Secret Confessions (Book 1)

Alastor

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

That one word repeats like a furious chant in my head as I thumb through a cookbook I found in the top cabinet.

Why did I demand for him to meet me for supper? Rosie warned me that letting feelings get in the way, is a terrible idea. A warning that any Overlord with half a brain would listen to.

Not me, apparently.

Sighing, I pull out a long flat pan and coat the bottom with olive oil. Peering at the recipe, I open the fridge to gather ingredients.

Originally, I wanted to cook a dish that always brings me comfort. A bed of rice, gravy, and delectable demon meat chunks. My favorite.

But, since this is supper with just Angel and I, I'm pushing outside of my comfort zone to try my hand at an Italian dish. One that Angel will hopefully enjoy because of the origin. Judging from his accent, it's not a difficult guess that he's Italian.

I hope Angel grasps just how honored he should be that I'm making this for him.

I've made this dish only once. Decades ago, but it's forever burned into my mind, leaving a mark that will never fade. Lasagna alla Bolognese. This was dear Anthony's favorite dish.

Forcing the smile that threatens to waver even wider, I begin to lay down the pasta vertically in the pan.

I must not think of the past. He has moved on to a better afterlife. At least, that is what I need to tell myself as to not fall apart.

I finish placing all the ingredients and place it into the oven, when a barrage of memories hit me so viciously, I stumble back and slam into the fridge from the force of it.

These are not my memories. They belong to someone else. I'm looking through the eyes of another, their point of view, as they look down at the pistol in their hands and over to a young man with dark hair sleeked back with gel and dressed in a gray suit. The hat he wears is small and wide. Deep blue eyes glitter dangerously back at me as he sneers.

"Pops said kill every person in the warehouse. That includes the women." The man's voice sounds harsh and oddly familiar.

The point of view shifts to look at the ground where a woman with disheveled blonde hair and wide blue eyes gazes up in terror.

These are the memories of someone's human life. But who? The only contract that has been sealed recently, has been the one between Angel and I.

These are his memories.

The realization has me focusing intently at the gun the young man raises.

"Fer fuck sakes." He mutters and a bullet hits between the woman's eyes with a deafening echo. "Now let's get home before Pops has our heads."

The vision of human Angel blurs and I can feel a hand yanking me backward as everything fades to black.

Gasping, I place my hands on my knees and suck in shaky breaths. In the memory, I felt Angel's pain. Felt the crushing weight of the responsibility of ending the woman's life on his shoulders. It was... awful.

In my haste to possess his soul, I forgot that holding a piece of someone's soul, comes with their memories. Memories of their past life.

Sometimes they hit you all at once, sometimes in bits and pieces. Normally, I revel in the suffering and pain of those I make deals with. But this is... different somehow. Almost unbearable. Yet, so familiar.

Why did that man look so familiar?

And why do I feel sinking regret instead of pleasure at the suffocating pain I felt in that memory?