I want to stay.

I feel the power of the bond between us growing, coiling through us both like the kudzu that chokes the countryside, twining its way through our thoughts and emotions with a strength that should make me feel caged.

Instead, it makes me feel free. When I reach out towards her with my mind, I feel the warm pulse of her soul, so different than the physical presence of her body pressing against my back. It feels like flying, like that first moment of unfurling my wings, the wind catching flight feathers and carrying me aloft. In those precious seconds, it all slips away – Heaven, Hell, innumerable centuries of blood and torture and regret. It’s just the air rushing over my body and the heat of the sun on my feathers. It’s light and freedom and everything I ached for in those early days before the Fall.

All wrapped up in her.

I suppose I should thank Michael.

That’s the kind of thanks you give in person.

Grace wakes from her light doze as I’m dressing, the sun just beginning to dip below the horizon. "Where are you going?" she asks.

“Where do you think?”

The relaxed line of her body instantly changes, going tense as she replies, "You're going to look for Michael."

I nod, and she moves to rise from bed. "I'm going with you."

"No," I say with a finality that actually makes her pause. "You aren't ready to face him yet." When she starts to protest, I cut her off. "Grace, this isn't something that's up for debate. I'm well aware of my own abilities and limitations, but I cannot hope to win a fight against my brother if I'm worried about keeping you safe as well."

I fall silent, watching her sit back down onto the bed, her emotions warring on her face. She wants to argue, wants to demand I bring her along instead of leaving her cloistered in this hotel like a princess in a tower. This princess wants to slay the dragon too, but despite her idealistic desire to be of use, her brain knows that she isn't ready to go toe to toe with an Archangel.

Reluctantly, she nods, but not before helping herself to fistful of my shirt, pulling me down to meet her lips in a kiss that turns hungry and greedy far more quickly than either of us expects, and it takes every inch of my self control to tear myself away from her.

Tonight, my brother is going to bleed.

Early evening, and Bourbon is no doubt choked with the usual crowd of revelers and laborers, the pickpockets and escorts weaving their way through the "upstanding" citizens.

I know Michael well enough that he won’t be in the midst of anything resembling a crowd. Michael never was much for collateral damage, and his own twisted moral code will likely keep him from wanting to see the hideous outcome of his actions. Watching the city burn won’t be nearly as much fun for him if he can’t find a way to blame the blaze on me.

Instead, I head towards the parts of the city the rest of the country forgot about. The Lower Ninth Ward is still largely vacant, even a dozen years after Katrina ripped through. Vacant lots and houses that are little more than rotted skeletons line both sides of the streets. Of the structures that still stand well enough to be called houses, barely one in four looks inhabited.

An over-turned tricycle sticks out through the grass of the house in front of me, the deflated tire half buried by a decade of storms, bright metal and plastic faded to a dull shade of grey. The front door hangs crookedly, the rusted nails having worked themselves free of the rotting wood.

And of course, my brother chooses to lay in wait here.

I yank open the door, the weakened metal of the other hinges splitting under my touch, and I let it fall to the porch behind me, dried wood splitting on impact and filling the air with the musty smell of mildew and decay. Michael would have felt my presence the same moment I sensed him, so there isn’t any point in trying for stealth.

And I do so like to make an entrance.

Standing in the middle of the gutted structure that was once someone's pride and joy is my errant brother. His blade remains undrawn, but I don’t think for a moment that means he’s unarmed.

Michael doesn’t move during my scrutiny, sizing me up as I do the same to him. Centuries have passed, and empires have risen and fallen since the last time we stood this close to each other.

It didn’t end particularly well back then, either.

Michael wears an ill-fitting tan suit, the seams stretching across his muscular shoulders. I almost have to laugh at how uncomfortable he looks. My brother is made to wear armor, and his current choice of attire has him looking more like a personal trainer with a court date instead of the warrior he is.

I quickly forget that moment of levity when Michael speaks.

“I knew you were filth, Lucifer, but preying on her to make your realm stronger is low, even for you.”

Unexpected fury pours over me when he mentions Grace, and I rush Michael. Expecting the usual barbs and posturing from me, Michael is unprepared for my sudden attack and my first punch throws him through a wall, the half-rotted studs and desiccated drywall crumbling under the force.

Michael climbs back to his feet an instant later, feinting to the right and catching me with a hard blow to my ribs. I feel the bones crack under his fist and I roll my shoulders, shaking off the twinge of pain as the bloodlust of battle seeps into me.

It’s been far too long since I fought someone who is my equal.

