(A/N: I think I might have about ten chapters to go until this story's done. I have the pivotal moments swimming around my brain and individual scenes I need to put in their places, but no definitive layout yet. Plenty of you know that I'm revising the first half. That's what's really taking me so long. That's my fault for getting too excited and posting it before the plot was ready. Egg on my face... but anywho. Speaking of eggs—)
"I think we ought to discuss what happened last night." Other than a mannerly good morning, that was the first thing out of Alastor's mouth when Angel sat down across the breakfast table.
Like Hell we do! Angel kept his gaze on his breakfast—a simple trio of eggs, toast, and hash browns.
It was the one topic he dreaded most. He lay awake in Alastor's bed for an hour before coming down, wringing the sheets, drowning in the smells that triggered the same turmoil of emotions from last night. The most prominent: mortification. He considered grabbing his boots and slinking out in the early morning hours just to avoid it. But his stiff, healing body made it difficult to get out of bed, let alone sneak out of the house undetected. On top of that, he was suffering through the worst brain fog he'd ever experienced. It was hopeless. Besides, Alastor likely had the whole place on Extermination lock-down anyway.
"Nah, Smiles, I'd rather not." He was already tired from his restless sleep. That damn white, flying orb plagued his dreams the whole night through. He reserved his quickly draining energy pool for facing Charlie. There was none left to spare.
"I think it's important." Alastor sipped from a cup of black coffee. "Lest we have another mishap like that again."
"Really, it's fine. Ya don't gotta worry about it." Angel stabbed his fork into a piece of egg and shoved it into his mouth. It was tedious to do with his bandaged hands, but he managed. "I won't pull that shit again, okay?"
"Oh? That's a shame."
Did he hear that right? Angel gaped at the overlord across the table, casually sipping his coffee as if he didn't just flip the room on its head.
"Huh?"
"Last night... It caught me off guard. I assumed at most, you wouldn't loathe me after all was said and done." Alastor set his cup down. "I was reasoning with myself all the ways I might've misinterpreted your intentions. Fatigue, ailment, confusion. I think you interpreted my utter shock for blatant rejection. That's my fault. So I'm going to lay my intentions bare."
He couldn't even untangle his own intentions. Compulsion, maybe—that dumb slut brain Val was always upbraiding him about—but he hesitated to stamp it such and ship it off. Despite the Xyco's vestigial numbing, he could still feel an ache in his chest.
"I lost you once." Alastor's gaze was as unmoving as the resolve in his voice. "I'm not going to make that mistake a second time."
"Ya didn't lose me. I lost you," Angel corrected, sounding more unfeeling than he intended. But the pain of that day was still too much to reflect on after all these years. I lost ya so bad, I lost myself too.
"Yes– Well... When I found you—no, even when it was just a suspicion—I was imbued with a thrill I hadn't felt since my living years." Alastor said, tracing his finger along the ear-shaped curve of his cup's handle. "It's been so long, I thought my reconstructed anatomy was incapable of such... reactions. It was new and terrifyingly brilliant all over again. Like when we were young–" Suddenly his hand came up, like he had to physically stop himself. "But I don't expect you to accept my advance from words alone. And I wouldn't fault you if you choose to reject it altogether."
"Smiles, I really can't handle this massive curveball right now."
He should've noticed the second the fog started rolling in. A tectonic catch in his body was growing closer to slipping. He hadn't gotten a new fix since the night of the club incident. After that, he'd been too heartsore to leave his room, depleting his stashes to keep withdrawal at bay. By the Extermination he had nothing left. And didn't he read on some blog that prolonged adrenaline rushes and exercise were like a super-wash cycle on the druggie system? Was that even true? Regardless, with the Xyco dwindling, the stockpile in his body was down to its final scraps.
The single slice of toast lay halved in triangles at the edge of his plate; a red jam spread across. Fingers that felt just a tad out of his control took one up and he tried it. Strawberry—his favorite.
Both of Alastor's hands were up now. His smile was strained. "Of course. Of course. And you don't need to. I've said my piece and that is all. The ball is in your court. You can leave it be or launch it into the stratosphere. Whatever you like."
Angel knitted his eyebrows together as he nibbled on the smallest vertex of the toast triangle. "How can I just ignore it?" Especially since it made his heart thunder so hard he could feel it in his feet. Why exactly? "But... Fuck..." He mumbled against the toast, lost in thoughts bathed in red warning lights. Then he took a proper bite. "Things are complicated. You are– I'm not– We... were–" C'mon, think of something! "For one: Val will lose his fuckin' shit."
"How's that a downside?" A mischievous bent made itself known in Alastor's smile. "Just imagining it has me all warm and fuzzy inside."
"Sure, I'm avoidin' him, but he still owns me. I'm not supposed to be gettin' involved with other overlords Val doesn't approve of. One of these days, the hammer's gonna come down on me for not holdin' up my end of my contract. It could come back to bite you, ya know."
"Ah ha—that leads me to my next point." Alastor manifested a narrow blue book in his hand. It looked at least a century old. When Alastor set it on the table, Angel read the silver-lettered title taking up a majority of the skinny spine.
