Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Hey," Angel Dust says. "You remember geese, don't you?"

That's what started a fifteen minute debate over whether or not Alastor could win if he were forced into a bout of fisticuffs with a goose.

"Of course I'd win!" Alastor declares. "I'd just have my eldritch horror strangle it to death."

"You can't use your powers," Angel Dust says.

"Fine! Then I'd shoot it!"

"You're unarmed."

"I'd punt it off a bridge."

"There's no bridge."

"Then I'd snap its neck."

"Ya can't,” Angel says. “You've offended his wife and now he's on top of you, flapping his wings and pecking at your giant head."

"Wife? What wife?"

"Geese mate for life."

"This entire scenario is ridiculous. As if I would ever offend a lady!"

"Well ya did! What do you do now?"

"Punch my fist through his chest and pull out his beating heart and feast upon it."

"I said you couldn't use your powers."

"Who says I need my powers to do that?"

"You bastard. I can't believe you. I can't believe you'd leave that goose a widow."

"Her husband attacked me!"

"Yeah, because you insulted his wife's honor!"

"Hogwash! I told you that would never happen!"

"Well it did!"

"Who made you the author over this scenario? I demand a rewrite!"

Alastor stands up and smacks his palms flat against the table. At that exact moment, a pentagram lights up underneath his feet, colored sky blue and rose pink.

His smile freezes on his face. Angel Dust frowns. They lean in and tilt their heads at it at the same time, when a column of magenta fire explodes, fringed with electric blues, engulfing Alastor like a pine-needle torch.

Angel Dust lurches back. "What fu—"

The rest of his sentence is drowned out by sourceless wind, roaring and lashing, whipping about the bonfire.

It doesn't hurt. It doesn't burn, but it brightens. Alastor is forced to squeeze his eyes shut. He feels an invisible force yank him from around the middle, as if there's a string tied around his waist, hauling him up.

And up.

And up.

Until his feet slam against solid ground. 

Alastor's head spins. He feels momentarily disoriented as if he has been thrown out of his own body. The flames start to recede, one by one, his mouth ripe with the taste of burnt sugar. He tries to open his eyes, only to be blinded by a glittering ribbon of white sunlight.

If there's sunlight then that means he's on earth.

Someone's summoned him.

It's been ages since a mortal has called upon him. After he was in the middle of something so important too!

Birds sing somewhere nearby. It makes Alastor's fawn ears twitch. He hasn't heard birds since he was alive. And there's something else—music.

Someone is playing Frank Sinatra.

Alastor brushes the last few crackling flames off of his suit. At least whoever called upon him has good taste. He tries to crack open his eyes again, his irises glowing hot pink as the last reservoir of flame, before fading back to their regular ruby red. His vision slowly readjusts, and finally, Alastor sees he's standing in a driveway in front of a little girl, likely only around six or seven years old. She's sitting down on the blacktop with a large spellbook propped open on her knee.

The kid looks at Alastor. Then at her spellbook. Then back at Alastor.

"You're not a dog," she says.

Alastor wrinkles his nose. "I should hope not."

The mortal world is a lot brighter than he remembered—then again, his last summoning was during a blood moon. He hasn't seen a blue sky since his death, and this one is as blue as cornflowers with tufts of airy white clouds. It makes his eyes sting, unaccustomed to the blinding sun, colorful spots doing acrobats in front of his nose.

A breeze stirs the lush grass surrounding the driveway, whirring with the sound of insects. The air feels hot and heavy, and Alastor realizes it must be summer. There's a tiny white house with a sagging porch sitting before the driveway with overgrown hydrangeas and tall sunflowers. 

Clearly, no one keeps up with the garden, for it needs serious trimming down and attention. Everything in it is half-dead. An emerald forest is tucked behind the back of the house, so vast, Alastor cannot tell how far it goes. 

No other house is in sight. They are in the middle of nowhere.

Still. Who summons a demon in broad daylight? Clearly, some kind of simpleton. He shields his eyes from the glare of the sun, trying to find the real person who summoned him.

Yet, no one is there. No one but this little girl.

Alastor arches an eyebrow. Surely, she couldn't have been the one behind this. He glances around for a decrepit swamp witch looking to strike a deal or a starving musician or a businessman or the president, but the driveway is empty.

His smile widens.

How curious!

He takes a step back and something squeaks under his heel. He glances down to see a stuffed alligator. Another squeak from said alligator tells him it's a dog's toy. There’s a pastel pink and blue pentagram at his feet, made out of chalk, and a couple of mason jars at each point of the star.

He picks one up and turns it from side to side. "What do we have here?"

"Fireflies," the little girl says. "I wanted to use candles, but I'm not allowed to touch matches. It took a long time to catch all of them."

Alastor hums and puts it down, noticing something circled around her. He points at it. "What's this?"

"This is a ring of salt for my protection."

Child's play, he thinks, but gives it a poke anyway. He tastes it. "This is sugar," he says.

"Oh. Well, don't cross it, okay?"

Alastor rolls his eyes and straightens, folding his arms behind his back and taking in the child for the first time. Her skin is light brown and her hair is as black as a raven's wing, full of voluminous, springy curls. A petal pink portable radio sits beside her and croons out That Old Black Magic.

His smile turns up, as sharp and neat as the tips of a crescent moon. "And who might you be?" 

"I'm not telling you that. I'm not supposed to tell strangers that."

"Ah!" Alastor says, "but you summoned me, did you not?"

The girl scowls. "No. I was trying to summon a dog."

Alastor sputters out a pop of static. 

"A ... a dog?"

"Well, I was hoping for a puppy." She points to the open page on her spellbook. "See? This is a spell to summon a dog. It was going to be my familiar."

Alastor takes the book from her. Indeed, it shows a portrait of a hellhound. Clearly, this child must've done something wrong. "If you wanted to summon a dog then why do you have a radio?"

"Because it's playing music dogs like," she says, as if it should have been obvious. 

Alastor has never heard anything more offensive in his entire afterlife. "How dare you insult swing music like that. Dogs don't like swing! They like hip-hop and Baha Men!"

The reason Alastor knows about Baha Men is because Vox once played their music video, Who Let the Dogs Out, on every single television set in Hell, triggering one of their worst wars in history. Needless to say, the song is banned on his radio station.

"Nuh-uh!" the girl says.

"Yeah-huh!" Alastor says, and then stops himself. He doesn't have time to argue with a child. He's never liked kids. Not even ones powerful enough to summon him from the depths of the Pride Ring.

She heaves out a sigh. "Well, this stinks. I guess I'm not good at magic after all."

"Nope! I guess not!" Alastor slams the book shut and throws it at her. She scrambles to catch it. "Well, I'll be taking off! Toodaloo, kid!"

"Wait."

Alastor turns his head, his eyes replaced with radio dials. Crimson voodoo symbols flood in, the air hissing with the unintelligible sizzle of static, his voice low and distorted as he asks: "Yeess?"

The kid screams and rears back, dropping the book.

Alastor cackles. He returns everything back to normal without lifting a finger, fist cocked at his hip, smile broad and curious, waiting to see if she will run.

She doesn't, though, she's clearly afraid. Still, she straightens her spine and lifts her sharp little chin. "I summoned you. That means you gotta do something for me."

Alastor's grin turns wicked. "Oh, do I? "

"Yeah. That's what my granny always said. She said if you trap a demon then they have to do a favor for you."

Alastor is hardly trapped, but he humors her. "I see. And who is your grandma?"

"Nora Jean. She's dead now."

"Hmm. Never heard of her!"

"Well, I've never heard of you either," she says, narrowing her eyes. "Who are you supposed to be anyway? Why is your voice funny?"

"Why, I thought you'd never ask!" He manifests his microphone, twirling it like a baton. "Alastor, The Radio Demon, at your service!"

"Radio Demon?"

"That's right!"

The girl wilts. "Oh, no. I'm stuck with a boomer."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Radios are old," she laments.

"I'll have you know that radios are the prime form of entertainment, young lady!" He points his cane towards her portable radio. "If you think so poorly of them then why do you have one?"

"Because my mom won’t get me an ipad."

"What's an ipad?"

The girl groans and throws her hands up into the air. "See! This is exactly what I mean! Who doesn't know about ipads?"

"Preposterous! I bet no one knows about ipads!"

"Everybody knows about ipads."

This child is testing Alastor's patience. He vanishes his microphone with a huff. "Fine! If I'm so old then you can find another demon to summon. You were looking for a mangy mutt anyway. If you don't need anything from me, then I shall take my leave!"

"No, wait! I'm sorry! I do want something."

Alastor lifts his eyebrows. He taps his foot against the blacktop and waits.

"I want a dog."

"No," Alastor says calmly.

She gapes at him. "Why not?"

He beams. "Because I don't want to!"

"But that's not part of the rules. You can't just say no!"

"Oh, but I can. I only do favors for people I strike deals with, girl. We haven't made any sort of deal."

"Okay, then let's make one."

"Ha! No!"

"Why not?" she huffs, agitated.

"Because I don't strike deals with children." 

And with that, shadows rise up from Alastor's feet, twisting and curling, gobbling up his body to take him back to Hell. He starts to sink down when the girl shoots to a stand, reaching for him, her voice fast and desperate.

"Wait! I'll give you my soul."

Alastor freezes. Slowly, he rises back up, dismissing the shadows with a puff. "You're willing to sell your soul for a dog?"

"I ..." She pauses. "Hang on. Let me think about it."

This girl must be incredibly lonely or incredibly stupid if she was willing to sell her soul for a pet, even if that pet was going to be her familiar. Souls are a hot commodity in Hell, especially a witch's soul.

Alastor's smile turns gleeful.

"Well then!"

He snaps his fingers. Three individual red silk curtains appear behind him and a podium pops up before the girl, who squeaks as she suddenly rises up behind it on a tall chair. Lights flash above the curtains, gold and brilliant, glittering like a carnival.

Alastor gestures to the display with a wide sweeping gesture and speaks into his microphone, voice bright and loud with excitement.

"Yes, please consider it carefully now! Why, you haven't even considered what could be behind curtains number one, two and three! There could be a house cat or a unicorn, hell, maybe even a grizzly bear! Something out of your wildest dreams or your worst nightmares, ready to be your best pal, all for the cost of a single soul! What will you choose, what will you choose? Tik-tok, kid! The game is set, your new friend is waiting, and—"

"Okay. I've decided." The little girl looks up at him. "I want you to celebrate my birthday with me every year."

A loud record scratch.

"I—what?"

"And every year," she adds, "you have to give me a present. But it has to be a nice present. Something I actually want. Not something bad."

Not much can surprise the Radio Demon, but he is truly surprised. The show set disappears with a puff of smoke, a series of morse code beeps and blips trickling out. "Hang on—"

“And we have to celebrate it by doing whatever I want. And you have to stick around for cake and ice cream."

"Ha! I don't eat cake!"

She frowns. "Who doesn't eat cake?"

"Cannibals," Alastor says, and the girl's face screws up in confusion, clearly having no idea what the word means. He bats her confusion away with a flick of his wrist. "Of course you would want me at your party! Who doesn't! But," he adds, "I am not celebrating every year. The festivities will conclude when you are thirteen."

"Thirty," she argues.

"Sixteen," Alastor counters.

"Twenty!"

"Eighteen!"

"Sold! To that guy in the red suit!" She picks up a bone from the summoning circle and pounds it against the blacktop like a gavel.

Alastor blinks rapidly.

"Sorry. My grandpa took me to an auction once."

Alastor bursts out laughing. Oh! This might be more entertaining than he thought!

"All right, I shall celebrate your birthday until you are eighteen. But I am not having cake or ice cream."

"How about just food?" she bargains.

"Hmmm." His smile broadens, full of mischief. "Any food I want?"

"Sure." She narrows her eyes. "But I'm eating whatever I want, too."

"Fine! I'll bring you a present and we can have ... food ... I suppose."

"Yay!"

"Then it is done! In exchange for your soul, I will celebrate your birthday and bring you a present within your desires until your eighteenth year." Alastor holds out his hand. An ominous green light flashes, and a wind bursts forth, kicking up their hair. "Do we have a deal? " 

"Not yet. I want it in writing."

The light and wind instantly smother out. Clever kid, Alastor thinks. He feigns nonchalance and summons a scroll and a pen. Some words in bright red cursive appear. "Sign here, on the dotted line."

The girl hesitates, twirling her pen. "I think I should have my lawyer here."

"You can't possibly have a lawyer."

"No, but I can call my mom and see if she'll let me borrow her divorce attorney."

"No time for that. This is a one time deal, kid. Strike while the pan is hot!"

"Fine," she huffs. "Read it outloud to me."

Alastor clears his throat and reads in his best show host voice:

"I, the Signee, hereby offer my soul solely to Alastor, The Radio Demon, in exchange for his attendance and participation to the Signee’s birthday once a year. Participation includes celebrating however the Signee sees fit and providing one gift within the Signee's desires and each party indulging in a dish of their choosing, all of which will cease when the Signee is eighteen. Alastor has all rights to the Signees soul, all within all laws and reason, terms and conditions permitting, yadah-yadah-yahdah, you get the gist!"

"You didn't include the date of my birthday," she says. "That's important."

"Ah, of course! How silly of me! When is your birthday?"

"October 16th. I'm a Libra," she adds, as if that's supposed to mean something. "And my name is Imogen."

Alastor adds the information to the contract with a wave of his hand. "Better?"

"Yes!"

"Good! Now seal the deal!"

Imogen does. She writes her name in big blocky letters and flinches back when the scroll magically rolls up on its own.

"Excellent! I shall be here again on October 16th." 

Alastor turns to go, tripping over something in the summoning circle. He looks down to see a dead deer. The carcass is fresh, probably having died only a few hours ago, with some blood smearing the baby blue and cotton candy pink pentacle, flies buzzing around its head. 

He prods it with his microphone cane. "Where did this come from?"

"I dragged it here from the side of the road."

Alastor is delighted. "You brought me roadkill?"

"No. I was bringing my dog roadkill. Dogs like roadkill."

"Right. Well, I am taking this." Alastor hefts the deer over his shoulder as easily as a bag of feathers. No use wasting good venison, in his opinion. "I'll see you in October."

"Kay," Imogen says.

🎶 📻 🎶

"What do you mean you made a deal with a kid?"

Husk shoots up from his seat across from Alastor and slams his paws against the dinner table, so hard, the chinaware rattles. Niffty freezes, spoonful of gumbo halfway to her mouth, sitting between the two of them, large eye darting back and forth.

"I mean exactly as it sounds," Alastor says, leaning back in his chair. "She wanted to make a deal, and I made one!"

Husk growls low in his throat. His claws dig into the wood. "Is that even legal?"

Alastor beams. "Probably not!"

"Alastor, what the hell? That's so fucked up! What are you going to do with a kid?"

"Absolutely nothing!"

Husk is so angry that he almost considers punching The Radio Demon in the face. "You asshole. She can't consent to any kind of deal. She's a minor."

"Too late! It's already happened!"

"Then make it un-happen!"

"Can't! She signed the form! Will you pass the potato salad?"

Husk smacks the plate, so hard, it rockets at Alastor's dumb face and narrowly misses him. The potato salad explodes against the wall with a loud plop.

Niffty lets out a distressed squeak. "No, no, no! Not the walls!" She zooms to the kitchen and returns seconds later with some cleaning supplies, immediately getting to work.

"Rude," Alastor sighs, examining his claws. "I spent a lot of time on that salad."

"Al, if you hurt that kid in anyway, I swear—"

"You'll what?" Alastor leans forward and plants his elbows on the table, smiling his menacing smile. "Go on, Husker. Don't leave anything out."

"I'm going to slice you into ribbons and feed your remains to the crows, that's what!"

Alastor clicks his tongue. "Oh, how dull. Not very creative, Husker. You could cut off my head and hang it from a ribbon outside on a tree. Maybe a bit of disembowelment or gather some crocodiles—"

"Shut up, you fuckin' masochist. I'm being serious. You can't do this to a kid, she doesn't know any better."

"Like I said," Alastor says, waving his hand. "It is too late! A deal is a deal."

Some of the fire drains from Husk's body, and he's suddenly depressed. Depressed for this young girl who threw her soul away for ...

For what exactly? He frowns. "What are the grounds of the deal?"

"I have to celebrate her birthday every year until she's eighteen."

Husk gapes at him. "She gave you her soul in exchange for a party?"

"No, no, it's much more detailed than that! She sold soul for twelve parties! I also have to bring her a present within her desires and we have to eat food."

Husk stares in disbelief. "And you agreed to that?"

"Of course!" Alastor throws his hands up into the air with a flourish. "I LOVE parties!" Colorful confetti explodes over his head, followed by a sound effect of a startling party blower.

Husk groans. This poor kid. This poor, poor kid.

"You had better at least make it good," Husk says, glaring at him. "She doesn't deserve any tricks from you. A kid who makes a request like that clearly has had some really shitty birthdays. She deserves good ones."

