards the staircase.

…

…

…

God dammit. He couldn't do it. Not when his sweet baby girl was watching him with such bright, pleading eyes. With a loud clink, he leaped off the table.

The woman whirled at the noise, lips parting in astonishment. Yeah, Lucifer wasn’t surprised. It was probably at least a little bit surprising that a candelabra was coming towards her. Either that, or maybe it was the fact that there was a candlestick hopping along just behind him, waving her single candle around because, unfortunately, God had decided that Charlie didn’t deserve arms, that prick.

When Lucifer stopped in front of the woman, he plastered on his… most okay smile.

“Uh… hey there… you.”

A tiny gasp. A hand curled against her full bosom. A widening of gleaming amber pools. Lucifer braced himself for the scream…

…Except it never came. Because instead of fear or horror upon the woman’s face, her expression flooded with delight. It bloomed over her face like the dawn, bringing warmth into a castle that had long forgotten what it felt like. It filled the room so thoroughly Lucifer felt it in his wax.

“A talking candelabra,” she breathed. “Incroyable!” She knelt, bringing her face down until she was level with his. “And how do you work, ma lumière?”

Man, he really wished that he still had a throat to clear.

“Faerie magic,” Lucifer blurted out. “And I mean, it’s pretty powerful stuff. Really messes with the head and makes your memories all fuzzy, and—”

“Uh, what my dad means is,” Charlie interrupted, hopping over to stand between Lucifer and the woman, “welcome to Castle Morn…ing! Castle Morning!” She inclined her sconce, her large candle wobbling dangerously with the movement. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you!”

As always, Charlie’s natural charm saved the day. All the tension melted from the room with the force of spring’s first thaw, leaving behind nothing but an almost addictive comfort.

“Well, aren’t you just the most precious little thing?” the woman asked. With a full-lipped smile, she gathered her skirt and swept it to the side, bobbing a partial curtsy while still kneeling, giggling in delight. “It is a pleasure to meet you, mon petit, quite the pleasure. I hope I am not intruding.”

She nodded at the windows, painted stark white from the snow outside. “That storm out there was determined to carry me off! This was the only shelter I could find.” She turned back to face them, still smiling. “I hope you don’t mind that I put my horse in your fine stable. Abelard’s a crotchety thing sometimes but he means well.”

“Not at all!” Charlie chimed cheerfully. “I just know Blitzo will take awesome care of him. He loves horses.”

“Oh, uh, no guarantees about how long he can stay in there, though,” Lucifer added. “You know, ‘cause of the whole ‘haven’t shoveled hay in seven years’ thing.”

That won him a small, knowing smile. “Don’t you two worry. I’ll leave as soon as it passes. Can’t keep my boy waiting, after all.”

Lucifer hesitated at that. He couldn't have that. He should really tell her to go now. Before a certain someone came storming in and demanded to know who dared enter this cursed place uninvited.

But he didn’t. Instead, he found himself saying, “Well… I mean, in the meantime, maybe you want to warm yourself up?”

Charlie beamed at him with the force of a thousand suns.

“We can head to the drawing room over there,” he said, gesturing to a nearby hallway with one of his arms. “It’s… less shitty than the other ones.”

That earned him another smile. One so kind he nearly dripped wax on the floor.

“A light in the dark and a gentleman!” the woman exclaimed cheerfully. She stood up and bobbed a curtsy towards him — an action that sent a quivering old ache through what was left of Lucifer’s chest. “Please, lead the way.”

And so he did.

He and Charlie guided her through the corridor, bases echoing against the marble as they went. Every clink seemed to send light reverberations along the walls, disturbing tiny bits of dust that had not moved in years. The two of them lit sconces as they passed, each newly awakened flame blooming gold against the white plaster. Despite his distinct lack of hair, Lucifer still felt a familiar prickling in the back of his knop.

The servants, it seemed, had become aware of their guest.

Eventually, they reached the drawing room. Lucifer paused to look around, a knot forming in what was once his stomach as he took in the sorry sight around him. Once, long ago, it had been used to entertain visitors from around the world. These days? It was lucky to still be standing, after all the castle had endured.

Velvet drapes hung faded and threadbare, their once-rich crimson dulled to a murky wine. Portraits lined the walls, gilt frames now heavy with tarnish. A grand rug sprawled across the floor, moth-eaten and thin at the center from so many hours of pacing. And right before the long-cold hearth sat a massive plush chair, bits of cotton sticking out from deep gouges in the upholstery and cushions sagging with dust.

The moment Charlie crossed the threshold, she leaned back and let out a low whistle. Lucifer immediately opened his mouth to scold her, only to be cut off when a familiar buzzing echoed through the room. A feather duster swooped down from the rafters above, held aloft by a pair of delicate golden wings that grew outward from the dark gold beetle ornament at the top of the handle. One enormous jeweled eye blinked inquisitively as she came to a hovering stop in front of the group. The moment her gaze landed on the woman, however, the feather duster’s wings buzzed even faster, and she began to spiral around their visitor at an almost dizzying speed.

“Ooh! What’s this?” the feather duster — shit, had Lucifer seriously forgotten her name again? — trilled. “A guest? A real, actual guest? We haven’t had one in, like, forever!”

The woman laughed, turning in a slow circle as the woman who had once been the castle’s Head Maid continued to orbit her. “My goodness! You can fly!”

“Duh!” the little maid chirped. “Do you wanna come to the gallery? I set it up with lots and lots of bugs! You can watch the roaches try mating with the ants and the bees trying to mate with the—”

“Uh, Niffty?” Charlie cut in, voice tight. “A little help here, please?” She inclined her candle towards the plush chair.

Niffty gasped. “Oh! Seating!”

Within seconds, there were dust clouds everywhere. Niffty cheerfully leaped upon her task with the sort of manic gusto that could only come from someone who had been left adrift for seven years straight. Years of neglect and misery faded away in violent little swirls until the thick layer of dust no longer coated the chair’s velvet upholstery. It actually looked almost respectable now… that is, if one ignored the faint claw marks along its arms and across its back.

“There!” Niffty announced triumphantly. “Less shitty! Time to clean up the rest of the room!”

Just as Lucifer was about to relax — a distracted Niffty was a less noisy Niffty, after all — a new voice joined the fray. A voice that just so happened to be loud enough to where if he still had hair, Lucifer was sure he’d get plenty of gray streaks from that alone.

“Oh my stars! Do my eyes deceive me? We have a guest?”

A dress form glided into the room next, all polished wood and fine linen. She was draped in mauves and burgundies today, with a flowing chiffon ribbon cinched at her waist. Measuring tapes coiled almost affectionately around her neck. Her body gleamed with pins and needles. A large feathered hat sat jauntily atop her cloth head. Overall, despite distinctively lacking minorly important things like arms and legs, Rosie still managed to pull off being the most fashionable thing in the castle.

“Come now, Lucifer, you should have told me!” Rosie chided lightly. “I woulda done something about these awful curtains if you just gave me more of a heads up! They’re practically begging for mercy—oh, but where are my manners?” She turned to face the woman and bowed, silks fanning around her in an imitation of a spread skirt. “Rosette Dollé, Royal Seamstress, at your service. But you can call me Rosie.”

The woman returned the bow with a curtsy of her own. “Amélie Boudreaux. Regular seamstress!” She blinked, brow furrowing as her gaze swept the room. “I didn’t know there was royalty out here.”

“Not everyone does,” Rosie said breezily. “Although…” She turned to fix Lucifer with one of her patented pointed looks. “Maybe actually inviting guests in here every now and then could bring some sparkle back to this old place.”

Before things could get any more awkward — because with her button eyes and stitched mouth, Rosie had the sort of stare that could devour the soul — a new noise joined the fray. This time, it came in the form of an ornate tea cart, wheels squeaking loudly as it rolled its way into the room. The shining teapot sitting atop it — an ebony piece decorated with elegant swirls of emerald green and gold — smiled up at their visitor, steam proudly pouring from his spout.

“A most gracious welcome to thee, my lady,” Zestial said cheerfully. “Wouldst thou partake in mine most humble offering? Mayhaps it shall chase the winter from thy bones.”

The woman — Amélie — clasped her hands together at that. “You’re offering me tea? That sounds lovely!”

Zestial tipped his lid before inclining his spout, pouring a steady stream of amber liquid into the nearest teacup. Once full, the teacup rose of its own accord and drifted gently into Amélie’s waiting palms. She inhaled the steam, visible pleasure written all over her face.

“Aren’t you all just the most delightful hosts?”

Zestial answered with a warm, rolling laugh that rattled pleasantly within his porcelain frame. “To serve is our pleasure, dear lady.”

Lucifer simply stood and watched as the entire room seemed to transform around her. The servants flitted in all different directions, offering her everything from a woolen blanket to a footstool to rest her feet upon. All of it was accompanied by laughter and chatter, the likes of which had not been seen in nearly a decade.

