So this is the world.

Honestly, I expected more.

New Orleans. The utter epicenter of debauchery and excess. A town that built a large chunk of its economy on binge drinking and public nudity. If I can’t manage to find a diversion here, I’m out of luck.

Noticing any effects my stolen souls might be having on the populace though? That will be another matter entirely. A normal day in this city resembles a Roman orgy, so witnessing the outcome of Michael’s plot won’t be easy here.

“Lucifer.”

I stop, the shock at hearing my name on the lips of a human causing me to freeze in the crowded sidewalk. A mortal would have found himself jostled by irritated travelers intent on reaching the bottom of another glass as soon as possible. Instead, they flow around me like an oblivious school of fish, some instinctual lizard brain warning them away from getting too close.

Except for this one.

She is old. Her white hair twists into a tight rope that coils around her head like a snake readying itself to strike. Deep wrinkles are etched into the coffee-colored skin of her face, and her clothing hangs in a riot of color around her. A small chalkboard sign with "Palm Reading $20" scrawled across it in thin, spiderweb handwriting dangles carelessly from one of her gnarled hands.

“Come to read my palm then?”

She takes a step closer, and I smell the thick scent of incense wafting from her clothes with each step. I cock my head to the side, trying to figure out this creature’s game.

There have always been mortals who can sense the divine and the demonic. But these days they aren't usually quite so overt. The old woman stops and stands her ground when scarcely a foot separates us from each other. "You aren't supposed to be here," she states, her low voice scolding me like I am a naughty child.

“Really?” I drawl. “And why is that?”

“You know why. I can see those black wings trailing behind you. They won’t save you here.”

I throw my head back and laugh, the sound making the crowd around me falter in their steps for just a moment. Abruptly my amusement ceases. “What makes you think I’m the one who needs saving?” I hiss.

Of all the replies that I might expect, I don’t anticipate her grasping my hand and yanking me closer.

"He's coming for her. And you aren't strong enough to stop him. He'll tear you apart, one feather at a time if you get in his way. And you'll get in his way." She clutches my hand with an impossible strength that belies her small, frail body. Her dark eyes flash as they gaze into mine before releasing my hand and melting back into the crowd.

I whirl around, my eyes scanning the street for her, but the old woman has disappeared into the sea of people, leaving me with nothing but her warning and the feeling of her papery flesh against my palm.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Who is she? The old woman intrigues me, but she is far from the first witch or medium I’ve ever run across in the centuries. Generally, those of her kind that end up on my doorstep are more interested in clamoring for a spot in Hell's court than offering up cryptic warnings.

I chuckle softly, the idea that I could be in any danger amusing in its ludicrousness. Short of a pack of Archangels or my Father, nothing on this plain of existence can touch me.

Michael and his cohorts are on Earth. There is no doubt about that anymore. Only an Archangel or four will have the raw power needed to trap souls that want nothing more than to move on. And only the Archangels are callous enough to rip apart His beloved world just to irritate me.

Since the beginning, we all disdained the sweaty, greedy bunch that my Father so adored. I was simply the only one with big enough stones to mention my disgust in my Father’s presence. The others laughed at humanity, savoring the weakness and pain of the bald monkeys that played at having power and grumbled at any mission that sent them down into the muck of the world.

Short of raising the four horsemen and tearing a bloody swath across the Mississippi, they won’t care what I do to this planet.

As for dear old Dad, He turned his back on us all long ago. Good or otherwise, he walked away and left us all to our own devices. The angels abandoned humanity, and in their absence, they turned to me and mine.

And after a few thousand years, the bald monkeys grow on you.

I duck into a bar, eager for a respite, however brief, from the crush of souls outside as I plot my next move. In a city where $200 will buy your own personal parade, a quiet moment to think becomes even more valuable.

The cool darkness of the bar slips over me with comforting familiarity, blotting out the mid-afternoon hedonism outside the thick wooden door. I sink down into one of the worn leather barstools and catch a glimpse of my face in the mirrored wall, seeing myself as they see me for the first time.

I look weary.

A casual observer will see nothing more than a tall man in a well-cut suit, a bit too dark to be practical in the Louisiana heat. If they draw a bit closer, they might find a different sort of heat burning in them, enticing them to take that last step and meet my eyes, letting every secret spill from their lips and their souls as their needy human flesh begs for just one touch.

Never let it be said that the Devil neglects aesthetics.

To my own eyes though, I can see the weight of the years upon me. Hell is so much more simple for the other Fallen. The angels that follow me so eagerly crave nothing more than another leader they can follow with blind obedience. The humans that find their way to my realm for punishment are all too quick to shed their mortal coil and replace it with a demonic skin if it gives them the chance to become the torturer instead of the one strapped to the rack.

There are always holdouts. Free will, after all. My Father bestowed that gift on his humans, and even the most rank will try to resist the call of their true nature at first, but Hell is, above all, repetition. The knowledge that at the end of each day they become whole and the cycle begins anew snaps them all eventually. They forget their lives and crimes. Even their very names fade into nothingness.

That's how demons are born. Every demon slithering through Hell or tormenting someone topside was just another person once upon a time. Bit by bit, Hell scrapes away their free will along with their humanity.

Why my Father gave me free will, I expect I'll never know. No doubt it was just another ingredient my Father threw into creation for his own divine amusement.

The bartender leans against the back of the bar, watching me expectantly from her spot next to the gin selection.

“Whiskey. Something smoky to remind me of home. And leave the bottle.”

At the order she scrambles to grab a bottle from the top shelf, filling a rocks glass with two fingers of the amber liquid before backing off and leaving the dusty bottle beside me.

I take a sip, letting the taste of burnt sugar and dark oak flow over my tongue, but the taste I truly savor comes from the sins of the pretty red-haired bartender. Her fingers just brush mine as she hands me the glass, and almost unconsciously my mind ticks off the seven deadlies she breaks on the regular.

Greed. Her quick fingers pocket whatever cash might not be missed from the register.

Wrath. Shattering the headlights on an ex-boyfriend’s car.

Lust. So much lust. Tugging up her tank top to flash those milky breasts after a few too many shots. Dragging a handsy blond man for a quickie in the supply room mid-shift. Leering at a dark-haired stripper exiting the Penthouse Club.

And the heat in her eyes as she stares at me.

One word. One thought, and I could have her on her pretty pale knees in the middle of this bar. I certainly didn’t come back to the world to live as a penitent, and lust always was such a fun sin.

She licks her lips unconsciously as she watches me, every molecule of her body screaming for me to take her and ruin her for the touch of mortal men.

It was just too easy.

I turn my attention back to my drink, feeling a spark of anger from her at the dismissal, but the redhead is forgotten before I swallow my next sip.

"He's coming for her."

The old witch’s words bounce through my mind.

"He's coming for her. And you aren't strong enough to stop him. He'll tear you apart, one feather at a time if you get in his way. And you'll get in his way."

I know prophecy when I hear it. The vague riddles of prophets have always done little more than irritate me. Who is she? And more importantly, why would I care about the fate of one human above the rest?