The Radio Demon gasps in mock offense. "Husker! I'm appalled you would suggest I'd put anything but my best foot forward! I told you—" The filter on his voice cracks out and his smile curls impossibly wide. "—I love parties."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Husk says, wilting.

The chair between them screeches as Niffty pulls it out and sits back down, using a stack of books with a pillow on top to reach the table. She sets down the plate of salvaged potato salad, misshapen and lumpy, and shovels it into her mouth with a spoon. 

She brightens. "Ohhh, this is pretty good!"

Husk makes a face. "Niffty, come on. Don't eat stuff off the floor."

"But it's clean. I would know! I cleaned it!"

"That you did!" Alastor holds out his own plate. "Be a dear and top me off, would you?"

"Of course!"

Husk presses his head to the table and groans.

🎶 📻 🎶

Two Months Later

Alastor has heard rumors about the mortal realm's version of Hell. They called it the airport.

He's never been to an airport while he was alive, but he imagines it cannot be very different from Hell's version of TSA.

It mimics the grandiose of Lucifer with marble floors so polished, they look wet, and golden vines wrapped around massive pillars, decorated with apples carved from rubies and roosting butterflies. Their wings open and close by some kind of enchantment, and if Alastor looks close enough, he can see the vines flush into coiling serpents engraved with scarlet gemstone eyes.

His gaze sweeps over soaring ceilings, intricately painted with scenes from Genesis; specifically, of the serpent in the Garden of Eden and sin entering creation. Alastor's favorite depiction is of Adam getting kicked out—there's literally a boot kicking him in his backside.

A thick crowd weaves in a long line at the check-in desk, sanctioned off by velvet ropes. Four magnificent wings spread across the back of it, lit from within by a brilliant opalescent fire. 

Most of the demons going to the mortal world are imps or succubi without access to an Asmodean crystal. Sinner demons do not usually get entry to the living world. Those that do are summoned by a mortal—or, in Alastor's case, a young witch—and then they perform their end of the bargain during the same visit. It's rare a Sinner would need to keep returning for one deal, but Alastor finds himself in an unusual situation.

He wishes Imogen would summon him again to avoid this nonsense. Alas, Alastor is in Hell, and certain things must be suffered.

He steps in line. No one pays him any attention at first. An offensive hip-hop song plays quietly from the speakers and makes his ears flick. Something about apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur.

Annoyance throbs and aches, right behind the little scarlet x on Alastor's forehead. If he is going to be waiting then he will not be subjected to this malarkey.

Static electricity drones in the air. It sizzles over Alastor's skin. The speakers hiss and pop, so loud, everyone jumps. 

Alastor starts shuffling through stations until Jumpin' Jive blares through the room. Ah, perfect! An absolute gem of a classic! He can feel his irritation melting away already. He turns it up and hums along, snapping his fingers and tapping his foot to the beat.

Nearly everyone has noticed him by now. The imps working the check-in desk have stopped what they were doing. Most of the crowd is staring, while others are still craning their necks, their expressions of confusion quickly morphing into wide-eyed horror. 

"Oh!" Alastor says. "Would you have preferred Louis Armstrong instead?"

Everything explodes into chaos. The room fills with the staccato of frantic, pounding feet. Hundreds of demons try to sprint out of the room at once, yelling and shoving each other out of the way. 

The stampede funnels around Alastor, as if he is a stone in a river. He watches them run crazily past him, trampling over anyone who has fallen onto the ground, flying through the automatic doors and bursting into a rectangle of maroon sunlight.

Alastor's monocle has fallen off. He readjusts it and surveys the damage. The room is eerily empty. The only sounds are Jumpin' Jive and the bleeps and clicks of the security machines located further in the back. There is no one manning the desk now. Papers are scattered on the floor and several shoes have been left behind by demons who literally ran out of them.

There are times when Alastor feels quite nettled that his mere presence sends a crowd scattering. It makes impromptu joining a live band very difficult. Not to mention casual conversation. Why, he doesn't remember the last time a stranger tipped off their hat to him and wished him a good day. Enjoying a night out at the theater is impossible, seeing as the audience and the cast take off as soon as he steps inside, and every single restaurant he walks into outside of Cannibal Colony is empty.

Other times it's extremely useful. Today is such a time—today, he doesn't have to wait.

Alastor breezes past the check-in and goes straight to security. There is one imp who has not fled from the premises and is speaking to a rather massive hellhound. He's about a head taller than Alastor, all solid muscle and golden-brown fur, with distinguishable wolf ears and a sweeping tail.

The hellhound takes the imp's duffle bag. "What do you got in here?"

"Just some plagues."

"What kind?"

"I got famine and Baby by Justin Bieber."

The hellhound places the bag on the counter and briefly looks through it. A chorus of baby, baby, oooohh~! spills out.

He zips it up and hands it back. "Have a safe journey."

"Thanks!"

The imp scampers by. 

"Next!" the hellhound barks. He turns to face Alastor and freezes, instantly stricken.

A bright smile. "Hello, sir! How's your day going so far?"

"I—uh." The hellhound's ears flatten to the top of his head. "It's going."

"Fantastic! I have no bags I am taking with me, as you can see, but I do have a microphone. It's an extension of myself. Cannot be separated. Do you need to see it?"

"No," the hellhound chokes. "Just—walk through the detector, please."

"Very well!"

The detector is meant to scan demons for any hidden angelic weapons. It has two massive horns weaving from the top of it, resembling an ox.

Alastor steps through and it malfunctions at once. The lights flash from green to red to green again, the metal arch groaning and sputtering out copper-colored sparks. It seizes like a living creature and then bursts into flames.

"Oh dear," Alastor says.

The hellhound stares with his mouth open, orange light flickering across his horrified face.

Alastor snaps his fingers. A bucket of water appears and waterfalls over the detector, instantly smothering out the flames. Heavy, black smoke explodes, curling across the ceiling and setting off the sprinklers.

Alastor summons an umbrella and pops it open, hearing the water bounce off like silver coins. The security guard, still rooted in shock, is soaked in an instant.

"So! Should we try again?"

The hellhound glances at the detector, helpless. He sighs, his powerful shoulders slumping. "Don't worry about it. Just go on."

"Wonderful!"

Alastor moseys on and vanishes the umbrella once he's made it out of range of the fire sprinklers. The imp with the duffle bag from earlier branches off to a section titled Plagues and Disasters. Alastor strolls to a gate marked as Travel For Deal Makers.

There's an imp working the desk with a black wrought iron fence behind him. A handful of demons who must’ve had their travel already approved are able to skip the line by pressing their palm or a paper contract over a Contract Reader. It works a lot like how Alastor's seen demons scanning their transit pass to ride the 666 train. A bell dings and the fence opens, allowing them to step through and into a portal.

There is only one succubus in line for the desk. Alastor stops behind her and waits for his turn.

"Hand," the imp says, bored.

The succubus thrusts her hand out. The imp scans her palm with some sort of handheld device. Another bell-like sound trills out and the gate opens.

"Enjoy your stay."

She steps through and a new portal appears, where she disappears. 

"Next!"

Alastor steps right up. "Good day, sir!"

The imp blinks—does a double take. Horror pinches his face. "I—uh—"

"One portal for the living world, please!"

"I—um—needyourhand—"

"What?"

"Hand," the imp wheezes. "I need to see your hand."

"Ah! This is a written contract! See?" Alastor slaps it onto the table. "You will see that the agreement is for once a year until my client is eighteen, so I need you to go ahead and approve my travel for each year so I can skip the line next time, hmm?"

"Eighteen ... Wow! Okay, let me just look this over ..."

"Splendid! You'll find all the information is there. Take your time."

Sweat beads the imp's forehead as he unravels the scroll and puts on a pair of tiny spectacles. The tip of his crimson tail flicks back and forth, uneasy.

Alastor's attention drifts away to one of the picture shows playing nearby on the wall. There's a little jingle—something about immediate murder professionals that has him chuckling.

"Catchy song, isn't it?"

The imp whips his head up. "What?" 

"Oh, they let you keep the knife! How fun! Love when they throw in a little lagniappe, don't you?"

The imp stares, wide-eyed, obviously not comprehending. "Huh?"

He waves his hand. "Nevermind. Have you finished looking it over?"

"Sorry, not yet ... "

Alastor hums and drums his fingers against the table. He wonders how those murder professionals have special access to the living world.

This fellow sure is taking a while. He's probably re-read the scroll five times by now. Alastor is starting to get impatient.

"I don't mean to rush you, sir, but as you can see from the contract, I have a birthday party to attend. I'm going to need you to shake a leg!"

"Uh, yes ..." The imp swallows. "Sir, I'm sorry, but this contract is ..."

"Yeesss?" There's the sickening sound of bone grinding against bone, of Alastor's neck snapping into an unnatural angle. His voice glitches. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing! It's great! Perfect! Wonderful!" The imp presses a rubber stamp into a magenta ink pad. Alastor can only assume the ‘ink’ is a melted down Asmodean crystal. He stamps APPROVED FOR YEARLY TRAVEL in the upper righthand corner and uses another stamp to add ON OCTOBER 16TH. He pens the expiration date in the same ink, authorizing it by scribbling his initials and shoving it back at him. “Enjoy your stay.”

"Good man! Thank you kindly!"

And with that, Alastor rolls the contract up and dismisses it for safekeeping. The iron gate creaks open and a portal appears for the living world. He steps through and he's off.

Chapter Text

The first thing Alastor notices is how cool the air is. In Louisiana, the coldest the temperature drops in autumn is in the high fifties. It's always perpetually warm in the Pride Ring too, and for a moment, he is quite stunned by the feeling of crisp autumn wind snaking down his jacket. He shivers, his hair practically standing on ends.

The surrounding trees have turned scarlet and amber, a breeze rolling through the branches and tugging through his hair. The sky is an incredible shade of blue. The kind that hurts to look at.

Then again, that could be the sun.

Alastor is not quite sure what to do from here. He assumed Imogen would be here to meet him, but apparently, this is not the case.

He approaches the house. The garden still needs serious tending. It's even more overgrown than it was in the summer and even more dead. The sunflowers look depressed, poor things. Even the two jack-o-lanterns decorating the front porch are starting to sag. He can tell which one is Imogen's by the sloppy and childlike way its face has been carved. The other must be her mother's, who is clearly a villain, for he can see a frown fashioned into hers. 

What a wicked display! Alastor is quite offended on the sad pumpkin's behalf. He is very fond of pumpkins. They come in such funny shapes, and it's so easy to cut a smile into them.

He prods the frowning one with his foot. Instantly, its frown turns upside down.

There! Much better!

Someone taps him on the shoulder. Alastor turns to see his shadow. It murmurs something, voice low and rippling like water.

"Oh? You see her in the backyard?"

An affirmative rumble.

"Then there's no time to waste! Off we go!"

Alastor takes off with an obvious skip in his step, his shadow returning to his feet as he circles around to the back.

There, he finds a sad excuse for a swing set. It's rusted and nearly falling apart. One swing has completely broken off of its chain on one side, dangling like a rope and creaking in the wind.

Ah, yes. Alastor needs no further convincing that Imogen's mother is a villain, for he can see garden gnomes lounging in the weeds. Truly hideous.

He spots Imogen walking through the grass and angling off towards the woods. She's wearing a dusty pink jacket, her midnight curls flying behind her in the wind. There is quite a long stretch of land before she gets to the perimeter of the forest. 

Where on earth is she going? Is she trying to escape their deal?

Well, that simply will not do!

Alastor starts after her. It's not hard to catch up—he's so much taller.

"HELLO!" he cries.

Imogen squeaks and whirls around.

Golden fireworks erupt abruptly from the ground on either side of Alastor and burst into beautifully colored sparks, whistling and crackling, sending out a shower of glitter.

He throws his hands up into the air. "Happy birthday!"

The surprise on Imogen's face melts into awe.

Which then quickly morphs into a scowl.

"No," she says, and walks away. 

Alastor blinks rapidly, smile frozen.

What? No?

Unacceptable!

He follows her and snags the back of her backpack, reeling her in like an angry, struggling fish. She kicks and swings as he lifts off of the ground. "Put me down!" she says.

He ignores the request. "Smile, my dear! It's your birthday after all!"

"No," Imogen huffs. 

"No?" Alastor lifts her up to his eye level. "Whyever not!"

"Because I'm mad."

"Ohhh-ho-ho! Mad? On your day of birth? How terrible! How intriguing!" He shoves his microphone under her nose. "Tell us why!"

Imogen's eyes go cross-eyed watching the microphone. "Because," she says, pushing it away. "My parents lied. So I'm running away."

"An excellent idea! Where to?"

"I don't know. Somewhere far."

"The great unknown! Sounds thrilling!" He sets her down. "I shall join you!"

"You will?"

"Of course! It's still your birthday. I'm here for the festivities."

"Okay," Imogen says, starting off. "But try to keep up, okay? I got places to be."

"Yes, yes!"

They bound together towards the woods. Crickets chirp and click wherever they pass, and a bright orange monarch butterfly swirls out and lands on a wildflower.

Imogen peers up at him. "Can I use your phone?"

"I don't own a phone."

Imogen stares at him like he's grown a second head. "What kind of grown-up doesn't use a phone?"

"Me!" he declares cheerfully.

Imogen rolls her eyes and grumbles boomer under her breath.

"Why do you need a phone anyway?"

"To call my mom when I get to wherever I'm going."

"Fear not," Alastor says, prancing ahead. "We shall send her a telegram!"

"Is that like a text message?"

"No!" Alastor says, refusing to elaborate on the matter. He knows exactly what text messages are. They are those stupid messages people send to each other on hellphones. Why send a text message when you can write a letter or better yet, show up at your neighbor’s house uninvited? 

Texting, he thinks to himself. Completely useless!

They have only been walking for a few moments when Imogen is winded. She sits down on a rotting log. 

This surprises Alastor. "I thought you children had more energy."

"I'm tired." Her voice is tiny. "I haven't eaten in a while."

Alastor's chest tightens, but his permanent grin doesn't reveal a thing. He sits down beside her. "What do you have in your backpack?"

"Important stuff to help me survive in the wild." Imogen shifts it off of her shoulders and unzips it. Inside, there's a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a handful of tangerines, a children's book, a teddy bear, a pillow and a blanket. There's also funny little silver pouches that Alastor has never seen before. Imogen picks one up and hands it to him. "Do you want one?"

It says Capri-Sun in big letters. He is quite intrigued. "Does it taste like sunshine?"

"No. It tastes like fruit punch."

Alastor takes it, turning it over in his hands like a rubix cube, brows knitted in confusion. There's a yellow straw attached on the outside. He picks it up, mimicking Imogen, and watches as she stabs it through the top.

Oh, how fun! Alastor grins and violently spears the straw through the pouch.

Silver liquid explodes. Imogen squeaks as some of it splatters onto her shirt but the majority of the mess lands on Alastor. He blinks down at the pouch clenched in his fist, now drenched and sticky, the straw impaled through the bottom and dripping onto the grass.

"Oh no," Imogen breathes. "You did it too hard."

Alastor snaps his fingers and vanishes the mess in an instant. "Oh, well!" He yanks the straw out and discards it somewhere behind him, lifting the Capri-Sun to his smiling mouth like a po'boy sandwich and chomping straight down. His fangs pierce through the plastic as he sucks it in.

A fruity, saccharine flavor rushes into his mouth. Alastor gags, immediately tossing it out into the field.

Imogen frowns. "You shouldn't litter," she says.

Alastor is too busy choking to form a reply. Bursts of feedback screech between each hacking wheeze. He smacks himself in the chest. "That is horrid!"

"No, it's not. It's sweet."

"Ugh!" He spits on the ground.

Imogen wrinkles her nose. "Eww!"

"Disgusting," he says, smacking tongue against the roof of his mouth. He needs a long drink of water after that. Or a fresh corpse.

"Spitting is disgusting," Imogen argues, shooting him a withering look.

Imogen goes back to her peanut butter and jelly. Alastor stares out into the woods waiting ahead, colored crimson and gold. A breeze makes the leaves dance, and for a moment, Alastor's chest swells with an intense wistfulness. It's been so long since he's been here—since he's seen this.

Birds sing sweetly in the trees. Within the field, the grass stirs and whispers. Alastor likes to watch as the chickadees swoop back and forth, scooping up crickets and darting back into the woods.

Imogen looks up at him. "What song is that?"

It's a jazz tune. Something calm and happy. Alastor didn't even realize he'd been playing it.

"Lazy Afternoon by Benny Carter," Alastor says.

"I've never heard it before. It's pretty."

"Mmhm."

Imogen kicks her sneakers against the dirt. "I'm sorry I yelled at you when you showed up."

"Hm? Oh, yes. You were quite the firecracker!"

"Sorry."

