Even God Has Regrets; or The Honest Mistake

Better than anyone, Claire knows that life is full of small yet important moments. These are instances in a person's life that alter their path, creating branches and shifting between present and future. In the face of such moments, that individual splits into two personas: who they were before and who they become after.

When Claire was six, she fell through the ice on Clary Pond and died for exactly forty-seven seconds. Before it happened, she was a precocious child with a head full of clever ideas and a love of My Little Pony. She was much the same after it happened, save for one thing: she awoke a future Prophet of God.

Now, what kind of a god makes a six-year-old girl into a prophet, you ask? A desperate one.

Ellie had seen the writing on the wall and suspected Lucifer was coming for Her. The only clue the Fates would give Her was a name and an idea: Claire Elizabeth Rogers, Prophet.

However...the Crone's handwriting had only gotten worse with age and what looked like a "g" was actually a "p" so is it really Her fault, then, that She anointed the wrong one?

---

"It's not like I meant to ruin your life, Claire!"

This isn't a valid argument. Ellies knows that, of course, but it's the best She can do on short notice. If the expression on Claire's face is any indication, though, it's not good enough.

"I was six! I thought I was getting a pony!" Claire throws a plate across the kitchen and Ellie steps aside, pottery shattering as it connects with the dark paneled wall.

"I cannot believe you just threw a plate at ME!" She ducks as a coffee mug follows. "It was an honest mistake, Claire!"

"An honest mistake?" Claire asks, breathless with rage. In that moment, with her red hair wild and her dark eyes manic, Ellie sees Claire's mother in her -- raging Celtic angel of vengeance and all.

"Yes, dammit. The Fates were very vague. All I had was a name. I didn't know exactly who I was looking for!"

"An honest mistake."

Ellie barrels on, unperturbed. "You fell through the ice and your mother begged Me to help. It happened very quickly. I was looking for your name and then there you were. I didn't realize -- not until much later -- that the last name was wrong. The Crone's handwriting..."

"I know," Claire says, the chill in her voice dissipating. "It's worse than the Catholic nuns'."

She nods. "Exactly."

"And it was an honest mistake."

"Of course. Yes."

"And You're very sorry for it."

"YES! You know I am."

"And You regret it."

Ellie pauses, then. She's being led down a treacherous path; She's seen Claire interrogate small children in a similar fashion, all calm waters and sympathy. She knows it's a front.

"And You regret it," Claire says again, the edge back in her voice.

"Well..."

Claire explodes like a box of angry bees. "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!"

Hope, Claire's elderly Grim, disappears and God wishes She could, too. But then, as She's looking for a place to hide, She remembers something vitally important.

She's GOD.

And She's done explaining Herself to a mortal employee.

"ENOUGH!" She bellows, waving Her arms across the kitchen. Silence descends over the house; the broken dishes fix themselves and return to their original positions on the counter. Claire watches with wide eyes, perhaps finally aware of just how ridiculous she's being, of close she's flown to the sun.

"You are a trial, Claire. You are a headache wrapped in shiny packaging and while I absolutely adore you, I do not love you enough to allow your temper tantrum to continue."

She snaps Her fingers and a three ring binder lands on the island between them with a loud resonating thud and the gentlest tinkling of a bell.

"This," She says, pointing to the binder, "is your Prophetic Services Contractual Agreement. You were six when you first signed it and I can see now just how unfair that was. Therefore, I'm giving you a second chance to review its contents." She snaps Her fingers again and a second binder appears, along with a handful of red pens and a bottle of Merlot. "Now, you and I are going to go through this contract -- line by line -- and revise it. Together."

Claire clears her throat, squares her shoulders. "Why do this?" she asks, the earlier violence gone from her voice, though the frown remains. "It's been almost thirty years."

Ellie smiles, bright as the sun, and a confused rooster down the street begins to crow. Hope reappears from wherever it was she disappeared to earlier and plants herself underneath the stool where God sits.

"Because I'm a good business woman, Claire, and I absolutely hate to see My employees unhappy."

"Except for Lucifer."

The smile grows mischievous and Claire, against her own will, finds herself joining in on it. No matter how disgruntled they may become with each other, Claire knew they'd always find common ground in making the Devil's existence a quaint piece of Hell (Hades & Purgatory).

"Except for Lucy."

Claire nods. "I'll get some glasses," she says.

"And the opener," Ellie adds. "I may be God, but I still have to open my wine bottles one cork at a time."

Extra, Extra, Read All About It!

God ignores the sandy-haired angel as he breezes through Her office door with barely a knock to announce his jaunty presence. Instead of paying him any mind, She turns the page of the newspaper in Her hands and continues reading.

"You're ignoring me," Michael says as he sits in the visitor chair across the desk from Her.

"Well," She says, keeping Her eyes glued to the page, "you didn't knock. I see no reason to pay attention to you if you can't even be bothered to knock."

He sighs. "Joan said to go right in..."

"Joan isn't the one sitting at this desk, enjoying Her morning bit of quiet and the newspaper." She looks over the rim of Her unnecessary-but-quite-attractive reading glasses at the archangel. To Her chagrin, he appears nonplussed. "Goddammit, what?"

"I need an answer to a hypothetical question."

She removes the reading glasses so She can actually look at him without feeling lightheaded.(1) "Okay, I'll play along for the moment. What's the question?"

He leans forward so his strong...shapely...handsome forearms rest on the desktop. She forces Herself not to stare at them for more than a second, which is already too long. "What if," he starts, "hypothetically, of course, someone ran against You in the election this term?"

She snorts in a very unGodlike way. "Impossible."

"It's hypothetical, Ellie. Suspend belief for half a second, okay?"

She frowns, rolls Her gorgeous eyes. "Well, it would result in a full campaign on My part, which I've never done since I've always run unopposed."

"But if You had to do it, could You?" he asks, a little too serious for Her liking.

"Run a campaign?" He nods. "I suppose..."

"Good." He pulls a newsletter with the HH&P corporate logo on it from his tunic pocket and hands it to Her.

DEVIL CONSIDERING CANDIDACY IN MID-TERM ELECTIONS

She looks up at Michael, suddenly sick to Her stomach.(2) "But he can't..." She mutters. "The ban I placed on him..."

"Ran out two days ago. I sent you three messages - just yesterday, mind You - to remind You to re-up."

She stares at the headline. "He won't win...he can't."

"We have to make sure, Ellie. Everyone up here already has belief problems brewing downstairs. With the Devil in charge..."

"...Earth would literally go to Hell..."(3)

"Hades and Purgatory, LLC."

She frowns, on the verge of tears. "Fuck."

"Zeus and Jupiter have their hats in Your ring. The Summerlanders and Otherworlders, too."

"What about the 4-H?"

He looks down at the desk. "He's promised them raises and more days on Earth."

She stands, knocking Her chair over with a loud bang that resounds through the office. "He promised them a fucking apocalypse?!" She hollers.

"Three a year."

"Three?!" She slams Her fists down on the desktop, splintering the wood in different directions. "That rat fucking bastard."

"Don't you mean 'that fucking rat bastard'?" he asks.

"Nope."

"Oh." He scrunches his face up in disgust. "Oh."

-----

1. Michael wishes She'd leave them on...then mentally slaps himself for thinking such things about his Boss...THE Boss.

2. She didn't realize immortal beings could get sick to their stomachs...which makes Her hate Lucy even more than She already does.

3. The benefits of partnership: Whatever Lucifer collects, Hades gets part of and vice versa. Dante, however, gets nothing - Purgatory is a silent partner, after all.

