Chapter 31 Lucian
Lucian
"Hey, hey, hey! Hands off the limited editions, Darkness McEdgelord!
" I swat at the demon who's treating my vintage collection like it's a demonic coloring book.
"Those babies are worth more than your sorry soul on the interdimensional black market.
You so much as breathe on them wrong, and I'll go all samurai on your ass faster than you can say 'brimstone and bullshit. '"
I mean, the balls on this guy, waltzing into my crib like he's the Lord of the Underworld, leaving his stanky demon-stank all over my Italian leather couch.
Those fiery eyes might work on the dumb schmucks he usually terrorizes, but I've seen scarier things in my morning mirror after a night of bad chimichangas.
The demon just stares at me, those soulless flaming eyes boring into me like he's trying to read my mind.
Joke's on him, though—pretty sure even the most powerful telepaths would nope the fuck out of my head after five seconds.
It's like a Hieronymus Bosch painting in there, but with more dick jokes and pop culture references.
He grumbles deep in his chest, like a malfunctioning garbage disposal, as I stand my ground. "Oh, don’t you even start with that growling crap," I snap, pretty sure that's demon dialect for "fuck you."
"Listen up, Beelzebub," I continue, getting all up in his grill, which, let me tell you, is not a pleasant experience.
The dude's breath smells like a tire fire in a sulfur factory.
"I don't care if you're the biggest, baddest demon on the block.
In Casa de Lucian, we have rules. Rule numero uno: keep your grubby mitts off my shit.
Rule numero dos: if you're gonna park your ass on my couch, at least have the decency to Febreze yourself first. I just had this thing steam-cleaned. "
"Lucian, quit your whining and leave Braxos alone," Emily snarks from her spot at the kitchen island, not even bothering to glance up from the dusty grimoire she's poring over. "He's not interested in your precious nerd stash, so take a chill pill and unclench, would you?"
I've been dealing with this demonic disaster for longer than I can stand, and it's driving me bat-shit insane.
This asshole's got the manners of a brain-dead zombie, putting his grubby mitts on everything like it's a fucking free-for-all.
And of course, I'm the only one who can't understand a damn word he's saying because I don't speak Demon like Little Miss Rosetta Crypt over there.
Seraphina, Sable, and Emily are gathered around the kitchen island, their noses buried in Sable's cookbook-slash-spellbook.
They are trying to figure out how to send a magical smoke signal to Dani and maybe teach our new roommate some basic communication skills that don't involve Latin or interpretive dance.
Meanwhile, I'm over here, ready to put my head through a wall just for shits and giggles.
"If he's your new boy toy, then why don't you teach him some goddamn boundaries?
" I snap, stalking into the kitchen to liberate a bottle of Jack from the liquor cabinet.
If I'm gonna survive this asshole, I'm gonna need something a hell of a lot stronger than coffee.
"Dude's been invading my personal bubble like he's got a PhD in bad touch. "
"Braxos, sede mecum," Emily commands, patting the stool next to her. The demon—all ten feet of midnight muscle—immediately plops down like an obedient hellhound.
"There, problem solved," Emily smirks, returning to her book. "Maybe if you spent more time expanding your mind instead of rotting it with stupid video games and bad porn, you'd be able to communicate with him too."
Seraphina, my sweet celestial snack cake, tries to diffuse the situation.
"Now, now, let's all just take a deep breath and focus," she says, her melodic voice carrying an undercurrent of strained patience.
"The sooner we find a way to contact Dani, the sooner we can figure out what to do with our new. .. guest and what to do about Lilith."
It took Seraphina a hot minute to stop treating our resident hellspawn like he had supernatural cooties.
Once she figured out that Satan's Hemroid was basically Emily's oversized puppy with separation anxiety—thanks to whatever witchy leash she's got on him—my angel cake finally unclenched enough to stay in the same room without going full "smite first, ask questions later. "
However, I can still feel her anxiety buzzing through our bond like a caffeinated hummingbird whenever Braxo's creepy fire eyes drift her way.
I can't blame her—the guy looks like he crawled straight out of the Devil's fashion catalog.
I tug her into my lap, wrapping around her like the world's most possessive octopus, and bury my face in her neck.
Her scent hits me like a shot of pure heaven—all sunshine and cotton candy with just a hint of sass.
Take that, demon boy—my girl smells way better than your sulfur-scented ass.