The Fine Print: The Intricacies of Demonic Dealings and Soul Contracts.
"Soul contracts?" Angel asked. He looked back up and fell immediately into Alastor's dogged stare.
"Yes. I've pored over it. Reacquainting myself with the ins and outs. The loopholes." Alastor tapped the cover, then with the same finger, pointed at him. "I'm going to get you out of your contract with Valentino. One way or another. Mark my words."
Angel's jaw dropped. Same with the fork in his hand, clattering against the plate. He sooner considered making it to Heaven before ever being free of his contract. Was this just a pipe dream, or had Alastor actually found a tangible way?
"H-How?" He had to know.
"Well, I can't just kill him. As much as I want to. Things aren't as anarchic as they were when we were freshly fallen souls. Lucifer can't have all his underlings eliminating each other." Alastor placed a hand to his cheek and sighed, clearly reminiscing the good old days. "But there are a few tacks. It's a matter of finding which one that will work." He sat back. "You'd be surprised by the regulations we as overlords are under. The deals we make must be inherently truthful—and by that, I mean we cannot base them on lies. It's why many resort to clever wordplay, enticements, and deflection. So long as we are truthful during the dealing, everything is airtight."
"He was. He saved Cherri just like we agreed."
"What most sinners don't know is that the dealing isn't just the contract. It's the moment containing it as well, starting the second a soul is approached. The discussion primes the deal. It's the hook. The appetizer–"
"The foreplay," Angel interjected.
Alastor stalled, then uttered, "Yes... Quite like that." He restlessly adjusted his collar. "Our word is our bond. Therefore everything that we say then and there must be truthful. Everything. Do you understand what I'm saying, Angel?"
"I think so," Angel said, but the waver in his voice betrayed his befuddlement.
"You asked about me, my whereabouts. He said he didn't know." A tinge of bitterness sharpened Alastor's tone. "He lied. Blatantly. If you had known to come to me, you wouldn't have needed to sign up with him. Because the average sinner goes through their afterlife ignorant of this, most blunders go unnoticed." He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "But you have me now. Loopholes like this are ripe for exploitation."
"S-So yer sayin' my contract is phony?"
"No. The contract still binds you. However, if you were able to gather evidence proving it was forged from an unsound dealing, you could take it before the courts and demand a repeal."
"There are courts?!" Angel leaned forward, rubbing at his temples. It was too much to process this juxtaposition. "Since when?"
"There have always been. Damnation aside, there needs to be some modicum of law and order here. Or this city wouldn't be a city at all. More like a twisted pile of rebar and rubble." Alastor too went slack-jawed. "My goodness, were you really unaware? How have you kept your head buried in the sand for so long?"
By keepin' it buried in pillows...
Angel pushed his plate away, propped his upper elbows on the table, and braced his head. "I dunno where I'd even get proof like that. That was decades ago." Digging through hordes of dark memories in hopes of a clue did not seem like a worthwhile venture.
"We'll never know if we don't try." Alastor nudged the plate back to him, urging him to finish his food. "Valentino has some serious skeletons in his closet. If we cannot win there, then there's option two. We report him for tampering with The Compendium. If Lucifer convicts him for his capital crimes, even if he is spared death, he'll still be stripped of his status. All of his contracts will be nullified involuntarily."
Angel picked and played with his food, taking morsels here and there, but his appetite was gone. "But ya need proof of that too..." he mumbled between bites. "What if we can't get it?"
"If all else fails. I can gamble for you?"
"Gamble for me?!"
Alastor nodded, unabashed. "Sometimes, in order to gain favorable souls or wealth, an overlord can challenge another to a game. The type is the challengee's choice. Anything from hand-to-hand combat to Rock Paper Scissors. Each competitor puts something on the table. They forge a binding agreement to respect the outcome, and winner takes all."
"So, if ya won, you'd be the owner of my contract."
"Yes." Alastor drummed his fingers against the book. "And as owner, I'd be able to void it myself."
"But what would ya have that he'd even play ya for?"
"I'd think of something..." Alastor wore a mien of deep thought. "Most overlords are greedy little game-loving curs. They'll jump at the chance to tempt fate if they think they'll come out the victor. If I challenge him, I'm sure that cocky moth-ball would accept."
"But... Ya might lose." Angel couldn't even pretend to have an appetite anymore. He set his fork down.
"I might." Alastor glanced up at the ceiling, as if to take in the prospect. "But I think that would be a fitting punishment for myself after what I've done. Don't you think?" He flashed his charming smile, as Allen did so long ago to lift the spirits of a dour conversation.
Angel didn't know how long he studied the table in silence, playing out every unfortunate scenario in his head. Alastor's defeat; the hotel's destruction; death, flames, and loss; the torment he'd be in for on top of a new bedspread of desolation. No way would he allow that youthful optimism back in so easily. Pale red streaks of morning light trailed across the table, across his breakfast. When Alastor cleared his throat, it brought him back.
