Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Lucifer was very, very close to breaking something—or baking something. He took a moment to mourn the ruined cake he’d been crafting before Mags had arrived and dropped a bomb all over his good mood.
Said woman was currently tearing apart his private library.
She was a force of nature, pulling countless manuscripts, tomes and scrolls from his densely packed shelves, rifling quickly through them, and then tossing them aside when she deemed them lacking.
Luce had tried to help, but when she struggled to articulate exactly what she was looking for, he had been relegated to rescuing the discarded books from her careless hands.
He arranged them neatly on his desk at first, maintaining the ordering system he used on the shelves, but he had to settle for laying them carefully on any flat surface he could find as Mags increased her pace.
She began to yank the books down with not only her hands, but her power, giving them a quick skim and then flinging them away with an agitated shake of her head.
It was all he could do to keep them off the parquet floor.
It helped to have a task, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking for.
Anything to avoid thinking about his hopeless position.
That familiar itch to create something was taking over again, as it often did when he was overwhelmed or stressed.
It was the urge that had resulted in the pile of scrapped paintings half-finished in a closet somewhere, or the many discarded manuscripts in progress, or the scarves and blankets he’d attempted to knit.
Again, he thought of the mortal realm and his other unfinished business there.
A sick feeling wound through his gut, and Luce frowned.
Several books suspended in midair dropped sharply to the ground before he could grab them. Mags spun around, exclaiming in triumph and derailing his train of thought—probably for the best, if his short-lived obsession with sewing his own clothing was any indication. “I found it!”
“Mhm,” Luce nodded, eyebrows lifted in expectation. “Care to enlighten the rest of us?”
“A long time ago,” she began excitedly, “when I was first Risen, Christos could see how scared and confused I was. He said something that stuck with me, and I thought it was only a figure of speech. Just something to make me feel better, like a fairy tale. I should’ve known nothing is ever truly a myth in our world. ”
She laughed, a small bitter thing not like her normal giggle, as if chastising herself for being naive. Luce bit his tongue hard to avoid interrupting, though he desperately wished she would get to the point.
“But it’s not,” she waved the book, a thick volume bound in worn sheepskin leather. “It’s right here, Luce.”
“What is?”
“The Armor of God.”
Luce’s heart sank. He wanted to revel in that gleam in her warm eyes, to feel the hope she clearly did. But he knew what she did not.
“Oh, Mary, no,” he spoke softly, as if afraid to hurt her by speaking too harshly. “That’s not a viable option.”
“It is,” Mags insisted, shoving aside a crystal paperweight in the shape of an apple to make space for the book.
Opening it to the first page, she trailed a pink lacquered nail down a long list of names.
“This is an index of weapons of old; of ancient artifacts and their purpose. And right here, between the James Ossuary and the Coat of Dreams –”
“Yes, I know,” Luce broke in, keeping his voice soft and soothing. “But did you read the pages attributed to the Armor?”
“No,” she admitted. “I didn’t get that far.”
Luce took the book from her, flipping to the corresponding section of the compendium, and began to read aloud.
“Therefore, take up the whole armor of the Gods, that you may be able to withstand true evil. Stand with assurance, having fastened on the belt of truth and having put on the breastplate of righteousness. In all circumstances, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming darts of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit. Do all this with supplication to the holiest of holies, and you will attain the readiness of the Gospel of Peace.”
“Why are you insisting this isn’t an option for us?” Mags demanded. “It sounds like you just have to put on the armor and pray to someone, right? And you’ll have the power to overcome any evil.”
Luce closed the book with a snap. “Nothing is ever that simple, Mary. You think this armor is just sitting in a closet somewhere, waiting to be picked up and used?”
“Well, that would make sense,” she said, crossing her arms. “Though I’m sure you’re about to tell me otherwise.”
“Firstly, not just anyone can wear the armor. You need to be of the highest divine ranks—”
“Which you are,” she pointed out. “Seraphim Eterna or an Archangel, right?”
“Secondly,” Luce continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “you must earn each piece of the armor, one by one, with the proper supplication and tithing to craft it.”
“Seems reasonable enough,” Mags said, jutting out her chin stubbornly.
