“He might,” Mags said slowly, clearly coming up with an idea. “If the right person were to ask.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“Well, we have to try.”
Luce groaned. “I’m sure my darling brother will be overjoyed to help us.”
“Probably not,” she smiled and grabbed her bag from a nearby chair. “But you know Christos will be.”
“So, all our hopes depend on my brother listening to his son and lending me one of the most powerful artifacts in his collection. Great.”
Mags patted his cheek fondly. “I’ll be back with good news, I promise.”
She was gone before he could respond, hurrying out of his study with a hopeful spring in her light steps.
Luce picked up the index, turning back to the page they had been studying. The hand-painted image of the golden armor glinted with shimmering pigment, twinkling at him in a way that seemed almost taunting. He traced the shape of the painted helmet, trailed his fingers over the breastplate and down the length of the sword’s blade. Once upon a time, Luce had crafted a single piece of this armor, before Jehovah had revoked access to the Gospel, and it had been a true work of art.
He hated being at his brother’s mercy more than anything in the world. He threw down the tome; itthumpedloudly against the floor, missing the table, and he kicked it in a flare of rage like a petulant child. Flopping into his wingback chair, Luce dragged his hands over his face and groaned.
“What am I going todo?” He demanded of the room, slumping forward to rest his throbbing head on his desk.
“You could try talking about your problems for a change,” a sickly-sweet voice chirped back at him. Luce could hear the smirk.
“Remiel,” he muttered dryly, not even bothering to lift his head. “Sure, I don’t need any alone time, no, of course you can come harass me. Can the Devil have no peace?”
A small hand patted him gently on the back of the head.
“Hi Luci,” she trilled, then twisted her fingers quickly into his hair and yanked his head up, voice dropping several octaves back to her normal tone. “It’s rude not to look at someone when you greet them.”
He narrowed his eyes at her too-large grin, the little sadist. Her normally spiked hair was disheveled and hanging into her face, small beads of water dripping off the ends and onto his desk.
“You’re wet,” he spoke slowly, as if Remiel needed extra care to comprehend. “And you’re dripping on the Scrolls of Mammon.”
“Yeah?” She lifted her brows in mock surprise and shook her head like a dog, scattering thick droplets across his desk and the other books and manuscripts. Luce flicked his fingers sharply, and the falling droplets froze in midair. He sent the books floating back to their respective shelves with another careless gesture, glowering.
Remi’s grin widened to reveal her sharp canines. “I hadn’t noticed! Maybe it’s because you’re broodingin here, so it’s pouringout there!”
“What?” The frozen droplets dropped abruptly to the desktop as his concentration broke, some shattering on impact while others rolled across the wood like marbles.
“You heard me,” she snapped, tightening her grip and leaning right into his face. “Storm clouds darker than my soul. Thunder like a giant is humping a mountain. Fuckingdownpour.”
“Okay, I get it,” Luce waved a hand between them. “Can you let go of my hair now, you crazy bitch?”
“Only because you asked so nicely,” her voice slipped back into those honeyed tones, and she brought his face down hard onto the desk before releasing him. His nose snapped witha crunch, and thick golden blood poured onto the wood and squirted down his shirtfront.
“Whad da vuck, Rebi!” He hissed, his hand shooting out on instinct to grip her by her slender throat, partly out of shock and partly to keep her from making any more moves to assault him.
“That's for calling me a bitch.” She leaned into his grip, the little masochist, before she pulled away to hop up and perch on the edge of his desk. She gave him a feral grin, smearing his blood with her combat boots as she rested one against the desk and pressed the other to his groin. “Sometimes, when you love someone, you have to kick ’em in the ass for their own good.”
Luce blinked in astonishment. “Whad da FUCK.”
“Shut up,” Remi pressed her foot down slightly, “or I will crush your tiny balls.”
Lucifer narrowed his eyes, his nose gave an awful throb, and he hissed again. With a flick of his wrist and a brief flash of white light, his nose righted itself, and he gave the imperious little terror the full force of his glower.
“Tell me, Remiel, why I shouldn’t beat the fear of the Devil into the flesh of your hide for this insolent behavior?” Everything in him was screaming to dig his fingers in harder, to choke the life out of the little brat. But Remiel wasn’t just one of his seven generals, or the vessel of his wrath—she was hisfriend, and that designation had him reigning in his fury.
“Because I have the upper hand here?” She didn’t cower from his glare, instead giving him one of her own right back and pressing the toe of her boot into his crotch harder. “Or, the upper foot, rather?”
