I knew my mouth was hanging open. I didn’t care. That kind of power was unimaginable.

“No need to thank me,” he drawled. “I couldn’t let any harm come to my new friends.”

“Lucifer.” Zayne’s arm around me didn’t slacken. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Stepping into the moonlight, the devil smiled. “I know.”

Lucifer sat in Roth’s living room, stretched out on the sectional, watching television. Clothed at least. Actually, partially clothed. He’d manifested a pair of black leather pants, and that was about it. We had no idea if he was successful in creating The Omen. We’d asked. He gave us a look even I could see that said mind your own business.

And at the moment, that’s what we all were doing. Minding our own business.

That and trying to get Lucifer to be somewhat useful and tell us how he could kill Gabriel.

He wasn’t being exactly helpful.

First, he was hungry. So Cayman ordered up some late-night Uber eats. While he waited for the food to arrive, he found the television, and I’d never seen someone so enthralled before. He flipped through the channels continuously and then somehow ended up on one of the streaming services. I’d gone to use the bathroom, and when I came back, someone—I was going to blame Cayman for this—had turned on Supernatural, to the Lucifer season, and the real one was invested. He’d all but forced Layla to pull up some website to give him a blow-by-blow description of season one through whatever. By the time the food arrived, he was completely caught up. Then he ate. Then he watched two more episodes, a box of Pop-Tarts appearing out of thin air it seemed. At this point, it had to be almost four in the morning. Layla had passed out on the end of the couch and woke up, and I was this close to throwing the TV through a wall.

“Lucifer,” Roth tried again, at the end of another episode. “You said that if you killed Gabriel, we would create a whole new problem. Can you tell us what that is?”

“If you let me watch one more episode in peace and quiet, I will,” Lucifer retorted.

“You said that at the end of the last episode,” I said, sitting on the edge of the couch, struggling with my patience.

“But Lucifer is about to start the apocalypse—”

“He doesn’t succeed!” I shouted, and yes, it was superweird to hear Lucifer refer to the fictional version of himself. “He ends up in the cage with Michael, who has possessed the one Winchester brother everyone has forgotten!” I shouted. “It will be, like, seven more seasons until he comes back.”

Lucifer stared at me.

I stared back at him.

“You just spoiled the plot,” he snarled.