"It will be different this time, Angel." Alastor stood, crossing to his side.
"Oh yeah, how?" His gaze toiled to stay on the overlord the closer he got, until it fell away completely and he stared at the pair of red dress shoes before him
"We won't be alone."
A baritone note of dread rang in his head. "Shit... What are we gonna tell Charlie?"
"What do you want to tell her?" Alastor countered.
He swiped his tongue over his top lip, and gnawed at his bottom lip. "I wanna tell her what we were... And what happened, at least."
"I think that's a good place to start."
"Are ya really sure yer okay with it?"
"The sooner we get her up to speed, the sooner we can use the hotel's resources to help you."
"Why?" Angel crossed his lower arms over his stomach. "Why are ya so willin' to do this?" He held himself in his upper arms. "What are ya hopin' to get outta this?"
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping for anything." Alastor took the plate. "But hopes and expectations are two different things. I expect nothing." A shallowly-amused exhale passed through his grim smile. "No. I expect to right some wrongs. Anything after that is just gravy."
Leaning down, crimson eyes bored into Angel like raging red waters through weakened floodgates.
"So please, my dear, accept my help. There are no strings attached. No caveats or conditions. What good is your reciprocation if it's under duress? Take all the time you need to uncomplicate things. And, if that time ever comes, when things are clear for you... I hope you'll at least consider my overture."
A time when things are clear. He could pin that on the incomprehensibility board too—right next to Heaven and his soul's freedom. But consumed by that devouring red stare, Angel dropped his gaze again and nodded.
Walking the picked-at breakfast to the sink, a dash of airiness found its way back into Alastor's step. "By the way, how are you feeling this morning?"
Angel stood. Inner prompting badgered him to lie. Tell Alastor that his pain was much worse; dupe him into giving up two more pills. Yet there was a compelling facet to Alastor's question. A suggestion of something better if he told the truth. "Fine... Sore, but fine."
"Would you feel up for walking a little of the way? There's something I want to show you."
"Sure, but can I use the bathroom first?" Not only was his bladder howling at him, he wanted a moment of blessed solitude. Splash some water on his face to try to banish this worsening fog.
"Certainly. Down the hall and second to the left."
Angel went down the hall, but instead of taking the one on the left, he turned right, intrigued by the door that stood out from the others—its sill heavily carpeted with dust.
##
If it weren't for the flaming early-morning sky, Angel would've never guessed they were still in Hell as Alastor showed him around his territory. Down the knoll that separated Alastor's home from the rest of his land, they stepped onto a scene both intimate and vast—still slumbering, but fully awake.
Narrow streets of wrought iron parapets and galleries, festooned with hanging ferns and bowled planters of blooming flowers. Creole and Entresol townhouses packed together in a collage of colors. Green doors and shutters on orange walls; yellow on blue; white on red. Neon signs promising good music inside their establishments. Cobblestone thoroughfares and timeless cast-iron crown streetlamps.
"Mind the rails," Alastor said as they crossed the street.
"What are they for?" Angel asked as he stepped over the steel fissure in the asphalt. And then a cable car breezed around the corner on its hefty wire lead and passed them. It gave a spritely Brrring! Brrring! on its merry way. "No way!" he exclaimed. "I haven't seen a workin' trolley since the fifties!"
"They're low maintenance. And the locals prefer them. Keeps the streets unobstructed by traffic jams."
Inch by inch, the area came to life like a second dawn. Extermination behind them, souls emerged onto their balconies and through front doors. Shop owners jimmied plyboards off their windows and raised metal security gates.
Alastor hadn't aggrandized his sophisticated Extermination measures in the slightest. Other than an overturned trash can or shattered planter, there was no damage from the night before. Not a body or bloodshed to be seen no matter which way Angel looked—like last night was only an appalling product of a disturbed imagination.
A rising excitement took over, besting his tired body. This territory was like stepping into a bright, wondrous portrait of the past. What other discoveries were waiting in this new-old town? Angel took every opportunity to peer into passing shop windows or investigate backstreets. Alastor walked evenly with him, hands behind his back, and eyes retracing the same sights. Loving pride burned like two red suns within them.
As passersby crossed the strolling pair, many greeted their territory's overlord with succinct how-do-you-dos and good-mornings. All to which, Alastor raised his hand in affable, taciturn acknowledgment. A few even cared to greet Angel, whose responses were bungled monosyllabic stuttering. 'Uh... Hey... Yup... Mmhmm.'
When the approaches died down a bit, Angel turned to his escort.
"I gotta hand it to ya," he started, tracing a finger along the scrollwork of a passing railing. "You're a real dick sometimes, but ya take care of yer own real good. This place is amazing." Looking back, he could still see Alastor's home in the distance. No green front lawn; no picket fence garlanded with rose bushes. Just a remote house on a hill, cut off by an unapproachable iron-and-stone fence.
"Thank you." Alastor said blithely. "This place is the culmination of my rise to power. Took me decades to get it just right. It's my pride and joy. I figured it would be much better if the souls occupying my territory didn't despise me. So, I try to keep my rule... un-dickish."