The Devil, The Black Dog, & The Triple Goddess Herself

At just past seven, PGC time, the door to Michael's office bangs open, bounces off the wall, and slams shut in the Devil's face. A corner of the newspaper in Michael's hands rolls down and he raises an eyebrow as he stares at the door. Two...three...four...five seconds pass before the door opens again - gently this time - and Lucifer casually steps inside.

"You need to work on your entrances," Michael says, shaking out the newspaper.

"I didn't realize you'd installed looser hinges," Lucifer says, nonchalant as though what just happened didn't, in fact, happen. "So..."

"Did you need something or are you just going around the upstairs offices, banging open doors for kicks?"

Lucifer straightens his tie, unbuttons his blazer, and sits down in the visitor chair with all the flair of an Italian don. "That was a dirty, damn trick you played," he says.

Michael folds up the newspaper, sets it on the desk before leveling a professorial stare at Lucifer. "Come again?" he asks.

"The dog," Lucifer says. Michael says nothing. "The giant beast you sent to Claire's house to keep tabs on her?" Michael continues to stare at him and the Devil visibly squirms in his seat. "The damn thing hates me almost as much as she does, which isn't terribly fair considering she's known me her whole life and the dog's only just met me..."

"Which 'she'?" Michael asks.

He frowns at the archangel. "Claire, Mike. Who else would I be talking about?"

"You're about as charming as a dead reptile, Lucy." Michael chuckles as steam escapes the Devil's ears. "Now, back to your original statement - I have absolutely no clue what you're talking about. Claire's got a dog?"

"Not just a dog, Mike. She's got a grim!"(1)

The hamster wheel in Michael's head spins and he imagines he knows where that very big, very protective dog may have come from. He stands, motions Lucifer out the door.

"She named it after my worst fear," the Devil whines as he follows him out of the office.

This causes Mike to laugh loudly. "She named her Hope?" Lucifer nods, pouting. Mike laughs even louder. "That sounds like something I'd do...I've taught her well!"

*

He wanders the eastern wing until he finds the door he's looking for: SUMMERLAND & OTHERWORLD - It is what you make of it. He knocks twice, then stands back, memories of his last visit to this particular department of the Pearly Gates Corporation.(2)

The Triple Goddess herself opens the door - in Mother form at the moment - and beams a smile brighter than the sun and the moon at him. "Michael! It's been ages!"

"Hello, Diana!"

"Got time for a cuppa?" she asks, standing aside and welcoming him into the offices. He nods, steps inside. He's immediately reminded of the greenhouse attached to Harry and Kate Rogers' house. Terrariums, herbs, wooden slats, and the smell of freshly turned earth. "What brings you to our little nook of the afterlife?" she asks, busying herself with making tea.

"The Devil just informed me that Claire's got herself a grim," he says and Diana looks over her shoulder at him. "A female grim she's gone and named Hope." The grin on the Goddess' face is mischievous and warm. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Di?"

She brings a cup of steaming chamomile to him and, as she typically does, sits on his knee. Pagan goddesses aren't often known for their boundaries. He's honestly surprised she's even wearing clothes, considering how close it is to the summer solstice.(3)

She kisses his forehead. "There are strange times ahead, feathers," she says. "Claire will need all the help she can get."

"A grim, though?"

She shrugs. "She was an older lady, in need of a good home and a little bit of evil to ward off. I figured of all the prophets at home, Claire was most likely to take her in - no questions asked."

"Well, she did just that...and the Devil's terrified of her."

"Of course he is," she says, continuing to grin. "There isn't anything the Devil fears more than a great, big ball of Hope running amok."


(1) Technically, Claire received a Gurt, a Scottish protection dog that wanders the moors and keeps children and travelers safe...but the Devil's a drama queen on his best day, so it makes sense he'd go around hollering "grim" at the top of his magenta lungs.

(2) When the doorman has horns, it's often best to stand as far away from the door as possible. He had to lie about where the black eye had come from for a week, simply because he didn't want to listen to Meta's terrible jokes about him playing hokey pokey with the Goat God.

(3) The first time he met Diana was during Beltane...shortly before she was due to inhabit a maiden...and get chased naked through a corn field. She was decidedly in character at the time. He didn't know where to look without possibly offending her...and Ellie, who'd come along for the mead. 

Owl Slap Some Sense into You...

Jack Hardcourt, record owner extraordinaire, can count the number of sane women he's dated on one hand; even if he lost a finger or two, he could still do it. Perhaps that penchant for crazy is what keeps him from throwing Claire Rogers out of his office.

Or...it could be the smooth legs, round hips, and devilish way the sundress she's wearing clings in all the right places. He is, after all, a dude.

"Run that by me again," he says.

"Rigged election. Devil may win. Apocalypse coming. Need your help."

He nods. "Right, that's what I thought you said." He takes her hand, places it against his forehead. "Am I feverish?" he asks.

She frowns at him - that librarian frown she uses when he's being particularly dense and her patience is wearing thin - but she doesn't move her hand. "In this one instance, Jack, God isn't a hallucination." She slides her hand down the side of his face, rests it against his cheek and runs her thumb along the ridge just below his eye. He feels like he's maybe - just maybe - hit the lottery. "Sorry," she says.

"For what?" he asks, bordering on happy for the first time in at least ten years.

She slaps him. Full on slaps him, hard enough his fillings rattle, and he nearly falls over from shock. When he looks at her, he sees colors and wonders if she knocked something lose in his already pretty frazzled brain; all around her, the air shimmers with colors.

"What the fuck..."

She smiles. "Do you see the colors?" she asks and he nods, transfixed. "Good. That means it worked!"

This focuses him. "What worked?" He moves his jaw, massages the spot where she hit him. It tingles, like pins and needles. "What did you hit me with?"

She shows him her hand; wrapped around her middle finger is a large, silver and dark wood ring he's never seen before. Carved into the dark wood is an owl; it raises an eyebrow as he stares at it and he leans back, immediately freaked.

She grins. "I literally just slapped some sense into you." She looks down at the owl, which has gone back to being still. "Artemis gave it to me for occasions just like this."

He's saved from comment as the bay doors blow open behind them and Claire's Uncle Mike arrives...wearing white linen pants, a white linen tunic, and huge fucking wings. Jack falls over the edge of the desk.

"Jesus Christ, what's with the wings!?"

Michael chuckles, shakes his head. "Don't let the sandals fool you, Jack," he says. "JC isn't nearly this white - or good looking."

Jack's poor mortal brain gives up on him; he passes out, his head hitting the concrete with a thud. Mike grins at Claire, who's glaring at the archangel.

"That sounded hollow to me," he says, laughing.

Claire slaps his wings. "Shut up, buzzard, and help me get him to the couch."

Mimosas, Library Books, and the Realization that God Listens...ALL THE TIME

Claire Rogers loves brunch. She loves being presented with a menu that allows her to order scrambled eggs and hash browns with her cheeseburger and mimosa. God loves brunch, too, but only because of the bottomless mimosas. She rarely drinks anymore, so when the opportunity arises to share a pitcher of champagne and orange juice, She jumps at it. (1)

"I think Lucy's up to something," She says from behind oversized sunglasses. Claire can't tell what She's looking at, but she's pretty sure it isn't her.

"I'm not sure that's an unreasonable suspicion," Claire says. "He is the Devil, after all..."

God frowns...and car alarms go off all across town. "Perhaps I should have clarified - something more devious than his usual bit of mischief."

"Like what?"

She shrugs. A gaggle of college boys pass their table at the sidewalk cafe and three of them stumble over each other as they ogle God's ample bosom, beautifully on display in Her gold and ivory sundress. God lowers Her sunglasses and glares at them with an expression meant to literally put the fear of Her into them.

Claire watches the familiar display with bored eyes, glances down at her own ample bosom on beautiful display. She's more than used to being ignored while in God's company; if anything, she's come to find the invisibility comforting.