"No harm done." Alastor glances at her. Suddenly, he's curious. "How'd you get by your mother anyway?"

"She's at work. Chris is supposed to be watching me, but he's asleep on the couch."

Alastor is impressed. "Who is Chris?"

"He's my mom's new boyfriend. He's really dumb. All he does is watch TV."

"Of course he's dumb. Television rots the mind."

"I like TV," Imogen says, shooting him a sidelong glance, "but not the stuff he watches. He won't let me watch Sailor Moon because he says his stuff is more important, but then he gets drunk and falls asleep anyway." She glares at the ground. "I hate him."

"Does he drink around you often?"

"Yeah. All the time."

Alastor pauses, taking this in. Static electricity hisses quietly in the air and the jazz song starts to crackle in and out. 

"He isn't even supposed to be watching me," Imogen adds. "My real dad was supposed to do it. He promised to teach me how to fish, but he called and said he wasn't coming." Her little face twists with rage. "He lied."

"Fishing? Pah! That's a weaker man's sport! There's no entertainment waiting for a fish to bite a worm. No, no! He should be teaching you how to hunt!"

Imogen blinks. "Hunt?"

"Yes, indeedy!"

"I think my dad hunts, but he wasn't going to show me." She scowls again. "He doesn't show me how to do anything."

"I can show you." Alastor's grin curls into something wicked. "If you wish."

"Really?"

"Certainly!" He throws an arm around her shoulders and gestures excitedly to the wild wilderness. "The whole forest will be our playground! I'll show you how to shoot something right between the eyes! Blam!" The sound effect of a rifle cracks over his words. "Dead!"

"How? We don't have anything to shoot stuff with."

Alastor manifests a shotgun from out of thin air. "With this!" It's a Winchester 54, the exact make and model he used to hunt with when he was alive. He's getting more ecstatic just thinking about it!

"Oh." Imogen's face screws up in thought. "Well ... I guess it might be good to know how to do it. Then I can just hunt stuff when the fridge is empty."

"Yes, yes, precisely!"

"What are we going to hunt though?"

"Anything we want! Deer, alligators, bears, criminals ..."

"What?"

"What?" Alastor slings the rifle over his shoulder. "What are we waiting for! Is this your birthday celebration or not?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Splendid! An excellent choice!" He springs up and strikes off with a skip to his step. "Let's be on our way!"

Imogen scrambles after him. They walk until they come up to the edge of the forest. It's blocked off by a chain link fence.

"What's no trespassing? " Imogen asks, sounding it out.

"It means nothing," Alastor says. "Merely a suggestion, nothing more!"

He lifts her over the fence and then hops it himself. They walk deeper into the woods and then sit side by side at the edge in the tall grass behind a tree stump. 

"Now what?" Imogen asks.

"We wait."

Alastor changes their clothing with a snap of his fingers. He and Imogen now sport dark brown tailored hacking jackets to blend in with the forest scenery. 

Imogen pulls at her clothes. "I look like Elmer Fudd," she says.

"Who?"

"The guy from Looney Tunes."

The only Looney Tunes character Alastor is familiar with is Bosko. This new character must've been after Alastor's time. He shrugs and keeps waiting.

"There's one," Imogen says, pointing.

"Too young," Alastor says.

"How can you tell?"

"Not much mass to his antlers."

"What does that mean?"

"It means they are not very big. See how they're small?"

"Yeah." Imogen waits until the deer is gone before she looks up at him. "Does that mean you're young too?"

"What?"

"Your antlers are like tiny baby ones."

"I kindly ask that you refrain from describing them as tiny babies. And they are not always this size."

"Why?" Imogen asks.

"Because I can change them when I feel like it."

"Why?"

"Why do you ask so many questions? You'll scare the deer. You must be quiet while we wait."

"Don't worry, I'm good at being quiet. Chris asks me to be quiet all the time."

Alastor arches an eyebrow. Still, he doesn't comment, turning back to face the woods.

🎶 📻 🎶

They wait for almost an hour.

Alastor would have guessed Imogen would have gotten antsy within fifteen minutes, but she's incredibly still. If she wants to get up and run around, she shows no sign. Sometimes Alastor thinks she's barely breathing, her eyes dark and focused, knees tucked into her chest.

The longer the hour goes on, the more the determination drains from her face. She begins to nod off, her head lolling onto her shoulder. 

The sound of a twig snapping in two makes Alastor's ears swivel. A magnificent stag steps into view, moving carefully around tangled roots covered beneath vivid moss.

Alastor pokes Imogen in the ribs, startling her awake. She blinks the sleep from her eyes and lets out a tiny gasp.

"Itsadeeritsadeer," she whispers, tugging on his sleeve.

"Yes," he whispers back. "Now, come up here." 

Alastor picks Imogen up and sets her down on a stump, so she can get a clear shot. He puts his arms around her from behind and helps lift the shotgun. She feels delicate and impossibly small; he can feel her shoulder blades bumping against his chest.

"Wait for it to come closer. Just a little more ... steady ..." He forms his finger around hers, over the trigger. "And ... fire!"

Together, they pull. There’s a loud crack, the recoil jerking her back against him. The deer jackknifes and tucks in its tail, sprinting the other way.

"You got him!" Alastor crows. 

"I did?"

"Yes, yes!"

"But it ran away."

"They always run after they've been hit." He vanishes the rifle and leaps over the stump. "Let's go!"

"Okay!"

Imogen tries to keep up but her little legs are too short, so he eventually scoops her up like a football underneath his arm and carries her the rest of the way.

They find it after a few yards.

Alastor sets her down and prances towards the kill, grinning. "Look at that! Perfect shot!"

Imogen takes one look at the deer and freezes.

Alastor assumed Imogen did not have an issue with dead things—she dragged roadkill to his summoning circle, after all, but he supposes she's never actually killed an animal before. He sees what she sees: how it's not just blood pouring out of the deer's side, but how its insides are falling out too, wet and slippery and gross. Her bottom lip trembles, and he knows what's going to happen before it even starts.

"Now," Alastor says, lifting a finger. "Hang on—"

Too late. Abruptly, Imogen bursts into tears.

Alastor's smile freezes on his face. His eyes dart to the deer and then back to her.

"I killed it," she sobs.

"Well," he says. "That was kind of the point."

This does not make Imogen feel any better. She cries even harder.

Someone with any kind of parental instinct would know that what Imogen needs is a hug. She needs to be taken somewhere where she feels safe, away from the deer and out of the woods.

But Alastor is not known for his warm, parental instincts. He's completely out of his element like Imogen with the rifle, the words of their agreement ringing in his head over and over like an annoying radio ad, chanting, it needs to be something I actually want, not something bad, and Alastor is 99% sure making his client cry falls under the "something I don't want" category. 

The problem is, he has no idea how to fix it.

"Hey," Alastor says. He gives her a little poke with the end of his staff. "Stop that."

She does not stop. If anything, her wailing becomes worse.

Hmmm. Quite foreboding!

What to do, what to do ...

A lightbulb goes off in his head. "Hey!" Alastor cries, so suddenly, Imogen flinches. "How can you tell this is a dogwood tree?" He walks over and knocks on the side of it. "By the bark!" His studio audience bursts into laughter and applause.

Imogen hiccups and stares up at him through spiked lashes.

"How do you row a canoe filled with puppies? By bringing out the doggy paddle!"

The audience cheers again. Imogen still doesn't, stunned into silence.

"Dogs can't operate MRI machines but catscan!"

More laughter from the audience. Imogen sniffles.

"What do you call a dog magician? A Labraca—" He struggles to get the punchline out, speaking too fast and too desperate, the filter over his voice cutting out. "Labracadabrador!"

A loud bah-dum-tssk plays over his words. Imogen lets out a tiny, wet laugh.

Alastor grins.

"What's a dog that sneezes? Achoo-wawa!"

The audience roars with laughter. Imogen finally giggles. Alastor crouches to Imogen's level and manifests a crimson handkerchief.

"Why ..." She hiccups again and wipes her face with the handkerchief. "Why are you only telling jokes about dogs?"

"I—" Alastor pauses. Considers it. "Well! Because you like dogs!"

Imogen sniffles. "O-oh."

"My mother used to tell jokes. Always cheered me up in a jiff! Did it work?"

"You ..." Imogen blinks up at him, surprised. "You have a mom?"

"Of course I have a mother! Where else did you think I came from? A hellhole?" He slaps his knee and cackles at his own joke. Another laugh track plays and tapers off into the breeze.

"I didn't know demons had families," Imogen says.

"Ohhh, very wrong assumption, indeed!"

"Does she live with you?"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Alastor pokes the tip of her nose. "This isn't about me. It's about you. Are you feeling better?"

"Kind of. I still feel sorta bad."

"Then you should smile. Smiling fixes everything, you know! When you're sad or angry, you should smile anyway!"

"Why?"

"Because!" Alastor squishes her cheeks and forces them upwards. "Then you won't feel bad anymore!"

She struggles to speak properly through her smushed cheeks. "That just sounds like toxic masculinity."

"What now?"

"It's something my aunt said once, but I don't know what it means."

"Probably not important. Now! I believe part of the deal is food, yes?" Alastor takes a step back, gesturing to the deer with a flourish. "What do you say to venison?"

🎶 📻 🎶

Imogen has never had venison before. At first, she is not sure how they are going to cook it, but then Alastor snaps his fingers. Giant logs manifest out of thin air and start rearranging themselves into a house, scraping and thudding, followed by large river stones that whiz past and make her hair fly, shaping themselves into a chimney.

Everything finally stills. A small log cabin stands before them, tucked in-between the trees.

Imogen’s little mouth pops open. "Wow," she breathes. 

Alastor opens the door. "After you!"

Imogen steps inside. For someone with such a large personality, the cabin is small, with one oversized room with a stone fireplace and a kitchen all together. There's an old fashioned stove that Imogen is pretty sure she saw in her babysitter's history book once, but from what time, Imogen isn’t certain. One of the biggest radios Imogen has ever seen in her life is pressed against the wall, about the size of a jukebox, and there’s a red couch with a deer head mounted over it on the wall.

"Now what?" Imogen asks.

Alastor slams the stag onto a large wooden table. "We prepare it!"

"Can I help?"

"Hmmm." Alastor scrubs his chin in thought. "Yes! You can get me some mushrooms!"

"Okay," Imogen says. "How many do I need?"

"Lots! While you're at it, grab me some carrots! I'm sure you can find some outside."

"Okay."

Imogen goes back into the woods and shuts the door behind her. She only takes a few steps when she feels a strange presence.

She turns around. It's a shadow. It looks just like Alastor only with larger antlers and a larger smile, which Imogen did not know was possible. It towers over her with glowing turquoise eyes. Its mouth glows too, the corner of its grin curling inward like the swirls Imogen draws in the corner of her notebook when she's bored at school.

"Who are you supposed to be?" Imogen asks.

The shadow lets out a low rattling sound.

"I don't know how to pronounce that. I'm just gonna call you Mr. Shadow Guy. Okay?"

Mr. Shadow Guy tilts its head.

"Did Alastor send you to babysit me?"

Another rattling noise.

Imogen rolls her eyes. "I don't need a babysitter. I can handle things by myself." 

Mr. Shadow Guy laughs. It's dark and eerie, running over the back of Imogen's neck like invisible fingers. 

"Wow," Imogen says. She shivers, shaking off the tingles. "You're really spooky."

The shadow seems pleased by this. It hums and clicks its claws together.

"I need to get stuff to cook with. You can come with me but not because you're my babysitter. It's because I said it was okay." She pauses, considering. "You don't know where we can find mushrooms and carrots, do you?"

Mr. Shadow Guy perks up. It flies over her head like a plume of smoke, and Imogen scrambles to follow it. It weaves in and out of the trees, an eel swimming through a kelp forest, leading her to the edge of the woods and right before a clearing.

"Oh, perfect! There's lots of mushrooms here. Good job, Mr. Shadow Guy."

It smiles wider, flashing cyan light. Imogen crouches down and starts picking them, throwing them into her Sailor Moon backpack. She's not sure what kind of mushrooms Alastor wanted because he didn't say. These ones are brown with a web-like pattern on the caps. Maybe she should get different kinds, just in case. 

Imogen reaches for one that's as white as a snowdrop, but Mr. Shadow Guy slaps her hand away.

"Hey!"

A loud hissing sound. Mr. Shadow Guy points at the mushroom and shakes its head.

"Oh. Is it yucky?"

It nods.

"All right. I won't use those ones then." 

She adds a few more into her backpack before her eyes drift to the wildflowers dotting the grass. She recognizes some of their names—strawflowers as sweet and orange as dreamsicles, delicate asters and prickly blue thistles.

Imogen picks a purple aster for Mr. Shadow Guy. "Here you go."

It blinks.

"It's for you. Here, hold out your hand."

She drops the flower into its palm and the petals instantly fold into themselves, blackened and curled.

Imogen gasps. "Oh, no! It died."

Mr. Shadow Guy plucks one of the shriveled petals between its sharp claws. The corners of its smile droop slightly—not enough for a full frown, but enough for Imogen to notice.

"It's okay. It was just an accident, right?" 

She sets another blossom in its hand and the same thing happens. 

"Wow. You can't touch flowers at all, huh? That's real sad."

Mr. Shadow Guy deflates.

"Hey, that's okay. My mom isn't good with flowers anymore either, but she can still make them look pretty. Can you bend down a little?"

Imogen thinks the strawflowers look best when they're all dried up, so she ties the stems around the shadow's antlers. Their death is just as quick and instant as before. Some deep pink petals drift down onto Mr. Shadow Guy's hair like a gentle snowfall, but Imogen keeps going, braiding more flowers until they resemble a fluffy crown at the base of both antlers.

"There! You look great!"

Mr. Shadow Guy summons a handheld mirror and examines its reflection. It lets out a happy chattering sound, checking itself out.

"See? Still pretty."

Imogen plucks a black-eyed Susan and slips it behind her ear. "Okay, now we need carrots. Where are we gonna find those?"

Mr. Shadow Guy points a long claw out towards the clearing.

"Yeah, let's just walk until we find some."

They cross the clearing and into the woods on the other side. They pass a gurgling brook winding through slippery rocks draped in velvet moss. They pass trees with lichen crawling up their bark like seafoam and tall silver birches with thin branches weaving overhead. Sunlight shimmers through the autumn leaves, freckling the ground in pretty dappled patterns that Imogen likes to hop in. She jumps from sunpatch to sunpatch, pretending she is a rabbit on a journey. She's going to find carrots to bring home to her rabbit family. They're going to make carrot cake and carrot soup.

Finally, Imogen spots a house up ahead with a red-roof. There’s a garden blocked off by a wire fence.

"Oh, good! Let's see if he has carrots we can borrow."

There's another sign that says no tress-pass-ing. Imogen still doesn't get what it means, but she knows it's just a suggestion, so she takes off her backpack and shimmies underneath the fence.

They find a patch of carrots and start yanking them out of the ground. Imogen is surprised to see that the carrots do not shrivel up between the shadow’s clawed hands.

"How come vegetables don't die when you touch them but flowers do?"

Mr. Shadow Guy shrugs.

"Maybe you were cursed," Imogen says seriously. "My grandpa was cursed once. His chocolate chips in his cookies always turned into raisins. He hates raisins."

The shadow nods sagely. Nothing is worse than raisins inside of a cookie. 

"My grandma fixed him though. I would fix you, but I don't know how to do strong magic yet. I'll help you when I get older, okay?" Imogen shuffles the carrots around in her backpack. "How many more do you think we need?"

A dark murmur.

"We can't take all of them. The farmer's family has to eat too." Imogen knows what it's like to go hungry. She doesn't want to make anyone sad because they don't have enough carrots. "We'll just take five more, I guess."

The shadow shrugs and adds the rest to their collection.

"We should thank the farmer for letting us take his carrots. The only paper I have is from my book though, and I don't want to ruin the pages."

Mr. Shadow Guy hums in thought. Its eyes light up with an idea, reaching out and handing Imogen a stick.

"Oh, good idea! I'll write it in the dirt." Imogen presses the stick against the ground and starts scribbling. She pauses. "Do you know how to spell carrots?"

It lets out a series of unintelligible growling sounds. 

"That's okay, I'll just sound it out."

She finishes up her note and stands back to admire her work.

THANKƧ 4 THƎ CARƎOTS

Mr. Shadow Guy gives her a thumbs up. Perfect!

"Okay, let's go," Imogen says, tossing the stick. "I'm getting hungry."

She follows Mr. Shadow Guy out the same way they came, by crawling underneath the wire fence.

The way back is not as fun. It feels longer and slower, and the sun is shrinking in the sky, making the air cold. Her back aches with her carrots rattling around inside her backpack, sweat coating the back of her neck. Her legs start to feel heavy too, the same way they do when Mr. Cox makes everyone run laps in gym class. And she’s starving, even though she had a sandwich earlier.

She plops down underneath a tree. "I'm tired," she whines.

