Warning: This chapter vaguely contains depictions of sexual assault and trauma.
"I'm glad you wanted to join me today, darlin'. I haven't seen you in quite a while." Rosie sat back in her chair. Her skirt, hemmed in frills of fabric and lace, waterfalled down to the veranda pavers. "I was starting to worry you had gone and gotten yourself in a bit of trouble."
She laughed, a soft tittering that formulated in the base of her chest, up her swan-like neck, and past barely parted, red-painted lips.
"Trouble? I would never! I've just been busy with my work." Alastor returned the minimal laugh, his hand waving in the air as if doing away with her concerns.
Across a chessboard of bone china, tea cakes, and sandwiches, old friends parlayed trivial matters for the better part of the late morning. Westward shadows shortened and began their stretch eastward.
Lovely day... Alastor thought to himself as he canted back in his seat. He hoped the comment would knock loose some sense of joviality, but his mind still held onto the gloom of his fruitless search.
The babble of the tables around him followed their own tide of leavers and newcomers. It was that strangled gossiping whisper he had grown accustomed to, from those of both awe and reproach.
"Is that the Radio Demon?"
"What is he doing here?"
"I thought he was just a myth?"
He let them tattle their tales and form their own conclusions. Stories thrived between garrulous mouths and the ears eager to listen. And soon, inquisitive eyes would turn to determine the verity. There wasn't much that could stop human instinct; apparently not even death. But there was something those shamelessly coupling mouths and ears, and prying eyes didn't know:
A bitter humor correlated with the word 'myth'. It made him think of the heroic epics he had read in his youth, of ancient deities and warriors who rose above tribulation, holding the world in the palms of their safeguarding hands. All of which sounded wholly unlike him.
In the center of the table, a champagne vase held a pair of pallid pink anemones. Their stark, black centers stared him down, daring him. He reached out to feel their softness, brushing his knuckle against the underside of a petal. For an unsatisfying second, he did.
And then whatever poison emanated from his being crisped the flower to a parched brown.
When he was just a demonic fledgling, this ghastly discovery sprang from his fingertips like a canker. White roses on their beds of Sacramento-green leaves, what should've been a replica of a sweet memory, became a sacrifice for the sake of an appalling lesson. Rot spread before his ignorant horror like an unstoppable contagion, metastasizing through the roots, killing each bush in succession.
After an even eighty years, he watched the display with tired apathy. The flower in the vase wilted, cascading over the side dead beside its partner. The surviving anemone, following the natural cant of its stem, hovered over the corpse. It had an anthropomorphic cast of mourning, and for a moment Alastor thought he heard it weep. Imagination was the darndest thing sometimes.
"Are you still messing around with that silly little hotel?" Rosie rested her elbows on the table, reposing her jaw against the back of her limply stacked hands. Her white fangs drew attention against the backdrop of her dark-grey skin. "You know... several of the other overlords and I were quite aghast to hear you had gone and gotten yourself entangled with that diablerie."
He felt her searching gaze peek beneath the wide-brimmed cartwheel hat festooned in feathers and pearls.
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained, my dear. What's fun without a little risk? After decades of the same-old, one must search for entertainment in unorthodox places." He eyed the myriad of lavish shopping bags encircling the legs of her chair in a sierra of plastic and tissue paper. "Of course some of us can't stay away from our usual stomping grounds."
"How caustic." She threw her hand over her lace-ruffled chest in theatrical offense. "These are merely inspiration for my own projects. Old fashion inspires new. Not like you would understand. Different shades of the same color isn't exactly clever color theory, by the way."
Alastor chuckled at her retort. "You and your wit are a treat, my dear!"
"Tea and decent raillery never fails to rejuvenate a tired soul, but..." Rosie plucked her teaspoon from its formation of silverware. She raised the creamer cup and poured a splash of milk into her drink. "I'd be lying if I said it was the only reason for my call."
