WHO: Lucifer, Michael (kind of), Sheriff of nottingham WHEN: Friday afternoon WHERE: Michael's WHAT: Just a wee murder WARNINGS: A wee murder
His brothers were, at times, too easy.
When tempted with a decadent beignet in a box signed 'from your brother' it turned out Michael dug right in. He didn't even pause to think which brother, or if it had been sprinkled with arsenic. And the moment Michael died, Lucifer walked into his house and cast a look around the place.
He opened the cupboard to find a veritable cornucopia of Hostess cakes, which he twisted his mouth into a sneer. "Must you be so fucking predictable?" he asked the prone body on the floor. Then he raised his head and added, "there's no point in hiding. I can feel you."
A man poked his head around the corner and stared at Lucifer, his eyebrows raised. "Is he-"
"Dead. Yes," Lucifer said, glancing at Michael's body, lying beside the mostly eaten doughnut. "Won't stay that way for long. Who the fuck are you?"
"Malcolm," the man answered. He looked terrified, and Lucifer wasn't all that interested.
"Was he keeping you here? Tsk tsk, brother, so many secrets. You can leave if you want. Wards are down." Lucifer turned away and headed into Michael's home office to have a good, old fashioned snoop. Michael was, far too often, so sure of his strength that he forgot caution. And Lucifer didn't find it very difficult to crack his passwords and go through his email, among other things.
By the time he left, laden with information, he found Malcolm attending to Michael's body, cleaning it up. "Seriously? You're not...going to run?" When the man didn't answer him, Lucifer just rolled his eyes and left.