Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The room was warm, vast, and airy as mid-day light spilled over the wooden-paneled floor, a soft breeze drifting in from the wide double doors that opened onto a back patio.
Lucifer stepped into the space, feet bare and clad in a gray silk robe that was fastened loosely at his waist, breathing deep to inhale the scent of the incense that wafted from a nearby burner.
He loved his ritual space more than any other in his home, more than the garden or the kitchen.
It was his most sacred space, one not even Remiel would dare to breach, and soothed him like little else.
He needed to be calm and collected when he wove his enchantments if he wanted the best outcome, and though the sunlight was artificial, he loved basking in it to relax and meditate.
Bookcases lined the walls, all containing his various spell components.
From crystals to herbs to candles to vials of liquids from a variety of sources, he had an extensive collection of materials to choose from, and all of it was organized by purpose.
He walked now toward the shelf that contained items that would help with truth seeking, honesty, and revelation.
He took a deep blue cloth to lay on his spell board, then carefully chose several crystals from their shelves—aquamarine, selestine, and a vivid blue sapphire, as well as several small pieces of iolite and charoite.
Setting these aside, Luce hummed softly to himself while he picked up bottles of herbs, un-stoppering them and inhaling deep as he made his selections.
Violet and foxglove, primrose and bluebell, and of course anise to focus all the energy.
“I think I might be ready now,” he murmured, laying the bundle of herbs on the board. “I’ll just need an empty vial and a pestle and mortar—ah, and a candle.”
Finally, he settled cross-legged on a velvet cushion, materials laid before him, and prepared to undergo an ancient truth ritual.
The steps were simple: gather the materials, add a bit of Divine blood, and speak the words of the spell.
Then tell the truth. It should be child’s play at best, though Lucifer had a nagging suspicion it would be more complicated than it seemed to earn another piece of the Armor. It had been the first time, at least.
He pushed back the worry, dropping his flowers and herbs into the heavy mortar and beginning to grind with a practiced hand.
It was soothing, in a way. Once he’d reduced the plants to a fine powder, he picked up a crystal athame, lifting his open palm over the bowl and dragging the blade across his skin to let a trickle of gold spill onto the herbs.
The wind picked up outside, the breeze becoming stronger as it wound through the room.
Not enough to disturb things, but enough that Luce knew he was on the right track.
He began to chant old Enochian words about conjuring truth and dispelling imbalance; words that were heavy on his tongue and rough in his throat.
He felt every minute of his countless eons upon the earth when he used his native tongue, every long day and sleepless night, every joy and sorrow of his life. It pulled him to a secret space at his core, which was exactly where he needed to be to make this ritual a success.
Luce closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was in darkness. The breeze still enveloped him, but gone were the shelves, the warm afternoon sunlight, the view from his patio.
Cold black stretched around him, making his skin tense at the change in temperature as he cautiously rose to his feet.
“Hello darkness,” he sang softly, a smirk tugging the corners of his lips, “my old friend.”
The ground beneath was now cool stone, smooth and slick as he walked slowly toward the only object he could see in the dim gloom—a shimmering, smooth mirror in a golden frame, suspended in midair and level with his line of sight.
He circled the mirror, inspecting it curiously.
No ropes suspended it; no wall held it aloft.
It simply hung, still and delicate, like a wafer-thin slice through space itself.
“Approach,” the toneless voice he had come to associate with his inner conscience commanded. “Speak your truths, son of Perdition.”
Luce winced at the title. Somehow, the flat delivery made it worse, as if it were a fact and not the opinion he had always considered it to be. “Right, yes.”
He returned to the front of the mirror, touching his fingers to the glass and smiling fondly at his own reflection. The image rippled, and his mirror visage suddenly lost all affect, its face falling into a placid, neutral expression.
“Speak your truths,” his reflection commanded again, and it was utterly bizarre to see his own face speaking with that toneless voice.
“Okay, truth number one is that I find this experience highly disturbing.”
“Irrelevant, and meaningless,” his reflection droned. “Do better.”
“Rude,” Luce huffed, and paused. “Do you have to wear my face?”
“I am you. Confront yourself. Speak your truth.”
