A vanity dominated one wall, overflowing with makeup in a variety of tubes, jars, palettes, and compacts, interspersed with assorted bottles of perfumes and scattered pieces of jewelry. The same wall was adorned with several framed paintings. At first they appeared to be random splatters of pastel, but the longer he looked, the more he could infer the vague suggestion of flowers. He wondered briefly if Mags had done those herself, or if perhaps Sachi had helped.
The closest seat was an overstuffed burgundy abomination that was a mix of beanbag and armchair. Luce eyed it dubiously before deciding to take the risk, gently perching on the edge and immediately slipping into the chair’s gaping maw.
“Mags! Your chair is eating me!” He flailed a bit in an attempt to escape but only succeeded in sinking further into it.
Mags eyed him with a mixture of pity, amusement, and disdain.
“Behold!” She intoned dramatically, adopting a mockery of Luce’s deeper voice. “Lucifer of the Morning Star, mighty Seraphim Eterna, Lord of Hell and highly worshipped Divine being,” she paused for effect, then switched back to her own gently mocking deadpan, “lain low by a poufy lounge chair.”
She leaned over him with a wicked grin and gave the chair a hard shove to tip him out of it. “How the masses will quake to hear the tale.”
Lucifer gave an undignified shriek and jabbed a black-lacquered nail in her general direction. “Don’t you dare!”
“Oh hush,” she waved a hand dismissively as she set about arranging her scrying basin on her vanity. “Who would I tell?”
“Christos,” he said immediately.
Mags paused mid-pour of her rose-scented holy water and nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, you’re right. I amdefinitelytelling Christos.”
Lucifer grumbled but made no real complaint. After the horrors she had been through, he could hardly begrudge her finding someone she could be completely happy and open with. And of all people to know Luce’s every embarrassing moment, his nephew at least wouldn't betoogleeful in his teasing.
He gave up on anything resembling a chair and just tucked his long legs under him on the floor to watch as Mags set up for her spell. She opened a cabinet set against the wall, pulling out several wooden boxes of varying sizes. Placing them on her assortment of footstools—which Luce eyed with distrust after his encounter with the chair—she then pulled out crystals and candles in an assortment of colors and arranged them around the pearlescent seashell basin.
Luce arched a brow. “You need this many amplifiers?”
She sighed, lighting her candles with a long match. “Unfortunately, this vision is particularly...difficult. I hope it doesn’t affect you too strongly.”
“Please Mags, don’t insult me.”
“I’m not.” She snapped her fingers and the candle flames shot high, the heat and the water creating a mist in the air. With a spin of her finger, it deepened and spread until it rolled like smoke across the room. “You want to see so badly? I hope you’re ready for what I’m going to show you.”
That chill crept down his spine again and dragged the smile off his face. Something was clearly under her skin in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. A part of him began to be very afraid. Maybe he wasn’t as prepared as he had thought. Luce reminded himself sternly that he was the Lord of Hell and really, what could it be that he wasn’t powerful enough to endure? Then a chaotic scene began to flicker into focus over the mist, as if cast by a projector.
There was a cloudy quality to this vision, like trying to view a scene through a fogged windowpane. Even with her amplifying elements, it was obvious this vision had been a twisting, awful nightmare of scattered glimpses and vague hints. A shadowy form resolved itself into a human shape, and Luce realized it was his son Foster, walking in an empty alleyway.
After all his eons, there were still things that could catch him off guard.
The scene shifted, becoming more abstract. Angela, his departed wife, but just a close-cropped view of her beautiful face, smiling serenely. The image faded out and came back as a glaring golden light. There was the sound of ruffling feathers, a sensation of cold so intense it nearly burned.
Light flashed in the corners of his vision, like cracks of lightning across dark skies. There was a splash of blood, and someone dragging long, tanned fingers through it to paint a messy sigil. A smell like rotting garbage pervaded. He caught a glimpse of pale skin, the sickly pallor of fading life. The images spun and dipped wildly around him, never lingering longenough for a proper look. The clang of metal against metal, accompanied by an enraged shout and a flash of dark hair. Smoke swirling over a building, the crackle of fire? He couldn’t be sure. A book splayed on a table, worn pages inked with dark symbols and scrawls that looked like Aramaic. A white-hot pain in his chest.
A hand touched his shoulder gently, but he couldn’t be sure if it was Mags or a part of the vision. Luce’s head throbbed, a rush of vertigo swelling as the images and sensations flickered past at lightning speed.
A cold laugh, silver eyes like clouded moonlight, a little girl coughing violently, a leather jacket smoldering in embers.
The flash of a blade sweeping forward as if to cut his throat.
Luce gasped, leaning instinctively away from the phantom threat, and felt his world tip sideways as the visions spun away. The room vanished in a spill of sudden, blessed darkness.
The darkness was not empty. He could feel another presence. Luce blinked slowly, looking around curiously, but nothing was apparent.
“Hello?” He called out, his voice echoing away into the distance.
“Hello,” a voice called back, clear and mellifluous. It was utterly androgynous and devoid of inflection. He knew it wasn’t his own echo but couldn’t identify it beyond that. Luce frowned, taking an experimental step towards the voice.
There was nothing to step onto. He found himself falling, but not the drastic plummet of a freefall. This was a much more controlled descent, like coming in for a landing after a flight. His scarred shoulder blades ached with the phantom memory; muscles built over centuries twitched with the desire to fulfilltheir invalidated function. The darkness lightened and his feet touched down on a solid floor of rough oak.
A dim amber glow rose around him, and he could see the shadow of figures in the distance. He stepped cautiously forward, relieved at the click of his own footstep against the wood. As he approached the figures, he recognized Mags, Gloriana, Raguel—all his friends, in fact. They were clustered around a large bed piled high with blankets and pillows, where a woman in a blue silk robe lay, exhausted, in the center.
