Chapter 10: The Knight's First Duty
The flaming sword felt like a live nerve in Alastor’s hand, humming with a frequency that made his teeth ache in a not-unpleasant way. He stared at it, then at Lucifer, who was watching him with an expression of intense curiosity, as if waiting to see what he’d do with a new, dangerous toy.
“Entail?” Lucifer echoed, shrugging one shoulder. The casual gesture was at odds with the gravity of the weapon between them. “Mostly it’s a title. A statement. Means you’re under my personal protection, and more importantly, that anyone who fucks with me is officially fucking with you. And vice versa. It’s a two-way street, sweetheart.”
Alastor’s smile tightened at the endearment. “A statement. And this?” He tilted the blade, casting shifting white-gold light across the opulent, cluttered room.
“That’s the practical part. My old gig came with certain… tools. That one’s yours to wield. Consider it a badge of office.” Lucifer stepped closer, until the heat from the sword warmed his ivory jacket. He didn’t look at the blade; he looked at Alastor’s face, searching for something. “Does it bother you?”
“The power is intoxicating,” Alastor admitted, his voice low. He willed the flames to vanish. They obeyed instantly, snuffing out and leaving behind a sleek, pale sword of an unidentifiable metal. It was lighter than it should be. “The title is… conspicuous.”
“You love being conspicuous.”
“On my own terms.”
Lucifer’s grin was quick and sharp. “You accepted the terms. My knight.” He said it again, tasting the words, and his eyes darkened. “Mine.”
The word should have felt like a collar. It didn’t. It felt like a fact, solid and irrefutable, settling into the new, open space inside Alastor’s chest where the connection thrummed. It sparked a reactive, possessive heat of his own.
“Yours,” Alastor repeated, not an echo, but a confirmation. He let the sword dissolve into shimmering motes of light that flowed back into his hand, absorbed. The sensation was cool and clean, like sheathing a part of himself he hadn’t known was missing.
Lucifer’s breath hitched. He closed the final inch of space, his hands coming up to cradle Alastor’s face. This kiss was different. Softer. A silent, stunned communication. When he pulled back, his thumbs stroked Alastor’s cheekbones. “Dinner’s probably a disaster. Charlie will have questions.”
“She will,” Alastor agreed, his static a contented purr. His shadow, stretching up the wall behind them, reached out a tendril to gently coil around Lucifer’s ankle, a secret touch. Alastor ignored it, for once allowing the betrayal.
The hotel dining room was its usual symphony of controlled chaos. Plates of sentient gelatin shivered on the table; a low-tier imp was trying to convince Angel Dust that his spaghetti was actually a nest of tiny worms; Niffty darted between chair legs with a syringe of sedative for the more unruly food items.
Charlie, however, was not focused on the hotel’s general operations. Her eyes were laser-locked on the two figures who entered from the grand staircase. She saw the lack of space between them. She saw the way her father’s shoulders were relaxed, how his manic energy had mellowed into something warm and steady. She saw how Alastor’s ever-present smile seemed less like a weapon and more like… just a smile.
She waited until they were seated, Alastor beside her father, before she pounced. She set her fork down with a deliberate clink.
“Okay. Dad. Seriously.” She leaned forward, her hands flat on the table. “Knight of Hell. That’s not… that’s not something you just hand out like a participation ribbon at an extermination. What happened?”
Husk, from his post at the makeshift bar in the corner, snorted into his glass. “Yeah, Your Majesty. Enlighten us. Usually you just pout and make rubber ducks appear when you’re pissed.”
Lucifer shot Husk a dry look but didn’t deny it. He set his own fork down, his expression shifting from casual to something more serious, though a fond light remained in his eyes. He glanced at Alastor, a silent question.
Alastor gave a minute, regal nod. Go ahead.
“Vox touched me, Charlie,” Lucifer said, his voice losing all its theatrical flourish. It was plain, almost quiet, and that alone made the table go still. “At the meeting. Put his hands on me. In front of everyone. A cheap, stupid power play.”