Angel chuckled.
Somewhere in the background, a lively jazz street band predominated the quiet morning with their music—striking like a shot of straight caffeine into the awakening world.
"I bet this place really comes alive at night." Angel looked around for the source of the music, finding nothing. The music seemed to play on the wind. "Just like the real deal."
"It does not disappoint. During celebrations, exceptionally so." Alastor nudged him, turning a bit playful, instigative. "I think you would like it. My people know how to throw a proper party."
"Ah–" Angel's voice caught in his throat. "I don't really do big parties much."
To that, Alastor belted a high, barking laugh. "Don't try to sell me a dog, now! When we were youngsters, you were painting the town red every chance you had. Nothing tied you down."
"Yeah..." Angel brought his arms in. Suddenly, every passing eye that landed on him turned contemptuous, and every kind greeting two-faced. He didn't belong here and everyone knew it. A stain on this picture-perfect province. "When yer the 'entertainment' at every one yer invited to... It kinda kills yer love of 'em."
The lively air around Alastor dropped like a piano from a high window, and despite his smile, the insides of his eyebrows pitched upward, radiating concern.
"My apologies... I didn't–"
"It's fine, Smiles."
The rest of their trek through Alastor's territory was silent. Angel didn't bother breaking it to mention the familiar fountain in the main square. Decades of calcium build-up trailed white veins down the statue's agonized face and body.
As they entered the main city, the Extermination's havoc hit like a flashbang. Casualties and debris littered the streets. Survivors marauded corpses for free goods. Blood rushed in rivers along sidewalk storm drains. Lingering smoke marred the air. A discordant chorus of noise—wails from the wounded, tears from the bereaved, callous laughter from the profiteers—rebounded off the high buildings in a never-ending cycle.
"Damn..." Angel broke his silence unthinkingly. He came frighteningly close to being a drop in this flood of carnage. "I've seen plenty of these aftermaths. But it different knowin' it could'a been me. I haven't been this close to an Extermination in a long time."
"The last if I have anything to say about it," Alastor declared. He stepped over a rotund corpse blocking the sidewalk, too mangled to denote its characteristics. Then he turned, offering Angel a hand. Angel took the assistance. The overreaching step hurt his recovering ankle. He winced.
"If you'd like, I can take us the rest of the way." Alastor suggested.
"No. There's somethin' I gotta check on first."
If his sense of direction was working right, walking to the hotel would take him right to what he wanted to verify. It had perturbed him since the door to the safe house closed in his face. Champ. Where was he? How was he? While they walked, he scoured the pandemonium. A mental picture hung in the forefront of his recollection. Tiny red body. A black mop of hair with eensy white horns. Green and yellow-striped shirt. Large red-rutile eyes. No imp child he spotted matched his description.
Then they approached the corner that turned onto the street corner leading to the hotel. The same street that Angel would've taken on his own last night, were it not so heavily infested with Exterminators. Across the road, there was a park. The hotel frequented it for its group community service projects.
There was a trio of imps at the stately iron-fenced entrance. One he recognized as the plump, kindly imp-lady who took Champ from him at the safe house doorway. The other two, a male—four-feet-tall and lean—and female—half his height and double his width—were elderly. World-weary red and cream faces were shiny-eyed and emotional. When the weepy, older female turned, there was Champ in her embrace, his arms like a choker around her neck. He was crying too. As loud and unabashed as when Angel found him in the street.
He stopped to take it all in, feeling a surreal medley of consolation, gladness, and hurt.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Alastor provoked.
"I cost more than that," Angel quipped, still watching the reunion. "That's the kid I told ya about. Seems he got back to his family."
Alastor followed his gaze, taking a moment to analyze. "Do you want to go introduce yourself?"
"Nah." Angel picked up the pace, averted his eyes, and kept his head down. "What matters is that he's back where he belongs. I don't need a prize or nothin'."
"How noble," Alastor said, keeping stride down the pavement. They turned the corner and headed down the street to the hotel.
##
Champ—whose real name was Jace—didn't remember everything from last night.
It was like waking up from a bad dream so horrific, the mind, to protect itself, refused to retain it all.
He did remember that Mommy fell down, went to sleep, and wouldn't wake up. He remembered the scary flying monsters with the big knives on sticks: The Exter-ni-mators. He remembered the dark room where he hid with lots of other sinners and imps until the monsters went away.
The lady who stayed with him, Ms. Candi, she was nice. She owned the safety-house and had a big hellhound—named Griffin—who looked mean but was actually also nice. She held him close and gave him sweets while they waited for the monsters to go away. And after the monsters went back to the sky, she found Grandma and Grandpa for him.
When Grandma and Grandpa saw him, they cried and gave him lots of hugs and kisses. Their crying made him cry too, even though he wasn't sure why. They told him they loved him so much. Grandma said he could have ice cream for breakfast and watch cartoons all day at her house; and that he didn't have to go to school tomorrow; and that he didn't have to go back to live with Mommy's mean boyfriend, Stan, who would yell and hit when he got mad. He'd get mad a lot. He got so mad last night, he threw him and Mommy out of the house.
