Chapter Text
Spector Sanctuary
Chapter One – The Devil is in the Details
Alastor did not care about the whispers of why and why not that surrounded him when he declined a lady’s more intimate attention on and off the dance floor. It was known that he coveted his privacy. It was also known that he was not fond of physical contact. But that wasn’t quite right, either. It was all about whether or not it was on his terms. Alastor was not touch-adverse; no, he wouldn’t say that. He enjoyed a good dance with a companion on the dance floor, even sharing friendly drinks at the bar, or walking arm-in-arm with his dear acquaintance Mimzy.
Particularly he enjoyed driving sharp knives into flesh that tried and failed to escape him. He thrilled at holding down his victims, at hearing them scream and cry for gods and mothers, strangling the last breaths out of them, with his hands clamped around their throats. Watching those panicked eyes from up close, filled with fear and fright, dilated with the chemical rush of impending death and oxygen deprivation . . . getting dimmer, duller, like a star fading away from sight in the early morning light. Gone.
He did not like strangers brushing him on the sidewalk – which were mostly uncaring white men striding down like they owned the whole street, uncaring if they shoulder-checked Alastor, much less shoved him out of the way for daring to impede their path. God forbid a man like Alastor Louvière, who was not quite white-passing enough to count in New Orleans, forget his place.
Nor did Alastor like it when producers and managers at the station where he worked gripped his shoulder when they spoke to him – as if he was a damn handrest. He hated how they leaned in close, all cigars and brandy on their breath, telling him how his voice was just what they needed, that the public loved his commentary on events, anticipated his story times, but no – a raise in salary was just not possible, as of right now, they had other talent besides Alastor on the docket, and finding such work at all was already such an accomplishment for him, wasn’t it? Aren’t you grateful, Alastor? Aren’t you so – fucking – grateful that we hired you for your talent, despite your worrying skin tone? Aren’t you grateful we looked past it?
He would kill every single producer, executive, and manager that occupied his radio station if it wouldn’t be so fucking obvious. Alas, he had to settle his fury for other deserving folk, which, in the vile, vibrant, and sometimes violent city of New Orleans was not too hard to find. Particularly in the French Quarter.
All this to say, Alastor was not fond of overly familiar types who insisted on tactile tendencies when interacting with him. He never failed to keep his smile when a hand clapped him on the back or dared to marvel at the texture of his curly hair, or, when a lady got too close on the dance floor, and tried to kiss him. And he suffered those, mostly pressed to his cheek, with his ever-present smile that got tighter and tighter on his face, like his skin would crack open and bleed with the strain. Like he wouldn’t rather peel the skin off his cheek than permit someone’s mouth to press their saliva-lathered lips against him there. Like he didn’t want to slice open their throats and make another airway.
He never felt the inclination to pursue the opposite sex, either playfully or with a more carnal intention. The idea of it, the physicality of it, was not appealing. There was nothing he could find arousing in a lady, despite their charming smiles, wafting floral perfumes, and smooth, soft skin. Nothing close to temptation. Sex never crossed his mind while he was in their company. Not that he found the act itself disgusting. Alastor could simply never entertain the prospect of actually wanting to see it through. A man had propositioned him once, outside a club, while he’d been on a much-needed smoke break in between playing piano. That had been a surprise – and after a quick recalibration – another flat decline. There had been a moment, a spare moment, of wondering what that sort of thing would even consist of between two men. So Alastor, being just freshly nineteen and curious, had read up on it – making sure he was discreet, going to independent bookshops that were private and of ill repute, but there was something that caught his interest in such a thing and he wanted to know more.
The illustrations made him astonished. So very astonished he’d stayed standing and staring at the different positions, where that was inserted, at what the diagram said it stimulated, and all the varied positions, some that must have been painful, not pleasurable – or maybe the pain was the attractive part? Which was . . . intriguing. But – no. Heat had spread up from his collar and neck and burned his cheeks. And that was it. Alastor put the book away and left the book shop. He determined that he would never read such homoerotic literature again.
Which was why, it was at least a little ironic, that so many years later, a book on demonology and summoning rituals, and a terrible mistake in performing said summoning ritual, would result in Alastor having to engage in the very thing that had made him flee the book shop.
The pitch-black night of Louisiana was supposed to have been enough cover to allow Alastor to hide the dead body of his most recent victim. He had dug a deep enough grave, close enough to the swamp that it would quickly aid in decomposition, and had done a clean enough job with the death, making sure it happened far, far off the main road that using this closed-off, graveled road to transport the body from one side of the swamp to other (after all, the further from his shed the better) seemed practical. Pragmatic.
No cars were supposed to be coming down this road, and yet a car came out of nowhere; lights suddenly flashing through the thick trees. Alastor caught a glimpse of a silhouette in the driver’s seat – a young man – before he had to throw himself out of the way to avoid getting hit. The dead body, of course, was not so lucky. The corpse, wrapped in tarp, was thrown forward heavily, more bones cracking, breaking, the trap unraveling, dead eyes popped open wide, and more dark blood pooling beneath where the crumbled body lay.
Alastor struggled to his feet and staggered at the pain lancing through his left foot – fuck. A quick inventory showed him it wasn’t broken – a sprain. Fine. The car door was thrown open and the young man darted out, coming around the car to look down at the dead body. Then, as if he felt Alastor’s gaze, he turned in his direction. The young man was tall and thin, wearing a not-quite tailored suit and tie, with dark brown hair. What was the most notable due to the bright lights of his car, were the mismatched green and blue eyes the man had. Alastor had never seen someone with two different eye colors before. He knew there was a name for such a condition, but the term eluded him at the moment. But under those eyes were dark shadows that stood out starkly due to his pale skin, like parchment with smudges of ink.
Those green and blue eyes seemed to appraise Alastor quickly, looking him up and down, and then to the dead body that was spilling out of its tarp.
“Fuck,” the young man said, which at least suited the occasion, Alastor supposed.
Alastor stepped forward with a smile that hid any pain he felt from his sprain, and slipped a hand into his inner pocket, ready to withdraw his knife and introduce himself properly to the unfortunate young man who had crashed into Alastor.
But then there was the sound of sirens, and a police car, and three police officers that stormed out with guns drawn – “PUT YOUR HANDS UP AND KNEEL ON THE GROUND! NOW!”
“Fuck,” Alastor said, and really, it was the only word that suited the occasion.
