Helping Hand of the Fallen

Chapter 3: Reopened Wounds

The royal bedchamber.

He hadn't slept here since he managed to leave it 3 years ago, avoiding the place whenever possible. The vast space felt suffocating when he wasn't constantly in pain, especially with the other half of its owner missing.

Though, right now, he didn't have many options. The other bedrooms were all outclassed and much smaller compared to the one Alastor was currently resting in. If Whispie needed to contact him for an emergency, Lucifer couldn't risk appearing inferior to the shadow's master. That would complicate matters, especially in terms of hierarchy. It could even embarrass the radio demon in a way Lucifer didn't want, given that the technically rightful owner of his power—the demon under his protection—would be seen as lesser.

So, to avoid all that unnecessary hassle, it was better to face the royal chamber for what it was.

"Eh, what gives?" Lucifer muttered to himself. As the King of Hell, he shouldn't let depression take hold, especially when he had his beloved daughter back.

The thought of Charlie grounded him as he made his way to the bathroom. He needed to wash off the nasty black goo from earlier. It had left a sick taste in his mouth and a stubborn stain on his outfit.

Muscles relaxed as he basked in the warm water. He let out a noise of bliss as he summoned some of his favorite rubber duckies. They were modeled after his family, the Seven Sins, and, to his surprise, the residents of the hotel.

'I hope we can get along too,' he mused, knowing that fixing his relationship with Charlie would require more than just words. He needed to bridge the silence that had grown between them, especially after his first visit hadn't gone as planned.

The sinners and fallen exorcist she mentioned as her girlfriend, had been surprisingly pleasant to be around—except for a certain prick he was currently housing—and it brought him a measure of comfort to know they were keeping his little girl happy and safe during his absence.

As he mulled over this, a red rubber duck with a bobbed hairstyle floated by. With a mischievous glint in his eye, Lucifer eagerly dunked it under the water.

A small act of petty satisfaction.

"Hieeeek—!!!" Lucifer's startled shriek echoed briefly before dying in his throat as the unexpected happened. One of Alastor's shadows slithered down from the ceiling, its dark form watching him with an eerie stillness.

Annoyed and a bit unnerved, he splashed water toward the shadow, trying to shoo it away. "Bad Whispie! Get out!" he commanded, his voice sharp.

But the shadow didn't obey. Instead, it split into four tendrils that swiftly wrapped around each of his limbs, yanking him out of the water.

"Hey! What the—!" Lucifer struggled, his initial irritation giving way to alarm as the shadows held him suspended above the tub, their grip firm and unyielding.

For a moment, he considered blasting them away with a burst of magic, but something made him hesitate. The shadows weren't attacking; they seemed focused, almost desperate. It was as if they were trying to communicate something, though their wordless nature made it impossible to know what.

"Alright, alright, what is it now?" he grumbled, trying to shake them off. The shadows didn't loosen their grip, but they also didn't seem to be attacking him. Instead, they seemed... concerned?

"What's going on with your master? Is something wrong?" Lucifer asked, his tone becoming serious as he considered the possibility that Alastor was in trouble. The shadows didn't respond directly, but their grip on him tightened slightly, as if urging him to follow.