Grandma and Grandpa promised that he'd come live with them, so he wouldn't have to worry about Stan ever again.
This whole awful event was over and behind him, but he couldn't stop thinking about the sinner who brought him to Ms. Candi's safety-house. The sinner's white and pink fur was as plush and warm as his bed at home. And he had a lot of arms, so his hugs were like super-hugs that made everything a little less scary. Jace remembered the stories the he told: the bad-boss he said 'no' to, and the pet piggy that Jace thought he was gonna get to play with.
He liked the sinner. His makeup was pretty. He was nice too and Jace felt sorry for biting him. Even though Mommy taught him to bite, kick, and scream if a stranger tried to take him away. He hoped he'd be like the sinner—brave like a superhero—when he was all grown up. Most of all, he hoped the flying monsters didn't exter-ni-mate him.
But he could not remember the sinner's name, or if the he ever told.
A flash of white pulled Jace's attention from Grandma's endless kisses. To his delight, he recognized the sinner. He was walking—stiffly but surely—down the other side of the street. He wore different clothes than before, and there was a shorter demon in red walking with him. Maybe they were friends.
Jace was relieved he didn't get exter-ni-mated. He wanted to get his attention. Run across the street, say hi, and ask if he could still come over and play with the piggy. He really wanted to play with the piggy. But Grandma's plump, red arms held him tight. The sinner was about to disappear around the corner. Jace racked his brain for a name, but he just couldn't remember.
So, he tapped Grandma on the shoulder and pointed, calling him by the only name he could think of.
"I ain't gonna hurt ya. I'm a good guy. Okay?"
"Good guy!" He pointed with all his might, wishing he could freeze time for Grandma to turn and see. She didn't look at first. Grandma was busy profusely and tearfully thanking Ms. Candi, who handled it graciously. So he tapped her harder and pointed again.
When she finally looked up, the sinner had already turned the corner. Out of sight and out of his life.
##
That final stretch to the hotel also had Angel racking his brain. He felt like a prisoner being marched to his death sentence. A bit dramatic, but a crumb of truth kept the sentiment burning. A part of himself was going to die today—the secretive part. Killed by a flood of divulgence. After entering the front doors, there would be no backing out.
Family drama—daddy issues and all that—those were topics buried in the past a hundred times over. Giving that information up was painless. These topics were current and afflictive. Nightmares were easier to discuss after the fact, not in the thick of it.
As they approached the hotel entrance, Angel hesitated. Alastor nudged him in the back, encouraging him forward. Well intentioned, perhaps, but Angel still shot him a dirty look.
There to greet them with a disgruntled grunt was Husk, tasked with disposing the plywood barricading the lobby windows.
"Look who lived to see another morning," Husk snarked, heaving two blood-spattered boards into the dumpster. "This gotta be the dumbest stunt you've pulled so far."
"Ah—go down a bottle of whiskey and shove it up yer ass, ya boozer," Angel retorted, breezing past him and to the door. "Where's Charlie?"
An amused hum came from Alastor.
Husk raised his hands in surrender and turned back to his task. "Waiting for you at the front desk, Sunshine. All of 'em are."
Angel grabbed the handle and paused, his nervous heart pressing to the front of his chest. He glanced back at Alastor, who stayed back on the pavement. The overlord was staring down the street, like he was scouring it.
"Yer comin', right?" Angel asked.
Alastor gestured for him to go on. "You go on ahead."
"Ya bettah not bail on me."
"Never. You have my word. I'll only be a moment."
Angel settled his shoulders, shut his eyes, and heaved the heavy doors open.
As Husk said, all the girls of the Happy Hotel were stationed at the front desk. Vaggie and Dezi leaned against the counter, with Charlie and Nifty perched on stools dragged from the bar. Charlie leapt to her feet before he stepped inside, a relieved hand falling on her chest.
"Angel! Thank Satan you're okay!"
A vixen smile overtook over his face. He held his arms out in playful flamboyance as he strutted into the room. "Of course, I am," he crowed. "Not even the angels are a match for me."
The audience of flinty expressions cut his show short. Dropping his playacting, his arms came in. Nervous chuckles tumbled out of his mouth. "Right... Ya guys are prolly pretty pissed. I'm really sorry I scared ya."
"Pissed?" Charlie asked, her tone terrifyingly spiritless.
Vaggie looked angry enough to put her fist through a wall. That was par for the course, but Angel had never seen such at look from the mild princess.
"Angel, I'm leagues beyond pissed!" Charlie shrieked. Her voice carried like a barrage of arrows to every corner of the grand foyer. "Do you have any idea what you put us through, knowing there was nothing we could do to help you?! Thank Satan that Alastor went to get you, but that put him in jeopardy too! You both could've been killed! What were you doing out there?!" Charlie buried her face in her hands and cried.
Vaggie came to her aid and held her, rubbing her back in soothing circles. Angel felt his lower lip tremble and sucked it up under his teeth to steady it.