I grab the back of Michael's neck, his close-cropped hair impossible to grip, so I dig my fingers into the base of his skull, driving him downward to slam his face into my knee. I hear the crack of bone, and Michael punches wildly, a jab catching me in my stomach.

Michael's broken nose streams blood as he backs up, keeping a few feet between us as a look that can only be described as familial irritation crosses his face. "Are you done?" he snaps.

"Hardly," I reply, striking out at Michael with an uppercut that would snap a human's neck if it had connected. Michael expects the punch this time, dancing back just enough so that my fist barely grazes the edge of his jaw.

“The girl belongs to Heaven, Lucifer. Her soul is not yours to corrupt.”

“Since when have you cared about protecting any humans from my corrupting influence," I scoff, contempt dripping from my voice. "You'd do anything to wrest power from me. Every soul you trap here out of spite is corrupting another innocent, but apparently that's worth it to you!"

Michael's face fills with a look of such incredulity it’s almost comical. "You think I did this?" he stammers. "Lucifer, I'm here to put a stop to it!"

The shock on his face almost makes me believe him.

Almost.

Michael never was a very good liar, but a few millennia will change anyone. Slowly, I unsheathe my blade, determined to end this once and for all. Michael backs up, moving us further into the small house.

The back door has long since rotted away, and the windows are nothing but black voids, the glass having been shattered by storms and bored teenagers years ago leaving no place to hide. I pause in the doorway to what was once a kitchen, a filthy refrigerator tipped on its side taking up half the floor space of the cramped room.

“Running away, Michael? I didn’t expect that of you,” I taunt, stepping through the doorway.

I hear the crack as Michael punches through the load-bearing wall an instant before the shower of plaster and wood hits me, knocking me to the ground. Already weakened by a decade of storms and neglect, it doesn’t take much to bring half the roof down on top of me.

I struggle out from under the rubble, moldering insulation and drywall dust clinging to my body. I kick aside a sheet of curled tar from the roof, most of the shingles having long since blown off into the Mississippi.

Michael is gone.

“What the hell happened?”

When I drag myself back through the door of the suite, the only thing I want is a shower and a strong drink. The dust and dirt from the house clings to my clothes and skin, turning my suit the color of a moldering corpse.

And Michael got away.

Grace is on her feet instantly, worry washing over her face as she runs her fingers lightly over the dried blood on my temple, the cut having long since healed. “Are you okay?”

I open my mouth to toss out some quip about immortality, but the look on Grace’s face makes me reconsider my words.

Her fingers are still lightly pressed against my temple, reassuring herself that I’m unharmed. The look of concern on her face is so genuine I’m taken aback. Needless as it is, no one has ever concerned themselves with my wellbeing. I incite fear or hatred on a bad day, intrigue or desire on a good, but never something as simple as caring.

I smell like a musty basement and I’m fairly certain I have cobwebs in my hair, but that doesn’t stop Grace from scanning me for any other injuries I might be concealing.

“I’m fine,” I say, catching her fingers in my own and drawing them to my lips. “Immortal, remember? It'll take a lot more than that to end me.”

Grace relaxes, the last threads of tension releasing their hold on her. Clad in one of those overly fluffy hotel bathrobes, she’s swallowed up by the yards of white terrycloth. When she pulls back, the front is streaked with dust from my jacket.

"So I'm guessing you ran into Michael?"

I stalk over to the bar, pouring Grace a glass of whiskey before making one for myself. “Very astute,” I drawl, yanking off my filthy jacket and tossing it over a chair before wandering to the wall of windows, staring out over the bright lights below us.

“What happened?” Grace prods, standing just close enough to me that the proximity crackles between us.

“We traded insults and then punches. I knocked him through a wall, he pulled the roof down on me and ran off.” I can see just the faintest hint of my reflection in the window as I sip the smoky liquor. Grace’s hand hovers over my shoulder, hesitating just for an instant before touching me. “I should have known Michael wouldn’t make it easy.”

Nothing has ever been easy. Why should it start now?

I wake hours later with the scent of her surrounding me.

Her face presses into the crook of my neck, that wild mane of hair falling around us like a curtain. She shifts in her sleep, rolling onto her back, and the pale sheet slips down, baring the creamy flesh I spent the night worshipping with my lips, whispering words in long-dead tongues into her skin.

Lust has never been my favorite of the seven deadlies. Not to say that I don’t partake in more than my fair share, but I never threw myself into the endless train of flesh the way some of my Fallen brethren choose to.

Phenex seeks pleasure for its own sake, trying to slake his longing for Heaven in the body of whatever pretty creature strikes his fancy. Others like Asmodeus use desire as a weapon, drowning his hapless victims in lust until their own base needs drive them mad.