Mr. Shadow Guy stops. It tilts its head like a parrot trying to discern a new word.

"I don't wanna walk anymore. My stomach hurts."

She flops down flat on her back, arms and legs spread wide. The shadow grabs her hand and pulls. Imogen lets it flop uselessly to her side. That makes her giggle. It tries again and the same thing happens. She giggles even harder. Mr. Shadow Guy keeps trying to haul Imogen to her feet, but she will not budge, not even when it grabs her by her ankle and starts to drag her across the grass because now it's a game.

"I can't go on.” She turns away, draping her wrist against her forehead with dramatic flair. "I'm thirsty. And hungry. I think I'm dying."

The shadow starts back in alarm. It shakes her with urgent, snarling sounds.

"Everything is getting dark," Imogen goes on. "I see my granny ..." She coughs. Presses a hand over her heart. "Oh, no. She's come for me!"

She has no idea what she's talking about. She just heard this stuff from a TV show her grandpa had on once where a cowboy was rolling around in the dirt and clutching his heart after he'd been shot.

Mr. Shadow Guy actually squeaks. It scoops her up in its arms.

Darkness swirls around them, a sudden wind bursting forth and thrashing the tree branches overhead, before the shadows gobble them up completely. 

Imogen lets out a cry of surprise, latching onto Mr. Shadow Guy’s neck, the world tumbling out from underneath them.

But then the darkness strips away—there’s the fading sunshine from above, the forest, crickets chirping—and Imogen realizes they are in front of Alastor’s log cabin again.

"Woah! How'd you do that?"

The deer they shot earlier is outside and hanging from a maple tree on a wire, but its body looks weird, like all of its insides are gone. It kind of reminds Imogen of a flat tire, only a lot fuzzier. She wants to take a closer look, but Mr. Shadow Guy swings the door open and flies inside.

A hundred multi-colored balloons float in the air and bump against the ceiling. There's a sign that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY in big gold glittery letters, and an upbeat jazz song is playing from the giant radio.

Imogen stares, wide-eyed, taking it all in. "Wow ..."

Alastor spins around. There's a red balloon clenched between his sharp teeth, but he takes one look at them and chokes, sending it zipping through the air like an agitated wasp.

He points at his shadow’s flower crown. "What on earth happened to you?" he demands.

A series of frantic growling noises.

"What? Dying?" Alastor's gaze flicks to Imogen. "Are you dying, kid?"

"Yes! I'm starving." She wiggles until Mr. Shadow Guy sets her down, and she darts around the cabin. "This is so cool! I've never seen so many balloons before!" She grasps onto a pink balloon's string and runs with it to the stove, bouncing up and down in place. "Is it done? Is it?"

Alastor turns to his shadow with a deeply skeptical expression. "Ah, yes. She seems moments from death's door!" 

The shadow hisses something back. 

Alastor rolls his eyes. He waves his hand, dismissing it, and the shadow evaporates out of existence. 

He walks over to the stove. "So! Did you two find mushrooms and carrots?"

"Yeah!" 

Imogen unzips her backpack and presents it to him, proud.

The studio audience lets out a series of awed murmurs. Alastor pinches a mushroom between his thumb and pointer finger. "Ah! Morels!"

"Is that okay?"

"Of course! I can make this work." 

Alastor washes the morels under cold water, slices them in half, and then soaks them in a bowl. He rinses the carrots next and rolls them onto the cutting board.

"Can I help?" Imogen asks.

"Do you know how to peel carrots?"

"I've never done it before."

"I'll show you, but I will not be responsible if you cut yourself."

"Kay."

Imogen drags a chair over and steps on top of it to reach the counter. She peeks inside the bowl with the mushrooms. "Ewww, there's little bugs crawling out!"

"Yes. That's why we soak them in hot water!"

"Gross," Imogen says again, unable to look away. "But I guess they needed to live somewhere, huh? Now their subdivision is flooded and they're all dead."

"You're right! And then we are going to devour their houses ... in a stew." 

He sounds far too gleeful about it. Imogen shoots him a weird look. "You're the kind of person that fries ants and pours salt on slugs, aren't you?"

"Fingle-fangle! There's only one insect worth that kind of time."

"What kind?"

A cruel grin spreads across his face. His eyes blaze devil hot, casting a pinkish hue, voice darkening and full of relish. "Spiders." There's a sound effect of a lady screaming that makes Imogen's eyebrow jump. Immediately, his voice brightens again. "Now then! Do you want to learn how to peel carrots?"

"Yeah!"

"Alrighty!" Alastor manifests a Y-shaped vegetable peeler. "Press and drag it away from yourself." He molds his hands over hers, physically showing her. "See! Easy peasy!"

"Easy peasy," Imogen repeats.

Alastor lets her go and she tries it by herself. She fumbles for a minute, until she figures out it's easier to hold the carrot flat against the cutting board. She slashes downward and a long orange ribbon curls out.

"I did it!"

The studio audience claps. "Perfect!"

Imogen beams. Once she's finished, Alastor takes it and cuts it up with a fancy knife. He's very fast, the blade going chop, chop, chop and slicing the carrot into perfect circles.

She's slow at peeling the rest but it's kinda fun—like making carrot party streamers. Alastor starts to dice the other vegetables while he waits for her to finish, like onions and garlic and celery. Imogen has no idea how he went grocery shopping that fast or why he didn't just grab mushrooms and carrots while he was there. He doesn't tell her what store he went to when she asks him, either. He moves onto the mushrooms next, chopping them into finer pieces, and adds everything to the steaming pot on the stove.

Now they have to wait. Imogen's head spins with a sudden dizzying exhaustion, accompanied by a noisy growl. She walks over to the couch and sits down, fishing out the tangerines she packed in her backpack. She pops a few slices in her mouth, but her stomach grumbles again at the smell of cooking venison.

She hasn't had a nice dinner in a long time. She wonders if it's going to taste as good as it smells.

Firelight flickers from the fireplace and casts warmth across Imogen's cheeks. The couch feels softer and cozier than her bed at home, and all of it makes her really sleepy. 

Her eyelids start to droop. She unpacks her blanket and her teddy bear and fluffs up her pillow, curling into a ball. She tucks her knees into her chest, trying to relieve the aching hunger in the pit of her stomach, and drifts off into a deep sleep.

🎶 📻 🎶

Imogen reminds Alastor a little bit of Niffty—small, bright and excitable, like she's absorbed all of the light in the room without even trying.

He wonders if Niffty ever sleeps. If she does, he's never seen her do it. Imogen looks even smaller underneath the flimsy blanket and so vulnerable.

Alastor can't remember the last time he rested. Not with his eyes closed, anyway. He snaps his fingers and a thicker blanket magically drifts over her. Imogen lets out a sleepy mumble and rolls over, turning away from him.

He turns down the radio to a quiet hum and checks on the stew. 

This whole day has brought him back to simpler times. He could magically make venison stew appear but it's the principle of it. Besides, cooking is one of Alastor's few joys in life. And he hasn't had a day like this in ages. 

He glances out the window. It's getting late. Sunlight slants out fine threads of deep golds and burning scarlets between the trees, soon to sink down behind the forest.

Alastor wonders if that Chris fellow has woken up yet.

When dinner is finally ready, Alastor scoops up large spoonfuls into two bowls and sets them down on the table. A glass of red wine appears for himself and a glass of water pops up for Imogen. He crosses to the couch and shakes her awake.

She sits up, her dark curls messy from sleep. "What? Huh?"

"It's time for dinner," Alastor says.

"Oh, my gosh! Really?"

Imogen throws the blankets off, scurrying to the table.

Ah, yes. Definitely Niffty.

The chair screeches as Imogen pulls it out. She struggles to crawl into the chair. When she manages to sit down, Alastor pushes her into the table and takes a seat across from her.

"Wow! This smells great!" Imogen shovels a large chunk of venison into her mouth and spits it out at once. "H-hot!"

Alastor grimaces. "Don't you know how to mind your manners, young lady?"

"Hot," she says again. She grabs her water and swallows down large gulps. "Hot, hot."

"Yes, well, blow on it then."

"Kay." Imogen puffs out frantic, fast breaths onto her spoon. She tries again, more careful this time, and a bright smile lights up her face. "This is amazing!"

Alastor's ego is instantly soothed. "I'm glad you like it!"

"Is the meat supposed to be this red, though?"

"Of course!"

"Kay." She finishes her bowl in a matter of minutes. "Can I have some more?"

Alastor arches an eyebrow. He points to the stove. She grabs her bowl and darts over, climbing on top of a stepping stool Alastor spontaneously materialized for her. She grabs the ladle and fills her bowl to the brim, forcing herself to walk back slowly, so as to not spill a single drop.

Then, she digs in like a ravaged beast.

Alastor leans back in his chair. "Are you even chewing your food?"

"Sorry," Imogen breathes. She's hunched over her bowl with her arm curled over it, like she's afraid someone is going to take it from her. "I'm starving."

Yes, she had mentioned that. Alastor's crimson ears twitch. "What else did you eat today?"

"A peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

"You had that earlier."

"Yeah," she says.

He smiles without showing his teeth. "What did you have before that?"

"Nothing."

A heavy pause. "Don't you have more food at your house?"

"Not really."

A dark understanding falls over him. Alastor lived through the Great Depression and knows what it's like to starve more than anyone. Knows what it's like going through the day weak and wobbly, when the stomach pains are so intense, you feel like you’ll fold in half like origami, and when being hungry and being empty becomes so muddled, it's hard to tell them apart.

He doesn't comment when she gets up for more.

He doesn't speak up again until Imogen is finished. Alastor sets his spoon down and folds his hands underneath his chin. "So," he says. "What kind of witch are you anyway?"

"My grandma said I'm clair ... clair-sens ..." Her face wrinkles, the word rolling around like a marble in her mouth, struggling to get it out. "Clair-sens-itive. She said I can tell what other people are thinking and feeling."

"Can you?"

"Sometimes."

Alastor hums, considering this. "Can you read minds?"

"Sometimes. It only works if I'm touching someone."

"Can you tell what I'm thinking?"

She looks at him. "Sometimes."

He holds his hand out. "Prove it."

Imogen hesitates. "I don't know if I should."

Alastor pulls his hand away. He hasn't been a child for a long time, but he remembers what worked on the playground. "I see. If you can't do it, then that's fine."

"I didn't say I couldn't," Imogen says, frustrated.

Alastor shrugs. Oh, well! Too bad, so sad!

He isn't playing fair. He's outsmarting a child, for Satan's sake, but Alastor has never been known for his good sportsmanship. He's going to be visiting Imogen once a year until she is eighteen—he needs to know what he's dealing with.

"I really can do it," Imogen insists. "It's just that people stop being my friend afterwards."

He leans forward against the table and grins. "Oh, I won't stop being your friend."

"Do you promise?"

"Cross my heart, hope to die!" He makes a sweeping X gesture over his chest.

Imogen holds out her pinky.

Alastor blinks. "What's this?"

"You have to pinky swear it."

Alastor considers the pinky with suspicion. He's never heard of such an oath. Is this binding, like a demon deal? How much power does this young witch have in her tiny finger?

Imogen pulls away. "But if you can't do it," she says, shrugging. "That's fine."

A half-smile tugs at Alastor's mouth. Crafty little thing ...

He considers his options, drumming his fingers against the table, and decides he is being ridiculous. This is a child—a human child—not a demon. She may be a witch but she's certainly not powerful enough to do any damage. Especially not to him. Besides, it's not like he has to put his soul on the line.

"All right, we'll do it your way." Alastor holds out his hand. "It's a deal!"

Imogen beams and does the strangest thing—she leans forward across the table and interlocks her pinky with his. Alastor waits for a burst of wind or a flash of light, but nothing happens.

He arches an eyebrow and looks over his little finger after she's pulled away. All seems to be intact. He didn't even feel a shift in any of the souls he's collected.

He can't decide if that is ominous or not.

"Okay, I'll do it now, since you pinky promised," Imogen says. "But if I'm gonna do it, you have to think of something nice. Not something bad or scary. Something happy."

"Wonderful!" 

Alastor immediately thrusts out his hand again.

"You have to take your gloves off," Imogen says, as if this should have been obvious. "It's easier for me to read you that way."

"No can do, missy! The gloves are staying on."

"But—"

His smile stretches wider, but his voice darkens in pitch, static hissing and snapping around the word, "No."

Imogen flinches, surprised, and then narrows her eyes. "Okay, fine, but don't get mad if it's not very accurate."

"You will still be able to read my mind with them on, yes?"

"Mostly, yeah. Some stuff might be kinda fuzzy."

"Perfect. Then let's see!" 

Alastor holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers for emphasis.

She hesitates, like she's still unsure, and then threads her fingers with his. Her hand is incredibly tiny—bird-like.

"Think of a memory," she says. "Something happy and strong. Okay?"

"Alrighty! I'm thinking!"

It's only been a few seconds when Imogen shakes her head. "You're not focusing hard enough."

"Oh?"

"No. You're just seeing if I can really do it. You need to think of something with bigger feelings. It's too hard to read your mind with your gloves on otherwise."

"Hmm, I see ..."

Alastor doesn't have a lot of truly happy memories. A few nice ones come to mind. He skims over an image of himself playing Monopoly with Charlie, Vaggie, Angel and Husk, and how Husk had gotten so fed up, he flipped the table over, and Alastor had laughed so hard that he couldn't breathe. He thinks of a lazy afternoon stroll with Rosie in the park, of that time Niffty knitted him a scarf that was too long and too big to wear. 

They were fine. Comfortable memories but not truly happy.

His mind starts to wander. For the first time in a long time, he allows himself to think of before. Before Hell. Before his death. He thinks of Louisiana—of the first time his mother took him to the swamp.

The noonday sun casts beams of gold through the canopy of cypress trees, casting a yellow glow over the curtains of moss. A chorus of frogs and the sound of gentle water gurgle by. Alastor is around Imogen's age, sitting underneath a weeping willow, its long branches stirring in the summer breeze. He lounges near the edge of a river so green it rivals emeralds, and his mother wraps her arms around him from behind. He feels her pull him into her chest, her fingers running through his hair, their pant legs rolled up to their knees. She sings something soft and low, and he snuggles closer, just to feel her heartbeat against his cheek.

"Wow," Imogen whispers. She looks up at him, her eyes wide with wonder. "That's really pretty. I've never seen a river so green before."

Alastor's brows twitch inward.

"That song was really nice too. Was that your mom singing to you?"

Immediately, Alastor pulls his hand away. He clears his throat. "Yes."

"She seems nice."

She was, Alastor thinks, and then stops himself. "You're crying again," he points out.

"Because you're crying," Imogen sniffs.

Alastor touches his cheek and is shocked to feel tears slipping down his face. His smile is still perfectly intact but the tears keep rushing.

"Oh," he says, voice cracking with static. He stares down at a teardrop on his finger. "Would you look at that?"

"It's weird. You're happy but you're sad at the same time."

"That's called nostalgia, dear."

"Oh." 

Imogen wiggles in her chair, unsure what to do. She pulls out the used handkerchief from earlier and pushes it at him.

Alastor laughs. "No thank you. You can keep it."

Imogen shrugs.

But Alastor is flabbergasted. He is not a crier, and he wonders if it has anything to do with this child and her gift. Then again, she seems to be reacting to his emotions. He doesn't understand why he allowed his mind to even focus on something so private.

What exactly has he gotten himself into?

Someone pounds on the door, startling them both.

"HEY! Open up! You're on private property!"

It's a man's voice. Whoever he is, he's furious.

Alastor scoffs. He rises to a stand when a dog starts barking outside.

Every muscle in his body goes rigid.

It's not just one dog. There's another one out there. Two, maybe three. Their voices start to rise and blur together, booming and harsh, pounding like rapid gunfire in his head.

Imogen's brows knit together. "Are you okay?"

But Alastor's heart is climbing in his throat, and a high-pitched ringing sound slices through the chaos in his head, an awful electrical interference. And suddenly, he's not the Radio Demon anymore. He's human and he's in the woods.

He's in the middle of burying his latest victim when they find him. 

It's evening. Alastor didn't expect anyone to be out here hunting, but a big Italian mastiff steps out of nowhere. Other hounds appear like ghosts between the trees, coming to stand like soldiers in a line. 

Their owner cannot be far behind. He'll catch Alastor red-handed.

He drops his shovel and takes off running.

The mastiff sprints after him at full speed, and Alastor realizes he's made a terrible mistake. These are hunting dogs for big game like bears and wild boar, and by running, Alastor has just marked himself as prey.

The mastiff darts forward and takes a sizable nip at his knee, making Alastor nearly trip. A gunshot cracks and stars explode in his head. He slams to the ground. And in that instant, the dog's jaws close around his neck from behind. He can feel long teeth scraping against his jugular, liquid pouring down his face, and the other dogs are gathering around him, ripping through his skin, crushing down into muscle.