Was this what it was like to have a soul that could light up an entire castle? Or perhaps it was just the simple fact that the castle’s denizens had once again found their calling. To serve again — to fuss and post and pour and polish and preen — was to remember who they once were. And somehow, that remembrance alone drew the faintest sliver of sunlight into a darkness that had endured for seven unbroken years.

A soft prod at Lucifer’s side snapped him from his thoughts. Turning, he found himself candle to candle with Charlie, who shot him a warm smile before tipping her slender form towards the hearth. It was dark and dusty, ice-cold from years of disuse. If Lucifer were to be completely honest with himself — and he rarely was — he half-expected to fill the room with smoke the moment the dried, crumbling logs kept in there started burning.

Maybe it was better if they just covered Amélie in blankets instead. Or better yet, send her out with food and protection from the blizzard before that guy found her here. Yeah. That sounded pretty good. If he sent her out like that, she’d be out of sight and out of mind before long, and the Master would be none the wiser.

Lucifer looked back at the servants. At the way Niffty undulated midair with glee. At how Rosie’s silks shimmered just a bit brighter. At how Zestial’s steam curled a bit more than usual. At how brilliantly Charlie smiled.

Damn it all. He wasn’t going to do that. Couldn't. His pride as a host and showman would never allow it. So instead, he turned back to the fireplace and together, he and Charlie held their candles to the kindling.

At first, a golden spark. Then a wisp of smoke. And finally, fire. Golden tongues spread across the wood, crackling eagerly as warmth quickly seeped into the room. Amélie turned at the sight of the fire, face delighted, somehow even more warm and cozy than she had been prior to entering the room. The longer he stared at her, the longer Lucifer found himself yearning for rains long passed and for summer suns he was certain he would never see again.

Eventually — after conversation softened into contented quiet and the fire settled into a steady, companionable crackle — Charlie ushered the rest of the servants off to fetch blankets, snacks, and a pair of warm slippers. This left Lucifer alone with her and the cheerfully crackling fire.

Maybe he should leave too? There was probably something in the castle that required maintenance — seven years of neglect tended to be bad for buildings. He couldn't imagine it would take Charlie and the rest of them that long to find everything they needed to properly welcome a guest.

Still, it’d be rude for him to leave. That, and he had the distinct feeling he’d regret it if he did. If there was one thing that Lucifer really wished he had done seven years ago, it was following his gut.

“So, uh, how’s our… hospitality and stuff?”

Oh, God, that sounded bad even to his own… well, okay, he didn’t have ears anymore. Still, Amélie looked upon him with at first surprise before her expression melted into a small, teasing smile.

“Five stars, flawless, greater than great,” Amélie said cheerfully. Then, a little conspiratorial eyebrow waggle. “Almost rivals my son’s.” She winked. “Now that’s a compliment that should never reach his ears, if you know what’s good for you!”

Lucifer snorted. “‘What’s good for me?’ What, is he gonna come in and bite my head off if he hears I’m better than him?”

“No, of course not! I’ve raised him with better manners than that.” Amélie took another sip of her tea, punctuating her appreciation with a smack of her lips. “But he’s a prideful one, my Alastor. Would probably just try everything he can to outdo you instead. Instead of one fire, he’ll make two! And he’ll get me a comfy chair plus a footrest and massage to welcome me here.” She laughed. “If being competitive were a sport, he’d take home the prize every time, I tell you!” She shot Lucifer a knowing look. “You’d probably like him, actually.”

He would probably what now?

“Dunno about that. He sounds pretty annoying,” Lucifer said without thinking, only to flinch under the truly awe-inspiring power of the woman’s raised eyebrow. “Er… I mean, uh… no offense?”

“Oh, it isn’t my offense you should be afraid of, ma lumière,” Amélie replied pleasantly. “But when it comes to my boy, watch out! That tongue of his could probably double as a fencing foil.” Her expression became wistful. “Though… he has a good heart. Buried a little deeper than I’d like, perhaps… but it’s there. He just needs to be reminded of that every now and then.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to counter that, only for whatever was left of his brain to shut down completely.

He heard the hideous scraping first. It tore through the castle, bounced off the walls, ripped through the floors, and careened through every window. After that came the menacing clack of spindly legs against a hard stone floor. The doors to the drawing room flew open, hinges screaming in protest as the heavy slabs of mahogany slammed against the far wall hard enough to crack them. Cold air quickly followed them, and then?

A great shape skittered into the room. Its large, gaunt body moved with a sickly, syrupy grace. Firelight licked uncertainly at its sickly pale skin, as though trying to hide the visible jut of its ribs in the shadows they cast. From its hunched back rose a set of long black tentacles, each one ending in a spike that seemed to pulse faintly with a fragile blue glow. When it stopped just behind the chair, it glared down at Lucifer, vicious red eyes narrowing.

Amélie froze in the chair, teacup halfway up to her mouth. At the sound of the creature’s impending approach, she lowered it with a soft clink. Her mouth pulled into a thin line, fingers twitching against the saucer. When she turned her gaze at Lucifer, it was filled with a quiet, questioning fear.

Lucifer didn’t answer her. He couldn't. Not when he was rooted to the spot where he stood, flames dimming as he gazed up at the terrible beast before him. Before he could so much as consider making up an excuse, however, the Beast smiled, revealing row after row of jagged, serrated teeth.

“Lucifer! Luci, Lu—there you are.”

The creature’s voice slid across the room like oil, leaving a sickly sheen on every ear it touched. He prowled forward on long, spindly legs, arms crossed, one razor-sharp claw tapping at his arm.

“You know, I was just about to get ready for bed when — get this — my favorite little water heater is nowhere to be found.” He tilted his head, smile never fading. “I looked everywhere for you… and what do I find?” He turned his gaze towards the chair. “You’re here having teatime with an uninvited guest.”

Lucifer’s flames shrank, then guttered out despite his best effort to steady them.

“Vox, I can explain. She—”

“Broke into my castle without permission,” Vox snarled. “Sat in my chair. Drank from my cup. Used my servants. And when you think about it, you’re the one that let this all happen, aren’t you, Lu?”

One arm lashed forward. Those long claws closed around Lucifer’s stem in a bone-crushing grip. The next thing Lucifer knew, his world became a whorl of color and motion, one that left him so dizzy he was sure that he’d be puking all over the place if it weren’t for the fact he, well, lacked a stomach. His breath stuttered when he found his own fearful reflection staring back at him, reflected in Vox’s menacing red eyes.

“Which means,” Vox said softly, “you get to be the one who pays for it.”

Lucifer’s column creaked—

“Now you listen here!”

Lucifer’s neck snapped to the side. So did Vox’s. The entire castle seemed to hold its breath.

Amélie had stood up and set her teacup to the side. She squared her broad shoulders as she planted her feet firmly and gazed up unflinchingly at the Beast. When Vox’s teeth flashed menacingly, she merely narrowed her eyes before one hand rose to her hip, the other wagging a finger at him.

“This young… candelabra here was just being an excellent host!”

For a moment, all Vox could do was stare. Then, he leaned down slowly, sneer spreading wide. It warped his face and stretched it tight, so much that the gaunt hollows of his cheeks were thrown into even greater relief.

“...Did the vermin just talk back to me?”

Amélie crossed her arms. “If by ‘vermin’ you mean a lost traveler who your servants did their absolutely damnedest to save from freezing out there in the snow, then yes.”

Something was racing where Lucifer’s chest once was. But how was that possible? Last time he checked, he didn’t exactly have a heart anymore.

“You storm in here,” she continued sharply, “make some dreadful racket, scare your staff half to death, and the first thing you do is threaten the one person who’s been kind enough to keep your home running?” She gave him a once-over, scorn smearing the corners of her mouth.

“You oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

More silence. The tense sort. The kind that stretched itself over a barren battlefield, seeped into the cracks, and greedily soaked up blood that no blade of grass would dare taste.

Vox laughed. It started out low, thin, and disbelieving before it rose in pitch. The next thing any of them knew, he had thrown back his head and was letting out a horrible, bone-chilling cackle.

“Oh, wow,” he wheezed, swinging Lucifer around once more. “Wow. I like this one.”

His laughter died abruptly. Innumerable red eyes zeroed in on the woman before him.

“But here’s the problem, sweetheart.” His grin stretched wider. “You seem to think this is your place to judge. And that I bother myself with the opinions of pests.”

Two small shapes appeared from amongst the mess of tentacles, cast in shadow against the once-warm light of the fire. They leaped off of Vox’s back and landed on the floor with a pair of soft thumps.

One was an elegant black lacquered cigarette holder decorated with gaudy golden ornamentations in the shape of a moth’s wings. The small golden wings flapped almost lazily as they held him aloft. The smoke curling from the cigarette held at the end shifted and spiraled until it formed the vague shape of a face, twisted by a malicious grin and small, beady spaces where eyes would be.

