Lucia

I bristle at the driver's judgment but say nothing. True, it’s bohemian beyond belief, but it fits my aesthetic, I*******m be damned. Samael settles into the seat beside me. He casually rests an arm over my shoulder, as if we are an idyllic couple caught in a winter storm. Not the king and future, if ever, queen of Hell arguing over a centuries outdated institution meant to control women. He doesn’t even have a last name I could take. Jean Doe.

We drive past the Arc de Triomphe. Snow drapes the ground like a fur coat.

“Here you go,” the driver huffs, turning onto sleepy Rue Merlebleu. He eyes the Rimbaud Building skeptically, with its Gothic architecture and converted cathedral exterior. The driver mutters under his breath, depositing us on the cobblestone sidewalk.

Sam helps me out of the taxi with long, muscled arms. We make our way to the elevator, all gold metal, with painted cherubs on the ceiling. He smiles at the angels in a predatory fashion.

“So,” he asks, “what is the subject