Chapter Thirty-Six Lucifer
Chapter Thirty-Six
Lucifer
It’s less than a week before the Met Gala, and once again, Charlotte and I are on the red carpet. This time, the event is one I’ve chosen for her specifically. A philanthropic auction in which the proceeds benefit abused women attempting to reclaim their lives after escaping the religious and physical abuse they suffered at the hands of their zealous husbands, but if she notices the less-than-subtle hint that I know the true secret that brought her here to New York City, my fiancée doesn’t say anything.
Instead, she seems distant. Like her mind is elsewhere.
She’s been like that for the past few days, really.
Though, for once, I can’t bring myself to ask her what exactly she’s thinking.
If perhaps she’s as hesitant for our arrangement to end as I am ...
It isn’t until the auction and accompanying after-party is over and we begin to take our usual questions from the press that she perks up slightly, playing her role admirably for the cameras. But unlike when we’re alone, her smile is fake. Forced. I recognize that now, and the subtle change in her demeanor ends abruptly when a reporter from Vogue magazine asks, “Charlotte, care to comment on the recent remarks from your father?”
Charlotte’s nails dig into my Versace suit sleeve. “Excuse me?”
“That’s enough questions,” I say, attempting to shut down the interview and usher her away, to save her from the circus that’s no doubt about to ensue. But the media’s sharks are ever relentless, and Charlotte remains frozen in place.
“According to our sources,” the journalist says, “your father is the minister of the controversial Christian megachurch New Life Nexus, and when he was asked recently about what he thought of your engagement, he shared a verse from the Bible, Proverbs five, lines three through four, and I quote, ‘For the lips of an immoral woman are as sweet as honey, and her mouth is smoother than oil. But in the end, she is as bitter as poison, as dangerous as a double-edged sword,’ and then when asked to comment in his own words, he said, and I quote, ‘May she burn for how she has forsaken me and our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.’”
The crowd of onlookers falls quiet, sensing fresh blood in the water as the journalist shoves a pink mini-microphone into Charlotte’s face and says, “Care to comment?”
“I—”
“ I have a comment actually,” I growl, struggling to keep my voice even.
Charlotte’s gaze cuts toward me. “Lucifer—”
“You do?” The reporter’s brows shoot up as she turns the microphone in my direction, stepping back a little at the sight of the hellfire in my gaze, though it doesn’t deter her.
Bottom-feeders, the whole lot of them.
“I do, in fact.” I look toward the camera then, ignoring Charlotte’s silent plea for me to stop, how her grip on my arm tightens to where it nearly draws blood as I stare directly into the camera. “You can tell Charlotte’s father, and every other worthless, hypocritical piece of religious shit who uses my Father’s name to justify their hate, that I will see them in Hell.” I sneer. “And I look forward to greeting them personally.”
It isn’t until we’re back at the penthouse, alone again, that Charlotte deigns to address me. She throws up her hands in an I-give-up gesture, her red lips pinched.
“What were you thinking?” she says. “You can’t fight my battles for me, Lucifer.”
I shrug, hands still in my suit coat pockets. “I don’t particularly see why not.”
“Because they’re my battles. Mine ,” she says, pointing toward herself defensively as she charges through the foyer. “They have nothing to do with you.”
I cross to the bar and pour myself a whisky, falling into our usual routine with ease. “I’d say this one has quite a bit to do with me, if that quote holds any meaning for you.”
“Ugh!” Charlotte drops her hands to her sides with an audible thwap. “I can’t ... I can’t deal with you right now, Lucifer. I just ...” She grips the roots of her hair before she heads toward the elevator, stripping off her Saint Laurent heels as she goes.
“Is that what he’d do? Quote Bible verses to you?” I call after her, causing her to freeze. “Use my Father’s poorly translated, shoddily transcribed, and frequently misinterpreted and misapplied messages in order to get you to behave?” I scoff. “The modern Bible might as well be a record of a poorly played game of human telephone.”
Charlotte shakes her head, refusing to look at me. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Of course it’s relevant,” I say, my voice undercut with frustration in a way that causes her to face me. “You and I were forged the same way, Charlotte. Cut from the same cloth. Don’t you see?”
“Don’t try to make this about me.” She frowns, clearly still angry. “I am nothing like you.”
