Wait For Me

Part 20- NOLA's Newest Radio Host

Charles flicked his eyes up and down Alastor's form. "Jazz band, is that right? Why did you leave? Surely that was the most fitting profession for you."

Alastor blinked and his smile faltered. "Excuse me?"

"Well, you people are known for your jazz. I gotta hand it to you, you make listening to music enjoyable. Why ever did you become a radio host?"

Alastor gave him a polite smile, no longer appreciating this conversation. "I asked you about your profession first."

"Right, but I'm your guest, and you're hosting. Therefore, you should answer my question first."

Alastor blinked at him. Did this "gentleman" realize he was live for all to hear? "Ohh-kaaay..." he cleared his throat and clutched his papers. "I suppose I left because I realized I liked playing the saxophone as a simple hobby. The tour and the shows were a great experience, but I simply wanted something different."

"Oh, I'll bet you did."

Alastor frowned. "And what exactly do you mean by that?"

Charles smirked. "Like you don't know. Don't play stupid, you must know what they say about you."

"And what would that be?" This conversation completely derailed from what he thought it would be. He had been looking forward to talking to a performer as a performer himself all day long and comparing notes. Now he just wanted to call this broadcast quits. He could feel his blood simmering beneath the surface with every dig and thinly veiled insult, and he had had enough of this scoundrel. He had to be careful with what he said here though. Any bad reaction could negatively affect his chances in this career. He had to calm down and remain passive. It was clear the other man just wanted a rise out of him anyway.

Charles shrugged. "It's not appropriate for radio."

"Right. Moving on then." The brunette picked up his notes and cleared his throat again. "Have any of your songs been inspired by a special someone?" If he could, he would love to play his saxophone on the radio and dedicate a special song to a blonde he missed dearly.

"I had a lover once. I suppose I've dedicated a song to her a time or two. She left me though. Said I was too controlling and overbearing. How else are you supposed to get a woman to do what you want? Sometimes you gottta put your foot down and show them who's boss! Am I right?" At the lack of a response and a scowl from Alastor, he continued, "Have you ever played your saxophone for someone special?"

"No," Alastor answered honestly.

"No? Your poor girl doesn't even get love songs?"

Alastor furrowed his brows. "I don't have one. A girl that is."

Charles narrowed his eyes. "Oh, so a fella then?"

Alastor rapidly shook his head. "No, absolutely not! I'm...just not courting right now, and I don't wish to be."

Charles took a sip of his water. "No? How old are you, early twenties? It's common for men your age to have a girlfriend, you know."

"Well regardless of what is common, I do not, and I would like to move on to the next question now."

Charles continued on like he hadn't heard a word Alastor said. "I suppose it don't matter much. So long as you aren't a queer."

This man was giving Alastor many reasons to end his sorry life.

****

"And that concludes our show for tonight folks. Thanks for tuning in and join me on Wednesday night at the same time for some more entertainment! Remember to send in those questions and letters asking for advice if you want me to read them on the air. Good night ladies and gentlemen. Stay tuned..." Alastor flipped a button and the red light in the studio that signified they were recording went off. Charles was putting away his guitar and gathering whatever other belongings he came in with, and Alastor was staring him down, plotting his demise. It was going to be swift and rewarding.

The entirety of the broadcast was spent listening to his guest go on rants and rampages about homosexuals, women, and anyone that wasn't white. He said many vile things about controlling some people and eradicating others, and Alastor genuinely felt unsafe with some of the stuff that was said. He kept trying his hardest to steer the conversation back to the music industry and ask his questions, but Charles always went on tangents.

He had to die. Tonight. The man was a walking nightmare, and it was only a matter of time before he lashed out at those on his apparent blacklist, if he hadn't started to already.

The brunette waited until Charles left without a simple thank you or a goodbye, and then he put on his own light jacket and shoved his notes in his pocket. He shut the room down for the night, locked the door behind him, and walked out into the Louisiana air. It was cooler out tonight, which felt good on his heated skin. He snapped his fingers and saw his shadow rise up a darkened wall out of the corner of his eye. "Find him," Alastor demanded.

His shadow nodded only once and raced ahead on the search for Charles. In the last month, when he wasn't proving himself at the radio station, he and his shadow were practicing what they could do together. The teleportation had gotten much easier and a lot smoother. They also learned that the shadow didn't need to be near to teleport Alastor somewhere. It could simply summon him to wherever it was, and Alastor would appear in the blink of an eye. The scientific part of him couldn't wrap his mind around the mechanics. By all logic it shouldn't be a thing either of them could do. But the dark magic side of him knew that it was possible. He had regular meetings with the king of Hell, and a sentient shadow being that followed him everywhere and did his bidding. Anything was possible.

He blinked and was suddenly standing on a different street than he had been just a moment ago. It was dark and quiet. Not a soul to be seen. Except for one. The only other person walking foolishly in the dark was a familiar silhouette. Alastor swiftly pulled his hunting blade from the inside of his jacket and rushed forward, throwing himself against Charles' back. He clamped a hand over the singer's mouth, and in the same instance he swiped his blade deeply across the man's throat.

Charles made a gurgling cry, but he was bleeding out too quickly to do much of anything else. Alastor released him and kept walking, letting the body slump to the ground behind him.

Let the authorities wonder what the motive was. There were too many terrible people walking around in this state, and they needed to be disposed of.

The New Orleans serial killer was back.