Chapter 1 #2
He huffed. “Firstly, this garden is a loose replica, and barely half the size. Secondly, you are neither na?ve nor a maiden, Mary Magdalene.”
“And isn’t that the honest truth.” She laughed, a touch bitterly perhaps, and bit into her apple with a decisive crunch. Luce grimaced at her intentionally exaggerated chewing.
“Yet still so classy,” he teased. “Besides, the Tree of Knowledge was a fig tree.”
“Wasn’t it an apple?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, were you there? Now, enough stalling,” Luce declared. “I’m practically dying of anticipation.”
“Well, you’re certainly in the right place to do so.” After a moment, she tentatively began, “Though, the rumors—”
“No.” Luce cut her off sharply. “I’ve been tired of those stupid rumors since I first heard them.
Whoever started them is supremely uncreative; you of all people should know that’s not my style.
” At her meek protest, he held up a firm hand.
“Enough, Mary. What is so urgently weighing on you? You only get pushy about my past when you’re deflecting. ”
Mags gripped his sleeve with gentle fingers before slipping down to take his hand. “It really is better to show you.”
Mags had been gifted since her Rising with the abilities of a lesser Divine, akin to a demigod’s, but she also had a uniquely powerful gift of foresight.
It typically manifested at random, but she had taught herself to pull energy from within herself as well as from other sources to share her visions with others.
It was a skill that had proven invaluable to Luce on more than one occasion.
Luce could feel the slight tremor in her grip, and concern overtook the brief flare of annoyance.
He had gifted Mags an unused cottage on the border of his estate long ago, and she had managed to make her secluded corner of the land just a touch cozier than the rest of his realm.
The cobbled walk led to a cushioned swing on her veranda, bedecked in colorful throw pillows, overlooking a small vegetable garden.
A thriving fishpond bubbled happily beneath a willow tree and fairy lights twined through the branches above.
Colors seemed more vibrant here. Her space felt warmer and more alive than the subdued vibe of Hell as a whole.
But this small shift in atmosphere could never prepare one for what they would find beyond her door.
Luce saw Mags as a little sister and treated her like one, so any delusions of her as mature and mysterious had long since washed away.
She was eclectic, to put it kindly, and had the unfortunate habit of renovating and redecorating her space on a whim.
Every time he entered, he found something more outlandish and alarming.
On this occasion, Luce felt as if he had stepped into a sixteen-year-old girl’s fever dream of a princess’s bedroom.
An opulent queen-sized bed topped with a mountain of pillows and throws stood hidden behind a canopy of pink gossamer and silk.
Plush footstools and rugs cluttered the lounge space, arranged around a massive chocolate fountain that was situated on the glass coffee table.
A vanity dominated one wall, overflowing with makeup in a variety of tubes, jars, palettes, and compacts, interspersed with assorted bottles of perfumes and scattered pieces of jewelry.
The same wall was adorned with several framed paintings.
At first they appeared to be random splatters of pastel, but the longer he looked, the more he could infer the vague suggestion of flowers.
He wondered briefly if Mags had done those herself, or if perhaps Sachi had helped.
The closest seat was an overstuffed burgundy abomination that was a mix of beanbag and armchair. Luce eyed it dubiously before deciding to take the risk, gently perching on the edge and immediately slipping into the chair’s gaping maw.
“Mags! Your chair is eating me!” He flailed a bit in an attempt to escape but only succeeded in sinking further into it.
Mags eyed him with a mixture of pity, amusement, and disdain.
“Behold!” She intoned dramatically, adopting a mockery of Luce’s deeper voice. “Lucifer of the Morning Star, mighty Seraphim Eterna, Lord of Hell and highly worshipped Divine being,” she paused for effect, then switched back to her own gently mocking deadpan, “lain low by a poufy lounge chair.”
She leaned over him with a wicked grin and gave the chair a hard shove to tip him out of it. “How the masses will quake to hear the tale.”
Lucifer gave an undignified shriek and jabbed a black-lacquered nail in her general direction. “Don’t you dare!”
“Oh hush,” she waved a hand dismissively as she set about arranging her scrying basin on her vanity. “Who would I tell?”