A heavy storm came upon them as soon as they were both handcuffed and thrown into the back of the police car. Rain pelted down and destroyed any visibility through the windshield; thunder boomed in the sky above them like an angry orchestra, and lightning struck a nearby tree. It rattled the police officers. The long, three-hour drive back to civilization, to New Orleans, was immediately vetoed in favor of a small, close-by police output station that they would use for the night until the storm blew over. Alastor’s companion in the backseat was not helping the frayed nerves of the officers, as he never once stopped talking.
“I’m trying to tell you that this is all a complete misunderstanding!” the young man protested, completely ignoring when the officer (the thinnest), named Officer Alden, squeezed in the middle at the front hissed at him to shut the fuck up. Amazing how it wasn’t proceeded with a punch to the head or being hit by the barrel of one of their guns or a baton – which it would have certainly been for Alastor. “I had nothing to do with that man’s death. He jumped out of the hotel window! I was in the room next door, minding my own business, and frankly, he was obviously troubled. I heard him pacing and wailing all night. Really.”
“Then why did you speed away and evade arrest, Mr. Whittman?” Officer Wardle, who was the one driving, snapped back at him.
The young man – Whittman – scoffed. “I didn’t. That’s my normal driving speed. As for you all, I thought for sure there was a mistake. You were only following me for a few minutes; you pulled out from that little hidden corner of the highway like a bat out of Hell! And I pulled into this off-beaten road to get out of your way. I thought you must have been headed to a real emergency. I didn’t know there were any police who wanted to speak to me. I checked out of the hotel early. I’m on my way to a very important interview in New Orleans.”
Doesn’t he have an answer for everything, Alastor thought with vague interest. Given that Mr. Whittman had all three aces up his sleeve – being white, male, and young, he might just be able to get away with his bullshit. No matter the earnest tone he was taking, Alastor could quite clearly see (and appreciate) the calm, calculated gleam in those mismatched eyes.
“Honestly, you're not the most pressing matter right now,” Officer Wardle dismissed, throwing Alastor a look of barely tempered rage. “If you are who I think you are, you little fucker, then tonight will be your last night in the land of the living.”
“You think he is?” Officer Hull, at the far end, asked. “You think this man could be the New Orlean’s Reaper? But he’s so young, isn’t he?”
“That’s for the detectives to answer,” Officer Wardle grunted. “But even with the poor lighting, I saw how the body in that tarp was all sliced apart. Surgical accuracy, just like the others. Neat and precise. It matches. And – are you just going to keep smiling, you fucker?” The burly policeman suddenly snapped, pivoting around in his seat to face Alastor. “This means it’s over for you. You think a judge or jury will give someone like you the time of day? You’re a dead man!”
Alastor laughed loudly and with humor. The sharp pain in his side from being kicked while on his knees by the burly Officer Wardle ached, and he knew he’d have a bruise there. Perhaps a broken rib, too. “What confidence! Well, I do acknowledge that I was caught in quite a compromising position, and I too have no doubt that our bigoted justice system – if we can indeed call it justice – will be swift in finding me guilty without the need for testimony or evidence – and yet, there is still the follow-through to be done, gentlemen. There is many a slip, between the cup and the lip, as they say.”
Whittman snickered, and Alastor threw him a small smirk. It always suited him to have an appreciative audience, after all. But Whittman leaned forward to Alastor, opening his mouth as if about to say something when Officer Wardle interrupted.
“Shut your fucking mouth before I knock all your fucking teeth out,” Officer Wardle sneered at Alastor, obviously the leader of the three-man team who threw his weight around. “Let’s see you smile then, you little shit. If it wasn’t storming, I could have you hanging from a tree in a matter of –”
There was another clap of thunder, and lightning struck again, just behind them, making the car swerve. Then Whittman lurched forward and kicked the side of Officer Wardle’s head – but Wardle reacted, trying to dodge, so the full blow didn’t land. The car veered off the road, and the brakes screeched and screamed, but purchase could not be found on the gravel road. It was too flooded, making the car slide and then – BAM! The car rammed against a thick tree, right against the passenger’s side, glass shattering from the window as the front passenger door dented inwards.
Officer Hull screamed in pain, clutching his arm that was snapped in the wrong direction. He kept screaming, making Alastor smile, when –
“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” Officer Wardle hollered, blood pouring from his nose that had been crushed into the steering wheel. He snatched the baton from Officer Alden’s lap and brought it down to strike Whittman right in the left temple. There was no way for Whittman to defend himself, since his hands were cuffed behind his back. Alastor watched him try to move with the oncoming blow, but it was too sudden, too fast, and too late. It was as loud in the police car as the lightning strike and thunder had been outside – the baton striking Whittman’s skull, skin cutting open and blood bursting free on impact.
“Is he dead?” Officer Alden asked in alarm. “Fuck, Wardle, that’s not the one you kill!”
“He nearly killed us all with that fucking stunt he pulled!” Officer Wardle snarled.
“We’re close – just keep driving!” Officer Hull urged, and the car revved and peeled away once more.
Whittman fell over against Alastor, knocked out cold, bleeding enough that it was spilling down the left side of his head, past his neck and into the collar of his button-down. Alastor paused and kept still just enough to feel his breath, uneven and panting, against his bare throat. It made goosebumps break out over his body in alarm at the sudden closeness, at the smell of rain and something fresh, almost metallic (though that could have been the blood). Whittman’s head sunk further down, and now that he was even closer, Alastor could also smell a trace of something woodsy and sharp, like sandalwood and citrus. Undoubtedly male. Masculine.
It was . . . Alastor didn’t think he’d ever really registered another person’s scent like this before.
He was nearly sure he did not like it. He did not like the awareness, the unavoidable assault on his senses, and so he was just leaning away, uncaring if the young man slumped face-down to the seat (as long as it wasn’t his lap) when the car suddenly pulled to a stop.
The station before them was hardly a police station. It looked sparse, like a lone warehouse with a lit entryway more than anything, and barred doors at the front. The police officers ambled out of the car and yanked them out with force, and once they were inside, Alastor found out it was more a wide room with a counter and a table with some fold-up chairs. Officer Hull rushed inside, looking for a sling and pain medication in the adjoining bathroom and lockers. Alastor and Whittman, meanwhile, were led past a single door by Officers Wardle and Alden, down a narrow hallway to a single cell that Alastor was shoved into. Whittman, too, was dragged inside and dumped on the one cot. Besides that, there was only a bucket in the corner, with green mold mapping along the walls.