They're eating him. They're eating him alive —

Someone laces their fingers with his.

Alastor stops. He looks down.

Imogen squeezes his hand. "What do you call an alligator in a vest?" she whispers.

He's so taken off guard by the question that he blinks. "I—what?"

"An investi-gator."

Alastor lets out a small, startled laugh. 

She gives his hand another squeeze. "What's a penguin's favorite aunt?"

"What?"

"Aunt-artica."

The invisible audience laughs and claps politely. Alastor sucks in a breath. Then another. He's not running in the woods. He's not being hunted down by dogs. He's celebrating Imogen's birthday, and he's already dead.

"Why did the deer get braces?" Imogen asks.

"I don't know. Why?"

"Because he had buck teeth."

Alastor snorts. His forehead is sweaty. He pushes his bangs back and feels his claws, longer than usual, tangling through his hair and realizes he's partly transformed.

He does not remember the last time he's lost control of himself like this. He has not been afraid of dogs for years, but something seems to have unlocked inside of him, something he's buried so deep inside, he's forgotten it's there.

Imogen peers at him. "Are you okay now?"

Alastor realizes she is still holding his hand. She's only a tiny thing, but her palm against his feels like a heavy weight, like too much pressure per inch.

He hastily pulls away. 

"Dandy," he rasps.

She gives him a look that suggests that she knows he's lying. But the man outside is pounding on the door and those damn dogs are making Alastor's head throb.

He rises to his feet. "I'll be right back. Stay here."

"Why?"

Alastor doesn't answer. He wills his claws down to their normal size and swings the door open, slamming it shut behind him.

"Good evening, sir!"

The man—a farmer, by the looks of it—stops cold. 

He's a stout fellow with graying hair and ice-chip blue eyes. His dogs, two speckled English setters, pull their lips back, revealing rows of sharp, moon-white teeth.

Night has fallen over the woods by now. The farmer is holding a flashlight, the yellow beam faced down, but a light over the front door spills over the back of Alastor's head like a halo, drawing attention to his antlers, his needle-sharp fangs, his crimson eyes.

The farmer's breathing hitches. He takes a step back.

"Thank you so kindly for allowing my associate and I to borrow your land for the evening! Your generosity is simply impeccable."

The farmer gathers back some of his courage. "Now, hang on a second!"

"We will be leaving shortly. We just need to finish our party first, you see."

"Like hell you're going to finish your party! You're on private property, you can't just build yourself a house like this. How long have you been here?"

"Only a few hours, I assure you."

"That doesn't make any sense. You can't build a house in a few hours."

"Maybe you can't."

"You hunted on my land too. Don't think I didn't notice that deer. And you stole my carrots!"

The studio audience chuckles and the farmer flinches. His eyes dart around, as if looking for goblins and phantoms leering from the trees. 

"Carrots are what you're concerned about, are you?"

"It takes a long time to grow carrots," the farmer insists.

Alastor booms out a boisterous laugh. It intermingles with the invisible audience's and spreads out like roots, echoing in every corner of the darkness.

"Oh, my good sir! I assure you that carrots are the least of your worries."

The meaning behind his words glows around him like electricity. Alastor can feel it crackling over his skin like a tangible thing, a loud buzzing arising. It makes the hunting dogs start barking even more madly.

Alastor's eyes narrow. There's a squeal of audio feedback that has the dogs yipping. They whimper and tuck their tails between their legs.

The man lurches back. His eyes are wide, chest heaving. "I'm calling the police!"

"Oh, how exciting. I'll be waiting with bells on!"

The man tosses Alastor a strange look over his shoulder and disappears into the night.

Well! That was easier than Alastor anticipated. He returns to the cabin and closes the door.

Imogen is still sitting at the table. "Did you get rid of that guy?"

"I certainly did!"

"He sounded real crabby. I left him a note so he wouldn't be upset about the carrots, but he was mad anyway, huh?"

"Some people are simply too sensitive about vegetables."

"Yeah, I guess so."

Alastor folds his arms behind his back. He hesitates. "About earlier ..."

"It's okay. I won't tell anyone you were scared."

A bitter chuckle. "I wasn't scared."

Imogen glares. "You were so," she says, and Alastor realizes this child is someone he cannot lie to. She's always going to know exactly what he's feeling to some extent. For the first time in his life, he's encountered someone who can see right through him.

"I get why you didn't want to get me a dog now," she adds, swinging her legs back and forth. "I was going to ask you to get me one for my birthday, but I won't anymore."

A muscle tweaks in Alastor's jaw. His smile feels too tight. "How much did you see?"

"You were on the ground like a starfish and a bunch of dogs were growling and tugging on your arms and legs. It was really scary, but you stopped thinking about it when I told you my joke, so I only saw it for a few seconds." She looks away from him. Her curly black hair falls over the side of her face, a curtain. "I don't think I'll be able to get it out of my head for a while, though."

She looks so small and exhausted. Alastor almost considers apologizing.

Instead, he sweeps the entire dilemma under the rug. "Well! No use lingering on the past. Do you want dessert?"

"No," Imogen says. "I think I want to go home now."

"I thought you were running away."

"I don't want to anymore." Her voice sounds stretched thin. "I miss my mom."

"I see," Alastor says. "Well, in that case ..."

He snaps his fingers. A portal opens up to Imogen's backyard on the other side. 

The genuine awe on Imogen’s face makes Alastor’s smile broaden. He gestures to it with a sweeping flourish. "After you."

She gathers her belongings and asks if she can take the leftovers home. Alastor manifests it into a neat little container for her that she adds to her backpack. Then, she steps through with Alastor right behind her.

🎶 📻 🎶

Imogen's house is eerily quiet as Alastor follows her in through the backdoor. The lights are off and that Chris fellow is nowhere in sight. 

Their footsteps don't make a sound as they pad across the carpet. The living room consists of a well-worn couch and a television set which is currently turned off. There are family photos plastered on the wall and curtains spotted with pink roses. A few beer cans lay discarded on the sofa table and floor.

Alastor trails behind Imogen into the kitchen, which smells like dishwashing detergent. Succulents and potted ivy sit along the windowsill above the sink. Unsurprisingly, they are all dead.

The refrigerator casts light and cold air as Imogen opens it and stuffs the leftover venison inside. There is hardly anything else in there at all. Only some lunch meat, sealed in plastic packages; a jumble of rotting vegetables in a bin; a handful of those Capri-Suns; one loose egg and some cans of beer. There is also a small store bought cake, untouched.

Imogen closes the fridge. "My mommy should be home by now. Maybe she's upstairs."

"Perhaps," Alastor muses. He folds his arms behind his back. "I have a question for you."

"Okay."

"What are your favorite foods?"

Imogen thinks about it. "Hmm. Pizza. Ice cream. Fried chicken and mac and cheese. I like dinosaur nuggets and tacos and fruit too. Lots of stuff."

Alastor has no idea what dinosaur nuggets are supposed to be, but he understands the rest. "What about snacks?"

"Oh, my friend Ollie has this stuff at his house called Pocky and it's, like, the best thing ever. He also has chips and cereal and yummy stuff all the time."

"What the devil is Pocky?"

"It's a Japanese snack. It's like—biscuits with chocolate melted on it or strawberry flavor or matcha."

Alastor's forehead wrinkles. He believes he saw Niffty eating something of that description before.

"I see." He digs his claws into his palm. There's a sharp prick of pain, a droplet of blood blooming. He snaps his fingers and a faint red light sparks. "Well! It's been swell, kid, but it's time for me to go."

"Hang on," Imogen says, planting her hands on her hips. "Aren't you supposed to give me a present?"

"Open the fridge."

She lifts her eyebrows. "My present is in the fridge?"

"Yup!"

She frowns but swings the refrigerator door open anyway. Then, she gasps.

"OH MY GOSH!"

Inside is a treasure trove. Fried chicken steaming as if it was just taken out of the frier; apples fat and glistening; oranges as bright as a sunset and glittering mounds of cherries and grapes. Stacks of tupperware filled with macaroni and cheese and pulled pork, turkey legs caramelized with honey and spices. There's ground beef and ingredients for tacos, bottled water and Capri-Sun, and absolutely no beer.

Imogen stares with her mouth open. She pulls out the freezer drawer, filled to the brim with frozen pizzas, meats and ice cream.

Alastor reaches over her head and opens the cupboards. Colorful snacks pour out onto the counter like a waterfall, including ridiculous processed things he would have never included if it were up to himself, but since their deal specifically mentioned the gift had to be something Imogen wanted, he has stocked her up on all of her favorite things. He even included that Pocky stuff. 

"It's a spell," Alastor explains. He slides his fingers down his palm and magically seals the cut. "Once you grow up and leave here, the spell will follow you, and it will continue your entire life. You will never have to go grocery shopping again!" He thinks about it. "Well, unless you decide you want to, I suppose, but you'll always have food in every house you live in, regardless."

Imogen is still stunned. She picks up a box of Pocky that had fallen onto the ground, turning it over gingerly in her hands, as if waiting for it to disappear.

She opens the packaging. Nibbles on one of the tiny biscuits drenched in chocolate. And Alastor watches as the realization hits her that it's real.

Imogen whirls to face him. Her face glows with genuine, radiant joy.

"Thank you SO MUCH!"

She throws her arms around Alastor's waist. 

Suffocating discomfort crashes through him. It feels as though Alastor is being crushed by a creature ten times Imogen's size. His teeth grind together and his eyes turn into radio dials.

"Oh," Imogen says. "You don't like when people hug you that much, huh?"

A garbled chattering sound.

"Sorry!" Imogen pulls away and clenches her hands into fists to keep herself from touching him. "Thank you, thank you!"

Alastor gusts out a staticky breath. He brushes himself off and widens his permanent grin. "You're welcome. Happy birthday!"

"Thanks!"

"You fucking piece of shit! You were supposed to be watching her!"

Imogen stiffens. It's a woman's voice. It sounds as if it is coming from the front yard.

"Mommy," she whispers. She closes the fridge and runs to the front door.

Alastor sinks into his shadow form and slips onto the ground like a puddle of ink, following Imogen outside.

Red and blue lights flash across the lawn. A police car is parked in the driveway, and two officers are whispering to each other while a young woman and a man argue on the porch.

The woman looks to be in her early thirties with brown skin and black hair pulled up into a bun on the top of her head. It's tied with a white satin scarf, full of well-defined, copious curls, her face wet and twisted with hysteria. 

The man—Chis, Alastor assumes—throws his hands up into the air. "I thought she was in her room!"

"You didn't check? You didn't talk to her all day?"

"I fell asleep!"

"All day?" Her voice vibrates with rage. "My daughter's missing for god knows how long because you couldn't be bothered to do the one simple thing I trusted you to do?"

"Mommy!"

The woman whirls around. "Oh, my god!"

Imogen sprints across the porch. The woman slams to her knees and crushes Imogen into her chest. Her relief is palpable, like an intense summer heat after a bitter winter, clutching her daughter so hard, Alastor can see her knuckles flexing beneath her skin.

"Where were you?"

"I ran away," Imogen says, and her mother's face crumples. "I'm really sorry."

"You scared me. You scared me half to death. I thought ... I thought..." She sucks in a shaky breath. "Why did you run away?"

"I was mad because you were working and Dad said he couldn't come over for my birthday anymore. I'm really, really sorry."

"Oh, Imogen." Fresh tears brim her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

"S'okay," Imogen says. She tucks her face between her mother's neck and collar, so Alastor can no longer see her expression, but he can hear the heartbreak in her voice. Her mother runs her hands up and down Imogen's spine, soothing and cuddling, but it seems to Alastor that Imogen's doing more of the comforting. She squeezes her mother tight and whispers, "S'okay, Mommy."

Chris lets out a breathless laugh and gently bumps Imogen's shoulder. "Glad you're okay, kiddo."

Imogen's mother glares up at him. "This discussion isn't over."

"Mallory, will you calm down? She's good."

"She's not good, you—" Mallory stops herself. Clenches her jaw. "We'll talk about this later. When you're sober."

He scoffs. "Yeah, okay. Whatever."

The officers approach the front porch. "Everything okay here now, ma'am?"

Alastor takes this as his opportunity to leave. He slips underneath the police officers' shoes and flows down, down the driveway, all smoke and darkness and shadow, and slides over the area where the pentagram was drawn two months ago.

Imogen lifts her head from her mother's shoulder and looks out as if—she knows. Her dark eyes land directly on him as her mother rises to a stand, holding Imogen against her hip while she speaks to the officers. 

The pentagram lights up. Imogen waves her tiny hand. "Bye," she mouths.

A gentle wind rolls through the front yard. It moves Imogen's hair and puffs out her curls as if charged by static electricity, a quiet laugh track drifting among the cool night air. The breeze shifts through the trees and makes the branches bounce up and down—goodbye, goodbye—and then Alastor's gone, without a trace.

Chapter Text

Imogen's birthday arrives quicker than Alastor expects. His managerial duties at the Hazbin Hotel make the year fly by. Most of which are broadcasting and marketing the hotel from his radio tower, whipping up meals whenever he sees fit, and observing Princess Charlie trying to redeem Sinners. Most of the time, he finds her efforts incredibly entertaining. Other times, he needs entertainment that’s a bit more … stimulating.

Lucky for him, his deal with Imogen falls around such a time. The hotel is currently preparing for Halloween, one of the most important holidays in Hell, and as always, Vagatha likes to get a head start. She’s balanced on a ladder, lacing some fake cobwebs along the chandelier in the lobby. It looks like she’s put the others to work as well—Niffty zips like a dragonfly from place to place, slapping paper bats onto the walls, and Sir Pentious is forced to untangle a string of pumpkin fairy lights while Angel Dust wreaths them around the concierge desk.

Alastor whistles a merry tune and walks right past them.

“Hey!” Vaggie calls. “Where are you going?”

“Out!” Alastor says.

“But we have so much to do! Halloween is in a few weeks!”

“Then you’d better get to it!”

He can practically feel Vaggie glaring daggers into his back. “Couldn’t you just help us out? It’d take you two seconds! You can just snap your fingers and poof! Decorated!”

Alastor turns around. Sir Pentious is certainly struggling. Somehow, the lights have become even more tangled, coiled around him like a Christmas tree, his egg minions pulling on them and making it even worse.

“Oh, ssstop it!” Sir Pentious tugs the lights from Egg Boi #32. “Let me—”

Angel Dust gives the string lights a strong yank. Sir Pentious lets out a strangled shout as he’s hoisted into the air. He dangles from the top of the concierge desk, entwined in glittering orange pumpkins, struggling like a caterpillar caught in a web.

Angel tries not to laugh. “Oops.”

“Oops? Oops?! Put me down at once!”

“Whatever you say, Sir Noodle.”

Angel lets go of the lights, and Sir Pentious drops and smacks against the ground.

The Egg Bois let out a series of “oh no’s!” and “are you okay, Mr. Bossman?” crowding around him like a flock of fussy mother hens.

A furious hiss rasps from the back of Sir Pentious’ throat. He shoots up, cobra hood flaring wide open, pulling a bazooka from out of nowhere.

But Angel Dust is faster, grabbing one of the Egg Bois and shoving him into the barrel. There’s an ear piercing bang as the bazooka backfires, sending Sir Pentious rocketing backwards and crashing straight through a stained glass window.

Egg whites and runny yolks splatter across the floor and walls. Niffty squeaks in horror from the top of the stairs. Angel Dust bends over at the waist, shaking with laughter.

Vaggie groans. “Seriously?”

She starts climbing down when a ray of pink light blasts from the window. She freezes, silver hair flying. Angel Dust dives out of the way. The world goes fuchsia, then white, an explosion bursting into the wall behind him.

The force of the blow makes the whole hotel tremble and nearly knocks Alastor off of his feet. He catches himself and straightens, a haze of dust hanging over everything. He glances around, eyes glowing as red as coals through the curtain of smoke, and surveys the damage. Chunks of stone and sharp pieces of wood are strewn across the floor, hurled there from the explosion. Small flames bloom around a massive hole in the wall with Pentagram City bustling on the other side.

“Ha!” Sir Pentious’ gleeful face appears in the window. “That’ll teach you a lessssson!”

Angel Dust rushes to his feet, drawing a Tommy gun. 

There’s a staccato of gunshots, another blast of light. 

Vaggie’s voice rises above the chaos. “Both of you knock it off, right now!” Sir Pentious tries to slither past, but she loops her arm around his neck, trapping him in a chokehold. “I said knock it off!”

“Is everything all right? I heard—” Charlie freezes from the top of the stairs. "Oh my!

Somehow, Vagatha has ended up on Sir Pentious’ back. She flexes her bicep around his throat, and he hisses and chokes as she brings him down, thrashing like an eel out of water. The Egg Bois swarm around them, demanding she let him go, all while Angel Dust snatches the bazooka off of the floor.

