pointing with a chicken finger.
Lucifer continued to slowly turn his cup, a faint trace of steam billowing from the hot liquid.
“It is what it is,” he said finally, neither regretful nor content.
The old man finished His chicken finger and licked the tips of His delicate fingers.
“Things happened, and as a result . . .” He made a rolling gesture with His hand.
“Here we are,” Lucifer finished. “When it’s presented that way, it all seems so simple.”
“It’s all in how you look at things,” the old man replied as He wrapped His hand around His coffee cup. He was watching the elderly couple that Lucifer had been observing earlier. They were talking happily, and for a brief moment even began to dance, which got them both laughing.
“Why are we here?” Lucifer finally got up the courage to ask. “I’m sure you’re well aware of the whispers of a new war between Heaven and Hell floating in the ether.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I am.”
“So?”
The old man lifted His cup and had some more coffee. “I think it’s time for something more to happen,” He said, speaking over the rim of His cup.
Lucifer leaned in closer. “War?” he asked.
The old man was silent, as if deciding on His answer.
“No,” He said after a moment. “The opposite.”
“Truce?” Lucifer suggested. “I thought we already had that.”
“Peace,” the old man corrected.
Lucifer was shocked. “What are you suggesting?”
“I want you to come home.”
And for the first time in countless millennia the Son of the Morning was speechless.
“It’s time for us to be whole again,” the old man told him.
“Do you mean to say . . . ,” Lucifer began, and stopped as the old man sitting across from him nodded slowly, a loving smile spreading across His face reminding Lucifer of the very first dawn over the world on the eighth day.
“Unification, my son,” the old man said, and then slid the container of chicken fingers toward him. “Chicken finger?”
• • •
The Bone Master screamed far longer than Remy Chandler imagined it could have.
When the creature finally fell silent, Remy let its body slip from his grasp. But the fire continued to burn, jumping to the assassin’s robes and the flesh beneath; before long, there would be nothing left to show that the assassin had ever lived . . .
. . . except for the physical and mental damage it had inflicted.
Marlowe came to Remy, leaping up onto his chest, stretching his neck to eagerly kiss Remy’s face. Remy found it suddenly difficult to remain standing, and dropped to his knees, giving the dog ample opportunity to display his rampant affections.
As Marlowe licked his face, Remy caught sight of Linda staring at him from where she sat, perfectly motionless upon the floor. He wanted to explain everything to her, but the words would not come.
The look of fear in her eyes froze them in his throat.
“I believe,” he began, forcing the words from his mouth, “I owe you an explanation.” He found his speech strangely slurred and wondered what could be the cause, then realized that his entire body was growing increasingly cold. He could not feel his limbs and suddenly toppled over onto the floor.
Marlowe yelped in panic as he fell, and Linda was at his side, leaning over him, tears in her eyes, her face racked with the beginnings of panic.
“You’re bleeding,” he heard her say, though the words were strangely muffled.
He managed to lift his head and saw that he was indeed bleeding. The cold realization washed over him—the assassin’s bullets had found their target, the venom-infused teeth sending a powerful poison coursing through his veins.
Remy tried to alter his internal chemistry, as he had so many times before, to burn the poison away. . . .
Nothing happened, and the cold continued to permeate his every fiber. He was finding it harder and harder to remain there—to remain with Linda and Marlowe.
Marlowe cried pathetically, pacing back and forth in front of them. Linda was holding him now, gripping him tightly in her arms and begging him to stay with her.
“Remy, what should I do?” she pleaded.
She was panicked, and he wanted to hold her, to tell her that he would be fine, but he could no longer move his arms, and now that what he truly was had been revealed, he did not want to begin another lie.
“I . . . I’m so sorry,” he managed to squeak. “Didn’t want . . . to lie.”
“Remy,” she cried, her tears raining down upon his face—tears that