I sit for hours. The sunlight blazes through the plate glass window behind me, heating my skin, but I make no move to get up. Sweat trickles down my neck, the bright light scorching my back while the rest of me is so cold.

Faintly, I hear the noises of the hotel. The muffled thumps of footsteps and the low murmur of voices as the other guests file through the hallway. The metallic ding of the elevator. The quiet whoosh of the air conditioner kicking on.

The bright light of the afternoon gives way to sunset, painting the cream-colored walls with fiery streaks of crimson and gold before fading into purple and finally black.

The glass behind me cools as the stifling heat of day slips into the more moderate humidity of the evening.

I stare at the door, not wanting to admit to myself that all I want is for that smooth white door to open.

He isn’t coming back. I was just a bit of shore leave. I swipe at the tears that prick in my eyes with the back of my hand, knowing that if I let myself cry, if I let myself be anything but numb, it’s all over.

How long had he been laughing at me? The stupid human girl who let herself-

I pull myself upright, cutting that thought off before my brain can complete it, and rub the stiffness out of my legs. My body aches from sitting frozen for so long, and I welcome the physical pain. Anything to distract me from the whispers in my mind.

He was just using you.

Michael was right.

The person who murdered my family turned out to be the only honest one.

The strength that I’m only just starting to have a rein on twists inside me with the urge to lash out and destroy something, and I wonder how much of what I’m feeling is my own hurt boiling into anger and how much comes from Lucifer.

Even if I never see him again, I’ll never be free of him.

I wander around the room, collecting my few possessions strewn around the suite. I grab a black ballet flat half-hidden under the couch and clamp down on the memory of Lucifer sliding the shoe off my foot and kissing my ankle before his hand drifted higher, the seductive smile on his lips so different than the cruel smirk it had contorted into later.

Packing doesn’t take nearly enough time. Once the bag is stuffed comes the realization that I have no place else to go. My home isn’t safe, and I can’t afford a hotel anywhere else.

The dull grey coin catches my eye where it rests, abandoned on the coffee table. I pick it up, running my fingers over the angular sigil etched into the smooth iron for the hundredth time before putting it back down. I stand up and walk out without looking back.

Wandering the streets when you have a death warrant on your head is about the worst thing you can do, so of course, that’s exactly what I did. The crowds are thinner than normal, even for a weekday night, but what they lack in volume they make up for in vigor. A group of men passes me, dressed in the fratboy uniform of cargo shorts and popped collar polos. The one holding up the rear of the pack stops and turns to me, the smile on his lips not reaching his black eyes.

I take a step closer to him, loosening the tight leash on my new abilities, and he shrinks back with the recognition of a hyena meeting a much larger predator.

Thank you, Lucifer.

The thought comes to my mind unbidden, unwanted.

The men move on, no doubt searching for some easier prey, and I wonder what’s wrong with me that I can’t bring myself to care about her or the ugly fate rushing towards her.

I find myself in front of Spirits. The clock ticks over to 2 AM, and the open sign still glows neon green in the window, but the small bar is deserted except for Talia wiping down the counter.

I hesitate, my hand on the door. Is it even fair for me to draw her into the shitshow of my life?

Talia glances up and sees me. Her dark eyes widen as she takes in my disheveled appearance and the heavy suitcase slung over my shoulder. A moment later she’s at the door, wrenching it open and pulling me inside. She clicks the lock behind me and slaps the button to turn off the open sign, all efficiency of movement, before turning to me with crossed arms and an arched eyebrow as she waits for me to explain myself.

I open my mouth to speak but freeze. I can’t very well tell her I’m caught in the middle of an angelic pissing match between Heaven and Hell. I’ve seen concrete proof, and I still barely believe it.

“I don’t know where else to go,” I murmur, my voice thick as I try to shove my thawed heart back into the deep freeze.

“You look like Hell,” Talia says simply. “That’s about the only reason I’m not laying into you for disappearing for a damn week without telling anyone.” Talia ducks behind the counter and grabs a clean rag, thrusting it and the spray bottle of cheap cleaner into my hands. “The sooner you help me close up, the sooner we can get out of here and talk.”

I drop my bag unceremoniously by the door and crouch down in front of the counter, mechanically wiping down the sticky mess of dried Hurricanes splattered across the front, thankful Talia has given me a reprieve, at least for a few minutes.

