A/N: With thanks to Kamots for beta. :)

Disclaimer: Just playing in the devil's sandbox. All recognizable characters belong to Fox TV, DC/Vertigo Comics, etc.

Chapter 1: Dance with the Devil

After midnight on a Friday night, Lux was in full swing.

The nightclub came to life in the early hours of the weekend, an adult playground of concrete, hardwood, steel and alcohol, where modern industrial elegance met some secret after-hours world. Even framed by row after row of softly glowing lights, Lux held fast to its shadows. Revelers passed in and out of hidden corners, fading into the blues and greys between bright digital screens and ivory damask booths. Thrumming music pounded out primal rhythms overhead, spiking the pulse, swallowing the clink of glasses and warm brown bottles, muffling the clatter of unsteady high heels. Sequins and satin and bared skin gleamed beneath the dim lights, a ceaseless rush of wantonness or want-to-be.

The sights and sounds of the club washed over detective Chloe Decker as she sat quietly at the bar. Running one finger around the rim of her glass, she watched its tawny liquid reflect the myriad moving shadows and lights around her. Bodies brushed past, shifting, agitated, reaching over her for their own cut glass tumblers, then sinking again into the press of humanity. Chloe sipped her drink, the earthy burn of top shelf scotch searing her tongue and throat, kindling in her stomach and leaving acrid fumes in its wake.

What was she doing here? At this hour?

Trixie was with Dan's mother in San Diego for the week, and home felt vacant and forlorn, but surely there were other places she could pass the time? At the station, for example—except it felt pathetic to work into the early hours on nothing but cold cases and under the even colder stares of Malcolm's late shift cronies. She could reach out to old friends, but she'd barely seen any of them in the last decade. Immersed in family strife (Dan's on-again-off-again, now-I-support-you, now-I-don't attitude) and in work (trying to regain some lost credibility in the aftershocks of Palmetto), whatever life she'd had before had withered beyond recognition.

She sighed. At 1 a.m., there really weren't that many options open to her when insomnia refused to retreat and loneliness wanted to sit at her shoulder like a cartoon devil. So, in a fit of either boredom or madness (probably both), she had decided to take Lucifer's standing invitation to come to Lux. The bouncer had recognized her on her way to the back of the long line and waved her beneath the velvet ropes—much to the annoyance of all those who had probably been waiting for hours. One of the bartenders, a heavily-tattooed twenty-something who introduced himself as Patrick, had also waved off her credit card. "Boss' orders," he explained with a cheery smile. "Enjoy. Let me know what you need."

Chloe wasn't sure if she was flattered or concerned that most of the staff seemed to recognize her on sight. Although Lucifer had worked several cases with her by now, and they often met at the closed club, it seemed strange to have this level of access and unnerving to be recognized in a venue she would never have frequented otherwise. L.A. nightclubs, especially exclusive "are you on the list?" clubs like Lux, never expected an LAPD cop among the clientele and certainly didn't welcome them like they were family.

After Patrick had checked in with her for the third time ("Still good, thanks."), it was actually a relief to feel the suspicious, almost hostile gaze of Lucifer's right hand woman. Mazikeen glared at her over a row of bottles, saying nothing but watching her closely as if expecting her to begin arresting the customers willy-nilly. Chloe had nodded at her, but received only cool appraisal and narrowed eyes in return. Shrugging, she turned to watch the room instead and look again for Lucifer.

If she were honest, she had expected the club owner to sweep out of the shadows and crow over her presence, especially after she had firmly and repeatedly turned down his regular invitations. But, unlike the rest of his staff, he seemed unaware of her tonight. She'd seen him sauntering among the patrons, welcoming regulars and smiling beguilingly at new faces. He flirted as easily as he breathed—and almost as often. Confident and irreverent, he wove through the crowd, trading soft touches on shoulders and sleeves, shaking hands with men, leaning in to murmur to women, and periodically joining small groups that all welcomed him like an old and favored friend. In one moment, he whispered something to a group of women who shrieked in delight and fell tipsily against him and each other. Ten minutes later, he lounged against the shiny black piano, tapping his fingers on its surface to punctuate an apparently serious conversation with a middle-aged hipster with long reddish hair. And soon after, he sprawled across one of the large circular booths beside an androgynous figure in black leather, open-legged, open-armed, their eyes consuming the two Lux dancers that arched and gyrated above them.

