Chapter Text
Alastor’s last moments are a confusion of pain. Teeth and pain. There is no obvious threshold between life and death. Instead, it seems he is suddenly sinking through the swamp. Away from the teeth – good – but into the swamp. But the swamp is thinner than it should be. Like air. He is in freefall and the landing is just as painful as expected.
Somehow, he is still breathing. At the bottom of the swamp? But then he looks up and sees what appears to be a sky. A red sky studded with…is that a pentagram? What is going on here?
A dream surely. Highly inconvenient to be passed out and dreaming when he ought to be trying to get away from the – he shudders – dogs.
What if they tear his throat out while he’s unconscious?
(He is not unconscious. Deep down he knows that.)
His skin still tingles from the bites and he looks down to examine himself. He is naked.
Shock and shame course through him and scrambles to his feet to hide himself away, then falls back against the hard ground. Concrete ground, in fact, not swampy earth. Least of his concerns just now, Alastor decides. He tries to stand again, falls back again.
No, he has to be able to stand! He is naked! But a third attempt still results in a fall. Naturally, at this point, he examines his feet, which, while not painful, don’t seem to want to support his weight.
He looks. Then he looks away. No, he cannot cope with that just now.
Staring around, he takes in buildings that seem oddly deserted – and oddly present at all, considering he was in the bayou a moment ago. Spotting a narrow alleyway between two of them, Alastor hauls himself onto his uncooperative feet (hooves?!) and half stumbles, half drags himself towards it.
Once there, he presses himself against a brick wall, shielding his shameful nakedness with his hands. For a moment the wall holds him up, but then he wobbles and falls, scraping his side against the brickwork.
Huddled on the ground (concrete, not swamp, and a part of his brain screams that that is important) he can at least cover more of his nakedness. But he can’t stay down here. He needs to wake up. He tries to wake up.
Nothing. No sudden surge of consciousness followed by teeth, hot breath and growling. He should be relieved. He isn’t.
Enough, he tells himself. Apparently he is not waking up just yet. With any luck, the dogs will be gone by the time he does. Help had arrived, after all. He remembers men shouting and a…another sound. Something in his mind shies away from it.
Enough. He has to find some clothing: Even if this is a dream (It’s not a dream) he has no desire to dream about nudity.
There appears to be a clothes store across the street, one of those places that sell off the rack outfits. Rather odd off the rack outfits in this case. It is next to a store selling…Well, Alastor isn’t sure what it’s selling and doesn’t want to. But there is a clothes store. Obviously, he hasn’t any money (or clothes, but why? What happened to his clothes?) but needs must: He will simply have to throw himself on the mercy of the storekeeper and hope they will give him something on credit.
Assuming the place is open. It doesn’t look open. Actually, none of the stores Alastor can see look anything but deserted, even the alarming store next to the place selling clothing.
Well, he has no choice. He attempts to stand, hovering unsteadily on his feet for a moment before he topples again, slamming heavily onto his knees. Twisting his legs from under him, he forces himself to examine his feet again.
His hooves. He reaches for them and attempts to pull them off on the optimistic hope that some prankster fitted him with part of a costume (a ludicrous thought).
No, they are attached. He puts them from his mind. This isn’t real. (It is.) Unable to move or stand, Alastor studies his surroundings again.
He is definitely in a city. But not New Orleans.
The city that isn’t New Orleans is definitely abandoned. Good, given his nudity. But oddly ominous too.
Wake up, he tells himself (but he isn’t asleep).
A city of reds and blacks. Stubbornly empty.
(Hell, mama once said, is a place where a person is always alone.)
Alastor turns from the worryingly empty city to the alley he is crouched in. It is poorly lit but clearly doesn’t contain any convenient clotheslines.
There is a foreboding rumble above him and the heavens (not the word for them) open, smattering the concreate below with rain.