"It's very unbecoming of a lady to lie," Al quipped. He declined any milk for his— bitter was better in his taste.
"I'm a lover of drama. So, tell me, Al darlin'..." Her voice lowered to a inquisitive purr, and instinctively his defenses rose behind his insincere smile. "Has anything intriguing happened within those hotel walls?"
"I suspected that was your intention." Discontentment flattened his tone. "And here I allowed myself to think for a second that you wanted to reconnect after months of severance. Severance that was your doing, I might add."
"I was merely busy. We all have our responsibilities down here." She gave a moue all in fun, but it was far from endearing to him.
Contemptibility radiated like a putrid odor from all her qualities; her posture, her voice, her hellcat grin, her entire presence irritated him. A reminder for a lesson he kept trying to ignore: camaraderie always fell short here; words were cheap and trust was foolhardy. A sharp breeze of loneliness blew in his face from across the table, a stronger one than when he was alone in his office.
"Wouldn't you relinquish just a bit. Think of it as repayment for those early years I spent as your mentor," she implored further.
A sharp smile broadened as he thought, fuming internally, pedagogue more like, you rotting bitch. I'd sooner bite off my tongue and swallow before giving you anything of the sort.
A more scrupulous Alastor said aloud: "Well I regret disappointing you, dear. But there isn't much to tell for now." A bit of a white lie, but he chose to focus on the truth of it. He soothed his ill humor with a sip of his warm drink.
"Is that so?"
"Her highness keeps all the records regarding the participants and their progress locked away. It is entirely up to her the time when they are to be disclosed." He never referred to Charlie with such an official title, but the distance it engendered seemed imprudent now. "I am in charge of the humble day-to-day management."
"Surely you see some intriguing goings-on... even at your station. Theories, experiments, laughable failures?"
"All humdrum... not much catches me by surprise nowadays," he dismissed.
"Well keep being surprised, Smiles." Angel's voice came back to him like a ghost, scoffing at his lie.
He jerked slightly, half-expecting Angel to be hovering over his shoulder, his slender body gently canted like the stem of the anemone. Only a table stood behind him, its cast iron, skeletal frame hauntingly empty. Of course it was all in his mind, but still his heart knocked a five-four rhythm.
"Something tells me there just might be." Rosie's irritatingly delighted tone turned him forward again.
He sighed. If he gave her an inconsequential crumb, perhaps she would give up on the whole cake. "I just thought I had heard the voice of one of our residents. A zappy fellow. He's been there longer than I have."
"Oh really?"
Alastor nodded blandly. "He had been in my disfavor for a while, but we've come to some sort of understanding. I'll admit, I think I went and judged a book by its cover... Or by how scant its covering is."
By the way Rosie's smile softened, he suspected she was satisfied with the information. Her tea, however, she was dissatisfied with, pressing her lips together in a grimace. She applied another drizzle of milk.
"Who is this scantily covered book?" she asked lightly.
"I'm sure you remember the princess's television news broadcast."
"Oh yes, that debacle." She hid another titter with the back of her hand. "I'd say there's not a soul in Hell who hasn't."
"Then you're already aware of Angel Dust."
Her uplifted cast fell quickly, powerfully. Alastor swore the lively air around them fell with it, turning stale. She sat frozen in a state of dour contemplation. The cream-colored milk she poured billowed like a dust cloud disturbance in a black pool.
He analyzed her absentmindedness, all while remaining quiet to not shatter it. If he did, he might just cut himself on the pieces. A strong sense of disapproval churned around them, warming the air, making it uncomfortable. It was a subtle shift, like the waxing moon that emboldened the tides to take more of New Orleans's beaches once the sun retired. It seemed something in Rosie waxed as well, and the tides shifted. This was no longer an informal chat between two peers. This was a self-proclaimed mentor displeased with her mentee.
Finally she came back, dipping her spoon and stirring the components together.
