Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“To every man is given the key to the gates of heaven; the same key opens the gates of hell.”

— Buddhist proverb

Chapter Text

“Money doesn’t spend in Hell… the Devil deals in a different coin.”

— Laurell K. Hamilton

1991, Los Angeles

She pressed her lips into a thin line as she noticed the teeming crowd in front of the nightclub. LUX was one of the most popular — if not the most popular — clubs in Los Angeles. She should have expected such a crowd.

With a slight frown, the woman pushed her way through the crowd, though many let her pass without noticing. The people who took note of her gave disapproving looks and muttered some curses, but she ignored it. She stopped in front of the well-built bouncer, who eyed her with disinterest.

“Wait for your turn,  Miss...” the man said plainly, probably assuming her to be an impatient Mundane. Chloe took note of the dark, slightly-curved antelope horns and the dark, pupil-less eyes of the man. A warlock? Why... would a warlock be a bouncer in a club like this?

Yes, this particular club was probably the most prestigious one in the Shadow World of Los Angeles. Very possibly all of Los Angeles, but still. “I’m not here for the drinks,” she muttered, trying to get past the man. “I’m here to talk with the owner.”

The warlock — wait, no. He was most likely an ifrit, working as a bouncer. Those horns and eyes were quite hard to hide. (But then again, LUX was a club frequented by Mundies too and she hadn’t heard anyone freaking out yet. Maybe he had a permanent Glamour...) “Mr. Morningstar is busy,” the man said in a monotone voice, trying to push her back.

Chloe shifted slightly, decades of training kicking in fast even now. She levelled a warning look at the ifrit, blue-grey eyes glinting sharply. She pulled the sleeve of her jacket back to show the Voyance on the inner side of her wrist. The ifrit bouncer froze, even as his colleague kept checking people who entered the club.

“Nephilim are not welcome here,” he said in a low tone. “The boss has no business with the Clave.”

She frowned slightly, shaking her head. “I’m not here because of them. I’m here for personal matters. Or is the King of the Damned so busy he does not make Deals anymore?” she challenged quietly.

“He’s hardly interested in Nephilim business,” the man shot back, tone soft and sharp. A warning .

But Chloe had made up her mind. She would get in, and get what she wanted, even if she had to stomp past this oaf for that. She still had her trusty kindjal, just in case, even though she’d left everything else that could link her to the Shadow World, behind. (It wasn’t like she was going to stay in this world too long now...)

She hummed. “I’m here for myself , not the Clave. Will he be happy to hear you sent away someone who was here to make a deal with him? Besides, what idiot would try anything with the strongest of Greater Demons sitting inside?” she asked, gesturing at the club. “Do you see anyone else here with me? No.”

Indeed, she’d come alone and in secret. Her mother would have tried to stop her and Chloe would have none of that. She wanted away from this life and the Devil (or someone who claimed to be him) himself had enough sway to grant her wish. “Wait here,” the bouncer said, giving her a sharp look. Chloe sighed a little as she watched him disappear into the club, presumably to inform the man that she was here for a Deal.

She waited for several minutes. Meanwhile, the crowd of Downworlders and Mundanes dwindled down to a few, most of them already inside, enjoying the merriment. She couldn’t hear the pounding music as she would have from other clubs around town, but she had no doubt that it was a work of magic.

(A part of her, the saner one, was questioning the reality of her situation. She was about to meet the Devil... and why in the name of Raziel was The Adversary sitting in Los Angeles running a piano bar/nightclub for all citizens? Or perhaps this was just a flashy, fancy, half-crazed warlock who had the guts to call himself Lucifer Morningstar? After all, Greater Demons could not stroll the city streets at their leisure without alerting nearby warlocks and the local Conclave. Or alerting Angels, if they truly existed or cared at all…)

She was snapped from her thoughts when the ifrit returned, beckoning her closer. “He’s willing to talk. This way, Shadowhunter .”

Chloe frowned slightly at the Downworlder’s tone, but he didn’t see, already walking inside. She followed close on his heels, trying to ignore the crowd and the bright lights.

The ifrit led her to an elevator behind one of the bigger seats. Despite the door being in a rather visible place, most people ignored it. The bouncer opened the door and stepped inside, gesturing at her. With only a heartbeat of hesitation, Chloe followed.

The ifrit pressed a button, and the door closed.  They started their journey towards the top parts of the building. 

A few minutes later, they arrived and both of them stepped into a stylish, yet lavish penthouse with the opposite wall made entirely of glass overlooking the ever-lively Los Angeles.

“Boss, here’s your guest,” her companion announced gruffly.

“Thank you, Ryan.”

Chloe perked up at the smooth voice floating towards them, carrying a distinct British accent. Her gaze snapped in that direction, and she found a tall, handsome man lounging on the expensive leather couch with his pale pianist fingers wrapped around a glass of bourbon.

The ifrit nodded towards the stranger — no doubt the owner of LUX, — and turned on his heels, leaving the way they’d come.

Her blue-grey eyes darted back to the other male. Unblemished, pale skin, deep brown eyes and black hair, styled into perfection with some hair product she would probably consider outrageously expensive. 

Nothing was out of place — he looked entirely human, which was slightly unusual for warlocks. Although, the gloom of the far corner hid most of his finer features, so perhaps it was something small she could not spot immediately.

“What business does a Child of Raziel have with me?” the man who called himself Lucifer asked. (Chloe still had a hard time believing that the Devil would move to Los Angeles of all places.)

“I heard you make Deals. I came for one,” she answered, tone steady despite the slight uncomfortable feeling forming at the base of her spine. The man’s presence alone was unsettling.

The warlock raised an eyebrow before speaking. “Then… Nephilim, tell me, what is it you desire? ”

She felt the miniscule, unknown shift in the air, and she could sense a full repulsing sensation, as if her whole being was fighting whatever spell the man had cast without speaking some demon language. Then, as soon as the feeling had come, it was gone and the man rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath about protection spells.

For a moment, she remained silent, but the man’s sharp, brown eyes, gaining an odd red hue in the low light, bore into her very soul. What did she want the most? Simple. She wanted her old life back. She wanted to be free from Marcus. She wanted to be free from the judgemental looks of other Nephilim, She wanted to be away from the Clave, not spending her every breath from now on, trying to prove she was not a criminal. 

“I want to be free,” she whispered hauntedly. The man sitting across from her raised an eyebrow and despite herself, the words slipped past her lips. “I don’t want to shoulder their judgement for the rest of my days. I don’t want to keep looking over my shoulder, fearing he’ll find me again. I… don’t want to do that again…” her voice cracked before she took a fortifying breath, but fell silent.

The other was silent for a long moment, and Chloe watched as he took a sip of the amber-coloured liquid. “As I understand you, Nephilim… you want to live away from the Clave. In the world of Mundanes .”

“Exactly,” Chloe nodded, not even hesitating as she said that. “I don’t want them to find me.”

“Arrangeable, but no easy task,” the man agreed with a slight nod, swirling his drink in the pristine glass. “But, what sort of payment could a Nephilim, who’s obviously running from the Clave, offer to me?”

Chloe winced slightly at the emphasis, shrinking back as magic spiked in the room. Her lips were chapped and her throat was on fire as if she hadn’t drank in ages. What… was this magic? Just who was this warlock who’d randomly appeared in the city? (Perhaps it hadn’t been such a brilliant idea to come here…)

“I have little left that’s of value…” she said carefully and the man’s eyes narrowed, seizing her up judgmentally.

“Then do not waste my time, mortal ,” the man growled, almost guttural, as he made a  strong gesture towards the elevator doors behind her back. Chloe swallowed. She couldn’t leave here with a failure.

‘No, this is my only chance,’ she thought resolutely. “No… wait… there is one thing still.” 

Chloe felt a flare of triumph when the man leaned forward ever-so-slightly in interest. As he did so, his pristine shirt slipped, revealing flawless alabaster skin…. Marked with Runes . Runes that she recognised, yet were foreign. The elegant, curling symbols were burned into his skin, as they were burned into hers, but there were no faint silvery lines from old, faded Marks. And whereas all the Runes she’d ever seen were black or red… his were glowing with a sinister bronze shade.

The old rhyme flashed into her mind — ‘... bronze to summon wicked powers…’ — and fear tingled down her spine. Could it be possible , that this…. Wasn’t a warlock? That he wasn’t even a random demon having fun deceiving mortals and preying on them… but that he was the actual Prince of Darkness, the Lord of the Fallen?

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, now bleeding into bright, fiery red, his tainted Heavenly Fire smouldering under his skin enough to make his Runes burn almost blindingly instead of the usual subdued glow.

The very idea that one of Raziel’s favoured humans dared come into his abode was upsetting, to say the least. He did not fraternise with Nephilim. (Raziel was… one of his more bearable siblings. One of the few in Heaven he still exchanged words with, and they did have a standing Deal. But that didn’t mean he liked his brother’s half-human progeny.)

Usually, he would have sent them to the other side of the street with a wave of his hand, careful not to kill. After all, his Father’s sodding Rule — Thou shalt Not kill Mundane , — was still in effect. This one had a drop of Raziel’s blood, yes, but… even these Shadowhunters, who called themselves Nephilim — they were oh so far from True Nephilim! — were Mundane. They were definitely more Mundane, than a vampire, a werewolf or a warlock. Although, telling them  this would be futile.

 And the world called him, Lucifer, the embodiment of Pride. Sure, he was prideful… but Raziel’s brood were as well. And in certain aspects, these Nephilim were even worse than he was. Of course, Raziel was too busy these days to look down to Earth and see what Jonathan Shadowhunter’s brood had turned into, hundreds of years later.

“My child,” the woman murmured.

Lucifer paused, thinking he may have misheard her. (Unlikely with supernatural senses and all that, but still.) “I beg your pardon?” he asked, taking a sip of his whiskey. It burned, not quite like supernatural fire … it was something else. A feeling that he welcomed most days since he’d discovered the delights of alcohol. Not that he could get intoxicated like mortals.

“I’ll give you my firstborn child in return for this favour,” the woman answered, her blonde hair obscuring her eyes. Lucifer almost spit the sip he had taken back into the glass. He barely managed to swallow properly before his eyes settled on the woman.

She wasn’t looking at him, but that was not necessary. With his heightened senses and powers, he could judge others’ feelings and intentions to an extent, as a sort of stretch of his ability to draw out the desires of others. And he sensed no lie. Her breathing was uneven, but he could feel it was not borne of fear. 

He will not call this… this lowlife a Nephilim. She was a disgrace to her kind. A disgrace to his brother. He was not on the best of terms with his Father or the Host, but a few he had respect for still. Raziel was one of them and, as such, he did not like, when someone said or did unseemly things in his name. The Devil took care of his own and despite everything, he still considered Raziel part of his tiny flock. (That did not mean he had approved of his brother giving his blood to humans, though. But for that very reason, insolent, sinner Nephilim were the ones he hated the most. They were the ones he tortured in Hell personally.)

Lucifer’s eyes flicked to the ceiling. ‘Are you watching Raziel? Do you see what your favoured little pets have become?’ Predictably, there was no answer. 

Raziel and Michael had become so busy, as  time’s passed, that he had heard nary a whisper of their names since the Fall and since Raziel appeared to Jonathan Shadowhunter, respectively. That was both good and bad. Such silence from Upstairs always made him uneasy. Stars knew what Sandalphon or Amenadiel were trying to cook up again to make the life Downstairs a hundred times more unbearable. (If they tried something like back in the Middle Ages again, he’d have another uprising to deal with…)

“Oh, so you come here, into my home… believing you know who I am…”

“Hard not to believe, having seen those Runes on your skin,” the woman murmured,  For his own sake, Lucifer ignored her comment, trying not to feel even more disgust as her pale, grey-blue eyes flicked to his throat and collarbone where Runes that marked his Domain rested. If he answered her now, he’d end up breaking that damnable Rule.

“…trying to trick me and pawning off your firstborn son… ”

“Daughter,” she corrected firmly, smoothly, her grey-blue eyes flickering to his face for a moment.

Foolishly brave in the face of the situation, Lucifer had to admit.

But it just made his blood boil even more. Here was a woman — a mother — who was willing to trade her daughter to the Devil… Perhaps, he would have expected something like this from a lowlife of a man. Not of a woman, who carried the child in their body for nine months, yet… yet here he was. It seemed that not even he had seen everything twisted and evil this universe had to offer in his long existence.

This… this hurt even more. Because he remembered his own Mother. She had cared for them before turning a cold shoulder, before trying to wipe Earth clean of Creation with the Flood. Before his Parents’ fighting shook the walls of Silver City… She had cared, She had Loved before everything had changed. She abandoned them, abandoned him. Just as their Father had. He… Lucifer was sure He had seen the way they Fell… and he cared not for the unimaginable agony that he had felt then.

(He was nothing like Azazel or Asmodeus, but few could see that. He had Rebelled and that was enough of a crime, no matter the reason behind his actions. He had been tossed out of his home with the others, and his Mother had said nothing in his defence. No one had said anything to stop Father’s Judgement.)

It stirred unwanted memories deep within. Made him sympathetic towards the tiny, wailing mortal child without having met her, for she was being discarded as he had been, by a mother too. Anger and disgust roiled under his skin, and he could barely restrain himself from snapping his wings open and descending to Hell with the screaming disgrace of a Nephilim in his clawed grip.

“Are you her sole guardian?” he asked, words rumbling and fiery, like a volcano ready to erupt. He forcefully banished his own memories of the Before, focusing on the foolishly brave, yet despicable mortal before him. He could sense that the pressure of his power, which he wasn’t even bothering to leash in now, was pressing down on her, nearly having her on her knees.

“Yes,” she said stiffly. 

Lucifer’s smouldering gaze narrowed on her, studying her closely, trying to discern lies. He sensed none, and he honestly hoped in the name of the Universe, that this was not the moment, when those despicable protective spells chose to kick in. (Shortly after the first Silent Brothers had emerged from the ranks of the Nephilim, Sandalphon had descended to Earth to meet the Order’s founder, David and gave him a series of spells that protected Nephilim from demons and the Fallen as well. Not a surprise… Sandalphon had never liked him, Lucifer mused, and the feeling was mutual. After the War, Sandalphon had all the reasons — and more — to make his existence miserable.)

The fact that he found no lies made him even more disgusted. No child — Nephilim or Mundane or Downworlder — deserved to be tossed aside by a parent. Much less tossed aside by their mother.

He leaned closer to the woman, his eyes alight with Hellfire and he took a special sort of satisfaction at her full-body shudder of fear. Still, she stood her ground, resolute to have her Deal. 

But it was not only Hellfire that sparked awake, at the words. The long-buried powers of the Divine stirred as well. True, pure Heavenly Fire stirred deep within him in a way it had not since The Fall. The mortal was not only unlucky enough to piss off the Devil… but she was unlucky enough to glimpse the Archangel as well, the same one who had brought the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.

“Very well, you disgrace of a Nephilim, ” he growled low.

She was lucky that damn Rule was in place or he would smite her for this. He was the Devil yes, but children… the children were innocent. Even he had standards. No child below the age of sixteen ever crossed the threshold to Hell. Or at least, he did his best, so that they wouldn’t end up there. His Father was a bastard yes, but not that much to banish children from the Silver City.

“Bring your child to me within two days. Any later and we do not have a Deal. If you are here within that time frame, consider it done. The moment the child is in my arms, all you wish for will be fulfilled.”

She nodded sharply. “Thank you.”

Lucifer twitched, his fingers tightening around his glass. She had the audacity to thank him for this! He growled, the sound reverberating through the room. “ Now go. ”

The longer she stayed, the less Lucifer trusted himself not to smite the mortal, consequences be damned. 

The Nephilim bolted, and Lucifer only relaxed after the elevator doors closed behind her. 

He looked at the ceiling again, eyes still alight with unholy light. “What has the world become, Raziel? Your progeny had sunken so… so low. ”

The next day Lucifer sat by the counter in the silence of his club, dealing with the paperwork Mundanes demanded be done for the running of establishments such as this. It was a neat pile, but not even quarter as much as the administration from Downstairs and far from as worrying or depressing. He was usually done with it rather quickly, while sipping his usual Irish coffee (with more whiskey than usual).

It was rather early in the morning, too early for… anything , really. Mazikeen was off somewhere enjoying her ‘vacation’ from Hell as much as he did. He wasn’t even halfway through his paperwork (this one he finished much faster than the documents of Damned Souls), when the unmistakable clack of high heels alerted him of the arrival of his most faithful Lilim.

The Fallen Angel looked up, raising an eyebrow in interest. “Mazikeen? I thought you left for something…”

The demon hummed. “I was on my way out when I noticed your guest from yesterday. And this time, she’s here with some sort of… package.” Her dark gaze darted towards LUX’s entrance, full of suspicion. Mazikeen didn’t love the Nephilim any more than he did, but she trusted them even less than she would have trusted a member of the Host.

The Devil frowned a little. He had given the two-day deadline in hopes of making the sorry Nephilim reconsider. He would have told Raziel about this anyway, but a tiny part of him… hoped the woman might reconsider their business and back off. Many had danced back before when it had sunk in for them that he was the actual Devil. Instead, she was here as soon as possible and apparently, this time with the child in question.

The Devil pressed his mouth into a thin line before his face smoothed over into the usual calmness, yet the brief show of emotion had been enough for the Lilim to narrow her eyes. 

“Let her in,” he commanded. She nodded and strode off. 

Lucifer arranged his paperwork again and pushed it farther away. Best not ruin it in case the Nephilim managed to get a rise out of him again.

The club was deathly quiet, opposed to the ever-present cacophony of roars and screams in Hell. Sometimes, just sometimes — like this morning, — he appreciated that silence and serenity, no matter how briefly it would last.

Maze appeared with the blonde a moment later. Lucifer sipped at his alcoholic coffee, appearing nonchalant, as he watched the blonde approach him, the child wrapped in a blanket.

 Her expression was stoically blank as she approached, offering her offspring unceremoniously. “Here. Like we agreed.”

 Lucifer put his drink down and stood up, stalking closer, like a predator towards its prey. She tensed some but didn’t back off and kept her arms outstretched offering her offspring. He took the child from her, looking at the baby.

 She had a darker complexion than her mother, and she had dark eyes. Probably inherited from her father, whoever it was. That thought caused something to stir in him again. He looked at the Nephilim, carefully yet firmly wrapping his power around her. The old anti-possession rituals that were performed on new-born Nephilim by the Silent Brothers and Iron Sisters, made it just a little harder for him to have them under his power. Raziel surely extended a hand to his progeny, to ensure they would not get harmed by the slithering fiends that slipped through the cracks of Creation or that they would not get corrupted by the denizens of Hell. (It went unsaid that few of the Nephilim alive today, deserved that protection. Honestly, Lucifer wouldn’t mourn if the worst of Raziel’s so-called Children were snatched away by the fiends and dragged into the Void, instead of them ending up in Hell upon their deaths.)

 He was more powerful than Raziel, but his brother was the Angel of Secrets for a reason. Lucifer was sure the blonde had a trick or two up his sleeve meant to stave him off — to make sure his precious Nephilim would not get corrupted by Satan. (As if humanity needed his influence to commit heinous crimes. They did just fine on their own, mere mortals or denizens of the Shadow World.)

“The Devil made me do it,” they’d say… but most of the time, Lucifer had nothing to do with their choices.

His eyes raked the blonde searchingly, stopping briefly on the child offered like some sacrifice, and this time he made no effort to hide his true nature. The way she tensed was enough for him to know she took notice of his glowing Marks again, or the Hellfire flashing through his usually brown gaze.

“I ask you again, Shadowhunter ,” he spat, venom lacing every syllable of the last word. “And do not dare lie to me. Are you her sole guardian?”

She didn’t even flinch at the power he exuded, unlike yesterday, though her posture was twice as stiff and ready to flee. “I am.”

This time, as his eyes settled on her, he knew they were burning with unrestrained Hellfire. She gulped, yet her eyes remained steady, a haunted look in her eyes, as if there was something she feared more than the Damnation that could be delivered any minute by the Devil standing in front of her.

He stepped closer and her pale eyes flicked to his bronze Runes once more as he took the child from her. He cradled the baby carefully and took a step back. “Consider our Deal done. From now on, you may do whatever you wish with your life. But if you took my advice …” he growled quietly, letting his kingdom’s power seep into his words, “ Never approach LUX again, for I will not welcome you.”

She swallowed hard, but nodded, throwing one last look at the child, which wasn’t even making a sound. “Her name?” Lucifer asked almost as an afterthought, nodding to the child.

“Trixie,” the woman whispered. He didn’t bother asking for her name.  This would be the last time he’d see her, unless she had done enough for her to be trapped in his Realm, but in that case, he’d know who she was anyway.

“You named your offspring like a hooker ?” he asked, scandalised. Oh, dear Dad! Raziel’s brood had truly fallen, perhaps lower than he and the others ever had.

She eyed him and then opened her mouth, then closed it. The second time she was a little more successful in forming words. “Beatrice. Her name is Beatrice.”

Lucifer looked down at the child again, thoughtful for a moment. A child of Angel blood, in custody of the once-brightest Angel himself. 

Beatrice Seraphina Morningstar.

“Yes. That’s much better,” he said. A name befitting one with Heavenly Fire in her veins.

“So… are we done?” the woman asked, sounding impatient. The nerve of her...

 But Lucifer was way too preoccupied with the child to put the fear of himself in the woman, to make her whimper as she should...

 Lucifer waved her towards the club’s entrance. “Yes, yes. Enjoy your life, woman.”

She bolted from the club, not even looking back. Lucifer scowled, her attitude lighting the Hellfire in his veins, fueled by disgust and anger. Too late did he realise that a child was in his hold. Only when she made a small noise did he catch himself, but he looked down.

 His eyes were still dancing with the wicked redness. But, instead of terrified wailing, as he would have expected, the tiny girl giggled, reaching a chubby hand towards his face. Lucifer blinked in wonder, studying her. Even Nephilim feared him — even those who were used to dealing with the nasty creatures that slipped into this world from the Void. But this girl…

“A human spawn?” Mazikeen asked in shock, returning from the storage room.

“Nephilim,” he corrected absent-mindedly, gazing at the tiny creature in slight wonder. No matter how minuscule, he could feel the spark of Heavenly Fire in the child. Was that the reason why she wasn’t afraid of him? Or was it her innate innocence, not knowing anything of the world yet?

 Mazikeen blinked at him in shock and disbelief. “And… what are you planning to do with it?”

 “ Her ,” Lucifer corrected firmly, eyes narrowing on his right-hand demon. “And… I don’t know yet. But she’s staying for now.”

 Mazikeen’s eyes went wide, but before she could say a word, Lucifer whirled on his heels and strode towards his home, leaving his half-finished coffee and the paperwork on the counter. He would deal with that later.

He had a Nephilim spawn to take care of. He would worry about the future tomorrow.

Chapter Text

“Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell…”

— William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Samael felt his heart constrict with unimaginable despair. This was not what he had wanted. He had wanted their Parents to listen… to see what their actions were doing to the Host. But it had backfired. 

Now, brother fought brother and sister spilt sister’s blood. And all he had ever wanted was a choice. And some attention from their Parents, but obviously , that was too much to ask. He had wanted his other siblings to see it too and many had. They saw what he had seen at first… but now, this…. This struggle was not a fight for a united family. No… this was a fight for power. (Fight for power and responsibility he had enough of, thank you very much, he didn’t need any more of it, lest he had no time to spend with his most beloved brother.)

Nakir approached him, his dark blue eyes, so much like the deep water of the oceans, full of coldness. Samael shifted his wings and readjusted his grip on his spear. Only Michael and Amenadiel could truly challenge him… but who knew what sort of trick was on the other angel’s mind.

“This is all your fault,” Nakir hissed, slashing with his sword. 

Samael parried without any problems and with a powerful beat of his wings, he launched upwards, away from the Silver City. Some of his siblings who joined him, didn’t seem to care about the damage done to their home… but Samael cared. He didn’t want Silver City completely upturned. He wanted some attention… wanted others to listen.

“What more could you want?” Nakir growled. “You and Michael are the strongest… or perhaps you’re ungrateful and bold enough to want our Father’s Throne?”

Samael’s eyes glowed with pure light, his Runes pulsing with a mix of his Fire and anger. “No. I want us to be united .”

Nakir scowled and attacked again. “Some unity this is, rebelling against your station, as if standing by Our Father’s side wasn’t close enough…!”

They traded blows, and Samael gracefully turned in the air, closing his wings for a moment to gain more space, as his spear nicked Nakir’s butter-and-chestnut wings. The younger Angel cried out in pain and Samael watched him spiral downwards. His eyes widened slightly and he angled his wings to dive and catch his brother, but was interrupted by a pair of his siblings clashing weapons in a none-too-gentle manner. He was forced to dodge them and as he did so, he noticed Raguel approaching. 

He swiped his spear in a wide arc, the purest light and fire rippling to life from it. She dodged, just barely, but watching where she was, proved to be enough of a distraction.

“This ends now, Samael!” he heard the booming voice of his older brother. The Morning Star looked up just in time to see Amenadiel strike him down. His wings broke under the force of the oldest’s strike, and the Angel of Light let out a cry.

He pivoted uncontrollably miles above the Silver City and fell down. Still, he wasn’t one of the strongest for nothing. He slowed his descent just enough with his other limbs and his power to right himself and landed somewhat awkwardly. The hard surface of luminous stone however, was not the best place to land. Pain shot through his back and he could feel one wing joint being somehow out of place. He stood up, still clutching his weapon, just as one of his siblings barrelled into him, a glowing adamas blade sinking into his flesh. He could feel ichor and Heavenly Fire seep into the Universe through the wound and in the distance, he could hear the faint, confused yet fearful calls of his stars, as they sensed his injuries.

  “You…”

His dark gaze narrowed on the younger Angel (but then again, minus Amenadiel and Michael, all the Host were younger than him). “Piss off, Sandalphon,” he snarled, slashing at the other.

Sandalphon dodged and swept his sword low, but Samael launched upwards again and his spear bit into Sandalphon’s white garb and flesh. Sandalphon cried out in pain, but in a last act of retribution, the Angel of Prayers slashed at his lowest wing and hurled him down, towards the Gates. 

Samael snarled and sent an arc of Heavenly Fire towards the other and watched in slight satisfaction as the white-gold flames sent the younger careening backwards. However his feeling of victory didn’t last one moment, because he realised that, with his wings so injured, he couldn’t fly.

He landed roughly by the Gates, and he just barely regained his bearings when he found his Twin before him, his midnight-coloured wings stretched to the fullest, although they weren’t as glorious as usual. The feathers were askew, and he could see that Michael was leaning heavily to one side, his back hunching with pain.

“Samael, don’t you…” the other called, though the rest of his sentence was lost in the cacophony of the fight.

Michael jumped towards him, his sword drawn but not flaming, as Samael had not touched the blade in a long while. Only his power could set the fine weapon ablaze, just as only Michael’s Heavenly Fire could unlock the full power of Samael’s own spear.

The Archangel of Darkness reached him, but suddenly there was a shift in the air, a lurch in power and all of Silver City shook with it. Samael’s brown gaze snapped towards the centre of the City where he could feel their Father’s presence, stronger than he ever had during the fighting.

Samael slipped as another blast of power shook their home, showing just how displeased their Father truly was. Michael reached towards him…

… and Samael was falling .

He was falling, but at that moment, he didn’t truly register it. Only the rushing of wind in his ears and his motionless wings registered in his mind. He saw Michael’s form shrink as he Fell. He watched his Twin stand up and, with the distance growing between them, he could almost overlook the unnatural hunch in the older’s posture.

The next thing he recognized were the pained and betrayed screams that seemed to echo around him. He stared  as the others were pushed out of the Gates too, and he saw Sandalphon and Amenadiel shut them.

As an immortal being, and among the strongest, his powers were great enough to help his healing better than most (not counting Raphael as she was the Healer). This meant that  his wounds normally started healing almost as quickly as they appeared. But not now. 

Not even his great power could dull the searing pain of falling through the dimensions. It seemed nothing could take the edge of the pain away. And, on top of feeling his skin peel off as it burned, his smaller wounds seemed to open more from the pressure… but the worst was the near-blinding pain radiating from his battered wings. He didn’t want to know at how many places the bones were now broken. Angels were immortal and invulnerable, yet, their most delicate limbs were their wings.

He didn’t know how long he was plummeting downwards. He could only register the pain. The betrayal.

He’d wanted his Family to be united again, and this was how his Father thanked him for it.

When he finally landed, his back touching the solid surface after so long, the pain was excruciating . His scream of anger and agony was powerful enough to rattle whatever dimension they’d been thrown into, for their audacity in rebelling against the Creator.

For a long while, he couldn’t even move and only faintly registered the presence of others, whether those were his fellow Fallen or other life forms… But he could sense that time passed differently here. When he could finally move, he crawled out of the crater his landing had created to find himself in the most desolate of dimensions his so-called Father had created. He recognised it almost instantly upon first glance.

“If you’re not satisfied with my rule, Samael. Be the Lord of your own dimension. For here, your rules will apply. You have what you wanted, a crown of your own, Morning Star…” the distant voice of his Father whispered. 

For a moment, Samael couldn’t even react, needing that heartbeat of time to wrap his mind around what had transpired and what he’d been told. When he connected the dots, he released a wave of his power, disregarding the blinding pain in his limbs. “You bastard….!” he roared and, unseen to him, his eyes slowly took a red hue as his essence assimilated the powers of this foreign realm.

He would roar and rage for a long time, but there would be no answer. He would swear never to play by his Father’s rules again.

Yet, as his Fallen brethren would recover one by one, the dimension known as Hell would descend into war and chaos as well. Here, too the newly-arrived Fallen tried grasping for the power that had slipped through their fingers before. The more time they spent in the heavy darkness, the more the Fallen got consumed by it, the more they forgot.

But Samael never forgot. He remembered every detail of Silver City, every detail of the Rebellion, and the longer he was confined in darkness, the more his heart turned against his Creator. 

His power changed, but its potency remained and soon, the legions of Hell feared the greatest of the Greater Demons, they feared the Lightbringer, the (former) Archangel… the King of Hell. 

They feared Lucifer.

Chapter Text

“The first step in learning to love others is the attempt to understand them.”

— Adrianne von Speyr

1996, Los Angeles

Lucifer tapped his fingers on the closed lid of his beloved piano. He had a meeting today… but he also had a child. 

Mazikeen had her hands full with the club and some minor errands that needed to be run for their home to remain on the… better side of the Law. He cared little for Mundane authorities (they could be tempted and bribed almost disturbingly easily), but Nephilim could be quite a pain, so when they’d settled in LA, he and Maze had agreed to steer clear of Raziel’s annoying batch as much as possible. He was an immortal and rarely ever were Raziel’s Chosen so foolish or arrogant, to think they could force anything out of him, but the fact remained. They were annoying, and he preferred not to taint his days with their presence.)

And the child was way too young to remain on her own for over ten minutes. The King of Hell — holiday or not, the title was his and as much as he hated it, he would never allow one of the other Fallen to claim the crown, — sighed a little. It meant he’d have to take the child to his meeting with Candice.

“Beatrice,” he called, turning his gaze towards her room, still sitting on the chair belonging to the piano. There was no answer. “Spawn!” he called again, louder this time.

“Goin’ Da’!” the little Nephilim called back.

He still remembered the first time she’d called him that. Dad. That had been the child’s first word, as opposed to the usual ‘Mom’ or ‘Mother’ or something of that nature, from other children. When she had first said the word, he’d been restless. When it had become clear, she meant him under the term, he’d nearly burned his penthouse down. He didn’t have fond memories of his own Parents, especially not his Father. So raising the child not his own, who viewed him as her father, was a challenge. 

She was way too young to know yet, that she was not his by blood — and that she could never be, since they were literally different species. But… he was trying, and he swore on his stars that he’d try to be a better parent to her, than his Father or her mother.

The little child padded into the room and her deep brown eyes almost immediately found him. Just looking at her dark hair and eyes would be enough to deceive some people. She did indeed have some resemblance to him, if one didn’t take a close look. “Da…?” she asked.

“Mazikeen is busy somewhere and I have to meet a lady. So you’re coming with me today. And… I need you to be a quiet little cherub today. Not the usual Hellspawn you are,” he said with a wry, amused grin.

The little girl nodded, her brown eyes blown wide in wonder at the protest of leaving. “Adven’ure?”

Lucifer hummed, standing up. “Suppose it is.”

“Yay!” she jumped up happily and the air, before running over to him as fast as her little legs would carry her and clung to his clothes like… a sloth. Lucifer tensed somewhat and then gently pried her off of his ten thousand dollar clothing and hoisted her up.

“Close your eyes a bit, Hellion,” he requested as he unfolded two massive, leathery wings. He may have trusted Candice, to a level, but best not trust her batch, especially not when the Spawn will be with him. Best wordlessly remind them, who he truly was, beneath the polite veneer.

The little girl’s eyes went ridiculously wide at the sight of his wings… and these were the less beautiful version of them. “Wings!” Her eyes snapped to his face for a moment, blindly trying to reach for his right wing, though luckily her arms were much too short to succeed.

Lucifer huffed, slightly amused. “Why, yes, of course I have wings, Beatrice. I’m the Devil. Now, close your eyes.”

She pouted a little and Lucifer’s eyes narrowed on her; the edges bleeding into red. Beatrice sighed and snuggled into the crook of his neck, which caused him to tense a little. Even after all this time, he wasn’t used to how cuddly the Nephilim spawn could be. 

It still baffled him how adaptable human spawn were. Normally people freaked out, when they figured he did not lie about his identity. But not Beatrice — she had not so much as flinched, when he’d forgotten himself and had allowed his eyes to light up with Hellfire. And the more time passed, the less the magical phased her.

With a minuscule resigned sigh, the Fallen Angel unfurled his wings to their full span (luckily his penthouse was enough to fit them), and then with a crack of leather and a touch of magic, they slipped into the magical tunnels, that were only accessible to Angels… or to his Fallen brethren, when they were summoned by some delusional warlock.

Lucifer felt his (adopted) daughter loosen her hold on him, when they landed in front of the abandoned building,  now the dwelling of the Los Angeles vampire coven.

Beatrice shook her head with a little pout. “Dizi,” she muttered. 

Lucifer chuckled deeply amused by her mispronunciation as much as her head shake, the smallest spark of fondness in his dark gaze. (The more time he spent with the Nephilim spawn, the more he saw her as his own.) “You’ll get used to it in time, Spawn. Now, I need you to stay close to me, alright?” 

She nodded, but her face soon crunched up in confusion. “Didn’t you say you t’ust the lady we visit?”

The Devil hummed in agreement. “I trust Candice, but not her… people. Stay close, Beatrice.”

The child nodded as they headed inside the building. As everything that was abandoned by Mundanes, this place was gloomy and dusty too. Although it was in a rather good condition, the building only weathered by time. Dark curtains fell to the floor and the numerous windows were blocked with rough boards, to block out sunlight. (Lucifer wasn’t one to judge or persecute Downworlders… but despite his friendly relationship with Candice, it was the vampires he trusted the least. They were creatures of the Night, who shunned the light of one of his most beloved stars.)

He headed towards the inner yard of the building, where he could sense a smaller gathering of vampires. 

Indeed, just as he’d guessed, he spotted the blonde vampire woman, lounging on a luxurious chair, dressed simply like a Mundane, yet her clothes were of unmistakable high quality. Undead eyes settled on him and Lucifer’s leathery wings shifted just a little, as his gaze met Candice’s. The matriarch stood, a pleasant smile on her face.

“Well, well. Lord Lucifer, what a pleasant surprise. I’m glad you came.”

“You know I never say no to business, Candice,” he purred, a slight smirk at the corner of his lips. He sensed her batch’s eyes on his daughter and his gaze narrowed.

“Indeed,” she said, brown eyes settling on Beatrice. “And the child?”

His eyes glimmered red. “My daughter. Mazikeen is busy elsewhere, and I’d rather brought her with myself, then let Mazikeen take her on a hunt.”

Candice hummed, a soft look on her face for a second. Lucifer remembered her story. A little before becoming a vampire, she’d just lost a child of her own. Few of the vampires or werewolves kept anything truly humane from their previous nature. But, Candice, while unchallenged among her kind, was the most humane vampire he ever had the pleasure of meeting. And that’s high praise, as she was a few hundred years old. Many would have lost their better traits over such a long time. But not her. That was the reason he trusted her enough to bring Beatrice.

“Understandable,” her eyes flicked over the other vampires. “I wouldn’t expect a child so young to sit here while we talk. She can explore our home to her heart’s content. None will harm her, any who dare, face my wrath…”

The other vampires nodded and muttered agreements, as they dispersed into the shadows, some of them throwing curious glances at his daughter. Lucifer nodded, satisfied. Shifting his wings a little, as he took a seat across from his old friend.

