Page 60 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

At Michelle’s words, Sam’s face goes chillingly blank. The wind whips around us, sharp and unforgiving, its whistle piercing as we stand silent in front of the cheery cottage.

“Would you like to come in?” There’s a quiver to Michelle’s words as she steps away from the open door, into the relative gloom of the house.

The sun shining across the porch, illuminating her vibrant pink shirt to a near neon glow, splashes unbroken onto the blonde wood floor inside of the entryway.

It stretches a few feet into the house, extending to the tip of Sam’s father’s shoes.

Not a hint of light makes its way past his toes, though.

The shadows surrounding him, which cast his face and figure in darkness, gobble the rays up, the darkness too thick for the sun to break through.

I quickly glance at Sam. His teeth are clenched so tightly that a muscle is twitching along the side of his jaw facing me.

I would honestly be surprised if he could speak at this point.

I let him steam for a few seconds in the hopes that he’ll gain some semblance of speech.

When we’re left standing in silence, Michelle staring nervously at her son and Sam clearly incapable of stringing two words together, I answer for him. “Of course we’ll come in.”

Although Sam doesn’t speak, he’s still processing what’s happening around him because he steps forward obediently once I accept Michelle’s invitation.

The world is oddly muted as I follow him, one hand positioned reassuringly on his back.

The door’s gentle click close behind us is loud as a gunshot.

It’s still not nearly as alarming as the awkward silence that fills the air around us.

The living room is cozy, filled with comfortable-looking furniture and natural light.

It isn’t particularly dark, what with its two bay windows, the frosted glass of the front door, and myriad of lit lamps positioned throughout the space.

Despite all of that, Sam’s father somehow remains cloaked in shadows.

The energy he’s putting off doesn’t feel right.

He feels… off in a way I can't understand or explain. Too big, too silent, too… something.

It makes my skin crawl.

I crowd in closer to Sam, my hand curling around to his front to rest over his heart, my cheek pressed against his arm.

Whatever I can do to offer the comfort I know he desperately needs while also ensuring I can shove him out of the way if the shadow man a feet away from us does anything to endanger him.

“Please sit?” Michelle gestures at the couch positioned across from the door, a plush-looking thing upholstered in grey velvet that was clearly chosen for lounging rather than aesthetic. At the moment, though, it might as well be lined with sandpaper for all the comfort it’s likely to offer us.

“Sure.” I nudge Sam towards the sofa, using soft nuzzles of my cheek against his bicep to shift him out and away from the other man.

With each step, I make sure to keep my body positioned between them.

I’m not worried about the other man’s safety.

I’m worried about Sam’s. I don’t know his father, and, without seeing his face, I’m not inclined to trust him around Sam.

Even after seeing his face, I probably still won’t trust him around my love.

“I can go get us some lunch,” Michelle says, too loudly and too cheerfully for it to be anything but fake.

“I don’t think so,” Sam snaps with a snarky lilt. The couch cushions flex underneath us as he shifts forward, his elbows resting on his knees while his gaze finds the only person in the room who hasn’t spoken yet. “There’s something more important for us to do right now.”

“Yes. Yeah.” With a shaking hand, Michelle tucks her hair behind her ear.

“I’m sorry I went so long without contacting you.

For the first couple of months, I was travelling and trying to find my former partners.

After that… Well, I didn’t realize how much time had gone by after he called me to him.

Time apparently passes differently down there. ”

“There? There where?”

“In the Sheoulic Chambers.” It’s not Michelle who responds but the deep voice from the corner.

“Love how you throw your voice like that, Mom,” Sam remarks dryly. “You could take that skill to Vegas.”

His snark is just enough to add some levity to the absurd situation, dragging laughs from all three of us and the dark mass shaped like a man.

“What are the Sheoulic Chambers?” Sam directs the question to the other man.

A chuckle emerges from the shadows. “Most are too scared to speak directly to me.”

“Since I can’t tell who the fuck you are, I don’t have the luxury of knowing whether or not I should be scared of you,” Sam retorts. “So how about you stop with the cryptic bullshit and introduce yourself, Dad.”

His tone is so acidic, so reminiscent of many of Arthur’s alcohol-addled rants, it has me shrinking away.

