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I don’t like this, Aria. What do you hope to achieve by meeting your parents? They can’t be more informed than the fae, and we have already exhausted their knowledge.
I could feel how uncomfortable Sariel was, not only with the fact that he didn’t trust Michael, but because he considered it a debt we would owe the angel.
I think… I think I’d prefer to hear about the bond from the horse's mouth.
Something occurred to me that had my brows furrowing.
“How bad can they be if they made it to Heaven?” I mused out loud.
Lucifer and Michael snorted in unison.
“God is extremely… lenient,” Michael said, and for the first time, I felt like he was trying to apply a little delicacy to what he was saying. “Just because they’re in Heaven doesn’t mean they’re, as humans and Earth dwellers would say, ‘all zen.’”
He made quotation marks with his fingers as he spoke.
I made a split-second decision. “I want to meet them.”
Michael’s lips twitched.
Lucifer snapped his fingers. “Any preferences on color and furniture for this family reunion?”
My brows dipped in confusion. “What?”
The room shifted again. Lucifer’s throne morphed into yet another soft-looking, overstuffed armchair. The chairs we sat merged to form a matching couch, and Sariel instantly drew me into his side.
“Just wanted to make the place comfy for dear old mom and dad,” Lucifer said with a grin.
“And you won’t be breaking any laws by allowing the living to contact the dead?” Sariel asked, his eyes glued to Michael.
Michael shrugged his big shoulders. “I’m responsible for approving or denying those requests. I’ll only be in trouble with myself.”
“Do you get requests from the living often?” I asked. I couldn’t resist; I was fascinated, and curiosity had often put me in trouble.
What could possibly go wrong now, anyhow? I didn’t doubt that Lucifer would end me without a second thought, but I was also pretty confident that Michael would defend me, which meant it was safe to be the curious cat sans death.
“Not any more than you do, I imagine,” Michael acquiesced.
“But my satisfaction rates are one-hundred percent higher than yours,” Lucifer pointed out, tilting his goblet—now an oversized mug with “#1 Devil” printed on it—toward Michael.
Michael rolled his shoulders, glared at Lucifer, and shook his head. “Are you ready?” he said to me.
I nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
I laced my fingers between Sariel’s and reveled in our silence. Then, a sound like a heart’s thumping filled the room for what might have been seconds before it ended.
At first, there was no noticeable change in the room, but then all of a sudden, two people began to materialize in front of us.
Lucifer had transformed the room into a sitting space with matching couches and a massive fireplace that roared and crackled like real timber was fueling it. A soft rug was sprawled between the chairs, and a small coffee table laden with tea, coffee, biscuits, and pastries had appeared.
Sariel and I turned to him with matching frowns. He shrugged innocently. “What? Hell doesn’t get many visitors; I’m trying to be a gracious host.”
“Hell?” a man’s voice floated through the room in question.
Sariel and I straightened.
“Yes, Terrell. The man said, ‘Hell,’” a second, more delicate voice filtered through the space.
My skin prickled as the two people finished materializing on the two-seater opposite us. My heart dropped into my stomach as the man’s features came into focus—he was the spitting image of Tyler Bastille, and yet the gulf between them might as well have been an ocean.