Officer Alden checked Whittman’s pulse and sighed. “Okay, he’s alive. So far.”
“He’ll be fine,” Officer Wardle scoffed out. “If not, we’ll just say that knock on his head happened in the crash he fucking caused.”
Officer Alden searched through the pockets of Whittman’s suit jacket and pants before yanking out a wallet and fishing thought it. “Vincent Whittman – and look at that, all the way from New York City. He wasn’t lying about an interview in New Orleans – I see a business card with the details here for it.” He pulled out a wad of cash and smirked, splitting it evenly with Officer Wardle and stuffing it into their back pockets. “Gotta love a rich boy from up North, don’t you?”
“Charming,” Alastor commented. “Adding robbery to battery, are we? What upstanding policeman you are.”
That comment caught him a punch to the gut from Officer Alden, which Alastor was sure he heard crack a rib, and he was planning all the different ways he could torture and slaughter all three of the policeman as he struggled to get the air back into his lungs. The policemen were still mumbling to themselves: "Do you think it's alright to leave Whittman in there with a potential serial killer?" he heard Officer Alden ask, but Officer Wardle just snorted as a reply. The cell door clanged behind them, locked and secured, and the two policeman marched away, grunting about getting out of wet clothes and finding out where the food was squirreled away.
“Leaving us in cuffs, then?” Alastor muttered dryly. He couldn’t say he was surprised. They had switched Vincent Whittman’s handcuffs to his front but hadn’t done Alastor the same curtesy. Expected, but Alastor knew if he been the one knocked out, they’d have left him with his arms pinned behind him, and he wouldn’t have been thrown on the cot, that was for sure. "Although they did indeed end up leaving you with me, and vulnerable at that," Alastor said to his unconscious cellmate. "I don't think Wardle particularly wants you to survive the night, Mr. Whittman."
When they’d frisked him, they’d taken away most of his knives, but he still had a spare inside the sole of his shoe. He waited until he heard the hallway door slam shut before he tried to worm his way out of the handcuffs. It took several minutes of twisting and turning and dislocating his right wrist, but then they were off. With only a slight grimace to his smile, he popped his wrist back in place and dropped the offending handcuffs.
He walked over to Vincent Whittman on the cot, passed out, still bleeding from the temple, and despite being a young white man from New York City, seemingly undeserving of any medical attention from these three men in uniform. “And what, Mr. Whittman, did you intend to do if you had succeeded, hmm? Escape in this biblical storm on foot? Perhaps you really did make sure the man from the hotel had a fall out from his hotel window. And I wonder, what did he do to deserve such a thing?”
There was a groan from the young man, low and pained sounding. His body slightly tensed and then slumped again. Sweat mixed from rain was dripping down his brow, mixing with the blood on the left side. And that’s when Alastor allowed himself to acknowledge that Vincent Whittman was handsome. Could he have kicked out at Officer Wardle in response to what he’d been saying to Alastor? About having him lynched from a tree?
Just the thought had Alastor in peels of laughter. Oh, no, what a ridiculous thought! Vincent Whittman, from the short time he’d known him, had come across as nothing but a speedster, conniving, and impulsive. As well as a likely murderer, not that Alastor could judge him for that. And a sloppy one at that. Again, Alastor was not able to judge even that right now. “But my being here is all your fault, Mr. Vincent Whittman. If you hadn’t come along and nearly ran me over with your fucking car, I wouldn’t be here. You had no business driving down a deserted, closed road. You interfering, ruinous . . .”
This young man would be the death of Alastor. Imagine that. Hardly someone to fashion into the role of my hero. More hysterical laughter bubbled up at that thought before Alastor calmed himself down, checking Vincent Whittman’s pulse. It was still there, a little steadier, perhaps.
He went to the cell doors and used everything at his disposal to try to get them open. But it was fruitless. This stand-by station was old, and the cell bars were thick, slightly rusted, too narrow to even slip an arm through, seemingly impenetrable.
Desperate times did call for desperate measures. There was no way he would allow himself to be transported to New Orleans and thrown into jail. He would probably be hanged on the way there, if Officer Wardle had his way. Nothing but certain death either way.
Alastor pulled away and reached into his waistcoat, where he pulled out his book that he’d been aiming to practice for a bit before throwing Wainsworth into his swamp-adjacent grave. It was all in a mix mosh of Latin, Old English, and some French. A sewn-up book of three or four other books put together, Frankenstein-like, all about demonology and summoning rituals that Alastor had painstakingly located in the French Quarter and stolen. There were some parts written in blood. He flipped to the one ritual he had not yet tried. All others had been met with failure. But there was always a chance, and if he did a little mix and match of some Voodoo here and there this time, he might just have a little more success.
It was always worth a try. And if it didn’t work, then he’d simply use the knife he had to try to kill all three officers once they came for him in the morning. Yes, they had guns and batons, and the numbers and sheer size of them were against him, especially since he had a sprain, a broken rib, and was without the element of a surprise attack. Nevertheless, that too was always worth a try.
He took out his book, charmingly called The Bloodbook of Antenina de LeBlanc, and flipped to the part he had bookmarked. This ritual would require blood, some of his, and another’s. Not too much, just enough to draw some runes and the summoning circle.
“I’m sure you won’t mind, sir,” Alastor called out to Vincent Whittman, still unconscious to the world on the cot. “I’ll take your silence for acquiescence.”
The circle of blood was done; he’d had to drag the cot into it as he kept requiring fresh blood from the vein he’d opened on Vincent Whittman’s forearm as it seemed prudent to keep him close; some demons required blood sacrifices, according to his research, and once the ritual – which the Bloodbook called the Ritual of Intention – was performed and he summoned the demon from Hell, he could jumpstart the intention even more by murdering Whittman. The ritual was fairly simple: create the summoning spell with the desires you wished for the demon to be paid with. Which, in Alastor’s case, was murder. He had no qualms offering murder in exchange for the demon’s assistance.
It was just Mr. Whittman’s bad luck that he was now to be used as a human sacrifice if Alastor did happen to summon anything this time. It’s your own fault for crashing into my private matters and getting me caught, he thought, throwing the knocked-out man another look of disdain.
If you're going to use Voodoo, make sure the blood you use for the symbols is taken from the part of the body that matches what the symbol looks like, Alastor heard his mother remind him. Stretch out the leg before you bleed it for a symbol that’s to be done in a straight line; for a symbol that’s crooked, bend the arm and then take the blood. For a number, cut along the rib bones at the number you seek. Use the body to do the math the blood will undertake . . .