“Well, Candy darling… Why am I here?”

The blonde smiled, sipping a Bloody Mary from the small table next to them. Lucifer poured himself a bourbon — she knew his tastes well, although that wasn’t a surprise, — as the vampire sighed. “You know…”

Meanwhile, little Trixie was exploring the gloomy hotel, vampires lurking in the shadows, yet none dared to touch her. Candy’s warning rang in their ears and no one wanted to know what they might receive from the Devil, if something happened to the child.

Trixie curiously darted through the dimly lit corridors, peering through any door and tugging at any dusty, old-fashioned quilt she could find. The hotel was full of wonders for a curious child, such as her.

Her attention was drawn from a fancy vase towards a cracked window, from where she heard soft giggling. She blinked up at the door and noticed a small winged creature in a colourful dress with sparkles falling from the wings, as it hovered in place.

A huge smile appeared on her face, as she stood on her toes to look. “Pretty…” she whispered.

The pixie’s big, blue eyes glinted as she hovered closer to the child. “Hello, little one,” she greeted in a small voice.

Trixie hummed. “You can ta’k!”

The female pixie bobbed her little head. “Of course. And I can sing too.”

“Sin’? Daddy sometimes does that…” she muttered, brown eyes glazing over as she recalled the one time she’d heard her father sing. It was a beautiful song she’d never heard before. “Do you play?”

The pixie’s gaze darted inside the gloomy building and then nodded to the girl. “If you’d like, we could play. Outside’s sunny and safer, away from the vampires. A child like you shouldn’t be here alone.”

Trixie wanted to say her father was here with her, but then the pixie flew closer, doing a few circles around her, leaving fairy dust fluttering from her wings, glimmering in the light. Enchanted by the glimmers, she forgot her father’s warnings to stay nearby and followed the pixie, chasing her, trying to catch the glimmering dust that fell from her wings, giggling occasionally, as she caught a glinting particle or two.

Unseen to the child, the pixie slowly led her out of the gloomy building and towards the nearby park, which marked the border of Fey territory.

Lucifer stood up, straightening his suit jacket and cufflinks, a pleased expression on his face. Candice was smiling as well. 

Their talk had gone smoothly, but then again, they’d been acquaintances for a long time, they knew well what the other needed and wanted and what was the price for those. (And Candy had learned early into their ‘partnership’ that it wasn’t a good idea to try tricking the Devil, hadn’t tried to do so since that one occasion in the fledgeling of a human settlement, that would be known as Las Vegas. So truly, she was Lucifer’s most favoured friend.)

“It’s been a pleasure, Candy, but I must go. Now I’ll just have to retrieve my Spawn.”

The vampire hummed, sniffing the air looking for the errant child. “Allow me to accompany you.”

Lucifer nodded, and the blonde stood as well and they glided through the silent hotel, undisturbed by the darkness. “To be honest…” she started, glancing at him, “I would have never thought to see the great Lucifer with a child.”

Lucifer hummed. He knew Candice was studying him from the corner of her eye, waiting for a morsel of information about the child’s mother. Or even waiting for a general confirmation, that the child was not his. Beatrice was a mystery she wanted answers for. And while he trusted her, he also knew when to be cautious. 

Beatrice was a Nephilim — a mortal. 

And if he slipped up, that could cost her life. And him… his power and crown. Ever since the War, he knew that there were those who wanted him out of the way. And while ruling Hell with an iron fist cemented him a ruthless reputation, the ones who wanted something, never truly gave up.

And as one of the strongest beings in Creation, he was in others’ way. As was Michael, admittedly his Twin was harder to reach, more often than not, biding his time in Silver City. And so, he became the target. Or now… Beatrice. A mortal after all, was much easier to hurt and manipulate than aeons old Angel.

“I did not plan it either… but now, I might as well raise her, who she is. As my Heir.” (The game of words has always been her favourite pastime. Let the ones who asked, believe she was blood. Stars knew it was becoming easier and easier to see her as his own.)

Candice’s eyes widened a little, the gloom of their surroundings dimming the usual golden glint of her blonde locks. Lucifer’s gaze darted around the hall. This was where he’d last seen his daughter wander off towards. “Beatrice!”

There was no answer, which was strange, as Lucifer had told her not to go too far. Despite her young age, she’d never disobeyed him in such a manner before. “Beatrice!” he called again… but suddenly stiffened.

A deep growl rippled from his throat. While she was Unmarked yet, his own magic (twisted mix of seraphic and infernal as it was) surrounded her, leaving an unmistakable trace.

Candice frowned, hurrying her steps. “As loath as I am to say this… perhaps it was the Fair Folk? Their territory is close to ours and a curious child…”

Lucifer froze, when a mental call, almost like a prayer (or more like the fear and wishes of a scared, confused child), even if the child didn’t know his loathed, half-forgotten seraphic name, jolted through his mind. “Daddy!!”

Hellfire sparked to life in the Devil’s eyes and his wings snapped open, this time, in their full demonic glory. Six, massive, black-red dragon-like wings, which launched him into the air with a single, thunderous beat.

Each beat of his wings was like a clap of thunder in the air and soon enough, he was diving downwards, not too far from the vampires’ home, scattering a flock of pixies with his landing. One beat of a pair of his wings was powerful enough to force the bigger Fair Folk, who’d sunken their glimmering, demonic claws into his daughter, to let go.

Beatrice was not crying, but the fear in her features was undeniable. “Come here, Beatrice,” he growled, his eyes like a pair of deadly cinders. 

The Nephilim kicked her feet free of the crawling grass and vines created by Fey magic and hurried over to him. He checked her briefly and nudged her towards Candice, who was lingering in the building's cover. He darted closer to the Folk, who all drew farther away, cowering in fear, as his raging power singed the surrounding greenery.

Lucifer growled deeply and grabbed the nearest of the Fey batch. A dryad with a blue-eyed pixie clinging to it. Both shrieked in fear, as he lifted them off the ground, the pixie’s tiny wings beating uselessly, scattering fairy dust, which only served to annoy him more.

“Now… I never liked the Fair Folk… regardless of which Court you belong to. Now… I appreciate your presence in my city even less. It’s one thing to know you lure mortal spawn away. It’s another, when you try one right under my nose. And my daughter, no less.”

The six leathery wings shifted, fanning more of the Fallen Angel’s oppressive aura towards the covering gathering of Fey.

“W-we’re s-sorry, Lord Morningstar,” the dryad chittered in her native language. “We knew not the child was yours…”

Lucifer growled, his sharp claws biting into the dryad silencing her. “I’ve never been known for my mercifulness,” he hissed poisonously. “But… Only because I’ve known the Seelie Queen for a long time, I will let you go with only a warning. But rest assured, half-breed, shall any of you attempt something like this again… the Legions of Hell will descend upon the Fairyland. And I will watch your despicable breed and your culture burn, buried under ash and brimstone with glee!”

He flicked the dryad and the pixie away, both of them crashing hard on the ground. The other creatures drew back in fear, cowering before the furious King of Hell.

“Begone!” Lucifer thundered once, and all disappeared within a minute. Lucifer watched them go and only when he was sure every one of them were gone, did he change back into his more… mundane appearance, although his eyes remained a smouldering shade of crimson.

He turned on his heels and strode back into the building. Candice was lingering in the shadows, watching with slightly wide eyes, Beatrice cradled in her arms, as Lucifer supposed a loving mother might cradle their distressed child.

“Warn your own, Candice,” he growled, his veins burning with Hellfire, just barely maintaining his more human appearance. “This extends to them as well. I said I trusted the residents of this place and yet… they let the child be lured away by pixies.”

Lucifer wordlessly extended a hand, and the vampire nudged the shaken, silent girl to let go of her. Beatrice, with her head hung low, scurried over to the Devil and let him draw her into his side.

Candice frowned, but gave a small sigh. “I understand. I’ll warn them. However… I hope this unfortunate incident doesn’t mean that our agreement…”

“I’m a devil of my word,” he said, voice stiff, eyes flickering with the flames of his Domain, bronze Runes more alive with power, than they’d been for years.

The singer nodded in understanding, dipping her head just a little. “Of course, Lucifer.”

Lucifer unfurled his wings again and with a flap, they were gone amidst a vortex of fire and magic.

By the time they landed in the penthouse, Lucifer was back to his usual calm. However, the same could not be said about his daughter.

“I’m sorry…” Beatrice murmured, shuffling backwards, out of his reach, her head still down. “I didn’t want to make you angry.”

Lucifer sighed, running a hand through his hair, ruining his previously picture perfect appearance. How was he supposed to deal with this? Even after all this time… he was unsure how to handle the child. And during every waking moment, he questioned his parenting skills. Was that how a human (or Nephilim) spawn was supposed to be raised?

The Devil grimaced, when he noticed the fat, silent tears rolling down her face and dropping onto the expensive, shiny floor. “You… didn’t make me angry.”

She sniffled, looking up at him, her eyes big and watery. “But you… were shouting and…”

“I was most upset with the fairies. Fairies lure away children to trap them in their home dimension. If you went with them, we would have never seen each other again.”

Her eyes went even wider, and she started crying even more. “I’m sorry, Daddy!” she called, hurrying over to him and hugging him, pressing her tear-stained, snotty face into his suit jacket. (Oh stars, he’ll have to burn this in the nearest lake of fire the next time he visits Downstairs.)

He grimaced again and let the child cry for another minute, before pushing her away a bit and crouching to her level. “That’s alright, Urchin. But next time when I tell you to stay close to me, please do so. If you don’t know why, ask and I will try to explain the best I can.” (He would not expect her to follow him blindly, as his Father had expected of the Host. No. He was many things. Yet, not even all the time spent ruling Hell made him into a hypocrite. He would never give that satisfaction to the Old Coot.)

“Okay,” the child muttered.

Lucifer sighed. “But I was serious. Until you’re older, I need you to listen to me. The Shadow World is dangerous for adventurous Nephilim spawn, who know nothing of it. You understand?” he asked, tone hard.

Beatrice hummed, nodding into his jacket. “I’ll listen, promise, Daddy. Just… don’t be angry, please?” she looked up at him, eyes still wide, glinting with fear and unshed tears, yet also pleading.

Lucifer could only resist her for a whole two minutes (which was spades better than Mazikeen, because when the Hellion looked at her like that, the Lilim could only resist for roughly thirty seconds, which was hilarious to watch), before he sighed.

“I’m not angry, Fledgeling. I just want you safe,” he rumbled quietly. “Now go. Wash up and go play. I have work to do.”

She nodded, watching him for a little, before darting away, head down and quieter than normal. Lucifer frowned. Even after all this time, he wasn’t sure how to handle her, when she was upset.

He shook his head and sat down to file out some papers before he had to go down to LUX for his usual performance in a few hours.

Hours later, he was just finishing up the numbers, when the patter of tiny feet caught his attention again. Lucifer looked up and noticed his daughter by the door of his office, unsure. “You should go to bed soon, Beatrice.”

She bit her lower lip. Even after hours, she still looked upset and as much as Lucifer didn’t want to admit it, it tugged at his heartstrings. He’d tried to keep his distance while raising her… but it was becoming harder and harder to do so, for whatever reason. “I know… just… wanted to give you this…” she mumbled, bare feet padding on the cool, dark marble.

She reached his chair and offered him a piece of paper. Lucifer blinked at her. “What… is this for?”

She pushed the paper closer. “Gift.”

Gingerly, the Fallen Angel took it from her hands and turned it around. It was a crude, childish drawing, but even like that, the colours and the rough shapes gave him an idea what it depicted.

It was him and Mazikeen, holding the Spawn’s hands with a starry sky above them. “Stars?”

“Mmm, you said you made the stars. Thought you like… them,” she looked down at her feet. “Sorry, Daddy.”

Lucifer watched, unable to respond for a moment. (For the first time, the way she addressed him didn’t make him cringe.) He placed the drawing on top of his pile of paperwork and reached down to bring the Nephilim child into his lap. She made a surprised sound at the speed with which he raised her, but then fell silent as he made her sit on his knee.

“I’m not angry, Cherub. But you’re young. You don’t know the world well yet. I’ll do my best to teach you, but until then, listen to me.”

She hummed. “Okay, Daddy.” She snuggled into him and Lucifer held her securely in place with one hand, while his free one was used to finish his work. 

And if he pleaded busy and skipped his performance that night, just to tuck his daughter in and stay with her for the night, none but Mazikeen would know. (And absolutely no one needed to know that he framed the drawing a few days later and placed it on his desk.)

Chapter Text

“Family isn't always by blood. It is the people in your life who want you in theirs; the ones who accept you as you are. The ones who would do anything to see your smile.”

— Nishan Panwar

2002, Los Angeles

The Institute was a massive structure of wood and stone. It sat on a low bluff near the Pacific Coast Highway, at the end of a long-pebbled drive that wound through the hills. Behind the Institute lay a stretch of desert and mountains that separate it from the Valley, and on another side was the highway, the beach, and the ocean in the distance.

It was a place which had felt like home since Daniel had moved here. He sighed and passed the heavy gates set in stone with ease, given he had keys of his own to the gate.  He walked through the grassy yard and passed into the building with no problems. The lowest level was quiet, indicating that his family was upstairs going about their normal daily lives. 

Daniel sighed, rubbing his face. The mission to Moscow had drained him and the date it was didn’t improve his day either. He stopped in front of the small memorial he’d built for his daughter on Charlotte’s urging after they moved in together. He lit a single candle and gazed at the picture of a small, weeks old baby with dark eyes.

Today was the day when his first child, his beloved daughter Beatrice, was born.

But, not soon after Trixie’s birth, his estranged first wife, Chloe Nightwine, disappeared, not even notifying her mother… and taking their daughter with her. Dan and Chloe’s mother, Penelope, had been equally devastated and the older Shadowhunter had tried looking for her daughter and granddaughter to no avail. That had happened ten years ago. Ever since, Daniel had found true happiness with a childhood crush of his and now, he and Charlotte were co-heading the LA Institute, after Charlotte’s husband Elliot had died three years prior on a mission gone wrong.

Beatrice Joanna Rosales.

Dan sighed a little, as his eyes darted over the elegant letters under the picture of the infant, praying for her safety and happiness.

Whoever had his daughter, Dan would thank them for taking care of her, as long as she was safe and happy. It hurt that she was not with him, but anything was better than death. He hoped she was not dead.

Today was a day to mourn the life he could not have with her — a day to remember, that even if he had not seen her since she was a baby, he had a daughter once. A daughter whom he loved without question, no matter where she was or who had raised her. Alive or dead, it didn’t matter to Dan. He loved Trixie with all his heart, because she was his daughter, his blood.

“Father,” the call was quiet, so much that Dan almost didn’t hear it.

Dan turned to see his son — in all but blood — approach him. Micah was not his son by blood, but in everything else… he was Dan’s. The boy had been devastated when Charlotte’s first husband and his father had died on a mission. He had been long-time friends with Charlotte, knowing her since their childhood days. Her marriage to Elliot had only been a political stunt from the man’s family, as the Gladstones were rather influential in Idris. Charlotte had not been truly happy with him, but she adored her children and when Elliot had died, Dan had been the one to help Charlotte and her children through their grief.

And somehow, they all found a second family in one another and he had married Charlotte two years after Chloe’s disappearance. Micah had taken a liking to him quickly and had even started seeing him as a father. Ivy, being older, felt that Charlotte was replacing her father, but eventually they’d come around and now that Charlotte had given birth to their first child together, Dan truly felt like they were a family. Little Liliana was the bridge between the two ‘factions’ of their family, the one whom everyone — even Charlotte’s parents — adored with all their hearts.

“Son,” he greeted with a tired smile. It was good to be home, to rest, even if his rest was overshadowed by mourning.

Micah stopped next to him and looked at the single burning candle. He had Charlotte’s pale skin and light hair colour and his father’s stunning dark blue eyes. Ivy looked like a female copy of Elliot, not that it bothered Dan. Elliot could be a bastard sometimes, but they had been friends, and when Elliot had left for that mission, he had asked Dan to take care of his family. Even to this day, Dan wondered if Elliot had known of his and Charlotte’s shared affections for each other.

 “You’ve taken too long. Mother was worried. We all were.”

Dan sighed tiredly. “Sorry. Pesky demons and… the Head of the Moscow Institute was being a thorn in my side. But it’s done now and I’m sure the Clave won’t be sending me on any long-term missions any time soon.”

 “Good,” Micah murmured, leaning into his side. Dan hummed and draped an arm around him — he’d missed his family. “It’s that day again already?” he asked quietly. “The day Trixie disappeared?”

 Dan sighed, gazing at the lazily dancing candle flame. Just hearing his daughter’s name from the lips of another made him ache a hundred times more. “Yes.”

 “I wish I could have met her. I… It would have been so nice to have another little sister.”

Dan wished the same. While he prayed every day for her happiness, he would have given everything, just to see her once and know she was alive and not dead, as he feared in the depths of his soul.

 Dan smiled, fond and sad at the same time. “You have Liliana.”

 Micah nodded. “I know that, and I would do anything to keep her and Ivy safe. But… sometimes I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have another younger sister, a little closer to my age. Ana is just… she’s just small. Trixie would be…”

 “She’d be ten now,” Dan mumbled. “She would be receiving her first Runes around this time.”

 “I wish I could be there for her, the way Ivy had been there for me, when I got my Runes first.”

 Dan sighed and squeezed his son a little closer to his side. “I wish the same. Now come on. Let’s go upstairs and greet the others before your mother paces a trail into the library floor in worry.”

 Micah chuckled in amusement, and they headed upstairs. As the elevator doors closed, Dan threw one last glance at the candle burning for Trixie. ‘Raziel, please, watch over my little angel no matter where she is.’

The Hamptons, Long Island 

Wings rustled and pristine white feathers glinted with otherworldly light, as the three arrived at their destination. Maze and Trixie, the Devil’s ‘passengers’ let go of him the moment his wings folded neatly behind his back. (For the trip, he didn’t bother showing all, so only his main pair of wings had been unfurled.)

“Welcome to Long Island, Spawn,” the King of Hell purred, a sharp grin tugging at his handsome features. They stood in front of a huge, white-walled villa with the sea behind it and a pair of imposing dark, iron gates separating them from the door.

Trixie’s eyes went wide. “Wow…” her eyes darted to her father, curiosity glinting in them. “Why are we here?”

Lucifer hummed and walked towards the gate to open it. Once the metal clicked, he inclined his head and Mazikeen ushered the Nephilim inside.

“What are you planning?” Maze hissed softly through her teeth. She knew about his many resorts and this was one she knew of, but they hadn’t really been here too often.

The Devil closed the gate with a click. “Just… spend some time with her, will you? Distract her. I’ll see which of my brothers answers my prayer. I need someone to Mark her, after all.”

Mazikeen sighed a little, shaking her head. “I just hope you’re not making a mistake Lucifer. Considering how much Amenadiel had been bugging you before, whenever we were topside, it’s a miracle he hadn’t yet ripped the Pumpkin from your hands and kicked both of us Downstairs.”

The Devil pressed his lips into a thin line and then headed towards the backyard of his estate. “I know, Maze. I… just hope this works out the way I want it. She’d talked about wanting to go hunt, like you. And she’s a Nephilim, so… I can’t really deny her this. If she were in an Institute, she’d be getting her first Runes, anyway.”

The Lilim gave a sharp nod. “I know.”

They parted with those words; the demon heading inside the house after the rascal of a Nephilim and Lucifer trudging towards the backyard, his eyes darting heavenwards. ‘Oh, Angel of Secrets, who art in Heaven… cast thy gaze downwards at thy Fallen Brother. Come, heed mine call, for it is thy help I need.’

After a long moment of craning his neck, Lucifer turned away, wondering if Raziel would come. They had a standing Deal, but… only because they were civil with each other, it didn’t mean his brother would have the time to appear. Last time he’d spoken to Raziel after the incident that involved the Mortal Instruments and a Mundane the Shadow World knew as the first-ever Nephilim, Jonathan, the blonde had told him, that Heaven was still in slight disarray, suffering from having lost half its inhabitants with so many Fallen.

A few minutes later, he heard the rustle of feathers and Raziel stood a few feet from him. He looked as he always did, Lucifer noted with a slight mental eye-roll. Long, pristine-white robes, his golden-brown wings, peppered with the lightest shade of yellows and bronzes were perfectly groomed, the curls atop his head were a messy perfection of studded gold. 

(Raziel was bit on the shorter side, like Azrael and he’d always been teased for that, when they were young. Lucifer still remembered the days when Michael and him had stood up for the blonde, only because they’d grown to like him quickly. Raziel, unlike many of their siblings, was quiet. And many considered the Twins unnatural for their ability to speak mind to mind. Raziel had never minded and when Lucifer had gently shot him down, that the telepathy they had was not something that could be taught… the blonde had just grown to admire the Twins a tad more.)

He nodded pleasantly towards the younger Angel. “Have a good day, Brother.”

Raziel eyed him with slight curiosity. “What… could possibly warrant you praying for me? It’s not that… we don’t cross paths every so often, but you’ve never prayed for me. You only ever prayed for Michael, as rare as those occasions were.”

Lucifer huffed in slight exasperation. Of course, Raziel knew about the Twins ‘sneak out’ adventures. Although, Michael had admitted a century after Shadowhunter summoned Raziel, that since the creation of the Nephilim, he worked closely with the Angel of Secrets. Which wasn’t… a surprise. Raziel had almost Fallen for that stunt and afterwards, the only ones who were willing to trust the blonde were Michael, Raphael and Azrael.

Lucifer hummed, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I need you to Mark my daughter. She’s a Nephilim and who better to do it, than the Patron of all Nephilim?”

The air seemed to freeze around them, as the words sunk in for Raziel, his golden-brown wings twitching open, and remaining half-outstretched in shock. “Would you please… repeat that, Lucifer?” Raziel choked out at last.

Lucifer grinned widely at the blonde. “I have a daughter and she’s of age. I want you to do her Rune Ritual. Would you, Raziel? Or shall I call one of our other siblings?” (The who Lucifer would call remained unsaid, but they both knew it, anyway. After all, there was only one Angel, the King of the Damned, trusted more, than Raziel.)

The Angel of Secrets sucked in a sharp breath and then rubbed his face, doing his best to compose himself. (He was failing at the attempt miserably, but for once, Lucifer had just enough tact not to mention it.) “You. The biggest... man-whore of the universe, a father. A father.”

The Devil nodded, expertly ignoring the jab at his Earthly pastime. “Yes, Beatrice is my daughter.”

“Which of the Mundanes did you bed this time? Or was it a Nephilim?” he asked with a slight disapproving frown.

Lucifer rolled his eyes and scoffed, offended and scandalised at the same time. “As if I would ever bed one of your progeny.” Raziel crossed his arms, and the Fallen scowled at his younger brother. “Neither. Her mother, a Nephilim, yes… had come to me for a Deal. She offered the child as ‘payment’ for the business. Now, despite what the mortals say, I’m not entirely heartless. If her mother was so willing to toss her aside…”

Raziel’s eyes lit up with Heavenly Fire, anger rolling off of him in palpable waves, his feathers sharpening into deadly blades in a blink. Were Lucifer a lesser being, he would have been on his knees, begging for forgiveness, although the crime committed was not his own. Alas, he was stronger than Raziel and he had his pride as an Archangel still, Fallen or not.

“How dare she,” Raziel growled, his wings and Marks flaring golden with his Heavenly Fire. “How dare she do that to her own flesh and blood?!”

Lucifer hummed. “A low blow, yes. I merely took the Deal, because she implied she was the child’s only living relative and it was clear, she did not wish to be a mother to her at all. She had only been a few weeks old. I and Mazikeen have been raising the child since.”

Raziel nodded slowly. “Does the child know that...?”

Lucifer huffed, giving the younger Angel an unimpressed glance. “Yes, she does. I have explained it to her a while ago. She understands the difference between us and knows she is part human, while there is nothing human in me or Mazikeen. She knows she is a Nephilim though, and what that means. It is a dangerous life, and we have told her as much. I have called you here because Beatrice has chosen to carry the Marks.”

Raziel studied him for a moment, then chuckled. “Free Will, brother?”

Lucifer scowled, eyes sparking with Hellfire. “Nothing less. I would be a hypocrite otherwise, which I am most certainly not.”

The younger Angel raised a placating hand. “Peace brother. I have not agreed with your method... but I know you wished for the Heavenly Host to be united again after what Mother... had done. Or had not done. And while I understand our Father in appointing you as the Sovereign of Hell, the vile tales that Sandalphon and several others had spread about you were uncalled for. You are not a fiend from The Void, but a Warden.”

Lucifer relaxed a little. He and Raziel had a... good relationship, for the lack of a better term, since Raziel had given the Mortal Instruments to Jonathan Shadowhunter. (The Host had not been so supportive of the idea and Lucifer had stepped up, thus preventing Raziel’s Fall. Even in those early days, there had been a few mortals... and he had eventually come to tolerate them enough not to wish for their destruction, like their Mother or their other Fallen siblings.)

He did not wish to ruin that bond he had with Raziel or to break their standing Deal. He had never broken a Deal before and he would not start doing so, with his own brother of all.

“Will you Mark her, brother, like you had done to Jonathan Shadowhunter?” Lucifer asked at last, shaking away his thoughts to focus on the present.

Raziel nodded. “She already has Nephilim ancestry... and considering the circumstances, I see nothing wrong with your request, Samael,” he breathed.

A low, warning growl left the Devil’s lips, brown gaze glinting sinister red in the sunlight. “Careful, Raziel.”

Raziel raised his hands in surrender. He had not come for a fight. Besides, a child was in the house, and he did not wish to leave a bad first impression. “Will you call her, then?”

Lucifer hummed in agreement, his ire dimming and whirled on his heels, striding into the house, to look for his demon and his ward, although the more time passed, the easier it was to think of the chocolate-loving little monster, as his daughter. He hurried into the living room, where Mazikeen and Beatrice were sitting on the couch, the Lilim trying — and failing — to distract the anxious child.

“Beatrice,” he called, stopping a few feet away. Both females looked at him, and Mazikeen raised her scarred eyebrow, nodding towards the backyard.

Having spent millennia together, relying on each other when suppressing the countless demon rebellions that rose, Lucifer understood her wordless question. (The denizens of Hell, while not as vile as the creatures slithering into the world from the Void, had their own agendas. Mazikeen, however, had long stood by his side. She’d proven her skill and usefulness and he had her by his side for aeons. And so, she helped him keep his reign stable, as she understood, her life was at its best, with him as the Sovereign of Hell.)

“Yes, Raziel has answered my prayer. He’s waiting outside as we speak.”

His ward — daughter? — perked up, curiosity shining in her brown eyes, yet Lucifer could detect her fear as well. It hung around her like fog, dampening her usually contagious, bright smile. “Come Spawn. It’s time you get your first Runes.”

Beatrice stood up slowly, excitement and uncertainty radiating from her at once. She walked up to him and wrapped her arms firmly around his waist. Lucifer smiled at her indulgently and gently pried her off of his suit. “Will it hurt?” she asked.

Lucifer paused, contemplating his answer. He never lied, and that was something Beatrice had learned on her own through experience and observation. Still, he wondered how to word this without scaring her even more. As much as she trusted him and Mazikeen, she was also anxious. “It will burn. Runes are... burned onto the skin with Heavenly Fire. But it will fade fast. It will be more uncomfortable, rather than painful.”

She looked up at him, her dark eyes searching his. “Will you be there, Daddy?” Lucifer nodded.

Once, he had despised the word, and all that was related to it. He was still angry — the understatement of eternity, — with his own Father, after all. But the child needed a stable environment to grow in and for her, they were the family. She viewed him as her father and Mazikeen as the cool aunt. (Not that Lucifer minded that comparison. Mazikeen was the closest to being family out of all the Lilim and while he didn’t know how to ‘categorise’ her in his view of a family, perhaps… another younger sister was the most fitting role.)

“Yes, Princess.”

She beamed at the endearing nickname — which wasn’t even a nickname, because as his adopted daughter, he had appointed her as his Heir. That she was a Nephilim and not just a random Mundane also helped his case.

So yes, this small ten-year-old Nephilim was the Heir Apparent of Hell, should anything ever happen to him. It was not something he planned… he would never want Beatrice to set foot Downstairs, but he would sooner trust her and Mazikeen (because Mazikeen would, naturally be Beatrice’s right hand as she was his), then trust Asmodeus, Azazel, or Dad forbid, Lilith.

“Okay then,” she muttered, slowly disentangling herself. She looked at the only other creature in the room. “Are you coming, Maze?”

Maze shook her head. “Sorry, little human. No. Raziel… is not someone I like very much. I’m not a fan of Angels, and they don’t like me either. But I’ll wait for you here. In fact, what if I make you hot chocolate? You can have it when you’re done.”

The little girl beamed, like the Sun and Lucifer forgot all his anger and bitterness for just a moment. “You’re the best, Auntie Maze!”

Lucifer dipped his head to his right hand in thanks, who grinned back. She knew Beatrice just as well as he did. They knew what would work to calm her down or to distract her, when needed. Lucifer steered her towards the yard, while Maze stood with lethal grace and headed towards the kitchen to prepare the promised sweet treat.

Lucifer put a hand on the Spawn’s shoulder and gently herded her outside.

In the meantime, Raziel had drawn the small Binding Circle, as this was the original ritual, slightly different from the one Shadowhunters used these days, with a Silent Brother and an Iron Sister present. Beatrice paused, studying the Circle for a moment, before her gaze settled on Raziel. Lucifer could see the mix of fascination and curiosity glinting in her dark gaze, so akin to his own, even if they didn’t share blood. 

“Beatrice, meet my brother, Raziel. He’s the patron of the Nephilim race,” Lucifer called, gesturing at the shorter male.

Not by much, but Raziel was shorter than him and that had always been something that bothered the Angel of Mysteries. Lucifer still remembered how Michael used to good-naturedly tease the blonde for it when they had been younger. (Until others started teasing Raziel too, for various reasons. That is until the Demiurge both had enough and put an end to it. Lucifer liked to think it was the reason the blonde was still so willing to work with him even now. Because the memories of those early days lingered in the back of his mind, as they lingered in Lucifer’s.)

Raziel flashed an easy, friendly smile at the girl. “Hello, Little One.”

She blinked, her nose scrunching up in a cute way at the unknown word. “Pat— what?”

Both Angels chuckled, and it was the blonde who answered this time. “Patron, darling. It means I look after every Nephilim. I gave them the Runes and I protect them, in exchange for their help.”

“Oh, makes sense, I guess,” she murmured.

Raziel gestured at the Circle after a long moment, during which the blonde eyed the child in a mix of contemplation and fascination. “Please stand in the middle of it, Beatrice.” Lucifer paused a few steps away from his brother and nudged the child into the drawing. “First, you will receive two Runes. The Clairvoyance and the Enkeli. The rest will come after, alright?”

She bit her lower lip, but then nodded anyway, when she noticed he wasn’t objecting. (Lucifer saw as she gathered her courage and stood to her full height, even if she still seemed small compared to them.) Lucifer, of course, had no reason to object. It was a normal process. What was not normal was that it was Raziel himself, who was Marking her.

The Circle lit up with the golden light of Heavenly Fire, and Lucifer inched as close as he could, without breaking the formation. Raziel smiled and stepped in front of the girl, plucking a single feather from his right wing, to use it to draw her Voyance rune.

Beatrice grimaced in discomfort, and Lucifer threw her an encouraging look. Once the first rune was done — it flared gold for a moment, before it settled in the usual inky black colour —, the feather disintegrated and Lucifer expected his brother to grab another of his own, but that didn’t happen. Instead, Raziel pulled out a feather from his long robes. A huge, gleaming, snow-white feather.

Lucifer’s breath hitched. That was his feather. When did Raziel get that? From where? Lucifer still remembered that night on the beach years ago, when Maze had cut off his wings. Raziel should not be in possession of one of his feathers, considering that the annoyances had only grown back a few years ago, and he had not met the blonde since. Raziel pressed the sharp end of the feather to Beatrice’s delicate skin to elegantly draw the Enkeli.

“What are you doing?!” he asked, confused, and a little outraged, that Raziel was using his feather to complete the ritual. This… wasn’t in the equation. His power differed vastly from Raziel’s.

What would that mean for Beatrice in the long run? What if his tainted Fire hurt her?

“Calm down, Samael. All is as it should be,” the blonde answered cryptically, tone serene. Oh, how he hated that the blonde prick knew all the secrets! — knew things other Angels (not even him or Michael or Amenadiel) were privy to.

The Enkeli was done, and it flashed gold, but then it slowly bled into bronze.

Lucifer’s breath hitched when he felt his own power somersault under his skin, but before he could question it, the feeling and the glow were gone, so fast, that he wasn’t even sure they’d been there. The Circle’s glow faded and Raziel stepped back, smiling at Beatrice.

“You stepped into that formation as a child, as a Mundane. Now you step out of it as a Nephilim, someone who stepped onto the road that will lead you to adulthood. Come now, Beatrice Seraphina Morningstar. Come and hunt through the night, like all the Nephilim before you.”

Lucifer shook his head to clear it of the odd feeling and he smiled proudly, stepping closer, only giving the briefest of unhappy glances to his brother. “Come, Spawn.”

Raziel threw him a scandalised and disapproving look, but he ignored his brother, as his ward daughter flew into his arms, giggling. “I’m a Nephilim now! For real!”

Lucifer chuckled, hauling her up and letting her limbs snake around his body like vice. “Yes, Beatrice. You are a true Nephilim now.”

“Can I get my chocolate now?”

The Devil grinned. “Of course, you Hellion.” He headed towards the house, but then realised that Raziel was still quietly observing them. The Devil paused, nodding towards his kitchen. “Are you joining, brother?”

He knew Maze and Raziel weren’t fond of each other, but Raziel had done him a great favour, and so courtesy was the least he owed him for it. If… Upstairs didn’t yet know of Beatrice and they’d find out because of what happened here today, the Angel of Mysteries would find himself in a tight spot. Lucifer understood the risk Raziel had taken with this, and he appreciated it.

“I may have sneaked out of Silver City for you, instead of doing my duties, Lucifer. I do not wish to bring attention to you or your… daughter. She is young yet, for such a thing. It is not time yet for the Shadow World to know of the Princess of Hell. Farewell, Brother.”

Raziel spread his wings and, with a mighty flap and a gale of wind, he was gone.

“He speaks funnily,” Beatrice muttered, glancing at him.

Lucifer wrinkled his nose a little. “Raziel likes his secrets and mysteries. Nothing you should concern yourself with, Urchin. For now, there’s chocolate waiting for you and then tomorrow, we’ll start something new in training.”

That was enough to make his daughter forget about his brother, for which Lucifer was grateful. Yet… Raziel’s words stayed with him for weeks, nagging at him, though he would fail to figure them out and they would soon fall forgotten, with his hands full of LUX, training Beatrice and the reports from Hell.

Because he may have been a father now… but he was also the King of Hell and there was no rest for the wicked.

Chapter Text

2006, Los Angeles

Trixie ducked under the punch thrown her way and crouched low, kicking out her left leg. Her father remained standing, despite the hefty blow, and she sighed as she stood to her feet again a few moments later. (Trying to beat her family in any form of combat was out of question, she knew, but still. It wasn’t for her lack of trying.) Her dark hair was sticking to her neck with sweat, though her father looked his ever-perfect self. It was the one thing he envied Celestials for. Whatever they did, their appearance remained impeccable.

He wore light trousers and almost see-thru t-shirt for their training, as always. The eerie, bronze glimmer of his Runes was even more visible than normal, and she could see the few Runes on his arms. Runes that she couldn’t understand… yet knew the meaning of. It was like someone had taught her a language and she spoke that one version, yet the writing she desired to read was in a dialect. The meaning of the Runes was there, in the back of her mind, yet when she tried to grasp that knowledge, it trickled through her fingers.

“It feels pointless, this training,” she muttered, as she turned away to wipe the sweat from her skin and drink some. 

One of the upper levels of LUX’s building had been turned into a training room with an attached pocket dimension for weapon storage — a minor work of magic, courtesy of her father, — and it was here she spent many hours, since she’d received her first Runes from Raziel.

“Why’d you say that, Beatrice?” her father asked, head tilted to one side, looking almost like a curious cat. (A comparison she knew he’d take offence to, given he wasn’t fond of any feline. As he said, he preferred dogs, having a personal pack of hellhounds patrolling the vicinity of his castle in Hell.)

