Adam's hand was still wrapped around Lucifer's throat. But it wasn't his hand anymore. Not really.
The shadows had crawled up his arm, past his elbow, reaching for his shoulder. They weren't just clinging—they were binding. Fusing. Like they were trying to make Adam part of Lucifer's darkness whether he liked it or not.
Adam's golden eyes widened.
Not fear. Recognition.
He'd felt this before. A long time ago. From a different vampire.
"Damaris," he breathed.
Lucifer's black eyes pulsed. "Close."
He grabbed Adam's wrist with his own hand—the one that should have been limp, should have been broken, should have been dead—and squeezed.
Adam's bones creaked.
"You're feeling my father's ghost," Lucifer said, his voice layered now, two tones speaking as one. "But I'm not him. I'm what he should have been."
He pulled.
Adam's arm straightened against his will. His grip on Lucifer's throat loosened. Then broke.
Lucifer stood.