Rain that burns. Alastor yelps, curling in on himself and pressing himself against the meagre cover of the brick wall. Bitemarks that somehow still hurt, despite this being a dream (It’s not a dream) smart as something like hot water or acid spatters his skin and runs, burning, down his back and limbs.
He needs clothing. Nudity aside, it would be some protection at least. But Alastor doesn’t move except to curl up tighter. He can’t walk, let alone run for cover. And where could he run? What is this place? (He knows what this place is).
Desperation builds until it feels tangible, and then a burst of green ruffles the air. Suddenly he is wearing a suit. A red suit of a strange sort of cut but it is a vast improvement on nudity. Alastor risks uncurling a little to examine it, wincing as the stinging rain streaks down his face. He has some sense that he did that. How is another matter.
It helps a little. The rain frays and bites at the fabric (like dogs) but at least it is some barrier between burning liquid and skin. Now only his face is being directly burnt, each speck of rain leaving catching and scorching as it hits his cheeks and forehead, burning as it runs into his eyes. He raises his arms to shield his head, scrunching his hands into fists to protect his fingers. A sudden, sharp pain bites his palm. Before he can examine it, a yell from a doorway makes him jump. “What are you doing?” a figure shouts, “Get inside!”
Staring through the rain, Alastor feels a thrill of alarm as he realises the figure doesn’t look human. He shifts back, his hooves (hooves!) scrabbling against the ground, and puts a hand to the wet brickwork, pushing at it for leverage, ignoring the sting as his fingers encounter the burning wetness of it. Another figure joins the first, peering out at him, all limbs and wings. Thankfully, neither creature comes any closer. Possibly they don’t like the rain any more than he does. The first adds, “Seriously, what the fuck are you thinking? They’re coming down here any minute!”
“Who?” Alastor demands. He stops himself from asking, where though he would like to know where he is (He knows where he is).
Then he registers his voice. He sounds like he is on the radio. Not in the usual way, that being that he sticks to the transatlantic accent that inspires respect and better treatment than his native Louisiana drawl. No, now he sounds like his voice is coming out of a transmitter. Like there is a transmitter in his throat.
While he notices this, the thing in the doorway is speaking. “What the fuck?” it says, “The exorcists, who the fuck did you think I meant!”
The other creature shakes its head and murmurs, “New arrival.”
The first creature gets a look of dawning understanding. “You poor bastard” it tells Alastor. Then they both duck back inside, slamming the door firmly behind them.
Well, that was odd. Enough of this, Alastor decides. He can’t be doing with hooves and red skies and burning rain. It is time he woke up and fought off those blasted dogs…
Blast. There had been a blast just as he fell down here, hadn’t there? A sound like a gunshot.
Just then, the sky splits open again, this time spilling a light like dawn. For a moment, it is a sort of relief. Perhaps he is waking up. (He is not asleep). But then there is a scream somewhere in the distance. Alastor looks up despite the sting of the rain and sees, visible above the buildings that loom around the alleyway, a stream of figures. People?
Angels. Angels streaming down, all wings and…spears? Mama was right, apparently: Angels can be avenging. Dangerous. Alastor makes an instinctive – and failed – attempt to stand, falling back against the wall and bouncing off it and onto the ground. As more screams erupt beyond the empty street, he resorts to crawling back, away from the mouth of the alley, his fingers stinging as they encounter puddles. Soon, the pained and terrified noises echoing from everywhere tells him that Hell is very much not a place where a person is alone.
Hell. Yes, that makes sense.
Screams and smoke. No sulphur at least. Unless that is the stuff still falling from the sky. Alastor reaches the opposite wall of the alley, further away from the entrance. He is closer now to the door that the two creatures disappeared behind. Two monsters, really. But probably safer than angels, especially for someone like him. He has long known that he is a monster. He just never expected it to be quite so literal.