“Doesn’t feel like I’m getting anywhere…” she muttered into the bottle, taking a large gulp of water. For a few moments, there was silence — she could barely hear her father approach, as he was incredibly graceful and light-footed. Perks of being a Celestial, she supposed. 

He snorted and draped an arm around her shoulder in reassurance. Feelings and affection were still not his speciality, but she remembered how distant he’d been when she was a child. He was still learning, as was she. (It was Raziel, during their second meeting, who’d explained to her that Celestials felt emotions differently from humans and so, her father’s distance wasn’t necessarily a negative sign.)

“You’re young yet, Beatrice, even compared to a mortal. And I’m the Devil. I lived and fought more than you could comprehend. Measure your skills in how long you last against me and Mazikeen and not otherwise.”

She gave a small smile, and he pried the bottle and towel out of her hands, throwing it down. “Now, let’s go back upstairs, shall we? It’s your birthday again, Spawn. You shouldn’t worry about training. Take a shower while I get some food ready.”

She eyed her father for a moment and then nodded. He had always paid attention to her birthdays, always planning something special, something memorable even if it was mainly just cuddling on the antique leather couch, watching some movie she fancied. (Who knew the Adversary and his best torturer were cuddlers on the inside?) She knew not why he bothered with her birthdays. Years were meaningless to him as an immortal, but she didn’t complain.

She slipped out the door and took the spiral staircase to their home. Maze was home too. She had an entire floor to herself, between their home and the training area. Sometimes, when she wanted a girls’ night, she spent the night with her aunt and they did many things that made her father ruffle his otherwise pristine (if slightly frayed, for which she didn’t know the reason) feathers.

She peeled off her sweaty clothing and dropped it on the floor, heading to her private bathroom. She took a quick shower and washed her hair. When she deemed herself clean enough, she climbed out and dried herself, grabbing a set of stylish but comfortable clothes. She grabbed her stele and drew a Rune and a gust of warmth cocooned her for a moment, drying her hair.

She turned and left her room, her stele tucked into her belt. She went nowhere without her stele, not even at home. That was one of the few rules of the Morningstar household. Go nowhere unprepared.

The heavenly smell of pancakes and maple syrup wafted through the penthouse and she slid into her usual seat, as her father placed the food and a glass of juice in front of her. “Bon appétit, Hellspawn. You’re one year older yet again.”

She grinned at the sight of the food and leaned over the counter to press a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Now, we’ll wait for Maze to come up, then… grab anything you may need, because we wouldn’t be staying in the city today.”

Trixie hummed in confusion, brown eyes glimmering with curiosity. Usually, she could choose what presents she wanted for her birthday and what she wanted to do. And never had her family said no. Besides, very few things were out of the league of the Devil.

Sensing her unspoken question, her father spoke again. “I know that we have a tradition of letting you choose what you wish to do today,” her father started. “But today is special…”

Trixie rolled her eyes good-naturedly, lips curling upwards into an amused smile. Her father would probably never change. But then again… she supposed that was a thing about an aeons old Angel, set in his ways of truth and mischief. “You always say that on my birthdays Dad.”

“No, no you misunderstand, Princess. Today is special. Like... getting-your-first-Rune kind of special.”

That had her sitting up straighter. “Why?”

Her father smiled. The smile was soft and proud, and his eyes glinted with anticipation and glee. As if it were his birthday and not hers. She knew that look — he had planned something. “Today, we’re going to New York. I want you to meet someone.”

She raised an eyebrow, curious and excited. While she grew up well-aware of what the world was like, she’d also been sheltered. Plus, few dared to approach her since the vamp-and-pixie Incident. LA’s Downworld had been whispering about the Devil’s Daughter since she’d been six. Even so, she was like a mysterious, dangerous spectre for most. Almost like a myth.

So, hearing that her father wanted her to meet someone — outside the city at that, — was a big thing. “Really? Who are we meeting?”

“You remember? You’ve asked more about Nephilim and the world in… general.”

She hummed and nodded. Indeed, she had done that. She loved her life as it was, but having a Lilim and the Devil as your family, kind of limited her social interactions to these two and the other Lilim whom her father trusted. (And Raziel. Oddly enough, the Patron of the Nephilim race found a moment or two in his busy schedule to pop in and… just act as an uncle to her. Raziel was still damnably cryptic, but he was calmer than her father and Maze, so sometimes, his presence was a welcome change.) 

And of course, she sometimes interacted with Mundanes, but that was it. She was mostly hidden from the rest of the Shadow World. Rumours were afoot… but she never went out of her way to introduce herself as the Devil’s sole child.

As her father had put it, it was for her safety. She was a Nephilim, a mortal, but the most closely associated with the King of Hell and many would seek to kill her or use her, just to have leverage over her father. After all, who wouldn’t have liked to have leverage over one of the most powerful beings in Creation?

“Yes,” she nodded after a moment, shaking away her thoughts.

Her father — because even if she didn’t have Lucifer’s genetics, she could think of him as nothing else but that — grinned sharply. “I want you to meet a warlock. He can tell you a lot of things about the world and he’s… not us. So, you’d have someone else to talk to if needed. Sure, he is still… family, but someone I like and trust. And he likes his parties like I do, but he does so among the denizens of the Shadow World. So, getting to know him might mean you can mingle with the magical, as long as you do not introduce yourself, as his cousin or as a Morningstar.”

Her eyes glinted with excitement. The idea of getting to know more of the world and mingling with the magical was tempting. Her father kept three steps distance from the Shadow World of Los Angeles, as often as possible. He said that mingling with them would ruin his vacation from Hell, because the magical races were all about politics and power plays. Oh, he and Maze raised her as a Nephilim should be — teaching her about fighting, magic, Runes and history. Even magical (and subsequently Divine) politics, because her father said she would not be free of that, carrying his name, but that didn’t mean they actively took part in the Shadow World.

“That sounds fun.”

“We will leave to meet him in New York — he lives in Brooklyn, — in a few hours.”

So here stood Trixie, hours later, breakfast long forgotten. They’d even had another luxurious meal and between the two, a little cuddling on the couch, for tradition’s sake. But the afternoon would be spent in New York.

“Eh, Dad? Won’t the time difference between the two cities be a problem?” she asked, as his father muttered a spell in Lilim. He was most fond of that demonic language and, according to him, Lilim magic was the strongest, closest to his own tainted Seraphic powers, thus the easiest to perform. (And by easiest he meant he didn’t fear any negative backlash on her.)

Her father rolled his eyes. As the Portal opened — the edges burning with Hellfire — and on the other side, she could already glimpse a fine apartment, with a well-maintained backyard. 

“It’s a mere three hours, Spawn. Besides, dear Mags said he’d cleared his schedule for today. It will be just the four of us.”

She nodded, gazing at the unfamiliar surroundings on the other side. She wondered how this warlock would react to her presence. From what her father and Maze told her, few would be thrilled to find out that the King of Hell had a legitimate Heir. (Because… the stars knew how, she counted as her father’s legitimate Heir, if her understanding was correct.)

“Come on, Beatrice.”

She frowned a little. “I don’t know… you hadn’t said the most endearing things about your Family, Dad. Either side of it, so…”

“I trust Mags. He’s my favourite in the family,” he said with a grin, gently grabbing her shoulder and steering her towards the Portal.

That — being called the Devil’s ‘favourite ’ — had to account for something, Trixie decided. She clung to her father’s powerful presence for safety and stepped through. Clinging to him with her ’magical’ senses, she had found, lessened the vertigo that came from using a Portal. Probably a perk of him being a Fallen Angel.

When they arrived, Trixie blinked to adjust to the brief bright flash. Then, a moment later, the Portal closed behind them and she stood in the unfamiliar garden, flanked by her family.

She tilted her head curiously when the back door of the building opened and a man stepped out. He had a few similarities with her father, Trixie noted. High cheekbones and black hair and perhaps something in the line of their noses, as well as the lean build. He had feline slits for pupils, eyes golden-green. Nothing else seemed to be unnatural about his appearance. 

‘The eyes are his Warlock Mark,’ she decided after a bit of thinking. And to have such easily concealable Mark… and to be close to her father… Was this Warlock perhaps a son of a Duke of Hell? It would explain things, but would also be ironic. From what her aunt told her, her father despised the other Lords of Hell even more than the Heavenly Host.

He wore colourful and unusual clothes, but strangely, it was stylish. The make up around his eyes was stronger than the subtle lines her father had, but it fit him well. And... All the glitter he had — both in his hair and on his clothes — gave him a positively dazzling appearance.

The man blinked at them, eyeing her, and then smiled a little. “Uncle. Mazikeen,” he greeted. Trixie noted absent-minded that the warlock’s upbeat tone was like the one her father used, when in a good mood. 

“Magnus,” they greeted back easily. Trixie stood there, a little unsure, still clinging to her father’s... tainted Heavenly Fire, the familiar power providing comfort.

“And who is the young one with you?”

Her father grinned, throwing a glance at both of them. “Spawn, meet my favourite nephew, Magnus Bane. Magnus, this is my daughter, Beatrice Seraphina.”

At the sound of her full name, Trixie gathered herself a bit and nodded in greeting. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said.

The warlock walked closer, blinking at her owlishly, as if she were a creature he’d never seen before. Then, his cat-like gaze found her father, slight shock on his handsome face. (Was the good-looking part of them being Divine? Like... sure, Maze had said that Magnus’ father was a Greater Demon... but quite a few of those so-called Greater Demons were, in fact, Fallen Angels.)  Well, at least, the denizens of Hell were the Fallen (and their progeny), the Lilim and a few creatures who had been deemed ‘a failed project’ in the early days of Creation by God. And, of course, the souls of the Damned.

Most of the demons the Nephilim hunted were, in fact, invaders from the Void, from the borders beyond Creation. She still remembered that one day, when her father told her about this. How most of the Shadow World believed that the demons the Nephilim slew day-to-day were his minions. But that was not true, because those demons were monsters and creatures of other worlds and pantheons. Life forms from other universes that had no place here, hence the need for Nephilim. But of course, this was something most of the Shadow World did not know. For them, the Big Bad was Lucifer, the King of Hell.

“You... you actually have a child,” the warlock — Magnus — said, gesturing flippantly at her. She huffed at that, but her father’s expression remained pleasant, so she watched quietly.

“Why yes, dear nephew. Obviously.”

The warlock looked at her again, studying her with an odd glint in his feline gaze. “She... she bears Marks,” he breathed.

“Duh, yes,” Maze grunted. “Most Nephilim have Marks.”

Magnus looked between her and her father, and she briefly wondered what he was thinking. Then he shook his head and laughed a little. “Only you. Only you, Uncle. Father and the others will have a field day once they find out. But say, what brings you here today?”

“Well, it’s her birthday today, and I thought it would be a good reason for some family reunion,” the Devil answered easily, sauntering towards the door. Maze close on his heels and Trixie remained lingering, eyeing Magnus with a mix of interest and wariness.

The warlock flashed her a serene smile. “Hello, little cousin. I’m Magnus. Magnus Bane. High Warlock of Brooklyn. Nice to meet you.”

She smiled a little, relaxing at seeing his open, slightly fascinated expression. There was something in him that calmed her, just like the closeness of her father. “Hello.”

“So, birthday, huh? How about we go inside and celebrate a little? You three can tell me what’s been going on in Los Angeles all this time.”

She stepped next to Magnus, glancing at him curiously. “How do you know we live there?”

The man grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Los Angeles’ High Warlock is Malcolm Fade, a friend of mine. Besides, the Downworld there has been pretty loud ever since the Devil opened his nightclub.”

Trixie grimaced. “Dad doesn’t even... he doesn’t enjoy mingling with the magical.”

“I know. He prefers tempting Mundanes,” he said, making a flippant gesture, blue sparks flying from his fingers. “But that doesn’t mean he can completely cut himself from the community, darling. He is the King of Hell, one of the most influential figures, if not the most influential one.”

She blinked. “How? I mean... how about...?” she made a simple gesture upwards.

Magnus shrugged. “God hasn’t bothered communicating with the Earthly Realm for a long while now, though I guess Lucifer told you as much already. The Host doesn’t really come here either. The last time a mortal saw an Angel was when Raziel created the Nephilim, but that had been so long ago for those living today that they think it a story. The only proof they have that it’s not a mere tale is Shadowhuters.”

She frowned a little. “All stories are true,” she muttered, remembering what her father had told her about those magical stories. (It was an old saying and a true one, although she’d been reminded that only because the stories were true, it didn’t mean they were entirely truthful, so they should be taken as guidelines, rather than be blindly trusted.)

“True, but even the Nephilim, who have Angel blood in their veins, are prone to forget the reason for some of their older traditions and sayings. You have Angel blood, yes, but you are still mortal. You live and you die and forget. We... we go with the flow of time.”

She nodded slowly, not really having to ask who he meant. Lilim, warlocks... and, of course, the Devil, they were all immortal.

“Ah, but enough of that serious talk. Tell me about yourself, little cousin,” he said with a grin. “And do share, are you a party lover?”

She chuckled, already guessing where this conversation was heading. “Hard not to love a good party, when my father is the biggest party King out there. Doesn’t mean I was allowed into all his parties, but lately, I have been allowed into more.”

“The biggest one you say? Is that a challenge, Biscuit?”

Trixie blinked, just a little at his form of address. After having been called ‘Spawn’ and ‘Hellion’ all her life, few things surprised her anymore. Hell, she’d even been called ‘Fledgeling’! Seriously. She’d been called everything that put her as far from ‘human’ as possible. Her non-human family liked to forget she was part human, if it didn’t concern her mortality and fragility. Being called ‘Biscuit’ was, by far, the tamest and literally the sweetest way of address she’d heard in her life.

She kind of liked the warlock. She flashed him an award-winning grin. “I like that.”

“Like what?” the man asked, as they stepped into the apartment, blinking at her in slight bewilderment.

“The way you called me. But... Magnus is so long,” she pouted at him, giving him her best Puppy Eyes. “Can I call you Mags?”

The warlock eyed her for a moment and then laughed. “Lucifer’s daughter, alright. You’re definitely devilish little cousin. Now... What sort of party do you like, birthday girl?”

“Dad said no one should know I’m his...”

“Never said we’ll introduce you,” the warlock waved her off flippantly. “Just said you’re getting a party and if anyone asks, we could say I’ve known you since you were a kid and come up with a cover story, why I’d bother throwing a birthday party for a mini Nephilim.”

Her eyes narrowed at the sparkly man for the last comment, but then she grinned widely. “I want something fluffy for decoration. I want fluffy and glittery decorations. As glittery as possibly. The more glitter, the better.”

Magnus’ eyes glinted with a new light. She certainly sang a similar song to his own.

“And...” she muttered, scooting closer, conspiratorial, and the man bent down, as she reached up. “If we can annoy Dad a little with all the glitter... even better.”

The warlock snorted. Yes, this little girl was definitely his favourite family member and his favourite Nephilim. (That one was new, because he was not particularly a fan of Raziel’s batch, but Beatrice was an obvious exception.)

“Consider it done, Biscuit.”

Lucifer was not sure if his plan to introduce his daughter and favourite nephew had been the best or the worst idea of his existence. He should have guessed that something was afoot after Beatrice headed to bed with a grin on her face, after Magnus winked at her. But... he hadn’t thought of anything nefarious or disastrous coming out of it. In fact, he’d been pleased to find that the warlock liked his daughter. Magnus could sometimes be a little... callous. And people kept their distance from him. Lucifer himself wasn’t one to allow people close, either, but at least he had a constant companion in Mazikeen. Magnus only had his cat.

Then come morning, Magnus was speaking about a party for his daughter and Lucifer thought with a frown, in the whirlwind of introductions and getting to know each other, he had not given his daughter her birthday gift on her birthday.

Yet the idea of the party distracted Beatrice, so she hadn’t noticed. Magnus had set it up in little torrents of magic done to impress his daughter. Beatrice was long used to magic, and she knew he was capable of impressive feats with it, yet the magic of an Angel or a Greater Demon differed from the more tame warlock spells. Yes, Magnus was an Eldest Curse and even among those few who could claim this title as theirs, the strongest. Yet, even warlocks were children of mortals and therefore would never be as powerful or invulnerable as Angels or Fallen.

(It was hilarious how the Shadow World had feared the day when he’d have a spawn of his own. After all, which Eldest Curse would be the greatest if not the child of the Morning Star? Yet, his daughter was not a warlock, but a Nephilim… and the thought of what sort of headache would that cause others, trying to figure out the reason for that, made him want to double over in laughter.)

Lucifer’s eyes darted around the place, which was now full of the denizens of the Shadow World from all across New York, partying and celebrating his daughter’s birthday. He and Mazikeen were sitting in a quiet corner, shrouded in and hidden by shadows and magic. He did not wish for anyone to link Beatrice to him, so for tonight, he stayed on the sidelines. One day, they would know who she was, but not yet. He’d let her have a little more childish freedom for now. (It had been freedom and compassion he’d carved as a fledgeling and when he dared to ask for it, he’d been cast out.)

But it didn’t matter. Just seeing his daughter dancing and enjoying herself, surrounded by the magical community, many of those invited around her age, left him content.

For all these guests knew, she was an orphan whom Magnus had taken an interest in and had kept mostly in the shadows. Soon enough, there would be a rumour mill going about the young Nephilim who appeared from the blue, having been taken under the High Warlock’s wing. Lucifer knew this would be the talk of the Shadow Word for a while, but it was still better than others finding out she was his Heir. That would be a mess he’d like to deal with later, when she was a little older and more prepared.

Seeing her laugh with a werewolf girl eased Lucifer’s worries. Her shyness had melted away a few hours ago and she was making an effort to connect and make friends. That, he decided, was good. 

She hadn’t had anyone around her age all this time and he knew it was not exactly ideal. Even he knew the importance of connections. Sure, his were mostly business connections, coming from politics and Deals, but that was still a sort of contact and there were at least a few he would call... an almost-friend.

So yes. Seeing Beatrice dancing and drinking her glittering non-alcoholic cocktail, while a fae was introducing her to a well-known game of Downworlder teens, brought a tiny, pleased smile to the corner of his lips.

The next morning, Lucifer watched in quiet amusement as his daughter feebly fought against Mazikeen, who was trying to get her to get out of the bed. While he was feeling content in New York at the moment, Lucifer knew Magnus needed his space. All immortals were like this. A little get-together did good sometimes, but, they liked their space. 

He would like to leave before the warlock decided he had enough, because if Magnus started getting cranky, he might remain cranky for a few decades. That was not a pleasant thought, Lucifer decided.

 “Oh, Spawn, wouldn’t you want to see your gifts? Maze, Magnus and I haven’t given you your gifts yesterday,” he called sweetly. “And of course, there are pancakes for breakfast the way you like them. A little overindulgence never hurts, after all. But you only get those, if you get out of the bed and make yourself presentable.”

Magnus threw him a disbelieving look, an eyebrow making its way up to his hairline. The Devil grinned at his nephew and made a wordless gesture — ‘just wait’.

The girl’s struggles against Mazikeen ceased almost immediately. “Is there hot chocolate too?”

Lucifer hummed and made a gesture. With a small spark of his power, a steaming cup of hot chocolate appeared next to the still-warm pancakes. “Of course there is chocolate. You might not be five anymore, but I know that chocolate is your all-time favourite.”

“Give me five minutes!” she shouted, and they heard her scramble from under her covers, shooing Mazikeen out of the guest room, which Magnus had given her. 

The Lilim woman huffed in amusement and glided into the kitchen, sitting next to him, grabbing her mug of pure black coffee. They didn’t need such things, but… humans could be delightfully creative. Coffee was among their best inventions.

“Impressive,” Magnus murmured, throwing him a look. “I’m starting to think even Maze going into her room, trying to ‘drag’ her out, was part of your plan, Uncle?”

Lucifer laughed, sharing a look with his right-hand demon. “Of course it was,” Maze snorted, lips pulling into a sharp, yet amused grin. “We raised her since she was tiny. Don’t you think we know her every wish, fear, and all the tricks she might pull to get something?”

“Suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise you know her that well,” the warlock decided, nodding.

A few minutes later the ‘birthday girl’ appeared and hopped into the last empty chair with a happy grin on her face, throwing a thankful glance at her father and ‘cousin’, as if knowing that the offer before her was a sort-of joint effort from the two magic-users of her family. (Somehow, sometime halfway through her fun yesterday, she started to consider Magnus as her family and the warlock’s love for parties and his kind tone made it all the easier.) 

And Magnus, for once, not only hadn’t discouraged her view of him, but made an effort to make her feel like family. Lucifer knew Magnus had his faults, but even after all this time, the humane side of him hadn’t died.

They ate in comfortable silence and once they were done, Magnus snapped his fingers and the remnants of their meal were gone in a whirl of blue sparks.

Lucifer grinned and clapped sharply. “Now Beatrice, strictly speaking, your birthday was yesterday so these should be yours by now, but you were having so much fun and I was loath to...”

She giggled, waving him off. “It doesn’t matter, Father. It was a party I’d wanted the most and you knew it without me saying it. And I had that last night. It was the most fun I had in a while and I found a few interesting people here. So the party itself — and introducing Magnus,— was enough of a gift.”

Magnus himself snorted a little, a grin tugging at his features. “Now, aren’t you a flatterer, Biscuit?”

She grinned at him, winking. “I learned from the best.”

“I’ve no doubt about that,” he agreed, cat-like eyes flashing with amusement.

Lucifer cleared his throat, bringing the two younger’s attention back to him. “I enjoy hearing flattery, Spawn, but we’re getting side-tracked.” Beatrice looked back at him and Lucifer decided to get to the point. “It’s time you got your gifts from us.”

She perked up az that, despite having said the party had been enough of a gift, her dark gaze eagerly and curiously sliding between the three of them. The first to speak was Magnus.

“It was a quick decision... but I noticed you eyeing my Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures...”

She smiled sheepishly at the warlock. “Magical or not, I’ve always liked animals. And that book is very interesting.”

Magnus hummed in agreement. “It indeed is. I’m sure Uncle has a copy of it, but... to the point.” He snapped his fingers and a middle-sized box appeared on the table.

Trixie blinked at it, throwing the warlock a curious glance. The man just shrugged and gestured at it. She studied the strangely non-descript paper for a moment — she would have expected something a hundred times more colourful and glimmering from the man. But appearance did not matter now, she guessed. She peeled away the paper — the string tied around it was glimmering silver,— and found a simple box. She opened it and her breath caught in her throat.

In the tiny box sat a magical creature — one which was among the rarest as a pet, according to the book she’d read, because capturing or having one hatched in a controlled environment was equally difficult.

A small, kitten-sized gryphon.

She looked at Magnus in shock, who shrugged. “Most of the big, horse-sized — or bigger— breeds are extinct or close to it. But these small ones are still around. Hard to find a breeder, harder to find in the wild, but around. He won’t be bigger than a big cat, but I think you will like him. Gryphons are loyal companions and good messengers and trackers. They are more likely to find a target, than Mundane bloodhounds, as long as you have something that belongs to the person.”

She looked down at the small animal. It had an owl-like head, its forelegs bird-like and ending in sharp, black claws and small wings. The feathers were dark golden and freckled with black. The feline hind legs and fur coloured like silver with a sleek, long tail. Its eyes were big and bright green, like spring grass.

She smiled dazzlingly at the man. “It’s gorgeous. Thank you.”

“Choose him a fitting name and take care of him well.”

Trixie nodded eagerly. “I will, you have my word.” She looked into the box again, gently reaching out to stroke the shiny feathers. The gryphon gave an appreciative chirp and she smiled.

The tiny creature did not even have a name yet, and she already loved it — no, loved him.

She turned to Maze then, who pushed a small box to her, which seemed like it contained jewellery. She opened it and her eyes went wide. There were six hair pins — three silver-gold with blue gems and three dark silver with red gems, in the shape of feathers. Her eyes snapped to her aunt, who smirked.

“The ones with blue gems are made from solid electrum and the red ones are made from Hell-forged silver, or more commonly simply called demon metal. They are stylish and a nice hidden weapon. Also, only the best of the Lilim warriors have jewellery and pins made of both materials. Either one or the other,” Maze explained patiently, a sharp glint in her eyes, “It’s a symbol of skill and power. The most one can have is a total of six pins. The number is also an indication of skill and social standing, just like the material used to make them, or how many of the pins are made from electrum or silver.”

She nodded, looking at the pins in a new light. Maze often had her hair freely falling to her back, but she had seen the Lilim with braids and hair pins before. “How many do you have, Auntie Maze?”

There was a heartbeat of silence, then Lucifer chuckled. “Mazikeen is my right-hand for a good reason, Spawn. She has six in total, three of each. And she had been the first one ever, to get them, after this... tradition appeared among her kin.”

She looked at the demon woman in a new light. She had always known her aunt was kickass, but this gave the word a new meaning. The Lilim grinned widely, as if she knew what was going through Trixie’s head.

“I will train you, like I have been doing until now. By the time I’m done with you, you will be the one most worthy of wearing them.” Trixie nodded eagerly, despite knowing that Maze’s training will be hard and painful. She wanted to be worthy of a gift, like this.

“And last but not least, my gift.”

The sound of her father’s voice snapped Trixie out of her happy and awed daze. She closed the box which had the hairpins and  pulled them closer. Her father grinned and  waved a hand. Embers and sparks of blood-red magic danced around his fingers before it faded and in a swirl of the same magic something long appeared on the table, tightly wrapped in gleaming black cloth.

She looked at him in  question and her father gestured at it. “Open it, Spawn.”

She glanced at the other two occupants of the room, though Magnus and Maze seemed just as curious as she was. So they either didn’t know what it was or if they knew (probably Maze)... what it might be, they were not expecting it. She pulled the object closer to herself and  slowly unwound the soft cloth.

Her eyes widened. It was a spear, half her father’s height with a trident-like head and twin spikes curving downwards, below the head. The handle was made of gleaming black material with a slight undertone of red, the flattened twists that made it, seemed to be the perfect resting place for one’s fingers, to securely hold the weapon. It ended in a metal half-circle, the ends of it also sharp. There were two small metal bands on the handle with gemstones in it. Eight gemstones were scattered across the side (probably other eight on the other) five directly under each other at the top just where the blade’s curve ended and other three on the handle.

The only words she could find to describe it was ‘dangerous beauty’. She could feel the  power radiating off of the trident. Wide-eyed, she looked at her father, who was smiling. “It’s yours now, Beatrice. Take it.”

“F-Father...”

He nodded at it again and Trixie swallowed hard, almost reluctant to touch it. But there was something familiar in the power radiating from the weapon, so she gingerly curled her fingers around it. Her hand rested perfectly in the fine, smooth ridges.

“Long live the Princess,” Maze whispered. At her words, Trixie’s head snapped up, eyes torn from the alluringly beautiful weapon. She looked questioningly at the Lilim who was looking at her with a strange glint in her eyes, but there was also approval and happiness. Then, she  dipped her head.

“Long may she reign,” Magnus echoed a moment later and as Trixie’s eyes snapped over to the warlock sitting across from the Lilim woman, he also dipped his head in similar manner to Maze.

“W-what...?” she asked in confusion, looking at her father.

“You remember when you mentioned you’d like to find a weapon to always have with you? To have something to specialise in, the way Mazikeen is the master of her curved blades?”

She nodded. Indeed, a few months ago, she’d mentioned it, while they were casually conversing during training. “Yes. I remember I liked the spear and the naginata best, but I didn’t think you... you’d take me seriously, you know.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I take you seriously? This one is the best possible choice for a weapon like this,” he said, gesturing at it.

Trixie looked down at it again and one of her fingers trailed the red gems at the top absently. She glanced at Maze, before looking back at her father again. “Why...?”

“Do you remember when I mentioned Michael’s sword?”

Trixie paused for a moment. Her father rarely talked about the Host, though the ones he mentioned most often were Michael, Azrael and Raziel. “Yes. And... Raziel later told me it’s what people know as the Flaming Sword. I remember asking for its name and he laughed, saying I would probably be unable to say it, but Michael fondly called it Glorious.”

The Devil nodded. “True. Its name is in Enochian, after all and it’s not like we’re going to sit you down and teach you the language of the Divine. Too much hassle,” he rolled his eyes. “Michael and I... we’re a little different from the rest. Even before I... Before, I was different. The weapon you’re holding, Beatrice dear... is the Twin of the Flaming Sword. It’s one of the weapons that represents the Demiurge. It’s the weapon, which was forged in Heavenly Fire and tempered by Hellfire. The one, which ensured my throne after the Fall.”

Her eyes widened to the size of Pentecoastal Coins.

“You dear, are holding the only weapon in all of Creation, which has been touched by both Heavenly Fire and Hellfire. The symbol of my power,” the Devil said, his tone quiet, but so full of power, that it made her very soul tremble in fear.

“Father...” she whispered in awe and disbelief. He couldn’t possibly…

“You shall never wear a crown of brimstone, if I so say, for you do not belong in such a dreadful place” he cut her off, tone strong and unrelenting, but with an odd undercurrent of gentleness. “But no denizen of Hell shall ever harm you, not as my Heir.”

She swallowed hard, opening her mouth to say something, but no words came out. The weight of his words — and Maze’s previous comment about her being a Princess, — suddenly made a lot more sense. Her father leaned closer to her across Magnus’ table, his eyes glowing bright red. If she looked deep enough, she could see the smallest tongues of Hellfire dancing deep in his eyes.

“And while I won’t ever participate in my Father’s games ever again... I shall not leave my Twin to handle the fiends that threaten this Universe, alone. It’s time that the weapons of the Demiurge were both put to use in defence of this reality. One in the Heavenly Plane and one on Earth.”

She looked down at the weapon. The weapon, which practically declared for the magical community, that she was the Princess of Hell. A weapon that has been touched by Divine and Infernal, wielded by one of the two most powerful Archangels for millennia. She couldn’t even find words to describe what she was feeling — this was a show of trust from her father. 

A proof of his love.

“What…” she paused for a bit. “You said it was the twin of the Flaming Sword?”

Lucifer nodded. “Indeed, it is.”

She bit her lip, a finger carefully running along the sharp edge of the blade, merely ghosting the metal. “What is its name?” She looked up at her father.

Lucifer paused, thoughtful for a moment, before speaking again. “You would not be able to speak its real name…” he tilted his head to the side in thought, “So… the closest we get… is Aetherius. Call it Aetherius.”

She looked down at it with awe in her eyes, smiling a little. “Aetherius.”

The Devil’s trident, one of the weapons of the Demiurge. The weapon, which declared her as the Heir and Princess of Hell, daughter (in all, but blood) of Lucifer Morningstar.

Chapter Text

“The saint and the sinner are twin brothers, one was born but a moment before the other.”

— Khalil Gibran

Divine Light filled everything, the Silver City as perfect as ever. All members of the Heavenly Host were going about their duties to ensure the smooth running of the Universe. Wings flapped and feathers rustled everywhere, the countless voices merging into a melodious cacophony as the ones in charge directed their younger siblings.

Only one being remained unmoved even amidst the constant activity. The greatest of the Host, Archangel Michael, stood on the tallest tower of his Holy Father’s castle, six massive, midnight-coloured wings stretched behind his back, a stark contrast against his white robes.

From so high above, to his siblings, the oldest Archangel looked untouchable and nearly as powerful as their Father. However, if one inspected closely, they would see that appearances were deceiving. 

(None of the Angels ever dared to take a too-close look. Since the War, Michael had changed and had become nigh unapproachable and always busy. If they approached him when he was in the worst of his moods, his cold power, so akin to sentient, ever-hungry darkness, crashed on their soul and body, threatening to consume them. There was no true Light in Heaven, powerful and pure enough to rein his Heavenly Fire — as black-blue as his feathers.)

His feathers were frayed and askew, his hair unkempt and his robe had one too many wrinkles in it to be considered ‘divine perfection’. Not to mention his injured right shoulder and two of his wings on that side. 

But Michael didn’t care. He’d been in such a state for a long, long time now… How much had passed since his beloved Twin’s Fall? Even now, he heard the whispers — some fearful, others derisive. He did his best to ignore those whispers, but the absence of his other half left a gaping, aching hole in his being. And Michael knew his Twin better than anyone. Samael’s actions simply made no sense. 

As their Father’s Lightbringer, Samael was connected to existence, to life in a way Michael or others of the Host would never be. (Not even Amenadiel, no matter how uptight the master of Time was, about being the eldest.) None respected life itself more than Samael. And the others wanted to make him believe that his Twin, the Lightbringer, the one who had a lesser Domain over Life, (the Angel who was most like their Father)… had risked the well-being, the life of the Host willingly, by instigating a rebellion.

Michael frowned, velvety-dark feathers rustling in discomfort ever so slightly. Some said that Sammy, as the one with Light and Desire in his hands, had wanted too much. But Michael knew his brother better than anyone. There had been times when Sammy had been shy and unsure. Times when the Twins had wondered if their Parents had made a mistake and instead Michael should have had Light and Samael the Darkness. Dangerous thoughts, treasonous ones from both of them… but what could they do? They were Twins, identical in nearly everything.

Michael’s brown eyes quickly swept the other Angels going to and fro. No one was paying him any attention. In fact, they kept as much distance from him as possible, trying to be the least possibly obvious. But Michael knew anyway. 

They feared him — his power overwhelmed them. But he didn’t care. The less attention they paid him, the easier his little… ‘vacation’ would be.

The dark-winged Seraphim looked to the side, peeking into his Father’s office through the huge stained-glass window. God was preoccupied with some work which… Michael was sure, didn’t involve the Universe they currently resided in. Or maybe it did. Stars knew. Their Father was way too preoccupied with work these days, to pay the Host any attention. 

And their Mother was turning colder and colder. There’d always been a certain glint in Her eyes that unnerved the Angel of Darkness. Since Sammy and ‘his lot’ Fell, the feeling grew. Now they barely saw Her strolling through the luminous streets of their home anymore.

Michael shook his head and took a dive from the tall tower of glimmering material. One their Father had dubbed ‘adamas’. (It reflected the beautiful light of Sammy’s beloved stars in many pretty shades. That was the only reason Michael appreciated that their home was made of the same material as most of the Host’s weapons.)

As he dived, he relished the feeling of rushing wind. One pair of wings closed while the two others were only half opened. For a while, he just enjoyed the feeling of wind caressing through his feathers. (It was almost like when his Twin was preening them for him.) Then, as he snapped all his wings to their full width, he slipped into the tunnel of swirling energy that, according to his Father, linked the three planes of existence, yet was mostly a one-way passage. 

(The only one, who would be able to pass without not setting off any ‘security’ around each realm of existence, was the Angel of Death. AKA, little fledgeling Azrael. And curiously enough… Samael. Samael had Fallen and his new ‘job description’ had become Ruler of Hell, Warden of the Damned. Yet, Angel of Light, Desire and Death had not been crossed down from the list either… If that was so, his little Twin would be the busiest Angel in Creation with four Domains to overlook, opposed to the usual one. Or in some rare cases, like Michael’s, three.)

A heartbeat later he was gliding through thick, grey mist. The first thing he registered was the hollow feeling in his being, as the seemingly endless emptiness stretched ahead. Suddenly, he yearned for the embrace of his Father — an embrace none of the Host had got since before the creation of the Garden. The mist clung to his feathers like the sludge from the invading creatures, after he slashed them with his sword.

“Sammy?” he called through their mental link. 

Telepathy was a unique skill of theirs, which the Host envied as much as they believed it unnatural. Back when Sammy Fell, Michael had felt the connection stretch and wrap. (The pain that followed was agonising. He’d curled into a ball and cried, begging for it to stop, but no healing touch of Raphael’s could dull his misery. He had not talked to his Father for… what mortals would call decades, afterwards.) He was not sure it still worked like it had Before, but it was worth a try. 

“Samael, brother, the other half of my soul. Open thy kingdom’s Gates for me.”

He finally got away from the mist. He was greeted by gargantuan iron gates, supported by the twisted skeleton of a sleeping Dragonidae demon. It was the biggest one Michael had seen, since the fiends from beyond Creation started slithering in and threatening all forms of Life. The memory still brought a faint smile to his lips. Samael had slain the beast, while he had been directing a few young kelpies and mermaids away from its claws.

Then, when the other creatures had returned, they mistakenly assumed he had slain it and in doing so, by true Mercy, he’d even saved his rebellious, Fallen brother from an untimely demise. (And somehow, Humanity later twisted these already crooked tales. Sammy had become the ‘dragon’ and Michael was their Father’s righteous Sword, who had ‘slain’ the beast, ‘preventing the Devil’s rule over the Universe.’) It was a crude little tale, with barely any truth to it… but as Samael’s new ‘name’ (Lucifer… they called him, how could his title have been mistaken for his name?) had become synonymous with ‘dragon’... Michael had asked Azrael to haul the massive skeleton Downstairs for their brother to ‘decorate’ with it. Rae-rae had frowned at him, assuming he was mocking his Twin. Nevertheless, with bristling feathers, she’d completed his request.