Intellectually, I know Sam isn’t a threat; instinctively, that doesn’t matter.

My nervous system recognizes the venomous way he says the words to be a threat, which conveniently ignores my bone-deep knowledge that he would never hurt me.

Unlike all of those times in the attic, though, I’m safe here.

Undoubtedly feeling my unconscious movement, Sam’s hand slips into mine, his fingers intertwining with my own, and lifts it to press a kiss to the back of it.

Without a single word, he drags me back to the present where he needs me to be.

I have to be here for him right now. Arthur has no place here.

My shoulders loosen, and I squeeze his hand tightly to signal I’m okay. Without moving his head, he slips his gaze my way quickly, a brief tracking to check in with me, before his eyes dart back to his father.

“Okay,” Sam starts again. This time, his words are more measured. Less aggressive. “Who are you?”

The shadows begin to melt away; the darkness they create peels back with excruciating control to reveal a man gathered in their midst. He’s muscular and far taller than the average man, standing at least seven feet tall.

Black hair that’s silvering at the temples sweeps away from a face too angular to be considered traditionally handsome and too unique to be dismissed as anything but attractive.

He’s dressed in a black suit lined with metallic red stitching.

On his own, he would be an arresting sight.

But it’s not the elegance with which he holds himself that throws us.

It's the obsidian eyes. The ridged, silvered horns that start at his temples and arc up and over his head before ending in a dangerous point. The ebony, feathered wings that drape gracefully around his figure before ending inches above his shined Oxfords.

I choke out a gasp at the same time Sam yelps, “What the fuck?”

“This is your father, Sammy.” Michelle gestures at the man—can you even call someone that when they’re so clearly other?

—who saunters over to the love seat she situated herself in and wraps his hand around her wrist, the gesture unexpectedly possessive.

He doesn’t sit, instead electing to loom over us. “Lucifer Morningstar.”

“Lucifer Morning—” An unexpected snort emerges from Sam. “Wait. Lucifer Morningstar as in the devil? Are you saying my father is the fucking devil?”

“For fuck’s sake.” The man uses his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Milton writes one epic poem getting everything about you aggressively wrong, and you get called the devil for the rest of eternity.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to trap the inappropriate giggle working its way up my throat. Now’s not the time for this, but I definitely inspired Milton in his writing of Paradise Lost. Can’t imagine that would endear me to Sam’s father.

“So you’re not the devil?” Sam asks.

“No. If you want to get technical about it, I’m the god of Pandaimonium. The home of all daimons.”

“The what now?”

“Home of all daimons, boy, keep up.”

“That’s, uh—” Grunting, Sam looks at the ceiling before nodding at it and lowering his head back down. “That’s what I thought you said. What does that make me then?”

“Technically nothing, really. You’re still human.

” A thoughtful pout of his lips precede Lucifer’s next words, which are an unexpected concession.

“Since a not-insignificant part of your genetic makeup does have divine markers, there’s still a small chance that you manifest as a demi-god.

An infinitesimally small chance. Something like 0.

0001%. I dunno, kid.” He shrugs. “I’m not Zeus.

I don’t go fucking demi-gods into existence at the drop of a hat. ”

“Huh. That’s… unexpected.” Although Sam doesn’t move, I know exactly what we’re both thinking. The shared dreams. The unusual physical changes we’ve been seeing in him. But why would it be happening now?

“When would a child start manifesting as a demi-god?” The question slips out unexpectedly.

“Hmm?” Lucifer’s attention drifts to me.

“Oh, it depends, I think. From what I’ve heard, it’s usually before early adolescence.

I’ve never actually had a spawn so I don't know. Other children with a divine parent like Heracles, Perseus, and Dionysus manifested divine powers before they were 10. Why do you ask?”

Hmm. So unlikely that’s the answer we’ve been looking for. I ignore Lucifer’s question in favor of grumpy musing. Without Sam’s genetics playing a part in this, we’re back to me being the potential cause for everything.

Sam seems to come to the same realization as I do and moves on. “Mom, I don’t get-how did this even—” His hand waves aimlessly between Lucifer and Michelle. “I don’t understand how this happened.”

“It’s not exactly a short story, sweetie.”