The Mind's Own Place Ch. 1

One

There is an Angel staring at me.

I don't mean "angel" in the way of the cutesy nickname men in bars give to women they want to fuck. Or the favorite child of a doting mother. It's not even some Good Samaritan doing deeds that make others proclaim them a saint. No, this is a capital-letter-A Angel straight from Heaven, the ones whose introductions always begin with "Be not afraid!" because otherwise they're too terrifying to bear. You know, that kind of Angel.

If you happen to be wondering how you can recognize one, it's the eyes that give them away. They don't glow, or change color or suddenly look different in a way that would alert you to the fact you're not talking to a human. It's not even a newness—that wet look of a freshly-peeled hardboiled egg—that the young and innocent have. Angels have old eyes, but it's the way they hold them that makes their strangeness obvious. Their brows are a little too high, raised in permanent surprise at the world around them. Blinking happens rarely, if at all. They hold gazes longer than they need to, looking through rather than at. It's as if the whole of creation exists to be dissected and catalogued. It can be… unnerving… for the uninitiated.

Fortunately, I'm not the uninitiated.

The Angel's standing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, staring at me with her head cocked to the side like a confused puppy. I can see the muscles in her face tensing and relaxing as she tries to peel back the layers of my disguise, as she attempts to see through the flesh-shape I've adopted precisely to avoid this sort of moment. If she hasn't worked out who I am yet, I don't want to give her enough time to do so. All I can think to do is drop my gaze and concentrate on making myself as uninteresting as possible.

I can still feel her eyes on me, though, and I know it's not enough to will myself out of her attention. I need to make an exit. When a bus pulls up to the curb and belches its fumes in the air, I seize the opportunity.

Tourists spill from the bus's open doors, swollen with backpacks and cameras and obnoxiously-large hats. Like all visitors to strange lands, they feel entitled to the gaps around them, eating up open spaces like the buffet they'll likely wander into next. It isn't long before they form a tight formation and barrel towards me. With the Angel's line of sight broken by the tourist clump, I take my chance.

Of my many skills, obscurity is the one that comes most naturally. With nothing more than a downturned gaze and a set of hunched shoulders, even the most striking of figures can melt into the background. When the tourists crowd around me, I let myself melt into their ranks, dissolving into their group like a drop of water into a pond. I risk a quick glance at the Angel, her face confused and searching, before I draw my eyes away. Safely nestled amongst the tourists, I let the crowd bear me down the street and away from the latest in a long line of inquiring minds.

For two blocks, I drift among the tourists. For their part, they don't see me, even though I haven't bothered to make myself invisible to them. They're too focused on the architecture, on the nostalgic-inducing storefronts that are in actuality younger than many of the tourists themselves. Here they point at the homeless on the street, wondering in their same, entitled way why the city doesn't do something about the riffraff crowding the walkways. Some of them even clutch their bags a little tighter, certain that their belongings are about to be snatched away the moment they relax their grip. They act as if they've visited a third-world country instead of a small city on the West Coast.

For my part, the city suits me fine. It's not as flashy as, say, San Francisco, or as hostile as Los Angeles, but that's the point. I could tap to this place on a map and you'd forget about it the second I took my finger away. It's just so… average. And if I'm perfectly honest, that's why it appeals to me. Big cities always have seedy underbellies, and I've had had my fill of those. This place, like me, blends into the background if you take your eyes off it.

As soon as the opportunity presents itself, I leave the horde and pause in an open alleyway. The tourists, having never noticed my presence, don't notice my absence. I watch them continue down the street, jabbering in their whining tones, until their voices dull with distance. Once free of all traces of them, I slip deeper into the alleyway. No muss, no fuss, and no danger for anyone involved.

Though it has its shadows, the alley is straight and decently-lit. Buildings line it on either side, the kind of places where the bottom is a business and the top is living quarters. They're perfect for the kind of human who never wants to stray too far from their place of work, or for someone who wants to be within walking distance of a number of shops. One of these buildings is mine, though the business portion is dark and locked. I do use the apartment for the novelty of having a traditional residence. It isn't the grandest place I've lived, but I've had much worse over the years. After a decade of living here, no one's come to see about the empty business portion, so I suppose I'm beneath notice these days.

Discounting the Angel, of course, which is a worrying development. There hasn't been a new one here in half a century; all the others I've seen are familiar faces who keep their distance. If someone new is skulking about in my town, it might be time to consider pulling up roots and finding a new haunt. These days I have little time for entertaining.

It's quite possible, however, that I won't have a choice in the matter. I have a clear view to my door and am displeased to see someone loitering on the steps. Last year I'd had to frighten away three teenagers who kept coming around. They'd seen the man I wear, this tall redhead with the black coat and expensive shoes, as someone worthy of their interest. I only had to show them a shade of my true form to send them running for the metaphorical hills, and in time their families had all found reasons to move away. I hadn't needed to repeat the performance since, but visitors on my doorstep might be a reason to do so.

The closer I come to the door, the clearer I can see my visitor—and her presence infuriates me. Somehow, against all attempts to prevent it, the Angel has found me again. She rests with her back against my front door, hands folded in her lap and eyes closed. When I approach, her eyes open and focus on me, though her expression remains wooden. She makes no attempt to rise from her seat, but I stop about ten feet back from the doorstep all the same.

"Lucifer." Like all Angels bound to physical form for the first time, her voice is like a badly-tuned instrument. "I offer you greeting."

