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It wasn’t Chloe’s idea, but Maze’s… and maybe a little bit of Ella’s. A revamp. A rekindling. A make-over. If Lucifer was going to leave her his entire nightclub, she was entitled to a retrofit and then some. Her friends knew she was too sentimental to sell the Lux, but also didn't miss how she avoided the soft leather booths or how she refused to touch the bar. Truth be told, she couldn’t even step inside without feeling sick to her stomach. Every time her eyes hit the tile, vertigo would spider-crawl up her chest. Her heart would hammer like a pair of unwanted white wings and sing of desperate heights she would never reach. Or ever look down from.
And so it was. And so she did. With more money than God, she said let there be no more light.
Let there instead, she said, be darkness.
By her own hand the stars themselves were snuffed out.
-
Tonight, the Lux burns black and empty.
The once glimmering lights are guttered in ultraviolet and neon and shadow. There is no more sultry art deco. No more gentle curves. Classical furniture has been traded for something sharp and obsidian and modern. The club is an animal with teeth now, that Chloe sits astride. Its pulse is deep and abyssal, thrumming through the bones of partiers and petitioners alike.
She sits in the back, sipping whiskey that tastes a lot like the lips of someone she used to know. The booze might settle warm in her chest, but her skin is always cold. She is a modern Athena, pale, untouchable and as frozen as a statue. To touch her is to catch frostbite. Sometimes she wears suit jackets, ones that are far too big for her, but even those don’t seem to keep her warm. It's no matter. Her chair is straight backed, and her back is even straighter - and not a patron dares to comment. Especially with Maze standing over her right shoulder.
People ask her for favors and she grants them, just like some mythical deity brought to life. Chloe Jane Decker is the patron saint of hospital bills and angel investments. From her hands flow gold, silver, and platinum. No one leaves hungry, no one leaves wanting. But no one has seen her smile either. Her deeds have more life in them than her gaze. She takes no gifts, no thank yous, she would prefer to see someone stand instead of grovel. Chloe is more of an altar than a human woman.
But tonight, a new DJ has slipped into the booth.
Ella and Maze have had to fire more than their fair share. Disc-jockey’s are flighty things, even by L.A.’s standards. They are ruled by more ephemeral things than time- like drugs and sex and penchants towards self destruction. Chloe now pays them in cash, because they never stick around long enough for their payroll paperwork to clear. It's probably for the best. Lucifer used to curate the club-mix, and having a permanent replacement doesn’t feel quite right.
But this one, this one is different.
It's a guy, and all she can really see is clean lines and broad shoulders. The shadows of Lux don’t reveal much else. But the air around the booth tastes different. the air almost simmers. Heat seems to seep its way back in, and Chloe could swear the remaining lights flare brighter. It almost makes her bitter that this man can do something she can’t. He can live. He is alive.
The music itself isn’t something unusual. Not the top 100’s by a long shot, but not out there either. It's bluesy, it's poppy, it's electric and rumbling. It rata-tat-tats with synthetic drums, but drags across her skin like a heartbeat. Each song pulls and yanks with a mournful undercurrent. Sweeps like the clouds after a storm.
The night peters itself out naturally, like it has for days, and weeks and months. The beggars have their bedtimes. The Brittanys have their boys. And Maze rides home to Eve. The bar backs begin to tidy up. Mops glide across black marble, but the house lights haven’t come up. And Chloe finds she wants to stay. She doesn’t want the taste of Lucifer’s whiskey to go away. She doesn’t want the music to stop.
She knocks back another drink, two fingersful. It’s a bit much, but it’s not like she doesn’t own the place or isn’t steps away from an elevator to a bedroom. No one is to gainsay her as she stumbles to the dancefloor. Ella isn’t here to drag her to a booth. Maze isn’t here to spitefully snag her a glass of water.
The world blurs soft and wobbles at the edges. It spins around Chloe’s axis and she twirls with it. She can feel the bass in her knees and lungs. She can remember her rhythm, she can remember dancing. It’s like riding a bike. Everything is awash in blues and purples and even darker shades she can’t name. And her hips slide downward with every rumbling beat.
One song bleeds into another, and she forgets, she forgets, she forgets. All she can think of is a quicksilver smile and hair that shines like crow feathers. Eyes as sticky as molasses and laughter smooth, like the bottles on the top shelf. The fluttering or lashes and lips parted just so.
And then the Backstreet Boys come on.
It catches her so off guard she stumbles, yanked out of her reverie. But someone catches her, someone solid and warm.
“Can’t say I like what you’ve done with the place, Detective.” A voice grazes softly against her ear.
Chloe can’t see who’s holding her, but she knows. She knows. She knows. The DJ booth is empty and her heart is thundering rapid fire. He’s so close she can feel him swallow.
“You’re back,” Chloe all but whispers.
His weight wraps itself around her, hot and heavy. He smells like he used to. Of whiskey and ozone, and something bright and earthy she cannot rightly name. A hand comes up to cradle the back of her head. Gentle, sweet and revenant. The first blush of the sun after an eternal winter. They sway to the rhythm until she’s no longer cold at all.
Lucifer Morningstar has come back to her.
He’s come home.