The other was a small figure made of brown burlap, stitched with black thread and a crooked smile sewn across her face. Long, thin strands of magenta sprang from the top of her head. A thin silver needle glinted in her back.

“Val,” Vox drawled lazily.

The cigarette holder chuckled menacingly.

“Velvette.”

The doll pulled the needle from her back.

“Let’s give our little rodent here a proper welcome.”

Lucifer felt whatever he had left for a stomach drop straight through the floor below. “Vox, n—”

He didn’t get to finish. Because Velvette was already on the move.

The voodoo doll cackled as she shot forward, little more than a blur of pink and brown. The silver of her needle flashed in the light. Amélie gasped as Velvette dug the tip into the skin of her shin, instantly drawing a pearl of red. Suddenly, she froze completely, every muscle locked in place as though she’d turned to stone.

Lucifer’s flames faltered. His wax trembled with helpless dread.

Seven years had not dulled the horror of watching Velvette work.

Weakened though she was by the curse, Velvette still possessed a fragment of magic she’d wielded as a woman. A single drop of blood used to be enough to control someone entirely, body and mind little more than a puppet on a string for her sadistic desires. Now? Now, it was just enough to temporarily paralyze a victim in their tracks. Before Amélie got too comfortable, however, Val flew up next, a menacing chuckle spilling from him.

“Buenas noches, Señora!”

He blew a thick cloud of sweet-smelling smoke directly into the woman’s face. The moment she breathed it in, her eyes rolled to the back of her head. In an instant, she was on the ground, paralysis fading into unconsciousness with one final breath.

Lucifer stared at the motionless body on the floor, scarcely breathing himself, until Vox finally moved. The Beast hooked one wicked clawed hand around Amélie’s ankle and began dragging her across the floor.

“Let’s take a walk, Lu.”

Once gain, Lucifer’s metal creaked precariously. Pain shot through the candelabra’s entire frame. The corridors blurred past as Vox skittered through the castle, dragging one prisoner and carrying the other. Lucifer’s arms rattled violently with each step, candles sputtering wildly as they descended deeper into the castle.

Down.

           Into.

                   The.

                           Dungeon.

The dungeon door opened with a rusty screech. Cold air swept out from beneath the castle’s bowels, bringing with it the stench of mildew and decay. Vox descended the steps without slowing, spindly legs clacking loudly against the ancient stone floor. Once at the bottom, he swung open the thick wooden door to the nearest cell, then threw Lucifer inside.

“Since you’re so eager to play host,” Vox snarled, voice low and venomous, “you can keep her company down here.”

Lucifer hit the far wall hard enough to rattle his frame before clattering to the floor in a pathetic tangle of metal arms and bent braces. The candle atop his head sputtered wildly before stabilizing. He barely had time to sit himself upright before the door slammed shut, his access to the outside world sealed shut with thick mahogany and thicker iron bars at the bottom of the door.

God—

How was it that after seven years as a candelabra, he still felt pain? Humiliation? Failure? He forced himself to a stand with a metallic groan. He fucked up. He needed to fix this. Needed to make this right. But how? He should ask Charlie. She’d know what to do. She would—

Wait.

Fuck.

“Charlie—”

The Beast paused in the doorway, Amélie still dangling limp from his claws. Several red eyes turned back toward Lucifer, glowing faintly in the dark.

“You should consider yourself lucky I’m feeling generous tonight,” Vox said quietly, tone almost conversational. “If it were up to me, I’d crush that stupid candle of hers in my hand and rip apart that stem.” He dragged Amélie’s body another few inches across the stone. “Oh, but don’t get me wrong. Next time you fuck this up? I’ll make sure your little princess gets extra special treatment.”

A familiar cold coiled itself in Lucifer’s chest cavity. He said nothing.

Vox just smiled. “Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another cell to fill.” He turned away at last, red eyes already scanning the dungeon for the perfect place to ensure the woman spent the rest of her days in rot. Just before he left, however, he shot Lucifer one last glance over his shoulder.

“Oh… and, Lu?”

Jagged teeth flashed yellow in the gloom.

“Next time you feel like hosting a fucking tea party, try remembering whose castle this is.”

With that, he was gone, leaving Lucifer in the dark once more.

It was an unusually cold breeze that woke him up this morning. The moment it kissed his cheeks, he startled, falling right out of the tree and landing plum on his bottom. Letting out a low exhale that puffed into existence, he rubbed at the new ache at the back of his sacrum and stood, wrapping his scarf and coat tighter around himself. His brow furrowed when he noted a new hole in the finely stitched wool.

No doubt, some moth had very rudely decided that the scarf Maman had poured so much love, so much warmth into would be its smorgasbord of the night. Infernal creature had already made a meal of his socks earlier this week. His coat — the good one — also now sported two small but deeply offensive punctures along the sleeve. Even his bedsheets were not shown any mercy; Alastor had more than once accidentally rolled too far onto the wrong side, leading to a nose full of straw.

There was a reason he preferred sleeping outdoors. There were stars out here, a fresh breeze, and the gentle sway of wood to lull him to sleep, for one. For two, he had control over what did and did not get into his nose out here. If anything creeping and crawling did try to enter his nostrils without permission, he’d just introduce it to the power of his palm.

After scowling down at the holes in his scarf, he allowed it to settle back against his neck, making a mental note to take it into the house later. Maman’s ever-growing pile of personal clothing repairs was going to become absolutely insurmountable at this rate. Perhaps it was time that Alastor lay a trap or two to snag it… and introduce it to the good end of his boot. Slowly, of course. Anything who made Maman suffer deserved no less.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have time today for insect murder, loath though he was to admit that. With Maman having left the morning before to go sell fabrics the next town over, it fell to Alastor to ensure that the chores got done.

His boots bit into the soft grass, crunching sticks, leaves, and Lord-knows-what-else underfoot as he turned to observe the orchard that had served as his overnight hovel. The verdant branches seemed to wave at him in greeting. Alastor ignored them in favor of focusing instead on the nearest tree. One of its lower branches had cracked but not yet fallen, hanging at an awkward angle by a thin sliver of wood. Innocuous enough, but sure to spell trouble the moment the wind picked up.

Alastor wasted no time. He reached down to his belt, curling his fingers around the familiar weight of his knife before drawing it free. The serrated edge glittered cheerfully in the wan sunlight as he stepped closer. One careful hand steadied the damaged branch, while the other controlled the knife. It slid easily through the fibrous strands of wood stubbornly clinging to the trunk before the branch came off it with a wet, splintering crack.

The branch had barely thudded onto the grass below when Alastor moved to the next tree. Here, he shaved away a strip of bark where rot had begun to creep in. Under a sharp and precise hand, he peeled back the decayed layers until it was clean once again. Afterwards, he moved on to the next tree, trimming a smaller offshoot that had begun to curl in on itself, stealing strength from the rest.

Once he was done, Alastor wiped the blade clean using his shirt before tucking it away. He then rose to his full height and cast one last glance over the orchard before a satisfied smile curled upon his face.

This would do. Maman would be quite pleased once she finally came home, he was sure.

He had just turned towards the path back to the cottage, already mapping out the rest of the morning in his head, when the thunder of hooves boomed from behind him. Blinking in confusion, he turned, eyes widening when he saw Abelard at the edge of the clearing.

Normally, the stallion had all the urgency of a drifting cloud, prone to take his time when there was none to go around. Alastor had long lost count of the mornings he’d climbed into the saddle determined to reach the market at a respectable hour, only for Abelard to plod along as though they were merely out on some leisurely stroll. By the time those cloven hooves finally clattered onto the cobblestones of the main street, the sun would be high, the best produce gone, and the crowds thick enough to test even the patience of a saint — and Alastor was certainly no saint.

Frankly, the stallion ought to have considered himself fortunate that Maman had convinced Alastor to keep feeding him apples. Sweet-talking, she’d called it, though Alastor suspected bribery was the more accurate term. Had it been Alastor’s decision, Abelard would be chewing on nothing but dry hay for the rest of his days; a slim figure would surely inspire a faster pace.

Which was why when Alastor saw the animal galloping — yes, gallopping — into the yard alone, a cold chill ran down his spine.

Abelard lacked his rider.

He wasted no time. Alastor had hauled himself into the saddle in one fluid motion. When he grabbed the reins, however, he paused, brow creasing in confusion. They were damaged, split in two with a black mark on either side of the gap. Judging from how the leather cracked and curdled, someone had clearly superheated that specific point just long enough to free the horse without fully damaging the bridle.

Before Alastor could question it too much, however, Abelard let out a hurried snort before breaking out into a run. Frost and loose gravel scattered in their wake as they raced through the pale gray morning.

Normally, Alastor would accompany Maman on these trips. While she rode up front to guide Abelard towards the town, Alastor would sit in the back and ensure that none of the wares would fall out or get too dirty. This time around, a doctor’s appointment that simply couldn't be moved happened to fall on the day she left, which meant that Amélie insisted her son stay behind.

