Chapter 16 #2
There is not enough liquor in this glass, Luce decided, and with a lazy wiggle of his fingers, another bottle of whiskey floated from the cabinet to his outstretched hand.
He poured it liberally, sloshing a bit over the side, and cleared the mess away with a muttered curse and a wave of his hand.
Lifting the glass, he admired the way the cut crystal and amber liquor caught the light for a moment before he brought the glass to his lips and drained it in two long swallows.
He poured another and reclined in his chair, regarding the glass with resignation and annoyance. “I thought you were supposed to take my pain away,” he muttered.
The liquor sat motionless in the cup, defiantly offering no answers.
“Terrible, useless poison,” Luce said bitterly, draining it again. “I drink you as punishment.”
“Please tell me you aren’t talking to your brandy.”
“It’s whiskey,” Luce corrected the blurry shape in his doorway, squinting until the figure resolved into Sachiel.
“That is so not the answer I wanted,” Sachi said sternly, but the grin stretching his lips betrayed his amusement. “Isn’t it almost impossible for you to get drunk?”
“It’s not easy,” Luce agreed, “but if you have enough liquor, it’s possible.”
“How long have you been drinking in the dark?”
“Not long enough,” the Devil muttered.
“So much muttering,” the other man chuckled, blond waves falling in his face in a way that had Luce’s feelings in a riot. “You’re normally more eloquent.”
“I’m depressed and drunk,” Luce snapped, taking out the days' worth of frustrations on his subordinate. “Cut me some slack.”
Sachiel sank into the armchair across from Luce’s desk. “The girls are looking for you.”
“Of course they are.”
“Rem says you drugged Mags.”
“I did not,” he protested. “I only put her under for a while with my magic, just long enough to make sure Michael was gone.”
“That’s kinda fucked up, Luce.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Luce glowered at the Fallen.
“Yeah, you never do.” Sachi leaned forward, looking troubled, and braced his forearms on his knees. “You have a real bad tendency of getting yourself so worked up that you don’t have any room in your head for other people’s thoughts.”
“I wasn’t aware I needed to leave room for other people’s thoughts,” Luce sneered.
“You’re a King, Luce. What you do affects the whole Kingdom, so it makes sense that you should keep that in mind.”
“I love this Kingdom, and I always protect the souls in it.”
“There’s a windstorm raging out there right now,” Sachi said calmly, “and there’s a lightning storm over the Pit.”
“Fuck.” Luce slammed his glass down and it shattered into crystalline fragments. “Fuck!”
Sachi sighed, snapping his fingers to vanish the spilled liquor and repair the glass. “And I’m not just talking about the weather.”
“What else?” Luce pointedly avoided looking at the other man, because he knew—especially in this state—that it was a different blond’s face he would see.
“You know what else,” Sachi countered. “You can’t impose your will on your friends, Luce. It’s always been kind of your core belief.”
“You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Sachiel.”
“Wow. You always turn into an ass when you’re stressed out, but drunk Luce is even less sorry about it. Great.”
“You’re right, I’m not apologetic at all.” Luce stood abruptly, leaning over his desk to get in Sachi’s face. “I don’t need to be.”
“Yeah? You’re in here drinking your feelings, man. Shouldn’t you be working on the next piece of the Armor?”
Luce scoffed. “It’s not that easy, Sachiel. It takes a great deal out of me each time, especially with my powers depleted by—”
Sachi’s eyes narrowed. It gave the typically relaxed man a dangerous look as he motioned for Luce to continue. “Finish that sentence, Lucifer.”
“There’s no need.”
“Sure there is. You were about to blame us for your lack of power, right?”
Luce risked a glance at his Bearer of Sloth to find a pale blue gleam creeping into Sachi’s eyes. Trails of azure spilled from his eyes like tears and down his throat to wrap around his biceps, exposed by the casual tank top he wore.
“First Remiel, and now you?” Luce hissed, clenching his fist around the freshly repaired glass. “I gave you these powers to fight for me, not with me.”
Sachiel rose, slowly but purposefully, and his eyes were bright with rarely displayed anger. “Then stop giving us reasons to stand against you... my King.”
Luce bristled at the way the title was tossed out like an insult. “Stand down, Sachiel.”
“No!” Sachiel slammed his palms flat on the desk, sending a rippling shockwave of gleaming blue outwards from the point of impact. “You used your magic so you could force Mags to stay in her room. You can’t just do whatever you want to us, like we’re your toys, Luce.”
“That was to protect her, Sachiel. She wants to run off to her death!”
“You don’t know that,” Sachi protested.
