Chapter Text
Alastor knelt in the middle of the pentagram he'd carved into the wood floor, blood slowly dripping from a shallow cut on his inner forearm.
Most of it was drawn with blood from his latest victim, though the viscous liquid didn't keep particularly well and he'd had to add his own. He pressed his right hand to the wound to staunch the bleeding, hissing a little at the sharp pain.
Pulling a white handkerchief out of his pocket, he quickly, if somewhat awkwardly, tied it around the cut, hoping that the makeshift bandage would be enough.
It wouldn't do to pass out from blood loss, after all.
Not now, when he was so close to his goal.
Carefully, he dipped a long finger into the bowl full of blood, and began to draw Lucifer's sigil in the center of the pentacle.
Perhaps it was rather arrogant of him to dare and summon the Devil. But if he was going to sell his soul, he wasn't going to be beholden to some second-rate overlord of Hell. No, Alastor would not cower before a demon who was once a human being, another person, to lord their status over him.
He would bow before Lucifer himself, and no one lesser.
The sigil gleamed in the light of candles that rested on five points of the pentagram, the comforting scent of blood thick on the cool autumn breeze.
"Prêt-à-manger," he murmured, licking the blood from his finger.
Raising his hands in the air, Alastor began to chant, the esoteric words foreign on his tongue. He'd carefully practiced their pronunciation, knowing how important such things were to a delicate ritual like this.
It wasn't the first time he'd dabbled in the occult, far from it. His dearly departed omega-mother was a rootworker. While his alpha-father taught him to fear God, his mama had raised him to know that God and the spirits only helped those who helped themselves.
Not the he worshiped the Christian god any longer. Alastor had seen too much of the ugliness of the world for that.
But that didn't mean there weren't powerful forces, in this world and the one beyond.
As he chanted, the words took on a life of their own, becoming almost tangible in the air.
Alastor couldn't stop now, even if he wanted to.
Breathing heavily from the exertion, the energy his efforts took from him, he finished the chant with a shout.
Nothing happened.
For a moment, Alastor worried that he'd failed. Had he done something wrong?
Or did Lucifer not deign to answer him?
Before his doubts could grow any further, the candles all extinguished, seemingly by themselves. Alastor knelt in the pitch black cabin, without even the light of the moon penetrating the darkness.
"You dare to summon me?" a deep voice called, echoing throughout the room.
Alastor swallowed heavily. He knew that it was daring of him, but somehow it didn't occur to him that Lucifer would be angry.
"Yes," he said, doing his best to inject confidence into his tone. "I did."
The candles all lit themselves again, in the light Alastor could now see a pale man standing before him. He wore a white suit with a red and white vest, and a white top hat with blond hair peeking out from underneath it.
"Well! Not many humans have both skill and the courage to bring me to this plane. Alastor Hart, is it?"
"You know my name?"
"Of course, of course! You offered me your blood — and the blood carries all sorts of sordid details."
"I see."
"Now, what did you call me here for? As distracting as this little excursion is, I do have places to be."
The Devil leaned down, taking Alastor's chin in his hand and tilting his head back, so that he was looking him in his red, snake-like eyes.
"What will it be? Power? Revenge? Love? What do you have to bargain with?"
Alastor hesitated for a moment, and Lucifer's grip tightened.
"I — I know what awaits me after death," he started, not wanting to anger the fallen angel. "Hell. And I won't be powerless there."
"Oh, I see," Lucifer said, smiling widely and showing of a mouthful of pointed teeth.
He let go of Alastor, turning around to pace in the small room.
"At least you're original," he continued. "No one has ever asked me for something like this. Why are you so certain Hell awaits you, anyway?"
"I am a murderer," Alastor said, and there was a note of pride in his voice. "I happily murdered my father. I killed many in the Great War. And when I returned, I continued the habit. The newspapers call me the Louisiana Ripper, and they know about twelve of my victims. There are many more."
Lucifer looked idly around the cabin, the evidence of Alastor's kills obvious. His gaze focused on the relics of hoodoo on the shelf, then the gris-gris hanging around Alastor's neck, and he smiled.
"You're a rootworker! A conjure man," he said, as if the very idea delighted him. "Well, no wonder the ritual worked. You're no fool with a copy of the Lesser Key of Solomon, are you?"
"I dabble," Alastor said humbly, though he was privately pleased to be recognized. "My mother taught me."
"What a fascinating little creature you are."
Little creature? Alastor simply smiled, biting back a comment about Lucifer's relative height. He wasn't foolish enough to insult the devil to his face, and he was accustomed to swallowing down his thoughts.
Even if he had turned out to be a condescending fuck like all the others.
"Our deal?" he prompted.
"Oh, yeah, sure," Lucifer said casually. examining his black, claw-like nails. "Your soul, in exchange for power. Simple enough."
"Not just power! I want to be the most powerful."
Lucifer laughed.
"The most powerful sinner in Hell, huh? Yeah, I think I can swing that. But we'll have to add something to the deal. In exchange, you'll also be my… executioner, I think is a good word for it."
"And what would that entail, precisely?" Alastor asked cautiously.
He had few qualms about murdering people who already found themselves Damned. But he had his own ambitions, his own ideas. The last thing he wanted was to spend the rest of eternity doing Lucifer's bidding.
Lucifer looks at him, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
"I need someone to take care of certain… demonic forces, from time to time. Your soul would be mine — but you would have the power to kill anyone I require."
"I am not going to be your dog," Alastor sneers, unable to help himself.
In a flash, he was standing in between Alastor's spread knees, fingers threaded through his curly hair. He yanked Alastor's head back sharply, making him let out a hiss of surprised and pain.