“Christos,” he said immediately.
Mags paused mid-pour of her rose-scented holy water and nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, you’re right. I am definitely telling Christos.”
Lucifer grumbled but made no real complaint. After the horrors she had been through, he could hardly begrudge her finding someone she could be completely happy and open with. And of all people to know Luce’s every embarrassing moment, his nephew at least wouldn't be too gleeful in his teasing.
He gave up on anything resembling a chair and just tucked his long legs under him on the floor to watch as Mags set up for her spell.
She opened a cabinet set against the wall, pulling out several wooden boxes of varying sizes.
Placing them on her assortment of footstools—which Luce eyed with distrust after his encounter with the chair—she then pulled out crystals and candles in an assortment of colors and arranged them around the pearlescent seashell basin.
Luce arched a brow. “You need this many amplifiers?”
She sighed, lighting her candles with a long match. “Unfortunately, this vision is particularly...difficult. I hope it doesn’t affect you too strongly.”
“Please Mags, don’t insult me.”
“I’m not.” She snapped her fingers and the candle flames shot high, the heat and the water creating a mist in the air. With a spin of her finger, it deepened and spread until it rolled like smoke across the room. “You want to see so badly? I hope you’re ready for what I’m going to show you.”
That chill crept down his spine again and dragged the smile off his face.
Something was clearly under her skin in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time.
A part of him began to be very afraid. Maybe he wasn’t as prepared as he had thought.
Luce reminded himself sternly that he was the Lord of Hell and really, what could it be that he wasn’t powerful enough to endure?
Then a chaotic scene began to flicker into focus over the mist, as if cast by a projector.
There was a cloudy quality to this vision, like trying to view a scene through a fogged windowpane.
Even with her amplifying elements, it was obvious this vision had been a twisting, awful nightmare of scattered glimpses and vague hints.
A shadowy form resolved itself into a human shape, and Luce realized it was his son Foster, walking in an empty alleyway.
After all his eons, there were still things that could catch him off guard.
The scene shifted, becoming more abstract. Angela, his departed wife, but just a close-cropped view of her beautiful face, smiling serenely. The image faded out and came back as a glaring golden light. There was the sound of ruffling feathers, a sensation of cold so intense it nearly burned.
Light flashed in the corners of his vision, like cracks of lightning across dark skies.
There was a splash of blood, and someone dragging long, tanned fingers through it to paint a messy sigil.
A smell like rotting garbage pervaded. He caught a glimpse of pale skin, the sickly pallor of fading life.
The images spun and dipped wildly around him, never lingering long enough for a proper look.
The clang of metal against metal, accompanied by an enraged shout and a flash of dark hair.
Smoke swirling over a building, the crackle of fire?
He couldn’t be sure. A book splayed on a table, worn pages inked with dark symbols and scrawls that looked like Aramaic. A white-hot pain in his chest.
A hand touched his shoulder gently, but he couldn’t be sure if it was Mags or a part of the vision. Luce’s head throbbed, a rush of vertigo swelling as the images and sensations flickered past at lightning speed.
A cold laugh, silver eyes like clouded moonlight, a little girl coughing violently, a leather jacket smoldering in embers.
The flash of a blade sweeping forward as if to cut his throat.
Luce gasped, leaning instinctively away from the phantom threat, and felt his world tip sideways as the visions spun away. The room vanished in a spill of sudden, blessed darkness.
The darkness was not empty. He could feel another presence. Luce blinked slowly, looking around curiously, but nothing was apparent.
“Hello?” He called out, his voice echoing away into the distance.
“Hello,” a voice called back, clear and mellifluous. It was utterly androgynous and devoid of inflection. He knew it wasn’t his own echo but couldn’t identify it beyond that. Luce frowned, taking an experimental step towards the voice.
There was nothing to step onto. He found himself falling, but not the drastic plummet of a freefall.
This was a much more controlled descent, like coming in for a landing after a flight.
His scarred shoulder blades ached with the phantom memory; muscles built over centuries twitched with the desire to fulfill their invalidated function.
The darkness lightened and his feet touched down on a solid floor of rough oak.