“I think you have everything perfectly under control, Vagatha! I have an appointment, so …” Alastor manifests a hat and doffs it at her. “Toodaloo!”

Vaggie flips him off on his way out.

🎶 📻 🎶

Later on, Alastor appears in Imogen's driveway.

It's warmer than it was last year, little birds chirping in the trees. He rubs the sunspots from his eyes and notices that the garden is once again so overgrown, it's downright offensive. However, he is pleased to see that both jack-o-lanterns are already smiling this year, so he may be able to forgive the garden.

Maybe.

He moseys closer to the house and twiddles his cane. He is in the middle of observing a suspicious chrysanthemum when a horrendous noise shrieks through the air.

Alastor cringes, fawn ears flattening to the top of his head. What the devil is that? Some kind of sound that no sane mind can cope with. A screech and a twang from the very depths of Hell.

Alastor follows the atrocious noise. He finds an open window to peer in.

It's a young boy around Imogen's age. He's standing in what looks to be in Imogen's bedroom, his back facing Alastor as he plays the violin, bringing disgrace to stringed instruments everywhere. Imogen's sitting on the floor with her hands pressed over her ears and making a face. Clearly, she is being subjected to some kind of musical torture. Alastor must stop it at once!

"Unhand that poor violin, you blundering ninnyhammer!"

The music—if that's what you wanted to call it—screeches to a halt. Alastor is halfway into the room, one long spidery leg straddled over the windowsill, when the boy faces him and screams.

"Now, now!" Alastor says, lifting his palms. "There's no need to be alarmed. I am simply confiscating your violin and bringing it to someone who can help." 

He's thinking of an instrument technician. Or a hospital.

The boy grabs a book off of Imogen's bookshelf and chucks it at Alastor's head. Unperturbed, Alastor sends the book flying right back with a flick of his hand. The pages open wide upon their own accord and snap shut over the boy's nose.

"Ow!"

Imogen shoots to a stand, beaming. "Uncle Al!"

Alastor, who has finally managed to crawl his lanky body through the window, feels his ears twitch.

What did she just call him?

He turns and sees Imogen barreling at him like a marathon runner at the finish. Her arms are thrown wide open, ready to crush him into a hug with all of the love all an eight-year old can muster.

Which is why Alastor immediately winks out of existence and re-appears behind her. Conveniently, right next to the violin murderer, who jolts back and lets out another terrified squawk. 

Goodness, he sure is a jumpy fellow. Makes Alastor feel like he's right back in Hell!

Imogen nearly trips but catches herself. She turns around and scrubs the back of her neck, sheepish. "Sorry. I forgot hugs scare you."

"Scare me? Pah! Don't be ridiculous!"

Imogen plants her hands on her hips and lifts her eyebrows.

Boiling down Alator's touch aversion to simply being scared of hugs does not settle right with him. It sounds preposterous. Why, he's not afraid of anything! Getting away from someone initiating touch is merely out of instinct at this point.

But initiating a hug himself well ...

That he can do.

Alastor teleports beside Imogen and does just that. "My!" he says, lifting her off the ground and squeezing her tight. "You have grown taller!"

Imogen flashes him a smile. Her hair is still long and curly, and she's wearing a soft pink sweater covered in bright red strawberries. "I have a loose tooth too!" She pushes her tongue against it and wiggles it at him. "Thee?"

"I do! Impressive!"

"Soon I'll have all my adult teeth."

"Ah, and what a charming smile you'll have!" He sets her down and pats her on the top of the head. "Happy birthday!"

"Thanks!" 

"Now ..." Alastor returns his attention to the boy and grins, showing the sharp points of his yellow fangs. His voice distorts and lowers like a prayer. "Who might you be?"

The boy backs away, hugging his violin protectively to his chest. He's slight, fair-skinned, has chestnut brown hair and wears a pair of thick-framed glasses. Up close, Alastor can see that he's actually a little older than he thought. Maybe around ten or so.

"This is Oliver," Imogen says, walking over and gesturing to him. "He's my best friend. Ollie, this is my Uncle Al. He's the demon I sold my soul to."

"You sold your soul?" Oliver stares at her, aghast. "Imogen! That's really, really bad."

"No, it's not."

"It is so! You shouldn't—" He drops his voice to a harsh whisper. "—You shouldn't do stuff like that."

Alastor slips into his shadow form and pops up behind Oliver. "Too late!" The boy cries outs and whirls around, shoving Imogen behind him. Alastor's grin widens. "So!" He claps his hands together. "What are the plans for the festivities this year?"

"I want to see Owl City," Imogen tells him.

"Intriguing! Where is it?"

"At Soldier Field."

"The what now?"

"Imogen, we can't go," Oliver says, desperate and nervous. "We need an adult with us."

"Yeah, that's where Uncle Al comes in," Imogen says, nodding to Alastor as if it should have been obvious.

"He's a demon. He doesn't count."

"So? He's still older than us. That means he's in charge."

"Precisely!" Alastor cries.

"No, he's not," Oliver says, frustrated. "Your mom said I'm in charge until your grandpa gets here. And she specifically said to not let any strangers inside the house."

"My mom said not to open the door for strangers. She never said anything about windows." Imogen lifts her chin. "Besides, Uncle Al isn't a stranger."

"Well, I've never heard of him," Oliver grumbles.

"That's not true. I told you I sold my soul to a demon in my driveway."

"I thought you were making stuff up!" Oliver cries, waving his violin bow in the air. "Like squirrels attacking electrical power systems!"

"That wasn't a lie, Ollie. Squirrels cause power outages every year."

"Does your mom know about this?"

"About squirrels?"

"No! About your soul!"

"No," Imogen says, scowling. "And you're not gonna tell her either."

Oliver narrows his eyes. "Oh, yeah? Maybe I—" He stops mid-sentence, eyes flicking to Alastor, who reaches over his shoulder and plucks a string on his violin. "Hey!" Oliver jerks back, clutching the violin to his heart like a newborn infant. "Don't touch that!"

"Your instrument is out of tune, young man."

"Yeah, well, it's old."

"Then you should treat it better!" Alastor beams brightly. "I can fix it!"

"No way," Oliver says.

"Oliver is protective of his violin, Uncle Al," Imogen tells him. "It was his great grandpa's. It's from the 1930s or something. Right, Ollie?"

"Yeah."

Alastor's rotten heart nearly stops. "19—" He's so excited that the filter over his voice cracks out. "1930s?!"

"Yeah?" Oliver shoots him a weird look. "Why are you—AHH!"

Alastor has thrown an arm over Oliver's shoulder. "My friend, I know all about music from the Jazz Age, better than anyone! I can help!" He squishes the kid close. "Why, you let me tinker with it, and it'll be making music so beautiful it'll make angels weep! What do you say?"

"No," Oliver says.

"Oh, but Ollie, my good friend!"

"No." Oliver wriggles out of Alastor's grasp and hastily zips his violin up in its case. "No way." He shoves it under the bed. "Never in a million years."

The studio audience lets out a series of despondent awww's. Alastor tries to pout. It is not very convincing, considering he refuses to stop smiling.

"It's okay, Uncle Al," Imogen says. "Owl City has violins."

Alastor perks up. "Do they?"

"Imogen, I already told you that we can't go," Oliver says, his patience having reached its limit. "You know you're really bad with crowds. Plus, we have no way of getting there."

"Is that all you're worried about?" Alastor laughs out loud. "Not to worry! I can get us there in a jiffy!"

Oliver crosses his arms. "Do you even know how to drive?"

"I do!" Alastor says. "Though, not in about ninety years."

"What?"

"Enough lollygagging! Are we going or not?"

"Yes!" Imogen cheers.

"No," the old stick in the mud says. "We don't even have tickets."

"Uncle Al can get us some."

Oliver squints at her. "How?"

"Uh, demon magic?" Imogen glances at Alastor. "Or whatever he does. I don't know."

This distresses Oliver even more. "Imogen, you can't just trust demon magic!"

"It's my birthday, Ollie. I can trust demon magic if I want."

"But you shouldn't!"

The two children continue to bicker back and forth. Their voices slowly fade into background noise as Alastor loses interest in their conversation and takes a look around. 

He spots a snowglobe with a frog inside of it on Imogen's bookshelf. He gives it a good shake. Makes it snow everywhere. The frog stares defiantly back at him.

Alastor cackles and sets it down. Fiddles with a few soccer trophies and puts them back. His eyes wander to an Owl City poster taped to the back of her door with a cartoon owl on it.

Alastor is quite intrigued about this Owl City. Is it a population composed entirely of owls? Perhaps a wild bird sanctuary of some kind?

Only one way to find out!

Alastor wanders to a pink quilt draped between Imogen's bedpost and her dresser, creating a makeshift tent. Peering inside, he finds plush pillows covering the floor and some stars cut out of cardboard and covered in glitter. They hang from the ceiling from long ribbons. Such pretty dangly things. He pokes one with his microphone cane.

What fun!

Alastor moves on. There's a photo collage over Imogen's dresser. He is quite perturbed to find that most of them are of dogs, clearly taken from a magazine or a book, and cut into heart shapes. Imogen seems to have no preference when it comes to mutts, for they range from golden retrievers to ugly bald ones in oversized sweaters and with tufts of white hair on their heads, reminding Alastor of a toupee.

The other photos consist mainly of Imogen and Oliver. It looks like they are quite the pair—there's a photo of Imogen burying Oliver in the sand at the beach, a picture of them sledding and another of them participating in what appears to be a school play.

Family photos intermingle with the others. Alastor spots one of an older woman he can only assume is her grandmother. Imogen is younger in the photo, likely only around four years old, and balanced on her mother's knee. Her grandmother sits next to them and stares directly into the camera with eyes as dark as a thunderstorm. She has deep brown skin and the same defined, bouncy ringlets as Imogen and her mother, but her hair is the color of snow.

There are no photos of her father.

Atop of the dresser and right below the collage is a collection of brilliantly colored rocks arranged on a tray, sparkling in the sunlight. 

Alastor picks up a red stone. It's raw and jagged, small enough to put in his pocket. It's also hot to the touch. Very hot, like it's been sitting in the sun all day.

"Oh, do you like that one, Uncle Al?" 

Alastor turns around. Imogen scampers up to him and peers into his open palm.

"Ooo, that's red spinel!" She beams up at him. "That's a good pick!"

"Pick?"

"Yeah, I collect them and then leave them here for my friends to pick out. My grandma used to do the same thing. She said it's the other way around though—that the stone picks the person. I have one too!” Imogen lifts up a stone on the necklace she is wearing. It’s cut into a tear shape and is as black as fairytales with flecks of violet-red shimmer. “This is black tourmaline! It gives me protection and helps get rid of bad energy. It used to be my grandma’s, but the tourmaline told me she wanted me to have it, so now I never take it off.”

"Sentient rocks, you say?" The studio audience chuckles. "How amusing!"

"Says you," Imogen says, putting her hands on her hips. "Anyway, that's a good one. Spinel represents passion and you have a lot of that."

"I do!"

"And," Imogen continues. "It's supposed to help people put their egos aside." She looks right at him. "You have a lot of that too."

"HA!"

The lightbulb on the ceiling brightens with Alastor's sharp, startled laughter. Oliver jumps, clearly spooked. The spinel pulses in Alastor's hand.

Oh. How curious!

"You can keep it," Imogen says. "I think it'll help you. Ollie picked out aquamarine. It soothes his monkey brain."

Oliver glares. "What the heck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you have a lot of anxious thoughts in your head."

"I do not!"

"Yeah," Imogen says, shooting him a withering look. "Because you have the aquamarine now."

Oliver rolls his eyes. Clearly, he does not believe in the power of Imogen's rocks.

Alastor puts the spinel in his breast pocket for safekeeping. "Thank you!"

"You're welcome. Take good care of it."

"I will! Now." Alastor folds his arms behind his back and flashes his yellow grin. "Where is this Soldier Field?"

"It's in Chicago," Imogen says.

"Ah, the Windy City!" Alastor has never been there. He is quite surprised to hear that owls have taken it over. Much has transpired on earth since he's been gone, apparently. Perhaps it has become a project of the Ars Goetia. "Do you have a map?"

"Ollie has one on his phone. Show him, Ollie."

Oliver sighs and digs into his pocket. He pulls out a phone that's identical to the ones Alastor sees nearly everyone using in the Pride Ring. He types something into it and shows Alastor his screen.

Alastor adjusts his monocle and squints. There's pictures below the map of a U-shaped stadium with fireworks going off and people—owls?— filling the stands. He spots another photo of the stadium from the outside, lined with American flags, and a bronze statue of some fellow in a fedora.

"Hmm," Alastor says, reading the directions. "It's an hour away?"

"Yes," Oliver says, a little smug. "So, as you can see, we can't possibly—"

Alastor snaps his fingers while envisioning the photos in his head. At once, a portal appears in Imogen's bedroom with Soldier Field on the other side.

"Oh, my GOSH!" Imogen jumps up and down with excitement. "We don't even have to drive!"

Oliver stares in raw horror. 

"I have to leave a note for my grandpa when he gets here. Hang on, okay?" Imogen scampers out of the room, leaving Alastor and Oliver alone.

There's a long stretch of silence. Alastor leans against his cane and examines his claws. The sound of cars honking and people conversing on the other side fill the room.

Oliver, still frozen in shock, slowly lifts his hand and sticks it through the portal. When nothing terrible happens, he wiggles his fingers. Then, even slower, he takes his hand out, staring down at it as if he expected it to grow another finger.

"This thing is definitely cursed," he mutters.

"Okay! I'm back!" Imogen returns wearing her windbreaker and carrying what Alastor can only assume is Oliver's coat. "I left the note on the counter. I said you're going with me to see Owl City, Ollie, and we won't be back until super late."

"Huh?" Oliver glances at her, numb and not comprehending. "What?"

"Excellent!" Alastor declares. "Time to go!"

Before Oliver can object, Alastor shoves both of the children through the portal. Imogen tumbles through with a happy shriek, while Oliver lets out a sound that is less than pleasant, nearly tripping onto the sidewalk.

Alastor steps through and the portal closes behind him. "Ah, the Windy City! Never thought I'd be here!"

"Me either!" Imogen says, beaming.

It's not too much different than the Pride Ring—just a lot less red, and a lot less murder and mayhem, though Alastor is sure that is going on somewhere. Tall buildings fringe the skyline in the distance and crowds bustle on by. A few people give Alastor a double take before quickly hurrying on. Others are so concerned with getting to the owls that they don't even pay him any attention. 

"Oh my god," Oliver says. Nothing moves but his hoodie around his chest, tightening and loosening as he gulps in deep breaths. "Oh my god. We're in Chicago. What—what—"

"Oh no," Imogen says.

Oliver digs into his hoodie pocket and pulls out an inhaler. He shakes it up and down before shoving it between his teeth and clicking the canister, gulping in a large breath.

Imogen sighs. "Ollie, you forgot your aquamarine, didn't you?"

"A rock isn't going to help my asthma attack, Imogen!"

"It's not an asthma attack," Imogen says. "And they're called crystals. It's rude to call them rocks."

"I don't care!" Oliver snaps. "We're in Chicago! My mom's gonna kill me!"

"She can't kill you if we get back in time," Imogen says.

"Or if you never return!" Alastor adds helpfully.

Oliver groans low in his throat. "S-shut ... shut up ..." He presses a hand to his chest and squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm dead. I am so dead."

"Ollie," Imogen says.

"I'm going to be grounded for the rest of my life, and that's if I ever even see my house again, because I'm an hour away from my parents in Chicago with a demon from the pits of Hell—"

"Ollie!" Imogen places her hands on either side of his face. "It's okay."

But Oliver's breaths have turned into heavy panting. He stares at her, tears springing into his eyes, his face red and blotchy.

"It's okay," Imogen says again. "You're not going to get in trouble. We'll go home after this. Uncle Al will just make another portal." She turns to him for reassurance. "Right?"

Alastor pretends to think about it. "Hmmm."

Imogen shoots him a stern look.

He chuckles. "Yes, yes! All will be fine. You can trust me!"

"See?" Imogen says.

Oliver groans. "Imogen—"

"If you don't trust Uncle Al then trust me," Imogen says, staring at him seriously. "I won't let anything bad happen to you, Ollie. Pinky swear it."

She extends her pinky to him.

Ah! The very serious pinky oath. Oliver lets out a tiny, shaky laugh. He entwines his little finger with hers, and Imogen presses her hand over his heart, eyes locked onto his.

"You gotta breathe, Ollie. Your heart rate is making mine go up."

"S-sorry."

"It's okay. Breathe."

She inhales and exhales slowly. Oliver follows her lead. In and out. In and out. 

Then, the most amazing thing happens. Peace settles around them like an extra blanket.

Alastor recognizes magic when he feels it. This is definitely that. He can feel it pressing down on him, sweet and tender, a kind of magic so very different from his own.