"I never in a millennium thought you would consider someone with that sort of background as good company."
"I'll admit, there was a time I didn't either. But he's a rather... interesting soul." He took another drink. It bought him a second of planning for what she might say, and how he should respond.
She hummed a discontented low note. "Only if one is interested in a particular thing, I suppose."
He set his cup down harsher than he should've, china clattering angrily against each other.
"Now that's not fair," he said sternly, defensively. But in defense of who? Angel? Or was it for the sake of his own pride, his own justification? He wasn't sure, but the instinct came on strongly.
"No?" she retorted in an icy, fomenting tone. "You don't go to an accountant for a broken bone, nor to a doctor to do your taxes. And you certainly don't go to a whore for anything less than what their title entails."
"I don't much care for your insinuation."
"All I am insinuating is you should know better. Not to mention he's one of Val's most valuable... assets. It would be that much easier if you just returned him. But being that he's involved with the princess makes it a more complicated—"
"You're speaking about him as if he's a piece of property."
The look she gave had him second-guessing his sanity.
"He is property! He's Val's property! Goodness gracious! You've made deals with enough sinners to know how this works! Valentino is already spitting feathers over that tart running off to that hotel and hiding behind the princess. Having another overlord there acting as gatekeeper is nothing more than a stab in the back! Overlords never meddle with the contracts of other overlords! You know that! I taught you that!" She blew the rest of her ire out her nose and into her cup, then took a sip. She set it down.
"Besides, anything tied to Val is equally tied to Vox, and you two don't much care for each other, now do you..." Her facade of calm kept him quiet. "I wasn't going to say anything when you joined that pipe-dream project because I figured you had the mother wit to avoid that boy simply for the kind of culture he comes from. It seems I overestimated you."
"Avoid him, how?" Deep red eyes narrowed. "We reside in the same infernal hotel three-quarters of the day."
"An inane question! You know what I mean!" She rubbed at her temples, a few strands of her perfectly-styled ivory hair coming loose. That amused him a bit.
"Now, Rosie, there's no reason to work up a storm in a teacup. You certainly don't want to make a mess of yourself." The grin he hid behind his drink felt easier, genuine.
Cavernous eyes bored into him. Two pitch-black abysses so tremendous, one could only envision the nightmarish creatures that lay for centuries at the bottom.
"I'm inclined to believe you've taken a far more inappropriate interest in him than you're admitting to."
Caught in the headlights, his throat effectively closed around his drink and rejected it in harsh convulsions. Alastor coughed wildly. He hid the outburst behind his hand until it calmed. Anger and embarrassment remained long after it died down.
"Just what do you mean by inappropriate?" He glared at her, his smile more of a confrontative baring of teeth.
"Take whatever meaning you wish, it's all the same. Anything that could jeopardize your position. Getting involved, platonically or otherwise, with the lowest of the lowborns would turn heads for all the wrong reasons." She curled her lip in disgust. "That whole business is vulgar and offensive."
"But you take no issue with Valentino?" He hoped the highlight of her hypocrisy would put him on top, but she merely shrugged.
She looked into her cup indifferently as if searching for something she didn't really care if she found.
"There's more dignity in being associated with a panderer than a whore, don't you think? Not to say that Valentino or Vox are my favorite company, they're not as refined as I'd prefer... but they are high in Hell's paramountcy and fairly capable in their positions. I think it is better for souls to stick to their respective circles. Yours is here, with the sophisticated, the powerful. Not wallowing around with the dregs and sinners."
"You've either forgotten who you're talking to, or forgotten who I am." Sometimes, when looking down at the louts, and junkers, and petty thieves, even he forgot he was a sinner the same as them.
"Who you were," she corrected, "there is not a shred left of your human constitution. That died with you. You are one of us now down to your atomic level." She sipped her drink. "Just because you still have your earthly memories does not mean you retained your humanity. It seems you've forgotten the deal you made." She flashed a vouchsafed smile. "And you call me the forgetful one, darlin'."