He leans sideways, but can’t quite reach the door. He shuffles closer and grabs at the handle, his hands slipping, wet with the acidic puddle water and…blood? He must have cut himself crawling. No matter now. Nor does it matter that his fingers seem to be tipped with claws. Accounting for this, he is able to grab hold of the handle. He rattles it, but it seems to be locked. He knocks, the hammers. No response.
Well then, he’ll just have to hide here. There are no other doorways in the alley, and his only other choice is to drag himself out there. Even if he manages to stay on his feet for a few seconds, he doubts it would be more than that and anyway, where would he go? An inconspicuous alley is better than no hiding place at all. Alastor presses himself to the wall and stays very still. It is not long before the screams come closer. He flinches with the instinct to run, reminding himself that he can’t.
Then, without warning, a figure rounds the corner, flying down the alley towards him. A masked figure, greyish like a corpse. Despite his lack of success so far, Alastor scrambles to his feet. And falls, right into a puddle. The pooled rainwater burns and he hisses as he twists around, raising a hand as the angel dives for him…
…His arm falls limply back when the spear goes straight through his chest. The angel twists it agonisingly and Alastor cries out, feeling blood at the back of his throat. Then, a terrible yanking sensation as the spear is pulled out and the angel flies on.
It missed his heart. Assuming he still has a heart. A slow death then. Slow second death.
Is this how it works here? Will he die agonising deaths forever?
Fruitlessly, he tries to move, his arms flailing and his legs shifting uselessly, his hooves making a scrapping sound against the concrete. If he could just shift himself out of this puddle, it would be some relief, except that the rain is still pounding down and every bit of him is wet now, the water finally seeping through the fabric of his strange new suit.
Breathing is getting harder. Alastor makes an effort to breathe deeply but the crackly gasp he achieves only results in air hissing out the gaping hole in his chest. At that, he stops trying to move. No point.
For some indeterminable time, he lies there, hurting relentlessly. Then a chuckle sounds from the darkness. “Oh” says a feminine voice, “Still alive? Bad luck.”
A woman emerges from the shadows. She is tall and terribly beautiful. “Having a bad day?” she asks in a soft, sweet tone.
“You…” Alastor coughs harshly, spraying blood “You could s-say that.” Talking hurts. Breathing hurts.
“Poor deer.” She tilts her head, examining him. He can’t see her face clearly but he can see that the motion is not hurried or concerned. Nor does she study him in the detached way a doctor might look at a patient. This is more like the detached way a diner might look at a dish they aren’t sure they want to eat just yet. The teeming rain doesn’t seem to bother her. Alastor swallows and tastes blood.
She asks, “Does it hurt?”
What do you think, he wants to retort, but instinct tells him not to. Instead he says, “Sh…shouldn’t you be t-taking shelter?” The angels seem to be pouring over every inch of the surrounding streets after all – he can hear them – and unnerving as this lady is, she is still a lady.
She stretches languidly. “I always walk about in it” she tells him. She sits down beside him, ignoring the filth and acidic water streaked across the alleyway. “I like to watch.”
There doesn’t seem a suitable response to that, so Alastor doesn’t try for one. He concentrates on breathing. The rain intensifies, hissing as it hits his face. He tries to lift and arm to shield his face but this time, his limbs don’t respond to his mind at all.
The woman still seems unaffected by it. She adds, “You know, most of them can’t see me. But you could. Is it because you’re so near death?” She leans over him and sniffs. Alastor is reminded uncomfortably of the dogs. He tells her, “I d-died already today.” A remarkable thing to admit.
She smiles, all teeth and malice. “True. But this time, it’s permanent.” She puts a deliberate finger to his wound and presses down hard. Alastor startles and howls. She sits back. “Angelic steel” she explains, “It kills you eternally.”
“What was – ah! – W-warn a fellow, can’t you?”
She tilts her head to examine the red sky. “No new world to wake up to” she adds, “Just true nothingness. Forever.”
Alastor swallows painfully. “I s-see.”