"What's Lucy done this time?" she asks, sipping her coffee.

"He borrowed a library book with that temporary card you gave him," She says, replacing Her sunglasses.

Claire eyes her Holy Boss. "Well, then, we should string him up by his horns. How dare he borrow a book...from a library...that he belongs to..."

God once again lowers the sunglasses, appraises Her favorite prophet with cool green and humorless eyes. "Are you quite finished?" She asks.

"Just one more."

"If you must."

"Did he forget to return said book, the rule-breaking, magenta-colored fancy boy that he is?"

That gets God to smile. "I'm being ridiculous," She says with a laugh.

Claire grins, shakes her head. "You're being cautious; there's a difference."

"Maybe he was just looking for something new to read..."

Claire snorts. "Hell no," she says. "The sonovabitch is definitely up to something."

God's expression shows open surprise. "But you just said..."

"I know what I just said. Since when do You listen to a damn thing I say?"

God smiles warmly and the Indian summer sunshine brightens. "I always listen to you, Claire. Even when you think I'm not listening, I still hear you."

Claire looks at Her, catching the subtext and not feeling very comfortable with it. "Does that include..." (2)

"Mm-hmm," She says, taking a long sip of Her mimosa.

"So I probably shouldn't..."

"Best not. Best to keep My name out of it whenever possible." She winks with overdramatic flair, for salacious emphasis. "He seemed like a nice fellow, though, so you're certainly welcome for it."

Claire's cheeks flush red with embarrassment. "Oh sweet Jesus..." she mutters.

"Now, My brother, he's quite oblivious, so feel free to use his name whenever it suits you." God picks up the now-empty pitcher and waves it at the waiter. She turns a vibrant and mischievous smile on Claire. "More mimosas!"

-------------------------
(1) Well, at least She doesn't drink as much anymore. Not since that time...with the mead...and the Devil...She doesn't like to talk about it, though. Poor decisions will get You a lifetime of hangovers and the Earth.

(2) Of course it does. She's everywhere most of the time, which means She hears Her name when you use it. No matter WHERE you use it. Consider that the next time you start yelling Her name at the top of your lungs... 

The Introduction of Hope to the Devil, Lucifer

It's half past six in the evening when a thumping sound on her front porch brings Claire outside and face to face with a large creature. She stares at it, unsure of how to proceed. Sleek black fur, bright blue eyes, and a wagging tail - the source of the thumping sound; the dog is absolutely beautiful, no doubt about it, but Claire's not sure what it's doing on her porch right now. She looks at it and it looks back with those very clever blue eyes, sitting patiently while Claire assess the situation.

A lifetime of oddness makes Claire instantly suspicious.

"And to whom do you belong?" she asks, crouching down to see if the dog has a collar. It doesn't appear to. When she looks it in the eye, its tail wags harder, a rhythmic swish and thump against the old wood of the porch floor. "Are you a good witch or a bad witch?" she asks it.

The dog leans forward and noses her hand, flips it over so her palm faces up. The dog kisses it and the tails swishes and thumps even harder. Claire's clinical, rational, suspicious - highly suspicious - brain melts; she scratches its ears.

"She suits you," a familiar voice says from the yard and Claire stands, startled. The dog turns to look at the intruder and a slight mohawk of fur rises on its - correction, on her back.

"A gift from you, I presume?" Claire asks the Devil. A low growl starts in the dog's chest. Claire looks down at her, surprised. She settles her hand on the black head beside her. "Not at all from you."

Lucifer shakes his head. "Not, indeed. I'd wager a guess she's another one of Michael's housewarming gifts."

He steps forward, cautiously, and the dog's growl intensifies. Claire feels like she's vibrating from the sound of it. Lucifer smiles. "A blessed well AND a guard dog. He must truly care about you, Claire."

She eyes him, unafraid but uneasy. "Okay, Lucy - how about you stop acting like a Bond villain and either tell me what you need or get the Hell out of here."

He frowns at her, taken aback. "Are you always so damn difficult?"

"With you, yes."

"Why is that?"

"Because you're Satan and I don't really like you all that much." She smiles sweetly at him.

His frown deepens. "Well that's not terribly nice." He takes another step towards the porch, forgetting momentarily about the guard dog. Her growl echoes around them and he freezes. "It would appear she doesn't like me all that much, either."

Claire smiles down at the dog, who looks up at her with adoration and wags her tail. "She really does suit me, then, doesn't she?" She looks at the Devil. "You were going away, I believe."

He sighs, pulls a red library card - the one she'd given him as a temporary replacement for his own lost card a few months earlier - from his coat pocket and sets it on the bottom step, visibly flinching when the dog lowers her head to glare at him while he moves. Claire bites down a laugh - the Antichrist, reduced to a flinching mess before a black lab.

"I'm just returning that, as promised."

Claire nods. "How very responsible of you."

They watch as the card evaporates in a puff of grey smoke. The dog eyes it herself, curious, her head cocked to the side as she watches the smoke shift and rise.

"Give Hades my regards, please," Claire says.

"Of course," Lucifer responds, all business and professional. "And please tell Michael I said hello the next time you see him. Pass along my compliments on his choice of protection." He stares at the dog, who stares back with those crystal blue eyes. "Have you thought of a name?"

"What scares you the most, Lucy?" she asks.

He pauses to think about it. Eventually, he gives her an answer: "Hope...and small children."*

Claire grins, looks down at the dog. She wags her tail happily. "Well then, Hope it is."

*It's always wise to be scared of small children...even if you're the Devil.

So THAT'S where the Kraken came from...

God's had a bad day when:

1. She screws with the Baptist office managers by telling them Christmas will be celebrated in July from this point forward.


2. Not even a bear hug from Artemis cheers Her up.


3. She makes an office-wide decree that only She's allowed to wear gold on Tuesdays, which means the Romans have to rethink their entire wardrobes.


4. She directs all the new hires to St. Nikolaus, telling them he's actually God.


5. She throws a temper tantrum when She runs out of wine and Jesus refuses to help out.

"Seems a little like overkill to me..."

"No one asked your opinion, Mike."

"Just sayin', Ellie...the kraken's a bit much for this modern day crowd."

The Original Dragonslayer

Once upon a time, in a little village named Antioch, Margaret was born to a pagan priest who thought the Christians were crazy.(1)

Feeling rebellious upon her thirteenth birthday, Margaret renounced her father's pagan beliefs and told anyone who would listen that she planned to get on the Christianity bandwagon and ride it to the promised land. He banned her to the countryside, where she tended to sheep and did well to stay out of trouble.

Unfortunately, while walking through fields of gold, her ginger hair caught the eye of a local governor who proposed marriage to her.(2) He said he'd protect her and her sheep and all she had to do was give up her Christian beliefs. Margaret, having decided that this particular member of the male species was just this side of evil, decided to keep her faith and turned him down. The good governor was infuriated with Margaret and so subjected her to a series of cruel tortures.

The worst of these was the arrival of the Devil, disguised as a dragon, who, having missed lunch earlier in the day, gobbled Margaret up whole.

At which point, God rained down miracles upon Her most favorite of Antioch virgins - best of which was the sword Margaret found in the dragon's stomach. She rationalized, while she stared at the sword in the dragon's belly, that swinging a sword could be no more difficult than swinging an ax and so she hefted the broadsword and cut her way out.

This display of ingenuity did not, however, save Margaret from an unpleasant beheading at the hands of her scorned governor. She's quoted as saying on the morning of her imminent demise, "I should have just stayed in the damned dragon. At least I would have kept my head."

***

"So he ate you whole?" Claire asks.

"Yup. Swallowed me like a jagged little pill."

"And you found a sword in his belly?"