If Alastor was going to do this, he was going all in. He stepped up to the man on the cot and looked down at him. Vincent Whittman was still unconscious, but the wound on his head had stopped bleeding. The slice Alastor made down his forearm had also slowed, thanks to the makeshift handkerchief tourniquet Alastor had wrapped around it. On the right side of his ribcage, the second rib down for number two, he thought. The left side of his ribcage, the fourth one down for four. That would make it twenty-four. If Alastor managed to summon the demon, the demon would be compelled through the ritual to visit him twenty-four times and do him twenty-four favors, in turn for Alastor’s ‘offerings’. But killing twenty-four men would be easy enough.
Sure, getting rid of that many bodies would take effort, but to have an actual demon that was made through contract to give Alastor power?
“You’ll be the first one I kill for the demon,” Alastor noted down to his cellmate. “Should the demon appear. Now, pardon me, but I need access to your torso.”
Alastor pushed aside the navy-blue suit jacket Whittman was wearing, inwardly grateful he was wearing a white button-down underneath that was easy enough to undo, despite his hands still being handcuffed to the front of his body. Undoing the buttons revealed white skin, pale enough that along his collarbone and forearms he could see blue veins clearly evident, almost tempting to cut into and slice. Since the man was handcuffed, the clothes were making it hard to work around; and in the essence of not having to contend with such an aggravation, Alastor simply used his knife and cut it all away, tossing away the suit jacket and button down, leaving Whittman shirtless, half-naked. Just in case Whittman woke up, it made more sense to leave the handcuffs on.
But as he finished, trying to be clinical (which he was, of course, he was), he noticed that Whittman obviously took care of his appearance. He was tall and lean, with a more muscular frame than his suit and jacket had suggested. Alastor placed a hand on his bare side, and with just a press, he could feel the indents of his ribs. Locate the second rib, he told himself.
But instead, he watched his fingers press against the skin more. Vincent Whittman had a chill to his skin and was breathing just shallowly enough for Alastor to be able to watch the rise and fall of his bare chest. There was bruising to his lower collarbone and down towards his stomach, old and yellowed. He caught sight of more bruising further down, and pushed the shirt aside and lifted him up, with a bit of strain as Vincent Whittman was heavier than he looked, to see a bruised imprint of a what looked like a boot against his right side, towards his mid-back. It was a deep purple, sore-looking, painful, and Alastor pressed his fingers to the dead center and heard the hitch in Whittman’s breathing. But he did not wake up.
He pressed his knife against the flesh just along the second rib and jolted to a stop when he heard Whittman make a noise. His eyes snapped to his face but – no. Whittman was still asleep. His hands cuffed to his front twitched, fingers squeezing around nothing, long and just as pale, like a pianist or a surgeon's, that led to wrists, narrow and yet strong looking; as if the muscle built into the arms would assure anyone the man they belonged to was strong; capable. Alastor drew closer and that scent hit him again. Rain. Sandalwood. Something metallic, and yet fresh. Masculine. Alastor watched that sleeping face, with his tousled dark hair and high cheekbones, with an almost Victorian jawline and shape that better suited paintings of lords and knights in museums Alastor wasn’t allowed into rather than a man about to be sacrificed on a cot in a cell.
He’s handsome, Alastor could acknowledge, and he brought up the knife again, running his fingers up Whittman’s side and hearing the man groan. Alastor froze. It was a deep sound, low, and intimate; an innate response to Alastor’s harsher touch. The sound lingered and vibrated into the fingertips he had pressed into the man’s skin and made his whole-body flush in response. His heartrate, which had been climbing due to anticipation – spiked and skipped a beat at the sound Whittman made. His throat went dry and his ears burned, and he felt that flush go down his neck to settle in his stomach, and then even lower into his –
No. That is not happening. That is out-of-bounds. Unacceptable, Alastor told himself. He needed to focus, and he would not let some idiot from New York City ruin something for him twice. With a deeper than necessary cut along the second rib, he took the blood and used it to paint the symbol for two, and then went along and sliced along the fourth rib on the left side, using the blood to complete the symbol for twenty-four.
He stepped away, ignoring the rapid pounding of his heart, and when he couldn’t, when sweat was still breaking across his brow, he reorganized mentally. It was nerves. A lot was riding on this. His life and freedom were riding on this ritual. He added a few more geometric lines along the inside of the wide circle before finally stepping back to lift the book and begin.
“I call upon the demon the dwells closest to this painted circle. Hear me across time and space and the veils in between. Hear my voice and hear my intended offerings. I am the creator of this ritual, and I summon you with my intention to serve, and be served by you.”
There was a pause, and Alastor waited. And waited.
He peered around the cell and felt his ever-present smile twist on his face. Fuck. Had it been because he wasn’t in front of his well-stocked, and well-prepared altar at his shed? Not like he had candles or a match to make the whole thing more atmospheric. Or was Alastor truly just grasping at straws? But no, he swore that he’d seen a ritual such as this work – had seen ghosts and spirits press against a blood drawn circle made by his mother – this was real. It was real. He trusted his memory, even at eight years old. This was not a hopeless hunt. If it didn’t work, he just needed to keep trying. As for his current situation, he would kill –
There was a crack, and the one lightbulb hanging above them flickered and went out. Darkness drenched the room, and Alastor felt his skin prickle. A creaking sound came from the direction of the cot, and he cursed his eyes to adjust faster, faster – but then he heard the tell-tale sounds of shoes hitting the ground, and the final muffled creaking sound of a body getting up and out of the cot. Vincent Whittman. Surely, Whittman had just woken up?
Alastor took a step back and discovered a wall suddenly behind him. He turned and pressed against it, but could not discern any actual wall, more a barrier that would not yield, that would not let him step through. The circle of blood, Alastor realized, I can’t get past the circle. Which means the ritual was activated. Which means . . . He turned quickly back to face where the shadows had darkened against the standing silhouette of a man.
There was a snap of fingers, and a bright blue light burst from the lightbulb, and all the shadows were dashed away. Vincent Whittman stood there with his head tilted to the side, shirtless and still bleeding a little from the cuts he had made along his sides. He was staring at Alastor with eyes that were heavy, calculating, and dangerous. Those were not the mismatched eyes of the man he’d been arrested with. Red was pooling in the middle of those pupils now; with a bright, almost electric blue wrapped around the left one; sharp and dazzling in the bright light.