Charlie’s eyes widened. “He what?”
“And I realized,” Lucifer continued, his gaze drifting back to Alastor, “that I wanted someone who could protect what’s mine. Not just my person—that’s easy. But what I care about. The respect owed. I can’t always do it directly. The rules… chafe.” He shrugged again, a helpless little gesture. “Alastor accepted. It’s a trial. He can walk away. But I think it suits him.”
The room was silent except for the distant glorp of the gelatin. Everyone was listening now.
Charlie looked from her father’s earnest face to Alastor’s composed, faintly amused one. She saw the new, subtle sharpness in Alastor’s edges, the way the air around him seemed slightly denser, charged. She remembered the cracked, frozen image of Vox being dragged out. A slow, brilliant smile spread across her face, one of pure, unadulterated joy.
“Well,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. She picked up her glass of pitch-black wine. “If it makes you happy, Dad, then I’m all for it.” She raised the glass high. “To the Knight of Hell.”
Alastor’s grin widened, showing just a hint of fang. He picked up his own glass—crystal, filled with something that smoked faintly. “To the King,” he replied, his voice a smooth, resonant baritone layered with that new, faint harmonic.
Their glasses clinked. The sound was clean and sharp, and for a second, it seemed to ring with a physical vibration that made the cutlery on the table tremble. A visible pulse of golden light, subtle as a camera flash, emanated from the point of contact.
Husk choked on his drink. “The hell was that?”
“A ratification,” Alastor said simply, taking a sip. His shadow, pressed flat against the wall behind Lucifer’s chair, formed two crude, triumphant thumbs-up.
Charlie laughed, a bright, ringing sound that broke the tension. “This is amazing! Does this mean you get a special uniform? Do you have a oath? Oh! Can you smite people now? Actually, don’t answer that.”
Dinner resumed its chaotic flow, but the atmosphere had shifted. The other hotel residents watched the head of the table with a new, wary understanding. This wasn’t just the Radio Demon hanging around anymore. This was something official. Something sanctioned by the throne.
Later, as the plates were being cleared by a hyper-caffeinated Niffty, Alastor felt a gentle, psychic nudge against the new connection. It wasn’t words. It was a question, an invitation, soft as a touch on the wrist.
He looked at Lucifer, who was animatedly telling Charlie about a disastrous attempt to reform a sinner in the 1890s. Lucifer didn’t pause his story, but he met Alastor’s gaze and gave an almost imperceptible wink.
Alastor leaned back in his chair. He focused inward, on that luminous, silent tether. He sent a pulse back down the line. Not a word. Just a sensation: the cool, satisfying weight of the vanished sword in his hand, the memory of white flames. An acknowledgement.
The pulse that returned was warm, approving, and carried the distinct, feeling of a smile.
From the bar, Husk muttered to himself, polishing a glass with more force than necessary. “Great. Now they’ve got their own private frequency. This is so much worse than the pining.”
Angel Dust slithered into the seat next to him. “Aw, c’mon, Whiskers. I think it’s kinda sweet. In a horrifying, world-altering kind of way.” He nodded toward the pair. “Look at Smiles. He’s practically glowing. And not in the ‘I’m-about-to-disembowel-you’ way. In the other way.”
Husk followed his gaze. Alastor was listening to Lucifer, his chin propped on his steepled fingers, his smile genuine and quiet. The constant, low-level broadcast static that usually surrounded him was absent, replaced by a deep, contented silence.
“Huh,” Husk grunted, unwillingly. He couldn’t argue with the evidence. He poured himself another drink. “Just hope they keep the world-altering part to a minimum. This hotel’s got enough structural issues as it is.”
But for now, there was no destruction. Only the soft murmur of conversation, the clatter of dishes, and the fragile, newfound peace that settled over the head of the table, binding a King and his Knight in a silent, glowing pact.
