Will had never seen such naked terror grip Clio's features. Not even when the Sheriff had held her at gunpoint. Not even when Apollo's monstrous curse had her contemplating trading her own body for Marcie's life.
She didn't even get to the end of her sentence, didn't get to say who he was that they needed to run from. She didn't need to. There was only one thing he knew of that could strike such a fear into Clio, and he could feel its presence creeping, looming over him, filling the entire room like a thick, choking smoke.
Lucifer, the Prince of Hell, the Devil himself, casually pulled up a chair and sat at their table.
Every muscle in Will's body tensed, screaming at him to move – to throw himself between them, to flip the table, to snatch Clio in his arms and run, to take a swing at the beast that had carved torment into his love's skin, he didn't know – but Lucifer's hand was still on Clio's arm, and though he didn't grip it with any force, Will knew he didn't need to. The Devil was powerful enough to kill them both with the merest twitch of a pinky finger.
And so he didn't move from his seat, frozen in his own way, cold dread trickling down his spine. Keep him talking. Just talking. Say enough, and no more. Don't give him any reason to take more of an interest.
"Name's Will," he said. His throat felt tight, but he kept the words flat and even, without expression. "You must be Lucifer."