And it seemed Samael had indeed used the silver-black skeleton to decorate. He had to admit, the sight of the Gates set in the beast’s skeleton, wrought with the upside-down five-pronged star… it was soul-chilling. It struck an image of power and despair. The Lilim inscription was on the curved lintel, just below a set of spikes and a wing…

… it was a true terror that greeted the Damned. Two pitch-black, mountain sized Hellhounds lounged on both sides of the Gate, their smouldering eyes trailed on him. The beasts growled and snapped, clawing at air, but neither moved from where it was laying in the grey ash. They probably sensed his inner Fire, so similar to their owner’s and it confused them enough to remain on their spots.

“Samael, Brother mine, Morning Star, open thy Kingdom…” he called out mentally again, more insistent this time, hoping even in this hopeless place, that their Bond had not been severed by the Fall.

The Gates groaned, and a distant echo of countless screams reached him. Michael stretched his wings and flew inside, frowning at the shadow of agony that jolted through his side from the injured right wings. 

He angled downwards, following the echo of an ancient connection, even now, without truly knowing where he was being guided. (But he did not need to know. He trusted his Twin.)

He slipped past empty, yet monstrous Circles within this corner of Hell, where the Lightbringer’s castle stood at the very bottom. Violent gales tore at his already frayed feathers, icy rain stuck his robes to his form and the ever-present ash tainted the pristine white robes into an ugly grey. He slipped past boiling gold and a dead land with something akin to swamps and jagged mountains, further below dead, charred yet still-burning soil greeted him.

At the very bottom, icicles formed on the ‘boundaries’ of the Ninth Circle. He landed on slippery ice, though his wings helped him maintain balance. He walked further inside and the ice was replaced by dark brimstone and cracked, black adamas. Although the adamas here didn’t have the same feeling to it, as in Silver City. Just brushing his Heavenly Fire against this ‘corrupted’ version of the material left him feeling sleepy and itchy, the jolt of energy from it intensifying the pain in his right side so much that he hissed in discomfort. He knew that it would downright drain some weaker, younger of his siblings from their very life force.

Darkness had been his constant companion since slipping past the opening Gates, along with an unpleasant mix of searing heat and blood-freezing cold. Now, the cold had dissipated, leaving only the burning behind and the darkness seemed to part to allow a low, red glow to fill the place.

Michael smiled. It seemed his Twin’s near-limitless powers (much like his own, yet still polar opposite) was enough to shape this plane of existence and the perk of being the King. This was a place their Father bothered little with, therefore essentially leaving its governance to the most powerful.

As he looked around, he froze mid-stride, taking in the scene from the small hill of ash. Below him lay a great lake of boiling magma, which created a fiery ring around the castle. It was tall with numerous thin towers reaching upwards, like dead fingers, the entrance arches looking finely done and orate with a small sunburst and five-pronged stars for ornament. Several flights of stairs and a long path led up to the doorless entrance, a blood-red, tiny copy of his Moon hanging right behind it, with an ethereal, unnatural glow. The entire building had been wrought from black brimstone and condensed ash and it had practically been doused in the bright, yet now-oddly… contorted Heavenly Fire of his Twin. How… wasn’t the damn palace glowing like a supernova with so much of that Fire woven into the very foundations?

The great plumes of smoke and sulphur that hung in the air along with the constantly fluttering ash and the sinister glow of the not-quite Moon… gave the whole place an eerie beauty, which only heralded Samael’s immense power and skill as one of the Demiurge.

Michael couldn’t help the slight snort that escaped him, as he carefully tucked his wings against his back, trying to prevent as much ash from getting between his feathers as possible. (He could already feel the damn wings — why, for the love of Sammy’s stars, did the two of them have to have three pairs? As if maintaining one pair wasn’t difficult enough, — itching from all the ash and the heat was further fraying the outer feathers. Joy.)

How, in the love of the Universe, did Samael maintain his wings down here?

“Only you, Brother Dearest,” he whispered, disbelieving and amused, dark brown eyes drinking in the infernal, imperfect beauty that was the castle. “Only you can make a Kingdom and a statement of power in a wasteland, such as this.”

Michael leisurely strolled through the pathway, taking the stairs one by one, like a mortal, relishing every step that took him closer and closer to his most beloved sibling. The intense heat of the dimension was foreign, yet there was the briefest ghost of familiarity…

 Two deathly pale, humanoid creatures stood in the entrance, equipped with what Michael recognised as infernal silver. 

Lilim. 

The traitorous First Woman’s offspring seemed to have adapted to his brother’s rule… even if Lilith herself kept scowling and secluding herself with Asmodeus in Edom, if the reports that made it Upstairs, were to be believed.

“Halt! Who seeks Lord Morningstar?” the male Lilim demanded in a scratchy tone and both of them pointed their spears at him. “It’s not a time for the audience.”

The shadows here were different then anywhere else. The whole Realm bent to Samael’s Will… yet Michael could coax some of the surrounding darkness — and wasn’t there plenty of that here? — to do his bidding and hide him till the very last moment. Even after all this time, his Power resonated with that of the Lightbringer.

“I assure you, Lilim, Hêlēl will want to see me. Run and tell him I came. I need not state a name.”

The shadows flowed from his grip and he revealed himself to the guards, six night-black wings half stretched so they would not mistake him for something he was not. Both demons’ eyes widened in shock and they quickly scanned his whole form, looking at the now-sullied white robes and the faintly glowing gold Marks.

The female with curling brown hair and decaying scales covering the lower half of her face drew back her spear and strode into the castle. Michael hummed in satisfaction, clipping his wings closed, as the remaining Lilim watched him with eyes narrowed in suspicion. The Archangel knew that, if these creatures knew of him, the demon here already figured out who he was. And if so… then despite his identity and the obvious power difference, he showed no fear.

Minutes crawled by and the female returned with another in tow. This one had a slightly darker skin tone, straight black hair, and the rotting half of her face held an eerily pale blue eye. The male Lilim’s eye flicked to the new female. “Mazikeen.”

The newcomer — Mazikeen — nodded to him, and then her eyes settled on him. Michael saw shock and surprise flicker through her eyes, before her face was schooled into careful neutrality. “Follow me, Angel. The King will see you now.”

Michael’s lips curled upwards at the tone with which she spoke of his species. As if out of the two of them, he was deemed a failure of Creation and not the other way around. ‘You always find the interesting ones, don’t you, Sammy?’ he thought, amused, as the Lilim led him through the building. The hallways were narrow and only occasionally littered by burning sticks of dark adamas.

Samael’s should he be thinking of his Twin as Lucifer, just to be safe? Throne room was in the tallest tower and the throne was a tall, sleek monstrosity of plain black stone and gnarled, cracked adamas, that was smouldering orange-gold under his Twin’s touch. Just behind Samael, the tallest stone beam that made up his Throne was glowing with the same upside down star he’d seen on the Gate.

“Your guest, My Liege,” the Lilim sneered at him, bowing towards his Twin.

“You’re dismissed Mazikeen,” the Fallen Angel said, standing up. ”And seal the doors behind you.” The female threw him one last look of disdain and strode out, the heels of her shoes like thunderclaps against the ice-cold stone.

Once Mazikeen was gone, their eyes met and Michael took in his Twin’s appearance. He had not seen his other half since the Gates of Heaven were closed by Amenadiel and Sandalphon. 

Smouldering red eyes met his agitated brown. Lucifer wore deep cut, dark clothing with a slight silvery sheen, which almost looked like the hide of some lizard-demon, wrought with glinting silver and maroon gems that looked like frozen droplets of blood from a beast that did not belong in Creation. His once-bright Runes were now a wicked shade of bronze. But, despite the change in colour, their power was as potent as ever. Michael’s own Heavenly Fire trembled with the feeling of closeness. Samael’s power felt different now, but beneath the change, it was still just as the Angel of Darkness remembered it. 

But, perhaps the most shocking change was his Twin’s wings. Instead of luminous, feathered limbs, Michael found three pairs of black-red wings with wickedly curving claws and thick leather. His beloved brother’s wings looked more like that of a Dragonidae than an Angel.

With a single thunderous clap, Samael Lucifer descended his throne, and they just stood there unmoving, several feet from each other, trying to see what had changed and what had remained the same since they’d last met. Nothing was the same anymore.

“Is Doomsday already upon us…” Samael Lucifer whispered, his tone haunted, yet mocking eyes as deadly as the blade of his spear. “For the great Saint Michael, to descend here and sully his immaculate Fire by being in the presence of the greatest sinner of the Universe? If so, then Father’s project must have failed spectacularly, because I didn’t even get a memo about it.”

Michael had never been the most social. He’d been the quiet child happy to stay in the shadows. Meanwhile, Samael had been a bright and playful soul, his presence like flame, while their younger siblings were like curious, awed moths. Thus, Michael had never been overly talkative. What he had to share — with Samael or their Father, he could share through telepathy, even if the connection with his Father was tenuous and one-sided. (Not like that fact was… known by the Host.)

But now… his voice abandoned him entirely. He could not form the words needed to state the reason for his presence.

“Well?” his brother prompted, tone clipped. “Why are you here?”

Michael exhaled softly, stepping closer. “I came to visit. Can’t I visit my favourite brother?” he asked quietly. 

Lucifer’s eyes widened and then narrowed, the redness more prominent than before and the temperature escalated in the already hot room. It exploded out of him — the confusion, the hurt, the anger, — at the smallest spark. After all, he’d been nursing these dark feelings for several decades now.  

“Visit your favourite brother?” he growled. “Oh, so you finally remember me? You let me Fall and then don’t so much as send a feather… and now you remember me?!”

“Let you Fall?” Michael echoed incredulously. “I let nothing! You acted as thoughtlessly as a day old fledgeling! What in the name of the stars made you think it was a good idea to start a universe-damned war?! For what? Father’s Throne?”

“I don’t care about the bloody Throne! All I cared about was our Family! Father secluded Himself in his office and Mother just let Him… and … and you know how She always looked at us…” the Lightbringer shook his head, falling silent.

Michael frowned, his eyes sliding closed. He knew. Their Mother hated them, although they could never figure out why. All Amenadiel ever said about that topic was that their Mother was adamant they’d killed a child of Hers. (Which couldn’t be true. They never harmed Amenadiel and the three of them had been the first Children of God and Goddess.)

“She… She wanted to… I just tried to stop Her. I just … that rift in the Family. I just tried to make it right, make them pay attention… and then Sandalphon…” Samael choked on his own words and all the anger Michael had felt evaporated in a moment.

His Twin was as lost and lonely as himself. As the eldest children, they’d always tried to keep everything in order. Their Parents were too busy with their projects and schemes. Amenadiel was often by their Father’s side, doing whatever He needed and so, the herding and organising of their siblings’ lives had been left to the Twins. Michael understood the pressure — he lived with it, even today. And it was even worse, since Samael’s Fall.

“I… I’m sorry. I blamed you, Sammy,” he whispered, walking closer. “I should have known there was more to it than…” he pressed his lips into a thin line. “But it was thoughtless of you, so many of our younger siblings…”

“Like I don’t know!” the Lightbringer snapped and all fires blazed in the Throne Room. “I never sought their pain. I wanted everything to be better… but all I did was put everyone in an even worse situation…” he looked away.

Michael sighed and walked closer. He wrapped his arms and wings around his Twin, and didn’t let go, even as Samael wiggled to get away. “The fault lies not with you… But…” he loosened his hold ever so slightly and his brown eyes met his Twin’s smouldering red. “You are to tell me every little detail. Now.”

The King of Hell frowned. “Why would I? If you’re here for Father…”

“He doesn’t know I’m here,” the Archangel of Darkness cut in, giving his brother a sharp look. “Something’s going on Upstairs Sammy. Mother’s not… I don’t know what’s with Her… and the Host is almost headless since the War… And Father doesn’t do a thing. If we don’t do something, Creation will collapse and we’ll cease to exist with it.”

The Devil took a shuddering breath, eyes going a fraction wider than normal. “Michael…”

“I know. I should have come sooner. I should have suspected sooner, acted upon it sooner…” the older muttered softly. “And I will forever regret that I did not. But I can swallow my pride, Samael. I can — I do — apologise for doubting you. For not coming sooner. But even if you cannot forgive me this… please, help. Help me straighten out Creation a little… Maybe we can even prove your innocence. Show them that what you’ve done wasn’t done for the reasons they believe…”

There was a beat of silence.

“I forgive you, Mike,” Lucifer whispered, hugging him. Michael smiled and melted into the hug and for a while, they stayed like that.

Yet, as they pulled apart, what Michael saw — the deformed face of his brother, scarred and burned and so full of all-consuming darkness well beyond even his own grasp and understanding — struck fear even into his being.

“But betray my trust and love again and it’s not our Parents’ retribution you’ll have to fear…”

Chapter Text

Before the morning can break we retire
The searing heat of the sun we avoid

[...]

We drink the blood of the fallen believers

— Powerwolf: Armata Strigoi

Having grown up with her father being a club owner, the loud beat of music and the flashing lights and party smoke were practically her natural habitat. LUX was her home, and she liked it more than anything. She couldn’t imagine living in a simple house, or at an institute, like a normal Nephilim.

Still, it was refreshing to be away from the familiar beat of music and the sight of her father’s piano in the corner on the raised dais. She swayed to the sharp beat of music, enjoying the feeling of freedom and the last remnants of the alcohol she had had. But, while she enjoyed herself in the crowd, that didn’t mean she was careless. The years of training her father and aunt had beaten into her had become an instinct and not simply learned knowledge.

So, her gaze swept the crowd, looking for threats or anything out of the ordinary. She had taken special care not to be recognised as the Princess of Hell, but it was better safe than sorry.

Ever since her fourteenth birthday... Well, she understood why her father had waited to give her Aetherius and with it, the figurative crown. Ever since the Shadow World had found out the Devil had a daughter and heir, they had not stopped speaking about it. It had been almost a year now, but they were as loud about it as if they’d just figured it out the day before yesterday.

Granted, it was rare — like extremely rare — for an Angel to procreate with a human, but still. She wasn’t even — genetically speaking, — her father’s daughter. (Okay, that was not common knowledge. Only Raziel knew she had been ‘adopted’, for her knowledge. And maybe God, if He bothered looking down at her father from His holy Throne.)

Only God knew who her parents were. Quiet literally in this case, she supposed. Not that she’d ever bothered asking about them or ‘talking’ to God, anyway. She guessed praying to the Creator was a bit… messy, since her adoptive father was The Adversary himself. So yep. So much for her ‘divine’ family. The only other Angel she’d met other than her father was Raziel. 

(The patron of the Nephilim still found a flimsy excuse or two to regularly visit her. Her father had had a cordial relationship with the blonde before, but it seemed the Angel of Secrets had got himself bonus points for caring. The two Celestials’ bonds had even improved and that, Trixie guessed, was a good thing. After all, the safety of the Universe was in the hands of the Demiurge and Raziel.)

The point was, that tonight, thanks to her father’s generosity, her Marks were Glamoured. The Celestial symbols burned into her skin were invisible to everyone, but Angels and she honestly doubted one of the Host (or one of the Fallen) would be here in this small, but still somehow popular club.

Tonight, all the world could see, was a Mundane-looking teen, whose very presence oozed magic and power. (Not a hard thing to achieve, with Satan himself teaching her about the occult and then using his own power to hide hers.) They would think her a Warlock who hid her Mark, or a Glamoured Seelie. The Queen’s Seelie did not Glamour themselves, but the Elves often did, to blend in better. At worst, those gathered here would think her a stand-offish Elf.

Still a better possibility than being exposed as Princess Beatrice Seraphina Morningstar.

Some had thrown her curious looks (others threw her looks of wariness, having sensed the sheer strength of the magic lingering around her). 

Despite the distance of most party-goers, she’d had a good night… until she noticed the approaching male. He was around her age, maybe a little older and by his lengthened nails, he was a werewolf, who’d probably had some weird fairy drug which had set off a partial transformation or had at least, somehow upset his system for his claws to be shown.

And while the werewolf was eye-catching, some deep instinct was nagging at her. Had been nagging at her for a while now — urging her to leave, — but she’d ignored it. No longer. The feeling was so upsetting now that it ruined her party mood and the random werewolf coming towards her, probably only wanting a one-night stand, curdled her mood further. (Her aunt would call it instinct, but she would not. She did not have aeons of experience in fighting, like her Infernal family members. Or even a few thousands of years, like Magnus… but since Magnus was the son of a Prince of Hell, she supposed he was also an Infernal. Or at least, partially.)

“Hey girlie,” the soft growl of the werewolf snapped Trixie out of her thoughts.

She looked up and noticed that he was very close, almost in her personal space. He had blonde hair and green-blue eyes. Not bad, but she’d seen much more handsome before. Plus, most would want her for the influence she had in the world, as Princess. Or they would run in fear, knowing who her father was.

She tilted her head a little and smiled, anyway. “What can I do for you?”

The wolf inched closer. Her hand slipped to the Glamoured weapons’ belt around her waist. Rule Number One of the Morningstar household — Never Ever go anywhere unarmed. (Even her father, who was an expert hand-to-hand combatant — not to mention his other powers —, had a few hell-forged blades hidden on his person at all times.)

“Maybe we could share a drink?”

She hummed. A while ago, she’d noticed that it took a bit more for her to get drunk than others her age. When she’d asked her father about it, he shrugged, saying he knew nothing of these things. As a Celestial, he needed ridiculous amounts of drugs or alcohol to get high and even that would not last long. He could guess how much a Mundane could handle, but Nephilim were a different thing.

LUX did not cater to Nephilim. It was a Downworlder club, but the Nephilim avoided it on principle... and her father never rectified that. He was happy to be as far from Raziel’s brood as he could be. Therefore, he had no idea if the little Heavenly Fire they had affected their resistance or not.

“Sorry, drank enough for tonight,” she brushed him off. She had drunk a bit, and she had no intention of drinking any more. Alcohol made one sloppy and that would mean she was defenceless, in case something bad happened. Even out here, on her free night, she was a Nephilim first. The effects of her last cocktail were wearing off just fine, but she might put herself at risk, drinking more.

“Oh, come now. One more could not hurt, right? Come on, beautiful, how about we share one and then you come with me…?”

Trixie scowled a little, eyes narrowing. “Forget it, wolf. I’m not the type for one-night stands. Now, if you excuse me…” she undid the Glamour just enough to show the Voyance on her hand.

The boy frowned, elongated canines glinting in the party lights. “Nephilim.” The distaste in his voice was unmistakable. 

Trixie raised her chin and gave him a sharp look.

“Yep. Now, I had my fun for tonight and you’ll let me leave quietly, or I’ll make gloves out of your pelt,” she hissed, taking a more threatening stance. (Okay, that comment was maybe too Aunt Maze… but she was in no mood for this. The uncomfortable feeling in her gut was growing, and she wanted out of here. Fast.)

He took a step back. “Chill, Angel girl.”

She almost chuckled at that — if only he knew! She threw him one last warning look, and she whirled to leave the club. Her heels clacked on the tiles, though the laughter and the near-deafening music drowned out the sound.

The chill of the outside air bit into her skin — the club inside had been hot, heated by the dancing bodies of the crowd in a small space. That her dress was short and almost sleeveless helped little. She considered activating her heat Rune... but that might be a little overkill. It was not that cold, after all. She shook her head and started walking. If she was lucky, she could catch a bus that would drop her at the corner near LUX.

As she walked, the uncomfortable knot in her gut just seemed to get tighter. She paused for a heartbeat, looking around. Her father had given her a ring similar to his own. Forged from Infernal silver, the stone in it was a piece of his and a piece of ruby. Black and red. She chuckled at the thought — two colours that people had always associated with the Devil. And here she was, the Devil’s daughter, wearing those exact colours in her ring.

The ring had been forged into one by his own powers, so it was magically powerful. She was not sure about what it did, but it was supposed to be some sort of protection. Glancing at the ring, she could see the reddish-white glow emit from it and her breath hitched.

The smallest spark of power… both Divine and Infernal.

Something was not right, if the ring was releasing power like this. Her eyes skidded around the darkened streets, but she could see nothing. She grabbed her stele from her pocket and quickly finished the lines of the Nyx Rune in swift, elegant motions, just as her father had taught her.

She could not see any humans nearby, and it seemed the werewolf had also got the message. She’d heard of occasions when some females who dumped male advances, got followed and somehow got into trouble. At least the werewolf had got her message.

But something was not okay either way. She continued walking, hand sliding to where her belt had Aetherius attached. The touch of the weapon eased her mind — it was not the natural-cold of steel. It was slightly heated from the inside by Heavenly Fire. Or at least, that odd... impure version of it, which made her father’s Marks glow.

She went on, the rhythmic clanking of her boots helping her stay grounded in the moment, but still on high alert. Her ring was still glowing, and that was not a good sign. She heard some growling from one alley and she paused, tense. She listened to the movement, her eyes scanning her surroundings, her Rune still active. One moment she was on her feet and the next, she was being dragged through the shadows.

For a moment, fear sparked in her and then she ruthlessly trampled it down, remembering the lessons from her family. She landed against cold, damp concrete and she winced a little, her ears ringing. She needed a moment to gather herself, and soon enough, the sharp ringing in her ears transformed into low growls.

She shifted and stood up, trying to regain her breath, as the growls turned into sharp, scream-like hisses, claws clattering ominously against the ground. She blinked to clear her vision and looked around. She’d been surrounded by a pack of demons — wonderful.

The despicable fiends had been out hunting. Well, at least, she was not a defenceless Mundane, and she killed them, before they hurt anyone else. There were six — no, eight of them. First, it seemed like they were different species, but no.

All of them had the same sickly alabaster skin with glowing, pale blue eyes. Three were tall and human-like. Almost like skeletons with the discoloured skin stretching tautly on the bones with pointed ears and their face similar to a bat’s with huge fangs sticking out of their mouths.

The others were quadrupedal, resembling enormous dogs, though their faces and ears were still bat-like.

She hurried to stand up, ignoring the dull pain from the fall. Her fingers closed around her — her father’s? — even now, it was hard to believe that this powerful and magnificent weapon had been given to her,spear and with a brief touch at the stone; the weapon sprang forth, lengthening into the normal size.

She eyed the creatures, but before she could identify what these were, they leapt at her. She swung the spire, catching the first creature in the head, making it shriek and bleed. Another attacked, and she ducked under a swipe of claws. It was a deadly dance... And while going through the usual motions of attack and deflect; she noticed it. Noticed that the demons seemed to have enough intellect to partially recognise her movements. 

Her eyes widened a bit, when a few more of the fiends appeared from the shadows. She had cut down three and wounded another, but they were still coming and she was not dressed for battle. The beasts had not drawn blood, but the splattering ichor had caused burns — and definitely ruined her dress, which was a shame. She quite liked this one.

She heard the shrieks again and stabbed one of them with the spear, but another bounced on her back, sinking its claws — or maybe fangs? — into her. A pained gasp left her lips as the weight of the demon sent her to the floor. She could sense the rest of the pack nearing again, now that she was down once more.

With a mix of worry and annoyance, she glanced skywards, as if she would glimpse an Angel. ‘Oh Holy Ones, thou art in Heaven... Uncle Raziel? Someone?! A little help would be appreciated!’

Michael ruffled his feathers restlessly, pacing in front of the massive golden gates of Silver City. Something… had him feeling restless and the fact that neither of his nest mates were home to calm him didn’t help at all. (Angels were social creatures, just like humans, though since all of them were siblings, ‘social life’ was a little different for them than for mortals.)

But then again… he had not been feeling well since Samael’s Fall. He had certainly got better after he’d talked to his Twin… but the ruthless maw of loneliness wouldn’t relent entirely. (Even if they continued sneaking out to meet or just to mock-fight, to release some pent up frustration and loneliness. Besides, the more he engaged Samael in those mock fights, the fewer times his Twin had to see Amenadiel. Michael knew there was no love lost between God’s eldest and the Lightbringer.)

And his nest mates were Samael and Raziel. After that one time, when Sam had stopped the others from making fun of the then-fledgeling Raziel, they’d taken the blonde under their wings. And soon enough, the three of them shared a nest, even.

Then things turned complicated, as the Rebellion’s flames ignited and all who defied their Father had been cast down. After Sam was gone, none of the Host — not even Amenadiel — dared to try his patience. None saw the caring older brother anymore, but the distant Commander, whose word was overridden only by the Creator.

Only Raziel maintained a close relationship with him. And Raphael. But Raphael was always calm and neutral, as the Healer. And given his younger brother was in charge of everyone’s health, Michael had given the younger Archangel the same courtesy. It would have been unnecessary and incredibly foolish to alienate Raphael.

And now, even Raziel was gone, sent to patrol the edges of the Universe in Remiel’s place, for a while, as she’d been injured by a fiend a while ago and Zadkiel had barely dragged her back…

The Sword of God was snapped out of his musings when a prayer reached him, echoing through his consciousness. It wasn’t exactly meant for him, but it was not entirely specified either, whom the individual was praying to. Though, the slight ripples that carried Raziel’s name showed a Nephilim…

But Raziel wasn’t here to help the Nephilim. Michael stopped his pacing and instead focused on the words, just before those faded into nothingness. ‘Oh Holy Ones, thou art in Heaven... Uncle Raziel? Someone?! A little help would be appreciated!’

For a fraction of a second, the older Demiurge stilled completely. The next fraction, Raziel’s half-amused voice flashed into his mind.

“Can you believe it, Mike? Sam has a daughter! Samael has a Nephilim child and I’ve just Marked her. A sweet, fiery soul, too. She may yet be worthy of being a ‘Morningstar’.”

Wide, dark brown eyes darted past the edge of the cloud he was standing on, gazing at the Mortal Realm below. Then, Michael jumped, six wings thundering as he slipped into the tunnel linking the planes together, desperately trying to find something, which he could use as a tether to find Samael’s daughter…

She struggled under the weight, but managed to throw her attacker off, rolling to her feet with the same momentum, wincing as she put too much strain on one ankle. She shifted her grip on the spear and pulled out a Seraph blade. “Michael,” the moment she spoke the name, the blade came to life with Heavenly Fire, glowing softly in the dark.

The demons shrieked in pain, as the light from the blade lit up the alley. She whirled the blade in her hand, smiling a little and then charging at the pack, ignoring the stabbing pain in her foot. The blade was pointed at a dog-like demon, while Aetherius reaching for a humanoid one.

She just sliced them in half — the creatures exploding in ash and ichor —, when suddenly, her Seraph blade exploded with Heavenly Fire. She felt the searing heat from it, nearly dropping the weapon in shock. The pack staggered away from it with pained cries...

... and the next moment, there was someone with her in the alley.

She saw a streak of fire — beautiful, white, gold and bright blue in colour,— and the demons were turned to ash, leaving only the revolting stench of ichor and burned flesh behind.

The stranger turned and Trixie held her blades tigher, raising Aetherius defensively, pointing it at the tall figure.

She blinked, confused and extremely relived at hearing the familiar sound of flapping wings. As the person moved, she even glimpsed familiar features. “Dad? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at LUX? Not that I’m not happy, but...”

Her father laughed, mirth dancing in his brown eyes... and only as he came closer, did Trixie realise that he was not wearing his near-trademark suit, but a long, pristine white garb.

“Sorry to disappoint, Princess, but I’m not Samael,” said the ‘stranger’.

She blinked brows furrowed in confusion. “Who the bloody Hell is Samael?” she murmured to herself, but the man who was, very obviously a look-alike of her father, heard her anyway.

He laughed. “Of course, my dearest brother had not told you.”

She stood straighter at that — few called her father that, and she was not sure who this Angel was. One of the Host... or maybe a Fallen? The Angel took another step closer and she warily took a step back. The Celestial, who wore her father’s face, held up a placating hand.

“I come in peace, niece. My name is Michael... and as you may have figured by now, your father is my Twin. I have heard your prayer and when you named your blade after me, I used that spark of Heavenly Fire to find you. Others could have come to help, but when you invoked my power...”

Trixie took a deep, calming breath and did her best to organise the sudden influx of information. One, her prayer had been heard and answered. Two, her father had a freaking twin whom she had not known about. Three, that twin was Archangel freaking Michael. Four, Archangel Michael was standing just a feet or so away from her.

“Niece?” her uncle — sweet universe, even his voice was the very same! Only the accent was different,— called with obvious concern.

She blinked and hurriedly cleared her mind. She could freak out over her father’s twin brother being Michael later. Later. Right now, she had to deal with aforementioned Archangel, looking at her as if she were made of glass and would shatter any moment.

Okay no. That was not entirely accurate, but she had figured it out, that her immortal family members — especially Raziel, which was kind of odd, as he was the ‘progenitor’ of the Nephilim race, — did at least, to an extent, treat her like glass. A tiny part of her mind was annoyed, fuming that they taught her to fight, so they should trust their — and her— abilities. Another part reminded her that she was mortal, her life finite. And Nephilim were soldiers, their life constantly on the line and so, they tended to die younger, than Mundanes. Those decades she had ahead of her were but a blink to immortals, she supposed. And whatever Maze said about Lilim not having souls or that her father had no heart… Well it was a load of bullshit. They both cared and she knew they were trying to keep her safe for her own good and for their own ‘selfish’ reasons. They would probably never admit it in front of a single magical creature, but both her aunt and father cared for her a great deal. As a show of that care and — dare she say it? — love, they strived to keep her safe even if deep down, they knew she was just as capable, as any other Nephilim her age.

Possibly even better, considering that the former co-Commander of the Heavenly Host, now the Supreme Overlord of Hell’s legions and his best torturer/bodyguard were her teachers.

She took a breath and bowed her head towards Michael respectfully. She may be the Princess of Hell, but he was the Prince and Supreme Commander of Heaven and that meant that the only one above him in the chain of command was God Himself. (Her father did not like his family… but he had always spoken fondly and respectfully of Michael, even if the Archangel was scarcely mentioned.)

“Thank you for helping me.”

The Archangel rolled his eyes — huh, that was… scarily like her father, — and gave her a serene smile. “None of that respect from you. I get enough bows and ‘Saint Michael’ from the rest of the world. You’re my niece. Family first and Nephilim second, like for Raziel.”

She nodded back. “Fine then. Thanks for the help… Uncle Michael.”

The Archangel chuckled, mirth dancing in the familiar brown eyes. “Better.”

He walked closer, and that was when she registered the gigantic wings half-stretched behind him. The alleyway was too narrow for his wingspan, but the appendages were impressive anyway, in the silvery light of her Seraph blade.

The wings were black, darker than night itself, yet they seemed to glow from within with a subtle silver-blue light, a startling contrast against his white clothing. Beneath the white cloth, she could see his Runes. Some on his hand and there was one, which peaked from beneath the collar of his garb. The foreign, yet still somehow familiar, Runes were the clearest shade of gold she had ever seen — even brighter and clearer than the Runes Raziel bore. And… there were not two wings. No. Unlike Raziel, who had one pair of wings, Michael had three. Six feathery appendages sprung from his back, screaming power and making him look regal.

Seraphim.

At least one thing about the Mundanes had got right. Seraphim were six-winged Angels. It was just they did not know that an Archangel (or maybe all Archangels?) were Seraphim.

“See, you noticed my wings,” he chuckled. “Hadn’t Samael shown you his?”

Her brows furrowed again at hearing the foreign name. “Who the bloody Hell is ‘Samael’?” she repeated, scowling.

Michael snorted softly. “Your father, little Nephilim. It’s his name. His real name — the name he had been given. The one he had refused after the Fall. Samael is the Angel… and Lucifer… is what he had become.”

Her eyes widened a little. Samael.

The real name of her father. Huh. Sure, there had been clues that ’Lucifer’ was a name he had taken up later… but she had never wondered what his real name had been. She had pieced together enough of the story, that it was connected to his Fall — and while he never lied and she knew he would answer… she had not asked. She didn’t wish to bring back unpleasant memories from a time he did not like. She loved and respected him more than that. What was important for her to know, he shared anyway. She didn’t even have to ask — in fact, sometimes; he was even a little oversharing in some topics.

“Have you not known?” Michael asked quietly.

She shook her head and then winced, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over her. Perhaps that fall had been worse than she’d assumed, or perhaps it was some demon poison. The thing — whatever it had been — had, after all, bitten her. “He hadn’t said and I’ve never asked. Figured he doesn’t like the… memories.”

Michael smiled softly — it was a sad smile, but also a proud and loving one. An odd and confusing combination. “I see…”

“I… what were those things? Da… Dad made sure I had my Demonology down to a Z, but I feel like I’ve missed something anyway,” she said, just to steer the conversation elsewhere. Michael was the one her father still cared about, she’d heard. She didn’t wish for the brothers’ bond or her and her father’s suffering, because she’d asked the wrong questions from Before.

“Strigoi,” Michael said, the disdain in his tone obvious. “Vile demons. Rare to see them nowadays, but among the worse ones. Souls of other worlds that did not find rest after death and it twisted them into the bloodthirsty monsters you encountered.”

She grunted. “They bite like freaking vamps,” she spat.

Her uncle — huh, a strange thought, she’d never thought she’d meet another member of the Heavenly Host, after Raziel, — pinched the bridge of his nose. An oddly… mortal action, she thought absently.

“Strigoi… are actually the originators of the vampires. These creatures brought the disease into the world that causes vampirism, so the comparison is most accurate, dear niece.”

Her eyes went wide and her brain short-circulated for a moment, a second time within less than an hour. Tonight was the night of crazy new information, she decided. “Okay so…” she cut herself off, breath shuddering, as a wave of nausea hit her.

Michael frowned, his wings shifting a bit. “Has one bitten you, Beatrice?”

She huffed. “Call me Trixie. Or Trix. Or you even get to call me by my second name. Beatrice is reserved for Dad. And yes, one bit me, before you turned up.”

Michael hummed, coming within reach, and she noticed, as he bent three of his wings to cover her, wordlessly nudging her to step even closer to him. She watched as he took a single feather from one of his wings and pressed it above her heart. “What is your second name?” he asked curiously.

She watched the black feather glow silver-white and then it disappeared. Her eyes widened a little, as Heavenly Fire washed over her body and she could practically feel as it swept the demonic poison from her system. The dizziness slowly faded, along with the warmness from the Fire. She relaxed a little, but she could also feel sleepiness creeping in.

“Seraphina. It’s Seraphina,” she murmured. “Said it was after you… kind of. Made little sense at the time. But now…” she gestured at his wings, “it does.”

Michael eyed her, his dark brown eyes glinting with curiosity, then it transformed into fondness. “I see. Seraphina then.” he said. “Or Sera?”

She hummed. “Whichever you feel like… but only if I get to call you Chael.”

The Archangel snorted. (He muttered something in Enochian which she could not understand. Her father taught her just enough of the Divine language for her to recognise it when spoken.) “Why not Mike?” he mocked good-naturedly. Trixie scowled sleepily.

“Too Mundane… why the Hell… sleepy…?”

“Fine. You get to call me that. But only you, Fledgling. And it’s because while the damage was healed by my feather, your body went through the trauma too fast. It’s tiresome. Come, I’ll take you home.”

Trixie hummed, leaning into him, as one wing curled around her form, almost like a blanket. She was dimly aware of the irony of the situation she was in — the Princess of Hell saved by Archangel Michael, the one Celestial, whom the world said was her father’s greatest ‘rival’… but she was too tired to even laugh. She could feel something stirring within her, but her words got tangled on her tongue from exhaustion and as the world around them seemed to dim and burl, she even forgot what she had wanted to say. Her last thoughts were of her father.

She just hoped he would not be disappointed or angry, that she’d turn up at home with an Archangel in tow. (Or was she being carried by one? Who cared for details? She was too drained to care for such minor inconveniences. It will later sting her pride, she was sure... but that was a bridge she’ll cross when she gets there.)

Lucifer was enjoying his night immensely — LUX was alive with music and partying people. Most were Mundanes, but there was an occasional werewolf and some elves as well. He was actually about to take a rather eye-catching mortal to bed — no, not in his penthouse. After Beatrice became a fixture in his life and he had to learn how to raise a child, he had a lower level of the building he owned fashioned into a less fancy, but still comfortable version of his home, where he could take the patrons to spend the night with.

He smiled charmingly at the gorgeous woman across from him, his hand sliding down her back. Her eyes glinted, and she swayed closer to him, their bodies moving to the beat of the music. He was slowly leading her to the elevator and was planning his night when a familiar spark of power filled his senses.

Powerful, cold, yet magnetic.