"Well said, Cupcake. However, if Sabrina the Teenage Bitch over here hadn't turned our kitchen into Hogwarts' red-headed stepchild, maybe I'd be able to relax without worrying about tall, dark, and demonic putting his creepy-crawlies all over my shit."
Emily flips me off without even looking up from her book, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse. Knowing her, she's probably hexing my dick to fall off or something.
"Look! I believe I've found something," Sable announces, her delicate finger tracing ancient text that probably predates electricity.
"This particular incantation appears to grant the recipient comprehensive linguistic abilities.
Maybe we could use this to help Braxos communicate in a more. .. conventional manner?"
"Well, it beats playing charades with the Lord of Darkness over here," Emily drawls, eyeing our resident demon like he's a science experiment gone wrong. "Though I gotta say, his confused puppy face every time Lucian opens his mouth is pretty entertaining."
These magical mavens have been buried in that ancient tome for a full day, trying to decode spells that look like someone sneezed alphabet soup onto parchment.
I mean, I'm about as magical as a rubber duck, but even I can tell that finding the right spell in that biblical behemoth is like trying to find a specific needle in a stack of identical needles. While blindfolded and drunk.
"Oh, this is quite fascinating," Sable continues, her eyes lighting up. "The spell has roots in ancient Babylonian practices, with elements of early Mediterranean magical theory..."
"Sable," Seraphina cuts in, her angelic voice carrying just enough sass to make me proud, "as absolutely riveting as the magical history lesson is, maybe we should focus on making our houseguest slightly more chatty? Before Lucian has an aneurysm about his comic collection?"
"Hey!" I grumble, squeezing her against me. "For your information, those comics are investments. Unlike some people, I'm planning for my retirement!"
Emily rolls her eyes. "Yes, because clearly, the apocalypse cares about your 401k of superhero memorabilia. Now shut up and let us work, or I'll let Braxos use your precious comics as coloring books."
The demon in question sits there, his eyes bouncing between us like he's watching the world's most confusing tennis match. Poor bastard probably thinks we're all insane. Welcome to the club, buddy.
"Oh, leave him alone," Seraphina giggles, her voice tinkling like bells. "You know how protective Lucian gets over his comic shrine."
"Shrine?" Emily snorts. "More like an altar to his arrested development. Though I gotta say, big guy," she turns to Braxos with a wicked grin, "you've got excellent taste. That limited edition Batman he caught you eyeing? Totally overrated."
"Ex-fucking-scuse you!" I screech, clutching my whiskey bottle like a security blanket. "Don't you dare poison his mind against the Dark Knight! And for your information, that's a first printing, signed by Frank Miller himself!"
"Sparky," Seraphina soothes, trying and failing to hide her amusement, "maybe we should focus on the whole 'saving the world' thing instead of your comic collection?"
"Fine," I grumble, taking a long pull from the bottle. "But if this asshole over there so much as breathes wrong on my mint condition X-Men #1, I'm installing holy water sprinklers."
Braxos blinks at me, probably plotting ways to reorganize my carefully curated comic filing system just to spite me. Demons, man. Can't live with 'em, can't exorcise 'em without Emily throwing a magical hissy fit.
"Damn, maybe I should slap that linguistic mojo on myself," Emily muses, tapping her chin like an evil genius plotting world domination. "Instant Latin fluency, baby! I'd ace my college course so hard. The professor would weep tears of joy."
"Emily." Sable admonishes, her voice carrying that signature blend of sweetness and wisdom that makes me want to puke rainbows. "You know, using magic for personal gain violates the fundamental laws of—"
"Balance, harmony, yadda yadda, I know," Emily grumbles, waving her hand dismissively. "Buzzkill. Fine, let's test drive this bad boy on Mr. Darkness over here. See if we can get him to use his words like a big boy."
Right on cue, Baby Vamp decides to emerge from his basement brooding session like some angsty teenager finally leaving their room. The kid is still deep in his "woe is me, I'm a creature of the night" phase, which, honestly? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.
But before I can make a crack about his perfect vampire hair—
"What in the actual fuck is THAT?!" Damon shrieks.
Braxos rises to his full nightmare-inducing height and stalks toward Damon like he's spotted his next meal ticket. Oh, hell no, we are not adding "demon vs. vampire throwdown" to today's agenda.