A demon.
“Who the fuck are you?” the demon inside Vincent Whittman asked. There was a darkness to that voice, a distorted edge, like it was coming from deep inside a cave. There was also a buzz to it, strangely, like static.
Alastor smiled wider and stepped forward. Now was not the time to stand and gape – he had painstakingly practiced and planned for this. After years of trying, he’d finally struck oil. Now was not the time to appear disconcerted. His smile brightened, broadcasting as much charm as he could into it. “What a pleasure to meet you, sir! I am –”
“Shut up.”
Alastor snapped his mouth shut automatically and his eyes widened in alarm. Wait, what just happened?
But the demon inside Vincent Whittman seemed distracted. He was looking down at his hands with a frown and tore off the handcuffs and tossed them aside like it was paper instead of metal. It made Alastor’s chest tighten in excitement. Yes, this was what he needed. This raw strength would be how he escaped. The demon continued looking at his hands, then patted down his bare chest, over the cuts along his ribs that Alastor had made, and then, with a strange look, raised those hands and touched his face. The demon inhaled sharply. He touched his neck, or rather, Vincent Whittman’s neck, then his jawline, those cheekbones, over his mouth and nose, and then buried his fingers in that disheveled dark hair.
The demon was muttering something, sounding half-amazed, half mad. “I can’t fucking believe this . . . I don’t remember this ever happening – but it is. This is . . .” Then those reddened eyes caught the symbols of the circle, and he crept down to inspect them. He moved quickly, like lightning, making Alastor jump. He needed to get some kind of handle on this.
“I used a summoning ritual to bring you here,” Alastor said, taking a step forward that he hoped did not come across as hesitant. “I want to make a deal with you. As you can see, I’m currently trapped inside this cell with three police officers just down that hallway there. I am offering services for services. In exchange for –”
The demon reached out a hand to the circle, and a barrier appeared; it crackled with green sparking energy, and the blood painted symbols underneath them glowed in the same green color. There was a sound that echoed throughout the cell, like a chorus of ghosts exhaling all at once. The demon then stood and kicked at the edge of the circle, the sound cracking against the barrier like a stone anvil.
Then the demon chuckled faintly, amused. But when he turned to face Alastor, there was no amusement to be found in those possessed eyes. “You trapped me inside this summoning circle, did you? Well. I may be stuck here with you, human,” the demon said, stepping closer with a smile, “but that means you're stuck here with me, too.”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Alastor interjected. “I have no intention whatsoever of trapping a demon of your obvious caliber. I meanly meant to reach out and request your services for –”
A hand shot out and wrapped around his throat. “Do I look like a fucking genie? Do you think you can summon me from Hell, where I was in the middle of a very important fucking business meeting, and drag me up here to listen to you bitch and whine and grant you three wishes? Being in my – in a human body is a novelty, sure, but no one – and I mean no one alive or dead summons me to do anything.”
Alastor choked as he was easily lifted off the floor. “You are merely the demon who answered!” he rasped out. “I didn’t summon you with purpose. I don’t even know your name! And if I did this ritual right, that would be twenty-four acts of service. Not three wishes.”
The demon dropped him and he staggered, just barely stopping himself from landing on his ass.
Alastor straightened and hastened to add, “But I would do acts of service in return. I used a ritual of intention to bring you here, with a little mix of what I thought would help. I mean, I’ve done similar rituals and failed more times than I care to admit. This has been my first success – perhaps a demon just needs a suitable host?”
“And is that what your using Vincent Whittman for?”
Alastor started at hearing the man’s name come from the demon. “You - you know his name?”
Those burning eyes seared onto him for a moment. “I’m in his body, aren’t I?”
Fair point. “I just used his blood,” Alastor explained. “The ritual never specified actually needing a host for the demon – for you.”
“And how did you end up in here with Vincent Whittman?”
So, he knew his name but could not access his recent memories? Strange. “I was on a closed road in the woods, moving to get rid of a dead body. Vincent Whittman came speeding down the road and hit the body I was trying to bury with his car. Nearly hit me, as well. The police were chasing him, and we both got arrested.”
There was a dark chuckle from the demon then, and that was good. Humor was something Alastor could work with. “What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
The demon’s attention turned away from him, but he did answer. “Vox.”
Goosebumps raised on every inch of his body. Vox. The demon’s name was Vox. Alastor had finally, finally met a demon. Alastor cleared his throat. “My name is –”
It suddenly felt like there was a vice around his vocal cords, and he choked. One of the Voodoo sigils he painted glowed a vibrant mint green. It was one of the ones he’d added that his mother always used to draw on the fogged-up glass of the windows in their house. A ward of self-protection. Alastor stared down at it. But why would hiding his name protect him from Vox?
“What a fucking hobby you have,” Vox muttered, looking at the green glowing sigil as well. “Seems like you didn’t even know how this little ritual would turn out.”
“Trial and error,” Alastor agreed. “And at the moment, I found myself willing to take a chance. I am quite sure the policemen here do not intend for me to reach New Orleans alive.”
“New Orleans?” Vox repeated. “Wow. I’m in the fucking south. Of course. Fuck my life. What’s the date?”
“The date?”
“Yes,” Vox snapped. “The fucking date. Month and year.”
“October 1933,” Alastor answered.
Vox let out a sound of frustration and pressed against the barrier of the blood circle again. There was a charge to his hands; blue-tinged lightning that sizzled against the barrier, and yet it remained. “Fucking motherfucker,” the demon hissed in fury. “I can’t fucking believe this, I can’t believe a fucking human can draw a fucking circle and trap me. I’m a fucking Overlord!”
The demon was an Overlord? Alastor wasn’t a hundred percent sure what that meant, but it seemed that when he’d cast his summoning rod, he’d reeled in a powerful demon. That was not something to be regretful over. Power was what he wanted. What he needed. And what he needed to do next was get this encounter under control.
“Fuck it. I’ll just fucking kill you.”
Hardly a surprising turn of events. This was a demon, after all. Alastor decided to play his hand. He reached out and pressed against the barrier of the blood circle to demonstrate how it also kept him captive. “We both cannot leave this blood circle until we meet the intention required with a deal. You could kill me – true. But wouldn’t it be more interesting, Vox, if I served you instead? I could spill blood in your name.”
“I don’t give a shit about some fucking human spilling blood in my name up on earth,” Vox snapped back, his expression shifting to something bored. “If you read up at all on demons, then you know we usually deal for one thing and one thing only.”