Alastor sat in silence, cursing her within the safety of his mind. Although he wondered if one of her abilities, all of which she kept close to her vest, was telepathy; she always seemed to know what he was thinking. Rosie reposed her chin against the back of her hands, her stare far-off and ruminating.
"It is a volatile situation you've found yourself in. If you turn him back to Val, you risk upending the princess's plan. Lucifer may think her idea is nonsensical, but she's still his daughter. You might fall into his disfavor for upsetting her." She flicked a tea cake to the curb. Two fanged birds fought viciously over it. The overlords watched the bloody dinner theater production. The victor took its prize and flew off, leaving the feathers and entrails of the loser strewn across the pavement.
"However, if you defend him, you're actively meddling with the contract in place. So, I think it's best to protect your indemnity and steer clear of him. Leave him squarely to the princess and absolve yourself of the responsibility of whatever may occur."
"Seems a tad spineless."
"You're the one who backed yourself into this corner, darlin'. You better be careful lest you run off and make a fool of yourself. Such a thing is inevitable if you get involved with someone like him. Mark my words. I'm only trying to look out for you."
Oh, I'll mark your words alright.
"Well then. Since you're so open-handed with your knowledge this afternoon. May I ask you—?"
"If it is anything to do with your friendly rendezvouses with that prostitute, I decline."
"For Hell's sake, no!" His face had never felt so hot. "Today I pored over the The Compendium of Souls—"
"What of it?" How dangerously short her temper became.
"Is it possible for a sinner to exist here unbeknownst? Or to slip through the cracks and reside here with little to no information about them?"
His question softened the severe scowl across her face.
"What brought this on?"
"I'm afraid I don't have much time left for idle chatter. Please..." He held his hand out for her to carry on.
"If the soul you're seeking is not in those pages, then there would only be three possibilities. They're still living, they've crossed the Gilded Gates, or they've expired here. As for the lack of information, I can't say. I've never encountered such a thing in all my centuries here."
All these scenarios had already been considered, and he feared she was just as much a dead end as the book. Alastor leaned forward without sacrificing his posture.
"Is it possible that information can be removed or refashioned?"
She scoffed. "Such a thing would be unheard of! I'm sure you just botched the spell. Every soul here has been recorded in that book since the beginning of Hell." She brought her finger down on the table firmly. That was that and there was nothing else to be said about it. Except...
"I'm not."
And now he really did stump her. Her words tumbled over each other and her brow furrowed. "Yes... well... that was Lucifer's doing. You were a special case. He—"
"So you're saying The Compendium can be tampered with?" he insisted.
She seemed to toss around a few options for a response, before bowing her head slightly in concession. "I suppose it is... conceivable, but sinners aren't permitted access to it. It would most likely need to be someone in our class... someone powerful. After all, it's not an ordinary ledger you can just cross out or write over. But doing so outside of Lucifer's authority would be a severe infraction. There would be grievous penalties."
He didn't want her to notice that behind his painted smile, a twinge of regret that finally made its overdue appearance after decades wormed like an eel stuck in a mudflat. But she saw it, damn-him-to-Hell-a-second-time, she zeroed in on it. There wasn't much that could be hidden from her frightening intuition.
"Alastor, tell me what in the Nine Circles is going on." Her voice was stern, demanding an answer.
"I have yet to figure that out too..." It could be supposition; it could just be denial. Either way, he had gotten from her what he needed.
He stood, making up some excuse to buy his escape. She appeared to believe it, but he questioned if that was just what she wanted him to think.
"You'll keep me informed?" she called after him.
"Of course."
He wouldn't.
##
Angel couldn't remember the last time he felt completely neutral.
The tail-end of his high kept his steps light and effortless, which permitted him the time to let his mind float in a blissful state of nihility. No positive thoughts, but also no debilitating voices. He escaped the materiality of his body and trailed behind like a baby elephant clinging to its mother's tail.