"You'll be my dog if I desire it!" he growled, eyes gleaming red.
Then, seemingly gaining control of himself, he released Alastor and took a step back, clearing his throat.
"But I'm not that demanding. Most of the time I let Hell police itself. You'll have plenty of time to pursue your petty hobbies."
Alastor ran a hand through his hair, and straightened his tie. If he was beginning to doubt himself, he did his best to dismiss the feeling.
It was too late to back out now. He had the Devil's attention.
He couldn't squander it.
"Very well. My soul, and my services as your executioner, in exchange for my position as the most powerful sinner in Hell," he said, mimicking Lucifer's words.
Lucifer held out his hand.
Alastor took it.
A bright light began to emanate from their clasping hands, growing brighter until Alastor had to shield his eyes. Lucifer held on, his grip tight.
"We have a deal," he said, voice low.
When Alastor opened his eyes, Lucifer was gone. The candles had burned down to mere stubs, and smoke filled the air.
The only proof that the Devil had been there at all, save a particular scent in the air. Alastor inhaled deeply, finding it somewhat familiar. Gunpowder, and something else. His eyes widened when he placed it, pheromones filling his lungs.
Lucifer was an omega.
Alastor woke the next morning, not quite sure if the previous night's ritual had been a terrible dream or a wonderful nightmare.
As he sat up in the bed in the small cabin, pushing the blanket aside, his gaze landed on the pentagram he'd drawn. The blood had been burned away, leaving only a black scorch mark on the dark, unvarnished wood.
"Oh," he said, voice almost a whisper. "It was real."
He could remember now, the way that Lucifer's scent lingered in the air as he extinguished the bright candles.
The burn of the Devil's palm against his, as they made the deal.
And what did it cost?
Only his soul.
"Lucifer's Executioner," he said aloud, testing the words.
Perhaps it was a title he would get used to, in time. After he died, that was, many years into the future. For now, he had business to take care of. Money didn't make itself, and bodies didn't get buried on their own. Thankfully, it was the middle of the week, and he had little to do.
Humming to himself, he stood. Despite his intention to get ready for the day, Alastor found himself kneeling before the pentagram in his pajamas, tracing the outline of it with curious fingers.
It was a good thing that his little hunting cabin was deep enough into the woods that he never had visitors. As common as Hoodoo was in Louisiana, so-called devil worship was likely to get him lynched, and he didn't have time for that nonsense.
Not now that he had so much to live for.
Alastor had summoned the Devil and lived to tell the tale. Now his position in Hell was all but certain.
He'd found power on this Earth, with blade and blood, killing those who needed killing, following his particular code, and relishing in his victim's suffering.
When he went to Hell, he would be able to continue his fun. Laughing, delighted in his own cunning, Alastor began to get ready for his day.
What was a soul worth, really, when there was chaos to cause?
Hell rose around him as Lucifer reappeared in his palace, his cane held carelessly in his left hand.
Well. That was one way to get out of the house. And he hadn't ventured out in weeks.
How long had is been since someone actually succeeded in summoning him to the mortal plane? A hundred years, if not more. He was reluctantly impressed. It took more than knowledge to invite the actual Devil in.
That Alastor Hart would have been a powerful sinner, even without Lucifer's assistance. Now, he would be even more so, and Lucifer would have another useful tool at his disposal.
He wasn't accustomed to making deals. And even when humans did managed to summon him, he rarely agreed to such favorable terms. While he doubted that Alastor understood the true depth of bargaining his soul — few living people did — what he gained in exchange made it almost worth it.
Lucifer might rule Hell, but he would never understand how some sinners gave up their souls so easily.
Alastor was creative, at least, which he appreciated. It was inspiring, leading to his own terms.
An executioner. How he never thought of such things before? He couldn't hurt those human souls who came to his domain, his punishment from the all-merciful Heavenly Host. But Alastor could.
On his behalf.
It really was a brilliant idea, a perfect way to skirt the rules. Lucifer allowed himself a genuine smile.
Perhaps things would turn around, once Alastor arrived in Hell and he had a bit more leverage. Things hadn't been going his way, as of late.
Lilith had left him a few years ago, taking Charlie with her. He didn't object to that. A young girl should be with her mother, though he missed both of them dearly. Now he was alone in his palace, his marriage long dissolved.
Divorce! He never saw it coming, not matter that his relationship with Lilith had been deteriorating for years. Decades, even.
Now he was an unmated omega for the first time since he Fell. It was a peculiar feeling.
Lucifer swept his hat off, collapsing onto an plush armchair in his study and letting it fall to the floor. Kicking off his boots, he stretched his legs over the side of the chair, letting his feet dangle.
Alastor was an alpha.
The thought came to him all of a sudden, as if out of nowhere.
He dismissed it almost immediately. Lucifer wasn't some naive young omega who needed an alpha to function. And even if he was seeking a partner so sooner after Lilith shattered his heart, he wasn't about to let some upstart young sinner fuck him, let alone give him a mating bite.
The thought made him reach for the junction of his neck and shoulder, where Lilith's bite never had taken the way it should've. Not surprising, considering her status as a beta.
Lucifer pressed his fingers against the mark, nonetheless, and found himself barely able to feel it. It had been fading for a while now, but he could tell that it would vanish entirely soon, as if it had never been there.
He supposed she really wasn't coming back.
With a sigh, he let his head fall back against the chair, and closed his eyes. Even if Alastor was an alpha, one that Lucifer apparently found subconsciously attractive, he was nothing but a new weapon in his arsenal — if an innovative one.
Besides, it would be years before the young murderer arrived in Hell.
Little did he know that the Alastor would be appearing in Hell much sooner than he anticipated.