“Now, you listen here,” she had said, wagging her finger at him while she planted one hand on her hip, “I’ve taken this trip by myself since long before you were born, and lemme tell you, I can take care of myself even now. Wanna know why?” She smirked. “It’s ‘cause I took care of my health while I was young! So don’t you dare go skimping on it now!”

She had won, of course. She always won. Alastor had to have gotten his cleverness from somewhere, after all.

After seeing her off, he had gone to the doctor and received a clean bill of health, as expected. Unfortunately, with only one horse to their name and a house that required upkeep, Alastor couldn't simply ride out and join her. Instead, he had to make do with the fact that because he’d had a good few decades to accompany his mother on her trips, he knew the path extremely well and knew she’d be able to stick to it.

Which meant, unfortunately, he knew she would have to take the path into those woods.

The forest outside the village had long been considered cursed. It was said that anyone who did not stick to the path would be plucked out of sight and out of mind completely. Ceasing to exist in the minds of all, as though they’d never been born.

Rumors of it being home to flesh-eating wolves and wiley fae folk were unfounded thus far, but nevertheless, Alastor never put much stock into such stories. Wolves could be trapped and fae could be bargained with, after all. And anything else? Simply a matter of poor observation.

He found the carriage first. Or rather, the tree that had fallen upon it.

It had once been a great oak, if the shape of its leaves and deeply furrowed trunk was any indication. From the look of things, it had come down across the vehicle's center, splitting it as neatly as a butcher’s cleaver through bone. One wheel had been torn clean off and lay half-buried in the mud several feet away. The axle had snapped as well, twisted and warped until it was more splinter than wood. Bolts of fabric lay strewn about, some covered in muck, others hanging in tatters from broken branches.

Alastor frowned at the sight. He swung down from Abelard in one smooth motion, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth as he stepped closer. One hand brushed along the ruined wood, fingers tracing the tracing blackened, splintered edge as he gazed at what had once been a neatly packed inventory — a seamstress’ livelihood, reduced to mere debris in a single, senseless instant.

Strange. All signs pointed to this being the result of some great lightning strike. But Alastor didn’t recall there being any sort of storm.

“Maman?” he called.

The forest answered him in kind. It threw his voice back at him in warped fragments, echoing tauntingly around the area before dissolving into silence once more.

He slid his gaze to the ground, searching for anything that would tell him where she went. A series of broken branches caught his eye and he turned, heart stilling when he saw where it led.

Off the path.

Into the forest.

Where lived wiley fae and flesh-eating wolves.

A sensible man would return to the village and grab some provisions or a weapon. Perhaps even gathered an angry mob to swarm the place. Unfortunately, when it came to Amélie Boudreaux, the more intelligent parts of Alastor’s mind tended to sail right out the window.

He leaped atop Abelard once more and urged him off the path.

It didn’t take long before everything changed — from the undergrowth thinning to the air growing sharper against his skin. After a few more paces in, the entire world seemed to fold in on itself. The leaves vanished, the color leeched away, the green canopy overhead withered into a tangle of skeletal branches clawing at a sky that had gone pale and distant. Frost crept along the ground in delicate, crystalline veins, spreading insistently until each step crunched beneath Abelard’s hooves. Alastor shivered, his breath fogging before him in soft, ghostly plumes.

This was no mere winter’s chill.

Soon enough, the castle appeared. The vast, imposing structure stood sentinel against the bleak sky, crumbling spires reaching up towards a god that had long abandoned them. Its off-white walls were streaked with long lines of dirt, no doubt left there from years of terrible weather and even more horrid neglect. The entire thing was covered in a thick layer of snow, a near match for that which covered the large hedge maze Abelard quickly cleared with a few well-timed jumps before coming to a halt in front of the great stone steps.

One simple flick of the eyes downwards told Alastor everything: bootprints in the snow. Fresh ones.

Maman had been here — he could feel it. All he needed to do now was find her.

Alastor dismounted, rubbing Abelard’s nose to calm him before turning to face the castle. Large slabs of heavy oak reinforced with bands of black iron greeted him. There seemed to be a sigil of some sort carved into the center of the doors, but Alastor ignored it in favor of shoving them open. It took both hands and a good shove of his shoulder before they yielded but, eventually, the hinges groaned, the wood creaked, and Alastor’s footsteps echoed into the cavernous foyer beyond.

Alastor saw the dust first. Specks floated in spiraling motes within the beams of morning light filtering through the tall windows. Several thick layers clung to the railings of the grand staircase and balconies overhead. When Alastor called for Amélie, the dust answered; it rose in a dizzying cloud, filling his mouth and lungs with a fine, gritty texture.

Once he was done coughing out the particles clinging to his lungs and throat, he turned to survey the rest of the room. Large pillars rose from floor to ceiling, trimmed with ornate carvings of mighty snakes and dragons in flight. Alastor examined one closely as he passed, noting the tiny specks of gold still glinting beneath the dull tarnish.

His lip curled. Tacky was the best word to describe the place. There were so many columns around that he could only assume they were being used so hold up some greatly inflated ego. There was simply no way that even a castle as large as this would need so many pillars.

He paused before the grand staircase and looked around, the furrows of his brow deepening. Judging by the footprints outside, Maman had entered the castle but had not yet come out. She was likely trying to wait out whatever strange storm had driven her in here… but it had clearly passed long ago. It made little sense for her to remain here in this dark, abandoned place — and even less sense for her to just send Abelard home.

Dread curled in the pit of his stomach as he walked further inside, side-stepping a large crack spiraling through the floor. No doubt, it was the result of some heavy object thrown clumsily from one of the balconies above. His mind raced. What if that great oak tree had done more damage than Alastor had assumed? What if Maman was hurt or worse? An abandoned castle was a poor place to find medical attention… and Alastor had zero confidence in the level of cleanliness here.

He needed to find her. There was no other option.

A low creak turned his attention to a nearby sidetable. Like the rest of the place, the sidetable was covered in a thick layer of dust, with cobwebs clinging to the legs below. Despite this, the candlestick sitting atop it shone like the sun, rebelliously golden against the gloom. He paused and walked over to it, blinking down at the orange flame flickering atop the wick.

Had Maman lit this?

Come to think of it, what was this place? No matter how hard Alastor wracked his brains, he couldn't summon any memory of there ever being a huge castle in the middle of the woods. Tall though those trees were, this place clearly towered over all of them. Surely this had to be a trick of some sort. After all, what sort of idiocy did it take to just… forget about a castle? And then proceeded to never notice it?

Suddenly, a faint sound drifted in from down the corridor. Alastor froze, ears pricked. It came again — a delicate little woosh woosh woosh. Like gentle silk skirting across the stone. It seemed to skitter along the walls towards a corridor ahead, stopping and starting in uneven bursts. It was as though whoever — or whatever — was making that sound couldn't quite decide whether to beckon or flee.

“Maman?”

No answer. Only that same soft, coaxing caress, retreating further into the dark.

He grabbed the candlestick, ignoring the odd little squeak it let out. Without missing a beat, he dashed down the corridor, boots striking a sharp rhythm as he followed the sound. It darted ahead of him, always just out of reach, slipping around corridors and occasionally punctuated by a faint metallic chime.

He followed it down twisting hallways, around dark corners, and through some of the most cobwebbed doorways he’d ever seen. The darkness pressed down upon him like a weight, nearly swallowing what little light the candlestick’s flame cast. The further he ran, the louder the sound grew — almost as though it were eager to lead him deeper.

Really, he should’ve stopped and turned around long ago. Just because Maman had likely entered this place didn’t mean that every little sound was her. For all he knew, this was a mere trick of the wind, a prank played upon him by some wily fae hoping to steal his soul. Despite these thoughts, he kept running, jaw set, pulse thrumming just a shade too fast beneath his skin.

He needed to find her. He needed to find Maman. Anything was worth enduring so long as it meant keeping her safe.

After what felt like hours of chasing after a shadow he could never grasp, Alastor found himself shoulder-checking a large wooden door and practically sliding down the stairs of what he could only assume was the castle’s dungeon. The faint stench of mildew and decay filled his nose, but Alastor ignored it; finding Maman was far more important. Besides, he was quite sure that there would be plenty of time to scrub the smell off later.

“Maman!”

A gasp.

“A-Alastor!?”

He found her immediately. It wasn’t hard to do so; only one of the cells contained a living, breathing soul, and her voice was unmistakable. As Alastor passed the cell neighboring hers, he briefly caught sight of a tiny flash of gold contained within. He raised an eyebrow, but the sight of familiar amber eyes and wild auburn curls banished all other thought immediately.

Amélie’s expression filled first with surprise, then with fear. Alastor placed the candlestick down and knelt, reaching for her. Her hands reached through the bars and found his.

“Mon chou,” Maman said softly, voice trembling despite the smile she tried to muster. “How did you find me?”