His whole body tensed up for a moment and his eyes cut towards the hidden flight of stairs, which had an enchanted door, which would immediately take him to his home. It was much faster than the elevator. Plus, between the club and his home, was a tiny pocket dimension, which had several weapons, in case he had to arm himself to deal with whatever intruder dared coming into the Devil’s lair.

Only one being in the entire Universe felt that way. And only that one being (okay no, his Parents too) would dare appear uninvited in his home like that, despite being very aware of the place being rigged with Angel traps, keyed specifically to his Celestial siblings, bar Raziel.

Michael.

Lucifer glanced at the woman. “Sorry Darling. I’m afraid our night comes to an unexpected halt now. There’s something important I have to deal with.”

Even before the Mundane could protest, Lucifer whirled on his heels and melted into the crowd, the people subconsciously parting for their host, as the Devil cut towards the flight of stairs. He took the stairs by two and almost kicked the door inside in a hurry. Michael… He had not seen his Twin in a few hundred years. The Commander of the Heavenly Host was even busier than Raziel, so him being here meant something serious had happened.

He stepped into the room and only hesitated for half a heartbeat. Whatever weapons were stored here were of little effect against his Twin. Only Aetherius could do Michael any significant harm, but the spear was now in his daughter’s possession. But it would be alright, Lucifer reasoned.

Michael was the only one of the Host, who had never hated him, never doubted him for a second, even after the Fall. Yes, his Twin had fought him, their opposing powers, meant to work together, clashed against each other — the Rebellion had been the one and only time, when the Demiurge had truly let their powers free to work against one another.

Naturally, it was a push and pull game, neither of them truly gaining any ground, not that they wanted to. Despite everything going on, neither had wanted to harm the other. They were each other’s halves and harming the other in any way was impossible to even think about. Yes, Michael had shut the Gates of Silver City, once the fight had been lost, but the one to toss him Downstairs had been their Father, while their Mother watched silently, as a quarter of Her Children were sentenced to Damnation. (Not long after, She followed them and when She pleaded with him for understanding, Lucifer showed Her his monstrous side with glee and Hellfire burning in his eyes, as he allowed Her to suffer in Her Cell, chained to the wall, like a rabid dog.)

When he stepped into the penthouse, he found his Twin standing on the balcony, half a foot inside his living room, his wings stretched out. Well, five of them — the sixth one was curled around something. He tilted his head to the side, like a curious cat, and carefully stalked forward.

“Brother? To what do I owe the honour of thy visit?”

“Sammy…” Michael looked somewhat distressed, and that set him on edge. The way he was addressed was just cherry on top. “I hope I didn’t intrude, but I thought it best to bring her straight to you, instead of seeking your Lilim.”

Even before he could ask what or who his Twin was talking about, the wing was folded back and Lucifer noticed his daughter clinging powerlessly to Michael’s pristine robes. His eyes widened, and he strode over, wrapping his arms around his daughter.

“Beatrice,” he called softly. She glanced up briefly, eyes clouded by exhaustion, and before she could speak, her eyes slid shut again. Lucifer swallowed uncomfortably. When he noticed the power roiling around her, the Glamour he’d placed on her faded… yet shards of his power clinging to her.

And her Runes were glowing.

Glowing bronze, exactly like his own, always did. (What did that mean? She was a Nephilim — part human. Entirely mortal. Her Runes were not supposed to look like copies of his own.)

His eyes found his Twin, alight with Hellfire. “What happened?” he demanded sharply, as he lifted her gently and whirled on his heels to take her to bed. She needed rest. Michael followed him quietly and for a moment, the silence was heavy between them.

“I presume she was on her way back here… she prayed for help. When she named a Seraph blade after me, I followed that spark. I found her in an alley, struggling against Strigoi. She had ended a few by the time I arrived, but there were still too many. I wiped them out of existence, used a feather to heal the worst of it, and brought her here.”

He faltered just inside her room, as he heard those words. Eyes still red, he glanced at his brother. “Strigoi? You mean Strigoi had found my daughter?!”

Lucifer wondered what ramifications would this have later? Strigoi rarely appeared in this world anymore — the presence of their ‘offspring’ was enough for those fiends. Through the presence of vampires among mortals, those disgusting creatures had sustenance, so they rarely sought humans themselves. How these demons were connected to vampires, other than being the originators of the disease, that caused vampirism in mortals, they didn’t know. And since they had not yet figured it out, they could not stop them.

Michael sighed. “Yes. But she had done well, and I wiped out the rest, Brother.”

Lucifer took a deep breath, turning away to cross the little distance left, and he placed his daughter on her bed. With a bit of magic, he cleaned her and with another snap of his fingers; she was in her nightwear, tucked safely under her covers.

But the sight brought him no peace of mind. Not while her Runes glowed that way. Still standing by her bed, the King of Hell turned to face his brother — the one who shared his face, the one the world knew as the Prince of Heaven.

“Brother… Strigoi are Ancients and we have made sure that such fiends would never cross into this Universe again, while we existed. How were these here?” he asked with a snarl.

Michael frowned, shaking his head. “I do not know. But trust me, I will look into this once I’m back in Silver City. The moment I know something, I will inform you.”

His ire reverberated through the room, but Lucifer caught himself, as Beatrice shifted in her bed. He threw one last look at his daughter and then strode out, shoving his brother into the living room again, closing her door, to let her rest.

“And her Marks?” the Devil asked, crossing his arms, eyes narrowed. “Why are they bronze? Just hours ago, when she’d left, they were black, like for every other Nephilim.”

Michael paused, seeming to think about something, and that caused Lucifer to frown even more. He knew his Twin, perhaps better than Michael knew himself — that look on the black-winged Angel’s face never meant anything good. “Michael,” he called sharply.

The Commander of the Heavenly Host looked at him and smiled a little. “It seems… it was time for Raziel’s gift to surface, after all this time.”

His brows furrowed in thought. “What are you talking about?”

Michael chuckled. “Oh, come now, Sammy. Raz told me you’ve summoned him years ago to give her the first Runes.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “And if I did?”

“He said you were fond of the child,” he said leadingly. Lucifer’s eyes flashed with confusion, and then annoyance settled on his features.

“What? Satan’s not supposed to have a heart?” he growled.

Michael huffed. “Oh, come now, brother dear. You know I’m the last who would believe those stories. I know you are a Warden and not evil. Besides, Father had His reasons…”

“No, don’t bring Him into this,” Lucifer scoffed, “and He can shove his reasons, you know where, Chael.”

Michael pinched his nose in annoyance. Even after all this time, his favourite brother did not even tolerate the mention of their Parents. Seriously… first this and then the rest of his siblings vilifying Sammy as if he were an intruder from a Void and not their brother. Sometimes, Michael thought, being the reasonable and responsible one in the Host, with their Father currently gone, sucked.

Because Amenadiel was such a wonderful help in managing the freaking universe. (Spoiler, he sucked at paperwork and everything non-military.)

“Sorry,” Michael said, raising a placating hand. He could, relatively safely, backtrack from here, which meant that he would not piss off his Twin more. Lucifer’s ire would not be safe for any mortals (or maybe even non-Celestial immortals) nearby, so it was better to prevent a catastrophe.

“What does this have to do with Beatrice?” the Devil demanded, his voice a low, threatening rumble. “If He dares to use her in some ploy…”

“No, no!” Michael said hurriedly. “It… it was Raziel’s gift to you. He said it was the due payback for when you prevented his Fall, by ‘taking credit’ for Jonathan Shadowhunter being in the possession of the Mortal Instruments. The Host would have been more lenient if it was just blood Jonathan had. Raz went a bit overboard with giving him the Instruments. You know they wanted to toss him Downstairs.”

Lucifer pressed his lips into a thin line. He was not fond of Raziel’s progeny, but it had been a good decision on his brother’s part. The Nephilim were full of themselves these days, but before the Deal between him, Mike and Raz, the fiends from the Void were problematic to handle with the once-mighty Host divided in two.

“What gift?”

Michael smiled. “I think that’s why Trixie’s Runes are bronze, like yours.”

Lucifer balled his hand into a fist, trying his best to rein his power, but the glasses on his shelf rattled, anyway. “What did Raziel do? If he hurt her…”

“No, of course he hadn’t,” Michael said hurriedly. “It’s just… you know how Nephilim have a spark of Raziel’s Heavenly Fire in them, right?”

“Yes, yes,” he rolled his eyes. “That’s why they can bear some of our… weaker Runes.”

“Beatrice has yours.”

Lucifer blinked, peering at his brother in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Normal Nephilim have a spark of Raziel’s Fire, acquired through the Cup or through birth from Nephilim parents. She was originally born a Nephilim, but during the Ritual, Raziel consciously cut her link with him and instead gave her a spark of your Fire, Sammy.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to say something, but the words died in his throat as he recalled that day. The day when Raziel had used his glowing, pristine white feather to draw Beatrice’s Enkeli.

“Excuse me?!” he choked, as the meaning of the words finally sunk in. “And what am I supposed to tell Beatrice?”

Michael shrugged. “The truth? You never lie, after all. Or you can just simply not tell her she is different. Your choice, brother.”

Lucifer pinched his nose in annoyance. This was not something he could sweep under the rug and ignore for the rest of eternity — not that he would want to. With all that had been going on since he had made that Deal with that Nephilim... well, Beatrice had been part of his life. And he had named her his Heir anyway, even before he knew this.

He huffed in annoyance, waving his Twin away. “Thank you for... saving Beatrice. But leave now, will you? I... I need some time alone.”

His brother nodded, understanding settling on his face. “Of course. Good night, Sammy.”

Even before Lucifer could form a coherent answer, Michael was gone in a flap of wings and flurry of feathers. The Devil remained alone in his home, with his daughter sleeping soundly in her room.

His daughter. The thought was foreign in a strange way, although he and Mazikeen had raised the child since she had been an infant.

Beatrice was his daughter — had been, since the Enkeli settled on her skin, its power wrapping around her soul. The blood in her veins — and thus, the human DNA, — was that of her parents. But the Heavenly Fire in her veins was his, in its purest form, as she was a first generation Nephilim, as Jonathan Shadowhunter had been. 

It was his Fire that coursed alongside her blood and so, by Divine Law, she was his Daughter and Heir.

A true Morningstar.

Chapter Text

Lucifer took a shaky breath, doing his best to compose himself. Although, before he could pull himself together, the elevator’s door opened and Mazikeen stepped into the penthouse. Hell forged knives spinning on her fingers. Her eyes were glinting with murderous worry. Beatrice had been gone longer than she’d said she would, and that was unlike her. Of course, Mazikeen was the first one to notice and when they started to worry, she’d been the one to jump onto her bike to prowl the streets of LA, looking for her.

“Lucifer... do we know where the Spawn is? I have found nothing yet and I swear...”

The protective anger rolling off of the Lilim woman was enough to snap him back on track. “Mazikeen, calm down,” he said firmly. It was a sort of no-nonsense tone Maze was familiar with, but it was far from his kingly voice, which had entire infernal legions cowering in terror. He had not given Mazikeen that sort of order in a long while.

She’d been like family to him, even before Beatrice had come along, but the years spent together, here on Earth, raising a Nephilim child, had truly forged them into... an unholy family. By now, Maze was his sister as much as Azrael, though he hadn’t yet shared that with the Lilim. Lucifer knew that Lilim were not used to genuine emotions... and Maze had her own... messy experiences with family. Both of her parents were jerks — and that was saying something in Lucifer’s book, considering who his father was... and that he’d only met Maze’s sire once. And her numerous siblings were, possibly even harder to deal with, than his own siblings, which was again, no small thing.

“Trix...”

“Beatrice is safe and sound, sleeping in her room,” he said placatingly, voice pointedly lowered, as he nodded towards his daughter’s room. (And that thought still made his brain freeze for a second, because now... there was something else in the word. She was truly his, in the Celestial sense.)

“What... where...”

He raised a hand, gesturing at her knives. Maze blinked and sheathed the weapons with an oddly bashful look on her face. Once she seemed calmer, Lucifer headed towards his personal bar and grabbed two glasses, reaching for a scotch. He decided not to beat around the bush — Maze would know anyway, sooner, rather than later, — as he poured their drinks.

“On the way home, Beatrice was attacked by a pack of strigoi. She killed some of them and then prayed for help when they proved too many. Michael answered her and then brought her home. She’s healed now and sleeping, a little shaken, I presume,” he explained as simply as possible, taking a sip of his drink.

Mazikeen’s dark eyes widened in shock. “Mi — Did you just say Michael brought her home? As in… your Twin?” the incredulity in her voice would have been amusing in any other situation. Alas, Beatrice had been in danger, no matter how brief it was, and that soured his mood.

Lucifer wrinkled his nose a little in irritation. He’d forgotten about the little game… they’d played Downstairs (and subsequently, in Heaven, too). His Fallen brothers and sisters still harboured great hate for their Father and the rest of the Host. Lucifer liked to think he himself was past the… blind hate. He didn’t like his Divine family, yes, and he had only ever spoken to Michael and Raziel since the Fall. He still hated his Father and he would have liked to punch the bastard… but that was different. Entirely personal, which had nothing to do with the other Fallen.

The point was that most of the world — even their Celestial and Infernal family members — believed that he and Michael loathed each other. Mazikeen was no different. But now that Beatrice was around and she and Mike had met, Lucifer was sure she’d ask about his Twin and might even ask to see him again. (And of course, he wouldn’t deny her that, as long as Mike could sneak away from Silver City.) ‘Time to clean up some of this mess…’

“Mazikeen… what I’m about to tell you is not… common knowledge, obviously. And if it were any different, it would cause unrest everywhere. Which means this will have to remain a secret, as much as possible, and I will tell Beatrice as much too, when she wakes up.”

Maze eyed him for a moment, thoughtful and a little worried, but also visibly intrigued. She nodded, taking a big gulp of her drink. “Shoot, Lucifer.”

“We don’t hate each other — Mike and I, I mean. In fact, he and Raziel are the only ones I still regularly contact. Raz is more obvious, since his involvement with the Nephilim… but you know, the dirty work is left to us. So, the three of us are working our asses off, anyway. That’s why I said I need to come to Earth and take a break. I can’t… do all the work with Azazel, Leviathan and the others breathing down on my neck. Father knows if Mammon mentions money in the next century, I will have him flayed,” he scowled.

Maze grimaced at the mention of his greedy brother, glancing down at her glass. Mazikeen had little love for the Dukes of Hell or her mother. Not that Lucifer could fault her for that — their opinions on the matter were similar, if for slightly different reasons.

 “O-okay… so just to clear this up. You don’t hate Michael. And the reluctance to meet Raziel was also an act.”

Lucifer sighed. “Nope, that was entirely… real. I’m not fond of Raz’s batch — and when there’s Raz, there are Nephilim. But I admit, having Beatrice around improved our relationship. Mike and Raz are definitely my closest siblings now. Sharing responsibilities also helps. And that Raz never thought I was evil…” he muttered under his breath, recalling the blonde’s words from the day of Beatrice’s Ritual.

After the Fall, the remaining members of the Heavenly Host easily and happily vilified those who had been banished to Hell. And Lucifer, having been seen as the Prideful One, the one whom they believed instigated the Rebellion… And those beliefs of the remaining, embittered Siblings had been passed on to humanity. But, apparently, not everyone in the Host was food or short-sighted.

Maze seemed thoughtful for a moment, and then she nodded. “So… means I shouldn’t attack them if they turn up here?”

Lucifer snorted a little. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mazikeen. Mike could smite you. You and Raz are matched, I guess… but no. You shouldn’t attack either of them. They’re welcome here, whether they come to see me or Beatrice.”

She nodded, though there was a little doubt in her brown eyes — a doubt stemming from her protectiveness of Beatrice. (And probably from her nature as a demon. Infernal and Celestial didn’t mix well, with himself as the obvious expectation.) That, Lucifer thought to himself, was perhaps proof that Mazikeen was starting to feel emotions the way humans and Celestials did. Interesting, though not entirely unexpected development, in the light of their last few years in Los Angeles.

“And… What of the Pumpkin? You said she was asleep?”

Lucifer sighed. “Yes. She’ll be alright but…” he trailed off, dodging the counter and walking towards his daughter’s room. A single look was enough to have Mazikeen follow him.

They walked into the dark room without making a sound and stopped next to Beatrice’s room. Maze’s gaze swept the sleeping teen in search of injuries, though Lucifer knew she’ll find none. Any she’d had had been healed by his Twin’s feather. He tugged down the blanket, just enough to expose some Runes on her skin. Then, he allowed a spark of his power to wrap around his daughter.

That spark caused the Runes to glow a bright, familiar, yet sinister shade of bronze — the same as his, which Maze could see, as a Mark was visible to compare on his own hand. The woman’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “What the bloody Hell…?”

Lucifer hummed. “She’s my Daughter, and this is the proof,” he said, voice just a mere whisper in the darkness, too soft to wake the Nephilim, but enough for Maze to hear.

“Yes, you’ve been saying that for years now and…”

“No, Maze,” he cut her off. For a moment, his eyes bled into red, to drive his point across. “She’s mine. Raz cut the connection she had to him. When he did the Ritual, he used my feather to draw her Enkeli. The Heavenly Fire, that makes Beatrice a Nephilim, is mine now — has been, since the Ritual.”

She gasped a little, as the information sank in — for Heavenly Fire, for Angels, was like blood for humans and ichor for demons. She knew that. It carried their individual traits, their… genetics, for lack of a better term. And the little Nephilim now had Lucifer’s Heavenly Fire in her body, as if it had always been hers.

“Shit. Does… does Trix know?” she whispered, wide, almost disbelieving eyes darting between the child and her king.

Lucifer shook his head. “Her Runes changed shade just now. Because of the trauma, or because Mike healed her. His power is opposite to mine, as you know. So maybe a spark of that had triggered the dormant Fire in her veins.”

Maze huffed, running a hand through her long, straight hair. It was an oddly… mortal way to show her frustration, but Lucifer said nothing. Both of them had picked up more and more human-like behaviour than ever before and since it was just the three of them most of the time, they hadn’t bothered hiding it.

“Okay… okay. Does that mean more danger to her? Is that why you’re telling me?” she asked.

Lucifer paused, wondering how he should word this without freaking her out. She was as good with ‘family’ matters as he was. “No, Maze. I’m telling this to you, because I trust you. I told you about Mike and Raz because I trust you. I… It occurred to me that ever since Beatrice is here, we’ve changed. Our relationship changed.”

She hummed. “Yeah. I’ve noticed too,” she muttered.

Lucifer nodded. “I… If there’s anyone from Hell I trust, it’s you.”

She smiled a little, with an eye roll. “You’ve said that before, My Lord.”

Lucifer caught the jest in her tone, but the seriousness as well. She didn’t seem to notice the depth or the direction in which their relationship had changed. It was… almost disturbing now, to hear that form of address from her. But he would never correct her, because while he thought of her as a sort-of extended family, she was still a subject.

“I’m serious, Mazikeen,” he said lowly. “You… if there’s any real family Downstairs for me still, that is you. You may be a Lilim, but you’re my most trusted friend. My sibling in a way that none in Hell will ever again be.”

“L-Lucifer…”

“We’re family, Maze. You and I and Beatrice. Equals. I will not mess up the family I still have, the way… the way my Father had, because He treats my siblings in Heaven more than His soldiers than His Children. If I mess up something, you tell me. Yes, there will be times when I will need you to be professional… and if we ever go back Downstairs, the relation will have to be… downplayed. But we are family Maze.”

She was quiet for a long while, obviously taken aback, then a small, tentative smile appeared on her face. “Family, huh? Then… we’re surely a mismatched one.”

Lucifer snorted, half-amused, half-mocking. “Nothing’s perfect in this Universe, Mazikeen dear. You should know better than most.”

She hummed in silent agreement, her eyes sliding to Beatrice. “Will you… tell her?”

Lucifer turned to look at his sleeping child. Her Runes were still glowing, but it was fading now and it seemed that instead, the previously pure black ink took a bronze undertone, just enough to be noticed, even without the glow.

He sighed, wondering how she’ll take the news. “I never lie, Maze.”

When Trixie woke up, the first thing she noticed were the constellations on her ceiling. They glimmered softly, in a way she found peaceful over the years. The coolest thing about having the Devil as her father was that she knew everything about the stars there was to know. Who better tell her about them than the Archangel, who’d created them at the Dawn of Time? 

She’d asked her father to have her room painted similar to space. He’d agreed and once the Mundane was done with the art, stretching across the four walls and the ceiling, his father added a spark of his fiery power and the dots glowed in the dark. Not with the real clear light, a bronze-like light, true, but it was still breath-takingly beautiful. Her room was a miniature space, and she loved it.

So, seeing that now, upon waking up, she knew she’d been brought home. For a moment she was confused how that was possible, when she’d been in that alley, fighting those demons. Then she recalled meeting Archangel Michael. Who was her... kind of uncle and, apparently, the twin brother of her father? That was still something she hadn’t wrapped her mind around (not that she’d been awake too long to deal with it).

She took a deep breath and sat up. There was no dizziness or soreness she would have expected after a demon attack, only the slightest tingle that meant Divine healing. But, her father… she shook her head as a moment later, she recalled Michael had healed her. Nothing cured ills faster than Angel feather, apparently. She smiled a little, glancing at her ceiling again. She considered a proper prayer, like Mundanes used as thanks, but decided against it. It was hard to pray reverently to a being she knew personally and insisted she call him family. ‘Thank you, Uncle Michael.’

She peeled off her dark purple satin sheets and slid her feet into her top-notch slippers. Garuda chirped at her happily and the next moment, she had an excited griphon in her hands. She laughed a little, falling back onto her bed, as her fingers carded through the gryphon’s golden feathers. Just as Magnus had said, he was no bigger than a house cat — a big house cat, but one. Though his claws were incredibly sharp and, according to her father, that was a trait all gryphons shared and once, when bigger breeds still existed, Nephilim and Downworlders made weapons out of their talons.

“Is anyone home, boy?” she asked, nuzzling him a little. He made an affectionate sound, half a purr, half a chirp, and leaned into her touch. She held him for another moment and then placed him on the floor. Her bed was the only thing off limits for him, otherwise she’d need new sheets every two days, if not every day. Satin and gryphon claws didn’t mix — at all.

She shuffled out of her room, the tiny gryphon eventually following her tentatively. Like every creature, Garuda was also a little wary of her father and a mere spike of his power could send him running back to her room. Her father wasn’t fond of the hairy, taloned little beast either... but he knew she loved the gift Magnus had given her, so he let Garuda stay.

She smiled widely when the sweet scent of pancakes and maple syrup reached her nose. Her father was cooking again. “Goeie môre, Pa,” she greeted, the words leaving her lips in Lilim easily.

Her father looked up, his eyes flashing with something she’d never seen before, and then he smiled softly. (Had she... scared her father, the Devil... with not making it home on time? No — no, that couldn’t be it, could it? This was the Archangel who’d Rebelled against God and ruled Hell ever since.) He feared very little; she knew, and even if something discomfited him, he wasn’t one to show it. Yet, the lines on his face…

“Good morning, Spawn. Come, breakfast’s just done.”

She slid onto one chair by the table and a few minutes later, her father arrived with two full plates of food. “Where’s Tannie Maze?”

“Handling the club. Last night we left it in a little... mess,” he said with a frown, before it was gone in a blink, his expression smooth. Were she anyone else, it would have fooled her. Alas, she wasn’t his daughter for nothing. “But nothing to worry about. It’s easy to deal with and your safety comes first.”

She did as her father asked and sat at the table, watching him. There was some sort of tension in the way he held himself. Something she had not seen before. She wondered if mentioning Michael would be a good or a bad idea.

After a heartbeat of silence, she could not stop herself, even though a voice, which sounded like Aunt Maze, was discouraging her. (It was always her aunt, who said that pissing off Lucifer Morningstar was a surefire way to get the most painful torture, after all.)

“You never mentioned before that you have a twin brother,” she said, trying to be casual, but she kept her eyes firmly on her father for the smallest of negative signs.

He shrugged casually, grabbing the plates to which he had placed their breakfast. “Never thought you’ll meet him is all.”

She blinked in surprise as he sat across from her. His tone was just as casual, void of any derision she would have expected. She knew well there were few he liked in his family. “So... you’re not angry I came home with him?”

“Mike and Raz... are the ones I still speak to. The ones I willingly let into this house. Ones whom I would trust your safety to.”

Her eyes snapped to him, wide. She knew that he and her aunt kept her safety as their priority... But hearing it like that was still shocking. She knew from her aunt that their life had been drastically changed, after she’d been dropped off at LUX by the woman who’d birthed her. (No, she will never call her mother. A mother would have loved their child, not given her away. A real mother would not have used their own flesh and blood as a bargaining chip. She knew how the world saw her father. She knew they thought the Devil was the ultimate evil, and that just made the woman’s actions all the more damaging.)

She had never believed those stories. Yes, her father had a bad temper and yes, sometimes he was indeed vindictive. But he was not evil. Beneath the scars of the Fall, beneath the bitterness and anger felt for his Father, he was still an Angel and Angels were meant to care and protect.

“It was smart of you to pray for help.”

She smiled, relieved. It was good to know she was not in trouble for bringing an Archangel home. She reached across the table to squeeze his hand. He reached out too and took her hand. She wanted to say something — even if she did not know what she could say, — but decided against it. Her family were not experts on emotions... And if there was something too emotional, her father backtracked and even forget the situation, which brought the emotional talk about.

She looked down at their joint hands and decided she didn’t want to ruin the moment. As she looked down, she noticed the Runes on her skin. They were bronze.

With wide eyes, she looked at her father and registered that his were the same shade as hers — or rather, her Marks looked like his. (That should not be possible, she knew that. He was an Angel and she, a mere human. She remembered Uncle Raziel saying that Angels were beings almost made purely of Heavenly Fire, hence the gold of their Runes. And the bronze of her Father’s signified his Fallen status, yet not a complete outcast like the Greater Demons, once Angels, who’d been stripped of Runes and wings as well.)

“My Runes...” she muttered, looking at him in shock. He seemed calm, as if he had expected this... But no.

That odd tension, she’d noticed, was back. His eyes glimmered oddly. Almost worriedly... It was the same expression on his face as all those years ago. When he had told her about the Deal, which had led to him raising her. He disentangled their fingers and pulled back.

“Dad... what—?” she swallowed hard, dread creeping into her consciousness, like a Vermithrall. “Is it something bad? Am I in danger or...”

“No, no!” he cut her off hurriedly, with a shake of his head. “You’re safe. It...It’s just...” he ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up. It remained in place, but she could see that the picture perfect appearance was ruined now. 

The words should have reassured her she was safe, but they didn’t, because his actions suggested otherwise. She bit her lower lip, looking at him in worry, and he grimaced a bit before speaking. “It happened last night...”

She leaned closer across the table, raising an eyebrow, silently prompting him to explain. She knew that her Runes’ glowing bronze was not normal... and he seemed to know what was causing this abnormality.

“I’m sure you remember Raziel telling you he had given some of his Heavenly Fire to Jonathan Shadowhunter, thus making him the first-ever Nephilim.” She nodded in understanding, patiently waiting where her father was leading the conversation. “For Angels, the Fire is like blood for humans. It has the... individual traits coded in it, so this means that the Nephilim are, in an... Indirect way, Raziel’s descendants. His children.”

Her brows furrowed. “Yes... But what does that have to do with my Marks suddenly being bronze?”

“Raziel cut your connection to him and when he drew your Enkeli, he reforged the broken bond. He drew that Rune with my feather. Whenever you draw a Mark, you’re drawing from my Fire. You’re using my power... or at least, the angelic remains, mostly,” he sighed. 

Her eyes widened a little at that. She knew from her uncle Raziel that her father was stronger than him. In fact, as one of the Demiurge, he was one of the most powerful beings in Creation. Lucifer and Michael were the strongest members of the Host, only to be overpowered by their Parents.

To think she could use — would use — his power, whenever drawing a Rune… was a little frightening, actually.

“But… does this mean something? I mean…”

Her father swallowed, and she saw that strange glint in his eyes again. With both of their eyes being brown and having dark hair, she liked to think it was something she’d inherited from him, even if it was impossible. She was not his daughter by blood — although their similar appearance definitely helped strengthen the Shadow World’s belief that she was biologically a Morningstar.

“The way human blood contains DNA; an Angel’s Heavenly Fire or a demon’s ichor contains the… necessary information to pass certain traits to their offspring. So, when the Shadowhunters call themselves the Children of Raziel, they are right, in a sense. Because they have something of Raziel’s… genes, for lack of a better term.”

She whirled that information in her head for a second and realisation just dawned on her when her father spoke again, not giving her time to process what she just pieced together.

“By Divine Law, the Nephilim are Raziel’s offspring, his legacy. Due to that Ritual… that Fire in your veins is mine. The human DNA in your system is still the same — which means your biological family is still your family. But by Divine Law, you are… my daughter, since you have my Fire in your veins.”

Her eyes went wide.

She opened her mouth to say something, but then her father — really her father now, not just because he’d raised her — raised a hand. She clamped her mouth shut. “I understand that this is much to take in…”

“Why hadn’t you said anything before…?” she asked quietly, voice quivering. Didn’t he want her? Was he only telling this now, because it could no longer be hidden, with the Runes being bronze?

“Because I hadn’t known,” he answered just as quietly. “It was… it was entirely Raziel’s doing — I hadn’t known something like this was possible and I only found out last night from Michael. I…” he sighed, tugging at his cufflinks to hide his Runes.

Trixie just sat there and watched the action, letting him have a moment. She knew him well enough by now, that fiddling with his cufflinks was a nervous action meant to buy time. He either fiddled with the fabric or with a Pentecostal Coin. 

She almost smiled at how strangely… mundane an action it was from the Devil of all creatures. This, she guessed, was another proof that he was more angelic than the rest of the Fallen. Angels were closer to humans emotionally than the Infernal. Sure, Angels felt differently than humans, but they were more humane in that… than the denizens of Hell.

“I understand if this sends you running, screaming at the top of your lungs. I’m the Devil after all, the evil one… and to find out one has the power of the Lord of the Damned coursing alongside their blood… If you wish to leave and never look back, I understand. If you wish to find your mortal relatives, if there are any alive, I will aid you. But know that for me… you’ll always be mine. And as long as you are alive, even if you choose to leave, I will allow none of the Infernal to harm you and…”

“You’re not evil,” she said firmly, from the bottom of her heart, standing up and wrapping her arms around him. He stiffened a little, but she ignored it and continued her thought process. “Heavenly Fire or not, you are my father. You and Auntie Maze raised me, when the woman who gave birth to me tossed me aside, using me as a bargaining chip for her own gain. I… may wish to find my biological family one day, to ask them a few questions. But regardless of what those answers may be… I’ll always be a Morningstar first.”

She paused, looking at him uncertainly before pulling back. “That is… if you’ll allow me to carry your name,” she muttered. “After all… I’m just a mortal and Nephilim at that and I know you detest the Nephilim and…” she trailed off, not daring to finish and even having less courage to look him in the face.

“You’re my daughter, my Heir,” he said firmly. “And my Fire burning in your veins changes nothing. I raised you. I taught you and trained you. You’ll always be my spawn… if you’ll let me be your father. You’ll never be ‘just a mortal’, Beatrice. Not to me, nor to Mazikeen. Remember that. The Devil takes care of his own.”

She swallowed hard at that, but then burrowed closer to him and only after a moment of hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her. She smiled into his shoulder… but then a tiny traitorous voice reared its head in her mind. A tiny voice, which reminded her of the night when she’d met Michael. She shifted a little to look him in the eyes.

“Why haven’t you told me?” she muttered.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Tell you what, Spawn?”

She took a deep breath. “Samael.” His eyes went wide, and she saw the deep red spark of Hellfire in the very depth of his gaze, but she continued anyway. “Why… Why haven’t you ever told me your real name? Didn’t… don’t you… trust me?”

Lucifer grimaced and then looked away, staring out at the window — glass wall, really — into the city. “That’s the name of the Angel I once was. I’m no longer an Angel, Beatrice. I Rebelled, remember? I… I thought you were better off not knowing. It… If you knew what I used to be, you might have realised what sort of monster you were living with now…” he shook his head and fell silent.

Her eyes widened a little, and then she laughed at the absurdity of it all. Her father’s eyes snapped to her, slightly wide and glinting with confusion. “Beatrice?”

“We’re more alike than we ever realised, Dad,” she gasped between a few wet giggles. “I… I feared you might leave me behind. Grow bored with the mortal child and descend to Hell again… and you were worried about me rejecting you because you’re… well, you. The Devil.”

He scowled. “I’d never leave you behind, Beatrice,” he said firmly, eyes bleeding into bright, fiery red to add more weight to his statement. “I’d raise the legions of Hell, if anyone so much as misplaced a hair on your head.”

She almost rolled her eyes at that. Her father was the biggest drama Queen of the Universe. (A part of her was touched, though, knowing what he’d do for her. Another part was frightened of the knowledge of what he’d do for her. Because she knew that Lucifer Morningstar never lied. If he said he’d start Armageddon for her, he would.)

“And I could never fear or hate you,” she said and just to emphasise her words, she squeezed him tighter, knowing she wouldn’t be able to cause him pain, anyway. Perks of being immortal and invulnerable, she supposed.

A moment later they disentangled themselves and she felt surer in her body than ever before. For a long while now, she doubted where she belonged. She doubted her place at LUX, doubted her place in the life of the Devil.

But never again. He was her father, and she was his daughter.

She grinned cheekily. “Does praying to you, oh great, bright Samael… count as Satanism? Or that’s more like Luciferianism? Does that… you know… count as blasphemy? Or some sort of sacrilege?”

Her father blanched, looking scandalised. “Spawn! Say whatever you want about my Father. I won’t say you should be careful, but if you… oh, sweet universe, no! No, don’t you dare pray to me…”

For a heartbeat, she only watched his features and noted his tone. And she tried, oh universe, how she tried to hold back… She couldn’t help it. She doubled over, laughing. The mix of scandalised and terror-stricken expression was too funny. A moment later, a deep, beastly growl joined her high-pitched laughter, and she straightened up to see his eyes glowing red again. “So, you think making fun of the Dragon that ravaged Heaven is allowed?”

She grinned widely, eyes glinting with mischief. She had the best teacher, after all. “Yes.”

“Oh, no. Not at all,” he said lowly, his words reverberating through the house, through her very being. That was the voice of the Devil. She knew deep down, yet she felt no fear. “As I am King… that is like high treason. And the punishment for treason is the worst torture imaginable.”

She started to back away with wide eyes, yet she couldn’t hold herself back from taunting him. (Even if her rational side said that taunting Satan was the worst thing she could do, even if he was her father.) “And what that punishment is, Your Highness?”

A wicked grin stretched on his face and that was her clue to whirl around and run, but of course, he was faster than her. He grabbed her firmly, yet gently and the next thing she knew she was in her father’s bedroom, back pressed into the mattress and he was looming over her, eyes dancing with the flames of Damnation Runes brighter than usual.

“Plead for mercy, Princess and I may consider it,” he said.

She jutted her chin out, eyes narrowed, scowling. “Never.”

“Then suffer the consequences of your treason, Beatrice Seraphina Morningstar.”

The tickling started then. She tried to wriggle her way out, really — but when one’s opponent was a Celestial, there was little hope. And the worst was that her father knew exactly where she was ticklish and within minutes, she was gasping for air, her sides hurting from laughter, as tears streamed down her sun-kissed cheeks.

“Are you begging for mercy yet?” her father asked, the grin never leaving his face. Wide and gleeful, only a hairsbreadth away from predatory.

She tried to stay strong, but really, he was too good at this. She’d tried several times over the years, but somehow, each time, he’d got her to plead for mercy, anyway. Damn those long pianist fingers of his. “Al — Alright. Alright!” she gasped between giggles. “I — I give up.”

The tickles intensified, and she squealed. “I haven’t heard the magic words, Princess,” he growled softly, playfully.

“I — I surrender. Please have mercy Oh, Hēlêl.”

Long fingers stilled, and she finally opened her eyes, blinking the fresh tears away, gasping for breath. Her father was still above her, grinning playfully. She smirked to herself and latched onto him, shifting her legs, thus making him lose balance. He squawked indignantly, falling onto the bed, and then she wrapped her arms around him.

“I win,” she declared.

Her father snorted. “Devilish spawn.”

She shrugged, grin widening. “I’ve learned from the master himself.”

He snorted again, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “I suppose you did, Spawn. I suppose you did.”

She hummed and laid down next to him again, scooting closer to him. A moment later, his arms snaked around her and she hummed contently. They just laid there on his bed, hugging each other, happy to call the other their own — first by choice, now by Divine Law, — until Maze came back.