Then Charlie looked up. "Why do you keep doing this?! Running off on your own?!" Cherry-red cheeks were lacquered in tears. Fire swirled with water in her tired eyes. "I'm trying to help you!" Horns and fangs elongated with her emotional outburst, then retracted like switchblades. "Let me help you! Even if you think you'll never get to Heaven and this whole idea is stupid—I'm not even sure anymore!—at least let me help you change your life down here for the better!"
Nifty came around Charlie's right, holding up a white handkerchief.
"Breathe, honey." Vaggie said. She took the hankie and wiped Charlie's face.
It took a few sobs and whimpers before Charlie steadied. Then she took the cloth and finished the cleanup herself.
Since the night Charlie and Vaggie propositioned him in her limo, her ambition seemed infrangible. But today, this netherworld neoteric, who held her creed against any naysayer with the strength of a steel bomb shelter, went back on it before his eyes.
What a horrible sight to witness.
He was running. He could feel it. His feet were still planted on the welcome rug, but his nerve fled down a long tunnel. Overwhelmed, he couldn't speak. Senses numbed out. Be it physical or medicinal, he needed to get away. He backed up a step.
A gentle buzzing sensation lit up his back, making him jump.
Alastor stood at his side, a hand against his back to quash the escape. He must have just sidled in, the door still closing after Husk's entry. The overlord stood still, keeping his hand in place and demeanor calm and collected. It eased Angel a bit; as touched as he was surprised by the act of reassurance.
Only no.
Alastor's gentle touch turned into a light push. Angel stumbled forward, glancing back in shock. How very Allen of him. Two crimson eyes bored into him, silently asking what he planned to do. Whatever he chose, the time was now.
Angel stood straight, turning back to Charlie, still wreathed in the arms of her girlfriend.
"Charlie..." he said, his voice low in order to keep it steady. "I bet yer real sick of my sorrys." One slow, careful step after another, he drew closer.
She looked at him. Her miserable, red-ringed eyes were like a splinter under the nail of his guilt.
"I don't blame ya. I've said sorry so many times, for so many reasons, it's worth about as much as a snotty tissue."
Her miserable expression widened a bit.
"I'm sick of them too. Sick of this life..." His ceaseless speaking kept him afloat, kept him from losing his nerve in the silence. "While I was out there, all I could keep thinkin' about was, 'damn—if I died tonight, I would die with so much fuckin' regret.' There's still so much I gotta tell ya."
His throat ached, straining to hold back the tears until he said his piece.
"I wanna be better. But I'm so deep in this shit, that everyone who's ever given me a hand, has drowned. And everything is just gettin' worse–" He choked on an escaping sob. His mouth bent in a downward crescent. He tried to pull the corners back to a neutral expression, but they fell again. "I don't wanna hurt ya, Charlie," he croaked.
Charlie's lip bowed. She hid it behind her hand.
"Yer the first soul in a long fuckin' time who thinks I can be better. Who really pushes me to be better. And I'm so fuckin' scared that the moment I start to really care, something'll happen to ya." He held all four hands out to the group. "To any of ya. I can't keep losin' soulmates. But truth is, even though I tried not to, I already care. I care so fuckin' much!"
"Angel–" Charlie started.
"I wanna be good!" But he steamrolled over her. "I wanna be all the things ya say I can be! I want yer crazy idea to work and I wanna help make it happen. I want ya to be proud of me. But I keep findin' myself back where I started."
He crouched, laggard and wooden what with the sutures along his back; raking his hands through his hair, and hiding his face. "I'm stuck." He admitted, wondering if they heard him through his hands; not bothering to move them. At least in the darkness, he could pretend he was only talking to himself. "I don't see a way out." His voice fell into watery muttering. "I need help... But I also think it's too late."
He stayed in his squatting position, not wanting to lift his face to the group. There was nothing left of him he felt was worth showing.
"That was quite the monologue, Angelcakes."
Angel leapt to his feet and turned to face the vision too horrible to appraise. Valentino was here, like some grotesque weed infiltrating his safe garden. Val waltzed through the front door and it slammed shut behind him. "I knew you'd make it through the night, baby. I never doubted you for a second."
Angel backed away.
Val's vulturine eyes shifted behind their magenta-colored lenses to his fellow overlord. "Alastor." He acknowledged coldly.
As if that were his cue, Alastor sidestepped and confronted him. "I thought I sensed something foul in the wind," he said in a voice both light and antagonistic. "Have you come here seeking redemption, my friend? I regret to inform you that we're not receiving any intakes at this time. Not that much could be done for you."
The smoke from the cigarette in Val's hand wriggled like a fish on a line. "We won't be long."
"We?" Alastor's brow arced.
Angel felt something encircle his wrist—as unobtrusive as a whisper against skin. An instinctual fear took over. He knew that sensation well. Slithering, snakelike tendrils of magenta smoke hung like an airy manacle and chain. Its impotence was a trick of the eye. Grabbing it felt like snatching a cloud from the sky. Fingers swept right through. Once it grabbed you, there was no escape.
No...