I watch her out of the corner of my eye, a whirlwind of movement as she scrubs down the countertops, counts the cash in the register, and restocks the racks of plastic cups. Talia’s one of those people who always seems to have it together.

I bet she wouldn't fall in love with the Devil.

My hand falls to my side, the sharp scent of bleach filling my nose as the cleaner drips over my fingers.

If Talia speaks, I don’t hear it. The roaring of my own heartbeat through my ears blocks it out. I sit down, my mind passively registering that Talia must have already mopped because the floor in front of the counter is usually sticky. More than a few tourists have lost a flip-flop that ends up stapled above our wall of shame in the back.

I gulp down mouthfuls of air, trying to bring the world back into focus.

“He really did a number on you, whoever he was.”

I open my eyes to see Talia crouched beside me, her hand gently smoothing back a tangled curl from my forehead. I didn’t even realize I had closed my eyes.

I get to my feet, shrugging off Talia’s offered hand. She grins at that. “Good. You’re still in there somewhere.” Talia glances around the bar before nodding. “Clean enough. God knows it’s cleaner than it ever is when Jimmy closes.” Her face sobers as she catches sight of my suitcase by the door.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

Talia lives in a small shotgun house a few miles from my neighborhood. Two large potted geraniums stand on either side of the door, the flame red flowers brightening the faded green of the paint. A few June bugs dart around the porch light, their bodies making tiny plinking sounds as they launch themselves at the bulb.

Talia unlocks the two deadbolts before creeping inside, flicking the porch light off behind her and plunging the doorway into darkness. She walks into the house without turning on a light, moving with the surety of someone who knows there’s nothing waiting in the darkness.

I pull the door shut behind me, stepping over the threshold and fastening the locks before following Talia into the kitchen. She disappears down the hallway, ducking into one of the bedrooms and I hear the low murmur of her voice as she speaks to her husband.

I’ve never met Andre, only knowing that they’d been high school sweethearts. Andre works at an office job he hates during the day, filling in endless meaningless spreadsheets for a mid-market import company and taking afternoon and evening classes working towards a nursing degree.

Their daughter Sasha is five, a cheerful girl with a wide grin and her mother’s serious eyes. She stares up from Talia’s phone whenever a notification pops up, the background photo achingly familiar.

The same photo is stuck to the fridge, a pink plastic magnet in the shape of an S holding it up. In the photo, Andre and Talia gaze at each other instead of the camera. One of her braids curls around his finger, and they both have soft, adoring smiles across their lips, smiles only for each other, the camera forgotten. Between them, Sasha stares up at the camera, those huge eyes secure with the rightness of her small world.

I run my fingertips over the smooth surface of the photo, my mind seeing a similar one tucked in the frame of my bedroom mirror. The edges of that photo are worn, the sharp points rounded over the years, and the color has faded, sunlight lightening the deep tones into washed out golds and rusty coppers.

We had been in the park. My Mom's hair was tied in a messy braid, but a few errant curls still escaped. A handful of white daisies plucked from the ground had been tucked in the twists of the braid. A wide smile pulled her lips back and bared her teeth as she laughed at my Dad, a clumsily made daisy chain draped on his head like a jaunty crown. Between the two of them, I studiously braided together more flowers, completely ignoring the camera with my laser focus on my project.

I can’t bring her into this.

I back away from the photo, reaching for my bag and turning quietly, intending to duck out the front door and away from Talia’s idyllic life before I can destroy it.

My meeting with Michael taught me one valuable lesson. The Celestin women are poison. We destroy everything we touch, and Talia doesn’t deserve to end up as collateral damage.

I’m halfway to the door when Talia’s voice rings out.

“Going somewhere?”

I stop but don’t turn around. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have involved you in this."

I look back. Talia stands in the doorway, her face cast in shadow as the bright kitchen lights silhouette her. I don’t need to see her face to know the look she’s wearing.

Talia crosses the small room in a few strides and takes the suitcase from my slack fingers, tucking it next to the inviting looking sofa before leading me back into the kitchen.

"Sit." Obediently, I do. Talia may not be the official boss of Spirits but everyone looks to her, and everyone in the bar has been on the wrong end of her "Mama voice" at least once.

“I don’t know you that well, Grace,” Talia says, grabbing an unlabeled bottle filled with a clear, yellowish liquid from the top of the refrigerator. She plunks the bottle onto the table, grabbing a pitcher of cold water from the fridge and two heavy glass tumblers. “I don’t really think anyone knows you,” she continues, pouring a generous amount of the yellow liquid into each glass. “I’d say that I think you like it that way, but I don’t think you do.” She fills the remainder of the glass with the cold water, swirling the mixture until it turns a milky, pale yellow before handing me a glass.

