In the end, it
was the stupidest thing that brought Gabriel back. Luce fell off a roof.
It was an old
house held together by mold and swollen wood and the whole thing had sagged
like soggy paper when the ghoul bit the dust. The roof was all slick shingles
and bird shit, slippery with rot. Lucifer took a wrong step. Lucifer fell.
And Lucifer came
days it wasn’t so bad hunting alone. Being alone. He found company
when he needed it, though most of the time he pretended he didn’t. But not
having someone to spot you when you did stupid shit like kill things on roofs…
that was a pain in the ass.
Luce thought he
was fine. He struggled to his feet and he hauled himself to the car and he fell
in, feeling bulky and bulbous and sore. Rummaged around in the glovebox,
because he needed to dull the pain. A handful of pills and a thin joint and he
was back in his bubble, back up, back on the road, rubber on tar and a head
full of haze and smoke.
The pain came
back a few hours later, like someone had lit a slow-burn fuse leading straight
to his guts. Another handful—fuck his high tolerance—and another hour on the
The pills didn’t
have a chance to kick in this time.