Only the soft murmur of conversation, the clatter of dishes, and the fragile, newfound peace that settled over the head of the table, binding a King and his Knight in a silent, glowing pact. It lasted another twenty minutes before Lucifer stretched, his spine giving a soft pop. “I’m officially fried. If I have to explain the metaphysical entailments of knighthood to Sir Pentious one more time, I’m turning his eggshell into an ashtray.” He stood, his hand brushing the back of Alastor’s shoulder as he passed. “Coming up?”
Alastor watched the retreating form, the invitation hanging in the air. His shadow, pooled on the floor, began sliding after Lucifer of its own accord. He reeled it back with a internal yank, feeling its petulant struggle. “Shortly,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the room. He took a deliberate, slow sip of his drink, proving a point to no one but himself.
He let fifteen minutes pass, flipping idly through a crumbling book on forgotten hellish dialects he’d pulled from a shelf. The words blurred. His awareness was tuned to a single point in the hotel above, that quiet hum of connection like a tuning fork struck and left to vibrate. Finally, he closed the book. The climb up the grand staircase felt different; the hotel itself seemed to acknowledge the shift, the shadows bowing slightly deeper as he passed.
Lucifer’s door was ajar, spilling warm light into the hall. Alastor pushed it open silently. The king’s private chambers were a beautiful disaster—sketches of ducks and intricate gears littered every surface, vibrant waistcoats draped over harp-shaped furniture, and one entire wall was a cascading waterfall of gold coins that never seemed to run out. Lucifer was by the window, having changed into a silk robe, staring out at the neon geometry of Pentagram City.
He didn’t turn. “Took you long enough. I was about to send a formal summons.”
“Patience is a virtue,” Alastor said, closing the door. The latch clicked with finality.
“Good thing I’m not virtuous.” Lucifer turned then, and his smile was tired but real. He looked younger without the crown and the relentless performance. “Today was… a lot.”
“It was efficient.” Alastor wandered to a high-backed armchair upholstered in damson velvet and sat, crossing his legs. He summoned his own book—a first-edition Poe—into his hands, a prop for his feigned nonchalance. The connection in his chest thrummed, warm and insistent, contradicting his posture.
A sharp, rhythmic knocking broke the quiet a moment later. Rap-tap-tappa-tap-tap.
Lucifer’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s Angel’s ‘I-have-gossip’ knock.” He padded to the door and opened it.
Angel Dust stood in the hallway, a bottle of glittering, violet liquor in one hand and a bulging shopping bag from a boutique called ‘Siren’s Call’ in the other. “Hey, your majesty. Saw the light on. Figured you might need a debrief after all that kingly knightly drama. Plus, I come bearing gifts and Absolute bullshit.” He sauntered in without waiting for an invitation.
“Always a welcome sight,” Lucifer said, shutting the door. “Mostly for the bullshit.”
Angel headed straight for the crystal decanters on a sideboard. He poured three generous glasses, the liquid swirling with tiny, captured sparks. He slid one across a low table towards Alastor, who glanced up from his book with a measured look but didn’t touch it. Angel took the other two, walking to the enormous, canopied bed. He flopped onto the crimson covers, making himself at home.
When Lucifer joined him, sitting against the headboard, Angel handed him a glass. They clinked them immediately.
“So,” Angel said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried perfectly across the room. “Husk.”
Lucifer’s eyes lit up. “What about him?”
“He kissed me. Like, actually kissed me. Not a ‘good job surviving’ peck. A real one. After dinner, by the dumpsters out back.” Angel fanned himself dramatically with his lower hand. “I nearly short-circuited.”
“No!” Lucifer gasped, scooting closer. “Details. Now. Was there tongue?”
“Your majesty, please. There was commitment.” Angel snickered, taking a long drink. “Which means I have a date. An actual, potentially-not-ending-in-murder date. Tomorrow. And I need help picking an outfit. My entire wardrobe is screaming ‘one-night stand’ and I need something that whispers ‘maybe a second night, too.’”