I glance around the alley. There are no witnesses to this little drama, and none of my neighbors are present to eavesdrop. It would be so easy to cast aside the man I wear and blast this angelic intruder back to Heaven. A look at my raw form, my true shape, has frightened away Angels older and wiser than her. I wouldn't even need to exert any real force; the sight of me would likely be enough.

But I don't. Despite the unwelcomeness of this Angel, it's curious that one has sought me out. I haven't had an angelic visitor, let alone a greeter, in centuries. Earthly visits with me fell somewhat out of vogue, and most of my former contemporaries go out of their ways to avoid me. So why, then, has a newly-minted Angel followed me home and addressed me by name so casually?

She's strange looking, as far as Angels go. Most choose a form in line with human perception—adult, statuesque, blonde-haired and blue-eyed characters from Hallmark greeting cards—but this Angel has chosen differently. She has brown hair cut in a pixie style, and her eyes are as green as the first plants in Eden. Instead of tall and toned, she's chosen small and birdlike, a five-foot-three figure that looks like it belongs in a china cabinet. Were she human, I'd guess her age around seventeen at most. Even her clothes are wrong; her t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers are all at least a size too big for her. Aside from her apparent discomfort in human form, one might think she belonged here.

Keeping my eyes on her, I reach into my coat pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes. I stick one on my mouth and use a match to light it, relishing the burn of nicotine and the harsh smell of smoke. I'm not scared of this no-one Angel, but I find the motion of smoking soothing all the same. If nothing else, it's injecting a bit of normalcy into what has suddenly become a very strange day.

"Do you always loiter on the Devil's doorstep?" I ask her. "Or did you want your visit to Earth to be particularly short?"

"How can I always do something if this is the first time I've done it?" Her voice is already sounding more human; she's quickly adopted the relaxed tones that have long been incorporated into my speech. "And how long I desire to stay is irrelevant. I'm not the one who decides when I go back."

I laugh without humor. "Ah, of course," I reply. "I forget that your kind only gets the visitor's pass."

The Angel finally stands, dusting off the back of her jeans with a motion that already looks too human. "You ran from me," she says. "In the street."

I scoff at her as I drop the cigarette and crush it beneath the toe of my shoe. "I didn't run from you, girl," I say. "I had no reason to stick around, so I didn't."

"As you say, Lucifer," she says, dipping her head a little.

Her politeness irks me. Angels are always too formal in the beginning. "I do say." I narrow my eyes at her, hoping that it will frighten her a little. "And I also say that I want you to get the fuck off my stoop."

Her shoulders stiffen as I come closer to my door. The form I wear is very tall—over six-feet—and it dwarfs her tiny frame. I am amazed when she holds her ground and doesn't scramble out of the way. "Are you going to move on your own," I ask, "or do I have to move you?"

She takes a shuddering breath, but lifts her head to meet my eyes. "El sent me down," she says quietly.

My hand fastens on the collar of her shirt before even I realized I've moved. I can feel my blood burning, the skin of my disguise stretching taut with the strain of holding my form together. The teeth in my mouth grind and scrape against each other; I expect them to shatter at any moment. For the first time in decades, I want to rip an Angel apart.

Part of me would find it satisfying. Therapeutic, even. To dismember El's latest tourist and send her back piece-by-piece would be the strongest statement I've made in ages. It would quiet the rage the Angel has woken in me and send it back to that dull slumber that keeps the world largely safe. It would feel so very, very good.

The Angel stares up at me with those too-wide eyes, silent and still as one of her graveyard counterparts. If she was fighting, perhaps it would be easy to justify the wanton violence I'd like to visit on her person. But now she just looks scared and weak and innocent, not a worthy opponent in the vein of Michael or Raphael or the rest. While her destruction would be pleasant in the short term, I know from experience that it would only ring hollow in an hour.

I let her go. "Never say that name to me," I growl, letting a touch of my old power creep into my voice. "I know damn well who sent you and who'll call you back. Say her name again and I'll—"

"I won't," she says quickly. "I won't say it again."

With the matter settled, I can allow myself to relax. "Good," I reply. "Now get out of my way."

She steps aside, but she doesn't leave. "I came here for a purpose," she says as I fit my key into the lock of my door. "I can't go yet."

As I open the door, I glance at her. The Angel is shaking like San Francisco in an earthquake, but she still hasn't moved from my doorstep. Despite the fear she must feel in my presence, there's something stubborn and determined in her gaze that gives me pause. Once again, I'm forced to consider the reasons why a new Angel has sought me out and refuses to leave even after she's been threatened.

I sigh. Curiosity is going to really bite me in the ass one of these days. "If you aren't going, you'd better come up," I tell the Angel. "I don't want the neighborhood knowing my business.

She nods. "Yes, Lucifer."

I motion for her to follow me inside. "Call me Lou," I say. "The old names aren't terribly subtle."

"Lou," she repeats, turning the new name over in her mouth. She says it a few more times, getting comfortable with it, and then falls silent. She still hasn't moved from my front steps.

I jerk my head towards the stairs that lead up to my apartment. "If you're coming, come on," I say impatiently. "I don't have all day to wait for you to grow a spine."

This snaps her out of her impassivity. Quickly, the Angel steps inside my front entryway, pulling the door shut behind her. "Lead the way," she says, her voice trembling a little.

"The last time someone told me that there was a very deadly war in Heaven." I chuckled at my own joke, but the Angel didn't join in. They never are very good at humor. "Oh, never mind," I say with a weary sigh. "Come on up."

As I climb the stairs and listen to the Angel's heavy steps behind me, I wonder just what I've gotten myself into. And, more importantly, how I'm going to get myself out of it.