Alastor didn’t answer her. He was far too distracted by the state of her hands: cold. Ice cold. So cold it was a wonder she still had fingers.

“You’re freezing,” Alastor murmured, jaw clenching when Amélie began coughing. “Who did this to you? And would you prefer their guts sauteed or sous vide?”

Amélie shook her head quickly. “No time to explain. You need to leave at once.”

“To-go, then. I can work with that,” Alastor said, playful despite everything. His neck snapped up, eyes scanning for a hammer, a lever, a key, anything he could use to free her. “You wouldn't happen to know where I’d find a key, would you?”

“Alastor, this is serious!” Amélie hissed. Her fingers curled tighter into his, voice strained with urgency. “This castle is alive. It’s full of wonderful hosts… but also terrible ones. You must go, before he finds you.”

“‘He?’” Alastor repeated, pausing to look his mother directly in the eye. “Who are you talking about?”

As though in answer, a loud growl reverberated throughout the castle. Alastor whirled, one hand immediately flying to the knife sheathed at his side. His eyes narrowed at the darkness just beyond the stairwell.

There was something moving.

“Lucifer? Where the fuck is that damn feather duster? I heard her coming down here. She better not be cleaning for more ‘guests,’ or I’ll—”

The tall, willowy shape paused at the top of the stairs. Ten pairs of glowing red eyes — two larger ones, encircled by eight smaller — blinked down at him. At first, surprise. Then, confusion. Then, perhaps most revoltingly, piqued curiosity.

In the blink of an eye, the creature descended the stairs, spindly limbs scraping against the stone floor with an almost palpable earnestness. With each step it took, Alastor’s stomach turned as the light revealed pale, waxy skin stretched too-tightly over a visible ribcage, long, menacing claws, and a pair of gangly arms that each ended in a gleaming blue claw. When it finally reached Alastor, surprise rippled across its features with an intensity met only by the revulsion curling in Alastor’s chest.

God, it was hideous. Nothing but undulating sinew and sharp angles. Its long, skeletal frame loomed above Alastor, eyes roaming over him, observing him with a focus so intense it bordered on hunger. After a minute or two, it smiled, revealing jagged rows of yellowed teeth far better suited to a shark than anything that belonged on land.

“Well… what have we here?” the creature asked, voice suddenly syrupy. When it spoke, the stench of rotting meat and burnt metal flooded Alastor’s senses. He recoiled instinctively, revulsion flashing over his face.

The creature noticed… and actually seemed to take offense to that, if the flash of annoyance across its many eyes was of any indication. But it seemed to push down whatever was going through its mind to instead stalk closer to Alastor, tilting its head as though studying an especially fascinating painting.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like you around here,” it continued. “Sharp cheekbones, nice eyes, tall…” A pair of claws landed on Alastor’s shoulders. It took everything he had not to flinch, his stomach turning in disgust. “Where exactly did you come from, sweetheart?”

Alastor had no name for what manner of monster stood before him now. A demon, perhaps. Or maybe a Beast. Either way, the last thing he wanted at this moment was to have this strange, oily thing leering down at him, seemingly unable to decide if it wanted to consume or consummate him.

His knife was in his hand before he had time to think. In an instant, he had it pointing directly into what he could only hope was some part of the creature's throat.

“Are you the one who locked her in here?” he hissed, knuckles paling around the handle. “You’ll do well to answer me.”

The Beast paused. Blinked — left set of eyes first, then the right. Then, he — because Alastor could only assume it was a he — let out a low, dangerous chuckle.

“Wow, super scary,” he purred. Without warning, one of the tentacles protruding from his back wrapped around the knife’s blade and yanked it clean out of Alastor's hand. He hissed lightly when black, oily blood began to bead where steel met flesh. The tentacle threw the knife back, the blade clattering across the floor.

“I can see why the wards let you and that horse of yours through,” the Beast continued lazily, shaking the blood from the wounded appendage as though it were nothing more than a paper cut.

He leaned in closer. Close enough to where Alastor could see his own reflection warp in those many red pupils. “But, you know… I’m still the Master of this place.” Blue claws tapped lightly against Alastor’s chest. “So you should count yourself lucky I like trespassers with teeth.”

Alastor bared said teeth. “I’m afraid these are made for just two things: smiling or ripping into meat. And believe me, my dear, you’re not deserving of either of those.”

The Beast growled low. “You little—”

“Oh my God, get to the point already.”

Alastor tore his gaze away just long enough to notice the source of the complaint — a long, winged cigarette holder hovering lazy beside the creature’s head. Smoke curled from its tip, forming a large, menacing smirk just in front of the Beast.

“Do you want to fuck him or not?”

…Did the thing want to what now?

More importantly, did that tacky little glorified stick just talk?

Before Alastor could open his mouth and question exactly what sort of terrible apothecary concoction the creature had clearly coated the castle’s walls with, a faint clink pulled his attention once more. Turning, he found himself watching in utter shock as the candlestick he’d brought with him earlier leaned against the bars of the neighboring cell.

It had a face now -– and a distinctly feminine one at that. With large eyes, rosy cheeks, and a droplet of wax that was fashioned to look like a tiny button nose. Said button nose was scrunched up at the moment as… she?... peered into the cell and whispered urgently to someone — or perhaps something — inside. When she noticed the eyes on her, the candlestick squeaked and leaped back a few… paces.

“I-I-I—” she stammered, tiny droplets of wax leaping off her head as her gaze darted between the group and the cell. “I was just—I mean, my dad’s—”

Alastor heard no further. His brain was far too busy firing off every single possible alarm and spiraling into hopeless confusion. Objects… did not grow faces. They didn’t move. They didn’t panic or stammer or look like they were about to cry.

…Either Alastor had finally lost his mind or the entire world had gone topsy-turvy. And as far as he could tell, the stone beneath his feet was very much still right-side up.

Unfortunately, he was given no further time to decide what was going on, because the Beast ignored the strange little candlestick and snapped its attention back to him. A long strand of drool slipped lazily from its mouth, dragging slowly across its jagged teeth as those many crimson eyes slid hungrily across Alastor’s form. Alastor tensed in response, both hands curling into fists.

“Maybe I will,” it mused, voice slick with unchecked desire. “He looks pretty good. Good enough to—”

“No!”

Amélie’s normally soft voice punctuated the air like a shard of glass, splintering just as fiercely. Alastor’s head snapped to her. She had pressed herself hard into the bars, so hard it looked as though she might attempt to squeeze through them by sheer force of will alone.

“You leave this boy alone!” she snapped. “You already got me prisoner. Don’t you dare take him too!”

Heat flared in Alastor’s chest. “Maman—“

“He’s young!” Amélie insisted. “Proud! He’s got a whole life ahead of him.” Her knuckles paled around the bars, voice dipping lower, but no less fierce. “I’m old… it don’t matter if I get outta here, ‘cause I don’t got much left in me to give.”

The Beast moved before Alastor could respond, brushing past him with a disregard that bordered on irreverence. Its long limbs seemed to snap and twitch into place as it pressed its legs and arms on either side of the door, bracing itself so it could lean down towards the bars of Amélie’s cells. Those great red eyes blinked slowly down at her, sizing her up as though the Beast was trying to decide if she would be its next meal.

Alastor’s rage spiked. How dare this wretched creature get anywhere near her? How dare it place her in this cell? Immediately, Alastor’s gaze darted to the silvery glint of his knife laying on the floor of the dungeon. His fingers twitched towards it. If he could just—if he could just run and grab it—

No. That damned cigarette holder was smirking at him. Or rather, the smoke wafting from its end was. And while Alastor was certainly not one to simply stand by and allow things to happen, even he knew that placing himself in danger here to try to save his mother was a fool’s folly at best.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” the Beast drawled. “You’re still my prisoner, remember? What makes you think you’ve got any power here?” The grin widened. “I should see how many ways Val here can make you scream just for that. Maybe then—”

Alastor’s words leaped off his tongue before his mind could keep up.

“If you touch a single hair on her head, I swear to every possible divine being sitting above our heads that I will end your fucking life.”

Now, all eyes turned to him. Alastor fought down the urge to swallow and inhaled sharply. He stepped forward. No faltering. Not now, not ever. Not when he needed to make sure Maman didn’t die down here in this terrible, dreary hole.

“You want to intimidate?” A sharp, humorless laugh slipped out. “You’ll need to try far harder than that, my dear. Because right now, all I see is a pathetic little codfish who thinks he can yell his way into being master of the castle.”

The Beast snarled. Its face twisted in pure, unfiltered rage. Without missing a beat, it straightened to its full menacing height and stalked back towards Alastor. Its fangs seemed to glow in the dim candlelight of the dungeon as it leered menacingly down at Alastor.

“Oh, you think you can make demands around here?” it snarled. “Cute. Real cute. But let’s take stock, shall we?” It lifted one hand, claws glinting as it flexed its fingers. “I’ve got claws. Teeth. An entire castle full of servants loyal to me. And these things?” He gestured to the tendrils. “They can bend metal. But you?” He sneered. “Squishy little human. You’re lucky I like you, or you’d be jelly by now.”