A sigh gusts out of Oliver's chest. His breathing gradually syncs in time with hers, the red flush fading from his cheeks.

Imogen's eyes stay on his face, softer now. "Better?"

"Y-yeah ..."

"Good." Imogen offers Oliver her hand. "Ready now?"

Oliver hesitates but then takes it. He looks like he is charmed to pieces. "Okay."

Alastor claps both of them on their shoulders. "Splendid! Now, where to?"

"We gotta wait in line, Uncle Al." Imogen points to the massive crowd of people filing into the stadium. "And we still need tickets."

Alastor scoffs. "Wait? In that? No can do!"

Before Imogen can question him, Alastor snaps his fingers. All three of them wink out of existence and re-appear inside of the stadium.

Oliver cries out, flinging his arms around Imogen's neck. They are somewhere up high among the bleachers.

"Wow!" Imogen says, eyes sparkling. "This is so cool! No lines!"

"T-this is definitely cheating," Oliver sputters out.

"We should get closer so we can see better. Come on, guys."

Imogen pulls Oliver into the aisle and down the stairs. Alastor follows them, his hands folded behind his back, taking in the scenery. The sky is wide open above them and starting to darken. He can smell popcorn from a food stand somewhere nearby. Many humans are filing inside and searching for their seats, but there are absolutely no owls—only a giant football field that's been altered into a stage.

Confusion swirls in Alastor's brain. He expected to find a small subdivision of owlets residing inside of the stadium or at least a few small buildings. Instead, this looks like it is going to be some sort of performance. 

Alastor's curiosity peaks. Certainly, it must be a show like no other, for why else would there be so many humans gathering to see the owls?

Imogen leads them onto the ground floor where there are plastic chairs lined up. Most people are seated already and conversing excitedly amongst each other. She plops down into a chair in the middle of the front row. Alastor and Oliver take a seat on either side of her.

"Someone is going to be upset we are in their seats." Oliver glances at the crowd, worry knitting his brows. "Shouldn't we have at least gotten tickets, you guys?"

"Nah," Imogen says. She is too short for her feet to touch the ground, swinging her legs back and forth. "This is perfect!"

"Yeah," Oliver says, deadpan. "Because it's free."

"Hey, we should get popcorn," Imogen says, ignoring his comment. She peers up at Alastor. "Do you want some, Uncle Al?"

"I do not!"

Imogen turns to Oliver expectantly.

He squints at her. "What?"

"Do you want popcorn?" she asks.

"Can't your Uncle Al just make it poof into existence?"

Imogen glances at Alastor for confirmation, but he twiddles his thumbs and glances away, ankle crossed over his knee. A casual whistling tune plays.

"I don't think he wants to right now," Imogen says.

Oliver groans. "Fine. I'll be right back."

He gets up and disappears into the crowd. Alastor leans back and observes the stage. It's forest-themed with massive fake trees and thick roots that twine along the edge of the platform. Blue-green leaves create a canopy overhead and stir in the cool breeze. There are four giant screens, corner to corner, so everyone in the stands can watch the performance.

"So!" Alastor says. "What is your favorite owl?"

"My favorite owl?" Imogen's face scrunches in thought. "I guess snowy owls. I really like the one in Harry Potter. What about you?"

"Ah, the great horned owl! Magnificent hunters, horned owls. Nicknamed tigers of the sky for their brutality." A ghostly roar plays over his words. He flashes his teeth wider, crimson eyes aglow with excitement. "Why, I saw one swoop in without a sound and capture a young gator once. It crushed its skull and used its sharp, hooked bill to tear its flesh into pieces. The gator had no idea what hit it until it was too late! Truly incredible creatures."

Imogen lifts an eyebrow. "Woooow … You're really weird sometimes, Uncle Al."

But Alastor is suddenly giddy. He wonders if horned owls will be part of the show. He certainly hopes so. Watching them hunt would be thrilling!

It's only been about fifteen minutes but by the time Oliver returns, the sky has turned deep black. An usher shows Oliver to his seat, and he squeezes his way through, sitting down and handing Imogen a tub of popcorn. 

"Thanks, Ollie!"

"You're welcome."

Imogen puts the popcorn between them so they can share. Oliver scoops up a handful.

Someone taps Alastor on the shoulder.

"Hey, you! You're in our seats!"

Alastor turns his head, his eyes replaced with radio dials. Static hums and strange symbols flood into the air, his antlers stretching wide. He grins to reveal a dazzle of demon teeth.

"Oh, are we?"

The guy and his friends scream, dropping their belongings and fleeing in the opposite direction, tripping and shoving their way through the crowd.

Alastor chuckles, his eyes returning to normal, the static fading. Imogen munches on her popcorn, unperturbed, cheeks puffed up like a little chipmunk. Oliver stares, frozen in horror. 

"What the fuck," he whispers.

Imogen gasps. "Ollie! You said a bad word!"

"Did you see what just happened?"

"Yeah. Uncle Al saved our seats."

"That's not the point, it's how he—"

Oliver's voice is lost in the sudden roar of excited cheers. Alastor turns his attention to the stage. Something seems to be happening. Lemon yellow lights blink in and out of the darkness, mimicking fireflies. There's an audio track of crickets and owls hooting in the distance.

Ah, finally! The owls are here to make their appearance.

But it's not owls that emerge from backstage but humans. Everyone rises to their feet, including Imogen and Oliver, so Alastor follows suit. One of the humans starts bouncing a mallet against a silver xylophone, creating whimsical notes that drift through the air like champagne bubbles. There's also a man on drums and a cello and a violin. 

Alastor's fawn ears swivel. Is this a concert? Well, if that is the case, he understands why Imogen wanted to go. It's not everyday owls perform musical numbers.

Everything is quite pleasant until there is the rich and gradual build up of an electrical synth. The sound shoots up Alastor's spine like a bolt of lightning, licking up each and every vertebrae, tingling over his skin and standing his hair up on ends.

What.

What what what.

Brilliant multicolored lights twinkle all around the stage. The music is so loud it rattles Alastor's ribcage. He stands rooted in place, his smile stock still, devil-red eyes flicking about.

He still does not see any owls.

He is quite miffed about this.

Then, a man—not an owl at all—picks up a microphone and belts out:

You would not believe your eyes

If ten million fireflies

Lit up the world as I fell asleep

Cause they fill the open air

And leave tear drops everywhere

You'd think me rude but I would just stand and stare

Alastor's eye twitches. He tries to avert his gaze but cannot. He wonders if this musician is using demonic magic to lock him in place, or whether he is simply too offended to look away.

The man holds out his microphone to the audience. "Let me hear those heavenly voices!"

A thousand voices rise and swell, filling the stadium with lyrics about planet Earth and how this man receives a thousand hugs from ten thousand lightning bugs.

What kind of nonsensical hullabaloo is this? Hugs? From lightning bugs? It makes absolutely no sense. Unfortunately for Alastor, this is Imogen's birthday celebration, and since he agreed to be there for the festivities, he is forced to suffer through this ... whacky foolishness.

A cloud of static drones in Alastor's head. The musician jerks in surprise when his microphone lets out a shriek of audio feedback.

Someone tugs on his coattails. Alastor glances down.

"Uncle Al, I can't see," Imogen says.

He arches an eyebrow at her and then at the crowd which has turned into chaos. People have shoved their way to the front of the stage to get a better look. He considers striking them down where they stand, but Imogen lifts her arms and makes grabby hands.

Alastor's eyebrow arch intensifies. He turns to Oliver for assistance—perhaps the kid can balance Imogen on his shoulders—but he's not paying them any attention, singing and swaying to the song.

"I do not recall carrying you as part of our deal, young lady."

Imogen frowns. She makes grabby hands again, this time, with more gusto.

He rolls his eyes. Oh, fine. Alastor hoists her up by the back of her windbreaker like a jaguar carrying its cub by the scruff. Imogen squeals and kicks her feet.

Alastor smiles faintly, despite himself. "Better?"

"Yes! This is perfect!"

"Mmm ...." 

Alastor watches the musician with suspicion. He is not too sure how he feels about this guy. His voice has an odd effect, almost like a filter, a bit like his own.

Someone taps Alastor on the shoulder.

"Hey! Put your kid down! We can't see!"

Oh?

Alastor balances Imogen against his ribs instead, considering he is too unnaturally tall to hold her on his hip, and likely only further obstructs the person's view. 

They tap him again, even harder. "Dude, your kid is blocking the—"

Alastor turns his head a whole 180 degrees. His eyes glow red, red, red and he bares his fangs, releasing a sound that has concert speakers stuttering.

The hooligan lets out a bloodcurdling shriek and scrambles away—or tries to—he and several others are fighting against the crowd to get out.

Alastor spins his head back around with a loud cracking sound. Goodness! This awful music is making him quite testy.

A smile glows across Imogen's face, like an actual firefly caught in a jam jar. "Uncle Al, this is SO AMAZING!" She has to yell over the music for him to hear her. "Thank you so much!"

Something warm fumbles in Alastor's old, dead heart. It takes him a moment to realize he's actually genuinely happy to see her happy.

It takes him off guard. He hasn't felt anything akin to that since his mother.

What the hell is going on with him?

The song finally ends and the audience bursts into applause.

"Thank you again for being here tonight, Chicago!" The musician walks across the stage and sits down at a piano. "This next song is an ode to my younger days when I had to wear braces. I hope you enjoy it!"

Imogen wiggles in his grasp. "Oh, Uncle Al! This is a good one! I think you'll like it!"

Alastor is highly skeptical but waits with his head cocked to one side. The band strikes up a bouncy, electronic tune and the singer croons out:

I brush my teeth, and look in the mirror

And laugh out loud as I'm beaming from ear to ear

I'd rather pick flowers, instead of fights

And rather than flaunt my style

I'd flash you a smile, of clean pearly whites

Oh? A jingle about smiling? Perhaps not all is lost after all.

I've been to the dentist a thousand times so I know the drill

I smooth my hair, sit back in the chair

But somehow I still get the chills

Alastor chuckles. The golden stage lights blaze brightly and start flickering on and off.

When hygienists leave on long vacations

That's when dentists scream and lose their patience

Alastor bursts out laughing, so hard, two of the spotlights pop and shatter, sputtering out gold sparks. There's a cry of surprise from the audience, the music abruptly halting and the band scattering to avoid the exploding glass.

Losing their patience! Oh, god. Alastor can't breathe. The speakers fizz and hiss, but he can't get a hold of himself. His joy spreads onto Imogen who beams up at him.

"See! I told you it was a good one!"

Alastor can't speak, still dissolving into breathless laughter.

Several people run onto the stage and sweep up the mess. The band gather in a circle and speak to what looks to be some sort of manager. After a brief respite, the singer returns to the piano.

"I apologize for the technical issues, folks! Not too sure what's been going on. Let's try that again, shall we?"

The audience cheers as they start the song over again. Alastor manages to get through most of it without cracking up, but his amusement continues to make the stage lights burn and hum.

After that, he decides he still does not care for this music but it's a little more tolerable. This band clearly has an affinity towards puns and teeth. Alastor can respect that. 

Afterwards, they strike up a ditty titled Deer In The Headlights which is fitting, to say the least. It's followed by a song called Beautiful Times that is apparently one of Imogen's favorites, and Alastor has to admit, the violin solo is … adequate. He also enjoys how the singer makes police siren noises with his mouth during Coming After You, filling Alastor with fond memories of the New Orleans police department searching for him while he was off hunting down and slaughtering criminals. Though, he thinks it's supposed to be a love song.

Finally, in the middle of an energetic song called Shooting Star, Imogen wiggles in Alastor's grasp. "Uncle Al, I want to go now."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. It's the crowd. They're making me antsy."

"I see!" Alastor does not bother to hide his enthusiasm. He stretches out his arm and grabs Oliver by the back of his neck, making him flinch. "Oliver! Time to go!"

"Wait, what—"

And just like that, they disappear and reappear safely outside of the stadium. The sidewalk is mostly empty since the crowd still inside and enjoying the concert. Alastor can hear the music and the cheers booming from out here.

"What the heck?! Why did you—" Oliver's eyes land on Imogen and he stops. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah." Her little hands are clenched into fists, her whole body shaking. "There's just a lot of happy emotions in there so it kinda feels like I just ate a lot of candy. Or like. A ton of Mountain Dew."

"Maybe you need to eat something," Oliver suggests.

Imogen shakes her head. "I feel like I need to run. Let's go!"

She squirms until Alastor puts her down. She grabs Oliver's hand and they take off like a shot down the sidewalk.

Alastor follows with ease. Imogen's giddy laughter punctuates the night air. "Did you have fun, Ollie?"

"Yeah," Oliver says. "Did you?"

"Yes! It was awesome!"

There's a crosswalk ahead. A bright red light blinks on the street sign, indicating it is not safe to walk.

Imogen and Oliver are too excited to notice, so Alastor snags both of them by the backs of their jackets, reeling them back in. A car zooms by, whipping up their hair.

Oliver lets out a distressed squeak.

Imogen tilts her head up, so she is looking at Alastor upside down. "Thank you for staying at the concert, Uncle Al, even though you didn't like the music that much."

Ah, yes. Alastor wonders how much of his thoughts she'd heard. "Quite all right. The puns were very entertaining!"

Imogen beams up at him. "I knew you'd like the dentist song!"

Yes, that one was his favorite. The sign turns green and Alastor strolls leisurely ahead with the children in tow. "Though, I am surprised you wanted to leave without seeing the owls."

Imogen cocks her head. "Owls?"

"Yes!" Alastor spins on his heel once they make it to the other side of the street, lifting his hands with dramatic flair. "The City of Owls! I was waiting for it all evening!"

Imogen and Oliver stare at him. Then, they burst out laughing.

What is so funny? Alastor waits with his hands on his hips. "Am I missing something?"

Imogen is the first to recover, her voice curled with mirth. "Uncle Al, that was Owl City."

"I—come again?"

"Owl City is what Adam Young calls himself," Oliver explains.

Alastor's confusion escalates. "Who?"

"The guy singing," Imogen tells him. “He made his first songs by himself in his parents basement.”

"By him ... how?"

"On the computer."

Alastor gapes at them. "You mean to tell me this is a one man show? It's not even a band?"

"Yup," Oliver says. "He just gets a band to perform live."

Alastor is not even embarrassed. He's simply baffled. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard! What kind of man calls himself Owl City?"

Oliver shrugs. "Adam Young, I guess."

"Preposterous!"

Imogen laughs even harder. She clutches her belly and leans against Oliver for support. "Uncle Al, you're so funny!"

Alastor sputters out a pop of static. He opens his mouth to retort when the spinel abruptly pulses in his breast pocket.

Something lightens inside of his body. What, exactly, he cannot be sure, but it's like spending an eternity with a headache that you've gotten so used to, you don't even realize it's there anymore, but when it finally clears, it's apparent.

Alastor blinks. He fishes the spinel out of his pocket and pinches it between his thumb and pointer finger. It's glowing neon carmine. 

"Wow," Imogen says. "Your spinel is working very hard."

"On what?"

"Your ego," Imogen tells him solemnly.

"Ha!" Alastor rolls the crystal in his palm. "This thing is going to make me humble, is it?"

"Crystals don't fix stuff for you, Uncle Al. They just help you out and guide you a little. Kinda like someone holding your hand when you cross the street."

"I see ..."

Imogen suddenly lights up. "Oh! We should take a picture together! Ollie, can you do it? I want to hang it on my wall."

Alastor puts the spinel away. "An excellent idea! Oliver has a face for radio, after all."

"Thanks," Oliver says. Realization hits him a second later. "Hey!"

"Now!" Alastor crouches down and throws his arms around Imogen and Oliver, pulling them close. "Where is your camera?"

"Look up," Imogen says. "And say CHEESE!"

"Cheese!"

A white light flashes, making spots bounce in front of Alastor's nose. He blinks them away to see Oliver fiddling with his phone.

"Uh," Oliver says, half-confused, half-horrified. "What happened to your Uncle Al's face?"

They peek over Oliver's shoulder. There, on the screen, is a photograph of the three of them smooshed together with Alastor in the middle, but Alastor's face is distorted by some kind of glitch. Pixels slash through his skin, making him nearly unrecognizable, revealing only sharp teeth and crimson eyes burning like solid stars.

Alastor clicks his tongue. "You need a better quality camera, young man!"

"What are you talking about? It's an iPhone."

"Exactly the issue! Your camera is on a phone! Back in my day, cameras and phones were separate! And that's how we liked it!"

Oliver scoffs. "You sound like my grandpa."

But Alastor is on a roll down memory lane. "Why, back then, my favorite camera of choice was the Vest Pocket Kodak! Small, simple and efficient! You could fold it down and carry it in your pocket!"

"I can carry my iPhone in my pocket," Oliver says, annoyed. He glances at the photo and sighs. "Do you want to try to take another picture, Imogen?"