“I think you are,” I call after her, as she tries to walk away once more. “And that thought terrifies you, doesn’t it?”
“Just stop it. Just stop it, okay?” She whirls toward me, chucking her heels onto the floor in front of her, and shock fills me at the sight of the tears running down her face.
At how they somehow ... pain me.
She inhales a deep breath.
“I can’t ... I can’t deal with you playing the provocateur right now, Lucifer. Just please give me some space. For tonight. That’s all I’m asking of you.” She sighs heavily before making her exit, leaving me standing alone beside the piano.
The one that guests often beg me to play.
But there’s only one human whose requests I’d willingly entertain these days.
I take another sip of my whisky, suddenly finding I can’t stomach the taste I craved only moments before. I abandon the nearly full glass on top of the piano instead of shattering it. The thought’s tempting. Nearly as tempting as she is. I run my fingers over the piano before closing my fist and pressing down onto the keys. It’s at times like this that I find I most wish I could see inside her head, know exactly what she’s thinking, sinful deeds or no, but I suppose if it worked like that, she and I wouldn’t be here in the first place.
I don’t know how long I stand at the window, staring at the passing cars and the city below, before Az arrives. Time works differently for immortals. Moves more quickly. But I can feel his approach even before I hear the subtle sound of his steps. I’ve asked more than once that he not simply appear inside my penthouse.
It doesn’t take wings to fly or to step through time and space, as it were.
But all the skyscrapers in New York City make it a bit trickier these days.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” I snarl, turning to face him as he steps out of the ether.
“Than fuck around and annoy you?” Az makes a face as if the question is a particularly ludicrous one before he casts me his signature sparkling grin. “It’s one of my favorite activities these days. Ever since you’ve gone soft for your little human.”
“I have not gone soft,” I snarl.
“Says the man sulking by the window.” His eyes dart between me and the glass of $75,000 whisky I just abandoned on the piano alongside the open bottle. He shakes his head at me. “There isn’t any shame in celes- ty -al dysfunction, you know,” he says, replacing erectile with celestial .
Emphasis on the I .
I don’t bother to respond.
My brother tilts his head toward me curiously before picking up the Bowmore bottle to examine it. “You know, if you really are that far gone for her, Luce, you could simply tell her? Though that would seem like an entirely anticlimactic end to this little charade you’ve been putting on.” He sets the bottle back down again.
“Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter.” I turn away.
Sulking, like he said, I suppose.
But unfortunately, I can still see Az’s reflection in the window’s glass.
Azmodeus’s jaw drops, like he’s just now realized that this isn’t all a game. “Fuck me. You really do care for her, don’t you?”
I let out an annoyed growl in response.
I don’t have the energy to argue with him, and the way I feel for Charlotte is a ... complicated matter these days. No matter how frustratingly perfect she is or not, how I feel for her is irrelevant.
However big of a monster they may be, you’ll always be an even bigger one ...
Her words echo through me, tearing me apart.
She’s right, anyway. More than she could ever fathom.
If only she knew the whole of it.
Az claims my abandoned whisky for himself, taking a sip before he swirls it about in the tumbler. “Why not simply wait it out?” he says, shrugging unhelpfully, as if he’s suggesting a change in the furniture. “It’s only a matter of time before she says it first, anyway. Humans are so disgustingly sentimental about these things.”
“Says what first?”
Az casts a pointed look at me.
My mouth goes dry, and I grumble in understanding, turning away from him again as I shove my hands into my pockets. “I don’t think she’s going to say it, in any case.”
“Well, why the fuck not?” Az says, gesturing wildly at me, like my mood has somehow ruined his whole evening. Or the fun he’s currently having at my expense, at least. “I may be your brother, but if I weren’t, anyone with eyes can see you’re perfectly fuckable. Not to mention this is the single most exciting thing that’s likely to ever happen in her whole miserable existence.”
“It’s not miserable,” I snap. “Her existence, I mean.”
Az offers a knowing, mirthful grin.
I release a heavy sigh. “It has a purpose. I ... just haven’t surmised what exactly it is yet.”
Az’s eyes go wide. “Careful, brother, or you might start to sound like Father.”
But Azmodeus couldn’t possibly begin to guess how much I’ve begun to reconsider my stance on humanity these days. On what they mean to me.
Or at least, one human, in particular.