Morningstar

Lily sighed and glanced at the clock above the register.

Five minutes to closing.

She leaned back against the counter, the cool wood pressing into her spine through the thin fabric of her sleeveless black dress. Her bare arms—etched with runic tattoos she could no longer remember choosing—felt heavy tonight, as though the ink itself had weight. Knee-high black leather boots, riveted and worn smooth by years of pacing the Quarter, rested against the cabinet below. Fishnet stockings clung to her legs like a second skin. Her bright green eyes, rimmed in smoky black shadow, stared into nothing.

It all felt like a costume now.

Once, working behind the counter at Esoterica had filled her with something like purpose. Now it felt like ritual without belief—selling trinkets and spellbooks to wide-eyed tourists, palm-reading half-drunk witches, handing voodoo dolls to people who wanted magic without consequence.

Today had been worse than usual.

The bell above the door hadn’t chimed in nearly an hour.

She drifted toward the entrance and peered out into the street. The French Quarter, usually alive even on its quietest days, lay strangely subdued. Shutters rattled. Paper scraps skittered along the pavement. Overhead, black storm clouds churned low and heavy, swallowing what little light remained.

A hurricane was coming.

She should have felt something—anticipation, fear, adrenaline—but instead there was only a familiar hollowness. New Orleans always survived storms. People rebuilt. Life went on.

She exhaled slowly.

And then she saw him.

Not directly—never directly. Only as a reflection in the glass.

A man stood behind her.

Her breath caught.

He was as he always was.

Preternaturally beautiful. Icy blue eyes. Blood-red hair falling loose to his shoulders. A face carved with perfect symmetry and something solemn—ancient—watching her as if he had always been there.

Lily blinked.

The reflection was gone.

Her shoulders sagged, the tension draining from her body in a rush that left her faintly dizzy. Of course. He never stayed. He never did.

Memories stirred unbidden—tear-soaked pillows, locked bedroom doors, the ache of being unseen. As a child she had spoken to him constantly. He never spoke back, never moved—only smiled and nodded, watching from corners and mirrors.

When her mother caught her talking to “the imaginary man,” she’d screamed. Told Lily to stop. To pray. To grow up.

That night Lily cried herself to sleep.

Most nights were like that back then.

“Twenty-one now,” she muttered flatly.

Another year survived. Another year endured.

Something clicked in her mind—sharp, sudden.

The bottle.

A small black vial tucked deep in her bag. Laudanum. She had carried it for years without knowing why, only that she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away.

Until now.

“Fuck it,” she whispered.

She flipped the sign to CLOSED, gathered her things, and locked the door. For a moment she rested her forehead against the glass, eyes closed, thoughts racing like wind before a storm.

When she opened them, she gasped.

He stood behind her.

Not a reflection this time.

Real.

She spun around.

Nothing.

The familiar disappointment washed over her—sharp, bitter, decisive. That settled it.

She turned and walked.

The Quarter felt different tonight. Not like a retreat back to safety, but a slow descent toward something she could no longer name. Rain began to fall—soft at first, then steadier—as darkness claimed the streets.

Halfway down the block, she saw him again.

Standing across the street.

This time, he didn’t vanish.

His gaze locked onto hers instantly.

He wore a black suit, tailored to perfection, with a red tie stark against the darkness. His long blood-red hair gleamed under the streetlights. His pale blue eyes cut straight through her, stirring something deep and restless in her chest.

He crossed the street toward her.

“Happy birthday, my dear,” he said, voice smooth as honey and just as dangerous.

Lily froze.

The city was too quiet. The storm too close. Her heart pounded as she searched his face for cracks, for signs of hallucination.

Nothing flickered.

She turned and walked.

“I have been waiting for you for a very long time,” he murmured behind her.

By the time she reached her apartment on Royale Street, he was beside her.

“God, I need a drink,” she muttered.

He chuckled softly. “Then we shall not waste time. Shall we go inside?”

She eyed him. “You’ve been following me?”

“In impossible places,” he replied calmly. “You are not mad, Lily. I am real. The one you have been waiting for.”

Her pulse jumped. She forced a crooked smirk. “For a potential axe murderer, you’re quite charming.”

“I am many things,” he said, smiling faintly. “But I assure you, I am a gentleman.”

“..I don't usually let random strangers inside my house, even ones as gorgeous as you..a proper introduction is in order. I’m Lily,” she said, tilting her head. “And you are?”

“I am Lucifer. Lord of the Burning Hells,” he replied, leaning closer, breath warm against her cheek.

A shiver ran down her spine. “That’s a hell of a roleplay,” she murmured. “New to these parts?”

He chuckled. “I am not roleplaying.”

She stares at him for a moment, not sure whether to laugh, or run and finally unlocked the door. “Storm’s coming. I could use company.”

Inside, he studied her apartment with quiet fascination—the books, the artifacts, the careful disorder of a woman who lived between worlds. She opebed her cupboard abd peered at the bottle of Mephisto Absinthe..a moment's glance at the black bottle beside it and brushed the thought away for now. She poured absinthe with practiced precision, watching it bloom milky white beneath the water.

“To new friends,” she said.

“To new beginnings,” he replied.

Her cat leapt into his lap without hesitation.

“It seems I have competition,” he murmured, stroking the cat gently.

Something ancient stirred in her chest.

The storm raged outside.

Inside, the world narrowed to two.

And for the first time in her life, Lily felt certain of one thing:

This meeting had been inevitable.