“I know my brother. He doesn’t tend to be forgiving,” Luce sneered.
“It’s not your choice to make.”
“Wouldn’t you do the same?” Luce demanded. “If Camiel was at risk, you would let her run headlong into danger?”
“Yes,” Sachi said immediately, “because she’s a person with opinions and feelings of her own, and she can make her own decisions.”
“My brother cast me out, Michael discarded me, my wife is dead, and my son despises me.” Luce ranted, his voice lifting in volume with each point he ticked off, eyes blazing. “Mags is all I have! I will not lose her!”
“You will lose her! You will push her away with this controlling bullshit, because you’re going to strip away the trust and make her resent you.” His anger spent, the glow of borrowed power leeched out of Sachi’s eyes and he sank into his chair with a sigh.
“Fuck you,” Luce hissed, whirling around and stalking toward the window. Sure enough, harsh winds whipped across the fields, uprooting crops and rustling trees and sending debris flying. He willed himself to calm, to stop the storm.
Lucifer felt suddenly wearier than he had been in a long time.
“I’m not trying to be an asshole, Luce,” Sachi's voice interrupted his concentration, and Luce tensed. “I just don’t want to see you tearing yourself and everyone else apart.”
“Yes, well,” Luce bit out, “you sure are helping make things worse.”
“Don’t be a dick,” Sachi grumbled.
“You know what?” Luce spun back around. “I need some air.”
The other man’s eyes narrowed. “Now you’re running away?”
“I said I need some air,” he ground out, crossing the room and shoving past Sachi. If he didn’t leave now, the damage would be far worse than it already was. “I’m going to find somewhere to drink in peace.”
“Typical,” the blond muttered. “As soon as anyone says something you don’t want to hear, the conversation is over.”
“I’ll be back when I can deal with this clusterfuck,” Luce continued, as if Sachi hadn’t spoken. He stormed out the doorway, leaving the other man glaring furiously after him.
Maybe it was the four bottles of whiskey, maybe it was the effect of Sachi’s uncomfortable visit, or maybe it was just the horrible results of the disastrous meeting with Foster. Whatever the reason, Luce was trying hard not to curl up in bed and ignore the world until it collapsed around him.
Instead, he found himself standing outside a rough-looking bar about ten minutes’ walk from his son’s apartment. Beside him, a portly Italian man in a leather jacket tugged nervously at his handlebar mustache.
“You sure about this, boss?” Cwall frowned, looking uncomfortable with his disguise and this plan as he gazed up at Luce with concern.
“Not really,” Luce shrugged. “But I’m desperate and drunk enough to give it a shot.”
The bar was unassuming at first glance. The worn wooden sign above the door read Georgia’s in chipping gold cursive. A petite blonde pinup with devil horns and tail was painted lounging across it, lifting a glass at the approaching patrons and winking salaciously. Luce snorted. Fitting.
“Yer funeral,” Cwall muttered, looking away. “For the record, I didn’t tell ya shit if Fostie gets pissed.”
“Yes, yes.” Luce waved him off. “My son has my temper; I know better than to throw anyone in its path.”
Cwall made a noise that suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced but let the matter drop. “Well,” he patted the medallion looped around his neck. “Ya know how to reach me if ya need me.”
“Of course.”
Cwall reached out, as if to clasp the taller man reassuringly on the shoulder, but his hand stilled halfway and fell back to his side. “Good luck,” he murmured as he stepped away, turning down an alley and vanishing into a split in the air.
“Thank you,” Luce replied to empty sidewalk, nerves jittering despite the generous portion of alcohol that worked to numb his anxiety.
Then he squared his shoulders and made his way to the heavy oak door. The faint beat of some rock song he didn’t recognize pulsed under his feet. His shaking hands curled around the oxidized brass handles and he tugged hard against the sticky joint.
A rush of warm, heady air washed over him, scented with the tang of sweat and an undercurrent of liquor. His lip curled instinctively, but he tugged the outer door shut behind him and opened the smaller one ahead. It was like entering another world.
Instead of the dim lighting and faded vinyl booths he had expected, the room was awash in red neon and blacklights, with sleek metal fixtures surrounding a dance floor that pulsated faintly with white strobe.
Waitresses in skintight red leather circled around, some in mini-dresses and others in pants and cropped tops, but all wearing plastic headbands topped with red horns.
As he adjusted to the unusual lighting, he started to pick out the posters and signs and neon fixtures in detail.
“Oh no,” Luce groaned, eyes darting around frantically as his buzz started to give way under the shock. “Oh no.”