For myself, it’s just another sensation. Another amusement and another cosmic fuck off to dear old Dad. Serve the humans? Let them give service to me instead.

The church always did like to say that the most powerful position is on your knees.

Bow down and worship then.

Somehow, this is different.

I look down at this girl, soft skin and lush curves spread out before me, and I feel.

Affection. Ease. The need to protect.

And something more. Something I haven't felt since long before the Fall in a time when my name was not synonymous with betrayal and evil. Something I can’t bring myself to name, even in my own head.

“Lucifer?” Her voice is still thick with sleep, her eyes half open as she looks up at me.

"Rest," I murmur, the gentleness in my voice shocking me.

She smiles and settles back against me, her eyes slipping shut as sleep reclaims her.

Had I ever been so open? So trusting?

I search the dark recesses of my memories, long before Hell and the Fall, before humanity spread across the world to the forgotten days when me and mine were first in God's love. But even in those blissful days, I always ached for a choice.

Free will has been my curse from the beginning.

History calls it pride, but all I ever longed for was the chance to choose.

And here she is, throwing herself headlong into that same choice. Offering to toss her lot in with Hell without realizing the true weight of that decision and the folly of making it for vengeance.

Or for me.

. . .you aren't strong enough to stop him. . .

That witch’s damned prophecy still hangs over our heads, tangled up with the next inevitable confrontation with Michael.

I need answers. And I know just who to pry them from.

Carefully, I extricate myself from Grace’s sleeping embrace, unable to help the slight smile that crosses my lips when her hand absently moves across the mattress, searching for me for a moment before drifting back into slumber.

Grace's clothing and my own is strewn across the floor of the suite, a messy breadcrumb path starting just inside the doorway. A lone black shoe peeks out from underneath an end table, while another one of the interminable sundresses she wears drapes over the back of the couch. My lips quirk as I remember peeling the sapphire blue fabric over her head earlier.

I glance back at the bed where Grace sleeps soundly. It would be so easy to crawl back beside her and lose myself in her skin for a few hours or days. To let Michael win. To let the world burn to ashes outside this room.

Didn’t I deserve that for once?

Shaking my head at my own foolishness, I dress silently. Once I have Michael’s head on a spike, I’ll celebrate by locking myself in this room with Grace for a few days. . . weeks. I have more than a few pleasurable ideas to test the burgeoning power of the bond that links us together.

A flash of red catches my eye, peeking out from between the couch cushions. When I tug it free I see the red flannel mojo bag, the iron coin tucked inside, and I smile when I recognize it. I told her the bond between us made the coin unnecessary, but she still carries it around like a child with a security blanket, tracing my sigil with her fingertips and carving herself just a bit deeper into me with each circuit.

A stain darkens the edge of the fabric, the deeper red line that bisects the bag too precise to be accidental. I pull on the side, the flimsy stitches giving way easily. A bare-bones version of Erzulie's veve is painted on the inside of the bag, leaving the fabric stiff and brittle. I run my finger over the "paint" and feel the echo of the artist.

Blood. Of course. It’s always blood.

I drop the coin soundlessly onto the coffee table and walk out.

She isn’t difficult to find.

The door to her shop is unremarkable, at least for New Orleans. The veve carved into the door stands out starkly against the neat coat of yellow paint, the whorls and crosses that make up the symbol looking exotic enough to entice tourists to hand over their cash in the hopes of an “authentic voodoo experience.”

Even a loa has to make a living, after all.

A more prudent man would enter quietly, taking the chance to observe her before she becomes aware of my presence. In the past, I would have partaken of that devilish subtlety I’m so famous for.

But my patience with prophecies and spells and all their related bullshit has long since worn thin.

One well-placed kick sends the door flying open, slamming back against a cabinet of cheap pottery she’s hawking to tourists. Two women are inside picking through a rack of jewelry, the shorter of the two nattering on in a flat Midwestern drone about zombie tours.

“Out,” I snarl, and they drop the glittering trinkets and run, the paste gems and tarnished silver scattering across the countertop.

Erzulie stands silently behind the counter, her youthful face carefully blank. Idly I wonder just how much I’d need to tear apart in this little shop to get an expression on that stony face.

"Tell me," I drawl, pressing both my hands against the countertop and leaning forward to scrutinize her. "Which is your real face? This one or the old woman?"

“Which is your true face?” she counters.

“Perhaps you’d like to take a look. I’m quite curious to see what would happen to you.”

“You don’t frighten me.” She moves to turn away from me like I’m a petulant child throwing a tantrum.