Chloe had watched him surreptitiously, alternately fascinated and disturbed by his intimacy with seemingly everyone. What did she expect? This was the man's livelihood, after all—and an exceptionally lucrative one, at that. That playboy air, the electric current of wickedness that glinted in his eyes, the promise of something outside the bounds of the mundane—that was what Lux traded in. Sin and sensuality, the lure of the forbidden, temptation readily available. Surely that's what the whole "I'm the Devil" shtick was about, establishing Lucifer as the main character amidst this devil's playground of (mostly?) legal vice. And it clearly worked for him.

"Another drink?"

Chloe swiveled her stool to find Mazikeen lurking just across the narrow bar now, leaning on her elbows, uncomfortably close. The woman showed her teeth in what might have been an smile, but the detective knew better. Smoky eyes glanced significantly at Chloe's nearly full glass; dark lips curled in contempt.

"No, thanks. I'm good." Chloe sipped her scotch again and sat back to reclaim a little personal space and let herself continue tracking Lucifer without completely turning away. Something about Mazikeen always felt slightly hazardous, even in this public place, as if she were some wild thing just waiting to ambush the unaware. Chloe glanced at her again, shaking off the ridiculous feeling. "This a typical night?" she tried for conversation. "You tend the bar, and he mingles? Plays the piano, meets and greets, drinks a lot?"

Maze shrugged one bare shoulder and followed the detective's line of sight back to her boss. Her grimace of a smile sharpened, and she straightened, demeanor transforming from acidic to lascivious in an instant.

Chloe turned to see Patrick returning from a back room behind the second bar, slipping through the crowd with evident practice, his bartender's towel tossed rakishly over one shoulder. When dodging guests put him close behind his boss, he slid against the other man's back, molding himself against Lucifer's taller form, the move both familiar and questioning. Lucifer glanced back over his shoulder, black eyes hooded, to answer the young man with a slow, hungry smile. The gaggle of women he had been chatting with watched, open-mouthed, as the bar man grinned, moved his torso and hips in a rolling, serpentine gesture that caught the driving beat of the music, and Lucifer moved with him, easy and languorous and sensual.

Chloe blinked, surprised at the coil of tension low in her belly, the quick thickening of the air. Like Mazikeen, she couldn't help but stare as the two hellishly attractive (if she let herself acknowledge it) men began a deliberate, rhythmic grind, oblivious to their growing audience. Patrick stroked Lucifer's hip beneath his jacket, fingers splayed to press their bodies more tightly together. But even as his hands roamed, his eyes stayed trained on Lucifer's profile, watchful, almost worshipping. He brushed his lips against the shoulder of Lucifer's fine suit and waited for an infinitesimal nod before bringing his teeth to bear in a suggestive bite. The "devil" let his head roll back, closing his eyes and, it seemed, chuckling appreciatively.

One nearby girl, hardly old enough to be there at all, dropped heavily into a chair with her eyes locked on the pair. Her friends giggled and fanned her, but they, too, seemed rapt.

Mazikeen hummed with pleasure. "Typical night. Music. Drink. And sex. A lot of sex." Her smile was decidedly wicked. "We both like sex."

Chloe dragged her eyes away from the two men, wondering whether "employee benefits" had a very different definition here at Lux. "I get that impression, yeah."

"But you don't."

"What?"

"You don't like sex."

Chloe gaped at the other woman. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't see him—," Mazikeen tossed her chin at where Lucifer and his subordinate continued to dance with barely restrained sensuality, "—and want to copulate with him?"

"No!" She was absolutely not having a conversation about her sexual interests with Lucifer's creepy assistant and probable lover.

The woman leaned in again, head tilted curiously. "How about with me, then?"

"What?" Chloe sat up straighter, scowling. "Why would I—? You don't even like me."

"Nope."

"Then, what's your point?" Chloe snapped.

"If it's not him, then it's usually me. Sometimes both. Sometimes together." A quick flash of tongue slid again along her blood-red lips. "But you—" Maze's sharp, dark eyes searched the detective's face, pressing closer. She inhaled deeply, an almost feral scenting of the air. "Then again, I think that maybe you do want him. I can smell it on you." With a disdainful huff, she turned away. "Humans. Always complaining about their miserable lives, then going out of their way to deny themselves the things that would make them less miserable. I don't understand self-restraint."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Chloe threw back a burning gulp of scotch, disconcerted and a little affronted by the interrogation and the assumption. So, she wasn't immune to that nearly uncensored display on the dance floor, but that certainly didn't mean she had any interest in Lucifer beyond their weird work-friendship thing. What was it with Lucifer and his staff that everything always seemed to devolve into sex?