He shifted uncomfortably, and his reflection did not move with him. “So creepy,” he muttered, shuddering. “And about as helpful as an automated call line.”
No response this time. Luce sighed. “Okay, okay. Commencing with the truth-telling, got it.”
He paused, considering, and then touched his hand to the mirror again. In his other hand, the vial he had prepared appeared, empty and waiting to be filled.
“I neglected my son,” he said quietly, and a thin wisp of smoke trickled from his lips, hazy and insubstantial. “I abandoned him in a time of need.”
The smoke collected in the vial, barely enough to cover the bottom of the container.
“That is hardly a valuable truth,” his reflection observed, raising its mirror image of the vial Luce cupped in his palm. “You must delve deeper.”
Luce frowned. “Who decides the weight of these truths?”
Sharp eyes cut to meet his gaze, and Luce was almost cowed by his own intense stare. “You do, Morningstar. I am you, and you judge yourself.”
The Devil turned away from his reflection, a chill passing down his spine.
This was not a test that could be passed easily, after all.
It made sense that it would be difficult, but if there was one thing Lucifer knew he was good at, it was avoiding uncomfortable discussions—not embracing them.
With a groan, he turned back around and found himself waiting patiently.
“Continue.”
“I still care for Michael,” he admitted softly, and another trickle of smoke spilled forth, stronger than the first but still barely there.
“Do better,” his reflection commanded again, cool and even.
“If you’re me, why don’t you try, hm?” Luce snapped, defenses coming up in the face of critique, even from his subconscious.
“This test is yours.” Detached, impartial, and infuriating.
“I know!” He threw his hands up in exasperation, and only the ritual’s magic kept the smoke from spilling out of the vial. He cupped it hastily to his chest and sighed again. “I know.”
He turned away from the mirror, unable to face himself while he dug into his wounds and pried out the things that truly hurt. The things he whispered to himself in the dark of night, when he really wanted to suffer, but had never said aloud even in those lonely hours.
“I am…a bad father,” he forced the words out slowly, like pieces of glass scraping their way up through his throat and into the air. “A terrible one, actually.”
The smoke was pouring freely now, a steady stream from his lips to the glass vial he clutched like a lifeline. “I’m selfish and stubborn and I care more about my own needs than my son’s. I left the burden of raising him to his mother, out of fear and out of convenience, and so I hardly know him.”
The vial was slowly filling; a viscous purple substance twisted and coiled within the glass as Lucifer choked on his own pride and regrets. He turned, facing his apathetic reflection where it waited for him.
“The world is careening towards destruction because I was more concerned with protecting my peace and my heart than I was with being a father. I should have been there, and I chose myself, and now it might be too late to fix this.”
“Yes.”
Luce brought his palm to the mirror, and for a moment it flickered. He caught a glimpse of his true face, of the pain that had been dragged up to the surface etched across his expression. He looked ready to cry. But the vial was almost full, he couldn’t stop now.
“I’m scared,” he confessed, watching the smoke pour thickly from his own lips. “I’m scared that I am not strong enough. That I will sacrifice and try and desperately pray and still fail. I’m afraid, more than anything, that my brother was right, and I will never be enough.”
The pain of saying those words, of confessing his deepest fear aloud, brought him to his knees.
Shame and terror burned in his chest, warring with each other and his pride—or at least the wounded creature he had made of it.
He gripped the vial in both hands, curling over it protectively as if it needed to be guarded.
This was the manifestation of his oldest scars, and Luce trembled as he came to terms with how truly terrified he was that they might fail because of him. Because of his mistakes, and his inability to correct them.
“Rise, Fallen Star,” his reflection urged him, and Lucifer tore his gaze up to meet the mirror. “There is much to be done.”
“Am I enough?” Luce rasped, throat tight with restrained emotion. “Can I even do this?”
“Truth is subjective,” the mirror Luce evaded his question. “I am the echo of your conscience, and nothing more. Decide your own fate.”
Lucifer scoffed. “Helpful, thank you.”
“If I could answer you, you would not need to ask me.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he sighed, and got back to his feet again. He eyed the vial dubiously, turning it from side to side to examine the shifting substance. “Now what? Did I pass the test?”
“You will know once you drink.”
“Drink?”