Rain gracefully drizzled from the heavy clouds, rolling into the city. The wind blew so strongly that it sounded like a whistle. People hurried inside to get to safety as thunder roared and lightning cracked like the sound of a whip in the distance.

The lights in Los Angeles had turned off, and most of the mundane was huddled in the darkened buildings.

Lucifer stared out the window, watching the navy clouds encroach on the metropolis’ borders. He stood in an apartment that was in the center of Los Angeles, with a bar in the lobby. However, he came to the city to observe the chaotic humans shouting in the streets about possible weather danger.

People lingered in the streets, looking helplessly at the blackened sky, hoping to see lights blazing.

Swishing his drink in his hand, the Devil finished the remainder of it. He set his beverage on a table and left the bedroom where one of his Princes of Hell resided. Feeling his red tie was a bit tight on his neck, he loosened it.

Wearing formal black pants and shiny-dressed shoes, Lucifer walked downstairs in the pitch-dark lobby. Usually, classical music was played melodically in the background from the bar, but thunder would soon become the bass, loud and providing the rhythmic foundation of what tonight would bring.

Caliber stood in a straight posture, his hands clasped in front of him. He wore sunglasses because he wanted to be in a bodyguard mood. He bowed with a flourish of his hand and motioned to the doors, “Sir, the limousine is at your service.”

Hell, Lucifer’s ‘bodyguard’ got his thick British accent down and never called him ‘Sir,’ because they were long-lasting friends, going through thousands of years of hardship together.

Unfortunately for his friend, the Devil was not in the spirit to dance with him in this silly game. He dismissed the umbrella that Caliber readily had in his hand.

“Oh, come on, Lucifer!” Caliber called out, dropping his act. “Just get the damn umbrella; it’s going to pour any—”

On cue, rain gushed down in sleets, and thunder boomed above them, roaring to life like an angry lion. “I don’t need the damn umbrella,” growled Lucifer, pushing the doors open and letting it slam behind him.

He stepped outside, embracing the rain falling on them. The rain poured down so hard that it felt like needles prickling on his face, but he didn’t care. The Devil continued to the limousine, his hair wet and clinging to the back of his neck.

Caliber started to leave the apartment to open the car’s door, but Lucifer gestured his hand for him to get back inside. Sliding into the backseat, he closed the door with a bang.

Lucifer scooted to where the screen was and tapped the glass. The limousine started to move, its tires squeaking on the pavement from the rain. He inhaled the crisp air welcoming him and tossed some of his wet hair from his face.

What swirled in his mind was Michael’s best retort that he needed to stop grieving over their sister’s death. He scoffed at Mr. Perfect, the angelic leader of the imperial army, saying to get over someone that significant.

Lucifer thought he’d figure a way out of the loss, but it seemed like an endless cycle of grief, affliction, and revenge.

Sara.

Michael’s daughter.

He hadn’t a clue what to think of her. Lucifer ruminated on the fact that his brother had a daughter in the first place and how he didn’t know for over a couple of decades. Michael kept her a secret from him, probably thinking his evil brother would attempt to kill her.

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What would be his reasoning for Lucifer wanting to hurt her? She had done nothing wrong so far that provoked him, but it wasn’t a desire—it was something else that sparked a flame to murder the girl. She had nothing to do on her part but inflict pain on Michael and maybe have him feel what he had felt these agonizing years.

Was that even the reason?

Or was it something else?

While Lucifer was thinking about the conference with the Harmonies, he wondered who the hell hit Michael on the head. Not like he cared, but he was intrigued by the mystery.

Someone in the den dared to hurt the Archangel. Lucifer asked his friends multiple times if they had, but the answer was always the same: ‘No.’

So, who?

The limousine carved a sharp right. Lucifer almost fell off the seats. He tapped on the screen, the tinted window lowering. “Do you know where we are going?”

He studied the man in the rear-view mirror. The fellow wore sunglasses and looked like any other Infernal—except he had slick black horns on his head. Curing his lips, the gentleman in the black outfit replied smoothly, “Of course…Mr. Morning Star.”

Lucifer noted the hesitancy in his voice. He concluded that he was figuring out the best way to politely address him. Many Infernals, even the neutral Galas, referred to him as plain old Lucifer, which sometimes annoyed him since they thought he was their friend, forgetting what he was: the commander of Hell.

The Devil.

Leaning back on the leather seats, Lucifer smelled the flowery lavender hanging in the air—his favorite scent. He hardly acknowledged his drivers much, and he rarely left the Pit anyway.

However, as the silence filled the thick atmosphere and the sound of rain cascaded relentlessly beating on the windows, he inquired with curiosity more than anything: “Most Infernals are either completely transformed in their demonic forms or their regular human skin. I’ve never seen an Infernal incorporate their real form into their human one before. How did you do that?”

Moments of silence passed, and Lucifer felt the man ignored him or didn’t hear the loud rain. The man chewed on his lips, finally replying, “I wish to be something different; be original.” He lifted his chin at the rear-view mirror and questioned, “Do you know what I mean?”

The Devil chuckled, “Yes.”

He cocked his head to one side and said, “No, so...” The man trailed off to find the right word: “Stereotype of a demon, being one way or another, you know what I mean?” His voice was a little rugged but so sweet that it almost sounded seductive, like he purposely acted on it.

Lucifer pressed thoughtfully, “I see you didn’t answer my question. You tried to dodge it.”

The man’s lips twitched up in a lavish grin. “You’re good.”

“You’re an amateur.”

“Ouch,” he purred.

Nearly about to roll his eyes, Lucifer realized he was close to the destination. “Next time we meet, you’ll tell me how you incorporated your horns.” He noticed the horns were centimeters from dragging on the car’s ceiling.

As the limousine decelerated, Lucifer questioned, “What’s your name?”

Lightning burst and thunder boomed, the ground shaking from the conclusion of the violent nature. The man chuckled, swaying his head. “I have a silly name. A sweet girl of mine named Sal. Isn’t that bizarre?”

Lucifer hadn’t had the time to ponder why the Infernal let a girl name him; didn’t he have one before? Maybe he disliked his previous title. “Nice to meet you, Sal.” He nodded his head affirmatively, the limousine coming to a halt.

“By the way, why didn’t you teleport yourself?” Sal asked.

“Where I am going, I can’t risk teleporting,” answered Lucifer.

Sal responded with a wicked grin, “Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Morning Star.”

Impressed by the respect and politeness from the Infernal, the Devil smiled, “Next time we see each other, you can just call me Lucifer.” He scooted to the door and hopped out of the limousine, driving off. Standing in the midst of the forest, he smelled nature enhanced by the rain.

He sauntered to the front door, still wondering about the man. The Infernal was strange. Lucifer rang the doorbell, his clothing clinging to his body like a second pair of skin.

Footsteps sounded in the cottage, the wooden door flinging open.

The Devil smiled, his dark chocolate eyes gleaming back at his best friend. “Hello Pitch.”