“You want my soul,” Alastor said, and his heart was pounding like a manic drum in his chest. His chest ached with it. But at the mention of his soul, Vox’s eyes were snapped back on Alastor’s. Accessing. Calculating. He needed to keep that sharp gaze on him. He needed to keep the demon’s interest.
But that interest vanished just as fast. “No. Why the fuck would I want your soul? What could you offer me when you die? Do you have any technical knowledge? I’m guessing no. And even if you did, from what I can see, and from what year it is, it’d be outdated and useless to me.”
To keep smiling when the demon outrightly rejected even considering taking his soul was difficult, to say the least. Alastor never imagined he would find such a thing to be insulting. It should be a relief that the demon did not want to own his soul. But useless? Useless?
“I am not useless,” Alastor countered. “If you are interested in technology, then I can –”
“Save it,” Vox cut in. “I don’t want your garbage 1930s technology.”
The demon spoke of the year as if he was separated from it. Was Hell not bound to a specific time? Was it not like a line but a zigzag where a demon could be summoned from Hell and arrive on earth in the past, present, or future?
“And wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you. It’s reminding me of someone and believe me, you don’t want to remind me of him if you want to stay breathing and in one fucking piece.”
Alastor’s mouth flattened into something more like a grimace. It felt like peeling off a layer of his actual face to do so, to stop smiling and allow the chance of any other expression, whether they were subtle or even micro, to cross his face. To reveal even a hint of what he was thinking and feeling. He hated it, but it was better not to provoke the demon by choosing to keep his smile. That would not earn him his favor.
The demon investigated the symbols painted on the floor again. Then Vincent Whittman’s body lit up with electricity, in currents running up and down his whole body, and a blue-lit projection manifested over him – humanoid, but not, almost rising from Vincent Whittman’s body – it was much, much taller – larger than the human it rose from. There was a rectangular head with two kaleidoscopes of lights that could be eyes? The blue manifestation thickened, solidifying – the same blue color electricity shooting out like the lightning strikes happening outside, with a thundering, distorted sound that was just as intense and severe. There were flashes of lights directed at the symbols that reminded Alastor of camera lights flashing, but then the manifestation surged against the circle and there was a resounding snap back – the manifested demon slunk back into the human body like something alive, intangible yet electric, being shoved into a puppet.
The demon straightened, and as if they were pages in a book, he flipped through blue projections of the symbols Alastor had written inside the blood circle. His red eyes flickered upon each illuminated page, absorbing the information – there were lines of text underneath, but just as Alastor neared, marveling at such a strange magic, the demon waved them away and fixed his attention back onto Alastor.
It was not a good thing.
The demon moved in one long stride, and snatched him by the face, long fingers pressing hard into the skin of his cheeks. Alastor caught his wrist and tried to wrench himself free, but despite being in a regular human’s body, the demon’s grip was like iron. Firm. Relentless.
“A human summoned me using a ritual of intention, is that it?” Vox clarified. “Which means the only way I can leave this little circular prison is if I accept your intentions. Or kill you.”
“Killing me would just send you straight back to hell,” Alastor gritted out.
“And?” the demon asked. “I was in the middle of a very important business meeting. Being here on earth holds zero interest for me.”
That was not promising, but Alastor fought to keep his composure. “This has the opportunity to be a very important business meeting! The circle was painted with intention – murderous intention. The act I must perform for you, therefore, is murder. I’ll kill anyone – anyone you tell me to, here on earth. I’ll sacrifice twenty-four humans to you, in a manner as clean or as gory as you’d prefer. And then to start with, you’ll help me escape from this shitty cell and kill those three police officers outside.”
Laughter burst out of Vox, sudden and sneering. “The only reason you aren’t already dead is because you’re pretty.” The grip on his face tightened, and Vox crouched down to bring their faces closer together. “Very pretty.”
Despite the heat that burned into his cheeks, Alastor’s mind screamed in rage that he barely kept concealed. How dare this demon speak of him like he was some fucking ornament? But then Vox was leaning even closer, so close that he could smell that masculine, sandalwood and rain scent again, but with a layer of ozone, or something sizzling; like smell that clung to the air amid a lightning storm; fresh, sharp, and wild. Their mouths were about to touch, and Alastor tried to jerk away, straining against Vox’s hold. “Are you actually – you can’t be serious,” he protested in a panic.
“What? Never been kissed before?” Vox mocked.
The blood circle around them lit up in emerald-green, and there was a stretching sound, like a rubber band about to snap.
The sudden light distracted the demon enough for Alastor to wrench free from Vox. He was going to kiss me. Me. A man. Did that not matter in Hell?
“But even that doesn’t help you, pretty boy,” Vox admitted, and he frowned down at the blood circle again. “Once you die and end up in Hell, you could end up looking like a pile of slugs.”
Alastor backed away as far as the blood circle would allow. This demon was not what he expected. Weren’t demons from Hell supposed to want murder and bloodshed? “You collect souls that are pretty?”
“It’s good for business,” was all Vox said to that. “Well. Time’s wasting and while this –” the demon gestured to the body he was inhabiting “– has been a real novelty, I really can’t afford to waste any more time. I’m going to kill you now.”
Alastor lifted his hands. “Seems rather hasty, my Lord Vox.”
That made Vox blink. “Huh. Lord Vox,” he repeated, as if testing it out. Then he smirked at Alastor. “You know, you are cute. Maybe I would stay a little longer, but being as I’m stuck here in this fucking circle and can’t even get a whiskey or eat a steak while I have tastebuds again, it all lessons the appeal. And fuck, this place smells like damp. Kind of nice to smell damp again though . . .”
Did they not have damp in Hell? But before Alastor could say anything in response, Vox was suddenly in front of him. In an instant, the demon had a hand wrapped around his throat. It felt like an iron vice, and was apparently the demon’s go-to method. “Any last words, pretty boy?”
Alastor took the knife he’d concealed up his sleeve (the very one he’d performed the ritual with) and went to stab the demon in the gut – but Vox evaded it with ease and caught his hand, though the knife still cut into his palm, deep enough to spill blood. Vox’s hold moved to his wrist, which he twisted until Alastor dropped the knife, hearing it clatter away, but Vox kept twisting, until the bone threatened to snap.