The Lilim woman smiled to herself when she saw father and daughter dozing on the bed, while hugging each other. She knew that no matter what came their way, the three of them would always be a little mismatched, unholy family.

Chapter Text

“His eyes shone when he looked at her, green as spring grass.

He has always had green eyes, said the voice in her head. People often marvel at how much alike you are, he and your mother and yourself. His name is Jonathan and he is your brother; he has always protected you.

Somewhere in the back of Clary’s mind she saw black eyes and whip marks, but she didn’t know why. He’s your brother. He’s your brother, and he’s always taken care of you. ”

— City of Heavenly Fire , Chapter 14: The Sleep of Reason (Cassandra Clare)

Jonathan’s eyes fluttered closed. “I dreamed of a green place once,” he whispered. “A manor house and a little girl with red hair, and preparations for a wedding. If there are other worlds, then maybe there is one where I was a good brother and a good son.”

—  City of Heavenly Fire , Chapter 23: Judas Kiss (Cassandra Clare)

2007, New York

Jonathan Morgenstern was restless. That was not something that happened often — he hadn’t only inherited his father’s platinum blonde hair and muscular build, but his calm rationality as well. So, for him to be restless, something big had to happen. Which was rare these days. The Shadow World, or at least the society of the Nephilim, had been tranquil ever since The Circle had been ‘disbanded’ around the time of his birth.

Of course, The Uprising, while history for him — and his generation — had been very real to their parents. Even to this day, his parents paid the price for their involvement with the sect. Both his parents had been banished from the City of Glass and even the country, only to return to official business, when the Consul wanted something.

Jon shook his head and headed towards his father’s ‘office’. Last night’s unexpected run-in with that pack of Raveners discomfited him. Raveners were often used by Warlocks to track and guard things. ‘But the level of demonic energy in the area had been larger than warranted. Raveners are low-level fiends…’

Something was up, he knew it. That they found a few unidentifiable drawings in demon blood didn’t help. Something had been going on at the site, but whoever had done it had been interrupted.

Although, at least, Simon had the presence of mind to snap a few pictures of the place. Now, he would just have to report their findings to his father and they could ponder on how to go forward from here. Jonathan sighed and knocked on the door.

A minute later he stepped in, momentarily halting as the soft, warm light of the Sun, which filled the entire library and made it so tranquil, hit his skin. He gravitated towards the centre of the library, towards his father’s desk.

Valentine Morgenstern was hunched over some reports from other Nephilim patrolling the area under the jurisdiction of the New York Institute, his black eyes roaming the rows upon rows of information, pen occasionally scratching on the pale paper. Then, after a good three minutes, his father finally looked up, slight interest flitting through his features.

“How did the patrol go last night?”

Jonathan frowned, his mind’s eye involuntarily flashing back to the scene. Just the memory of those half-finished demon seals made goosebumps appear all over him.

“The area was mostly clear. Only a pack of Raveners we exterminated.”

HIs father looked thoughtful for a moment and then nodded, a brief, proud smile appearing on his face. “Good work, children. Pass that to Clarissa and Simon, will you?”

Jonathan’s eyes softened at the mention of the other two and he nodded. “Of course, Father. Though… there’s something.”

His father schooled his features into calmness, but the glint in the black eyes told Jonathan he had the older Nephilim’s full attention. “Which is?”

“We found half-finished demon seals painted on the floor and the walls. They seemed different. And hurried. Like the one who wanted to summon whatever creature couldn’t decide, but was also hurrying to complete the task for whatever reason. Also, the Sensor showed more demonic energy in the area than a pack of Raveners usually give off.”

His father’s visage turned troubled. “Did you, perhaps, recognise any of the seals? Or Simon? I know he’s interested in the side of magic, that’s leaning into the expertise of warlocks.”

Jonathan grimaced at that, no matter how gentle his father’s tone was. Simon’s family — his entire bloodline, really — didn’t have the best reputation in the Shadow World. The Clave were especially wary of the Lovelace family. And Simon’s interest in the fields of magic, that usually only warlocks dabbled in, made things even tackier. (Of course, they didn’t judge Si for his interests. But the society of Nephilim was conventional and, in some cases, superstitious. There were just things, according to thousands of years of tradition, that Nephilim didn’t do. And Simon… was testing and stretching those conventions, almost dangerously.)

He shook his head with a sigh. “No. Although, he did say that from… the number of some symbols present, they’re meant to connect or call out to higher-level creatures…” he frowned, “But honestly, half of it escapes me.”

Despite the dire situation, his father’s lips curled in amusement. Simon’s enthusiasm for occult symbolism reared its head the moment they started learning their first Runes and were growing still.

“Perhaps… you should visit Magnus Bane.”

Jonathan’s brows furrowed a little at hearing the name of the High Warlock of Brooklyn. “You think… he’d help us?”

“We’ve a relatively good relationship with him. He has no reason to decline if you’re not probing into his life or questioning his capacities.”

Jonathan rubbed his face. “To the warlock… then.”

“Indeed. Take your sister and Simon, too.”

“Of course, father,” he nodded and turned on his heels, striding out of the library. He had to find his sister and her parabatai. They had a mission to complete.

“Beatrice, dear!” 

Trixie perked up at her father’s voice floating into her room from the spacious American kitchen, which took up most of the penthouse. She abandoned her Rune practice, springing to her feet, causing Garuda to hiss-screech in offence.

The Devil’s daughter paused for a heartbeat and bent down to pick up the screeching gryphon, doing her best to smooth all the ruffled feathers. “Shush, boy. Sorry for standing up so fast,” she continued to stroke his back and wings, not flinching anymore, as his sharp claws dug into her arm.

She hurried into the front of the house, where she knew her father was most likely lounging on his couch, as she still cradled her pet. Magnus was definitely her favourite cousin. “U het gebel, Vader? Is daar ‘n missie?” (You called, Father? Is there a mission?) she asked, the Lilim words slipping from her tongue easily. It wasn’t often that she could use the language, so sometimes, they just slipped into it to let her practice.

Her father eyed Garuda with slight distaste and then shook his head. Trixie just giggled — even after the years the gryphon had been hers, her father couldn’t come to terms with having an animal roaming the house. Even though he was always clean. “Not a mission,” he answered in a smooth British accent. “I just need you to cash in a favour.”

She blinked and let Garuda down. The gryphon touched down with a few graceful flaps of wings, chirping disappointedly.

“A favour,” she repeated slowly. Sure, she did ‘missions’ for her father and even for Heaven, courtesy of Raziel and Michael dropping by, but it was rare, when her father let her in on the Deals he made. Something about it being possibly dangerous for her. (Nevermind that she was probably the best trained Nephilim in the world.)

Her father offered her a neatly closed, unmarked envelope. “Everything you need to know is in there.”

She raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t like she didn’t get her ‘missions’ the same way, every time she did something for her father, but his tone was tight. “Something’s wrong?”

“Not wrong, per se, Princess. It’s just… There’s something brewing in the Shadow World and it’s unsettling. That’s why I need you to find this individual in New York. He may have some ideas about the ongoings of Shadow World.”

Trixie considered it. “So… some questions, you say?”

He nodded. “Yes, darling. I’ll drop you off at Magnus’. He may know where the miscreant you need to speak to is.”

“Okay. Just… give me half an hour to change and check my Runes before I go.”

Her father nodded towards her room, taking a sip of his bourbon. “Change and get your weapons. I’ll check your Runes and retrace those needed.”

She beamed at him and wrapped him in a quick hug — ignoring his half-hearted protests, of course, — and skipped to her room. Looks like she gets to visit Magnus again!

She hurriedly changed into a set of dark clothing, complete with some leather armour, — which had Hell-forged metal and black adamas scales added for extra protection — and grabbed a few Seraph blades and her spear. She secured Aetherius on her back and checked if she had witchlight and her stele, and then marched back to where her father was waiting, her heels clacking on the polished floor.

“That was quick. You miss Magnus?” her father asked, eyebrows quirked amusedly. Trixie huffed at being found out and instead just plopped on her floor.

“Just hurry, Dad.”

He chuckled and soon enough, she could feel the slight burning of her skin, as her father traced the Runes he deemed necessary for her skin. The Heavenly Fire sang under her skin, filling her entire body with warmth. While the drawing of the Runes stung somewhat, the warmness rearing its head in her. Whenever her father did the Runes was pure bliss.

After a good ten minutes, all her Runes had been checked and retraced. “There you go. I’ll open a Portal to Magnus’ and then you ask for directions from him.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, tapping her foot a little. 

Her father rolled his eyes and then muttered a spell, the words quick and harsh, too foreign for Trixie to follow. She watched cinders and sparks of purple magic form a circular vortex in the middle of the penthouse. He gestured at it with a slight smirk and the briefest imitation of an old-fashioned bow. “Ma’am, your Portal.”

She smirked, all too happy to join in on the game, especially since this was one way to annoy her father. He always expected a certain answer and more often than not, Trixie gave the one he didn’t like, just like now.

She bowed her head low, fist over her heart. “Most gracious of you, Your Highness.”

She glanced up just enough to see the annoyed and exasperated look, but before he could comment, she jumped through the magical pathway, willing it to close behind her. She allowed the familiar magic to whisk her through space, and to her favourite ‘cousin’s’ home.

Trixie stared at the three Nephilim standing in Magnus’ living room

The three Nephilim stared right back.

One was a brown-haired, nerdy one, average looking, yet still… with fine features. The second was a short, red-haired girl with freckles and eyes like spring grass. The third was the tallest of them, sharing slight similarities with the girl — like the same green eyes, though he was more robust and with platinum hair. He looked almost too good for a Nephilim, even if she knew they had inherited some of Raziel’s good looks and heavenly grace.

“Hello, Princess,” Magnus greeted with a slight wave.

Trixie saw the three Nephilim raise an eyebrow at the way of address, but she ignored it. There was nothing wrong with being addressed by her title, even if that happened rarely. She returned his courtesy. “Good day, Warlock.”

If Magnus was willing to play the game, so was she. She remembered the Deal Magnus and her father struck a while back, about her remaining as anonymous for the New York Conclave as possible. If Magnus called her that, it meant the Nephilim were here on official business and she’d barged right in. Not that Magnus could have diverted her father’s spell. Magnus Bane was one of the most powerful warlocks on the planet, son of a Duke no less, but that didn’t mean he could challenge an Archangel.

Her brown eyes rowed the strangers before turning back to Magnus. “Fraternising with the Clave? What would father say?”

Magnus huffed. “Your father knows well what my deal is. You need something or…?”

She waved him off. “Just passing through. Although… I’d like a book, if you don’t mind. Personal use only.”

Magnus’ hand swept at his bookshelf. “Suit yourself, Princess. It’s always a pleasure to cater to the high-ranking of the Downworld.”

Trixie raised an eyebrow, but before Magnus could say anything, she whirled on her heels, striding to the bookshelf to browse. And while she wanted that book, she also used it as an excuse to stay around and listen to what the Nephilim had to say.

She heard Magnus turn away. “So, what does the Clave need this time?” he asked with a bored tone.

“I’d rather not…” one male said, trailing off. Trixie didn’t need to look to know that her presence bothered them. She kept her eyes on the bookshelf, pretending to be completely immersed in her search.

Manus barked a laugh. “Oh, Morgenstern! If you knew who she is… Whether or not she hears what you have no say, she will know eventually. Her father is… amongst the highest ranking in the chain of power that makes this world run.”

Trixie bit the inside of her cheeks to stop herself from laughing out loud. ‘Looks like you picked up some of my father’s word games, huh, Mags?’

“Very well,” the same voice grumbled. Trixie, despite herself, was paying even more attention. ‘The family of Nephilim who bears my father’s name…’

“We found these symbols during a patrol, inked in blood. Or at least, something akin to it. What are these?”

“Summoning,” Magnus intoned gravely. “Something… I can’t quite grasp it. Summoning and some sort of trap.”

Trixie finally found her book. She snatched it from the shelf with a triumphant huff. “Magnus… I…”

The warlock looked up, beckoning her over. “Princess, if you would.”

The three Nephilim narrowed their eyes at her, suspicious. Trixie flashed them a quick, friendly smile and then looked down at the picture. Half finished Summoning indeed and…

“Is that a…” she trailed off, dread crawling up her spine. The words her father said about something brewing echoing sinisterly in her ears.

“An Angel trap,” the warlock huffed. “An unfinished one… But the symbols I cannot understand.”

Trixie zoomed in on it and her blood froze. She gulped. 

“That’s Az… Azrael’s Seal. And… and that one…” she pointed to the other one, looking at Magnus in utter panic. “That’s the Demiurgic Seal. Unfinished, but I can recognise it, because that’s… father’s half of …”

Magnus cursed in Lilim. Trixie frowned.  “You… best tell your father, Princess, lest something comes of this. I’ll warn the Downworld here.”

Trixie frowned. “I will do. And… possibly even one of my uncles, if they drop by. If… you don’t mind though, I have an errand to run for Father and he said you’ll know where I’ll find the recipient.”

Magnus furrowed his brow and then nodded. “Oh, yes!”

He waved a hand, and Trixie watched as a quill scratched something on a piece of paper, while floating in the air, surrounded by blue sparks. A few moments later, the slip of paper was in her hand — an address on it. “His address. When you’re done, just come back and I’ll get you home… assuming one of your relatives doesn’t plan to fly you home.”

She huffed. “I doubt that. They’d protest the indignity of having to do it,” she grinned, folding the paper. “Thank you, Magnus.” She hurried towards his door, but she didn’t even have the handle in her grip when someone caught her arm.

She reacted immediately, unsheathing a hell-forged blade borrowed from Maze. It was the good-looking one; she noted. His green eyes studied the curved Lilim blade in interest before he raised his free hand and slowly pushed the sharp metal away. “What does a British stranger have to do in the home of Magnus Bane, the High Warlock of Brooklyn?”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. ‘British…’ and then she laughed. Having grown up with the Devil, she’d picked up his British accent. As had Maze, although her words were often laced with the harsh accent of Lilim still.

She used the wicked curve and the teeth of her knife to pry his fingers off of her arm. She might or might not have used the few moments to appraise him. “I’m not British, is all you have to know. Now, as dashing as you are, I have somewhere else to be.” she winked at him teasingly and slipped out.

Jonathan’s jaw went slack, blinking owlishly after the gorgeous girl who left without so much as giving a clue to her identity. 

Magnus snorted, gaining his attention again. The warlock looked at him almost knowingly and then shook his head. “Forget it, boy. Her father is way out of your league and he hates Nephilim. There’s no way you get close enough to get her name, much less get a dinner with her.”

Jonathan huffed, but then gave the warlock a look. “You know who she is.”

Magnus hummed. “I do. But I’m not an idiot. Her father would dismember me slowly and painfully if I shared anything. Chase after her at your own peril, Morgenstern. If you do, know that not even your name would save you the pain…”

The Nephilim frowned in confusion. Something was up. He could feel power thrumming under her skin, a kind he hadn’t encountered before. And now even this… ‘My name’s hardly a boon now…’ After the disgraceful fall of the Circle, his parents were looked at with slight suspicion. Yes, both Fairchild and Morgenstern were old bloodlines, but hardly the most prestigious ones right now. 

Why would Magnus think his name could be… any leverage? Or better yet, who was she? That energy made him restless. It felt… almost like the atmosphere back at the warehouse, where they’d found those strange symbols. ‘And she’d said something about a Demiurgic Seal… what.. Is a Demiurge? And… what does the Angel of Death have to do with all of this?’

He frowned. While he had many more questions when they’d come, he also had some answers, even if those hadn’t come from Magnus himself. A blotched — or otherwise interrupted Summoning. And someone had tried to get their hands on the Angel of Death. Something was up. The frown on Magnus’ face, the frantic words of the stranger… Just the possibilities made his head hurt.

Chapter Text

“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?”

— Jeremiah 17:9

Trixie trudged through the streets, staring at the note Magnus had given her. It read an address in a less flavoury part of New York. (Magnus marked the guy’s temporary residence, so she wasn’t even sure she’d find him there, but her father wanted information, so it was worth a try.) But that wasn’t what bothered her. No. She’d grown up around the Devil and his most feared torturer. But the note Magnus left below the address worried her.

What worried her was Magnus’ cryptic message below the address. As your fire dims, one’s true intentions may appear.

She frowned. It wasn’t like… her ‘cousin’ to be cryptic. He didn’t abhor lying, like her father, but he was just as straightforward, so the message threw her off-balance. The young Morningstar cursed under her breath. ‘Stupid Nephilim being around the worst of times.’

As good-looking as the one who wore her father’s name on a ring was, they had been an unexpected obstacle. She wished she knew his name, but all she knew was the family he hailed from. Morgenstern.

She glanced towards the sky, but the light pollution of the city prevented her from seeing the first stars appearing. She threw a stray not-prayer towards the half of the Demiurge residing in Heaven and continued, her eyes checking the numbers, looking for the right one. Dogs barked in the distance and she saw a gang of rowdy, shady Mundanes, but they passed her without issue.

The wonders of Glamour.

She found the right house and paused. There was nothing out of the ordinary. It was no more run-down than the rest of the house. Perhaps the only signs of a non-Mundane living here were the plants — Atropa Belladonna, of all things. Mundanes wouldn’t think of planting a poisonous plant, much less such a potent one.

She knocked three times and then the door swung open.

Something cold and sinister ran down her spine as she gazed into the darkness of the house. Trixie shook her head and walked in. As she did so, old oil lamps flickered to life with deep, green-blue flames, filling the archaically decorated small home with a strange light.

“Malcolm Fade?” she called sharply, walking further in, following the lighting lamps. After passing the small living room, she found herself in a spacious study.

There was an immense desk on one side, the rest of the room taken up by shelves of books, scrolls, and magical ingredients. A pair of candles — one white and one black, an odd combination — burning slowly in the middle of a pentagram traced in white chalk. The surrounding symbols made no sense to her.

“What business does the Clave have with me?” came a smooth, polite, yet chilling voice. It carried a British accent, if different to her father’s.

She frowned slightly, pulling out the envelope her father had given, offering it unceremoniously. “Not the Clave. The Devil.”

The warlock snorted. “The Devil doesn’t fraternise with Nephilim.”

Trixie closed her eyes for a brief second, tugging at the inner spark she’d learned was her connection to her father. ‘Samael, Brightest of Angels, share your Fire with me.’

“But he has the courtesy to raise his own progeny,” Trixie fired back, as she felt the power flood her veins. It seemed her father had heard her call. It wasn’t like when she activated a Seraph blade — it was like being overtaken by fire.

She shoved her hand and turned her neck, exposing two Runes burning bronze after the short mental invocation. “I’m Beatrice Seraphina Morningstar and I’m here to cash in on a favour you owe the King, warlock.”

Purple eyes narrowed. “I have no business with the King of Hell.”

Trixie crossed her arms, careful not to wrinkle the envelope. “So you claim,” she said, tone cool and sharp. “Yet, I need Magnus Bane’s assistance to find you, because the so-called High Warlock of Los Angeles is not in Los Angeles.”

“A short business trip,” he shrugged, almost non-challantly.

Trixie scoffed. “I don’t like liars any more, than my father,” she warned. Almost as if responding to her growing ire — or perhaps because her father was still keeping the connection sharp, — her Runes pulsed with the tainted Heavenly Fire.

Irritation flashed through Malcolm’s pretty eyes. She wondered which demon was his parent — perhaps a Fallen? He was kind of pretty, like Magnus and she could feel his power seeping into the air. Perhaps he intended that as intimidation, but her sense of danger was kind of ‘crooked’. It happened if one had been raised by the Devil...

“I have a life, outside of dealing with the Dragon,” Malcolm said stiffly.

“Why do you insist witholding information?”

“There are just a couple of them... of them, who are worse, than the Accuser.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Hard to believe. The power he has...”

Malcolm smiled at her mockingly. “It would be the most foolish of me to question the power of The Devil, among the oldest of Angels. Even the Dukes of Hell are younger and weaker, than he is.”

“And yet... you are wary of another.”

The warlock hummed. “He is not like the Angels of The Host... nor is he trully Fallen, like say... the Forger of Weapons. The Lightbringer is Lord of his own Kingdom, planes of existance bending to his will. And yet, he has not been made as monstrous, as the Dukes that serve him. He follows rules as old as time.”

“That’s a stretch, you know.” Trixie said. Her father found loopholes in Mundane and Nephilim laws every day. Heck, he had probably even mocked his Father by finding loopholes in Divine Laws...

Malcolm laughed humorlessly. “I know, I know. First Rebel. Who’d forget? And yet, the Devil is more angelic, than any other miserable fiend in Hell.”

She stiffened, her hand snapping to her belt, where Aetherius lay, folded. “I won’t ask again, warlock. Why had local Nephilim found Angelic Seals? What are you planning?”

Fade shook his head. “Told you I left the agreement, when I realised it was a hornet nest. I don’t want to be stung.”

“Agreement with whom?”

“Someone who despises your father... and I think the feeling might be mutual. Do not dig into this, girl. If you keep silent, you may remain alive.”

Trixie’s belt clicked and with a flick of her wrist, Aetherius lenghtened. The warlock’s violet eyes widened in disbelieving shock.

“He wants the weapons,” Malcolm said at last, voice ladden with wariness.

“Who?”

The warlock hummed. “Sooner would I stare down a Duke of Hell, than tell you the name. I left him behind... for his plan is madness. But I will not help you either, to stop it. The chaos that would unfold in its wake... I’ll watch Hell and Heaven struggle to do damage control and fail...”

“If they fail, you die too!” she spat, moving swiftly and pressing the Heaven-forged weapon to the man’s neck.

“Life is truly infinite only for those who are and were members of the Heavenly Host. Lucifer... he took something dear from me, centuries ago. So I will watch with pleasure, the chaos that unfolds.”

Trixie snarled savegely, as the nauseating, sinister wave of magic rippled outward. Sparks and flames of power condensed in the warlock’s hand, but she was faster. She swung her Father’s spear, channeling the tainted Seraphic power through the metal with... Something that wasn’t quite magic the way warlocks used it.

The metal glowed bronze-red and even before Fade could unleash his attack, she severed the hand which gathered magic. The warlock cried out in pain and Trixie jumped on his desk, kicking him savegely. The man fell to the floor with a gasp, blood flowing freely from the stump.

“Names hold power, warlock. And when you denied me answers... you brought the King’s ire upon you.”

Malcolm Fade chuckled. “The Dragon’s name will be meaningless, when gloom descends on all planes... persistent enough to dull even the Lightbringer’s phosphorescence.”

Trixie glared down at him, the bronze glimmer of her Runes promising eternal Damnation. “Not if I find your friend first.”

Malcolm chuckled mockingly. “Go Princess... run into the claws of the first-Marked... and you give him all he wants. You, who claim to protect... are a key to the door that keeps destruction at bay...”

Trixie snarled stomping a high-heeled foot on the warlock’s hand stump, making him roar in blind agony. For once in life, she relished the sound of another living being’s suffering.

After another moment, she turned away and strode out of the house and onto the dark street.

She’ll have to warn her father and uncles. Somone was playing the waiting game, to destroy them all.

Chapter Text

“Monsters are divine portents.”

— The Gargoyle, Andrew Davidson

Trixie landed in the penthouse with clacking heels. She whirled around and waved at Magnus, as the Portal closed behind her.

“So, Spawn?”

The light inquiry had Trixie turning around again. Her father was sitting by the counter, slowly whirling a glass of honey-shade bourbon. He seemed calm, but his head was tilted to the side with curiosity.

She frowned, shaking her head. “Geen antwoorde nie,” she answered in Lilim. (No answers)

The Devil’s eyes narrowed, flaring crimson. He wasn’t fan of situations, where his plans got derailed. “One would think a High Warlock would know...”

“It’s not that he doesn’t know,” Trixie ventured, clicking her tongue. “More like he won’t share.”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “Won’t share?” he echoed, tone as displeased as it was intrigued.

Trixie huffed, opening the buckle of her weapons belt and letting the seraph blades and Lilium knives clatter loudly on the shiny floor. “He said something... about having been in alliance with a madman. Or rather, that he realised the guy was mad after he cooked up some plan.”

Her father growled. “What plan?”

Trixie shook her head. “I’m sorry. He wasn’t too... specific. Only that he’ll watch gleefully as we all — Heaven and Hell, too — struggle for survival.”

“Bloody Hell! That idiot warlock really wants to tip the Natural Order?”

“More like... he’s helping someone,” she mused. “And it’s the unknown party who would like you to suffer. When I asked who he was working with, he said you and his ‘friend’ have a mutually hate-filled aquintance.”

Her father hummed, taking a big glup of his bourbon. “Isn’t a big help. There are plenty I despise and even more, who despise me.”

Trixie grimaced. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.”

Her father waved her off with a shake of the head. “At least I know to watch my back more, than I usually do. Did Fade drop anythig else that might prove useful?”

“No he didn—” she scrunched her nose thoughtfully, and then her brown eyes glimmered. “Just one more thing!”

“Which is?”

“The warlock said, I quote, ‘He wants the weapons’. Whatever that means.”

Her father tilted his head in thought, almost like a curious puppy. (Not a comparision she’d ever voice. This was still the Dragon of Revelation, after all.)

Then his eyes widened, flaring red as he cursed fluently in some gutural demon language she couldn’t even bother identifying. Hell had several sections and ‘conjoint dimensions’ and demonic languages were as colourful as the denizens of the Below. (The only language she could fluently speak and understand was Lilim. But that, she guessed, had been deliberate on her father’s part, as Lilim was the ‘official’ language of Hell.)

“Is something the matter?” she asked, darting closer. The suddenly spiking heat and the clogging despair that brought with it the faintest trace of sulphur was the clear sign of how much those words had upset her father.

“What are the three sacred tools of the Nephilim race?” the Devil asked.

Trixie raised an eyebrow, somewhat confused. “The Mortal Cup, the Mirror and the Sword.”

Lucifer nodded. “Yes. And… it can be said that Raziel had… ‘based’ those on three other weapons. Three weapons that share a connection, that have power over Life and Death. Which is Creation’s greatest defence, when utilised, but it can bring untold destruction.”

Trixie scrunched her nose thoughtfully. “Uh… Glorious, Aetherius and…?”

“That is right. Mine and Michael’s personalised weapons, that are almost like a piece of our souls. And the third being Azrael’s blade. Less commonly referred to as Invictus. Well, in the sense that no one other than Angels can speak its actual name. That blade was made from a shard of Michael’s sword but was made so that its power is closer in nature to my spear, while still technically a separate weapon.”

Trixie hummed, plopping onto the old leather couch, too disturbed by the shared news, to pay her father’s displeased frown any heed. (He always muttered she’d ruin the priceless antique leather one day… not that he couldn’t fix it, being the Devil and all.)

“So… someone trying to get their hands on any of those is worse… than someone, somehow getting their hands on the Mortal Instruments,” she mused, the slight tint of uncertainty colouring her syllables.

Her father nodded, lips pressed into a thin, grim line. “Infinitely worse. And on top of that… Aetherius is constantly in the mortal plane, as I’ve given it to you… and Invictus is as much on Earth as anywhere else. Azrael’s work as the Angel of Death is ceaseless.”

Trixie bit her lip. “Shouldn’t… you take the spear back, then?”

Dark eyes snapped to her with speeds only an Angel was capable of. “Spawn…”

“Just until… you know… this… gets straightened out,” she said, lips pulling into a restless smile that didn’t reach her eyes at all. “It’d be safer. I’d feel better. I still have Tannie’s blades and  the adamas weaponry.”

“Wouldn’t solve anything. If one gets their hand on Invictus, they have a way to cut their way to Aetherius, in whichever plane it is, out of the two. Same is true, if you switch Aetherius and Invictus. Only Glorious is unreachable, in Silver City. And Invictus, for the brief moments of Azrael taking a rest.”

“Well… shit.”

Her father hummed, whirling his drink in the glimmering glass. “Most accurate comparison, Spawn.”

Trixie lay on her satin sheets in her lavish bedroom, fit for a Princess of the 21th century. The bronze glimmer of her ‘stars’ bringing a sense of peace… no matter how subdued. The short discussion about Fade and the Instruments (all… six, apparently) had upset her greatly.

She didn’t know why, but it was clear even for the biggest fool, that Fade’s accomplice wanted her Father (or possibly other high-ranking members of Hell and Heaven as well) erased from existence. And to erase the Devil… that would bring an untold level of chaos and eventual total cease-function of the Universe, apparently. Meaning, everyone and everything that ever existed was in danger of being destroyed. That was certainly not a pleasant thought. She was barely sixteen, for the stars’ sake! She had decades to live, even with Nephilim life-expectancy being lower than Mundane, given the nature of their life and work.

“What do you think, Garuda?” she whispered, stroking the little gryphon’s fine feathers. “Who would want that, and why? Like, sure… Fade wasn’t… a nice looking one… but even he’s not totally insane.”

The hybrid creature chirped in answer, flexing small, sharp claws. Pain bloomed on her skin, but all she did was softly tug at the carnivore’s tail for being careless. Garuda made a low, keening noise and uncurled his talons quick enough. “Careful, you little rascal.”

An apologetic chirp was her answer and Trixie rolled her eyes. She reached for the book resting on her nightstand, the one she’d been slowly chewing her way through in the past few days. She was barely past her second page, when the rustling of wings caught her attention.

Lowering her book, the Princess of Hell looked up, dark brown eyes finding the newcomer quickly enough. Long, pristine-white robes brushed her floor, that reminded her of history documentaries about ages long past. Perfect curls, like studded gold, framed a pale, beautiful face which was dominated by sharp, golden brown eyes. Faint golden glow surrounding him from the Marks etched onto skin.

But the most prominent feature of the newcomer were still the massive, beautiful golden-brown wings, that shone like real gold, or perhaps golden pearl, in the beaming sunlight pooling into her room.

“Just not my favourite niece?” the Angel asked, folding his wings carefully, the long golden-brown primaries brushing the ground. 

Trixie rolled her eyes as she threw her legs over the edge and practically jumped into the Angel’s arms, who caught her, laughing. “But Uncle Raziel! I’m your only niece,” she huffed with an eye-roll as she hugged the immortal.

The Angel of Secrets hummed, tilting his head to the side and then slowly shaking it. “Actually… you’re not. Belial has a warlock daughter, Theresa Grey, I believe. And whether we like it or not,... even those Fallen are our brothers, even if your Father is definitely the most ‘divine’ of them all, still.”

Trixie blinked owlishly, somewhat surprised. “Oh. So… I have another cousin? Not just Magnus?”

Raziel noddeed. “Those two are the only ones though. Lucifer didn’t mention her, I believe because he isn’t fond of Belial at all. Besides, I doubt he ever met her. She’s far more reserved than Magnus Bane and had families with Nephilim.”

Trixie scrunched her brows, confusion glinting in her eyes. “Family…? Warlocks are sterile.”

“Theresa… is a special case. But later about that, if you ever meet her,” the Angel waved dismissively. “I’m not here to discuss family, no matter how pleasant your company is, Trixie.”

She smiled sheepishly, taking a step back. “Right. Apologies, Uncle. What brings you here?

“We caught a rather troublesome pack of demons wreaking havoc in San Bernardino and the surrounding area.”

She hummed. “Why… there? Could have been any other. Or even just, you know, closer to Los Angeles.”

The Angel of Secrets shook his head, his blonde locks glimmering like beaten gold. (It was ridiculous how perfect everyone in her family looked. Sometimes, just sometimes , she felt  ordinary , compared to all of them, and in those moments it was like a blade to the heart. The realisation that she was just a mortal, her lifespan a blink to them all.)

“I don’t know. Perhaps… some foolish warlock had summoned one for something. But powerful demons can easily overpower the careless and foolish. And if one is out, through the opened Summoning, they can drag the rest of their pack to Earth.”

“Do we know what demons?”

“I believe… Remiel mentioned a pack of Achaieral.”

Trixie wrinkled her nose. “Oh, good . Why the fuck not a damned Duke of Hell, then?” she spat. Achaireal had talons like blades and with skin as hard as stone. They were a nightmare to kill.

Raziel grimaced, his golden hazel eyes glimmering like adamas. “Careful what you wish for, niece! Believe me when I say you do not wish to meet my Fallen siblings or the creatures that slither in Hell. You’re lucky Lucifer is your father and not any other of them.”

Trixie sighed and hummed. “Right, right. Tannie Maze keeps saying the same.”

Raziel crossed his arms. “Would be wise of you to listen to the Lilim woman, then. I may despise her mother and several of her so-called siblings are just as bad as the fiends slipping in from The Void… but she is actually a tolerable one. Wise, one might even say.”

“So… San Bernardino?”

“Yes,” Raziel said. “And… I advise you to be careful around the local cemeteries. Maybe it’s where you’ll find the demons, but also… they feed off off the sorrow of the living and the fading thread that tethers the human soul to Earth. The longer they’d been feeding, the stronger they are.”

“Of course,” she said. “If I change… can you drop me off nearby or should I ask Dad?”

“Change, would you? I’ll talk to Lucifer and drop you off in the city.”

Trixie grinned, turning on her heels. “Thanks, Uncle Raz!”

Our Lady of the Rosary Cathedral, San Bernardino

Trixie opened her eyes when she heard her uncle fold his wings and the rushing wind and magic dying down. Travelling with an Angel was better than jumping through a Portal, but it could still leave her disoriented, if she watched as everything around them blurred from the combination of speed and Divine energy.

Raziel folded his wings and Trixie looked around and noticed they were likely on hallowed ground. Made sense. Churches couldn’t be entered by demons and vampires. And it was likely somehow easier(?) for Angels to appear here. ‘House of the Lord’ and all that… The walls were smooth and pale-yellowish in colour and they stood near the beautiful gate. The red wood, which supported the ornate metal gates, reminded her somewhat of the Shinto gates from Japanese art and pictures. But… suggesting that to either side would probably be some insult, so…

“Here we are,” the Angel of Secrets said quietly, letting go of her. “I don’t know where exactly the demons are, nor do I have the chance to help you. If I’m gone too long, some might ask questions, and Michael can fend them off only for so long.”

She nodded with a humm. “That’s alright. Been a big help that I don’t have to look for a warlock or pester Dad to open a Portal for me.”

Raziel chuckled. “You know he wouldn’t mind, right?”

“I… do. But…” she shrugged. “He’s the Devil. Kinda feels bad to just use him as a warlock when he isn’t.”

“He provides you with such help, anyway. But if you feel better, Michael and I can drop you off near the locations in question when it comes to such. But… I really don’t know exact details, so you’ll have to walk with open ears and see what the Downworlders say.”

“And the local Nephilim?” she asked.

“The nearest is the Los Angeles Institute. They might catch wind of it, but by then you may be done. The Nephilim forces have been stretched thin these days. The fiends grow in number and power, and the number of my blessed keeps shrinking, slowly but surely over the hundreds of years.”

“So… we’re a dying race.”

“In… a sense,” Raziel admitted. “But it would be many more hundreds of years before such truly happens. Still, the tendency is unsettling, so it’s a sort of relief Lucifer has you.”

Trixie tilted her head to the side, eyeing the Angel. “Technically… I was a Nephilim even before he took me in.”

“That is true. But you’re the only… True Nephilim, since Jonathan Shadowhunter himself. Jonathan hadn’t only drank from the Mortal Cup that day, like his sister and his friend. He was a lot like you. But his line dwindled to oblivion a few generations later, when the Nephilim society was somewhat functional already.”

“Oh… That explains it, I think. Thanks for the lift. I’ll call Dad on the way back.”

The blonde immortal nodded and disappeared in a flurry of feathers. Humming, Trixie quickly checked herself. Blades, spear, witchlight, stele. Right. She had everything, no need to dig up the emergency stash in the cathedral, then. 

Concealed by Glamour so only those of the Shadow World could see her, amidst the clacking of her heels, the Princess of Hell set out to hunt.

She slowed only for a moment, recalling that her uncle said the demons dwelled near places of death. Surely, there was more than one cemetery in the city… And maybe the demons prowled a bigger area than simply skulking amidst the gravestones.

“Suppose… I’ll have to investigate…”

Her first stop was a local Downworlder Café and Club, by the name of Mystical Mug . She smiled slightly at the name. It couldn’t be said the owner didn’t have a sort of nice humour. She opened the glass door and the small copper bell above chimed.

The little booths were separated from one another with small wooden walls, where green vines snaked, the aged, dark wood barely peeking through. The large windows were Victorian-style and bathed the place in warm light, the seats… either chairs of dark leather and wood or pastel-coloured pouffes. 