The rhythms of the music downshifted, relaxing and slowing, releasing a new flood of people toward the bars to refresh their drinks. Reluctantly abandoning Lucifer to his weak-kneed fans, Patrick made his way back to the main bar followed by admiring glances. Mazikeen trailed one long-nailed hand down his back as he passed her. "Very nice, Patrick," she murmured, and he gave her the tiniest of bows in response before pushing his sleeves back and beginning to pour requests from the waiting horde.

"Like what you see, Detective?" Lucifer's voice came from immediately behind her, breathing in her ear, low and dark and full of promise.

Chloe stiffened, surprised. She took a slow breath and arranged her face in more appropriately indifferent lines before turning to look up at him. Why did he have to be so very tall? "You mean like your bartender over there?"

"Hmm. Among other things." Lucifer was standing well inside of polite personal space, leaning in to hear and be heard over the throbbing music. Even through the undercurrents of booze and smoke that pervaded the air, he was close enough that she could smell the bite of his particular cologne and the brandy on his breath.

"Everyone else does, it seems. You put on quite a show."

"So, you have been watching!" He arched his eyebrows suggestively. "I thought you'd given up your surveillance of me months ago, Detective. But if voyeurism is your kink, I could offer you a far more salacious view if you wanted to slip into the office or upstairs. You could bring Patrick, if you liked. Ooo, unless public display is part of the thrill? I won't mind, either way."

"Gross," she told him, amused despite herself. "I'm not here for you. And certainly not for whatever deviant backroom foreplay you've got going on. I'm here for me. I can't help that you seem to draw the attention of everyone in here like moths to a flame."

"Fire is my element," he said agreeably, completely unfazed—as always—by her refusal to play. "But I'm used to everyone else's attention. Par for the course, as it were. It's yours that interests me tonight. You took me up on my offer, finally! Couldn't keep away, after all?"

"I got bored, so I thought I'd look in and see what you do in your regular job. After all, you visit mine often enough."

"And what do you think?"

She took a second to look around the club again, as if making up her mind. "It's very—you."

"What can I say?" He actually seemed to preen, tugging at his cuffs and brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. "My very bones were made of will and desire. Carnality is just second nature. Fitting, wouldn't you say?"

Chloe rolled her eyes and swiveled back to the bar.

"Come on, Detective," he said, ducking back into her peripheral vision. "Get into the spirit of the thing since you're here? Ah, I know." His black eyes glittered impossibly in the dim nightclub lighting; his too-white, too-sharp teeth flashed in a slow, deliberate grin. "Dance with the Devil? You know you want to."

"Oh, you mean dancing with you is what I desire?" She drew out the last word, mocking him gently, and tried to ignore the warmth she felt when his devilish facade broke into a genuine smile at her teasing. Shared good humor and camaraderie replaced the practiced leer for an instant, her partner-in-(punishing)-crime appearing just under the surface of the decadent, licentious club owner.

"I could wish it were, at the very least," he said, a little wry. "And perhaps you might enjoy your rare evening out a bit more if you allowed yourself a little fun. I mean, that scotch clearly isn't going anywhere very fast, is it?"

She looked curiously up at him. Who had been watching whom, after all?

He held one manicured hand out to her, his ever-present silver ring glinting, opulent and anachronistic. "Just one dance, Detective."

"Is that a metaphor for sex?" She wasn't sure if she was flirting with him or genuinely checking his motives, so she pulled her face into one of her more disgruntled expressions to make sure he didn't misunderstand. "Sure looked like it a minute ago."

"Would you like it to be?" He arranged himself against the edge of the bar, expectant and languid. Then, catching her glare, he laughed. "I'm kidding. More or less. I can be a gentleman—if it's required of me, that is. Let me prove it."

She snorted and shook her head. "What if I said I don't dance?"

"I'd say you shouldn't lie to Old Scratch," came his immediate response. "That body isn't one that doesn't dance, Detective." His eyes raked over her in that unnervingly intimate way she'd seen often enough before, flicking down and traveling slowly back up in an almost physical caress.

She shivered and then bristled, berating herself. Hadn't she just gotten used to having Dan out of her personal life? She would not to let herself get caught up in the atmosphere of the nightclub, its undertow of debauchery and bad decisions. Or by Lucifer himself. That way lay dragons and probably STDs. "It's not the same body you saw in Hot Tub High School, whatever your disgusting personal fantasies," she ground out.

"Oh, I beg to differ," he purred, voice dropping to a lower register. "Remember, I've seen it. Quite recently, too." He called over the music to Patrick who stood polishing wine glasses at the other end of the counter. "Our detective clearly works out. Very fit and firm in all the right places once you get beneath the somewhat drab little layers." A quick gesture took in her casual wear, jeans and the thin white tunic she favored, which she knew looked out of place at the club.

