“What do you mean he refused to come here?” Lucifer yelled. As outbursts went, it wasn’t his most impressive. Then again, he stood in the Chamber of Promises where the glass cases could be temperamental. He didn’t want to risk shattering any of them, given some of the promises he kept intact would crumble to dust and free whatever soul he’d trapped.

He blamed the stupid clause his lawyers had made him include. Once the contract disappeared, so did that soul’s obligation. So much for eternity…eternity only lasted as long as parchment did in most cases.

“Whoever he is, he’s arrogant,” Bambi stated, his daughter having volunteered to visit this mortal calling himself the Antichrist. His old friend Rasputin had informed him of the pretender.

“Arrogance doesn’t make him my son.” Lucifer would know if he’d created one.

I most certainly did not. And before some mouthy hag claimed he couldn’t know for sure, given he spread his seed far and wide—because the women love to ride my pogo stick—he’d add, as the Devil, he controlled many things. One of those things was the sex of the babies he made. Girls. And only girls.

Why the fuck would he make a boy when the prophecies claimed any son of Lucifer would try and take his throne?

Try, but never succeed.

Then again, it might be kind of fun to have a chip off the old block running around the palace, terrorizing the staff. Muriel used to do that when she was young. Before she went to live on the mortal side. Mingling with the humans.

Pfft.

And, yes, that was utter jealousy making that noise because, while his child could live amongst them, Lucifer could only manage short periods of time. Part of the deal he’d made with God, his bloody annoying brother. Lucifer got to rule Hell, while God and his self-righteousness got Heaven. As for Earth, they could only watch and slyly manipulate.

Until someone fulfilled the prophecy.

“He’s got the mark,” Bambi noted.

Lucifer waved a hand. “Bah. How many pretenders have tattooed themselves with sixes trying to make the same claim?”

“It’s in the old language.”

“Still not proof. Tattoos are easy to get these days.”

“It’s not a tattoo.”

He whirled and boomed, “Why are you so determined to argue with me?”

A glass case beside him trembled and collapsed. The ancient scroll within hit the arid air of the pit and disintegrated.

Fuck. There went his prized soul, Moses, wrestled from God during a time when they both had a more active hand on Earth.

“What’s got your boxers in a knot?” Muriel asked, stepping into the room of promises. “I could hear you yelling from the castle courtyard.” His youngest daughter looked much too nice in her clean jeans—without any holes—her blouse—nicely ironed—and her brushed hair. Fresh-faced, too. Her wholesome appearance served only to remind him how she kept working against him.

“I was not yelling,” he lied, and was proud of it. “Merely loudly disclaiming your sister’s report.”

“What report?” she asked.

Lucifer didn’t want to tell. Muriel could be unpredictable when she wanted, and not in a way that did him proud. The last time he’d tried to punish her for being too nice, she volunteered at a homeless shelter kitchen. His daughter, helping those less fortunate.

The shame.

“It’s nothing important. It’s personal,” he said when she wouldn’t stop staring.

Muriel’s lips curved. “Did your tailor tell you he wouldn’t sew skull buttons on your favorite coat again?”

He made a noise and waved a hand. “Skulls are so passé. I’ve moved on to different fashion accents.” For example, the boxers he wore were patterned in red-eyed sharks. Way more fun than skulls. He’d almost caused his tailor to cry. I’ll have to try harder next time.

Lucifer had visions of a sailor suit with a matching slicker in mind. Maybe bordered in ducks. Horned ducks.

“What are you doing here, lamb?” Bambi asked.

He couldn’t help but frown at her sweet nickname for her sibling. Just more signs of wrongness. Lambs should be for eating or feeding to the wolves.

“Remy popped into the bar for a drink before dragging a lost soul back to Hell. He let me come with him so I could say hi to Dad.”

Ah, yes, Remy, a demon determined to surpass Lucifer in the whoring department. He’d have to do something about that.

But first, Lucifer needed to chastise his youngest child. “You popped in to say hi?” Lucifer could feel the steam rising, leaking from his ears. “Are you trying to kill me with your caring nature?” The bloody girl kept insisting on liking him. At times, she even hugged him.

It made him feel uncomfortable. A true daughter of his should be unfeeling. Or mean. At the very least slutty—like her sister, Bambi.

Muriel refused to conform to any of his suggestions or demands.

The brat was tenacious. Annoyingly so. Which was why he couldn’t understand his fondness for her.

“Why are you so pissed, Daddy?” Muriel grinned, knowing how he hated that soft appellation. “Did Charon’s boy lose a boatload of souls again?”

“When doesn’t he?” Lucifer grumbled.

“Did Xaphan suddenly decide to smile and make you lose that bet?”

Ha, that crotchety old warrior would never get over the betrayal of his first love.

“Did the Amazon queen tell you she’d call and not?”

“Yes, but I respect her lack of respect.”

Bambi cleared her throat. “Lucifer”—because only Muriel braved his temper enough to call him Daddy—“is a little upset because a certain fellow wouldn’t come to see him.”

“What fellow?”

“My supposed son,” he said with clear disgruntlement. No point in hiding it. Muriel had her ways of ferreting things out.