A pretty girl stood behind the smooth marble-topped counter and smiled at her warmly. “Welcome to Mystical Mug! What can I bring you?”

She was dressed like a waitress, the small cup-shape logo of the shop taking up the top half of her latte-coloured apron. She looked entirely human, save for the red hair that was as dark, as blood and the long, curling horns, which reminded her of kudu.

‘A warlock, huh?’ she mused. The horn and the beautiful, ageless face gave her away. And just like every other Child of Lilith, she carried a distinct aura of prickling Hellish magic around her that always sent goosebumps down Trixie’s skin.

She sat opposite of the woman on the tall barstool, her left covered by the wall. “I’m not familiar with your offer. Just passing through. You've got something… slightly sweet with a lot of milk?”

The warlock eyed her for a long moment. “I’ve not seen you here before, Nephilim .”

She shrugged nonchalantly, tactfully ignoring the threatening yellow sparks dancing around the girl’s fingers. “ Chill , warlock. I’m passing through. I just want to drink a nice coffee in peace.”

The woman eyed her for another long moment before forcing a smile onto her face. “I’d suggest Miami Beach Vanilla. A nice latte with a slight vanilla taste. Sweet, but you can still taste the bitter undertone of coffee.” 

Trixie smiled charmingly. (She learned form The Devil, so if she really wanted, she could charm even difficult Downworlders, like the waitress.) “Sounds just perfect. Would you bring one?”

The warlock nodded and turned to prepare her drink. Meanwhile, Trixie lounged on her seat, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible and hoping to catch morsels of anything abnormal or violent happening around the area.

To her surprise, few of the Downworlders paid her any heed. Was it because the LA Nephilim were too few to exert any control over San Bernardino? Did the residents not worry about being caught red-handed in dealings against the Law?

The waitress returned with her coffee and Trixie flashed a charmingly polite smile, humming appreciatively, as she took her first sip. It was indeed good. Her eyes darted around the cozy room, looking for anyone who might have been suspicious, or otherwise interesting. There wasn’t anyone. Well, at least, not outwardly. It wasn’t the individuals, who were of interest…

… rather, the morsel of a discussion she caught. A latino girl, with pale brown eyes and a blonde guy.

“I can’t believe those Nephilim picked a fight with the Lopez pack,” the boy hissed. “Crazy.”

The latino girl rolled her eyes, sipping her iced coffee. “Is it? Only half the Lopez Pack lives here. The other half are scattered around the County, and they just come to meet. More like a loose family than an actual wolf pack, if you ask me.”

“Still! They outnumber the Nephilim. What were they thinking?”

An eye roll and a scoff. “Nephilim don’t think. They’re all high-and-mighty, basking in the name of an Angel they’d never seen. Though… I heard Jay Lopez… summoned demons…”

“What? C’mon! Jay’s erratic sometimes, but he wouldn’t do that…!” the boy insisted.

His friend hummed, her features lax with disbelief. “Wouldn’t he? Demons prowl just two streets down in the cemetery, where the Lopez territory starts. I think they’d even killed a human already!”

Trixie bit her lower lip and turned away, sipping her coffee. It seemed she had something to look into. Unwanted pack of demons wreaking havoc bad enough for her Uncle Raziel to trust only her… and now locals muttering about a crazy werewolf who had a feud with Nephilim, summoning demons.

‘Just my bloody luck,’ she huffed internally. Sometimes, she thought she should be paid for these missions. 

She drank her coffee at a normal peace, listening to any more morsels. Luckily for her, the boy ddropped the family name of the Shadowhunters living here, so it would make her gmae a little  easier. Once her cup was empty, she pushed it towards the waitress. “Thank you. It was delicious.”

The warlock gave her a faint smile. “Happy to hear.”

Trixie turned to walk out the door and after a few steps faltered, her brown gaze seeking the warlock again. “I’m sorry... Do you by chance, know where Linda Ashwell and her daughter live? They had moved away a while ago... and I hoped to visit. Old family friends.”

The waitress eyed her warily, but then rolled her eyes a little, muttering ‘damn Nephilim and their pride’, probably thinking she would not here. “I... happen to know...”

It took a rough twenty minutes to find Linda Ashwell’s new residence, which looked all too mundane, for a Shadowhunter. Maybe she and her daughter wanted to stay away from the Shadow World for something? If they had a scuffle going with the local werewolves…

Trixie walked up to the finely painted white door and knocked. The door opened to reveal a blonde, brown-eyed woman in her forties. Her eyes widened when she noticed the black gear of Nephilim and attempted to close the door. “I’ve no business with the Clave!”

She wedged her foot into the door, not allowing it to close, grimacing slightly in discomfort, as the blonde woman attempted to close the door anyway. “Linda Ashwell, then…” she mused. “I’m not working for the Clave, you know. I just… have a few questions and I’ll leave you alone afterwards. You have my word.”

Linda eyed her critically, like she could be dissected… and then opened the door again, visibly composing herself. “What business does a stray Shadowhunter have here, then?”

Trixie shrugged, smiling, with the smallest bit of sharpness hiding in the corner of her mouth, as she eyed the woman. “I’ve… heard this and that in the local coffee shop…” she shrugged.

Linda scowled, something akin to suspicion settling on her stern, beautiful face. “The werewolves are an old annoyance, but no one’s ever paid any heed. So why now ?”

“I was sent to exterminate a pack of demons and I heard rumours that someone might be playing around with summoning them.”

“Demons?”

She gave the elder woman a cutting stare, crossing her arms. Linda fidgeted just a tiny bit, uncomfortable and Trixie chalked herself a victory. The air of graceful, deadly power she carried around herself was somewhat different, than what other, ‘normal’ Nephilim had. It was, after all, the Devil’s tainted Heavenly Fire that made her the Nephilim she was.

“A pack of Achaieral, I’d heard.”

Linda frowned unhappily, shaking her head. “I may not be actively part of the Los Angeles Conclave anymore, but I wouldn’t sink so low to summon the Devil’s hideous lapdogs, for any reason. I spent most of my life eradicating them.”

Trixie’s eyes narrowed, anger flaring in her veins. Sweet stars! One day she was going to fucking set straight the whole race of blindly proud idiots. If only her father let her visit the City of Glass…

“I didn’t say it was you,” she bit back sharply. “But I’d heard a werewolf might have… and you have a scuffle with them.”

Linda shook from the sharpness of her syllables, but before anything more could be said, the sharp, urgent ringing of a phone cut through the air. Linda gave her a faintly apologetic look and hurried to grab it.

She saw as the woman answered, the lines of worry settling on her features already. The expression was the same as the one she sometimes spotted on her father’s ageless face. “Adriana?”

‘So… her daughter,’ Trixie thought.

Terror settled on the woman’s face. “Don’t let them corner you!” she said sharply. “I’m going.”

The line was cut and Trixie didn’t have to be a genius to know what the likely situation was. “She’s cornered, isn’t she?”

Linda swallowed hard. “Despite… everything. She… wanted to make peace with the werewolves, but on the way, the demons…”

“Change into gear and fast !” Trixie barked. “Show the way. I’ll help you out.”

Linda nodded and bolted through her house.

They found themselves in the cemetery she’d heard about in Mystical Mug. That was both good and bad. It meant the poor girl was likely cornered by the pack of demons Tixie had been set out to exterminate.

Achaireal were… ugly specimens. At first glance, the natural Glamour their power invoked showed them as animal-like gargoyles made of ancient stone. But once one bothered to look deeper, their true appearance reared itself.

Gaunt, dark shapes of humanoids… with a faint resemblance to bats or dragons, a pair of horns curling on their bald heads, claws the length of a baby’s forearm curving like scythes. If Mundanes were to meet one… well, she had a good guess from where the idiots took the idea of the Devil having a tail and curling horns.

Linda immediately pulled out a blade, invoking an Angel. “Dumah.” The crystalline blade popped up, emitting a soft light.

The Divine light made the creatures screech and two of them immediately left Adriana behind, to pounce on Linda. The woman expertly dodged the first creature’s attack, while slashing out at the second. Adriana, gathering her courage at the sight of aid arriving, fumbled for a Seraph blade as well, to  stab the demon closest to her.

Trixie’s hand hovered over the three Seraph blades she always carried with herself — only three. She only dared to invoke the names of those three Celestial Beings. And unlike other Nephilim, she didn’t have to drop her weapons after use, for those to be sent to the Adamant Citadel. Each of the Angels whose names she used to fight, had engraved their Seals onto the hilt of the blades, so a spark of their power was enough to make the Blades usable again. 

A convenient solution. And another way to stay as removed from the general Nephilim society, as possible. Her uncles definitely indulged her father’s wishes… why, she wasn’t sure. One would think they’d be more against the Devil ‘secluding’ a Nephilim.

She pulled out a blade gripping it tightly. “Raziel.”

The blade activated half-a-moment later, the light emitted from it just a pinch stronger than the other active blades on the site. For the Nephilim, it was taboo to invoke their creator’s name in a Blade. But… she wasn’t like them. A demon leapt into the air, spreading its night-black wings, for a moment engulfing her form in shadow. With its sickly glowing white-yellow eyes pinned on her, the demon  struck. 

Her Seraph blade clanged sharply against the hook-like talons, as if she’d struck metal.

The blade slid free with a sharp shink , and she leaned to the side, trying to stab the demon in the shoulder. The blade scraped loudly again, as if meeting solid stone and the  creature’s talons opened her right arm.

She screamed in pain and rammed Raziel between the creature’s neck and shoulder, where she noticed a small crack on its skin. It roared — a terrible sound, something between the roar of a bear and the screech of an eagle — and then burst into what seemed like dust and ichor , leaving the revolting stench of demons behind.

She hissed as the black blood splattered into her open wounds, her eyes pooling with tears from the pain. Fucking fiends.

Linda and her daughter also got rid of a few, leaving only three that were roaring and hissing at them still. Trixie didn’t waste time. She switched her grip on the glowing crystal sword and slashed at the right one’s wings. The beast roared and tackled her to the ground. She heard an alarmed cry behind her.

She kicked the thing sharply in the midsection. It wasn’t enough to harm it, but enough to have it get off her, so she rolled on the ground and with a flick of her wrist, sent Raziel sailing through the air.

The blade struck in the demon’s back from where its wings sprouted. It tried to shake off the celestial weapon, with no luck. Trixie used the precious few moments to grab her spear and the moment she was on her feet, Aetherius lengthened. The demon flapped its wings awkwardly, trying to gain height for the better vantage point. 

She smirked, channelling some of her father’s power through the ancient Demiurgic weapon. Power that wasn’t magic, nor was it simply Heavenly Fire… but something of a mix. The spear glowed sinisterly, like it had its own inner light, and she thrust upwards. The stone-like hide wasn’t a match for the Devil’s spear. Hellfire tempered metal slid through the tough exterior like it was melting butter, until the silvery, ichor-covered tip peaked out from the demon’s back.

It screamed, a terrible sound of defiance… that had no use. It burst into dust… but even those tiny, barely visible pieces were burning… and completely ceasing to exist before they could reach the ground.

The last Achaieral whined pathetically and took to the side.

Trixie glanced at Linda and her daughter. “Are you two alright?”

“Yes,” mother and daughter chorused.

“Then let’s catch that thing. Maybe it’ll take us to the idiot that summoned them.”

They nodded and took off after the flying beast, but not before both blondes threw her concerned looks, their matching brown eyes lingering on the deep claw marks decorating her arm.

“I’ll be alright. They’re not poisonous.”

“The blood loss…” Adriana was it? Her face was clouded with something akin to worry and disapproval.

Trixie shrugged. She did not even have to feign nonchallance. She had survived worse (albeit with a bit of help). And... being a ‘first-generation Nephilim’, like Jonathan Shadowhunter and his companions had been, her strong life-force and durability were far more apparent, than for the Nephilim of Institutes, whose spark of Heavenly Fire had been coursing in their veins for hundreds of years and had dulled much, since Raziel had first appeared to humankind. “I’ve survived worse.”

Before either blonde could say anything else, she took off in a sprint, following the demon’s rapidly shrinking form. Soon enough, she could hear the duo of Nephilim following behind as well. If one thing was ingrained into Shadowhunters, it was that they should never hunt alone. She may have been a stranger to the mother-daughter pair, but their training wouldn’t allow them to let her chase the demon alone.

They sprinted after the flying statue — well, it was one… pretty much, right? —  until they reached a nice big house with a sizable backyard, the cemetery’s faint outlines were just visible.

Adriana scoffed. “The werewolves’ house.”

Lips pressed into a firm line, Trixie marched ahead, following the shrinking form of the demon determinedly, even as people emerged from the house. No doubt, the Pack who owned it. She saw people of all ages, all of them having similar features at least with one or two individuals. So a very, very extended family. Sons, daughters, nephews, nieces, husbands, wives... It was a tall, golden skinned male who stepped forward, his black hair a mess, eyes narrowed into beastly slits.

“¿Quién eres tú? ¿Qué quieres?” the male demanded in fluent Spanish.

Trixie had never been so grateful for the Runes etched onto her skin. Her father and uncles may be omnilingual, but she was not. She spoke Lilim fluently and had some knowledge of Latin and Greek, but that was about that. Still the Speak In Tongues Rune helped her out now. Helped understand and speak other languages, though she would not converse in Spanish. She would not give them the satisfaction, not when one of them may have summoned those damned demons.

Trixie smiled sharply. “A Nephilim from the Los Angeles Conclave.” (Only… a half-truth . She was a Nephilim living in LA, but she wasn’t, strictly speaking, part of the Clave. She only ever took missions from her Celestial relatives.) “Hunting demons… and one of them had escaped this way.”

“Demons love us no more, than we love them,” the old woman said sharply. She was likely the matriarch or some elder in the family.

Trixie shrugged. “I care not who loves who. I care about getting rid of that demon, as is my mission and to find the summoner.”

A long beat of silence, until the male snarled at her. “Look elsewhere, Nephilim!”

Trixie hummed, twirling Aetherius threateningly in her grip. “Now… we can make this hard or easy. You let me check around, find the demon and then I’ll leave you alone. Or you force my hand to resort to violence?

“Leave her, Jay,” the elderly woman said.

“But Abuelita… !”

“Let her!” the woman said sharply. The male shrunk under the woman’s gaze.

Trixie took note of the name and the male’s appearance. The one that people rumoured had done the summoning. However, before she had time to ponder on that, the demon was there, crouching in the shade of the lone tree of the yard, wings spread out, snarling threateningly.

She walked closer smiling condescendingly at the monster. “Kom, kom... klein hondjie,” (Come, come, little pup) she taunted, the Lilim words slipping her lips as easily as English.

The Achaieral snarled viciously and  leapt into the air, its wings cracking terribly in flight. She swung her spear, sparking a wave of fire-like red magic from it, which made the beast shriek in pain and anger.

It somersaulted in the air from the collision’s force, now more enraged than before. She slipped into a defensive stance, but then her eyes snapped to the side, when she felt a spark of magic…

… and the werewolf who’d demanded her identity was incanting some spell in… Edomi? Stars! Would she have to ask Magnus to teach her that language, too?

The demon’s eyes glowed, seeming to gain more energy and growing even more agitated. “Stop feeding that thing power you fool!” Trixie snarled, clipping a Lilim blade from her belt and embedding the Hell-forged weapon right in front of the guy’s foot.

“J-Jay? What is she talking about?” the petite girl with a ponytail and quirky shirt asked. She… seemed to be around the age her Father appeared to be.

The werewolf glared at the girl and waved his hand. The Achaieral  roared and extended its wicked claws leapt… not at Trixie, but at Linda and Adriana.

Trixie acted on sheer instinct. All the magic and Heavenly Fire she could muster was channelled into Aetherius and when the spear was glowing red-hot, she slammed it into the air. The accumulated power burst from it, through the ground like lightning and tore up the earth, slamming big pieces into the demon.

It shrieked, plummeting towards the ground and  Trixie moved . She  yanked her spear free and with as much speed she could, she sped towards the demon, driving the Celestial-Infernal weapon through its back and midsection, like it was a piece of meat to be skewed before roasting.

The high-pitched sound it emitted almost made her ears bleed, but then it burst into dust and ichor. Trixie danced back to avoid the sticky, acidic liquid spraying on her and turned towards the werewolves with her sharpest glare.

“Now you idiot, better explain this. Summoning demons without a trained warlock present — and to kill someone through them, — is heavily against the Law. So unless you want me to drag you to Alicante, you start barking.”

She pointed Aetherius at Jay and the werewolf gulped.

“Jay?!” the girl asked, all the guy’s Pack pale in shock or angered. “ You summoned that?”

“I… I wanted us protected, Ells,” Jay said looking at whom Trixie assumed was his sister. They looked alike enough. “Nephilim had killed Dad and now these two …”

“And you killed my husband, too!” Linda countered,

Jay snarled at the two blondes, his nails morphing into claws, but Trixie stood firmly, her weapon still pointed at the werewolf. “You attack, and you’re dead, mutt. Now we’re going to sit down and deal with this like the adults we all are or I’m going to make someone a limb shorter.”

She flashed her sharply glowing, bronze Enkeli and everyone fell quiet. The elder paled at the sight, like she knew what the colour meant and nodded mutely, gesturing for them all, to get inside the house.

Still wired for a fight and gripping Aetherius stiffly, Trixie followed the Pack, Linda and Adriana behind her.

This will be a long afternoon.

New York Institute

Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern was busy with training. Training always helped clear his mind, when his thoughts were hopelessly jumbled. And Raziel, were this thoughts all over the place!

First, those half-finished seals, that apparently were meant to summon the Angel of Death and someting else, known as ‘the Demiurge’. It had definitely upset Bane. And that girl...

She was a Nephilim too, for sure. The black gear (if somewhat different from the standard) and the Seraph Blades attacked to her belt were a dead giveaway. But... if so, why would the High Warlock of Brooklyn be friendly with a Nephilim not part of their Conclave? Even after years, their relation with the High Warlock was tenous at best.

And he could not quite forget the low-pitched words filled with warning, the cat-like eyes sharp like a Seraph Blade.

Jonathan huffed, but then gave the warlock a look. “You know who she is.”

Magnus hummed. “I do. But I’m not an idiot. Her father would dismember me slowly and painfully if I shared anything. Chase after her at your own peril, Morgenstern. If you do, know that not even your name would save you the pain…”

“Jon!”

Jon snapped to attention raising Phaesphoros to defend himself just in time, as Simon’s naginata sailed towards his head. The two blades collided with a sharp clang and then they pulled back at the same time, the hiss of steel akin to that of a venomous snake. Simon lowered his weapon, looking at him curiously. “Are you okay? You’ve been spacing out awfully lot these days.”

Jon waved away his sister’s parabatai, as he lowered his pair of the family swords. “I’m fine, Si. Sorry. Should have paid more attention,” he murmured. (So much for training clearing his head! It was not working the way he hoped it would.)

Simon raised an eyebrow, full of scepticism. His first and closest friend was without question, Clary. 

No one wanted to do anything with the disgraced Lovelace, whose very presence brought bad luck. Or at least, that’s what some of the Alicante Academy students spread. Simon had never had friends outside of their little circle, considering that their father had agreed to taking in Simon just some time before their first years there had started, following the death of Simon’s older sister, Rebecca.

Despite Simon being closest to his sister… They all knew each other well. Therefore, Simon’s sharp look wasn’t unexpected. The bespectacled archer had likely noticed his mind wasn’t fully in the fight.

“Something’s bothering you.”

Jon grimaced. It wasn’t a question. He huffed, closing his green eyes. “Just…” he shrugged.

Brown eyes glinted and Simon’s lips curled slightly upwards. “Is it the girl we met at Magnus’?”

Jonathan’s eyes snapped open and he narrowed them at the other. “What makes you think that?”

Simon rolled his eyes. “By the Angel! Chill , Morgenstern. I just caught sight of your drawing pad last night, when I went to get you for dinner.”

Jon hummed. Their skill in the arts was something they’d inherited from their mother, their father always said. Jonathan was good at drawing, but Clary was even better and her incredible skill showed in her seamless, powerful Runes as well. 

And well… he might have… tried to draw that stranger from memory.

He shrugged, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “There’s just something in her, okay? Something… that bugs me.”

“Oh? Maybe you fancy that girl? Didn’t Bane say you should  leave her be?”

Jonathan couldn’t help but glare, raising Phosphorus again to point the fine blade threateningly at his adoptive brother. “Shut up, Lovelace .”

Simon snorted. “So I was right. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Jace.”

He huffed, sheathing the sword a moment later. “It’s not that… But there… was something unsettling in her, okay? And the whole situation we stumbled into. She seemed to know something about those seals we’d found.”

Simon stared ahead thoughtfully for a moment, before shrugging. “Maybe. But I doubt Bane would share her name, for us to find her and ask. So… we’ll just have to see if we find more of these strange things… or if it’s something Downworlders will solve amongst themselves.”

Jon huffed, turning towards their armoury. “Except… she didn’t look a Downworlder at all, and you know it, too.”

Chapter Text

I am the chosen
The wretched and divine
I am the unspoken
The one they left behind
Fearless

— Black Veil Brides: Wretched and Divine

Los Angeles
Approx. 9pm

Trixie sat on her queen-sized bed, atop the dark red satin sheets, pampering Garuda with preening and brushing. The little gryphon purred and chirped in appreciation, while munching on some fish pieces. Her last mission had been last week, to deal with those Achaireal and the werewolves. The sucess of that one made her feel content. It had also tired her out, so she did not mind the chance to just tinker around the penthouse or go down to the club to help out or mingle with the patrons.

(Dealing with family feuds, even if those were between Nephilim and werewolves... should not have been her duty. But apparently, the werewolves were responsible for the death of Linda’s husband, just as Linda and her family had killed two Lopez werewolves... although in all three cases, the deaths were more accidents and carelessness than actual malice felt towards the other party. It had taken her several hours to mediate that one. But it had at least it ended with a tentative friendship starting between Linda and Ella Lopez. The terms of truce though, did involve sending Jay to the Gard to be dealt with by the Clave. He had summoned demons and it had ended up with at least one dead Mundane and a dead Shadowhunter. That could not and will not be swept under the rug. She knew the Nephilim had their faults, but she had enough respect for her Uncle Raziel to see this one done properly. However, not without ensuring Jay would not die in Alicante out of the malice and short-sightedness of other, idiotic Nephilim.)

Her father was out today and before he’d left, he’d said something about a Deal and her aunt was downstairs handling LUX, which was probably teeming with life by now. She often went downstairs to enjoy the merriment — and since she was home, she could avoid unwanted male attention. The bouncers — on her family’s request, — kept an extra eye out for her and her aunt did her best to do that as well, from her spot behind the counter. (She couldn’t just kick the bastards where the Sun doesn’t shine, because she was still a Princess and the Shadow World kept an eye on the Devil’s Daughter. Her kicking someone like that in her father’s own club would mean scandal.) Tonight however, she just wanted to pamper her pet and read some of the old manuscripts from her father’s collection.

A perfect, uneventful night — that is, unless her father turned up and told her that there was a ‘mission’ that needed immediate attention. The Nephilim usually got their missions from their Institutes and the Clave. But she was different. She got her missions from the ones, who were at the very top of the system.

Either her father or Uncle Chael. (Or sometimes, Uncle Raziel.)

“Hello, Beatrice. There’s a mission for you, if you’re up for a hunt tonight.”

‘Speak of the Devil,’ she thought with an internal chuckle, turning towards her door. ‘Or in this case, the Devil’s Twin, I suppose,’ she corrected herself wryly, as she noticed the long pristine robes and the huge, dark wings stretching behind the male’s back.

She smiled, nudging Garuda down from his perch on her knees. The small gryphon made an unhappy chirp, but complied anyway. She slid off her bed and bounced over, hugging the Archangel. “Hello, Uncle Chael.”

“I’ll never get you to call me Mike, like Sammy does… will I, Seraphina?”

She snorted, as two of the dark wings drew closer, cocooning her in soft warmth. Her insides quivered with the ancient power of the older Demiurge. Her Marks burned with her father’s Fire and that meant she was… sensitive to Michael’s opposing power.

Uncle Raz did that too, but his power didn’t make her feel all squishy on the inside. But the Angel hugs they both gave, were definitely her all-time favourite. Since her father rarely showed his wings, she got such lovely hugs from him once in a blue moon. But she wasn’t ever going to complain. Her father didn’t much like being compared to an Angel of the Host, even if he hated his ‘Devil Face’ even more.

“Not even on Judgement Day,” she grinned widely.

Michael sighed dramatically, raising his gaze to the ceiling. “Oh, stars above share thy wisdom with me and tell me, what have I done to deserve the punishment of having to withstand this insolent Nephilim?”

She laughed at his overdramatic words, shaking her head. “You can’t even deny being Father’s Twin. You two are both drama Queens — who’s the bigger one… I have not decided yet. Once I would have said it’s Dad… now I’m not sure.”

Michael huffed. “Silence, Fledgling. One would think you’ve learnt to respect your elders.”

She chuckled wickedly. “I’m my father’s daughter.”

“To the woe of the Universe,” he murmured sullenly. Trixie squawked indignantly and elbowed the Archangel in the side with a meant-to-kill strike.  The Supreme Commander of the Heavenly Host grimaced a bit — she’d found, that since her Marks turned bronze with her father’s Fire, she could at least cause a level of discomfort to Celestial and Infernal, if she concentrated enough, — and she chalked a victory for herself on her mental list. Her father would be proud of her, she decided.

“So…” she disentangled herself, stepping back, face smoothening into business-like calmness. She had to remember that this was not a friendly visit from her uncle. The dark wings unfurled, letting her back away a step or two. “What’s the mission you want me to deal with?”

Michael’s brown eyes steeled over, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “We noticed increasing demon activity in the area and from our information, there’s been a report or two about missing Downworlders as well. I want you to try finding those fiends or a trace of the missing persons. Anything you find may be of assistance to us or it could be something we could inconspicuously pass to the local Institute so if it’s a smaller matter, they can take care of it. Anything sensitive... I’ll leave it to you. You’re the best option to do sensitive work, actually.”

Trixie hummed, eyes glinting. “Ah, but Uncle! What would the Host say, that you’re trusting the sensitive matters of Silver City to the Spawn of Satan?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “They don’t really get to judge my choices — I’m their Commander. Questioning me is as if they were questioning Father and they know it. Only Father would... but... He’s been silent for a long while now.”

Trixie frowned. “That’s... that’s not okay. One would think the oldest being in the damnable Universe knows what parenting means but... oh, wait, He doesn’t. He tossed a bunch of His kids to lakes of fire and boiling sulphur and then left the damn Universe altogether, leaving His kids to do His work...”

“Shush, Fledgeling,” Michael waved her off with a soft, sad smile. “We’ve learned to handle our work. You better not say more, lest you blaspheme Father’s name. Most of the Host does not wish to see His shortcomings and they might... seek you, if you speak of Him unfavourably.”

Trixie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. You know what? There’s a certain part of the Bible... ‘And they worshiped the dragon…’  And saying dragon here is synonymus to Father is it not? I might just consider starting some cult, just to annoy Him...” she pointed upwards, making Michael wince.

“Revelation 13… and one would think the Daughter of the Devil does not open a Bible,” he murmured with a half disbelieving, half amused shake of his head.

She shrugged. “I had to know what sort of ridiculousness the Mundanes read about Dad, no? And the only reason I hadn’t started that cult is because Dad looked utterly terrified that one time… when I mentioned I knew his real name and might pray to him,” she said, cracking a grin.

Michael snorted, triumphant glint appearing in his eyes. “I knew telling you his real name would be worth it!”

She nodded a little, glancing away from the Angel. “Plus, it helped… smooth out our… problems. So, thanks for that, Uncle Chael.”

“I would ask what problems… but I know that neither Sammy, nor his Lilim are good with emotions… so I’m guessing something emotional. Which means, it’s your personal business and I’m not going to pry. But if… you need someone to talk to who isn’t Sammy… I hope you know that I and Raz are always here and ready to listen. You just have to pray for us.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said with a slight smile.

Michael hummed and waved towards her walk-in closet. “Change into your gear. I’ll inform Sammy’s Lilim friend that there’s a mission for you, so she can tell Samael, when he gets back from wherever he is. I’ll take you to the general area of the negative energy and from there, you can do the exploring. I have to oversee the Host, before they lose their heads with me gone too long…”

She rolled her eyes, as she whirled on her heels. “You know uncle, she has a name too. And what’s with the Host losing their head without you?”

“Yes, yes, she does and… well, it’s a long story for another time, dearest niece,” the Angel murmured and then disappeared in a flap of wings.

Trixie ran a hand through her dark tresses with a sigh. She loved her family, really… but having to deal with the Devil and a bunch of other Celestials (and Infernals, occasionally) on a daily basis was exhausting sometimes.

Trixie’s grip on her uncle’s arm tightened a little, as the rush of wind suddenly died down, leaving only the vertigo behind. She heard the soft swish of feathers, as the Prince of the Heavenly Host folded his wings. She took a deep breath to calm herself and then smiled at her uncle. The soft silvery light of his dark wings made her bronze Runes look even more wicked in the dark of the night, than they usually were.

She didn’t wear the standard armour of the Nephilim. Instead, her ‘armour’ was mostly flexible dark leather with her shins, lower arms and her torso having metal pieces made from a mix of Hell forged silver and black adamas. (She still had no idea from where her father acquired black adamas , but apparently...nearly nothing was impossible for the Devil.) Her combat boots had thick three inch heels and her weapons belt was full of Hell forged blades similar to her aunt’s. There were a few Seraph Blades as well and of course, Aetherius was attached to her back. She never left LUX’s vicinity without her father’s spear — he may have given it to her, but... she guessed, she’ll always think of it as his. Besides, she was just... borrowing it, in a sense. She was a mortal, Nephilim or not. One day, she’ll die and then, the spear will land in the hands of its rightful owner once more.

“Thanks, uncle. Do you have any clue what fiends I might come across tonight?”

He frowned, a flash of worry appearing on his usually calm visage. “No, but there’s been rumours that the Downworlders that disappeared might be victims to some powerful demon. Possibly an Ancient... so be careful. Do you have the Seraph Blades?”

She rolled her eyes a little, but shifted and showed the heavenly weapons to him anyway. He seemed to relax a little at the sight of them. “I was trained by the best, Uncle. I’ll be okay.”

“I know... but... call for me. Whenever you activate a Seraph Blade invoking my name, I get a glimpse of you. I prefer knowing you’ve the situation under control, than worrying about Sammy starting Armageddon because you died on a mission out of carelessness,” he deadpanned.

She snorted a little at the reminder of her father’s protectiveness. (She was hundred percent sure that if she’d told anyone on the planet, that Satan could be an overprotective mother hen —not that he’d ever admit it, — no one would ever believe her. Magnus might believe… but no one else.)

“Of course, Uncle Chael,” she agreed, her mind wandering elsewhere. She still remembered that encounter with Fade from weeks prior…

She tilted her head thoughtfully to the side, her gaze as much on the Archangel, as much it was wandering around, looking for movement. It was tranquil, only a few Mundanes passing by  farther away, but with the Glamour at work, the mortals remained obvious of the Divine presence.

“Do… you think Fell’s accomplice might be involved somehow? The warlock did say someone wanted to get back to Father… and even you.”

The Archangel hummed, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps. But unless we know who and why… we can only make up theories. That will do no good. And since your visit to Fell, there hasn’t been anything.”

She crossed her arms. “This could just be the calm before the storm.”

“Possible,” Michael agreed. “But unless we know more, we cannot do anything. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything around the city. If Sammy — and I — are the targets, the first place to strike would be Lost Angeles.”

“Sounds logical.”

“Until then, keep calm and focus on your current mission, please. I would truly loathe to see you hurt.”

She smiled softly with a roll of her eyes. Immortals and their ridiculous protective instincts! “Of course.”

He spread his wings again with a tiny, approving  smile. “Then… I wish you a successful hunt, Seraphina.” Then, with a mighty flap and a whirl of wind, he was gone, leaving her alone in the darkness.

Trixie sighed and turned away, briefly glancing down at her ring. It always alerted her of malevolent presence and for now, it was dull. She shrugged and started walking ahead, one hand hovering over her belt to grab a weapon, just in case.

The sounds of nightlife were distant and calmness seemed to have overtaken the area. For a moment, she entertained the idea of her uncle messing up the location, but then her ring glowed. Demonic presence.

Slowly she pulled out an inactive Seraph blade and turned in the signal’s direction. She prowled through the jungle of buildings — and occasional greenery,— like a real predator, her body tense with anticipation.

The ring glowed brighter and a heartbeat later she heard a startled cry. She broke into a run, grip on her blade tightening. She noticed two figures struggling against something in the darkness and for the briefest of moments, she hesitated over what name to choose. (She’d rather not invoke the name of an Angel, who despised her father — like Sandalphon, for example.)

In the end, there was only one real choice — she had promised her uncle... but this was no serious situation yet. She raised the blade closer to herself and the words that left her mouth were almost like a prayer. (She’ll deal with the foul mood stemming from this later.)

“Lend me your Fire and light the dark of the night, Samael ,” she breathed. For the longest of moments, nothing happened and some irrational part of her was afraid, that despite her uncles’ words — and despite her own beliefs,— there was not enough... purity in her father’s Fire anymore, to activate a blade.

But then it burst to life, brighter and stronger than her weapon on the night of the Strigoi attack. The blade burned with the purest Fire she had ever seen, yet there was a tint of tell-tale bronze to indicate that she had invoked the power of a Fallen. Not that anyone would be able to tell that. She doubted the other occupants of Hell were still... Divine. As Raziel had told her once, there was a sort of dividing line between Celestial and Infernal and all of them stood clearly on one side — they either served Silver City or they reigned in Tartarus. 

All of them but one. It seemed her father was forever the one, who did not belong, who did not bend for any system, but walked his own path. He was both Celestial and Infernal at once. Divine enough for his power to light a Seraph blade, but too Infernal to return to the Silver City.

She darted towards the other occupants of the place — there were two Nephilim. One male and one female, around her age and they were fighting a Behemoth. 

(Wonderful. Could they not find a demon harder to kill? Other than Achaieral.) On top of it, they were obviously not out here to hunt. Neither of them wore the standard armour of Nephilim, although she could see some of their Runes. Their clothing — and the not exactly appropriate weaponry, — suggested they’d come out to have fun and stumbled into the Behemoth.

The beast chittered sharply, as it noticed her and her eyes narrowed, as she lashed out with the blade. It — Samael, huh, it was kind of odd, using her father’s… ‘ancient’ name for a blade. The weirdest thing in her life. Perhaps… she shouldn’t have named the blade as such?

Samael was teeming with Heavenly Fire, a mix of blindingly pure white and wicked bronze. The blade sunk into the Behemoth’s sticky flesh and it cried out sharply, as she pulled it back, ducking under an attack, as it tried to bite her. The wound knit back together, just as the ones the other two Nephilim inflicted on it. But her eyes glinted gleefully, when she noticed that the stab wound she inflicted was healing slower.

Sensing she was the greatest danger out of the three, the demon turned towards her and she danced to the side again, pulling her spear forth. With a fancy twist, the weapon lengthened and the blade popped out, the gems glimmering with Hellfire. She sunk Aetherius into the back of the demon. It shrieked and spasmed, trying to heal the damage like before.

She spun her Seraph Blade with a wicked grin — if there was anyone here, who’d seen her father when he was out for blood… Well, that person would certainly agree she was her father’s daughter. “ Luceat clarior, Samael,” she murmured, sending a spark of magic towards the blade.

Usually, magic and Seraph blades were not compatible, but her father taught her the sort of magic he used. Something rooted in old Enochian magic, but not as… seraphic. What her father used was a twisted ‘mockery’ of Divine Angel magic, as her aunt had said once. And Enochian wasn’t a language she was ever likely to learn, so channelling that Seraphic power through another ‘divine’ language was easier. (At least, now she wasn’t calling her Latin classes a waste of time…)

Still, it was damn useful anyway. It cost her a great deal of energy — she wasn’t a Warlock, nor was she an immortal Angel, but in times like this, she could overlook the energy cost. Behemoths were hard to get rid of and the two Nephilim were in no position to help her. Unprepared and possibly even wounded, without proper armour (Oh yes, if her father hadn’t sensed his power invoked through a Seraph Blade before, he could certainly feel it now. She was so, so dead once she made it home…)

The magic caused the Seraph Blade to glow brighter, near-blinding with white-bronze Fire. The fiend shrieked and shrunk away, but luckily for her it was wounded and even unwounded, these were sluggish creatures. She stabbed the Behemoth, sinking Samael hilt-deep into the pale, disgusting flesh. Black ichor splashed out and she just barely dodged most of it, forced to let go of her weapons. The slug-like creature withered under the pressure of the searing power — both Infernal and Celestial in origin. Then, it started to dry, like clay in the Sun and crumble to dust.