Chloe shushed him, glowering. "That was an accident! You broke into my house while I was in the shower." Seeing Patrick trying to stifle a grin, she explained, exasperated, "He's lucky I didn't shoot him."

"You saved that for later, as I recall." Lucifer looked smug. "And I made you breakfast, not that you appreciated it."

"You're lucky I didn't bring my gun tonight."

He pushed off the bar and looked at her soberly for a moment. "It's just one dance, Detective. Really."

"Oh, fine. If it'll shut you up," she huffed, sliding off the bar stool. "If I'm not too woefully underdressed to be seen on the dance floor with the owner of the place in his—what? Thousand dollar suit?" She looked at him challengingly, not actually concerned about her boots and jeans despite club policy. They had let her in, after all. They could take it up with their boss.

"Splendid!" he cheered. "The cuff links alone are a grand, darling. But even if you are woefully underdressed, no one here will dare comment. Not to me, at least. Being the Prince of Air and Darkness tends to discourage complaints." They stepped through a tangle of partiers near the Steinway, the crowd parting like the Red Sea around them.

"Right. Prince of something, for sure," she answered. "Prince of Expense Accounts and Smart-Assery, maybe."

He barked a laugh, looking as delighted as she had ever seen him, his dark eyes sparkling.

People around them were moving, some more rhythmically than others, lit by the strobing of multicolored spot lights. If the music had words, they were drowned beneath the beat, pure adrenaline in the air, careening, invigorating, and loud. Lux didn't seem to have a dance floor so much as a general sense that dancing could break out just about anywhere. The paid dancers in their revealing costumes strutted on tables and catwalks, bent themselves over railings, tantalizingly just out of reach. Patrons grooved in small knots and clumps all around, somehow fitting their moves in between the furniture and only rarely knocking over the empties that peppered every surface except the piano, which, despite dominating the most open span of floor, was nearly engulfed with twisting, swaying, bouncing bodies.

Chloe sighed and stared up at her partner who looked back expectantly.

She hadn't lied to him. It had been years since she had danced. Even before motherhood and work meant that her "going out" friendships had fallen away to distant memories, she had never been drawn to the club scene. She preferred quieter evenings over dinners and wine, good books or good conversation instead of the intensity and anonymity of clubbing. Her mother had railed against her tendency to "overthink fun," to "need to be in control," insisting she was "more old maid than modern woman." But everything Penelope Decker wished her daughter would do—from acting to dancing to dating widely—Chloe had mostly resisted, especially after Hot Tub. Now, the habits were even more ingrained, an indelible mark of where she was most comfortable. If she wanted to relax, she sought home and quiet and family.

And tonight, bizarrely, she had sought Lucifer. One of these things was not like the others.

Chloe suddenly wondered again what she was doing at nearly 3am, standing like an idiot in the middle of a nightclub with a man who claimed to be the very incarnation of evil and who was, in all likelihood, some sort of Hollywood godfather, granting high-priced favors and dealing in black market goods. Even if his stolen container had been, ultimately, only hiding a set of enormous (and breath-taking) cosplay wings, she still had her suspicions. Not for the first time, she found herself considering just how little she knew about the man her lieutenant had seen fit to saddle her with as a civilian partner—and whom she had begun to think of as a friend despite his weirdness and all the lingering questions about his past and his business dealings.

"Relax, Detective."

"What?" Chloe started when Lucifer's voice cut through the music.

"You're wool-gathering. Whatever it is, let it go. You came down here to dance with me, remember?" He suited word to gesture, beginning to move, rhythmic and sinuous. Raising one eyebrow in invitation first, he closed his eyes as if to let the music to fill his senses, take over, drive him, then added, "Before someone else decides to join me instead. You know they will."

She made a "you-asked-for-it" gesture and stepped towards him with a conservative sway of her hips and shoulders, finding the motion awkward at first but hitting the beat. His eyes flashed open again, and he smiled at her encouragingly. She expected him to take advantage, but his fingertips just brushed her arm, then her waist, guiding her to move in tandem with him through only the lightest touches.

"Really, Detective, you look as nervous as a vestal virgin at her first orgy," he chuckled down at her after a few minutes. "You know, I'm hardly going to ravish you here in the middle of Lux. Despite what you may have heard about my reputation," he smirked.

"It's not a reputation if you have to explain it at every turn, Lucifer. And, for your information, I'm not nervous. Just haven't done this much lately." She settled more comfortably into the rhythm. "You do know that I have an 8-year old, right? The only dancing I've done in years is to Disney Princess videos."

He shuddered visibly and actually missed the beat.

