It had started out like any other day in his kingdom.
He had risen at seven sharp, based on Greenwich Mean Time, and had crossed the black stone floor of his expansive bedroom to his equally as impressive bathroom. There he had showered and carefully attended to his grooming. With a black towel slung low around his hips, he had ventured into his wardrobe to select one of the black tailored suits that hung from numerous rails.It had gone downhill from there.He had found the suit he had desired to wear, only to discover a crease pressed into the finely woven wool fabric.That had led to the first death of the day.The impudent fallen angel who had been responsible for ensuring his wardrobe was perfect had been sent back to Heaven.With his wings missing.
And in pieces.The last part wasn’t his fault. The idiot should have remembered to teleport before hitting the pavement of the courtyard far below the black fortress in the bottomless pit of Hell.
Of course, it might have helped if he had allowed the maggot to retain his ability to teleport.Lucifer smiled grimly to himself and flicked a speck of dust off the right sleeve of his newly-pressed suit, his golden eyes fixed on the black cragged lands beyond the window of his study.Breakfast had been a rather sober affair this morning. His attendants were on edge around him today, more than they usually were anyway. He couldn’t think why. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that they had narrowly avoided being hit by the falling angel when they had been crossing the courtyard.
A chuckle slipped from his lips as a replay of the event played across his mind.
By now, all of Hell would know he was not in a good mood.
He had planned to improve it by heading out to the distant plateau where Heaven had stationed a group of angels and use the power of his voice to see if he could sway a weak one into falling. There was a space in his ranks that needed filling, and corrupting angels always brightened the dreariest of days.
A pale orange glow lit the wall of black rock beneath the plateau, adding a dash of colour.
He despised that band of gold.
The lava river encircled his fortress and marked a boundary that by law he couldn’t cross, not until the time between his scheduled battles with Apollyon, an angel who had served Heaven for centuries before turning his back on that realm for the sake of a woman, had passed.
Lucifer hadn’t won one in centuries. He had taken several for the team without receiving any shred of gratitude in return, allowing the angel to defeat him so he would remain trapped in the bottomless pit and a band of fallen angels bent on destroying the mortal world would remain caged here with him.
Of course, it might have helped if he had informed Apollyon that he was losing on purpose, but storing up his losses and waiting for the perfect opportunity to mention to the angel what he had been doing all these millennia had been too enticing to resist.
His smile stretched a little wider.
It had been most satisfying to reveal to the angel just a few weeks ago that his hard won victories had been hollow and see the look on the bastard’s face.
The momentary flicker of pleasure that shot through his veins dimmed as he lowered his gaze back to the courtyard and it fixed on the current thorn in his side.
There was no chance of improving his mood now. It had hit rock bottom, thanks to a certain angel of Heaven.
Mihail.
When he discovered who had awoken the angel to his true purpose, restoring his memories at the same time, he would send his finest legion to Heaven to destroy them.
The angel flicked his long white hair over his shoulder but kept his icy blue eyes locked on Lucifer. The silent challenge they issued didn’t go unnoticed, but Lucifer knew better than to rise to it. Mihail couldn’t enter his fortress, thanks to powerful wards Lucifer had put in place after their last battle.
A fight that had seen almost half of Hell destroyed and turned to rubble.
Lucifer had enjoyed the millennia of peace that had come afterwards. Battling Apollyon was merely a workout for him, but fighting Mihail was a war and one that could easily claim his life. Only Mihail held the power to truly defeat him. Apollyon could only wound him.
Mihail could kill him.
Lucifer had no interest in dying and being thrust into limbo, wandering eternity as nothing more than a soul, maddened by being caged in a bleak world where he couldn’t communicate with those around him and tormented by his sins.
Not until he had settled a score with his former master and had his vengeance.
Not even then.
He never wanted to go to that dark place few angels knew existed.
Those who didn’t know of it had no fear of death, trusting they would be reborn in Heaven upon their demise, restored to their former glory, albeit without memories of their previous life.
The fools.
Lucifer knew better.
He had seen the corrupted souls of angels in the far reaches of his realm, heard their whispers on the wind and felt their suffering in his blood.
True death was possible for any angel.
He knew because he had killed one on occasion, damning them to a hellish existence.
Lucifer would damn Mihail in the same manner without even flinching if he had the chance.
The white-haired angel moved a step closer, his enormous glossy white wings shifting with the action, stark against the black pavement of the semi-circular courtyard and the obsidian armour he wore. The patches of golden skin visible between the black greaves that encased his shins, the strips of black that protected his hips, his short black breastplate and his vambraces that shielded his forearms bore tattoos now when once they had been clean and pure.
Lucifer’s smile returned.
Mostly because he felt sure that the bastard angel despised those tattoos and the one who had put them there—the fallen angel this male was linked to through duty and powers.
If Lucifer had the power, he would gift those angels who were linked to Mihail and his brethren with the ability to do more than merely change their skin by adding ink that would also appear on their counterpart. He would give them the power to amend their appearance in other ways. He wasn’t talking about haircuts and piercings.
He was talking about wounds.
Mihail spread his white wings, regaining Lucifer’s attention, but not for long. It drifted away again, his gaze roaming downwards and across the courtyard, to the prone mortal that lay like an offering on an altar between his fortress and the angel.
A woman.
Lucifer’s golden gaze narrowed on her and questions filled his mind again, ones that wouldn’t be ignored this time. Why had Mihail dumped an unconscious female in his courtyard?
Was she bait?