St. Margaret nods. "Nice and tidy, sitting there waiting for me. I always wondered if God knew what was in store and made sure he ate that swordsman earlier in the day."

"And then you cut your way out of him?"

She uses her butter knife to demonstrate. "Slit a nice big hole in him and strutted out like Kate Moss taking the runway."

"What did he do?"

"Pulled himself together and ambled off to eat someone else. I kept the sword."

"What did the governor do?"

"Had me beheaded, the prick." She takes a sip of tea, nods her approval.

"Seems a little extreme, even for a governor."

"Well, he always was a tad over dramatic, much like the Devil."

"And what about the Devil?"

"What about him?"

"Do you ever sit down and have coffee with him? Cup of tea?"

Margaret shakes her head. "I avoid him like the plague he is." She takes a cookie from the plate between them, uses it to point at Claire. "And I'm not terribly impressed by reptiles, either."

---

(1) Margaret now admits that her Father may have had a point...
(2) Actually, he called her Ginger Witch...and then proposed marriage to her as an apology when she knocked him off his horse with her shepherd's staff.

Welcome Home, Claire

I'd thought that WordPress would be a pretty good change of pace for Claire...and then life got chaotic and it turned out I left Claire and her friends there to rust.

When God started to complain about being put in a corner, I couldn't take it anymore and, well, here we are. Back where we started. It honestly feels like reuniting with a lost loved one, an estranged best friend, or maybe the tiny version of me I keep forgetting about.

Whatever it may feel like to you, dear reader, I can promise that we're all here to stay. Welcome back to the Pearly Gates.

Oh, and welcome home, Claire. It's so good to see you again.

-Meg

Remember that Time the Demons Went on Strike?

If it hadn't been for inflation, the Devil could have bribed them.

“The little buggers know too much,” Lucifer says as he slides into the chair next to Hades at the bar. Hooves, the only establishment open during the day in the Lower Levels, is nearly empty. Not surprising, considering it’s Halloween on Earth.

“Of course they do – that’s one of the reasons you pay them so poorly,” Hades says, ordering a whiskey sour for the Devil. The zombie behind the bar, a pleasant fellow named Greg, nods slowly and shuffles over to the line of liquor bottles along the back of the bar.

“I don’t pay them to blackmail me, Hades.”

Hades chuckles under his breath, shakes his head. “Perhaps if you paid them a real wage, instead of a handful of souls every few weeks, you wouldn’t be in this position.”

“Greg, focus!” The zombie looks up from the arm he’s just ripped off a paying customer, his rotting teeth halfway to the flesh of its forearm. He nods, sets the arm down on the bar, and sets about pouring Lucifer’s drink.

“They couldn’t have picked a worse time,” Lucifer says. “It’s Halloween – I need them downstairs, wreaking havoc and scaring small children all over the globe.” He feels a tapping on the back of his hand, looks down to see the recently detached arm calling for his attention. He turns to the woman who lost it a few moments ago. “Madame, if you’d be so kind…” She retrieves it, settles it back into her shoulder socket, and goes back to her conversation.

Greg drops the whiskey sour in front of him and frowns, mumbles something unintelligible, then shuffles away.

“What do the boys want?” Hades asks.

Lucifer pulls a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket, slides it over to his business partner. “It’s a list of their demands,” he says at Hades’ questioning look. “Make sure you take a look at the signature on the bottom.”

Hades opens the sheet, reads it over. His head pops up when he’s finished, his eyes wide. “She didn’t.”

“She did.”

“Wow…”

“Two thousand years running and those jerks have been perfectly happy getting souls every week. Never asked for another thing. Now I get a list of demands and a strike notice within twenty-four hours of their first HR meeting with Hers truly.” He slings the whiskey sour back in one gulp, throws the glass at Greg, who catches it simply by turning to the side and allowing it to land in his hollowed out rib cage.

“You’ve always said the two of you can’t get along…”

“She stole my demons on Halloween, Hades. This requires retribution.”

Hades sighs, rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “I’m going to regret asking you this, but what kind of retribution were you thinking?”

Lucifer turns a terrifying, toothy grin on his business partner. His irises have gone a violent shade of magenta and there’s smoke rising from his pointy ears. “Vengeful retribution.”

“That’s mildly redundant…” Hades starts, but he’s unable to finish.

Lucifer jumps up from his chair and throws his arms up in the air, startling Greg in the process. The zombie topples to the floor as Lucifer’s body swells to a size twice as large and far more purple than before.

“Vengeance will be mine!”

He sprints off, away from the bar, and Hades shakes his head as he watches him disappear through the door. He leans over the bar to check on Greg.

“You okay, buddy?” he asks.

“Urghdmanadamam,” Greg mutters and Hades nods.

“Ridiculous, I know.” He sit down, finishes his sea breeze. “Two thousand years of being the Goddamn Devil and he’s still just as big a drama queen as he was the day I met him.”

The Pearly Gates Corporation Staff Cordially Invites You...

TO: PEARLY GATES CORP. STAFF

RE: ARMAGEDDON

Recently, it has come to My attention that We are falling behind schedule on the repair work to the universe, specifically Earth. I see that We failed to meet the deadline for planning improvements set about three hundred years ago and that We have yet to actually schedule a Planning Committee meeting. As such, please take note: life on Earth will end in precisely nine years and three months (as measured in Earthly time) as this date is just shortly before the warranty is up.

Additionally, you are allowed one guest. Prophets, lower angels, and all minions must be pre-approved and must have appropriate supervision to enter the Conference Center – no exceptions (YES, LUCIFER, THIS INCLUDES YOU).

Please be on time the morning of the apocalypse and remember to sign in at the front. Lunch will be provided; eye protection will not. We look forward to seeing you all.

Please forward all correspondence regarding this upgrade to the attention of Metatron.

Regards,

God

Throwing Stones in Glass Houses...Er...Libraries

The Library is empty, as usual, which makes it an excellent place to regroup. Claire tugs on Michael's sleeve and they slip through the open door, closing it quietly once they're inside.

She takes a deep breath, leans against the nearest shelf, and closes her eyes. It's been, to put it mildly, a hell of a day. She's cataloging her grievances with her Boss when a book bounces off the top of her head and lands on the floor by her feet.

"Books have a thing for you," Michael says, bending down to pick up the medium-sized tome. Claire rubs the spot on her head where it landed. "They like to meddle," he says and hands her the book with a cryptic smile.

She takes it, frowns as she reads the title. "Oh for the love of..." It's a first edition printing of a Jane Austen novel. She turns to glare at the bookshelf and it seems to shrug, as if to say, Who? Me? She turns back to glare at Michael. "Jack and I are friends, Mike. Have been for awhile now." She looks down at the book, flips to the title page. "That's all it is."

"Oh boy," Michael says. "You've got a thing for him, too." Claire looks up sharply from the book; the archangel's grin is far too smug for her liking.

"For Jack?!" she asks, her voice shrill.

"Yup."

Her cheeks color. "I do not have a thing for Jack."

Michael's grin widens. "You've got a thing for the record store owner!"

She scowls, throws the book at him. It smacks him in the chest with a loud thud and lands on the floor once again.(1)

"We're in the middle of stopping an apocalypse; there are angels and demons running amok down the hall from God Herself, and you want to hide in a library and discuss my love life?"

He shrugs. "Sure."

Her shoulders slump. "I've got a thing for a Jack." She picks up the book, points at him. "But keep your mouth shut or I'll tell Ellie you've got a thing for Her."

"Hey now," he says, holding up his hands, "we're talking about you."

"Nooo," Claire says, drawing out the word, "you were talking about me. I'm talking about you. And Ellie. Having a thing." She wiggles her fingers for emphasis.