He upended the shopping bag onto the bed between them. A cascade of fabric spilled out: a sleek, black jumpsuit with strategic cut-outs; a pair of tailored, pearl-gray trousers; and then, spilling from silken pouches, an assortment of lingerie in lace, silk, and sheer mesh.
Alastor pointedly turned a page in his book. The text described a descent into madness. It felt apropos.
“Ooh, the jumpsuit is a statement,” Lucifer said, fingering the material. “But for a first date with Husk? He’s a traditionalist under all that grump. The trousers. Classy. Lets your natural charm do the work.”
“And the understatement?” Angel waggled his eyebrows, holding up a delicate set of lavender lace.
“Always. The element of surprise is seventy percent of the fun.” Lucifer grinned, picking out a matching bralette and brief set. “This. Under the trousers. He’ll find out eventually.”
Angel beamed, stacking his chosen ensembles. “You’re a genius. My own personal stylist.” He refilled their glasses, then pulled out two foil packets from his pocket. “Face mask time. Gotta de-stress from all this romantic suspense. Porcelain glow or hellfire revival?”
“Porcelain. I’m feeling delicate.” Lucifer took the packet.
“I’ll go get us some proper snacks,” Lucifer said, unfolding himself from the bed. “The good stuff from the hidden stash. No sentient jellies.” He pointed a finger at Angel. “Don’t touch my sketchbook.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, boss.”
The moment the door shut behind Lucifer, Angel’s playful demeanor shifted into something sharper and more knowing. He took a slow sip, his four eyes sliding over to Alastor, who was steadfastly ignoring everything.
“So,” Angel drawled. “The sex must have been spectacular if he’s that relaxed. I haven’t seen him unclench that much since the first rubber duck prototype worked. Good job, Smiles.”
Alastor slowly lowered his book. His gaze was flat, a radio dial clicking off. He didn’t dignify it with a verbal response, just the oppressive silence of dead air. He raised the book again.
Angel wasn’t deterred. He dug through the lingerie still on the bed, pulling out a specific set. It was a deep, arterial red, sheer georgette with black lace edging and thin, delicate straps. He held it up, letting it catch the light.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “this one would look better on you. All that sharp bone structure against the soft fabric. It’d drive the Luci crazy. I mean, visually berserk. Want it?” He fluttered it enticingly.
“No,” Alastor said, without even looking.
Angel shrugged, laying it aside. “Suit yourself. But I happen to know he had a dream about you wearing something exactly like it. Told me about it weeks ago when he was three bottles deep on angelic wine. Very detailed dream. Very.”
Alastor did not move. He did not breathe. The static in the room, which had been absent, returned for a single, fractured second—a high-pitched, fleeting screech of feedback. His eyes cut towards the red fabric puddled on the silk duvet.
He placed his book on the side table. The sound was deliberate and final.
“Not a word of this to anyone,” Alastor growled, his voice a low, staticky vibration that made the crystals in the chandelier shiver. In a movement too quick to follow, he was standing by the bed. He snatched the red lingerie from the covers.
His shadow, which had been blending into the furniture, detached itself. It flowed up his leg, over his hand, and whisked the delicate fabric away into a pocket of fathomless darkness within itself. The act was seamless, a practiced theft from reality.
Angel mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key. “My mouth is a vault. A sexy, glittery vault.”
The door opened and Lucifer breezed back in, arms laden with containers of candied sins and salted soul-chips. “The kingdom provides!” He stopped, looking between them. Angel was applying his face mask with an innocent whistle. Alastor was back in his chair, book in hand, the picture of monastic detachment. “What’d I miss?”
“Nothing, darling,” Angel singsonged, patting the bed beside him. “Just talking about fabric choices. Now help me with this, I think I’ve got it in my hair.”
Alastor turned a page, the ghost of a new, secretive smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His shadow, now curled beneath his chair, pulsed once, a quiet, satisfied beat of crimson against the floor.