Alastor’s stomach twisted. He drew in a deep breath, forcing his voice to steady. He refused to look at Amélie as he spoke. Doing so would make him falter — and he could not, would not falter now.

“That’s precisely my trump card, isn’t it? You ‘like’ me,” he said, forcing a smile on his face. “What was it you said about me? That I look good? So why don’t I give you exactly what you want in exchange for what I want?”

The Beast raised an eyebrow. “What exactly are you saying?”

Got him.

“Let’s make a deal.”

Now that seemed to pique the Beast’s interest. The Beast straightened before drifting back towards Alastor again, moving with the grace of a spider approaching prey caught in its web. Its tentacles throbbed thoughtfully as it leaned down until all Alastor could smell was the rot in its breath, until all he could see was the crimson of its eyes hovering mere inches from his own.

“What kind of deal?”

Alastor held its gaze without flinching. “You release her,” he said, nodding towards Amélie, “without harming her or the horse I rode in on in any way. And in exchange…” He swallowed hard, then gestured towards a nearby cell. “I’ll join your little prisoner collection.”

The Beast’s eyes narrowed. It tilted its head. It paced a slow circle around him — once, twice, a third time just to make sure. When it finally stopped, it let out a low exhale… and the grin returned in full.

“That’s it? Really?” it asked, unable to stop the eagerness from bleeding into its voice. “I mean, who wouldn’t agree to that?”

Alastor snarled. “You’ve got about three seconds before that offer expires—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” the Beast said dismissively. “I release your mom and won’t harm anyone you love or whatever. And in exchange…” The Beast extended a clawed hand. Under Alastor’s gaze, faint flickers of blue light danced along its claws. “You stay here. You don’t try to leave. You don’t talk to anyone from the village. You don’t draw that knife of yours or any other weapon against me. And most importantly?” The grin sharpened. “You accept that you’re mine. So? Do we have a deal?”

Alastor stared down at the hand. Then he glanced back up. Not at the creature… but at Amélie. At Maman. At the woman who knelt there, desperate and terrified, knuckles white from clutching onto the iron bars.

“Alastor, don’t—”

He grasped the Beast’s hand. “Deal.”

The moment their hands touched, a brilliant blue light burst outwards. The shadows of the dungeon seemed to shudder before pitching forward, forced to bow before a king too terrible to wear any crown. The air hummed with a thick, almost electric current. In an instant, Alastor felt some wild, ancient bond surge before snapping into place, leaving nothing behind but an odd weight in his chest and a strange, oily sheen on what he could only describe was his soul.

The deal was sealed.

And the next thing he knew, the Beast was snapping its fingers.

“Release the prisoner.”

The candlestick squeaked. Then, she turned and let out a sharp whistle.

Mrow!

…

…

Was that a cat?

Well, not quite. The… item that answered the candlestick’s call was a small winged key, black in color with a cat’s eye gem at the center. It came to a screeching halt in front of the candlestick, who smiled warmly before gesturing with her… head towards Maman’s cell.

“That one, KeeKee.”

The key chirped happily before zipping over to the lock, opening it with a satisfying clunk. The moment the cell door swung open, Amélie was rushing forward, arms outstretched, ready to pull Alastor into one of her famous bone-crushing hugs. Unable to help himself, Alastor grinned and turned, opening his arms to receive her.

“Alastor!”

“Ma—”

Tentacles shot from the Beast’s back. One seized Amélie by the waist and ripped her from Alastor’s arms while another yanked him the opposite direction by his collar. Alastor only stared at first, stunned by the sheer speed of it all, until shock gave way to a furious snarl.

“Unhand me!”

“Uh… yeah, no, didn’t you listen to the deal?” the Beast asked. It began ticking each thing off its fingers as it spoke. “No escaping, no talking to anyone from the village, no drawing a weapon against me, accepting you’re mine forever… and sorry, sweetheart, but this?” The tentacle around Amélie lifted her a few more inches off the ground, giving her a hard shake for emphasis. “This counts as talking to someone from the village.”

“Surely forever can spare a minute!” Alastor hissed.

“Hey, don’t worry,” The Beast drawled, as though it were speaking with a child. “While you’re stuck forever, you’ll forget all about her… eventually.”

Before Alastor could find an appropriately cutting response to that particular brand of cruel stupidity, another tentacle flicked sharply and snatched the winged key — KeeKee — straight out of the air. It responded with a furious yowl and an even more furious shake, as though it were trying to wriggle out of the Beast’s grasp. The creature ignored it, naturally, and instead deigned to stalk towards the neighboring cell, shoving the struggling key into the lock.

A low click and annoyed hiss from KeeKee echoed through the dungeon first. It was very quickly followed by the door creaking open.

The Beast’s tentacles were inside before anyone could so much as breathe. When they pulled out, Alastor caught a slight glint of gold in between the writhing black mass. He barely had time to register what was happening before the Beast flung the object across the room. The item — a candelabra, Alastor realized — struck the opposite wall with a hollow metallic crash that echoed throughout the dungeon. In the next second, it slid down to the floor in a heap, a weak groan spilling from its… lips?

“Look alive, Lucifer! You’ve got a new guest to have tea parties with!”

“Dad!” the candlestick cried. She hopped clumsily across the stone, flame wavering wildly when she reached him.

The candelabra — Lucifer? — groaned and lifted one unsteady arm to his… head. “Ch-Charlie? Wha—”

He got no further. Alastor’s world became a blur of gray, black, and even more gray. He barely had time to tense before his back struck the wall, followed by his head. The crack sent a blinding flash of white through his vision. The force knocked the breath from his lungs. He slid down the stone in a graceless sprawl, vision swimming violently, chest heaving, stomach churning.

His new host barely spared him a glance.

“Give him that room in the East Wing,” it said, already turning away. “The Princess’ old room. Not like she needs it anyways!”

It turned to the winged cigarette holder next. “Val? Go free the horse. And tell Velvette to get the carriage ready.” He dragged Amélie closer, many red eyes turning to gaze at her with an utterly unsettling calm. “We’re not letting it stop until she’s back in that little village of hers and out of my sight for good.”

Amélie struggled harder at that, twisting against the tentacle wrapped around her waist.

“Don’t—Don’t hurt him!” she cried. Her voice rang across the stone, echoing in every corner of the dungeon as the Beast began to drag her away. “Don’t you dare—Alastor!”

At the sound of her voice, Alastor stirred. He tried to push himself upright — a valiant attempt that lasted all of two seconds. The moment he lifted his head, the world lurched violently. A wave of nausea rolled through him so suddenly it stole the strength from his arms. He tried to crawl forward regardless, sheer stubbornness forcing its way through the roil of his stomach.

“Maman—”

The word slurred out of his mouth, barely recognizable. His stomach twisted viciously in response. He doubled over, gasping hard, one hand bracing against the ground as his body betrayed him entirely. The contents of his stomach followed soon after, splattering uselessly against the dungeon floor. Dimly, he heard Maman screaming his name again.

“Alastor!”

He—He had to stand. Had to run after her. Had to—had to end that creature’s miserable life—

But the world was spinning too fast. Another wave of nausea forced him back down, shoulders heaving as the footsteps above faded farther and farther into the castle.

“ALASTOR—”

The dungeon door swung shut. It cut off her voice completely. This left Alastor kneeling on the cold stone floor with nothing but the taste of bile in his mouth and the sickening certainty that he had just clipped his wings, chaining himself to a monster from which he’d never escape.

And, frankly, he’d happily do it again.

Lucifer didn’t know how long it took before he could move again. Minutes, probably. Or hours. Or maybe a few snowy years. Either way, part of avoiding trouble meant that he’d have to get himself back on his base sooner or later to do his… erm… “job,” whether or not he wanted to.

And he most certainly didn’t want to.

Unsurprisingly, the… guy — the Alastor guy, that guy — wasn’t really in the mood to talk at the moment. Lucifer wasn’t either. But that was fine. It was pretty clear that neither of them wanted to be here, and that neither of them were going to escape being here. It actually took a few minutes longer of the man just sitting slumped against the wall where Vox had thrown him before he started moving too. Even then, he moved as though swimming through syrup, eyes unfocused and dull, filled with the sort of glassiness that tended to accompany a bad blow to the skull.

Lucifer knew that look — he’d worn it himself seven years ago. And if the man’s mind was working anything like Lucifer’s had been back then, it was racing. Scrambling for any possible way to get out of his predicament and ensure he was a prisoner no more.

Usually, minds like that required quiet time to mull over plans like that. And after that, more quiet to mourn when it realized that said plans would never work.

Unfortunately, Charlie — sweet soul that she was — didn’t share such sentiment.