I take a sip and the sharp, herbal flavor of licorice fills my mouth. “Homemade pastis. My grandma’s recipe.” She takes a long sip of her own drink before sitting down in the chair opposite me. “I thought about making tea, but it’s too damn hot and this seems like a conversation for something stronger. So what’s his name?”

I swallow, staring into the cloudy depths of my drink. “Lu-Luke,” I answer. If Talia hears the lie, she doesn’t comment.

"I saw you a week ago, and you were yourself. Or at least you seemed to be." Talia reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers, her skin warm and just a bit dry from the awful cleaners they make us use at work. She squeezes my hand, and for the first time since this all started, I feel like I’m back in the real world. "How did this Luke get you so turned around so fast?"

“Someone was. . . stalking me,” I speak haltingly, picking each word carefully. Talia’s demeanor instantly changes at those words, her back going rigid and her eyes hardening.

“Do I need to take you to file a police report, honey?” she asks, the softness in her voice a stark contrast to the anger on her face. “Did this guy hurt you?”

I shake my head wildly. “Not him. Lu-Luke knew the guy who was after me. It was his brother, and he put a stop to it. Or he tried to. Things got intense between us quickly.” I take another sip of the pastis, my mind slipping back to our first kiss and the taste of heat and smoke and sin on his lips. Intense was right.

“His family. . . they’re not good people. They’re involved in some really messed up things. Luke’s sort of the black sheep.” I pause, calling up the memories of every creative writing class I’ve ever taken to spin Lucifer’s fall from Heaven into a plausible story for 21^st century New Orleans. “His Dad made him take the fall for something he didn’t do, and he just got back.”

“He was in prison, and his Daddy put him there?”

I nod, thankful that Talia seems to be buying my explanation. "Apparently his family was involved with mine back in the day. Some age-old vendetta that I had no idea about, but I still ended up getting dragged into."

I see Talia’s mind racing a mile a minute as she pieces together my story with the scant details she knows about my past. A sharp intake of breath signals that she’s reached the conclusion I’m leading her to. “You said your parents were killed when you were in high school. Did-” her question dies as she sees the look on my face. “His family had something to do with it.”

“That same older brother.”

“Shit.” Talia sits back, the wooden chair creaking with her movement as she struggles to think of what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago, but that’s why it was a mistake for me to come here. I can’t risk that they come looking for me. You have a family.”

“Do you seriously think I'm going to let you leave after hearing that?” I open my mouth to protest. “No buts, girl. You’re here now, and no one but me and Andre knows where you are. You’re safer here than you’d be anywhere else.” She presses her lips together, as she searches for her next words. “But why are you here instead of with your new man?”

“He’s not my new anything,” I say dully. “He made that clear.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very.” I drain the last watery dregs from my glass. “The things he said to me before he left.” I stare down at my hands resting on the worn wood table, trying not to remember. “He said I was just a bit of entertainment. A distraction. Fucking shore leave.” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice as I study the tabletop, not wanting to see the pity in Talia’s eyes.

“You said his family’s dangerous. Did you think for a moment he might be afraid of what they’d do to you if they figured out you meant something to him?”

I snap my head up, staring at Talia with disbelief. I want to believe it, but Lucifer has never stuck me as someone who does anything he doesn’t want to do. I shake my head. “You didn’t see him. It wasn’t just what he said. Everything about him was different. It’s the only time I’ve ever been afraid of him.”

“I wouldn’t write him off just yet.”

My eyelids feel heavy, the emotional upheaval of the day finally exhausting the last reserves of strength in me. Combined with the alcohol and the soothing warmth of Talia’s kitchen, I’m fading fast.

“You’re dead on your feet.” Talia says, standing up quickly and ducking into the darkness of the hallway again. A moment later she reappears with a blanket and pillow in her arms, the pale blue fabric folded neatly and smelling faintly of lavender. “Get some rest. The couch is old but it’s comfortable. I’ll try to keep Sasha out of your hair when she wakes up, but no promises.”

I nod gratefully, taking the blanket and pillow and moving into the darkened living room, leaving Talia to fall back into her normal routine. I sink down into the soft cushions, kicking off my shoes as an afterthought. I’m dimly aware of the faucet running as Talia rinses out the glasses, but then she flips off the light and plunges the room into darkness.

