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Those concerns of mine are not to be heeded, of course.
Lucifer opened Pandora’s box when he claimed Lily as his own. Just how much he fucked the box, how much of a gaping fucking axe wound he left when he thrust us further into war, is to never be mentioned.
I never figured I’d die quietly in a bed from old age. But right now, I’m debating on whether or not my life expectancy is closer to the mid-thirties.
* * *
When we’ve all finally gatheredin Lucifer’s office, it’s not nearly as full as it was a couple of years ago. Sure, we’ve filled some of the gaps, but there’s a looming emptiness that hovers like a shadow.
We’ve lost a lot of men over the past few years. Some in the line of duty, protecting the family. Others from betrayal. Each death, regardless of which way it came about, has hit us painfully.
Thomas, Peter, Paul, Michael, and Bart. All dead and gone.
Amanda, Uriel, and Nathaniel have joined the family.
But that’s only three new men to five dead souls.
Regardless of how we look at it, we’re losing more than we’re replacing.
If we’re in a war, that’s a bad thing.
I highly doubt we can just throw bodies into the breach and hope to plug it.
Adam, Lucifer’s son, stares at us like he’s the next king of the family. There’s no arrogance, just simple confidence he’ll be leading the next generation as he ushers in a new era of… what exactly? Death and mayhem? Is that even possible in today’s day and age?
Perhaps, if he does it the right way. But he’ll need to surround himself with hard men and women. The type of family that makes their bones the honest way. Ones who are tested in ways all the normals in the world could never handle.
“Adam, please have Albert give you the quarterly report for the Miller account,” Lucifer says with a broad smile for his son.
“Of course, Father,” Adam says and moves through the room quietly.
He’s, I think, ten now, and it’s frightening how at ease he is around us. It’s as if he doesn’t care that the room he’s in is filled with killers.
Then again, we’re all more than likely wearing our day masks. The ones that we keep in place to hide our true selves from the outside world. It wouldn’t do for us to show our true inner workings.
The mask I wear keeps the voices that torment me from howling at the moon in frustration.
When Adam is gone and the door is closed, Simon clears his throat quietly.
Then he looks at me. “We’ve finally matched the casings we found and the bullet fragments pulled from your body.”
“Why has it taken so long?” I ask.
I understand we’re not a crime lab on some television show, but it’s been nearly six months.
“Because I wanted to be sure what we found was correct,” Simon answers and looks down at the laptop in front of him. “The rifle that was used was reported stolen eight months ago in a home burglary. We’ve checked with the original owner, and I have no doubt he was telling the truth when he said it was stolen.”
“Meaning what?” James asks from beside me, shifting to look at Simon. “Why does that mean anything?”
“If you’d give me—” Simon starts before I cut him off.
“It means that I was shot with a shitty homeowner’s defense rifle, as we all figured,” I say. “If it had been a professional weapon, I would have been dead on arrival.”
“Exactly,” Simon agrees. “That’s why this has taken so long. I wanted to interview the original owner of the gun myself and make sure this wasn’t a ‘lost’gun.”
I frown. “So, the vixen who shot me was using a black market gun instead of bringing in something from the Russians.
“Yes,” Lucifer chimes in. “That’s our best guess at the moment. We’ve been keeping our ears out for any new information on the Russians, but haven’t heard anything. Ever since Andrey was dropped off on their doorstep, they’ve been quiet.”
