When he lets his concentration slip, Lucifer sees his true face in a mirror. Not the face of the angel, but the devil he became. Six shattered mirrors later, he stops looking for his reflection when he's distracted. Outside of mirrors, he has to concentrate to reveal the truth, so he's not concerned about turning any of his lovers or employees or club patrons into gibbering messes.
He hates it.
What Hell did to him.
How his Father destroyed everything he'd been and made him something unholy and desecrated.
So, he learns to revel in everything an angel is not supposed to be and do.
Sin is exciting.
Reading the deepest desires and wretched fears of humans has allowed him to create his own paradise for them on Earth. Lux is decadent to an extreme nothing in Hell ever matched. The most beautiful, wealthy, and often desperate citizens of the City of Angels flock to it to be seen, to see, to luxuriate, to be pampered or punished.
There are rooms for those willing to pay an exorbitant amount where patrons can do anything they want, with consent, of course. Lucifer stays just on the right side of the law.
It's the one year anniversary of the opening of Lux and the club is packed with starlets and wealthy businessmen, art aficionados and spoiled rich boys. Lounging on one of the curved leather sofas in the center of a mass of writhing humanity--a red haired woman curled on one side of him, nibbling at his ear lobe, a dusky barely legal young man on the other side, shirtless and gleaming with perspiration and glitter, his hand gliding over Lucifer's thigh--the lord of all he surveys reads the crowd.
And he plays with their emotions, subtly raising them, making them want more--food, drink, companionship.
They pay. They always pay.
Because, they always want something, and he's too willing to provide.
In one of the private rooms, a city councilman is being spanked by a blonde barely wearing a red leather corset and nothing else.
On the dance floor, the barely eighteen year old star of a series of popular vampire movies is grinding against her very married co-star as he sucks on her neck, pretending to be the character he portrays.
Behind the bar, Mazikeen is pouring Dom Perignon while one of her employees is moaning in pleasure as she presses the tip of her very pointed shoe into a very delicate part of his anatomy.
As last call is announced--although one wouldn't know it by the crowd packed into the building, celebrating and enjoying themselves, no one making a move to leave--Lucifer contemplates which or both of his current companions to invite up to his apartment, when gunshots ring out, quickly followed by the crash of a glass chandelier to the floor. As the shocking noise mingles with screams of shock and fear, the music comes to a stop, and the energy level shifts from joyous and light to frightened and oppressive.
Over the noise, an angry voice demands people to shut up and hand over their jewelry and money.
Shaking himself loose from his clinging would-be lovers, Lucifer stands, straightens his waistcoat, and rolls his eyes.
"No," he says, clearly, voice reverberating with his power, making those nearest to him cower and clamp their hands over his ears.
The gun swings at him, one of those nasty semi-automatic machine guns every gangbanger seems to own these days.
With a wave of his hand it turns to sand.
"You're ruining my celebration."
With a flick of his wrist, the young man is curled in a fetal position on the floor now wet with his own urine.
Lucifer didn't even have to reveal his face, just show him a glimpse of Hell.
Whimpers of terror mingle with babbling incoherence, and Lucifer smirks.
Around him, everyone else but the former lord of Hell and the intruder is frozen.
Everyone but one.
With inhuman grace Mazikeen vaults over the bar and stomps over to kick the idiot in the balls, which makes him add vomit to the mess and her foot. "These are Prada!" Outraged, she pulls her foot back again.
Growling at him, she grabs the man by the back of his hoodie and drags him across the floor to the door. No need to call the police. He'll never be the same.
Another wave of Lucifer's hand and the chandelier is fixed, the music that had stuttered to a halt resumes, and everyone unfreezes.
Remembering nothing of the last five minutes.
His two companions give him confused looks as he's now standing and they don't remember why. Reaching out his hands, he pulls them both to their feet and under his embracing arms. "Don't worry about it," he murmurs to each one before guiding them to the stairs.
Mazikeen will close the club, make sure everyone leaves happy after the wild anniversary party.
His personal celebration is about to begin.
One of the annoyances of being a fallen angel on Earth is that Lucifer doesn't need sleep, so he finds it hard to slip into the realm of Morpheus. Hours later, physically sated, but unable to wind down completely, while his lovers sleep sprawled across his bed, he stands on his balcony, wrapped in a black silk robe, sipping a glass of brandy.
Thanks to the lights of the city, the full moon hanging low in the sky is all he can see of the firmament. There was a time that he could see the Silver City from anywhere, but when he fell, he lost that ability.
Lost that with so much more.
Slowly, here on Earth, he's gaining some of what he lost back, and discovering something new.
It's an amazing, if somewhat abstract concept, and something angels do not have.
But, then, he hasn't been an angel since before the gates of Eden closed for good.
Unconsciously Lucifer rolls his shoulders, then stops himself with a grimace. There are no wings to unfurl. Only scars that still, occasionally, pull and ache.
Earlier, the woman had touched them. She wasn't the first and won't be the last to be curious, but no one ever asks him. They're obviously not from a whip or burns. They look like someone cut something from him, which is exactly what happened, but that's beyond human comprehension so they never think that.
Lucifer misses his wings, being able to soar and glide and scream across creation, but they never worked well in Hell, the cinders singeing them, the feathers unkempt and twisted from the harsh winds and unyielding rocks. They reeked of sulfur.
By the end, they'd become a burden, almost useless, and they were a beacon to his siblings.
So, Mazikeen cut them from him and they hid them away behind wards even the angelic can't penetrate.
Lucifer's sure he'll be found eventually, but they have no way to force him back to Hell, so he doesn't worry about it.
He's safely assured that his Father will never come to look for him, and he can handle his brothers and sisters.
He can always sic Mazikeen on them. That would be amusing.
Finishing his brandy, he reenters his apartment, closing the French doors behind him. He sets the glass down, slips out of the robe, and crawls up the bed from the foot, settling between the slumbering pair of humans.
They're amusing for the moment.
The man has a wicked and talented mouth. The woman eagerly took them both at the same time. He'll keep them for a day or two then send them away happy and sated.
The man stirs, mumbles something, presses that luscious mouth against Lucifer's throat. Tangling his fingers in the woman's long hair, he wakes her with a kiss, as the other lips glide down his body.
For a day or two, he'll be happy and sated as well.