“So, uh, welcome to the castle! I’m Charlie, and that’s my dad, Lucifer!” she chirped brightly from her spot on the floor. “You can think of us as the Heads… servants! As the Head Servants of the castle!”

Lucifer sighed internally. If he still had fingers, he’d use them to pinch the bridge of his currently nonexistent nose. Sometimes, the kid was too eager for her own good.

Due in part to Lucifer’s admittedly superior ability to produce light — and also because Charlie had decided he needed “the most help bonding with our new guest,” whatever that meant — he was eventually designated as the one to illuminate the way upstairs for their new guest. Which meant that he was being carried by said guest. Like some sort of torch or toy. It’d be humiliating if he hadn’t already endured rougher treatment than this over the past seven years.

As undignified as it was to just be carried like this, Lucifer’s position did offer a couple small advantages. For example, he was able to get a good look at Alastor’s face from this vantage point. As much as he hated to admit it, the view from this angle wasn’t exactly terrible. Sure, the guy looked like he’d been dragged through Hell and back, then made to eat his own kidneys, but he still walked tall and proud. Carrying with him a wiry strength and surprisingly smooth grace even though he was probably concussed out of his mind.

Lucifer could definitely see what the guy had inherited from Amélie. Auburn curls and amber eyes aside, there was a certain poise to the guy. A self-assuredness that announced itself merely by him walking into a room. And the eager, almost mischievous spark dancing in his eye... Yeah, Amélie had definitely given that one to him.

But he was obviously a very different person; he lacked her warmth, for example. And her softness. In their place, he had an edge that refused to dull no matter how many times it struck stone. Even in his half-conscious, swaying state, there was a tension in his muscles that refused to unwind. Not that Lucifer blamed him; he’d be a bit tense too if he’d just made a deal with a Beast to become his prisoner forever.

He was fascinating. He was irritating. He was a total contradiction that made no damn sense. That was perhaps the most annoying thing about him; Lucifer hadn’t even had a proper conversation with the guy yet, but already he was peeved just from the fact that he couldn't figure out why he was unable to tear his eyes — or his mind, for that matter — away from this man.

Then again, Charlie liked to say that everyone had some goodness somewhere deep inside them, Some redeeming quality that made them… tolerable. So, who knows? Maybe she was right. Maybe if Lucifer was patient enough, this guy would reveal what made him so interesting.

Or maybe it was the cheekbones.

…

…

God fucking dammit. Life really was a bitch, wasn’t it?

“...Charmed,” Alastor responded shortly, snapping Lucifer back to the present. “The name’s Alastor. Pleasure to meet you both… quite the pleasure.” A pause. “At least, that’s what I would say, if it were an actual pleasure.”

“Yeah, well, can’t imagine why it isn’t,” Lucifer said sarcastically before Charlie could launch into yet another monologue about… whatever. “What was it? Almost getting eaten or the part where you traded your entire life and freedom away?”

Alastor smirked faintly — a surprisingly fitting look on him. That tiny mischievous flicker flared behind those deep ambers. "Hard to say… between staring up at the literal jaws of death and my dear mother’s panic, it’s been quite the monstrous evening. Really takes a bite out of my schedule.”

That wasn’t funny, that wasn’t funny, that wasn’t funny—

He snorted. Dammit.

“Heh, alright then. So I guess that’d be six shocks to your life tonight?”

“Oh, now why would I be shocked? I'm only talking to a tiny candlestick—"

"Uh, fuck you? First off, candelabra. Huge difference. Second—"

"You most certainly aren't."

Oh, this asshole. He was lucky Lucifer didn’t have any legs or hands or anything like that, because he’d find himself splattered across the courtyard otherwise. Railing was nice like that. Just one push and you’d just go right over the edge. Whoopie, bye bye!

“Second, we were all human at some point, years ago. So for all you know, I’m way taller than you.”

“Well, if you must know, that thought did cross my mind,” Alastor said lightly. “Though personal experience has shown me that overcompensation of one’s shortcomings tends to be a favored defense mechanism. Like you’re doing now! Good job.”

Yup. Definitely an asshole.

“Oh, wow, a short joke.” Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Like I haven’t heard those before.”

Alastor hummed. “So you have heard them before?”

Lucifer refused to dignify that with an answer.

They were walking across one of the castle’s battlements, the shortest path to the East Wing. Alastor walked slowly, one hand steadying itself along the ornate railing while the other held Lucifer aloft. Every now and then, he would stumble, either from slipping on some fallen snow or from his knees buckling when a fresh wave of dizziness caught him off guard. Each time it happened, he paused, grit his teeth, then forced his balance back into place before continuing forward as though nothing had happened.

Charlie noticed, of course; she kept turning around to check on him, her smile wobbling with concern before snapping back into place whenever Alastor straightened again and resumed walking.

“Anyways, this castle is your home now!” Charlie chirped, hopping along ahead of them with far too much enthusiasm for someone who had been trapped in such a horrible state for seven years. “So feel free to go anywhere you like! The gardens are really nice looking with snow all over them! Erm… except, they always have snow…”

She paused, frowning.

“The…The ballroom’s pretty too! When it’s not too cold. Except it always is… oh! The kitchen! The kitchen’s a ton of fun! Chef Husk makes the best meals… except, you’re not allowed to do anything in there without Vox’s permission.” Just as Lucifer began to wonder if she’d somehow learned how to talk without still needing to breathe — despite being a literal object — she continued, “Just make sure no matter what you do, you stay away from the West Wing—”

Shit.

Charlie froze mid-hop. Her eyes widened. Lucifer snapped his head over at her and began frantically waving both arms in the universal gesture that meant “shut the fuck up.”

“Wh-Which we don’t have!” Charlie blurted far too quickly. “Nope! Nu-uh! No such thing as a West Wing! West Wing? Never heard of her, ahahaha—”

Unfortunately, Alastor was only about half as stupid as he looked, because he stopped walking, eyebrow raised.

“Why not? What’s in the West Wing?”

“Nothing!” Lucifer said quickly. “Nothing at all! I mean, you know how kids are, always making things up—”

Charlie nodded so hard her head almost came loose. “Yup, I’m a kid and I make things up! Totally! All the time!”

Alastor looked between them. Let out the most disbelieving hum ever. It was astonishing how much skepticism a man could fit in a single noise.

“I see… and what, pray tell, is to be found in this completely imaginary West Wing that you two are determined to convince me is not real?”

“Ducks!” Lucifer said quickly.

“Storage!” Charlie said simultaneously.

That just made Alastor’s skepticism palpable, which Lucifer didn’t think was possible. Then again, when it came to this castle, just about anything could be possible. “Duck storage?”

“Yes!” Charlie said.

“No!” Lucifer interjected.

They both looked at each other, horrified. Once again, Alastor’s gaze darted between them. Yet another thoughtful little noise escaped his throat, the sort one might make while watching two especially chatty birds attempt to assemble a nest while disagreeing what it should be made out of. After a moment, he chuckled, and shook his head.

“You’re both really bad at this.”

“Actually, I’m bad at this,” Charlie admitted sheepishly. She leaned back slightly in her base before rocking forward again. If she still had arms, Lucifer had no doubt they would’ve been clasped behind her back the way they always had when she was little and trying to avoid confessing to stealing from the kitchens or sneaking out and taking her horse a ride in the dead of night. The thought actually made Lucifer smile a bit.

“Dad’s the best liar in the castle.”

…

…

God help him, Charlie was lucky she was so loveable.

“So there is a West Wing,” Alastor remarked, the words landing with the smugness of a man who had solved a puzzle a long time ago, long before anyone else could even think of a solution.

Lucifer groaned. “Fine. Yeah, sure. It exists. Big deal.”

“And?”

“And you’re not allowed in there.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I said so.”

A pause.

“Well,” Alastor said mildly, resuming his walk along the battlement, “if the candlestick—”

“Candelabra.”

Alastor ignored him. Of course. “—specifically forbade it, I imagine that’s exactly where the interesting things are.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” Lucifer wagged his candle directly into Alastor’s face. Alastor actually went cross-eyed from that. “You are not doing that.”

“Doing what?” Alastor asked, grin widening. “Walking into the West Wing? Opening this forbidden door without permission? Helping myself to these oh-so-mysterious ducks being stored there? Now, where would you possibly get that idea?”

“You’re implying it!”

“I’m doing no such thing. Merely expressing curiosity.”

“Uh, no. That’s called trespassing.”

“Which also isn’t allowed!” Charlie piped up helpfully.

“Thanks, CharChar,” Lucifer muttered. He crossed his arms and fixed Alastor with the fiercest glare a pile of melted wax and ornamental brass could reasonably manage. “You heard her. Not allowed. So how ‘bout we forget all about the still totally non-existent West Wing and go see your accommodations and all that instead?”

Alastor opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it with a soft click, as though deciding that he’d extracted enough entertainment from the situation… at least, for now. Instead, he simply inclined his head and followed Charlie as she continued along the battlement.

