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“I’m sure His archangels would, if He asked.”
Lucifer’s mouth curls in distaste. “Fucking Michael. Arrogant, self-righteous. Always thinking he’s right about everything when it was clear thatIwas right about everything.”
“That’s true,” Paimon says.
Lucifer smooths out his expression, which grows thoughtful, his eyes half-lidded with those beautiful, yellow eyelashes. “Love isn’t a common treasure in Hell. You see its grave. Its ashes. But not much earnest, honest love.”
“That’s true,” Paimon replies, unsure of what to say.
Softly, Lucifers tells him, “It’s precious. You should hold on to it.”
Uncertainly, with a pang in his chest, Paimon says, “I’m not sure I deserve it.”
“Based on whose standards? Mine?His?”
Gripping the armrests tightly, Paimon thinks about it. “No.”
“Yours?” Lucifer’s eyes flicker to one of Paimon’s arms, and the fallen angel looks down. His nails are being quite rude to the upholstery.
Paimon gestures vaguely around the room. Lucifer will know what he means. “I don’t think it’s unprecedented, given where we are.”
“Hm. Well. If you want my advice, eternity is a long time to be miserable. This is a place designed to perpetuate misery. If you can vanquish it, stick a thumb in the Old Man’s eye, I think you should try.”
It’s true. Lucifer istheKing, and yet, even he realizes that they must take what they can get and hold onto it. If Paimon is powerful, Lucifer is a hundred times more powerful, at least, but he can’t keep Judas from crying, from running off. Paimon isn’t even sure where Lilith is.
It wasn’t like her to give up her throne, but when he asked about her whereabouts, Lucifer only shook his head.
She would be back. Probably. Judas would be, too. Despite its pains and its torments, Hell makes it hard to ever stay away for long.
“Thank you, Morningstar.”
They both stand. Lucifer tucks back a strand of Paimon’s hair.
He expects a blazing kiss, but instead, gentle hands cup his face. Their foreheads brush together and stay like that.
In a strange way, Paimon likes to think of it as a blessing.
It’s hard to describe Lucifer’s presence, of honey and roses, of ozone and stars, of spicy carnations and brimstone.
Lauren?iu. Lauren?iu, coming to bed smelling of soap and blood.
Lauren?iu.
He can be hurt.
He can die.
And if he were to die in his liminal risen state—souls could be destroyed. It’s rare. But it can be done.
He needs to get Lauren?iu something special once this is all over, and he knows just the thing. He’d been delighted to learn that Lauren?iu had studied literature for three years in college before the incident that made him undead.
His first real conversation with Lauren?iu was discussing the Romantics for hours. Melancholic Lauren?iu liked Keats, and Paimon was always partial to Blake. Or Byron, of course.
I’ll go to him again. like a drawing compass. it bends, but it always returns inward. The pencil always goes centrifugal around the center, before drawing in.
A tug at the yawning space in his chest—
He’s being summoned.
