Vintage Memories

Chapter Thirty-Three (Part One) "As Good As Any"

Alastor.

A door came into view behind the hitherto absent overlord, still rocking on its hinges. His coat was gone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Everything's alright. Keep your voice down, my dear. The clock's just struck eight. We still have hours until morning." His hand lingered, as if making sure the last of Angel's howls were gone. "My, what a pair of lungs you've got. If you can scream like that, then I'm sure you're well on the mend already." Then his hand went to Angel's forehead. "Your fever's broken as well. Good to see."

Alastor stood and weaved between a half-dozen votive candles to get to the sink. Rushing water flashed on and off.

It was then, Angel realized he was on a bathroom floor. The pastel décor sent him back a century with its rust-pink toilet, pedestal sink, and alcove bath. Floors and walls were finished with white and pink tiles, accented with black bullnose outlines and green wallpaper.

"I've gone back in time," Angel mumbled, amazed by this temporal whiplash. There was an inexplicit familiarity hiding in the old-fashioned patterns and color scheme.

Alastor blew an amused breath out of his nostrils. "Hardly. But wouldn't that be a gas? You're in my home. If I brought you to the hotel looking as you did, Charlie would have gone portal. I'm in no mood to deal with any more hysterics tonight."

The overlord returned, kneeling beside him. A cold compression graced Angel's flushed forehead. Reaching up, he grazed Alastor's knuckles, felt the wet rag, and took hold himself.

"Yer place..." he repeated with a moony cadence, dumbfounded as to ‌how he got here.

"I can see you're still a little muddleheaded. You really caused a fluster. Dare I say, an all out frenzy. Aged Charlie a hundred years if you aged her a day. And when I found you, I just about..." Alastor stopped, a distant glaze passing through his eyes. Then it was gone. "You don't remember?"

Angel shook his head. Droplets ran down his face, spreading cooling boons down the sweeps of his neck and shoulders. There was a troubling mental lacuna between the alleyway and Alastor's bathroom.

The overlord sat on the lip of the tub, settling the bemused spider between his knees. "Well then, allow me to recount while I check your injuries. With a tantrum like that, you'll be lucky not to have popped a suture or two."

Allow or deny, Alastor was already examining his back and shoulders. Careful fingers parted fur, tracing along each stitch of his handiwork as a reader might underline the words he read. A soft buzzing zizzed against Angel's sore skin, but he sat still, said nothing, and let Alastor give his account; willing away the shivers by wringing the life out of the towel over his lap.

##

Two hours prior: The start of the Extermination.

All sensible people kept their matters in control.

It really got Alastor's goat over just how out-of-control this matter became.

Throughout his two-week sabbatical, he stirred up the gall four times to return to the hotel. On each try, something struck his senses hard enough to halt him. First try, the front door's stained-glass and shining-came windows were a spitting image of Angel's broken mirror—a bad omen; second try, too much gloom hung in the air for his liking. One of the times, it was raining, and that postponed his plans for a day. Any melancholic moods would surely be worsened by such dreary weather. Rationale could bend into the most farcical shapes; courage fizzled out like a soft drink in humid summer even so. Then poof—right back to the foyer of his home.