for caffeine.
The kettle boiled before I could find the coffee, though I'd found the tea and sugar in the cupboards. I groaned; I really needed a coffee. Stretching to look in the cupboards— obviously built for the seven-foot-tall Demon—hurt my stomach, and I still hadn't found the goddamn coffee!
I debated with myself the wisdom of waking Lucifer up to ask where the coffee was. Did I really want to awaken the Devil, simply for my caffeine fix?
Resigning myself to the tea, I poured the water into the mug and headed to the fridge for the milk. I was happy to see that he had some of the full-fat stuff. What kind of a man drinks that low-fat, watered down crap, anyway? I thought as I poured it into the tea. I neglected the sugar and sat down at the dining table to think.
So the Devil is real, I thought, sipping the tea. What am I going to do? And what am I going to do about my resemblance to his lost wife? I mean, I can't do anything, but what can I change? People latch onto the images of their lost loved ones—seeing them everywhere, hearing their voice— but is that true of Demons? Even one as obviously powerful as Lucifer? Did God even give him such emotions?
I glanced over at the Devil's sleeping form. I could only see his red face and his shockingly blond hair from where I sat. His eyes were closed, so their rich blue color wasn't observing me from across the room. I shivered, turning to look at the bookshelf behind me.
Some of the books were cookbooks, worn and obviously well-used, the spines stained with food. Others were paperback fiction that had their spines bent in so many places that the bindings were perfectly curved. They were obviously well-read and loved by Lucifer or their previous owners. None of the books were the kind that I expected from Lucifer; some titles sounded like the stories were fantasy, some looked to be sci-fi, and still others looked like they belonged in the crime-fiction section of a bookstore. I'd read a couple of the well-worn ones, and found myself wondering if he'd let me borrow some of the ones I hadn't read yet.
I climbed from my seat and staggered over to the bookcase, looking closely at the books as I used the shelves to hold myself upright, the muscles in my stomach twinging. I could easily reach the top shelf—the bookcase was only five feet high—and I stepped back to look at the lower shelves.
On the bottom shelf was a collection of mint-condition novels, including an entire set of Harry Potter books, their pages unruffled and their spines completely unbent, with another such set of the Chronicles of Narnia books and—my word!—what looked like untouched editions of the Lord of the Rings. I reached down to take the first Harry Potter book off the shelf—I had a feeling that the shelf they were on housed books of the first edition variety—and felt the pain in my stomach spike agonizingly.
"Fuck!" I groaned, holding the wound. I kneeled with one hand on the floor, the other on my stomach, breathing through my teeth.
The next thing I knew, two bare red feet with claws appeared beside me, and Lucifer kneeled next to me, the tips of his wings disappearing as he laid a hand on my shoulder.
"I think I tore the stitches again," I said through clenched teeth. It felt like my hand was holding my guts in, the pain was so intense.
Lucifer sighed, gently making me lean back on my heels. When I was free to do so, I pressed both hands to the stitches, and he knocked them away.
"Pressing on it could pull the stitches out in the other direction," he explained, pulling me to my feet so that I wasn't using my stomach muscles so much. When he had me on my feet, he put one of my arms around his neck, scooping me up into his arms when he was sure I was out of pain for the moment.
Lucifer carried me down to his
The kettle boiled before I could find the coffee, though I'd found the tea and sugar in the cupboards. I groaned; I really needed a coffee. Stretching to look in the cupboards— obviously built for the seven-foot-tall Demon—hurt my stomach, and I still hadn't found the goddamn coffee!
I debated with myself the wisdom of waking Lucifer up to ask where the coffee was. Did I really want to awaken the Devil, simply for my caffeine fix?
Resigning myself to the tea, I poured the water into the mug and headed to the fridge for the milk. I was happy to see that he had some of the full-fat stuff. What kind of a man drinks that low-fat, watered down crap, anyway? I thought as I poured it into the tea. I neglected the sugar and sat down at the dining table to think.
So the Devil is real, I thought, sipping the tea. What am I going to do? And what am I going to do about my resemblance to his lost wife? I mean, I can't do anything, but what can I change? People latch onto the images of their lost loved ones—seeing them everywhere, hearing their voice— but is that true of Demons? Even one as obviously powerful as Lucifer? Did God even give him such emotions?
I glanced over at the Devil's sleeping form. I could only see his red face and his shockingly blond hair from where I sat. His eyes were closed, so their rich blue color wasn't observing me from across the room. I shivered, turning to look at the bookshelf behind me.
Some of the books were cookbooks, worn and obviously well-used, the spines stained with food. Others were paperback fiction that had their spines bent in so many places that the bindings were perfectly curved. They were obviously well-read and loved by Lucifer or their previous owners. None of the books were the kind that I expected from Lucifer; some titles sounded like the stories were fantasy, some looked to be sci-fi, and still others looked like they belonged in the crime-fiction section of a bookstore. I'd read a couple of the well-worn ones, and found myself wondering if he'd let me borrow some of the ones I hadn't read yet.
I climbed from my seat and staggered over to the bookcase, looking closely at the books as I used the shelves to hold myself upright, the muscles in my stomach twinging. I could easily reach the top shelf—the bookcase was only five feet high—and I stepped back to look at the lower shelves.
On the bottom shelf was a collection of mint-condition novels, including an entire set of Harry Potter books, their pages unruffled and their spines completely unbent, with another such set of the Chronicles of Narnia books and—my word!—what looked like untouched editions of the Lord of the Rings. I reached down to take the first Harry Potter book off the shelf—I had a feeling that the shelf they were on housed books of the first edition variety—and felt the pain in my stomach spike agonizingly.
"Fuck!" I groaned, holding the wound. I kneeled with one hand on the floor, the other on my stomach, breathing through my teeth.
The next thing I knew, two bare red feet with claws appeared beside me, and Lucifer kneeled next to me, the tips of his wings disappearing as he laid a hand on my shoulder.
"I think I tore the stitches again," I said through clenched teeth. It felt like my hand was holding my guts in, the pain was so intense.
Lucifer sighed, gently making me lean back on my heels. When I was free to do so, I pressed both hands to the stitches, and he knocked them away.
"Pressing on it could pull the stitches out in the other direction," he explained, pulling me to my feet so that I wasn't using my stomach muscles so much. When he had me on my feet, he put one of my arms around his neck, scooping me up into his arms when he was sure I was out of pain for the moment.
Lucifer carried me down to his
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