He turns, looks at the door. "We should definitely get going. We've got an apocalypse to stop." He frowns, ruffles his feathers. His face becomes stern. "No sense wasting time in a library."

"I waste time in a library everyday."

He sighs and the stern expression drops. "I'm not going to win this one, am I?"

"Nope."

"Shouldn't have even started it, should I?"

"Nope." She tucks the book away on the shelf behind her, carefully finding the right spot within her own numbering system. (2) "We need to find our wayward companions," she says. "Otherwise, the world goes boom, I lose my job, and Ellie rips your wings off."

Michael pauses at the door. "You realize that even if we stop the apocalypse, all of that could still happen?"

"Not the boom, though."

"Right. So just the unemployment and loss of wings."

"One issue at a time, Mike." She pats him on the cheek. "One issue at a time."



(1) Jane Austen would be appalled at Claire's treatment of her novel. Which is why Claire makes a mental note to mention it the next time she sees her at book club.

(2) Dewey ain't got nothin' on Claire Rogers.

The Devil and Ms. Rogers

“Even in August, midnight in Maine shouldn’t be this fucking hot,” Claire mutters into the darkness beyond her back porch. She pulls her thin t-shirt away from her sweat-soaked skin, rests her glass of quickly melting ice against the side of her neck. She feels trails of water make their way south, imagines they hiss and steam against her warm skin, like water dropped into a hot pan.

The heat rolled in three days earlier, the humidity right behind it, and according to the spindly, unattractive weatherman on the morning news who reminds her of Satan himself, there’s no respite in sight. She hasn’t slept in three days, hasn’t been able to brush her hair thanks to the uncontrollable frizz. If it wasn’t for the lake full of cold, mountain fed water down the road, she’d most likely have turned to a puddle of goo on the hardwood floor of her living room by now.

“Am I in Hell?” she wonders aloud. She pinches her exposed skin just to make sure she isn’t. It hurts just as much as it should, which means she isn’t downstairs but is, instead, stuck in a New England weather pattern…which might just be the same thing.

“Thermostat’s broken.”

The voice comes from behind her, from the kitchen of her tiny cottage, and she jumps at the sudden intrusion, drops the glass in her hand. It shatters against the stone steps, ice and shards disappearing into the night. She whirls on the intruder, feels a fleeting moment of panic when she realizes who it is. But then she takes in the ugly Hawaiian shirt, designer linen pants, and knobby toes sticking out of leather sandals and her panic turns to amusement – and disdain.

“Lucy, I thought we agreed you wouldn’t just pop in, unannounced.”

The Devil smiles wide and shrugs, shoulders moving up and down and making the garish purple flowers on his shirt seem alive. “What can I say, Claire? Nobody expects the Devil.”

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,”(1) she says, standing. “Pretty much everybody expects you.”

His smile droops, his lips becoming almost pouty. It’s a strange expression on his pointed face, nearly as disturbing as the Hawaiian shirt.

“Despite the fact that I adore you, Claire, you can be unpleasant at times.”

“And you’re Satan. Standing in my kitchen.” She motions for him to move aside – which he does with a knowing smirk – and she edges past him into the house. She turns her back on him for a moment, just to open a cabinet and retrieve another glass and fill it with ice, and by the time she turns back around he’s found a pile of her mail and is going through it.

“Congratulations on a clear pap smear,” he says, reading from a letter. “What’s a pap smear?”

Claire, mortified, snatches the paper from his hand and frowns her most severe Librarian frown at him. He withers just a bit.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “It makes you look like one of the Crones…it’s terrifying.”(2)

“Did you come by to insult me or do you want something in particular?” she asks.

“So I have to want something to come see you?” He sounds offended; Claire knows better.

“It’s a million degrees outside and I’m low on patience.” She rests the glass against her cheek. “If you’ve got a point, make it soon. Otherwise, you’re getting holy water in the face.”

“I thought we were friends,” he says.

“You’ve got to be kidding me with this,” she mutters, shaking her head. “One minute,” she says, holding up a finger. “That’s how long you’ve got to tell me why you’re here.”

“Or what?” he asks, lips curling into a decidedly devilish smile. “I don’t see any holy water anywhere.”

Claire turns to the sink and twists the tap on, lifts the sprayer, and turns back around to hit the loose tails of his shirt with water from the nozzle. It hisses when it hits the fabric and Lucy screams like a little girl who’s just been confronted by a bug.(3)

“What the fuck is that?!”

Claire smiles, slow and wide, keeps the nozzle pointed at him. “Mike’s house warming gift,” she says. “He blessed the well.”

Lucy’s skin takes on a magenta hue and Claire, knowing what’s coming, sprays him in the chest to prevent him from Hulking out in her kitchen. He screams again, beats at the smoke rising from his ugly shirt. It’s just the distraction he needs; his skin returns to its normal shade of pale.

“I can do this all night, Lucy,” she says. She puts just enough pressure on the sprayer handle for water to dribble out and onto the floor. “Let’s try this again: what do you want?”

He looks up from his shirt. “Goddammit, I just bought this shirt.”

“Lucy…” she warns.

“I need your help.”

“I somehow doubt that.” She points to the door with the sprayer. “Go home.”

He stares at her, his jaw slack and the holes in his shirt smoking. He looks pitiful, which is quite a feat for the so-called Prince of Darkness.

“I asked Ellie, but She told me I was on my own. You’re my last resort, Claire. I don’t know who else to ask.”

“You’re the Devil, Lucy. What the hell could you possibly need my help with?”

His cheeks turn pink, not magenta but pink. He looks embarrassed. “Ilostmylibrarycard,” he mumbles.

Claire’s confused. “What did you say?”

“My library card,” he says, loud and clear. “I lost it.”

“Your library card?” He nods. “You broke into my house in the middle of the night because of a goddamn library card?” He nods again. She stares at him a second longer; then, with the sprayer still in hand, she reaches up and takes a cookie tin down from the top of the refrigerator. She opens it, shuffles through the contents.

“Pecan Sandies?” he asks, surprised. “I always took you for a grasshopper girl.”

“I’m full of surprises,” she says. She pulls out a stack of green cards wrapped in an aging red rubber band. “I’ll give you a temporary card,” she says, taking one from the stack. She lays the sprayer hose over the crook of her elbow and pulls a gold pen from the tin. “Minerva will let you use it for a little while, but you need to find your original.” She prints LUCIFER in large, block letters on the top line, checks the box for restricted access.

He looks over her shoulder. “Restricted access?” he asks, indignant.

Claire hands him the card, carefully avoiding his fingers. “You haven’t used your library card in years,” she says. “You must want access to something you’re most likely not supposed to have access to if you’re slumming it on the mortal plane. So yes, restricted access, and don’t give me any shit about you being the Devil and whatnot. I’m the librarian – I can restrict your access as I see fit.”

He frowns at her. “I just wanted something to read.”

“I know your preferences for non-fiction novels and the like,” Claire says, grinning. “But you’re also prone to episodes of romantic literature and Ellie’s mentioned to me just how uncomfortable that makes Her.” Her grin widens. “She says it gives you ideas.”

He pouts for the second time this evening. “Only good ones.”(4)

“That’s a matter of opinion.” She points the sprayer at him once more. “Now, get out of my house before I do the Underworld a favor and light your ugly ass shirt on fire.”


(1) That's half true. Some people expect the Spanish Inquisition...they're called historians. And anyone who's ever seen Monty Python...

(2) The three Crones. The Fates. He's mostly afraid of them because they share an eye and run around with scissors. He thinks one might have something to do with the other.

(3) A wee little girl. With pigtails. And pink Maryjanes.

(4) Nope. Not even a little bit.