“Wait!” Alastor suddenly broke out. “Please. Vox, wait. We can still make a deal –”
Alastor was prepared to go on, but Vox suddenly stopped. Those red eyes were trained on the blood circle again, and he swore, the left eye looked as if it was swirling somehow, the teal blue outline around it gleaming with cruelty. The bloody knife had landed a few feet outside the circle. “I translated all those little symbols and runes,” the demon murmured. “This blood circle binds the ones inside with its intention. If your intention is murder, then why isn’t it reacting? You and I have been letting off tons of murderous intent. But even when the knife crossed it – nothing. But when I called you pretty and tried to kiss you . . .”
Vox went still. “When you drew this circle, you used this body’s blood, right?”
That should have been obvious. “Yes.”
“And your intention when you took the blood and undressed me – I mean, this body – Vincent Whittman – was murderous intent?”
What was the demon getting at? “Of course.”
Vox let out a scoffing laugh, filled with static and warped distortion, pitched low. It was like there was some dark frequency inside; which made sense, given the body was possessed by a demon. But it made Alastor’s ears tingle, in a way that made his brain feel like a persistent itch had finally been scratched. A burst of relief. Pleasure. He gritted his teeth against the feeling and shuddered.
But Vox was watching him closely. “Let’s test that theory, shall we?”
Before Alastor could ask how, Vox dragged him closer by his throat, bending down to kiss him yet again, only for Alastor to quickly turn his head away. “Who said that was my target?” Vox murmured against the corner of his mouth and then proceeded to lick from his jawline all the up to his left temple, to his hairline. The wet line it left felt scalding, to the point where his whole body felt like it was blistering. He let out a sound that he’d barely smothered, a cut-off high-pitched noise, the beginning of a protest.
More stretching, taunt sounds echoed through the cell, and crackling, and the blood circle shined vivid green again. Vox leaned back, and they both watched the green light slowly fade. “So, if I killed you. . . I would still have been stuck here. Shit. Well, aren’t you just full of surprises. So jumpy at the thought of a little kiss, but you summon a demon with an intention ritual that trades my services for the chance to – what? Fuck you?”
Alastor stiffened and tried to pull away. Vox did not let him. “I didn’t do that!” he flat-out denied. “I would never –”
“Okay, little necromancer,” Vox said with a roll of his eyes. “When you collected the blood from Vincent Whittman, the ritual you were gunning for said the intention from which it was done mattered, right? Did you want to kill him or fuck him?”
No. No, it just was not possible.
Alastor stared around the room, his eyes bouncing from the circle, to the iron bars, to the cot in mounting panic. “No,” he muttered. “No, that can’t . . .” But ice was already freezing over in his veins. How could this be happening? How could he have ruined the intention of the ritual? He had just killed Wainsworth. He wanted the police officers to die. He had no qualm sacrificing Vincent Whittman to a devil from Hell. That slight inclination he’d felt when he’d cut into the flesh along his ribcage – that heat that had traveled down to his –
“No,” Alastor breathed out.
“Yup,” Vox retorted with a smile, finally letting him go and taking a step back, looking amused. “Got to say, I’m flattered. You were all gearing up for a little murder ritual and you took the time to appreciate the view?”
Alastor felt himself reeling. “Why would you be flattered?” he then snapped. “It was a passing thought about Vincent Whittman – not you.”
The smile slid off that handsome face that did not belong to Vox. “Hah. Fuck you, too. Or rather, go fuck yourself because I’m not doing it.”
Alastor glared at him with unbridled fury. “Then how do you propose to leave this blood circle?”
“The ritual won’t matter if there’s no one alive inside it. I kill you, and I” – and here, Vox mimed slitting his throat – “this body, and then I’m good to go back to Hell. You can’t fulfill an intention when there’s no one left to fulfill it. The ritual will be null and void.”
Fuck. The demon had a point.
“And fuck the foreplay, we’ve done enough already,” Vox said. “Come here and I’ll kill you nice and quick.”
“And while that sounds like a good time,” Alastor cut in, “I cannot die. Not yet.”
“Oh?” Vox asked. “Am I supposed to fucking care?”
Alastor’s mind was racing. Could he really do this? Would it have to be intercourse – and fucking between men, which meant . . . the illustrations he’d seen years ago in that sordid bookshop haunted his mind, and just the thought was making his knees tremble. He fought hard to hide it, but from the way those crimson eyes narrowed he knew he hadn’t managed it. Calm down, he told himself. Be practical. You're a twenty-eight-year-old man.
Sexual intercourse with another man was out of the sphere of what he ever intended. Sexual intercourse with anyone at all was out of his sphere (or it was supposed to be, and really, just invading this particular sphere of Alastor’s was enough to earn Vincent Whittman a place on his next-to-be-killed list). But he must adapt. He could not, would not die yet, and not because of some humiliating mistake he’d done while summoning a demon, and trapping said demon in a fucking sex circle.
How could Alastor have allowed this to happen to himself? But it was just a meeting of flesh. Alastor could withstand that, surely. It could be – no, it would be quick. Just to release them from the blood circle, and then Vox would be bound to do something in service for Alastor. He could escape this damned police station. He could finish what he started.
Resolve settled in his gut. There was no fucking way he wouldn’t finish what he started.
“I will allow you to . . .” Alastor’s voice thinned out, so he coughed and tried again. “I will complete the ritual with you, and when you are released from the circle, your act of service to me will be to free me from this pathetic police station and kill the three policemen outside. Make sure no one remembers I was here.”
“Oh, is that all?” Vox asked with obvious humor, like he was a predator watching his prey try to squirm away. “Give me three good reasons why I should even fuck you.”
Must he be so vulgar? Alastor flushed and felt it burn anew through his whole body. “Three reasons,” he repeated. How far would the blood circle even require? The original Ritual of Intention was supposed to be a death - a murder. Not some simple maiming. Did that also apply to this new Ritual of Intention? Would Alastor have to go all the way, have penetrative sex with this demon? Would other acts be sufficient? At just the thought, there was a flare of green energy from the blood circle again, but no cracking sounds. Like a key in a locked door that did not turn to make the door unlatch. It felt like an answer to his question.
“Sell it to me,” Vox implored, and he crossed his arms over that bare chest in a mockery of patience that made Alastor want to strangle him.
Alastor tried to think about what he’d seen in nightclubs, about how women flirted and acted coy with men to seduce them into doing what they wanted, usually with smiles and carefully placed touches on their arms or chest.