Eventually the battlement curved toward a narrow stone bridge connecting to the eastern tower. Snow had gathered along its edges in soft drifts, the wind pushing pale ribbons of frost through the air. A large door waited at the end, framed in pale ivory wood that had once been painted with delicate gold trim.

When the door came into view, Charlie paused, hesitating just before the threshold. After a few seconds of rocking upon her base once more — no doubt, with her imaginary arms picking at her imaginary sleeves as she'd done so as a child — she seemed to decide that it was far better to just rip the bandage off. With a surprisingly large leap for something without knees, she hopped on top of the doorknob and pressed it down, using her momentum to push open the door before dropping back onto the ground with a soft clink.

The room beyond spread wide beneath a vaulted ceiling painted to look like a sky caught in perpetual sunset. Warm golds and deep oranges stretched across the curved surface, casting the illusion of dying sunlight across the space. Rows of apples were carved into the molding, with snakes, wings, and more apples painted into the walls. Upon the crimson marble floor sat a circular rug, woven in shades of red with a golden crest at its center: an apple encircled by the rays of a stylized sun.

Near the far window, the floor sloped upward into a pair of ramps leading to an elevated platform situated before a great window. Off to the side was a small crow’s nest salvaged from a ship that had been decommissioned years ago. Now, it was crammed with stuffed animals, hand-carved toys, and a play pitchfork leaning proudly against the railing.

A desk sat in the back of the room, its corner bitten by a carved serpent curling along its edge. It came with a matching plush stool, with bits of fluff jutting out of the innumerable holes moths had chewed into it.

There was a large canopy bed as well. It was a beautiful thing, all gold trim and scarlet silks. A comfortable red quilt covered the mattress, along with a thick layer of dust. Lucifer made a mental note to call Niffty back here as soon as possible; no guest deserved to sleep in this much filth, even if the guest in question was currently being a monumental pain in the ass.

Lucifer hopped down from Alastor’s grasp and landed on the marble floor with a cheerful clink. Spinning on his base, Lucifer spread his arms wide and bowed as dramatically as a candelabra could manage. He might have been cast down from his once-lofty perch, but at the very least, he could pride himself in his good taste — something that he strongly doubted even Alastor would find fault in.

"Welcome to your new home! It's... uh-huh. It's modest, but—"

"Tacky."

…

…

"...Excuse me?"

Alastor turned slowly, amber eyes scanning over the room. He sneered.

"This room is the single most disgustingly tawdry piece of maximalist garbage I've ever had the displeasure of witnessing.”

Charlie’s jaw dropped open in disbelief at the words, but Alastor pressed on, seemingly ignorant of her reaction. “The color palette is an eyesore to behold. The furnishings seem to have been selected by someone with the aesthetic restraint of a drunken raccoon. And the decorative motif,” he gestured towards the apples carved above, “is so heavy-handed it borders on parody.”

Was it illegal to set an asshole on fire? Probably. Did Lucifer want to do it anyways? Very much so.

Unfortunately, Lucifer had the distinct feeling that he would get in huge, huge trouble if any harm came to Alastor. He was pretty sure that Vox had every intention of using their newfound guest to break the spell. Yeah, sure, said plan was very likely to fail, but that was the thing. What if the hope that the curse would one day be broken wasn’t doomed? What if there really was such a thing as a soulmate? Vox and Alastor were both assholes, and what was true love if not two assholes combining their assholery and making it the rest of the world’s problem?

Vox would likely throw a fit if their newest attempt at breaking the curse got immolated before he even had a chance to fall hopelessly in love and deliver the whole “true love’s kiss breaks the spell” nonsense that pretty much any magical curse in existence was obsessed with.

Besides the whole spell-breaking thing, the deal also complicated matters. The agreement covered anyone Alastor loved, and men like this one usually loved themselves a great deal.

Still.

Lucifer scowled, crossing his arms. “You know… most people start with ‘thank you.’”

Alastor scoffed. “Whoever chose the decor here ought to start with ‘sorry’ instead.”

Lucifer’s eye twitched. “Okay, one: I didn’t get to decide whose room you were going into. And two? You’ve got a mattress, a blanket, a desk, and a window that doesn’t face a fucking dungeon wall. That already puts you ahead of, like, half the castle.”

“Oh, how marvelously generous,” Alastor replied dryly. “My captors have given me a view. That makes things much more palatable now.”

“Yeah, well, sorry the imprisonment suite doesn’t meet your standards.”

“You misunderstand. The terrible trappings here aren’t the only thing that offends me.”

“Oh, really? Could’ve fooled me.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed. He turned and began walking slowly across the room, stride still unsteady enough to betray the lingering concussion. When he spoke, venom dripped from every word.

“I do hope you realize how disastrously insulting it is that, after having only the most awful day of my life, I’m being told by a candlestick—”

“Candelabra!”

“—that this mausoleum is to be my home.”

“‘This mausoleum’ is probably the best room in the house right now,” Lucifer snapped. “And if you think I’m just gonna stand here and let you insult my—”

“Okay!” Charlie chirped, hopping forward before things could get too heated. “I think that’s enough for a night!”

Neither of them moved. Which was likely answer enough for her. Charlie looked between them, her expression softening a bit before she let out a low sigh and turned towards Alastor.

“Hey… Alastor, right?” she said quietly. “I’m… really sorry. About everything. You’ve had a horrible, horrible day and none of this is fair.”

Alastor didn’t answer her. Instead, he merely crossed his arms and walked over to the desk, leaning against it. Charlie watched him for a beat before turning to face Lucifer.

“Let’s go, Dad.”

Lucifer didn’t move at first. Merely stood there, staring at Alastor, watching as the man brought one hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. His shoulders shook… then slumped. He seemed to shrink. The veneer of a proud, unbroken man slowly sliding from his shoulders.

The person that was left seemed… vulnerable. Raw. Almost pitiful, in a way. But before Lucifer could say anything, Charlie called to him again.

“Dad.”

He sighed.

“Coming, kiddo.”

The door clicked shut behind him. The moment it did so, Lucifer groaned and pressed his candles to his head, rubbing where his temples once were.

“Ugh. He’s such an asshole.”

Charlie sighed. “He’s upset, Dad.”

“Yeah, so am I. That doesn’t give him a right to—”

“He got trapped, lost his mom, met the Beast, and learned that this place is full of talking furniture, all in one night! I think anyone would be cranky after that, wouldn’t they?”

…Well, she had a point. A good one. Like any good kid would.

“...He’s still an asshole," Lucifer muttered.

Charlie flashed a small smile at him. “You’ve had those days too.”

Lucifer blinked. Glanced at the floor. Stared at it for a long minute before speaking again.

“...Yeah,” he admitted reluctantly. “I guess.”

Charlie hummed. “I should go get Rosie. If Alastor’s staying here, he probably needs clothes. He… didn’t exactly get to pack or anything.”

Oh, right. That was an idea. A good idea. Probably the best idea anyone had all night. Lucifer swallowed before grinning at his daughter, hoping against all hope that his face showed how proud he was of her.

“Good idea… I can go find, uh, Nori—”

“Niffty.”

“Yeah, her. Maybe she can clean up the place.”

Charlie nodded before starting down the hallway. Just before she went out of sight, however, she paused and looked back over her… well. She didn’t have shoulders.

“And, Dad?”

Lucifer blinked. “Yeah?”

“Try to be nicer to him.”

With that, she was gone.

Lucifer stood there alone for a while. His gaze drifted back to the closed door, Charlie’s parting words still echoing in his mind.

Maybe… Maybe he should go back in there. Apologize. Let the guy know that, even though he was basically the castle’s prisoner at this point, he would still be treated well. The thought of ever apologizing to an asshole like that wounded Lucifer’s pride like nothing else, but Charlie would want him to do it. And, well, Lucifer would always give Charlie what she wanted. So, after taking a deep breath, he turned back to the door, and—

“Buenas noches, cabroncito.”

Fuck.

Lucifer turned, stomach curdling as Val appeared, flying down from God-knows-where. Smoke curled around him in a slow spiral, seeming to drape him in layers. When he got close enough, he took a moment to blow a long plume directly into Lucifer’s face. Lucifer scowled at that, quietly thanking whoever lived above his head that in this form, he had no olfactories for the cigarette holder to torture.

“What do you want?” Lucifer asked flatly.

Val made a movement that looked like he rolled his eyes. “C’mon now. You know it isn’t what I want.”

Of course not. It was rarely about what Val or Velvette wanted, though they certainly had plenty to want for. Vox probably needed his bath water heated. Or his chamberpot cleaned. Or his feet rubbed. One of those things.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there soon. I just need to make sure our… guest gets all settled in.”

“Such hospitality,” Val said sarcastically. He blew another cloud directly into Lucifer’s face. “Makes me wanna puke. But you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you, Your M—”

Lucifer snarled, the sound coming out sharply enough to actually shut Val up.

“Fine. What does he want?”