"And as for ravishing," she continued, pressing her sudden advantage with a smirk of her own, "Patrick looked like he'd happily oblige you on that front if you're so inclined."

"Oh, I'm always inclined, Detective." He sucked his lower lip briefly, eyes glittering. "And I already offered you front row seats for that show. Offer's still on, of course. Audience participation welcome."

It was her turn to laugh. "You're so full of yourself."

"No, I'm just used to partners who aren't in denial about what they really want." His expression was playful, teasing and light. "Unlike some people I could name."

"Oh, so this is denial, is it?" She met his mischief with wry sarcasm.

"No, detective. This is dancing. Historically linked to overcoming denial, inviting deviltry, and encouraging inappropriate desires."

"In your dreams."

He leaned down to speak right against her ear, face taking on a particularly wolfish leer. "You have no idea what's in my dreams, Detective."

"You are so right," she agreed. "Let's keep it that way, shall we?"

Their proximity gave Chloe a chance to take in details she'd overlooked watching him at a distance earlier. The massive black eye he had sported the last time she saw him had faded to a yellowing smudge, still visible up close but healing rapidly. It was a strange reminder of their other lives, outside the club and in the field, of the things she had decided to try to trust even if she didn't understand. The bruise seemed so out of place against the rest of his current persona—immaculate, close-fitted suit, pocket handkerchief, freshly-shaven edge of stubble along his jaw, artfully tousled hair just beginning to curl at his temples, as if sweat reminded it of its natural twisted nature. His dark red shirt was open an additional button to reveal a triangle of smooth chest—bait for Friday night partiers. Perfectly together and polished, a fine performance of his character, as always.

"You're thinking again," he murmured, voice still carrying to her under the music. "You're thinking about me, which is an improvement, but you can loosen up a bit, you know. Enjoy yourself. That is, after all, the point." Raising one long-fingered hand, he started to brush back some hair that had fallen into her eyes.

She's shook her hair back on her own before he could complete the gesture. "I'm not—" she began defensively, but seeing his knowing grin, she gritted her teeth instead and stepped into him, finding that her muscles did remember some things quite well. Arms lifting, she moved against him, pushing into his space aggressively. His face registered surprise, then genuine delight, and he stopped bantering to dance. All his snappy, snarky verbosity vanished under the powerful bass of the music, the leisurely movements of his body following hers now, sharing space and time and sweat. The beat deepened and slowed, and Chloe could feel the music sliding down her spine like fire, a mirror of the hot solidity of Lucifer behind her now, folded around her, moving in sync. One of his hands rested on her stomach, a possessive gesture that she found she didn't mind at all.

His breath whispered over the damp nape of her neck, and she could feel the smile in his voice, close to her ear. "If that douche ex of yours didn't take you dancing regularly, he deserves to be punished. You dance diabolically, Detective."

"Thanks. I think," she replied, craning her neck to look at him. The music flowed seamlessly from one song to another and she had just leaned back into him when the phone in her pocket begin to vibrate. "Damn it. Wait a minute." She stopped abruptly.

He stepped back, releasing her and raising his hands as if to show they were behaving themselves. "Something wrong?"

"Probably," she replied, already distracted. "Work phone." She fumbled the device out of her pocket, staring at the screen for a second before turning to walk away, trying to find a spot where she could hear over the music and voices.

He looked curious, following her. "Bit late for a case, isn't it?"

"Murders don't happen on a schedule, Lucifer. It's actually pretty common at this hour. But this isn't..." Chloe scrolled through the flood of new texts, heading for the staircase and the less crowded halls upstairs. She shouldered past drunken muddles of people, climbing two stairs at a time, and only looking back for Lucifer at the top.

He had stopped at the foot of the staircase, attention focused on the man she'd seen him talking so earnestly with earlier, the hipster with long, straight greying red hair. The stranger gripped Lucifer's forearm, pulling him close, speaking fast and urgent. Lucifer's face had darkened, his lip curling into a near snarl that had Chloe about to descend again despite the insistent messaging from the station. But Lucifer glanced up at her and waved her on, stalking off toward the bar with the stranger at his elbow.

Chloe ducked into the hallway that led to the penthouse elevator. Phone pressed to one ear and her hand covering the other, she spoke loudly. "Lieutenant? Decker. What's this about Homicide giving Missing Persons an assist?" She listened intently. "So, what changed tonight? Can't they—" More listening. "No, I'm not working another case right now, but …" She sighed. "Okay, okay. Yes, ma'am. I'm on my way in a few minutes. Have them hold the briefing for me, will you?" She clicked off, slumping against the concrete wall for a moment to gather herself.

