The first time Lucifer poured a drink for a vampire who didn't know who he was, he almost laughed.
Almost.
He caught it before it reached his face, smoothed it back into the calm expression he had practiced for three days behind the wooden counter of a bar that didn't officially exist. The vampire was young. Turned maybe sixty years ago, which was nothing in their kind's counting. He wore expensive shoes and cheap cologne and talked too fast when he was nervous.
"Whiskey," the vampire said. "Whatever's dark."
Lucifer placed a glass in front of him. The liquid inside was older than the creature drinking it. No one needed to know that.