Enough. Before she can blink, my hand is tightening around her throat. A few jars of herbs tip and shatter on the floor as I jerk her forward, filling the room with a sharp, dry scent. "The prophecy. Explain. Before I rip it out of you.”

Erzulie wraps a slender hand around my wrist, shoving me back and standing up, her eyes flashing with irritation.

Not fear. In that moment, I almost like her.

She rounds the counter, yards of blood-colored silk swirling around her feet. She steps delicately over the broken jars littering the floor and leads me through a beaded curtain into the back room.

She sits at a small table draped with red and gold, motioning for me to take the other chair. “I thought a loa would be more than a two bit fortune teller,” I scoff.

She ignores me, unwinding a square of leather worn smooth and thin as fabric to reveal a worn deck of playing cards. Silently she lays out five cards.

Ten of Spades. Seven of Spades. Nine of Clubs. Nine of Hearts. Jack of Clubs.

"It's always the same." Erzulie's finger rests on the Jack of Clubs. Her voice is low, and I can hear the old woman behind the youthful tones, gravel worn smooth by the tides. "Your journey. My warning. His betrayal. Her love. Her sacrifice." She ticks off each card with no more concern for her words than for the overblown fortunes of love and riches she peddles to tourists. And why should she be concerned? Prophecies are inevitable, as immutable as the seasons. She’s only the messenger, after all.

Her sacrifice.

No. Not her sacrifice. Never her.

My denial must have shown on my face. She softens, the cold iron of her eyes turning to liquid amber. "You know what the Last means, Lucifer. It means there isn't another." She sweeps the cards back into the deck, her long fingers shuffling them deftly before pulling five cards again, laying them out before me.

Ten of Spades. Seven of Spades. Nine of Clubs. Nine of Hearts. Jack of Clubs.

“I’ve read them a hundred times.” She moves to pick them up again, but I pluck the Jack of Clubs from the table, staring at the aged white card between my fingertips – faded paper and ink telling me that she is supposed to die.

“Sacrifice runs in her family, after all,” Erzulie says, taking the card from my fingertips and adding it to the pile. “I think you already know that.”

“What is she sacrificing herself for?” I demand. Not that dear old Dad ever actually needs a reason. “No more riddles, Erzulie. I had enough of that in the Bronze Age.”

Her hands still on the stack of cards, and the barest smile crosses her lips, wistful and almost sad. “Redemption doesn’t always have to be asked for, Lucifer.” The room is quiet, the sound of the guttering candles the only noise breaking the silence.

I know what she’s implying, but I refuse to believe it until the words cross her lips.

She nods slowly in understanding. “You don’t need me to tell you what her sacrifice is for. You felt it the first time you touched her.”

I stand up, backing away from the table, from the honey-sweet perfume of the candles and the thick, cloying scent of the incense. Away from those dark eyes that stare at me like I’m something to be pitied and not an Archangel that could reduce her to a stain on the floor without breaking a sweat.

I shake my head and mouth the word no because denial swallows up my voice. I want to tell her to hold her tongue because naming something gives it life.

“Her sacrifice is for you.”

“What do you want, Fallen?”

Phenex saunters into the dilapidated house, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the remnants of water-stained plaster clinging to the skeleton of two-by-fours and the scent of decay hanging in the air. Most of the house has been gutted, rotted carpet and mildewed drywall having long since been removed.

If Heaven's greatest warrior chooses to bunk down here, it almost gives Phenex second thoughts.

Almost.

“Lovely accommodations, Michael,” he says with disdain. “Just because you’re an angel doesn’t mean you have to scour yourself and sleep in shit like a bloody penitent.”

Michael glowers. He never did have a sense of humor. His hand moves for the blade that’s never far from his reach, taking a menacing step closer like a big cat stalking his prey.

“Temper temper. Don’t you want to know why I’m here? It’s certainly not for the ambiance. Or the company.”

Michael ignores Phenex’s words as he draws his blade, the razor-honed edge glinting faintly in the dim light.

Keeping his back to the door for a possible hasty retreat, Phenex blurts out, “I know where the girl is.”

Michael lowers the blade, but still holds it at the ready. "And in exchange?" he demands.

“I want back into Heaven. And leave Lucifer out of it.”

Michael stands still, regarding Phenex like an insignificant insect. He doesn’t particularly expect honor between Hell's denizens, but such blatant treachery makes his annoyance at Heaven's petty squabbles fade.

Still, this might be the only way.

And how much honor is there in a promise to a Fallen anyway?

Closing the distance between them, Michael grasps Phenex's hand, striking the deal.