So much for her rather hapless night off, after all. Best go tell Lucifer she had been summoned to the station.

She stood at the top of the stairs, searching for him in the crowd. He and the red-haired man were standing in a circle of suspiciously empty space beneath the large Lux sign. Lucifer had propped himself against one of the tall chairs, his posture elegant and overly casual in a way that looked forced to her eyes. He flicked one hand carelessly toward the other man, a king dismissing a supplicant, but the man only closed the distance between them another step. While the stranger didn't appear to be a threat, something made Chloe's cop instincts begin clamoring and she quickened her pace through the crowd, automatically categorizing details of the scene as she moved.

The chairs and high tables in that entire area were vacant, as if patrons had cleared out even though Chloe couldn't see any obvious reason for distress. The hipster stood stiffly in front of Lucifer, just within reach, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. His stance reminded her of a boxer before a match, focused, relaxed but ready. He wore an almost garish mixture of archaic clothing—black and red plaid wool duster over narrow-legged trousers and heavy combat boots. A swag of fringed maroon scarf was draped around his neck, tucked beneath his neatly trimmed beard and full, artfully waxed mustache. Even with these, his hair was his most striking feature—long, worn loose so that it fell over his shoulders in a cascade, vivid gold-red against very pale skin. Chloe would guess he was in his mid-40s, although the grizzling of both hair and beard suggested older. As she closed in behind him, slowing her steps to let Lucifer signal if he wanted privacy, she noticed that the thick red-rimmed glasses perched on the man's nose were missing their lenses, an affectation for style rather than need. Broad-shouldered and perhaps just under six feet tall, his musculature made him seem substantially larger than Lucifer despite their height difference.

Chloe stopped several feet away when Lucifer's eyes didn't track to her, his gaze never leaving the other man. She took a moment to look at her sometimes-partner, too, searching for clues and not liking what she found. She had seen him turn suddenly dangerous before, just before throwing a man through plate glass, or shoving Benny Choi through his own gruesome painting, or hauling the snow cone guy through his truck window with one brutal move. Now, she could see the outline of violence again in him, all levity and mischief absent. His dark brows were lowered, eyes shadowed and cold. Even his face seemed more angular, fierce, distant, a disturbing counterpoint to his leisurely sprawl against the chair.

In the background behind the bar, Mazikeen, too, had fixed the pair in an unblinking stare, one hand thrust into the small of her back as if toward a hidden weapon. None of the three moved, although beyond their radius the nightclub laughed and partied on, as usual.

Wary but curious, Chloe edged forward until she could hear, keeping within Lucifer's view and behind the stranger.

"It has been a few years, after all," the man was saying, his voice a rolling baritone, inflected with what might have been a well-faded Irish accent, like someone who immigrated to the states as a child. "We'd be remiss if we didn't make sure you knew you were missed."

"'Missed'?" Lucifer scoffed. "I have not missed your lies, Sam."

"'Missed' may be a strong word, yes," the other man agreed with a quirk of his mustache. "But five years, by this reckoning, is a long vacation."

"I've told you once already," Lucifer ground out, teeth clenched around the words as if angry to be repeating himself. "I'm not on vacation. I'm out. You can make do on your own. Isn't it what you always wanted, you and the others?"

"Some of them, yes. But I rather miss the stability. Things have not been—have not gone as smoothly without you. There is, as you'd probably guess, some dissension among us. When the cat's away, as it were."

"When was there not discord among you?" Lucifer looked scornful.

"True. True." The hipster adjusted his lens-less glasses, and Chloe saw that he wore a thin gunmetal chain around his far forearm like a bracer, the end of it looped across his left hand like jewelry or a potential weapon. She felt her tension ratchet up.

Lucifer waited in silence, offering nothing.

"It is, of course, more than that," the other man finally said. "The palace walls begin to crack with neglect. Even the Gates are not what they once were, though their lock holds. Do you know your brother patrols beyond the borders now? He's not looking like it suits him."

Lucifer's face twitched with suppressed anger. "I care nothing for what he may be doing. Nor for the state of the realm. It's no longer any of my concern. Nor are you. Go home, Sam. Tell the others whatever you wish." He grimaced. "And tell Aza to stop lurking. I do not appreciate being stalked."

A smaller jackal of a man crept out of the crowd behind Chloe, dressed like he had come straight from a steampunk convention—square, low top hat with feathers, a brocade waistcoat and pocket watch over a dark wide-sleeved shirt and trousers. His patchy beard and small, pale eyes made him look like a dandified dissolute. As he passed, he bumped her shoulder hard as if he didn't see her standing in his path or, more likely, didn't care to step aside. "My lord," the newcomer bowed while still in transit, the gesture practiced and, to Chloe's eyes, full of obsequious pretense.