Alastor forced himself to saunter closer with his most disarming smile. He could perform. He’d performed all his life and though this was not a role he’d ever wanted, he would do what he had to for survival. He reached out and brushed away some of the dark locks of hair that were falling in front of that cursed, handsome, possessed face. “I think I can do better than three, Vox. After all, you're in a human body, yes? Wouldn’t you like to experience –”
“I fuck all the time,” Vox dismissed, but he leaned into his hand just a fraction, barely noticeable. It emboldened Alastor to rake his fingers through that dark fringe and smooth it back, and then there was a cut off sigh from the demon. His eyes swirled to a darker red, like old blood, and the left one was swirling, like a pinwheel, around and around. But then it stopped and Vox cleared his throat. “Try again.”
Alastor took this as encouragement and let his fingers trail down the side of his – well, borrowed, face. Which was a little disconcerting to think about given what he was trying to do, so Alastor compartmentalized that and refused to spare it any more thought. “Very well. Reason one – you said I was pretty.”
Vox seized his hand just as it touched his jawline. “You arrogant little –”
“You're the one who said it,” Alastor reminded him.
Vox’s eyebrows lifted. “Fine. Reason number two, then.”
Vox squeezed his hand around his, easily since it was larger, and moved his thumb to press hard against where the pulse beat at the inside of Alastor’s wrist. Now the demon would be able to feel just how quick and frenzied his heart rate was. It was too telling, but Alastor could hardly pull away from this. When he didn’t, Vox tightened his grip, pressing at his inner wrist until the skin bloomed from red to a faint blue. Until there was a bruise there, at his pulse. The pressing, insistent pain made his heart skip, and perhaps Vox noticed that, felt that, because that knowing smile was back on his face.
What could be the second reason? What did Alastor have to offer besides his looks? He would hardly be skilled at it. And since it would be between two men, it would be painful, no doubt. The thought actually made him feel a little better. Pain was something Alastor was used to. Pain he could control. Withstand.
The truth would have to be a good reason.
“The second reason is that I can’t die before I’ve killed my father.”
Vox tilted his head curiously, and his entire presence now seemed to charge the air, making the little hairs on Alastor’s body stand on end. “Patricide. And what did dear old dad do to deserve this? Beat you?”
“Not just that,” Alastor said. “He’s the reason my mother is dead.”
Those demonic eyes studied him closely, scrutinizing, as if Alastor were something to be taken apart and looked at, though not necessarily put back together afterwards.
“So why haven’t you already killed him?”
“Because I’m not successful enough yet,” Alastor answered, thinking of his job at the radio station. At how he still, despite all his raving reviews and ratings, had still not been given his own timeslot or show as of yet. The color of his skin and his lack of connections were proving difficult, but it only made Alastor more determined. He would he the voice of the evening news. He would have his own radio show. He would have everything. “My father can’t die until he sees that I’ve succeeded in every way he thought I couldn’t. He can’t die until he sees me win. At everything. I won’t let him die until I’ve made sure he’s been terrorized, tortured, and taken apart by my own hands.”
Alastor tried to get himself to calm down – he could feel himself getting worked up, but continued, nonetheless. “Part of the reason why I’ve been trying to summon demons is because I know my father is Hellbound. But I want to be there to watch him experience the first pains of Hell. To witness it. Partake in it. Experience it. I want his Hell to start on earth so I can do that. I want to curse him with the same spells and Voodoo and rituals that he said made my mother wicked. To prove to him by giving him Hell on earth that yes, it is real. None of it was nonsense. That she was no fool. That she taught me everything she knows, and by doing so, it’ll be as if she will also have a hand in killing and torturing him too. Ha, ha, ha . . . it’ll be perfect. And then – then, I’ll kill him.”
Vox yanked on his wrist and wrapped an arm around his waist so that they were pressed together. Alastor came up to just around his sternum and had to crane his neck back to look up at him. The man was still shirtless, so feeling all that bare skin, the muscle, the tall, lean build of his frame, even when Alastor himself was still clothed, was overwhelming. He resisted the automatic urge to pull away. Instead, he pressed closer, keeping his eyes on the demon’s face, keeping what he hoped was still a charming smile on his face. That’s when he felt it – something hard and unmistakable pressing against his stomach.
“That was kind of hot, got to admit,” Vox acknowledged. He gripped his face and angled them so they were forehead to forehead. “But all this means that if I agree, I’ve still got to come up here twenty-three more times and do your little murdery bidding. I’m no one’s fucking servant, human.”
“I’ll make sure you’re entertained,” Alastor declared, a little breathless, and shifted himself against the demon, purposefully sliding against that bulge and feeling his stomach tighten and tangle into knots at the act. Vox grunted, and the sound added another layer of heat that had never fully dissipated. It made him even more flushed, but this was the whole point – he needed to entreat the demon to go along with him, to seduce him. He never thought he’d ever be doing something like this. “And you wouldn’t be my servant.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“It’d be the other way around,” Alastor insisted. He remembered how Vox had reacted to being called my lord and took a chance. “Reason number three – I'd worship you. Pray to you. Serve you. Killing these humans for me, assisting me with making sure my father gets what I have planned for him, granting me your powers to do so – you would be answering my prayers.”
The red in Vox’s eyes now looked like lit flames, that slice of teal blue in his left nearly consumed by it, and this was it, Alastor just knew he was so close to getting the demon to agree. He stood on his tiptoes and lightly kissed him on the cheek, not near courageous enough to place one on his mouth. It was just a quick brush of his lips against skin, but Alastor heard the demon inhale sharply. “You’d be my god. You alone and no one else, until the day I die.”
And in Hell when I am dead, I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you, Alastor silently promised in his own head.
Vox caught him by his hair, fingers tightening in his curls and making his scalp ache before the demon brought him close again, eye to eye. “Fuck it. Fine. You have a deal.”
The blood circle around them glowed again, flaring with green before being overrun with a current of teal, lightning blue – shimmering and shining, crackling, before it broke from the circle and snaked over to them. Alastor felt it surge like a brand from his feet and up his spine, where it coiled and constricted inside his chest painfully and then – it was gone. The lights fizzled out, but that phantom pressure, somehow, remained.
Alastor felt like a wild animal caught by a hunter’s trap – which was ridiculous, as he was the one who had set the trap in the first place. He was the one who’d made the blood circle. And yet, he could feel the metal clamp spring down its teeth into him, inside him, and not on a mere limb, but at the very core of him.
Vox was smiling again, and it was all gleaming white teeth. They did say the devil smiled, didn’t they? But now this was Alastor’s devil. For better or for worse, and it really could not get any worse.