"Angel's time here is up. I hate to be the bad guy, but I've been forced to exercise my contractual rights and bring him home." Val snubbed Alastor and gave Charlie an unctuous smile. "On behalf of him, princess, I apologize for the trouble he's caused you. I'll be taking him back under my wing now." Then he gestured indifferently at the goat demoness by the front desk. "You can keep that one. A fair trade, no?"
Dezi's face scrunched in disgust.
No. No. No!
The pink smoke cuffs constricted Angel's wrists. A sinister, symbolic locking of the cuffs.
"Charlie!" Angel turned to her, panic throttling him inwardly. "Ya won't let him take me, right? Right?!"
She opened her mouth to speak.
"Let's go, Angel," Val ordered. "You've got a lot of work to do, but you'll fall back into the swing of things in no time." The vaporous leash tugged at his wrist with pythonic power. Even as Angel dug his heels into the foyer carpet—reigniting the pain in his wrought ankle—it pulled him across the room with ease. "I'll have someone drop by and get your things."
"No! I don't wanna!" The fright dumbed down his processes to that of a child's. If he crossed the exit, he didn't think he'd ever see this place again. Val's arm closed around his bicep like a bear trap, a worse replacement for the vapor tether, and still he pleaded his case. "I don't wanna go! I wanna stay! Charlie?! Alastor?! Al?!"
Val turned for the door and met face-to-face with the point of Vaggie's spear. He halted and leaned back. The little, gray brawler-girl set herself like a stone guardian at the exit. Her face narrowed, stance ready for a fight.
"He's a patron of the Happy Hotel," Vaggie said. "You can take your contract and shove it. You're not taking him anywhere."
Alastor grabbed Val's wrist. "Are you deaf? He said he doesn't want to go." Angel could feel the vicious might in Alastor's grip through Val's hand tightening around his arm. "Unhand him now." His grin was an inhuman bearing of teeth. "I won't ask twice."
"I can do whatever I want with him. He's mine." Val tried to shake off Alastor's hold, jerking Angel back and forth, but failed. "And he doesn't know what he wants, much less needs. This place has filled his head with delusions."
"Who's harmful for who?" Alastor dug his nails into Val's coat sleeve, threatening to make holes. "He's shaking like a newborn fawn."
Was he shaking? Angel looked down at his hands. Indeed he was. Muscles head-to-toe twitched and trembled. He hadn't noticed. Suddenly he was also nauseous. Hold it together.
"That's got nothing to do with me. Junkies shake like spastic small dogs when they go too long without their doses. Have you been keeping him away from his precious medicine? He'll go to pieces without it." Val looked down at him, a cloying, squinty-eyed look of care on his face. "But don't worry, baby. I'll get you feeling better. I got just what you're needing waiting for you in the car."
Damn his insatiable appetite, wanting to cave at that bribery. Just the infancy of this detox harrowed him. How bad would it be tomorrow? The day after? No. What ya need is to stay here. He chanted on repeat. Stay here. Stay. Stay.
"You have three seconds to comply." Alastor warned. "Three..."
"This is a matter between Angel and me." Val tried to wrench—"Two..."—his wrist free again. "You better back off before you end up burned."
"Burned." Alastor mused. A sharp whirring noise suddenly swelled, growing louder, becoming a hum, then a scream.
No. The scream was Val's. Shrill and anguished.
The grip on Angel's bicep loosened and he got free. Smells of charred meat permeated the air. Only after Val released Angel, did Alastor release him. Val's wrist was a sizzling, pustulating bog of seared flesh. A tortuous memento of Alastor's grip.
But his hands weren't scalding at all when they went to Angel, resting on his back. "Come along, dear." That bombinating sensation spread up and down his spine as Alastor guided him away. All while Val hunched, cradling his excruciating injury. Distressed gasps and bleats streamed through clenched fangs.
Alastor handed Angel off to Nifty. "Take him to Charlie's office until this matter is resolved."
Nifty reached up, grabbing Angel's lower right hand, and started for the hall. Vaggie weaved around and went with them.
"Vags?" he questioned. Of all the souls here, she had wanted him gone the most.
"It's okay, Angel." She gave a small, comforting smile. "We'll handle it." He couldn't recall another time such a tender expression of hers was his to cherish.
"You motherfucker!" Val bawled. "You want to pick a fight with me, you puny radio bastard?! You're going to learn the hard way not to mess with my contracts!"
Angel glanced back at the fearsome overlord deadlock. The raging sea wanting to force its way in and the ungiving cliffside standing its ground. Both titans in their own right. Both sooner capable of destroying everything around them before felling each other. So frightening and yet, so awe-inspiring. He felt like an ant in their presence.
"Cut the theatrics." Alastor clapped his hands together, like shaking dirt off after a job well done—cooked well-done. "Coming in here throwing a fit about your contractual entitlements, yet neglecting to show the contract in question. We both know why."
Despite an intermittent groan or wince, Val was silent, confidence waning with his indignant temper. The inference startled the victimhood out of him.
