Chapter One
Acool wind whistled through stone halls, carrying a mingled scent of smoke and damp as it hurtled toward a dimly glowing chamber. The warm light, cast by a rotating ring of slender black candles suspended in midair, flickered over the stone slab beneath but left the edges of the room in shadow. Various objects were illuminated in turn—dark puddles of some sticky liquid, a mortar and pestle coated in white residue, small bones and a raggedly drawn pentagram.
A man stood at the cluttered counter, his features skewed by the shifting glow, dark brows furrowed in concentration as his lips rapidly formed unintelligible sounds. The wind swept in and swirled fast around him, ruffling his thick hair and tugging at his clothes, whipping papers and scattered powders from the counter into a miniature cyclone.
The man hissed and snagged a fluttering sheet of parchment as it drifted past his ear, pressing it impatiently to the stone with a manicured hand laden with rings. His muttering grew louder, low voice dragging out the guttural syllables of an incomprehensible language, and the wind swirled faster as if in answer.
The candles flared then guttered out, sending the room deeper into gloom as the man broke off his chanting with a sharp exclamation. “How many tablespoons, would you say, are in a quarter of a cup?"
Here, in the bowels of the earth, the Devil was asking the spirits for baking advice. The wind abruptly died, dropping various items wherever they happened to land in a chorus of clatters and thumps. The skull of a small rodent rolled off into the void. A new sound echoed; a feminine clearing of the throat. Light flooded the space and The Devil winced.
The features of the room were revealed: gleaming chrome appliances, a beautiful mosaic backsplash in ocean tones, the full sprawl of the black granite island, now in shambles, cake batter half-mixed in the center of it all. And most importantly, a voluptuous brunette woman leaning against the doorframe, reclaimed skull in one hand and the other perched on her hip.
“Alas, poor Yorick,” she murmured dramatically. “I knew him, and his atrocious baking skills.”
“Ah yes, very funny Mags.” The man frowned, then sighed. “I assume you come bearing good news?”
“Not in the least.” She smiled, tossing him the skull and giggling when he fumbled to catch it and set it back down. “Well, unless you count me sparing anyone your patisserie failings as good news. Think of the mockery you’d endure otherwise.”
“Always a treasure, your rapier wit.” He licked his fingers absently, clearing away the remnants of chocolate batter. The lingering unease that had spurred him into his kitchen fluttered in his chest. “I think this one was going to be delicious.”
“Luce, my darling,” she said, eyes dancing with mirth as she flashed him a smile. “You always think that, and you are always the only one who does. You’d probably have better results if you followedrecipesinstead of asking the spirits.”
“Hush, you.” He flapped his hand dismissively but gave her his full attention at last. Mags only interrupted his antics when she had pressing news. “What was so urgent that you had to barge in on me?”
“Best that you see for yourself, I think.”
She spoke lightly, but Lucifer couldn’t help the cold shiver that slid down his spine at the way she avoided his gaze. His dreams had been plagued with dark omens for weeks now, and Mags was being unusually cagey. He had the sense that his life was about to become as messy as his kitchen.
Contrary to popular belief and mortal propaganda, Lucifer felt that Hell was quite homey. This could possibly have been due to the fact it had been his home for the past several millennia, but he liked to think it was due to the realm’s inherent charm and ambience.
He trailed his fingers along the polished slate that made up the interior walls of his estate as they walked through the long hallways, a perfect match to the freckled marble that clicked by under his expensive loafers. Was he due for another renovation? No. He’d just redone the place during the Renaissance, he could wait at least another century.
They reached the end of the hall, and Luce gripped the handle of the door that led outside. Mags touched the gleaming, ornately carved snake, stroking its emerald eyes where they peeked out from under Luce’s palm. “You love your irony, don’t you?”
“I will have you know the serpent is a magnificent omen. Immortality, rebirth, healing—theseare the traditional meanings of the snake. It was my brother who chose to make my symbol into something wicked.”
“Yeah.” She sucked her teeth. “He does tend to slander you a bit.”
Lucifer scoffed. “That’s being generous. The man tried to paint me as a reprobate in the eyes of our followers.”
“Oh Luce,” Mags stroked his cheek with a soft hand, then pinched hard. “You’re literally a criminal, convicted of heresy and attempted mutiny. You’re the very definition of a reprobate.”
“Most of those claims are unfounded, for the record, and the rest arealleged. Luckily humans tend to be stubborn, and I have a healthy contingent who see my side of things.” He yanked the door open and ushered her out. “After you, darling.”
They stepped out into the central courtyard and Luce subconsciously lifted his chin to soak in the sunlight streaming down. It was artificial, unfortunately, but it was close enough to make him long for the real thing. He had been too occupied with his duties to take any trips to the mortal realm lately, and he missed it dearly. He missed more than just true sunlight, if he were being honest with himself, but it had been years. If he went back now, if he saw him, what would he even say?
His thoughts derailed as a small, winged demon blew quickly past, fluttering between them at a speed that whipped Mags’s hair like a windstorm. It was roughly the size of a shoebox, pale blue and heavily feathered, and clutching a small parcel in its sharply taloned feet.
“No, that’s fine!” Mags called indignantly after the demon. “Just the King of Hell and his best friend, no need to apologize for almost running us over!”
The creature spun back around, narrowly missing a collision with a sycamore tree, its three bright red eyes wide with what might have been shock. It waved long, spindly arms in a frantic gesture while it squeaked and babbled in its own language, before abruptly turning and zipping away again. Mags made an irritated sound, throwing up her hands. Luce chuckled. He loved when Mags let out her inner spitfire, even if it meant she wasfeeling stressed or upset. She was normally so soft and quiet that people forgot she was one half of an incredible power couple.
“You know Lidae demons never have time to chat,” he chided, but couldn’t keep himself from smiling at her put-out expression while she fixed her tousled hair. “Balthazar keeps them on their toes.”
Mags harrumphed, casting a sidelong gaze at him. “Ah yes, glorified carrier pigeons with manners to match. How ignorant of me to insult such hardworking creatures.”
“What’s that expression again? Neither rain nor sleet nor burning hellfire?”