Somehow, there is no denying the truth of her words. Being around her seems to make lying, even to himself, impossible. Suddenly Alastor realises there is some scope for comfort in lies. A person might lie to make themselves brave, or to spare feelings. Such platitudes are missing here. She is telling the truth. And the truth is horrific.
The woman leans forward and sniffs him again. “You have power” she whispers, “Beautiful power. Potential.” She crouches low over him, far too close. He smells something a little like mama’s perfume overlaying something awful. Carrion and smoke. She tells him, “I could save you.”
Alastor struggles to find his voice. He finds blood first and swallows it down. “Pl…please do” he manages.
She chuckles, somehow warm and not. “Poor deer.” She pets his…His ears? What is wrong with his ears?
Least of his concerns at present, he tells himself. “Y…you …said you can s-save me?”
“Mm-hm.” She lets her fingers trail down the side of his face. There is a terrible strength in her flexing fingers. Alastor senses that she is quite capable of cracking his skull if she chose to, even if she is not especially interested in doing so right now. She sighs and adds, “Not just that. I could whisk you off somewhere safe. No point saving you only for you to get skewered again, is there?”
“I…I’d appreciate that.”
“And I could amplify your power. Turn all your bloodlust into something tangible. You could give me so much death.”
“Death?” says Alastor cautiously.
She chuckles, the sound eerie and bright. “Oh, little deer, do I detect principles? How delicious.”
Alastor wants to deny it but her presence still seems to suck all comforting pretence from the surroundings, leaving him with bare facts: He is dead. Back in the world, his body is presumably already sinking into the bayou. What is left of it, at least. He is in Hell, eternally damned. Eternally separate from mama.
Alastor flinches at the thought of mama and the woman grins as though she can taste the thought. There must be flames nearby: He sees the light of them glint off her sharp teeth.
The cold truths keep seeping through his mind: Hell is real and he is damned. Eternally. And now he will die again. There will be nothingness forever. And he still – still – wouldn’t cross certain lines to get out of it. He still wouldn’t harm an innocent. Not someone like mama.
The woman is right: He does have principles. Weaknesses.
And then Alastor feels a flicker of defiance for the first time since this woman showed up. Weakness it may be, he thinks, but at least it makes him different from other violent men.
The woman seems to sense the defiance and grins wider. How endlessly amusing she seems to find him. She murmurs, “You won’t find innocents down here.”
Alastor thinks of Mimzy. Far from an innocent but someone he wouldn't hurt. She is probably here too…
…And then the tendrils of cold truth around the woman flicker again and he knows that Mimzy is here too, in this place of flames, burning rain and bloodthirsty angels. He tries to stop thinking of her before the woman senses the thought. He stares stubbornly up at the red sky. “St-still” he grinds out, “There are…I…I have always had a…a code. The-they have to m-meet certain criteria, to end up on my list. I don’t kill just an-anyone.”
She laughs again. “Oh precious” she says. She reaches out and starts running a rough, long nailed hand through his hair. “A list? Mine is so succinct.” She traces a pattern on his burning skin. A figure of eight. Eternity, Alastor recognises as it skims him. "Principles are pointless down here, deer. Too late for that."
The woman shifts languidly and, for a moment, Alastor thinks she won’t help him after all. Well, so be it. He doesn’t want to die but he won’t beg. He still has some dignity. And he senses she isn’t much given to mercy.
But then she says, “But, death is death I suppose.” She resumes tracing the pattern into his skin. Eternity, eternity. “And you could give me so much of that. You could be very…what is the word you use?” She leans closer and licks the side of his face while he gasps “Oh yes” she murmurs, “Entertaining.” She reaches for his shuddering chest, and presses her fingers to the wound, lightly this time. “I can save you” she tells him, “Get you out of here and enhance that power of yours. But I will need payment.” She tilts her head unnaturally, like a cat. How unfortunate that Alastor suddenly feels like a mouse. She tells him, “I will save you. I only ask for one little thing…”