Things One Shouldn't Say When Meeting God for the First Time

Okay. So you've died and gone to Heaven, Incorporated and you're meeting God for the first time. You're about to have your entire belief system marginally blown out of the water and the greatest thing about God is that She gets it. You're expecting an old white dude with a long beard and flowing robe and instead you get a gorgeous woman with caramel skin and green eyes who fills out a toga in a way that makes you think earthly women need lessons. She understands all that because She's God and She knows how you think - knows what you're thinking - and loves you all the same.

That doesn't mean She appreciates the oggling, or the dead fish impressions, or the occasional attempt at an exorcism.(1) She may be a deity and may put Her sandals on differently in the morning (2) but that doesn't mean She isn't just like everyone you've ever met before in your tiny little earthly life.

To save yourself a long stay in a spectacularly warm room, though, it's recommended that you never voice the following five things when first meeting God. Trust us; with advice like this, you may actually get out of the DMV even after you've died.

1. "Are You sure You're God?"

Oh boy, is She sure. She's so absolutely positive about being God that She'd like to prove it to you. Just pay close attention while She smites your ass.

2. "Do you know Jesus/Jimi Hendrix/Any other dead person you've always wanted to meet?"

Yup. She does. She has lunch with a whole lot of dead people on a daily basis and Jesus is Her half-brother. Does She want to talk to you about them? Hell no. Why's that? Because you've just died and your naughty/nice list has appeared in Her inbox with a definite slant towards the former. You've got bigger things to worry about at the moment.

3. "What's Hell really like?"

It's hot. And there are demons. And if you're really unlucky, you work for Satan. Any other stupid questions?

4. "So. Garden of Eden."

How about the next time you royally screw up in your life, we all just knock on your door and remind you of it? What's that? You died while antagonizing a buffalo on the side of the road? Haha, wow...let's talk about that constantly for the next hundred or so years...

5. "Can I get in contact with my dead relatives and/or friends?"

This is a completely valid question. Who wouldn't want to see their deceased loved ones when they've finally arrived in the afterlife? But don't ask God.(3) She isn't the tour guide, She's the President. Do you think the President knows where all the bathrooms are in the White House? Find a docent wearing a blue blazer and ask all the questions you can manage - they love it when you bother them incessantly.

So there you go. A quick and dirty guide to your first few moments in the Pearly Gates Corporation. Remember to look at the wall maps so you'll always know where you are. There are all sorts of interesting hallways to travel down...however, some of them lead to rooms full of nasty things like classrooms.



(1) She thought for the first few years of Her tenure at Heaven, Inc. that saying "I cast you out, demon!" was just how the Baptists said hello.

(2) Her sandals have wings. Have you ever tried to put on sandals sporting tiny wings on their sides? No? Then stop judging.

(3) Honestly, She loves this question. Nine times out of ten, She'll even help you find them. Unless they're downstairs, in which case She'll have Gabriel help you find them.

The Perilous Case of the Exploding Minion (er...Demon)

It's nearly two in the morning when the lamp on Claire's bedside table flickers on and the very much asleep Prophet of God mumbles something about shutting off the moon. She does not, however, wake up.

The light gets stronger, brighter, causing Claire's eyelids to flutter open and a frown to appear on her normally impassive face. She turns the lamp off, smiles once more, and rolls away from it, buries her head under a mountain of blankets and pillows - just in case it decides to try it again.

The lamp, not to be out manuevered, turns itself back on and tips over onto the bed.

"Dirty billards," Claire says, pulling herself out from under the blankets and pillows. "Talk about a fire hazard." She turns the lamp off once again.

"Oh good," a feminine voice says from the doorway to the bedroom and Claire starts, falls out of bed in a heap of bare limbs and mismatched socks. God grins at her and waves. "You're up."

***

God at least has the decency to make Claire coffee and breakfast while She explains why She's suddenly appeared in the prophet's apartment. The unfortunate side of it, however, is that God can't, for the afterlife of Her, make a decent cup of joe. She can create planets, explode stars, make life, and even get jiggy with it, but She's an utter failure at coffee making.

Claire takes a tentative sip, grimaces when the bitter liquid hits her tongue with the same flavor reserved for batter acid. God looks at her expectantly.

"Well?" She asks.

"I think You're getting a little better at it," Claire says, setting down the cup. "This tastes more like acid and less like sludge." God frowns, setting off car alarms all down the block, and Claire sighs. "Why are You here?" she asks. She hazards a glance at the clock on the stove and wishes almost immediately that she hadn't. There are single digits...low single digits...glaring at her in green light. "Better yet, why are You here three hours before sunrise on a Saturday."

"How do you feel about Florida?"

"The same way You feel about Hell."

God's pout becomes more pronounced. "I'm having a little problem with a demon down there."

Claire sips her coffee without thinking and regrets it. "So call an exterminator," she says. "I tell people about You, convince them to play for the side of good. I do not get rid of demons in swamps."

"It's in Miami."

"Semantics."

God stares at her for a moment and Claire stares right back. She learned a long time ago, when she first became a prophet, that the best way to keep God from bossing you around was to look Her in the eye and stand your ground.

"I'll fly you first class and spring for a suite."

There's only so much ground one can stand when faced with fluffy towels and free champagne.

***

Gabriel, dressed in short khakis and a Hawaiian shirt and sporting a thick, black mustache on his tanned face, meets Claire at her hotel. Sort of. He lands on her balcony, knocks on the door, and scares the shit out of her. She's expecting Michael, so the sudden appearance of God's right-hand-angel throws her for a loop.

Claire opens the sliding door. "Magnum P.I. called," she says. "He wants his shirt and mustache back."

He frowns, smooths down the mustache. "I'm sure that would be hilarious if I knew who this Magnum person was."

Claire hides a grin and shakes her head. "Nice to see you, Gabe."

"Somewhat the same, Claire." He motions over his shoulder. "Shall we get on with it? I have a bridge game with Hermes and Shiva in three Earthly hours and if I'm late, Shiva destroys my cards. He literally destroys them."(1)

"Do you know where we're going?" she asks.

"She mentioned something about a crackhouse..."

***

God gets confused with Earthly references. What She thought was a crackhouse was actually a house cracked in half by a recent hurricane. And the demon, who God told her was evil and terrible and would most likely suck her soul if given the chance, was actually an adorable little boy with an afro and a grin that lit up the cracked house.

"That's a small child," Gabriel says, confused.

"Your observation skills are getting better."

"What's up, Heaven Ink?" the little boy says, his grin widening even more. There's a flash of white teeth - white, pointed, very sharp teeth - and the illusion of him being simply a child is vaporized. "You the po-po?"

"Do you have a name?" Claire asks.

"Razul."

Recognition hits Claire with an animated background and lots of bright colors.(2) She can't help it - she laughs.

The little boy grows in size, proves he's definitely NOT a little boy, and Gabriel seems to shrink a little, hides behind Claire. (3)

"Don't laugh at the demon, Claire," he hisses.

"Yeah, lady, it ain't nice to laugh at demons!"

Claire's spent time in a vault with the Devil, has had lunch with Hades, and grew up with her mother. She doesn't scare easily, especially when faced with a lower level demon wearing a Sponge Bob Squarepants t-shirt. She rolls her eyes. "Just do your thing, Gabe. I'm hot, I'm tired, and there's a huge jacuzzi tub in my hotel suite calling my name."

"You're such a mortal," he says and pushes back the hair on his forearms like sleeves.(4)

***

God pops into Claire's hotel room three hours after Gabriel does his thing and disintegrates the little demon. Gabe's back in the Penthouse and She's all smiles. Meanwhile, Claire's still picking pieces of demon from her curls.

"Two things: first, that was horrible. You should have told me Razul was a little boy."