The walk home would sweat out the rest of his high in time for the session he promised Charlie he'd attend. The brief mental drift broke. He snapped back into place and glanced at the time on his phone just to check again. Yes, he would be back with time to spare.
He scrolled absentmindedly through his phone, grazing through his old coworkers' social medias— Haven got his debut role in a porno called Dragon Rider; Noel snapped her ankle during pole practice; Jude got back together with his crazy ex (again) —but careful not to leave any likes with a slip of a thumb. Any appearance near his old circle, physical or virtual, he feared would draw his boss to him.
The notification icon at the top of his screen called out to him. He yearned to respond to the messages, tell them he was at least okay; ask them if they were faring well without him. But the danger held him begrudgingly back. The idea of them assuming he abandoned them hurt— but that was exactly the case, wasn't it? He fled like a coward to safety and left them to weather without him.
The nasty voices kicked up their abuse again, but there would be no medicating them into silence this time.
And that was when he saw her again, the girl from the club corridor, from against the club corridor. Only this time she was alone, leaning against a pole up ahead. Although she wore the same tight ensemble, she looked different in the natural, Hellion glow of the afternoon sun. Her bright pink hair radiated off her white skin in cotton candy streams. Brown natural roots peeked up from her skull, and around the hilt of black, addax horns. Chocolate brown fur spread from her elbows to her wrists, and looked an awful lot like those forearm sleeves that made a brief fashion statement in the 80's— or was it the 90's? The decades really began to bleed together into an intricate jumble after a while. The loadstone that had him staring longer than he should have, was the transmutation descending her legs, looking at first human, but then, at the knee, following a more goat-like anatomy of brown fur and hooves.
Their eyes met, hers intense, and analytical, and red. He looked away, avoiding any further contact. It occurred to him at that moment that what he saw in the club was not pleasure, but trade.
No doubt, she was a hooker.
The recognition was swift and indelible. The way she stood, advertising herself, but guarded; he felt that at some point he stood exactly where she did.
He didn't know her. She must have joined the ranks after he escaped. But he knew who she worked for.
She showed no interest in him. He surely didn't look like he'd fit into her target market. After filing through her purse, she pulled a vape pen. She took a drag, ropes of vapor, smelling of sour watermelon, expelling from her nostrils.
Angel passed by her hurriedly, just in case her regard for him changed. If she was in the area, perhaps there were others, perhaps so was Val. A twinge of panic messed with his heart rate. He scanned the area and picked up his pace.
But a low, cooing voice called, "hey baby."
A bolt from the blue; both body and mind stalled. Incorporeal hands reached into his body, grabbed his organs, and twisted. The urge to vomit came up in one grand wave.
"You thought you could escape, Angelcakes? Not a smart idea, but it was fun to watch you try."
Angel didn't want to turn around. He dreaded the grinning, lavender face that would be there. But there was a cold terror ten times worse when having your back to the monster, and not being able to know what he planned to do with you. What if he was reaching out to grab you?
When he did whirl around, there was no face, no hands shooting out to snatch him. Only then he realized the voice was different, and not aimed at him.
Four demons surrounded the young demoness in a vile half-circle of lechery. The way they eyed her put him off, but he'd be crazy to get involved. The mumble of the distant words passed over his head. He continued to the end of the street and turned at the corner, bothered that he let his imagination paralyze him. But then he stopped, canted back against the brick wall, and fully tuned-in to the conversation around the corner.
Just to be sure...
A voice, low but definitely feminine, spoke.
"I'll give you four a special rate," she offered with a coo, "one-fifty an hour per body."
Rookie prices... Angel smirked. An absurd sense of pride blew through at the fact his hours cost five-times what hers did.
What are ya so proud for? Big-ticket scum.