"Not anymore." Lucifer pushed himself upright, scowling. He towered over the other man who seemed to shy aside. "Don't pretend you haven't heard every word."

"Beg pardon, lord. This den you've created is—ah, most overwhelming to one such as I," Aza muttered, gaze averted, shoulders slightly hunched as if expecting a blow. "So much lust, so much longing and greed and hunger." He dragged the back of one hand across his thin lips. "It is a bit much to take after so long in the Malebolge."

The hair on the back of Chloe's neck lifted, prickling. What the hell? Was this second man high on something? Her fingers slid toward her hip and her absent gun instinctively, noticing that the two had positioned themselves too close and just to either side of Lucifer, positions she would read as threatening on the street, like a pair of wolves flanking their prey.

Lucifer, however, shoved his hands into his pockets and looked supremely unconcerned, staring down his nose at them. "Let me be very clear, then. I am not going home ever again. And you are not welcome here where your own proclivities might get in my way. Either of you. I don't care how you found your way up, and I care even less about where you go. You are no longer my concern. You never were."

"But your mighty works!" the little man wheedled. "The bonefires of Effrul, the basalt causeway of Tartarus, the pain fields and the pit itself! Surely these—"

"Are yours for the taking, if you wish them!" Lucifer spat, anger finally breaking through. "Argue with each other, bite and scrabble in the ash for morsels! But leave me out of it."

The one called Sam reached out pale, blunt fingers to his colleague, stroking along his shoulder in a gesture Chloe found more creepy than comforting. "Enough, Aza. Respect the Morningstar's wishes."

Aza twitched and dropped his eyes.

Sam looked calmly at Lucifer for long minutes, as if seeking some visible way around the hostility despite his own words. He lifted his chain-adorned hand as if he would reach out to him as well, but Lucifer bared his teeth slightly, kohl-eyed stare going flat and empty.

"I assume you can find your way out of the club," Lucifer growled, drawing himself up to his full height to look icily down at them both. "After all, you and I have no more reason to treat. And my demon grows too excitable at the prospect of seeing you again." He nodded toward Mazikeen behind him without shifting his gaze.

"My lord," Aza whispered again, fingering the brim of his hat like a street urchin from a Dickens novel. Sam waited a moment longer, inspecting Lucifer in great detail, then nodded and turned, taking his partner by the elbow and leading the way toward the street exit.

Lucifer watched them go, head high until they were up the stairs and out of sight.

Then, he turned to Chloe as if nothing had happened. The air of violence and authority fell away, discarded as easily as an actor stepping out of a role at the end of a scene. "So? What was it, then? Do we have an exciting late-night case?" he said brightly.

She stared at him, frowning. "What was that?"

He waved the question away. "Minor inconvenience. Just enough to get in the way of an otherwise delightful evening."

She wasn't convinced and let it show in her face.

He pointed to her pocket where she had stuffed her phone. "I suspect something else is also about to get in the way of our returning to the dance floor. Tell me it's at least interesting?"

Chloe studied him, discomfited by the total change of persona, like he was two completely different men. If the briefing team wasn't waiting for her at the station just now, she'd pursue it. But since they were, she gave in. "There's been a rash of missing persons cases that have gone unsolved for the last couple of weeks. Nearly 40 people. All vanished from waterfront properties in the city. Missing Persons wants Homicide to join the search since they're expecting this to become our jurisdiction soon enough, and they need the manpower."

Lucifer groaned. "Sounds shockingly dull. How disappointing."

"Maybe to you," she said sharply. "Not so much to their families, I'd expect."

Heaving an audible sigh, he meandered away toward the bar.

"Does that mean you'll sit this one out?" she called after him. She had hoped he might come along so she could question him further about this "minor inconvenience." Based on what she had heard, she'd wager those two men were from Lucifer's mysterious life prior to his five years of accessible records. People who wanted to touch base with him and who had even worked with or for him. Who were they? Where were they—and he—from? What kind of work had they done? It certainly didn't sound like running a nightclub. Did they even know how threatening and creepy they came across, or was that, too, part of the skills that Lucifer had once perhaps found useful? It was impossible to overlook the weird, but highly consistent, "devil" vernacular used by everyone Lucifer dealt with from his past, as well. She recognized "Tartarus" from one of those school-assigned Greek or Latin translations, Dante or Milton or someone. What sort of quasi-legal things took place in "pain fields and the pit?" she wondered.