"Technically, his coporeal form is a little boy. He's actually a three foot tall green thing with scales and the disposition of a rattlesnake."

Claire pauses in her de-demoning long enough to throw an icy frown in God's direction. "Second, You could have warned me that when you blow those damned things up, they have a ridiculously huge blast radius."

God rolls Her green eyes. "Oh please, Claire. It was just a little coporeal form explosion. Think of it as blowing away the fluffy part of a dandelion."

"Dandelions do not have horns and tails and a definite dislike of being exploded!" She combs a piece of demon from her hair and flings it in God's direction, where it lands on Her pristine white linen pants with a sad squelching noise.

"These are brand new, Claire," She says, Her voice borderling whining.

"I'm not even sure why You sent me down here. Gabriel did all the work."

"Did he?"

"He's the one who blew up Razul." She points to her hair. "I just collected the evidence of it."

"There are bad things coming, Claire. The more exposure you have to them, the better prepared you'll be."

"So the apocalypse is going to be full of exploding demon children?"

God sighs, hides Her face behind Her hands. "You have a gift for missing the point." Claire flings another piece of demon at Her. It lands in Her afro and even God has a difficult time not being disgusted. "Spot on with the demon pieces, though."



(1) Shiva the Destroyer...of all things fun. See here.

(2) Razul, as in the guard from the Disney movie "Aladdin". As in the fat guy with the satanic goatee...who also happens to be a demon in the shape of a little boy with a huge afro. Claire loves when her life takes a turn for the truly strange - it's so different from her usual state of weirdness.

(3) The only thing in the universe Gabriel could hide behind is Zeus. And Zeus makes a Buick look small.

(4) Gabriel is one hairy mofo.

Little Lucy's Coffee and Soul Emporium

Michael finds himself late to lunch on most occasions. It's usually a normal excuse, like too much work or God has him running errands She can't convince Metatron to do, but sometimes it's just plain laziness. Like today. He could have gotten up from his chair at lunchtime and made it down before they closed the kitchens, but he just didn't feel like it. So instead of the meatloaf special (which he wasn't really looking forward to, anyway), he's eating a stale danish and drinking hours old coffee. Because it's so quiet in the lunchroom, though, he's actually enjoying it.

Until Lucifer shows up and decides to ruin Michael's party by sitting down at the table with him.

"Did you miss lunch, too?" Michael asks, carefully avoiding subjects on which the Devil might feel obligated to expound.(1)

"As a matter of fact, I did." He points to the meager meal in front of Michael. "Is any of that good?"

"The coffee ate the spoon about three minutes ago and I think I chipped a tooth on the danish, but overall it isn't the worst thing I've ever eaten."

Lucifer stares at him a beat longer before getting up from the table and disappearing into the kitchen. When he reappears a few minutes later, he has a fresh pot of coffee in one hand a plate with bread, cheese, and fruit piled high on it in the other. He sets them in the middle of the table and grabs two cups before sitting down again.

"It ain't loaves and fishes, but it'll do in a pinch," he says, pouring out fresh black coffee.

Michael inhales a waft of steam from his coffee cup, quirks an eyebrow. "Why, Lucy, I do believe this coffee smells like brimstone."

Lucifer inhales, takes a large sip. "Indeed it does, angel. And it tastes like despairing souls, as well."

"Manufacturing coffee now, are we?" Michael asks, sipping his coffee slowly. He doesn't think it'll have any adverse effects on him, but all the same - if the Devil brewed it, there's no telling what it's capable of.

Lucifer shrugs, leans back in his chair. He looks casual and comfortable in a well-tailored linen suit and light blue oxford shirt, sans tie. Michael glances around the edge of table, finds his suspicions confirmed - boat shoes, no socks, incredibly hairy ankles.

"We just had a handful of Colombian drug lords arrive downstairs. Terrible people, definitely headed for the barraks in the Pit of Despair Wing, but goodness do they know how to make a cup of coffee."

"Getting fashion tips, as well, I see," Michael says with a smirk.

Lucifer grins, the flash of sharp, white teeth somewhat subdued by his attire. "They spend eternity in purple jumpsuits," he says. "I just can't see throwing out a perfectly good set of linen suits." He holds both of his hands up, five fingers on one and two on the other. "Seven of them, Mike. Seven."

"Got anything in a forty-four long?" Michael asks.

"Not with them, but there's a crew of mobsters arriving from Miami in the evening - I'm sure I could rustle up something for you."

Michael nods. "Ellie's always bugging me to dress better."

"I'm not one to usually agree with Her Grand Self, but togas are a little outdated."

"Damn comfortable, though." He stands, sways his hips, and the fabric around his legs sways. "Not to mention breezy." He reclaims his chair.

"I'm not sure that image will ever leave me," Lucifer says.

"Let me add to it by telling you I'm footloose and fancy free."(2)

Lucifer cringes. "Yup. That did it." He taps his temple. "Burned in there forever and ever." He finishes his coffee, takes a hunk of bread and cheese, a handful of grapes. He stands. "Thanks for the conversation, Mike," he says.

"No problem, Lucy. Thanks for the coffee."

The Devil nods, disappears into the hallway. Michael sits and finishes his coffee, is just pouring himself a second cup when God and Saint Rita(3) arrive in the lunchroom. Rita is all smiles under her habit. She waves at Michael, practically skipping across the room to his table. He's always had a soft spot for Rita - he likes a woman who refuses to see anything but possibility.(4)

"We just passed Lucy in the hallway," Ellie says, sitting down across from the archangel. "I hate to say it, but he looked good in that suit."

"Spoils of the Colombian drug war," Michael says. He motions to the pot of coffee, which is still steaming. "Coffee?"

"Did the Magenta Misfit make it?" Ellie asks.

"He did, indeed. He could have a second career as a barrista if things don't work out for him as the Root of all Evil." He sips his coffee, hums with approval. "Little Lucy's Coffee and Soul Emporium. It's a bargain."

Ellie pulls a face, something between amusement and disgust. "I think I'll pass. We both know what happened the last time I drank something he'd made."

Rita sits down, pours herself a cup of coffee, and takes a sip before anyone can stop her. She stares down at the cup. "Lord, this is amazing. You mean to tell me the Devil himself made this?" she asks.

"Seems impossible, right?" God asks before She can stop Herself.

Rita pours herself more coffee. "No one likes a smartass, Dia."




(1) Like who his favorites are on the most recent season of American Idol. Michael's never been a fan of pop music, but he can appreciate a good, upbeat song as much as the next person (with wings). American Idol, though, offends his punk rocker sensibilities. It would figure the Devil would endorse it.

(2) He forgot to do laundry (which means he forgot to leave his laundry out for the cherubs to do), so he's currently commando. Buckwild. Naked under his clothes. Do I really need to go on?

(3) St. Rita, Patron Saint of the Impossible. Those days when you just don't think your skinny jeans will contain your not so skinny ass but they do? St. Rita. You wake up with fifteen minutes to get ready and eat breakfast and you still make it into work on time and looking fabulous? Yup, St. Rita. She's pretty much the shit.

(4) Sometimes, he wishes she'd rub off a little on Ellie. And then he reminds himself that he's not supposed to be in love with his boss...especially since his boss is THE BOSS.

Cupcakes and Communion

Dedicated to my dad in honor of Father's Day. "Harry Rogers" never would have existed were it not for Arthur Hunt.

Come to think of it, neither would I. :)

* * *

Harry Rogers never pictured himself a father.

When he first married Katharine, they discussed the possibility of children in the future. While the idea terrified him (truthfully, it left him pale and shaken with an appetite for scotch he didn't fully comprehend), he told his wife - whom he loved truly, madly and very deeply - he'd consider it.