I pull the blanket over my body, the familiar smell of lavender oil increasing with the blanket unfolded. As I drift off, the bond between us pulses faintly, and in that hazy state between sleep and wakefulness, it comforts me.

I sleep without dreams.

“Are you my Mama’s new friend?”

The small voice a few inches from my face jolts me awake. Perched on the edge of the coffee table is Sasha, watching me warily. I sit up slowly, squinting at the clock on the wall ticking cheerfully. Nine thirty.

“I am,” I reply, “My name’s Grace.” Sasha beams, and I find myself returning her infectious smile. The savory smell of bacon frying wafts to me, and I hear the sound of plates clattering in the kitchen.

"You up, Grace?" Talia calls. "I tried to keep her from waking you up as long as I could, but we don't get too many guests, so you're pretty fascinating."

I let Sasha lead me into the kitchen, shaking the last vestiges of sleep from my brain. Talia looks more awake and aware than anyone running on less than six hours of sleep has the right to. "Bathroom's down the hall. Food should be ready in about ten minutes or so."

The sounds of Sasha chattering away to Talia as she cooks follows me down the hallway, a buzz of childish exuberance over the backdrop of Talia humming. I pull the bathroom door shut behind me, muffling their voices as I splash water on my face and try to wrangle my hair into something resembling presentable.

I twist my hair into a simple braid, trying to avoid looking into the mirror as much as possible, but I still see the dark shadows circling my eyes and the brittle smile across my lips. Even after a night's sleep I feel strung out, my body needing his presence.

Is this what I’m doomed to for the rest of my life? Craving Lucifer like a junkie when he doesn’t even want me?

“Grace! Food’s ready!”

Forcing my smile a bit wider, I open the door and join them.

“You don’t have to pretend for me.”

The food is hearty and simple. Sasha talks a mile a minute, peppering me with the essential details of her young life like how her kindergarten class has a bunny named Pecan and how she wants to be an animal doctor when she grows up, "Just like Daddy's going to be, but with puppies!" Talia smiles at that, pride beaming out of her like morning sunshine.

I studiously avoid focusing too much attention on either of them, not wanting to intrude on their minds when I’m already imposing on their lives.

Sasha disappears into the living room, sprawling out on her stomach with a coloring book and a Ziploc baggie filled with crayons next to her, humming tunelessly to herself as she fills in the picture of a butterfly with pink and purple and yellow.

Talia wanders through the house, a laundry basket balanced on her hip as she collects errant socks and t-shirts abandoned during the last few days of activity. "You're going through a lot, Grace," she continues, effortlessly picking up last night's conversation. "I know we're not exactly at the exchanging friendship bracelets stage yet, but you don't have to pretend everything is okay either."

A tenseness that I didn’t realize was there drains out of my shoulders at her words. "I just don't know how to do this. I should hate him for what he said to me. Part of me does," I finish lamely, hearing the lie in my voice.

Talia glances over her shoulder at me as she drops the basket by the door for a trip to the Laundromat later. "Look, I'm just an impartial observer. I don't know him or his side of this, but it still sounds to me like everything he said to you was to get you away from him and out of his family's sights."

I want to believe it. I don’t even know if he can be killed, but the way he talked about destroying Michael had to mean it was a possibility. And the thought of Michael turning his own weapon on Lucifer and stealing another person I love has my throat closing up.

There’s that word again.

The realization that I love him isn’t met with a choked panic attack on the floor of a dive bar this time, but it’s no easier to handle in Talia’s cheerful kitchen surrounded by reminders of the happy, normal life I’ll never have, even if I do manage to survive this.

“Maybe he was right,” I breathe, not wanting to speak the words aloud. Saying something out loud gives it power, after all. “Maybe I should stay away. Just go back to slinging shots at Spirits and forget about him and all this insanity that my life has turned into.”

"You could." My head jerks up, staring at Talia and the smug smile she wears at my disbelief. "Thought so. That's not what you want."

"Yeah, well he didn't really consider what I wanted yesterday," I say sardonically. "He just ended it."

“So give him a few days to regret it, and then go find him and un-end it.”

I open my mouth to tell Talia that it isn't that easy but fall silent.

Finally, after a long stretch of quiet, I add. "It's not that simple."

Talia dismisses that with a roll of her eyes. “If he means that much to you, you make it that simple.”