The group of men laughed amongst themselves, sounding light and good-natured. His body knew better; once bitten twice shy. He had learned a long time ago that when men laughed like that, it was a harbinger for hideous things.
"I'm sorry, gorgeous." One of the four's mocking, Cockney voice writhed in Angel's ears like bugs. "We've got a few bricks in our hats. Forgot our wallets at the bar we came from."
"Then don't fuckin' waste my time." Her cadence turned cold. The sharp clicks of her heels sounded, coming closer to where Angel had posted himself.
He readied himself to get a head start, not about to be caught eavesdropping. But a clamor of bodies converging on each other and of heels scraping on concrete stopped him.
"Hands off, you fuckin' bastards!" She hollered, before her mouth was covered and the rest of her cries were indiscernible.
Ahh... I'm sure she's fine...
Angel peeked around the corner. All five of them were gone. Empty pavement stretched eerily for miles. The only evidence of their existence was the vape pen lying in the seam of the sidewalk. Its glass tank cracked from the impact, leaking its juice out slowly, looking like a soldier clinging to life in a foxhole.
He mumbled curses under his breath.
What's my duty of care here? He raked his hands through his white locks and tugged. Every self-preservation instinct in his bones shouted at him to walk away.
Ya have nothin' to gain for sticking yer neck out.
A voice, debonair and snake-like sprung up from the depths of his memory. He hardly remembered the cryptic speaker, but the words rang clearly.
"Being the bigger person only makes you the bigger target around here."
"It ain't worth it," Angel muttered, but he couldn't bring himself to wholly believe it. How many times had he wished for someone to come to his aid?
The sounds of the struggle continued, obscured in the alleyway to the left.
She had it comin'...
He had it coming too, didn't he?
It's her fault...
Just like it was his fault.
His heart raced in tandem with his mind, a victim to haunting echoes of the past.
Callous, hungry, possessive hands; disgustingly sour, hot breath; a grin like a drawer of menacing knives; those stupid, tacky, heart-shaped glasses; the pain; the sudden, intense emptiness after; with it, the loss of ownership of things never expected to be lost.
And that sadistic, mocking voice that burned a permanent scar.
"I told you you'd get into it, Angelcakes. You're whining and moaning like you can't get enough."
Just stop. Make it stop. Stop.
Before Angel realized, he was staring down the alley's black maw. He saw a room in there, a room he only ever saw from the outside. All was veiled in a monochromatic haze like the televisions from his childhood. Art Deco furniture had been upended. He could feel burning stares from the fist sized holes in the walls. A pair of pale, mannequin legs jutted out from behind the bed. Only no, it was no mannequin, they were just deathly still. One Mary Jane heel remained on the right foot, the other was embedded in the vanity mirror. And still, all he did was stand there.
Ya won't do dick, ya chickenshit.
He clenched his multiple fists tightly. Call it what you will, drug-fueled stupidity or reckless vigilante heroism. If anything, he just wanted to prove the voices wrong.
Angel marched into the alleyway, grabbing a metal pipe discarded by the filthy dumpster. He didn't take much time to look around, blinded by the rage the drugs lingering in his system amplified. All senses were condensed to a pinhole.
Coming up on one of the looming figures, he twisted his body back until it couldn't go any further and released with a heaving swing. The pipe cracked against the back of the demon's skull. The figure dropped like a rock. Delirious euphoria worked to push out the remembrance of the smells, the sounds, and the hands that branded themselves all over his body. Ghastly watermarks that revealed themselves at random and reminded him that he was not his own.
Just stop. Make it stop, goddamnit! Fuckin' stop!
"Eat shit and die!" he screamed with all the fire and venom that boiled over from thought to voice. It was not directed at the body on the ground, but at a being not present, one he wouldn't dare confront face-to-face— even now he was still a fucking coward.
He drove the pipe down onto the incapacitated demon's head with that unplaceable hatred again.
And again;
And again;
And again;
And again.