“And lastly,” Luce glared at her constant interruptions, “the instructions for how to attain each piece of armor are contained in the Gospel of Peace—which no one can access.”
“And why not?”
“Because, dearest, my brother keeps it locked away in his Vault.”
“What? Why?”
Luce snorted, running a hand through his hair. “Because he’s an arrogant prick with control issues? He claims the armor is ‘too powerful’ to be left for ‘just anyone’ to access.”
“‘Just anyone’?” She scoffed, frowning. “There are barely any Divine left who rank highly enough to use it.”
“I’m aware,” Luce said, mouth twisting in a grimace. “He keeps it locked away so that I cannot access it. Despite that it is the armor of the Gods, he calls it the armor of God and claims it’s his by right of being King.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Have you met my brother?” Luce laughed grimly. “No, this is not an option for us. He’ll never allow it.”
“He might,” Mags said slowly, clearly coming up with an idea. “If the right person were to ask.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“Well, we have to try.”
Luce groaned. “I’m sure my darling brother will be overjoyed to help us.”
“Probably not,” she smiled and grabbed her bag from a nearby chair. “But you know Christos will be.”
“So, all our hopes depend on my brother listening to his son and lending me one of the most powerful artifacts in his collection. Great.”
Mags patted his cheek fondly. “I’ll be back with good news, I promise.”
She was gone before he could respond, hurrying out of his study with a hopeful spring in her light steps.
Luce picked up the index, turning back to the page they had been studying.
The hand-painted image of the golden armor glinted with shimmering pigment, twinkling at him in a way that seemed almost taunting.
He traced the shape of the painted helmet, trailed his fingers over the breastplate and down the length of the sword’s blade.
Once upon a time, Luce had crafted a single piece of this armor, before Jehovah had revoked access to the Gospel, and it had been a true work of art.
He hated being at his brother’s mercy more than anything in the world. He threw down the tome; it thumped loudly against the floor, missing the table, and he kicked it in a flare of rage like a petulant child. Flopping into his wingback chair, Luce dragged his hands over his face and groaned.
“What am I going to do?” He demanded of the room, slumping forward to rest his throbbing head on his desk.
“You could try talking about your problems for a change,” a sickly-sweet voice chirped back at him. Luce could hear the smirk.
“Remiel,” he muttered dryly, not even bothering to lift his head. “Sure, I don’t need any alone time, no, of course you can come harass me. Can the Devil have no peace?”
A small hand patted him gently on the back of the head.
“Hi Luci,” she trilled, then twisted her fingers quickly into his hair and yanked his head up, voice dropping several octaves back to her normal tone. “It’s rude not to look at someone when you greet them.”
He narrowed his eyes at her too-large grin, the little sadist. Her normally spiked hair was disheveled and hanging into her face, small beads of water dripping off the ends and onto his desk.
“You’re wet,” he spoke slowly, as if Remiel needed extra care to comprehend. “And you’re dripping on the Scrolls of Mammon.”
“Yeah?” She lifted her brows in mock surprise and shook her head like a dog, scattering thick droplets across his desk and the other books and manuscripts.
Luce flicked his fingers sharply, and the falling droplets froze in midair.
He sent the books floating back to their respective shelves with another careless gesture, glowering.
Remi’s grin widened to reveal her sharp canines. “I hadn’t noticed! Maybe it’s because you’re brooding in here, so it’s pouring out there!”
“What?” The frozen droplets dropped abruptly to the desktop as his concentration broke, some shattering on impact while others rolled across the wood like marbles.
“You heard me,” she snapped, tightening her grip and leaning right into his face. “Storm clouds darker than my soul. Thunder like a giant is humping a mountain. Fucking downpour.”
“Okay, I get it,” Luce waved a hand between them. “Can you let go of my hair now, you crazy bitch?”
“Only because you asked so nicely,” her voice slipped back into those honeyed tones, and she brought his face down hard onto the desk before releasing him. His nose snapped with a crunch, and thick golden blood poured onto the wood and squirted down his shirtfront.
“Whad da vuck, Rebi!” He hissed, his hand shooting out on instinct to grip her by her slender throat, partly out of shock and partly to keep her from making any more moves to assault him.