A few moments later, there was a huge pile of ash and the revolting stench of ichor, burned flesh and something that resembled sulphur. But perhaps it was worse — she’d smelled pure sulphur before, when her Father had to pop Downstairs for whatever business. The smell from the demons that came from The Void was something disturbingly sulphur-like, but still foreign and gut-wrenching.

She waited a heartbeat before approaching the pile of ashes, to pick up her dropped weapons. She hurriedly ‘folded’ Aetherius — it was a rather iconic weapon. She didn’t want to be recognised by these strangers. She picked up her dropped Seraph Blade, which lit up stronger once more, as her fingers wrapped around the hilt.

In the bright light of her blade —well, brighter, than a normal Seraph Blade, that is, — she could properly see the two Nephilim. They were a bit older than her. The boy had blonde hair and the girl had black with flawless skin. They shared a stunning shade of dark blue eyes, which suggested they were siblings.

“Uh, thanks for the help,” the girl said with an unsure smile. “I’m Ivy Midwinter and this is my brother, Micah.”

The male nodded to her too, sheathing his blade, though she could see he was a bit more cautious than his sister. “Thanks for the help…” he trailed off, giving her a curious look.

“Beatrice, but you can call me Trixie. Nice to meet you,” she smiled easily, glancing around. Her ring stopped giving signals the moment her spear sunk into the demon, but one could never be too careful. Los Angeles was full of demons just as much as it was full of sinners. “Any other demons around?”

The siblings shared a look and then Ivy shook her head. “No… I don’t think so, though we hadn’t come out to hunt tonight.”

She hummed, giving an appreciative look to Ivy’s clothing —it was not to revealing, but it wasn’t something a Mundane would wear either, though the colouring was a bit too light for her taste. “I can see that. Nice dress, by the way.”

Ivy smiled a little. “Thanks.”

Trixie’s eyes landed on the male of their small group, when she noticed he was a bit too quiet. “Are you okay?”

Micah gave a strained smile, shifting his arm a little, to reveal a nasty bite from the demon. Trixie winced — Behemoth venom was no joke. She was sure that it was spreading fast in his system and it was causing him a fair amount of pain too.

She pulled out her stele — it was the length of her forearm and it seemed like two angel feathers twisted together, one pure white and the other a dark, smoky shade of silver, two gems placed on the top — one dark blue almost black and one bronze, which almost looked gold. She remembered that two years after her Rune Ritual, Raziel turned up one night in her room and asked what she wanted for her birthday. She said she wanted a stele, because up till then, she’d only drawn the Runes with plain pencil, learning the shapes, rather than using them. The next morning, she found the tool on her vanity. Back then, the appearance of it just fascinated her.

Now she knew Raziel had designed the stele this way deliberately — the darker part with the blue gem was to represent Michael and the lighter part with the bronze gem was her father. It was beautiful and sometimes she wondered if it was possible to encase Angel feathers in adamas , because the curling feather shapes were perfect. Not just a fancy imitation, as she’d seen on some other steles, but perfect feather shapes down to the last curve, as if they’d been taken straight from an Angel’s wing.

“Can I?” she asked, her stele hovering over his bite. The siblings looked at her stele, as if they’d never seen one in their lives before.

“Y-yeah. Sure,” Micah muttered and she could see he was starting to get woozy. She pressed the end of it to his skin and fluidly drew the Iratze. Micah’s breath hitched, as the Rune burned into his skin and then slowly faded, as it healed his wound and cured the poison.

“And done,” she said satisfied, tucking the stele back onto her belt.

“That… that was a pretty strong Rune there. Never felt something like this before,” he noted, curiously glancing down at the faint silvery lines left behind by the Mark.

“Some have skill with bows, or swords. I have skill with Runes,” she said dismissively. Inwardly she wondered if this would cause the boy some problems — after all, she had her father’s Fire in her veins. Hence, whenever she drew a Mark, he drew something from him. That made her Runes stranger, then the standard ones and slightly different too.

She was just glad the Iratze hadn’t glowed bronze on the boy’s skin, as it usually did on hers. Explaining bronze Runes would be a mess. (She honestly hoped the siblings weren’t paying close enough attention, to notice that her Marks were an ‘unnatural’ shade.)

“Thank you for helping us out,” Ivy said again. “Maybe we… could get a drink? It’s on us, of course. You know… as a thanks for helping.”

She smiled and nodded. “Gladly. But first… I’d like to check around here if it’s okay with you? Got to report back.” (She was sure her uncle would not mind, that her hunting had been cut short. Raz and Chael had both muttered that she was too cut off from society and had no friends her own age. No Nephilim to spend a day or two with and not even Downworlders. Well at least, not here in LA. She had a few acquaintances from New York with whom she chatted after that party at Magnus’, but that was it.)

“We hadn’t seen you much around here before,” Micah noted curiously. “Are you new?”

“Nah,” she waved him off, as she shifted her grip on the still-glowing Samael , to light the way. “Born and raised in Los Angeles.”

The two grabbed their witchlights and they turned to look for something abnormal around the area. “Was it just this demon or had there been more?” she asked.

“We’ve noticed more, but they’d dispersed, as we started to fight this one,” Micah told her. “Something must have drawn them here.”

“Not to pry… but how come we’ve not seen you before?” Ivy glanced at her. Her stunning blue eyes were full of curiosity. She expected suspicion, but there was none — perhaps for the time being, they were too grateful for her help to be suspicious. They hadn’t commented either, that she hadn’t given her surname.

She shrugged. “I try keeping off the radar. My father doesn’t like the Clave and my aunt downright despises them,” she chuckled. “But the big guys still give me missions.”

“You mean… your Dad isn’t an active Nephilim yet the Consul and the Inquisitor still…” Micah trailed off, gesturing at the scene. “You know…”

Trixie almost snorted. She didn’t even know who the Nephilim were, who held those positions these days. She certainly hadn’t meant the Clave, when she said ‘big guys’ — of course, it was a logical conclusion from these Nephilim. They couldn’t possibly know her father was Lucifer Morningstar himself.

“You… could say that, I suppose,” she said at last. She wasn’t lying… and only vaguely acknowledging what Micah suggested, not confirming it. That wasn’t lying, was it?

“But… shouldn’t you be living in an Institute, then?” Micah asked, turning his eyes away to look for anything suspicious around them.

“As I said, my family are not fond of the Clave. The big guys know where we live and Dad has the green light to do as he sees fit,” she explained with a brief smile.

Ivy whistled. “Wow… sounds like your dad’s got a few strings to pull.”

She snorted softly. “Aye, he does. So, a friend from upstairs informed me of big demon activity out here.”

Micah nodded. “I see. Our mother leads the LA Institute with our step-dad. Charlotte Gladstone?” he asked, glancing at her.

Trixie nodded. She knew the name of every Nephilim that resided in Los Angeles. Not because her father cared for them particularly — he didn’t bother with Raziel’s annoying progeny, as he was fond of calling them. She’d learnt the name of most Nephilim residents, or at least, the important ones, for her own sake. “Heard of her, of course.”

‘What a luck,’ she thought sarcastically, rolling her eyes. She glanced at the darkened sky. ‘Was this some stupid ploy, Uncle Chael? Why did you want me to meet these two? Or was it you, Uncle Raz? Or had one of you asked Uriel to manipulate whatever pattern… so I met them?’

There was no answer and she rolled her eyes, returning her attention to the other two teens, who were eyeing her with a mix of curiosity, wariness and awe. “You fight very well,” Ivy said lightly, as their eyes scanned the area. Still nothing. They made a turn.

She hummed a little. “My father and aunt are both masters of various forms of combat. They taught me. And my uncles are no less talented.” Of course, they were good — a Lilim, the Devil and two Angels, all four of them directly involved with the military of their home dimension, two of the four being the Supreme Commander, on top of that.

If she were any worse, than what she was, that would be a shame on her and then a shame on those four. Not something her conscious would allow, after what the Devil had done for her. Preserving his… infamy(?), and adding to it, in this case, was the least thing she could do for her father, as a payback for… well, everything. Her father had no obligations all those years ago, to take her from the woman, who’d tossed her aside. It was part of a Deal yes, but after that, he could have done anything to her and she would have probably not seen the Devil then, ever again.

But he hadn’t. Despite his dislike for humans (or at least, some of them) — despite his downright disgust for the Nephilim, he had decided to keep her and raise her as if she were his own. (Only for later, without both of their knowledge, her to become his daughter by Divine Law. Huh, she was pretty sure she was the only one on Earth, who had two fathers and share ‘genetics’ with both of them.)

The siblings nodded and didn’t say anything else, though she could see the curiosity in their eyes. They wanted to know who she was and everything else there was to know. They were children of an Institute Head and she had no doubt, that they recognised most names of local Nephilim. She was the unknown factor in the picture and even with her saving them, they were not sure, if she could be trusted or not.

“But… if your father’s on good terms with… ‘upstairs’ as you phrased it,” Micah asked, using air quotes, “then… why had he drawn away from the Clave?”

Trixie snorted inwardly. If it was on her father, there would be no such thing, as a Clave — he had told her that many Nephilim officials, just like human politicians, got absorbed in their heads after getting a position of power. And where did the corrupt and greedy end up? In Hell of course. Interestingly enough, those who claimed most vehemently to want the good of others — priests, politicians and Nephilim officials alike, — were the ones who most often ended up in Hell.

That either said something about the system itself or about the people, who led society. And in this case, she’d say, this was a reflection on what sort of people held the reins.

For a long moment, she didn’t answer. They just kept searching the darkness for things out of the ordinary. It seemed, this part of the city was dead and quiet. Almost too quiet, with just the distant sounds of cars making it here. The only light was provided by their witchlights and Seraph blade.

“He had a nasty dispute with someone above him,” she thought about God — she glanced at the dark sky and for the first time since she was old enough to ponder on things like this, she wondered if… her father and God’s relationship could be repaired. (God was her grandfather. Sweet Universe! That was not something she’d pondered on too much and the thought of the Creator being her... pseudo-grandfather made her head hurt.) “Still has quite a lot of power, but… likes to pretend he does not have it, just to spite the one above him. Likes to say he’d retired and walks his own path, but… he still cares and helps his brothers run the system anyway.”

“Oh… so your uncles are officials too?” Ivy asked in shock, eyes widening a little. “Wow. Just how much power does your family have? Well, don’t answer that… if your Dad retired from such an influential family, I can kind of understand why we haven’t met you before.”

Trixie’s lips curled into an amused half-smile. Half-truths were definitely the source of good entertainment. “Yes. Father’s pretty… infamous, I suppose. He wanted me to have a relatively calm childhood and he managed, so I’m grateful for that.

Everything seemed to be calm and untouched. Save for those demons these Nephilim had killed, it seemed nothing else was lurking around here. But… Uncle Chael would not have dropped her off here for just a few stray fiends — not even if the Institute of the city was undermanned. The Celestial patrol must have noticed something.

As if on cue, her ring started to glow. It wasn’t the powerful light of a nearby demon — it was signalling something else. The light was dimmer and slightly different in shade. “What’s with your ring?” Micah asked, gesturing at it.

She grinned a bit, showing the jewel to them. “Enchanted. Alerts me of demonic presence. Makes it easier to locate demons.”

“Oh, that comes in handy!” Ivy said, her eyes glinting appreciatively. “And it looks pretty too!”

She nodded and slowly turned around in a circle, trying to pinpoint where the ring might lead. When she found it, she waved at the other too. “It’s this way, if you’re coming with me?”

“Of course, we are coming,” Micah said. “Who knows maybe there are more demons? Would be ungrateful and irresponsible of us to leave a fellow Nephilim behind, even if you’re a good combatant.”

Trixie hummed in acknowledgement and then the three of them approached the spot where her ring was leading them, side by side. “Hey… seriously… whatever we find here… the offer for a drink still stands,” Ivy said. “The adults may not let us participate in this… if this is something serious, anyway.”

She nodded and smiled. That may not be true for her — rarely was she excluded from such things, as the… theoretical Heir Apparent of Hell, — but she was sure the older Nephilim may deem Ivy and Micah too inexperienced to participate. So, they would have free time, no matter what they found here tonight. “Okay. How about… I hear there’s a Café near the Institute, that caters to residents of the Shadow World?”

“Yeah,” Micah brightened. “A pretty good place. Guess you hadn’t been there before?”

Trixie shook her head. “Nope, but heard good things from enthusiastic Downworlders.”

“Well… we could meet there tomorrow? At… I don’t know two in the afternoon?” Ivy offered, glancing at her hopefully. Trixie briefly wondered how many Nephilim were around the city, who were the same age as the siblings. Or were they too, like her, deemed ‘not social enough’ by their parents?

“That sounds good,” she agreed, briefly wondering if she could get away with somehow Glamouring her Marks. Hers after all, were constantly bronze, like her father’s. And even if Micah and Ivy hadn’t seen them yet, some Downworlders would surely recognise her. Even with her Runes Glamoured, she might be recognised, but it narrowed the chances somewhat.

She opened her mouth to say something else, but it died in her throat, as her ring glowed stronger. They all tensed a little, reaching for weapons once more, ready for the worst. But, it was not demons they came across. (And… for once, Trixie thought, she might have preferred a few fiends instead of the gruesome sight that greeted them.)

Micah gasped and Ivy made a high-pitched sound of surprise, half a gasp, half a scream of fear. Trixie froze, her eyes going wide at the sight before her, as her ring glowed, finally reaching the source of the energy — though it was not a foreign one. This time the energy her ring had picked up on was Celestial.

She swallowed hard, barely able to process the sight. There on the concrete was a single wing, covered by grey and brown feathers, the feathers rounded. The wing itself was impressive, though a good deal smaller than her uncle’s imposing night-coloured pairs. The base of it was torn apart and she could see the end of the joint, gold-red blood still pooling from the severed limb — though she could feel it fading. The longer the limb was severed from its user, the faster the Heavenly Fire was evaporating from it, to return to the Universe. The blood gathered in a pool beneath the wing, mostly clotted, but not completely. Into the pool of blood, a huge, familiar sigil was drawn.

The sigil her father had adopted after his Fall, the sigil that Luciferian Mundanes often used these days. And beneath the chalice like Seal a message, written in Angel blood in Latin.

“Huh… what’s written there?” Micah asked. “Latin’s never been my best subject.”

Trixie swallowed hard, as the meaning of the words sunk in. Vitat Rex, vitat Lucifer.

“Long live the King, long live the Lightbringer,” she translated numbly. “Or… long live Lucifer, if we do not translate the last one, considering he had taken the title to be his name, after the Fall,” she murmured softly.

The only thing that ran through her head was that her father would be beyond furious, once she reported this.

Someone had used the wing and blood of one of his siblings to leave a message — most likely for the Devil himself. Whoever it was, they knew he lived in Los Angeles. (Not that he made a secret out of it, but no resident of the Shadow World made a big deal out of it. Most of those who were in positions of power, tried not to piss him off and generally ignored him. Probably for their own safety, rather than her father’s. No one in their right mind wanted the King of Hell to call for their blood.)

But whoever had left this message, was not in their right mind, Trixie decided, as she read the Latin message once more. This was a challenge. Mockery. Vitat Rex, vitat Lucifer.

Someone would pay, she knew it — the Devil would make sure of it, — because no one mocked and challenged him. Especially not through delivering a severed wing of a sibling, to be found on the streets of the city he ‘ruled’.

Someone would pay. It would be war.

New York City
Approx. 11pm

Clarissa Adele Morgenstern — more commonly called Clary by those close to her, — sighed. She lowered her pair of the Morgenstern family swords — Heosphoros. The last of the pack of Raveners they’d tracked down was finally gone. The night had been a long one and she was drained to the bone. She wanted nothing more than to sweep the area one last time and then go home.

“Guys, is everyone okay?” she asked, tucking a loose strand of her fiery red hair (with streaks of silver blonde, here and there) behind her ear, as she glanced at the rest of her team and family. Only to find that two of them were gone and only her closest friend was a few feet away, holding a Seraph blade, his crossbow discarded further away. 

“I’m okay, Clary. Jace and Jon had gone to check the place from the back. They should be back soon,” Simon said. His gear was smeared with demon ichor, just like hers and sweat struck his usually windswept hair to his forehead.

Clary smiled at her Parabatai tiredly. “Are you sure you’re okay, Si?”

Simon Lovelace, her best friend since forever and Parabatai since they’d been fifteen, nodded.

“Of course. I just can’t wait to get back and report to your father that we were successful here. Seriously… this is overworking . This has been the third night this week…” he frowned. “I get that there are not too many Nephilim in New York, but can’t we get help from somewhere?”

Clary shrugged. “Dad said something… has upset the Clave and most Shadowhunters have been recalled from the US for safety reasons. Only the essential members of each Institute were to stay behind. Now… Dad leads the Institute and we’re his kids. Jace and you are his wards, and also our Parabatai . Not to mention that…” she made a gesture, but didn’t say anything else.

Simon rolled his eyes with a small huff. “Clare, I don’t take offence if you talk about my non-existent family. My home is New York and the Nephilim of the Institute are my family, even if Jace… annoys the hell out of me most of the time.”

She snorted a little at that reminder, but stepped closer to Simon anyway and briefly squeezed his hand, a reassurance for both of them that the other was there and wouldn’t go anywhere.

The Lovelace family had a nasty history — they had quit Shadowhunting around the 1800’s and the members, who chose to come back, either died young or were somehow disgraced in the eyes of the Clave. Simon was the last Lovelace the Clave had records of being an active Shadowhunter. His father had died helping Hodge Starkweather in his Uprising, which had nearly thrown the Nephilim society into anarchy. His mother had quit the Clave, and when they were of age, Simon and his older sister Rebecca were offered a place among the Nephilim, as it was customary for every descendant of Nephilim who’d quit. Simon and Rebecca had accepted the invitation (following that, their mother had stopped acknowledging them), but a few months after Clary met Simon — they had been near-inseparable by then, despite the short time of knowing each other, — Rebecca had died on a mission gone wrong.

Her father had decided to take Simon in and while he found a family with them… many of the Clave members looked down on him for his name — and even some of the Downworlders, who had a bone or two to pick with a Lovelace or another in some way, before the family had dwindled down to just Simon.

She glanced around and then nudged her best friend. “Come on, let’s find those oafs before they do something… irreversible.”

“You mean Jace does something irreversible,” Simon quipped. “Jon actually thinks before acting. He’s a lot like your Dad, y’know?”

They passed a rusting container by the warehouse, looking for the two missing males, still high alert. There had been a slight increase in demonic activity in the last few weeks and even with the werewolves of New York readily aiding the resident Nephilim, they had to pull long shifts to ensure the city’s safety. (She was so, so glad that Uncle Luke was the Alpha of the werewolves. Were it not for him, she was sure they’d be in bigger trouble.)

The soft glow of Seraph blades alerted them of the others’ presence and the Parabatai shifted the weapons in their hands, ready for another onslaught of demons.

“It’s clear, sis,” Jon’s voice echoed in the deathly quiet. Clary and Simon both relaxed a little. They sheathed their weapons and hurried over to their family members.

“Are you guys okay?” Simon asked, glancing at the two blondes — though, in the moonlight, Jon’s naturally pale hair seemed pure white instead.

“Were you worried ?” Jace asked with a grin, wiggling his eyebrows at Simon. Simon scowled.

“I wouldn’t miss you at all. I would, however, miss Jon and if something happened to him, it would upset both Jocelyn and Clary and anything that upsets them upsets me, too.”

Jon laughed a little, deactivating his blade and leaving them mostly in the darkness. But luckily, all of them had active Nyx Runes for now, and of course, they still had witchlights. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Si. Now come on guys, let’s sweep the place one last time and then go home.”

Jace sighed, rubbing his face with one hand. “Good idea, Jon. Any more night patrols this month and I might drop dead.”

“You’re not the only one,” Clary murmured with a frown.

They’d been doing more work than usual. And if it wasn’t them, then their parents and the werewolves and whenever their parents were out, Jon was in temporary charge of the Institute, which wasn’t a big help. The paperwork had to be done, after all — and while their father was training Jon to take over eventually, it didn’t mean the Morgenstern heir was happy with the idea. Just like Clary and Simon, Jon missed Idris and… while no one had said anything, they were secretly planning to return to the homeland of Nephilim, once their parents — in the distant future, hopefully — died.

This time, they decided to stay closer to each other as they swept the area. When the three of them didn’t find anything, they started to relax, that they could actually go home and get into bed before midnight. The idea was most tempting…

… until Simon spotted something. A door on the far end of the abandoned building, open just enough for a small streak of sickly yellow light to be seen. “Guys, there’s something over there!” he called in a loud hiss, gesturing towards the ajar door.

The others gathered around Simon, Jace throwing him a tired, slightly irate glance. “Couldn’t you… I don’t know, overlook it? Probably just Mundanes fooling around…”

“Jace, be serious,” Clary chided lightly, bumping the blonde’s shoulder. “We’re all tired, but the sooner we check this out, the sooner we can go home.”

“Well said, little sister,” Jon agreed and with predatory grace, he moved towards the door. A heartbeat later, the other three followed him as well. Jace’s hand slipped downwards, towards a Seraph blade. Simon reached for his throwing knives and Clary used her free hand to free her pair of their family swords — Heosphoros , its twin was now in her brother’s possession, as their father had given them the blades last year after a mission, which had impressed him.

Jon was the first one to enter and then all of them slipped in, bodies tense, ready for a fight. Eerie silence greeted them. Clary raised her witchlight higher and the light pouring from it strengthened. They found themselves in a small room without windows. On the two sides, there were old tables, which were full of various tools. Knives — some of them short and wickedly curved, a sort she’d never seen before,— and sickles and old tomes. Clary squinted at an open page, only to find it written in some demonic language she didn’t recognise.

The place smelled of sweat, burned feathers and blood.

“Wh- what is this place?” Simon asked, looking around with repulsion.

Clary walked closer to one of the books to see it better — it was still in a language she couldn’t understand, but there were interesting illustrations of weapons. One was a broadsword. One was a smaller, sword-like blade, but it seemed to be rounded and looked like a massive, fancy needle, rather than an actual sword. The third one looked like a spear with a trident-like blade.

There were notes on one side of the page, that compared the three weapons to the Mortal Instruments and there were a few question marks, that seemed to ‘link’ the Mortal Sword and the broadsword — which was apparently, named Glorious, if the notes were to be believed.

“Guys, look here…” she called. “Someone’s been studying the Mortal Instruments very… religiously.”

The boys came up behind her and glanced at the pages over her shoulder. “Those are the Instruments,” Jace said, pointing to the right page. “But the other three?”

“Can’t read the notes…” Jon scoffed. “The only English note on the damn page is the sword’s name, if it’s that.”

“Who’s been here and why are the Instruments are interesting for them?” Simon asked.

“Well… if we look around, we might find some answers,” Jace said, eyes darkening with seriousness.

They backed away form the book and started looking at the other notes and writings only to find them in various languages — many in some demon language they could not hope to read. But there were a few books written in Latin and Hebrew as well. Books of occult and surprisingly… most of them were open at pages, that discussed Angels. Angels in Heaven, the Fallen ones who resided in Hell and there were even notes on Lilith and the Garden. And how magic and its origins tied in with those ancient stories.

“Help.”

They froze at the soft voice and shared brief glances. They moved further in the room, the witchlights dispersing the darkness.

“Help, please,” the plea came louder this time, and they could discern that it was a female voice.

They turned towards it, pooling their lights together to better light the suspiciously dark corner. The voice hissed in pain, and they noticed a small figure pressed against the corner, cowering from the light. They gasped in shock at finding a captive. As they dimmed their stones, the figure turned towards them. They could see the tiny, hopeful glint in the eyes.

“You’re Raziel’s children, aren’t you?” the female asked.

“Yes, we’re Nephilim. Come to get rid of a few demons here and found this room,” Jon answered, as they approached the female.

“Oh, Father bless you,” the female breathed hopefully. “Come closer, I will do you no harm.”

They shared a few unsure looks, but then they approached. The female sat in the middle of a magical circle — some sort of trap, Clary realised. Some of the Runes she recognised as bindings, though most of them were Marks she had never seen before. They were glowing with a sickening shade of red.

The female sat in the middle of the circle, her back hunched — she wore comfortable Mundane clothing, but it was dirty and torn in a few places. Her face was cute and round, but pale and a bit sunken in, with dark rings under her eyes. Her short black hair looked like a bird’s nest.

“Who did this to you?” Simon asked with terror lacing his words. “Can… can we free you somehow?”

“The one who’d done this is gone now, I believe, and I was left here to suffer,” she breathed. She shifted just a little and the four Nephilim gasped.

They noticed a massive bleeding wound by her right shoulder blade. But from the left, a single, greyish-brown wing furled out. The girl — Angel, their minds screamed in disbelief, — hissed as the marks below her glowed and they noticed that her wing hit a shimmering wall of red.

“What is…?” Clary tried, but her words died in her throat.

“Angel Trap,” she said with a painful wince. “I cannot leave. He — he’s had me here for weeks now. Please…”

“How can we break this?” Jace asked, immediately stepping closer.

The Angel seemed thoughtful for a moment. “The blood of one who had sinister intentions activated it. So, I suppose the blood of a pure-hearted individual would break it — oh, and a strong Seraph blade. The stronger the Fire in the blade, the better.”

The four Nephilim shared another look, and then Jace pulled an inactive weapon. “Which of your… si..siblings’ name should I use?” he asked hesitantly.

The Angel seemed thoughtful for a moment. “Amenadiel or Michael. Their Fire would be the likeliest to help now,” she whispered.

Jace nodded with a soft hum. “Amenadiel,” he called, raising the blade. It came alive with ghostly Heavenly Fire and then Jace shifted his grip on the hilt, thrusting it at the wall of red magic.

For a moment, they thought it might not work, but then the blade slid through. The see-through red turned into solid sinister shade before it shattered, like glass. The lines of the Angel trap turned into coal black and the angel’s shoulders sagged with relief.

Jace then dropped the still-glowing blade, but then paused, hesitantly hovering near the Angel. “Can you…”

She shook her head. “Afraid not. I will not be leaving here. How far is your Institute? I would... I would prefer speaking with a leader of yours.”

The group shared a few looks, and then Jonathan scrambled to grab his phone. “Our father leads the Institute, plus the Inquisitor is also here for business. I’ll call them. Can… how long can you…?”

Azrael’s smile was strained. “Under normal circumstances, we are immortal. There are weapons that destroy our bodies, but our soul and Fire survives. With time we reform, there are few ways to truly destroy an Angel. With… my current state… it’s bad for an Angel, yes. But I can survive like this much longer, then any other creature.”

Jon hummed as he raised the phone to his ear and stood up, whirling away. “I’ll make this as fast as possible, anyway.” He paced a little in front of Azrael before someone finally answered the phone. That someone, of course, was his father. “Father, you and Inquisitor Herondale are needed here. Right now. The address…”

As the Head of the New York Institute ever since The Uprising, Valentine Morgenstern was used to long hours of working and being awake at odd hours. But what he was not used to was hearing his jovial, usually collected (adoptive) son sound so distressed through the phone in the middle of the night, while he demanded superiors’ presence at a scene.

Imogen had not been happy at being woken at such an ungodly hour, but Valentine made sure she knew that his children — not his biological ones, nor the adopted ones, — were toddlers to cry for their father at the smallest signs of distress. So, despite the late hour, both him, and Imogen dressed in their mission gear and hurried to meet his children.

The warehouses were shrouded in shadows and were it not for the soft glow of a witchlight, he would have missed the entrance. He strode towards the light swiftly, Imogen half a step behind him, her lips pursed together firmly.

“Simon,” he called, as he noticed his adopted son.

“Father, this way, please. The others are inside,” he said. As he shifted his grip while turning away, the silvery light glimmered on the knot-patterned ring of the Lovelace family. Imogen’s eyes hardened and narrowed on the boy.

Valentine frowned, narrowing his eyes on the woman. She may be the Inquisitor, but Simon was his son, because he wanted the boy to be. And he did not stand by and allow anyone to ridicule or pick on one of his own in any way. Simon had not chosen the blood in his veins. He chose the name he used — informally, he always called himself a Morgenstern and Valentine had never corrected him. The boy was family and he understood his wish to belong somewhere and he was happy to provide an environment and family worth belonging to.

Simon was quiet and… nerdy, as Mundanes would call him, but he was reliable and a good Shadowhunter, as ready to lay his life for his children, as ready Clarissa and Jonathan were to do the same for him. Simon was one of them by choice and the Morgensterns stuck together, no matter what.

Simon led them into a small room and the sight that greeted Valentine made his stomach roil with disgust. Suddenly he was flung back in time, into days after the Uprising, when they’d found the secret base of The Circle. (A base Valentine himself had not known about, as it had been formed after he, Jocelyn and Lucian had left the gathering of... madmen. By that time, Valentine was sure, The Circle had been too fixated on their goal. He was glad they’d managed to get away from that influence, even if it had been the very last moment.)

The small, dark room was full of books written in various languages, several of them probably forbidden even, and there were various weapons and vials containing Raziel knew what. His children were kneeling on the ground, Jonathan holding someone, while Clarissa and Jace held witchlights.

As they approached, he noticed that the one his eldest was supporting was a petite female with dark hair, her clothes battered and bloody, her face pale and sunken in, yet it still had a sort of captivating otherworldly beauty to it. And... there was a single, greyish wing stretching from the female’s back, the long sharp-looking feathers brushing the dusty concrete.

Imogen stilled next to him and Valentine felt shock and awe course through him. “By Raziel...” Imogen breathed.

The female — an Angel, a real, breathing Angel clinging to his son, — looked up and gave a strained, humourless chuckle. “Wrong Angel, I’m afraid. My brother… hasn’t been on Earth since… about four months ago. Maybe more. I usually have such a busy schedule that I don’t notice the passing of time.”

Valentine swallowed, hurriedly trying to straighten out his thoughts. Angels were real and there was one in the room with him, clinging to his eldest child, missing a wing.

“Greetings, my name is Valentine Morgenstern. I’m the Head of the New York Institute and this is Inquisitor Imogen Herondale. The four who found you are our children — or… grandchildren,” he added as an afterthought.

The Angel looked up at him, her dark eyes glinting with something akin to recognition. “Oh, my luck. Nephilim, who bear my favourite brother’s name.”

Valentine blinked at her, his mind suddenly short-circulating. There was an Angel here, and she looked on the verge of death — if such a thing was possible for Angels, that is, — and she was talking about her favourite brother…

“Who…?” Clarissa asked in confusion. Valentine didn’t blame his daughter for that question. His own mind had stopped working just for a little…

The Angel rolled her eyes, huffing tiredly. “Morgenstern. German for ‘Morning Star’ — and… don’t tell me you don’t remember which of my brothers bears that moniker?”

“Should I be offended that an Angel is likening my family to the Devil?” Valentine asked with a small frown.

The Angel huffed. “Lucifer… is many things. Evil is not one of them… but… I really don’t have the energy to correct your misconceptions about him, no matter how much I care for him. I… I’m fading fast…”

“Can we do something to help you…?” Imogen finally asked, snapping out of her shock.

“Azrael,” she said. “My name is Azrael.”

“The Angel of Death,” Valentine said softly. What did it mean when the Angel of Death, dying in his son’s arm, admitted that her favourite brother was Satan, whose name they happened to share? Valentine felt a massive headache forming in the back of his skull and there was still roughly ten minutes till midnight. Too late — or soon enough, too early? — for a migraine.

She nodded. “I am… and… I would… ask for your help.”

Valentine rubbed his face, as he crouched down to be on eye level with the Angel — Azrael, he reminded himself. “What would that help be?”

“Celestials don’t really interact with this world… the last truly notable meeting was when Raziel created your kind. But this does not mean some of us don’t roam the Earth from time to time.”

“Meaning?” Imogen prompted curiously.

Azrael took a ragged breath. “Lucifer is on Earth — he has been living in Los Angeles for more than a decade now. The one who captured me wishes to spark discontent among Lucifer and Father. Or among Lucifer and the other Princes of Hell. He… he would gain something from that discord, though he had not shared what. Warn him… please warn him to take care of his own.”

“Why would we… warn the Devil?” Simon squawked. A part of Valentine agreed with the boy. He may bear the Devil’s name as his own, but he fought on Raziel’s side against the denizens of Hell. “The demons…”

“The demons you face every day have been coming here well before Lucifer and his followers Fell. He is a Warden. He is not evil, he punishes evil . Some of our other Fallen siblings do indeed wish to destroy everything but Lu…” she gasped, “Lucifer just wanted our Family to be… united and happier. His and Father’s disagreement has nothing to… you know very little of what happened and even that… you know a twisted version of the story. Besides, Lucifer is… his existence is necessary for this Universe to continue existing.”

Valentine’s eyes widened a little. “And what… what could we possibly….?”

Azrael smiled a little and raised her hand, taking off her coffin-shaped necklace and dropping it in Jonathan’s free hand. His son’s eyes widened, looking at the Angel. “A-Azrael?”

“You… you Jonathan. Give my necklace to Lucifer. Or his Princess…” her lips curled upwards amusedly. “There must be someone to wield this until... And tell my brother that the one who cut my wing and trapped me has stolen my Blade. Go to Los Angeles and seek Lucifer. Tell him my Blade has been stolen. Tell him I trust him to…” she choked a little and fresh, crimson blood bubbled from her mouth. “And that… I’m sorry. Tell him I’m sorry, he had… been right.”

Valentine’s eyes widened a little as he heard those words. An Angel, trusting the Devil with something Divine… and apologising to him… Was there perhaps something more to the story of the Fall that humans didn’t know about? She did say Lucifer wasn’t evil, after all… (And Valentine knew the name. Azrael, the Angel of Death, one of the younger Angels, but undoubtedly a loyal soldier of God. And this loyal messenger of God spoke of the Devil as a Warden and not as the Father of All Lies…

Jonathan swallowed hard and nodded. “I’ll tell him.”

“Good,” Azrael whispered. “Take a feather from my wing. That will be proof enough for Lu. If you have my feather, he won’t harm you. But remember… Lucifer despises liars. Do not lie to him.”

“We won’t lie,” Clarissa agreed, as she carefully reached towards Azrael’s intact wing. The battered Angel shifted her wing a little and smiled. Valentine watched, as his daughter ran her hand through the Celestial being’s feathers, before pulling a single one from its place, making Azrael hiss in pain.

The Angel’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment and Valentine wondered if she’d live this trauma trough or perhaps… what happened to supposedly immortal Celestial beings? Was there death for them too, as it existed for humans?

“What will happen now?” Valentine asked, feeling oddly unsure, like a child. A feeling he had not encountered since the death of his mother.

Azrael looked at him with a tiny smile. “Give me an adamas blade, please and Jonathan, back away. Thank you for helping, but back away now. It will be alright.”

Jonathan frowned in worry, but slowly let go of Azrael and instead helped her lean against the wall, just a little, careful not to jolt the place of her missing wing. Valentine upholstered a Seraph blade from his belt. “ Azrael ,” he called, activating it.

The blade lit up with silver-white light and Valentine offered the weapon to the Angel. He had a good idea what she was planning, but the idea seemed almost foreign. Angels were not supposed to be in such a state as immortal, Celestial beings. Yet, here was the Angel of Death, looking like she herself might fade from existence any moment.

Azrael’s cold fingers barely brushed his own skin, as she took the Seraph blade, but Valentine felt a shiver run down his spine — a mix of sorrow and dread. “May you pass the Gates of Heaven long decades from now,” Azrael whispered.

Her dark eyes found him, and Valentine wondered if she could see into his soul. “I can’t see your soul, if that’s what you wonder. That is a skill only Lucifer and Michael possess… You… you who bear my brother’s name… remind them that the stories of the Devil are wrong. Lucifer, just like you… protects this Universe. His is a thankless job, much like mine, but without him, Creation would not be what it is today.”

Before any of them could say anything else, Azrael shifted the Seraph blade in her grip and with a fluid move, stabbed herself. For a moment, nothing happened — then light and flames started to pour out of her wound, like water. The adamas seemed to melt, and they all staggered away as the light around Azrael grew and then she burned from the inside out.

It was fast, yet excruciatingly slow. The sight of it… the feeling… the heat and the light… it would be something they would never forget.

One moment, the wretched Angel was there with them, burning from her own Heavenly Fire and the next everything dulled back to normal and only a few silver-gold cinders danced upwards, drifting towards Heaven, leaving the six Nephilim to stand in the dark, abandoned room, with barely any proof of angelic presence.