She gave him seven years to consider it before she dropped it in his lap with a large smile and a Father's Day card in the middle of October. He remembers opening the card, reading the 'congratulations' scrawled inside it, and feeling a bubble of pure joy work it's way up his throat.(1)

Claire was born in March. Katharine took to motherhood like a natural while Harry stumbled through it like an amatuer. He spent the first three months of her life living in fear of dropping her. He'd bundle her up just to move her around the house, a precaution against his clumsiness and worry.

Claire was six when they had Patrick and by then Harry was a pro. He changed diapers, never dropped his newborn son(2), never lost sight of his precocious and rambunctious children, and became very very good at keeping calm in the face of unbelievable insanity.

Which was good, because after Claire's six birthday, "unbelievable insanity" took on a whole new meaning.

* * *

The most memorable Father's Day of Harry's youth was when Claire was just eight years old. She left a handwritten note in the kitchen, discovered hours after she'd disappeared, stating she'd decided to take off on a "holy mission". Katharine had been immediately frantic, calling everyone they knew.(3) While she panicked, Harry went upstairs and checked Claire's room. He found her piggy bank missing and, knowing his daughter's penchant for equating cupcakes with the Lord,(4) decided to take a walk down the street.

He found her in a bakery three blocks away from their house, just as he suspected he would. She was covered in crumbs and streaked with chocolate, the remnants of her piggy bank on the chair beside her. He sat down next to her and she offered him the remainder of a vanilla cupcake, which he took and bit into without a second thought.

"What did you do today, Claire?" he asked around a mouthful of cake and icing, which was excellent.

"I communed with God," she said.

"Did you now?" She nodded, proud and sure. "And how did you do that, exactly?"

She smiled widely. "I ate six chocolate cupcakes."

Harry hid a smile behind a napkin and swallowed the remainder of his cupcake. "Did you know insanity is hereditary, my gorgeous girl?" he asked. Claire shook her head, red curls bouncing in opposing directions. He took a napkin and began to clean her face. "Well it is." He crumpled up the napkin and smiled at her, far too relieved to be angry. "You get it from your kids."

* * *

Harry remembers perfectly when Claire took her first communion. She accepted the wafer from the priest, set it in her mouth, and turned to look at her family with a terribly disgusted look on her face that made Katharine roll her eyes almost instantly. It made Harry laugh out loud, only to be shushed by his wife.

"How was it?" Harry asked afterwards as they left the church.

"It wasn't cupcakes and milk," she grumbled, "that's for sure."



(1) It wasn't, unfortunately, joy. It was instead food poisoning. But once he was feeling better, he definitely bubbled over with joy. In a masculine way, of course.

(2) Accidentally allowing him to roll off the countertop into a trash can does not constitute "dropping". Don't argue semantics with an English professor.

(3) She basically called Michael and yelled at him for half an hour about shirking his duties as Claire's guardian angel. Michael's hair was dirty blonde before he met Claire...he blames the gray strands on both her and her mother. Every single one of them.

(4) Katharine had once given Claire a chocolate cupcake and told her it was God's favorite thing in the entire universe. Children make associations, hilarious and typically incorrect associations.

Sabotage is Not French for Rapture

The elevator doors open and reveal God in all Her resplendent beauty. Lucifer scowls as She smiles at him. He takes a deep, fortifying breath and steps in, hits the "L" button and does his best to ignore the Woman behind him. He taps his foot in time to the music filtering into the elevator car, hums along with the familiar tune.(1)

God giggles, attempts to cover it with a cough, and fails miserably. He turns and frowns at Her once more. She waves a hand at him, sobers.

"Sorry," She says. "Frog in My throat."

He pulls a gold pocket watch from his pinstripe blazer and glances at it, then looks at Her once again. "You do know what time it is, don't You?" he asks. She nods, shrugs Her caramel colored shoulders. "Shouldn't You be meeting with the Council?"

"Probably."

"But what about the thing, downstairs..."

"The Rapture?" She asks and he nods. "They've got it covered."

He stares at Her a moment longer, during which time She smiles widely at him, flashing perfect white teeth. She's glowing in the small elevator car, beautiful as usual.

"Kind of a gamble letting the Council take care of something so big, isn't it?"

She shrugs again and the elevator slows, dings its arrival in the Lobby. "Honestly, Lucy, what's the worst that could happen?" She brushes past him and steps out into the Lobby, waves at him, and disappears down a hallway he didn't even know existed.

He watches Her walk away, white toga flowing around Her in the way only a piece of heavenly fabric could, and realizes that despite the fact She infuriates him and he's hell bent (not pun intended) on destroying Her, Ellie makes a gorgeous prospect.

"I need a demon to kick," he mutters and heads towards the DOWN escalators.

* * *

She's lounging with a group of wood nymphs, discussing serious matters of the heart(2), when Metatron finds Her. He looks distraught and disheveled, not his usual unflustered self at all. God sighs.

"Let Me guess," She says as he pauses to catch his breath, "the Council fucked it up."

He nods, taps his nose, and says "ding, ding, ding". He takes a final deep breath, calms himself, and pulls himself up to his full height (all eight feet of it).

"They got caught up in an argument over who would bring what to the apocalypse's after-party and they completely forgot to call Vulcan and Poseidon to get things moving."

God stares at him, Her features slack. She should have expected this, really. This particular apocalypse has been giving Her trouble ever since they scheduled the damn thing.

"Which means what, exactly?"

"The Rapture's been a little...postponed."

God takes a gulp of meade from Her oversized cup, then looks at Meta. "Well, shit," She says.

* * *

A few Pearly Gates hours later, God finds Herself once again in an elevator with the Prince of Darkness. She smiles sweetly at him as he steps on board and the doors close behind him. He once again hits the "L" button and the elevator begins its descent.

"How goes the apocalypse?" he asks, his back to Her.

"Fine," She says.

"I heard Your beloved Council screwed the pooch with the Rapture."

"I'd imagine with ears that large, you hear a lot." Said ears flush a bright shade of purple and God grins at the back of his head. "No need to worry, Lucy. I've righted things, gotten the end of the world back on track."

He looks at Her over his shoulder, a small smile on his lips. "Council members fighting over food dishes, Ellie? Tut tut. Seems to me like You need someone who knows what they're doing with an apocalypse." He puffs out his chest a little. "I'm at Your service, Ellie. The End of Days is a big deal; anything You need, just let me know. I'd hate for it to fall apart - especially after all the work You've put into it."

She stares at him, putting pieces of the puzzle together, and when She arrives at the conclusion She seriously considers slapping him. She talks Herself out of it, though, by reasoning She'd have to touch him and there isn't enough holy water in Heaven to make those cooties disappear - again.

The elevator slows, dings to signify its arrival in the Lobby. He moves aside so She can step past him, but She pauses, leans in close so only he can hear Her.

"A piece of advice: The next time you attempt to sabotage a project of Mine," She whispers into his ear, "I'll demote you to janitor and give all your precious Armani suits to Gabriel." She pulls back, smiles widely. "And I'll make sure he wears them during his molting season." She steps out of the elevator.

He watches Her walk away, his gaze red with fury, and in a fit of childish rage, he kicks out at the first thing that happens to cross his path. His foot connects with a solid mass and his vision clears. He looks up and finds himself face-to-belt-buckle with Zeus.

"Did you just kick me?" the god asks and Lucifer swallows, hard.

"Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?" he asks.

Zeus' response is to punt him across the Lobby. He decides, as he's flying through the air, that it's definitely the fastest way he's ever taken to the DOWN escalators.

If only he'd stuck the landing...



(1) "Devil Went Down to Georgia" - c'mon, you know you saw that one coming.

(2) Mostly. Nymphs tend to deal with matters of a whole other part of the anatomy entirely...