“What do you mean you have a son?” Muriel shouted. He might have chastised her, seeing as another glass case grew cracks, on the verge of collapse, but then again, Muriel showed signs of being angry and jealous. It made a father proud.

“I don’t know why you sound so surprised. I do have a reputation, you know. Biggest manwhore around.” He beamed.

Muriel scowled. He basked in her disapproval.

Lucifer waved a hand. “I wouldn’t worry about it, fruit of my loins. Like the others, he’ll probably turn out to be a pretender.”

“Or not,” Bambi added to be contrary.

As for Muriel, the angry look faded, and she tapped her chin. “I hope not. I always wanted a big brother.”

“Get that idea out of your head right this instant. He’s an imposter. I don’t have a son.” He’d tried it once, a while ago, only to give up when he realized his brother and his army of angels would never let a male heir live.

It wasn’t just the Devil who feared the coming of the Antichrist.

Everything will change. But no one knew if it would be good or bad.

“Who is he? Where is he? I want to meet him.” Muriel bounced and clapped her hands.

Enthusiasm and bubbling energy. Why oh why was he so plagued?

“You will not see this boy. I will deal with him myself.”

A frown creased her brow. “I know what that means. You’re going to kill him. What if he really is your son?”

“He’s not my son.” Surely, he’d know if he had one. He remembered every woman he’d slept with. Every womb he’d fertilized. Except for one. But he’d never admit he had no idea who Muriel’s mother was.

Because then he’d have to admit that there was a woman strong enough to make him forget.

The shame.

The horror.

That bitch.

“Never say never. I think you should get a DNA test done. They’re quick and easy.”

He glared. “I don’t need a test because I don’t have a son.” He had a thread to all his living progeny. Could tell where they were with just a little concentration. Not that he bothered often. There also weren’t that many left.

Since Muriel’s arrival, he’d not fathered any more children. In the meantime, some of his progeny had succumbed to age, others to violent deaths—jealousy reigned strong in the pit. Of the dozens or so left, he really paid attention to only Bambi and Muriel. It made it easier to avoid paying child support that way.

It was a source of pride to him that he possessed the biggest dead-beat father balance owing in all of Hell. He was negligent, too.

Except with his youngest, whom he spoiled rotten.

“I want to meet him,” Muriel declared.

“No.” Said rather firmly, a shame she’d never learned what the word meant.

“Yes, I am! And you can’t stop me.”

“Actually, I can.”

“You are impossible to reason with,” Muriel huffed as she stomped her foot.

The cracked case shattered, and with a squeal of relief, the scroll within crumbled to dust, and somewhere in Hell, a voice cried, “Freedom.”

He felt the jolt down to his toes when that soul later jumped into the abyss, ending his existence, erasing all his memories, a soul being recycled for rebirth.

A good thing they had the abyss to get rid of souls who’d had enough; otherwise they’d be even more crowded in the pit. As it was, the nine circles of Hell kept expanding to accommodate the population, and the wilds on the outer edges went on and on… Or so the trackers who returned told him when he sent them out to explore.

Perhaps he should send Muriel on a quest into the Wilds so she’d stop haranguing him.

Bambi must have seen his waning patience. “Now, lamb. You can’t just run off and interrogate the fellow. For all we know, he is lying. Until we know for sure, it’s probably best if you let Lucifer handle it.”

“You expect Daddy to work?” Muriel sounded incredulous, with good reason.

Work was for schmucks and those who didn’t have leisurely golf games to play and drunken binges to indulge in.

“Hold on a second. Are you implying I should go Earthside and investigate the fellow myself?” Because when Lucifer had said he’d take care of it, he meant sending someone like Remy or Xaphan to decapitate the fellow. Problem solved.

“Of course you have to go yourself,” stated Bambi, speaking to him more firmly than he liked. “I wouldn’t have come here to tell you about him if I didn’t think there was a chance he was related to us.”

No way. Bambi was mistaken…and mean. Expecting him to work. The cruelty. “Sometimes, being me is so hard. Don’t you realize I have important things to do?”

“The golf course can wait.”

“But what about—”

“It can all wait. I think you need to do this.”

Sigh. “Fine. But if I’m going, I’d better change. I want to look my best if I’m going to get rid of another pretender.” He never knew when a crew from HBN—Hell’s Broadcasting Network—would be secretly filming him for his reality series. Lucifer: the great, the almighty, the Defiler. He’d come up with the title himself.

Now, what to wear that would strike the right note? His Nazi uniform had never returned from the cleaners. Those bastards kept losing it, and his tailor kept stalling when asked to make a new one. He’d worn his Vader cape at the recent welcome of that crooked ex-President who’d finally come to Hell where he belonged. His Captain Nemo outfit really belonged more at sea.

And then, he knew what to wear. His glee couldn’t be contained, and he chuckled, chortled so loudly that the glass case he passed on his way out, the one with the soul of that incredible philosopher that God had lost in a game of chess, escaped.

No matter. He had more important things to work on now, such as terrorizing a mortal on Earth.

Some days, it was great to be the Devil.

Who was he kidding? It is always great to be me!