The sheets are cold when I open my eyes.

I roll over, searching for the familiar presence of Lucifer beside me, wakefulness washing over me when I realize I’m alone.

I glance around the room quickly, seeing the clothes strewn about like a hurricane from last night, unable to keep the smile off my lips as I remember what had come next.

Lucifer isn’t exactly the type to leave a note, so I decide to do a little recon of my own. Beyond breaking into my house and skulking around my family's mausoleum, I don’t have any idea where Michael might be, but it’s impossible to forget the damage I saw that human possessed with a tainted soul cause the day Lucifer and I met.

In the days of social media and 24-hour news networks looking to fill the hours, chaos like that always leaves a trail.

I flick on the television, turning it to a local station as I dig my laptop out of the depths of my suitcase.

“. . .vandalism and brutal random attacks on the rise. Authorities suspect a new gang is terrorizing the city. We have exclusive footage shot from the victim's dash cam. Please be warned; this footage is graphic."

I look up to see the grainy video of a man getting pulled out of his car by two others and dragged to the edge of the frame. Only his legs and feet are in view, and they thrash as he tries to fight off whoever (whatever) is pinning him down. A guttural scream rips from his throat before it cuts off abruptly, a large red stain growing beneath him. One of the assailants looks up, and even with the low resolution of the footage, it’s easy to see the pure black of his eyes.

The scene switches back to the reporter, an artful look of concern across her blandly perky morning show face. "Suspects are considered armed and extremely dangerous, and authorities warn citizens not to approach anyone involved with this gang." The reporter’s demeanor shifts as she smiles, revealing a row of perfectly capped teeth. “And now we have Mike with the weather!”

Punching the off button, I silence the inane chatter, my desire for background noise overridden by my annoyance at the news anchor’s "business as usual" attitude.

Of course, a few days ago I would have done the same. Maybe I would have added a second deadbolt to my front door and shelled out the money to park a little closer to the bar at night, but I would have written off the weird occurrences just like everyone else. Gangs. Drugs. Mental illness.

I turn my attention to my laptop, scrolling through a local blog I follow.

The headline blares from the top of the screen.

I scroll down to the comments section, something that's rarely a good idea on any post, to see hundreds of replies.

A few comments have photos or videos attached, and it’s more of the same - unnatural strength, vicious, violent rage that came from nowhere, and those cold black eyes. The reports are all over the city, stretching out into Metairie and beyond with no rhyme or reason to the locations, no pattern that I can see except the obvious.

It’s spreading.

I hear the soft electronic click as the door unlocks, and I turn away from the computer to watch Lucifer stride into the room, his long legs taking him to the makeshift bar where he pours himself a generous splash of whiskey, tossing it back without looking at me.

I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the overly air-conditioned room and everything to do with the tense line of his shoulders as he stands with his back to me.

“Lucifer?” My voice sounds tentative, that faint little quaver that I thought I buried clawing to the surface.

“I have news.” He turns to me, his face a mask. Cold. Impassive. His eyes bore into my own, the absent warmth turning them into two black pits.

Our short time together has educated me on the volatility of Lucifer’s moods, but everything about him feels wrong. Yet my hands still itch with the desire to touch him, the bond between us tugging me closer like a gravitational pull – inevitable and unstoppable.

I know he feels it too, but he shrugs it off, keeping a few feet of distance between us. “The prophecy,” he continues, his voice faltering so slightly that I almost think I’m imagining it. “I paid a visit to our mutual acquaintance.” He refills the whiskey glass a second time but makes no move to drink the dark brown liquor.

“I’m the one meant to destroy Michael, not you.” He gestures at the room with the glass, a few drops spilling unnoticed over the side. “This is all just a distraction. A bit of shore leave.” He smirks and takes a step closer to me, and my traitorous body still wants to welcome him.

The first cold thread of fear slices through me as he stalks closer. I jump up from the couch, backing away from him slowly. His head cocks to the side, and my mind races through reasons of why Lucifer has suddenly turned into the heartless, bitter creature he swore not to be. "Why are you acting like this?"

Lucifer chuckles, and I wonder if that’s the same laugh the souls hear strapped to his rack. “Why am I acting like this?” he parrots, the flat tone of his voice giving way to a quiet mockery. “This is who I am, Grace. You were kidding yourself to think otherwise. After all, what better way is there to stick it to my father than sticking it to his last descendant in this godforsaken world?"

He drains the glass of whiskey, clutching the empty tumbler with his fingertips as he shadows my movements. I don’t even realize I’ve been steadily backing away from him until my back hits the unyielding glass of the window. Lucifer presses against me, pinning me to the window with lean, hard muscle. His free hand cards through my hair, pulling it back to bare my throat. “Fancy another round?” he breathes against my skin.

It takes everything in me to muster up the strength push him back, my body humming at his proximity even as my mind recoils from his harsh words. “Get out.”

He stands in front of me, still holding me against the wall of glass with his sheer presence, and the tightly coiled rage radiates off him like body heat. Some small, self-destructive part of me wants to goad him into putting an angelic fist through the window, shattering the glass and sending us both plummeting to the crowded streets below.

Of course, only one of us has wings.

But an even smaller part of me, that desperately lonely girl who thought she had finally finally found a home is the one that speaks up. “I thought you-” the words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

Lucifer takes a step back, his hands dropping to his sides. For a moment he’s still before he turns and throws the glass into the fireplace, the heavy crystal tumbler shattering against the iron grate.

“You thought what? That I loved you?" His face twists into a sneer as he practically spits out the word love. "I'm the Devil." He walks away from me, standing in front of the unlit fireplace and staring unseeingly into the hearth. “I lit the stars. I started a war that changed the face of existence. I’ve spent more years torturing souls than you can comprehend. I’m not some teenaged boy lead around by his cock.”

I don’t move. Still rooted to the spot, I wait to see where his mercurial mood is going to take him next as the familiar numbness pours over me.

How had I been so stupid?

Lucifer looks up, his eyes raking over my body in a way that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with putting me in my place.

“Do you know the last time I loved anyone, Grace?” His voice is barely above a whisper, and I have to strain to hear him. The last words hit me with the same force as a silenced bullet. “The last person I loved was God, and you know how well that worked out for me.”

I slide down the window, my rubbery legs finally giving out underneath me, and I sink to the floor. Lucifer strides to the door without looking back at me. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

"I don't know what else you expected from this. I am the Devil, after all."