"Angel and I had quite the conversation last night while we waited out the Extermination." Alastor's smile relaxed to a supercilious smirk. "He told me all about your blackmail. Threats against the hotel. Your sloppy, underhanded dealing practices. I wonder what name you have in his signature block. Not Angel, that's for sure." His chuckle had not an ounce of mirth in it. "That said, I suppose I should be thanking you. Throwing him to the Exterminators sent him directly into my arms."
Charlie blenched. Even as the fleeing trio reached the back of the lobby, Vaggie looked over her shoulder. Her frown was back in full force.
Val's gaze danced between Alastor and Angel, this development catching him unawares. Then he scoffed. "So what? You think you can threaten me into submission when you have no proof? Who do you think you are?!"
"Pot meet kettle. You threatened the hotel and its patrons first. An operation I'm under oath to protect." Alastor rolled his eyes and tucked his hands behind his back. "Nothing personal, my friend."
"Bullshit—it's not personal! You know I'm well aware of your little bygone teenage romance!" Tracing the rapt faces in the room, a spiteful grin spread shakily across Val's face. "Does everyone here know? That you two were creaming twinkies before T.V. was in color?"
One could hear a fly sneeze from the hotel's top floor. Stares oscillated between Alastor and Angel. Even Nifty and Vaggie halted at the door to Charlie's office, turning to look back at the scene, then up at Angel in stunned disbelief. Mortified, Angel wanted to sink into the floor and disappear.
"Oops! Did I spill the beans?" Val cackled. "I guess I should be thanking you. You broke him in for the rest of us."
A low, displeased rumble rose in the back of Alastor's throat.
"Val!" Angel's entire body reeled from suffocating humiliation. Breathing was laborious. "Stop it!" Hot tears reached the backs of his eyes. He struggled to keep them from pushing to the front. Emotion was growing harder to control in this slipping state.
"What's there to be embarrassed about, Angelcakes? You've got nothing left to hide. I could see why your old bed-buddy might–"
"Can it, you dog!" The curtain of gallantry fell. Blood-curling menace wafted off Alastor's unsmiling presence. "Speaking about him like he's a shoe! Gah! How wretched! Talk like that again and I will tear your tongue out of your vile mouth!"
"Oh my! Did I strike a nerve?" Val sneered. "I'll do much worse than that if you keep interfering with my business. I'm not giving in without a fight. He rightfully belongs to me."
"We both know you're not going to bring this to the courts or Lucifer. Not since it risks laying your treachery bare. So if by fight, you mean right here—scrapping like a couple of alley cats—then by all means. But prepare yourself for agonies much worse than a burn. All of Hell knows the horrors I'm capable of when the matter is impersonal." Alastor's limbs began to lengthen and twist; his voice diminishing under rapid-fire static.
Val loomed over Alastor like an imposing, purple mountain.
"Let's go then, you stuffed-shirt runt! He can watch while I crush you like a tin can!" Val's sickening snarl extended across the room to Angel. "That's just what I need to nip this rebellious streak in the bud."
A chill descended Angel's spine.
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Charlie bellowed.
All at once she was a monstrous geyser of fire, claws, and fangs. A twenty-foot caryatid of all things horror and ghastliness. A roaring behemoth of devastation. The tops of her horns scraped the towering ceilings. A wave of heat surged through the room, blackening curtains and curling wallpaper. Angel, Vaggie, and Nifty covered their ears and backed up. Dezi dove under the front desk. Husker ducked behind a sofa. Even Alastor was wise enough to step out of her way. A phenomenal force sent Val wheeling back, throwing him against the door, singing the feathers on his coat.
And then, she was Charlie again. Small and unassuming, but a face like thunder, grim and louring—standing center in the giant circular scorch mark etched into the floor.
"Get the fuck out of my hotel."
Words Angel never thought he'd hear her say.
Picking up his glasses—warped by the near nuclear heat—Val shot Angel a scathing scowl. "I can walk back my part of the deal too, Angel." And then he took his leave.
The battle lines were drawn.
##
"Alastor, can you meet with us in my office?" Charlie made a beeline for her door, instructing Angel to take a seat on the couch. Though withdrawn, Angel limply complied. Every inch of the docile princess was seething. She took her seat behind her massive desk like a captain assuming control of a warship.
"Give me a moment to compose myself," the overlord responded, sounding chillingly flat, and disappeared into his own office. The door slammed behind him.
After a few minutes, he emerged and took a breath, his smile reestablished in a slight, taut curve. "Nifty, my dear," he said. His collar and tie were crooked, so he adjusted them. "I'm going to need a tidying-up in my office. If you would be so kind?"
"Of course!" Nifty beamed, gathering some rags, a mop, a broom, a duster, and hurried in.
Her excitement flattened to dismay. The broom fell from her hand and clacked against the ground.
The office was in unrecognizable, irreparable shambles. Every piece of furniture had been reduced to kindling; wallpaper and drapes hung in raggedy strips; eviscerated papers sprinkled down like snowfall. A simple clean up wouldn't do it.
It needed to be rebuilt from the inside out.