She couldn't help but also wonder if all those potential questions, as much as the case being "dull," had triggered Lucifer's sudden apathy.

"Mm, yes. I think so, for now," he replied, accepting a tumbler of dark liquid from Mazikeen. "When the bodies turn up, though, let me know? I don't expect to sleep for many, many hours yet." His smirk seemed subdued this time, even a little dismissive.

She shook her head and hurried toward the stairs. "Fine. Whatever."

"You let them go." Mazikeen's eyes had followed Lucifer's pet detective out of view before she focused on her boss, pouring him a second round by touch alone.

He tossed the drink back effortlessly and pushed the glass toward her again. "I did. How observant of you, Maze." His voice was tight, the planes of his face catching more shadows than should have been natural.

The demon inhaled deeply, savoring the subtle taste of brimstone and burning flesh in the air, drawn to the darkness that now lay close beneath the surface of the fallen archangel before her. Although the appearance of the two "men" raised all sorts of alarms, she couldn't help but revel when Lucifer was reminded that he was still the Lord of Hell, when his hold on his human shape loosened and teased the beautiful beast beneath. Her fingertips traced the veins at the back of his hand, sliding just inside his cuff to feel the searing heat of blood coursing just below the thin skin of his wrist. "My lord," she murmured reverently.

"No!" He pulled away, seizing the bottle to pour himself another drink. "Not you, too. Here, I'm just Lucifer bloody Morningstar, retired and with no plans to resume that throne. Ever. Burned my wings, Maze. Doesn't get more final than that."

"Then why let them go? Killing them would be more efficient."

He shook his head. "We walked free, Maze. Why should I deny that to others of our fellows?"

She snorted. "You have no fellowship with them. Nor do I. In fact, any of the Lilim would have their balls in a vice and their skin for our boots, if you would but let us." She leaned across the bar as if teasing a kiss. "Let me?"

He smirked, darkly amused. "No, my best and most terrible fiend. I meant what I said. They're not my responsibility—and therefore not yours, either. Ignore them. Satisfy yourself in other ways. Patrick was quite revved up earlier. That might make for a good after-party tonight, eh?"

She frowned. He was too casual about this invasion of his earthly territory, especially now when his very immortality seemed to be weakening. He had begun courting risk, pursuing danger for the excitement of it, and the demon wondered if this were just another variation on that wearisome and troubling theme. "You're not what you were, and right now we don't know why," she insisted, snatching the bottle back from him. "This mortality thing means you need to be cautious."

"I am cautious, Maze," he grinned, meeting her concerns with flirtation. "We can use protection if we must."

"I'm serious, Lucifer." She grasped his wrist again, this time in a grip meant to demand attention, nails biting into his skin. "You believe them when they claim they just came to say hello? They crossed an impossible threshold to get here! Can you even say how?"

His eyes narrowed, and she felt tendons cord beneath her fingers as his hand closed into a fist. "Do not presume, Mazikeen. I appreciate that you've thrown your lot in with me on this adventure, and that you've protected my less-than-immortal ass, but you will remember your place."

Tightening her grip stubbornly, she showed sharp white teeth. "I do. And I will do what is necessary to fulfill my place whether it pleases you or not. You did not bring me through the Gates to lay down at your feet."

"No, that I did not," he mused, relaxing again much to her disappointment. "Never fear, Maze. There has never been trust between them and me, as you know better than anyone. I know they are not here just to check in, and they certainly don't want me to return to Hell. If we wait, they will reveal themselves and their methods in time."

"It's poor strategy to wait on them to act first. We should—"

"We will wait for them to misstep, Maze," he repeated firmly. He cupped her chin in one hand, fingers strong but cool again against her skin. "Patience, my General. Either they will go back to Hell to divide the spoils or they won't. I'm almost curious."

"Patience is a virtue. And I'm a demon," Mazikeen said flatly. "I'm afflicted with neither that nor curiosity, which is why I've survived to serve you. Your curiosity is going to get you hurt, Lucifer. Or worse."

He laughed and spun away from her, heading toward the piano. "Sounds like fun."

A/N: So, I wanted to get this rolling before season 2 completely takes us all in new-and hopefully delightful-directions. And I confess, I also just really wanted to see Lucifer and Chloe dance. Hope I did it justice!

FYI: I'm projecting 10-15 chapters to tell the whole tale, appearing on a rather slow schedule. (But they'll tend to be longish chapters, which I hope makes up for some of the wait.) I hope folks feel like coming along for the ride. *fingers crossed*

Reviews and concrit loved, of course! I'm having a wonderful time "meeting" other readers and writers in this fandom.