"It's okay," Imogen says. "I think it's perfect!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! Don't delete it, okay, Ollie?"

"Okay." A thought seems to strike him then. He turns to Alastor. "Hang on, what did you mean by 'back in your day?' Did Hell have old timey phones when you were born or something?"

Alastor barks out a sharp laugh. "What? I wasn't born in Hell! I was born on earth!"

Oliver's eyes widen. "You mean you used to be human?"

"Of course!"

Imogen brightens. "Where did you live, Uncle Al?"

"New Orleans, born and raised!

"Oh, I've visited New Orleans once," Oliver says. "My family went on vacation there. It was really fun."

"Aha! Of course it was! No better place on earth!"

Oliver considers it. "Eh, I don't know. I think my favorite place on earth is Star Wars land at Disney World."

"Nonsense! New Orleans has swamps, jazz, mardi gras, the WVOZ radio station ..."

Imogen tilts her head. "The WVOZ radio station?"

"Yes, indeedy! I used to work there. Best time of my life."

Oliver frowns, confused. "That isn't there anymore. It was lost in the hurricane. They said so on the tour."

Alastor freezes. Slowly, he turns his head, his eyes flickering into radio dials. "Excuse me?"

Oliver leaps back. "D-don't you know that already?"

"When?"

"In 2005." Oliver stares at him like Alastor has grown another head. "There was a hurricane. You know? Hurricane Katrina."

A high-pitched ringing slices through the air, a flatline. That radio station had been Alastor's legacy and now it was just—gone. All of it. Just like that.

The feeling rushes out of Alator's knees. "I ... I need to sit down." He plops on the curb, staring ahead, wide-eyed, like his soul has just left his body.

"Oh, no," Imogen whispers. "You broke his ego."

"What?"

Imogen grabs his arm. "Ollie, you have to fix him."

"I can't fix him! Shouldn't he have known that already if he's from there?"

"He hasn't been there for a long time, I don't think," Imogen says, looking at Alastor curiously. "Ollie, you have to make him feel better."

"I—" Oliver looks between them, hopeless. He throws his head back with a groan. "Ugh! Fine."

He sits down next to Alastor. "Um." He clears his throat. "Hey."

No response. He stares off into the night.

"Um, I'm sorry." Oliver's eyes dart to Imogen, who gives him a thumbs up. "I ... didn't mean to make you upset. I thought you knew about it. And if it makes you feel better, the food over there is still really good."

An unintelligible, electrical gibber sound.

Imogen shoots Oliver a pointed look.

He sucks on his teeth to hold back his sigh. "And if you want you can ... fix my violin."

Immediately, Alastor perks up. "Wonderful! Let's go!"

🎶 📻 🎶

Meanwhile, Imogen's grandpa arrives at her house. 

"Imogen! I'm here. I've brought you a birthday present."

No one answers. Cornelius shrugs and shuffles into the kitchen, placing Imogen's present on the counter. There, he finds a note.

Cornelius picks it up. The handwriting is big and sloppy. He adjusts his glasses and squints.

"Eh? What's Owl Shitty?"

Chapter Text

"Don't break it!"

"Hush, child. Let me work."

Oliver hasn't stopped hovering over Alastor since they teleported back into Imogen's bedroom. The strings on this tortured violin are in bad shape. Alastor ends up having to replace all of them, but he doesn't mind. It's been a long time since he's been able to do something like this himself.

Imogen's lying upside down on the carpet while she waits, her feet propped up against the wall as she scissor-kicks her legs back and forth like windshield wipers. "Are you guys almost done?"

"Almost!" Alastor finishes fastening the last string. "There! That should do it."

"Okay, now give it back," Oliver says.

Alastor wags his finger. "Ah-ah-ah! We haven't even tuned it yet!"

"Okay , but after you do that you have to give it back."

"Yes, yes, of course!"

Alastor plucks the A string. It's still flat, so he turns the small adjuster clockwise to make the pitch sharper. He tests each string one by one, fawn ears swiveling any time the sound is off, modifying until it's finally to his liking.

"Here we are! Should be good to—"

Oliver snatches the violin out of his hands.

"—go ...!"

"Yay!" Imogen cheers. She shoots up and scampers over. "Try it out, Ollie! Play something!"

"Uh, okay ..."

Alastor and Imogen wait with bated breath. Oliver leans his jaw against the chin-rest and drags the bow over the strings.

The violin screeches out, so loud, Alastor's ears flatten to the top of his head.

Oliver tries again. The shrieking only worsens. The poor violin is crying out in anguish.

Alastor is now convinced that Oliver is absolutely insane and cursed with no musical talent. "Stop! Cease!"

He snatches the instrument out of Oliver's grasp.

"Hey!" 

The kid lurches forward, but Alastor points and presses the bow against his chest.

"No!" Alastor says, keeping him at bay as if he is some kind of small, rabid dog. "Watch. Observe. Learn something!"

Oliver plants his hands on his hips.

"See here, child! Positioning is the most crucial part. Think of your bow arm akin to a radio transmitter. If the wires and cables are not installed correctly, you will lose sensitivity and power. You want fluidity and control!" Alastor demonstrates by bowing the violin—a few ghostly notes of Devil's Trill spill out. "It's not just an instrument. It needs to be revered! Respected!"

"I respect it plenty," Oliver says.

"No, respect is playing it properly! Like this!"

Alastor kicks up a lively Cajun tune—Devil in the Bayou. 

A relentless piano plays and backs him up, interspersed with crazed, demonic laughter. Wild music spins, his eyes glowing like red hot coals and his knife-like grin broadening as the song becomes more and more frantic.

He finishes with a grand flourish.

"Wow!" Imogen cries. She and the studio audience burst into applause.

Alastor bows at the waist. "Thank you, thank you!" He turns to Oliver. "See, kid! Just like that!" 

Oliver gapes at him. "I can't do that!"

"Clearly not!"

"You should show him how to play something, Uncle Al." Imogen rocks back and forth on her heels. "I think he's too shy to ask you."

"Ah, shyness!" Alastor laments. "I, too, used to be shy."

Imogen tilts her head. "Really?"

"No. Now!" Alastor throws an arm around Oliver's shoulders. "Once you have your positioning down, there's nothing to the violin! A simple instrument! The easiest, really!"

"That's not true at all," Oliver says.

"Simple!" Alastor insists. "All you have to do is—"

"Imogen? Oliver? Is that you?"

Everyone turns at the voice. It's coming from the hallway.

Alastor drops the violin into Oliver's hands if he's just realized it 's a summer salad. He transforms into his shadow form and sinks onto the floor, making Oliver yelp when he becomes flush with his shadow.

The door opens, and Imogen beams. "Hi, Papa!"

"There you are!" An old man shuffles into the room. He's pale and lean, spine stooped over with age and white hair swept back from his face. "Where in God's name have you been?"

"I told you in the note, Papa. Ollie and I went to see Owl City."

"Eh? Owl Tiddy?"

"No! Owl City."

"Imogen, you wrote Owl Shi—" Her grandpa stops and clears his throat. "It doesn't matter. Were you outside?"

"Uh," Oliver says. "Technically?"

"I told you kids you can't play in the woods alone. Especially in the dark. You had me looking all over for you!"

Imogen hugs him around the middle. "Sorry, Papa."

Some of the fire melts from his face. He sighs and strokes Imogen's hair. "It's all right. But don't think I won't tell your mother when she gets home."

"Okay, Papa."

"I'm going to order a pizza. What do you kids want on it?"

"I like bacon," Imogen says. "What do you want on it, Ollie?"

"Uhh, I don't know."

"Think about it and let me know," her grandpa says. "Are you kids going to be playing in here?"

"Yeah, Ollie is learning the violin."

"All right. I'll be in the living room. Let me know if you want something other than pizza, Oliver."

"Okay. Thanks, sir."

He nods and closes the door behind him.

Imogen turns. "You really don't know what you want on your pizza, Ollie?"

"I'm okay with anything."

"What about you, Uncle Al?"

Alastor pops up from Oliver's shadow. "I like ham and pineapple!"

"Eww," Imogen says, her nose wrinkling. "Pineapples on pizza?"

"Oh, that's actually pretty good," Oliver says. "My mom and I love Hawaiian pizza."

Alastor claps him on the back. "Aha! A man of refined taste!"

Imogen's cringe intensifies. "Ugh, you two are weird. But whatever, I'll ask my Papa if he can get half Hawaiian and half bacon. Be right back."

As soon as Imogen leaves the room, Oliver shuts the door behind her. He turns to face Alastor. "I have to talk to you."

Alastor lifts his eyebrows.

Oliver takes a deep breath and steels himself. "Imogen is a good person. You shouldn't take advantage of her."

Alastor's smile widens, amused. "You think I'm taking advantage?"

"Of course you are. She sold her soul to you."

"Ah!" Alastor says, as if he has just remembered. "Yes. That."

"Yeah, that," Oliver says, narrowing his eyes. "That's really not fair. She doesn't understand how serious that is."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I read the terms and agreements to her. She has an idea."

"What are the terms?"

"That's between me and Imogen."

"Well, whatever it is, I know it's bad news, and Imogen has been through a lot already."

"Oh?" Alastor's smile thins. "How so?"

"Her mom is barely around because she works so much, and her dad moved out of state. It's like he completely forgot she existed. And kids at school are mean to her because she can do things other people can't." Oliver looks him dead in the eye. "So, you shouldn't take her soul because it's wrong, and she's already had a tough time."

"I see! How tragic! But it's too late, I'm afraid."

"I knew you'd say something like that. So—so that's why ..." He squares his small shoulders. "You can take mine instead."

Alastor lifts his eyebrows. 

He stares at Oliver. Oliver stares right back. 

An uncomfortable silence stretches between them. Oliver squirms underneath Alastor's gaze. Sweat beads his forehead and his fingers twitch. He reaches into his hoodie pocket and takes a puff of his inhaler.

Finally, Alastor bursts out laughing. He cuffs Oliver on the shoulder. "I like you, kid! You've got spunk! Gumption! But a deal's a deal and mine with Imogen is non-negotiable. Though, you could sell me your soul in exchange for your violin's sake, the poor thing."

"Hey!"

"Now, do you want to learn something or not?"

Oliver wilts. "I guess so ..."

"Good man! Now, come here."

Imogen returns when Alastor is in the middle of teaching Oliver some notes. He helps the kid with his posture—he will not have any slouching over the violin—and shows him a few pizzicato exercises and a simple song to practice.

When the pizza arrives, Imogen has Alastor sit with her inside of her makeshift tent. He is far too tall for it, his long legs stretched outside of the entrance and his neck snapped into an unnatural angle to avoid hitting his head against the ceiling. Oliver's face pinches in disgust, probably wondering how Alastor is able to swallow with his neck in that position.

Eventually, Oliver gets Imogen to try a bite of Hawiian, which she immediately spits out onto her plate. Alastor is most distressed by this and makes her throw the plate out at once, as he will not stand for poor table etiquette, even upon a bedroom floor. She gets a fresh paper plate with a slice of bacon pizza instead.

After dinner, Oliver goes back to practicing the song Alastor showed him. Eventually, he is able to stumble through the first part of Boil Them Cabbage Down.

"I'm doing it!" Oliver says, beaming. "Imogen, did you hear?"

"Yeah! You're doing great, Ollie!"

"Thanks!" 

Alastor leans over Oliver's shoulder and bats his eyelashes.

Oliver shoots him a weird look. "Can I help you with something?"

Alastor examines his claws with exaggerated boredom. Waits. Whistles a little tune.

A deep sigh. Reluctantly, Oliver mumbles, "Thanks for showing me how to play."

More exaggerated eyelash fluttering.

"And ... for fixing it."

A self-satisfied grin upturns his face. "Ha! You're welcome!" Alastor summons his microphone cane and thumps it against the floor. "Well! This was all fine and dandy, but I believe part of the birthday celebration is presents, is it not?"

Imogen lights up. "Presents?!"

An eye opens on his microphone. "Presents!" it cheers.

"Oh, my gosh! Your microphone is alive?" Imogen scampers up to it to get a better look. "Hi, Mr. Mic!"

"Hello!" it says.

Oliver's face twists in horror and dismay. "Why does it have an eye? Oh, god. Now it's looking at me."

He backs away. The giant eye watches without blinking. It's ruby red with a vertical slit for a pupil. Oliver side-steps and the eye follows the movement. He quickly bunny hops the other way, only for the eye to dart in the same direction. Anywhere he goes, the eye sees.

"Stop that," Oliver says.

The eye narrows. "Stop what?" 

"Stop looking at me like I'm a Hobbit and you're the Eye of Sauron."

"The eye of what?"

"So cool," Imogen gushes. "How did your microphone come to life, Uncle Al?"

"It's always been sentient! A living extension of myself!"

"So cool," she says again. "I wish I had a magic microphone too."

"Do you?"

"Yeah! It'd be cool if mine was pink though. I like pink." She pauses, considering. "And it'd be nice if we could use it to talk to each other when you aren't here. Like a walkie talkie or a telephone."

"Splendid! In that case ..." Alastor reaches behind his back and pulls a perfectly wrapped present out of thin air. It is bubblegum pink with a magenta bow on top. "Happy birthday!"

Imogen squeals and hops in place. He hands it to her and she immediately rips it open, pieces of wrapping paper flying.

She gasps. Inside the box Imogen's portable radio but with an upgrade. A pastel pink microphone is now attached to it by a white spiral cord, the microphone itself decorated with sparkly silver stars and half moons.

"Oh, my gosh! This is exactly what I wanted! How did you know?!"

"I have my ways," Alastor says.

Oliver gives him a flat look. "You just came up with that on the spot, didn't you?"

"Ways!" Alastor waves his hand. "Mysterious ways!"

"This is incredible!" Imogen taps the mic. "Testing! Testing!"

Her voice blares from Alastor's microphone. He brings it up to his mouth. "I hear you! Loud and clear!" and hears his own voice spill out of her portable radio.

"Wow!" Imogen says. "Will it work when you go home?"

"It should!"

A look of intense fear shines in the microphone's eye. "Oh no," it mutters.

"Thank you so much, Uncle Al! This is the greatest thing ever!"

"You're welcome!"

"I got you something too, Imogen." Oliver crosses over to the bed and pulls out a lumpy present from underneath it. He flushes, suddenly self-conscious, and hands it to her. "Happy birthday."

"Aww, yay! Thank you, Ollie!" 

She quickly tears the wrapping paper apart to reveal a stuffed unicorn. It has a glittery purple horn with matching hooves, its tail and mane colored with every color of the rainbow.

"It's kinda lame. Sorry, I don't have a cool demon microphone or anything."

"I love it," Imogen says fiercely. She squishes the unicorn to her chest. "I'm naming him Sour Gummy Worm."

Oliver bursts out laughing. "That's awesome."

Imogen throws her arms around him. "Thank you, Ollie!"

"No problem. Happy birthday."

A woman's voice floats into the house from the other room. "Imogen, I'm home! I brought you a cake."

Imogen lights up. "Mommy!"

She barrels out the door and into the hallway. Alastor slips into his shadow form and dips into Oliver's shadow, tagging along as he walks into the kitchen.

Imogen's mother pushes a small chocolate cake onto the counter. She's wearing dark blue scrubs and her hair is flat twisted into two voluminous, fluffy low buns. A thin sleeve that matches her skin tone covers her right arm. She pulls it off and tosses it onto a chair, revealing an array of tattoos. Intricate marigolds, roses and petunias crawl along her arm in black ink.

Imogen throws her arms around her waist. "You're home!"

"I am!" Her mother scoops Imogen up, balancing her on her hip. "Happy birthday, sweetie."

"Thanks!"

Oliver walks up to the counter. "Hi, Ms. Woods."

"Hello, Ollie. How are you?"

"I'm good."

"Good! What have you kids been up to?"

"Oliver and I went to see Owl City in Chicago," Imogen says.

"Oh, yeah?" Her mother chuckles. "I'm sure you and Ollie drove there, huh?"

"No. Uncle Al made a portal."

Imogen's grandpa, who has just walked in, furrows his brows. "Who is Uncle Al?" he whispers.

Her mother lowers her voice. "Her imaginary friend."

"Uncle Al isn't imaginary," Imogen says, narrowing her eyes. "He's really tall! Taller than you, Papa! And he has pointy yellow teeth and antlers and ears like a deer! He's always smiling, no matter what, and his voice sounds funny because he's a radio demon, and his favorite color is red."

"Oh," her grandfather says, nodding seriously. "I see."

"It's true!" Oliver pipes in, waving his hands. "We were in her room and then all of a sudden, bam! We were in the city! He fixed my violin and showed me some music exercises!"

"Uh-huh," Imogen's mother says. "Well, Imogen, tell your Uncle Al he needs to have your mother's permission before he zooms you off to Chicago next time, okay?"

"Okay, Mommy."

Oliver gusts out a sigh. 

"How was work, Mallory?" her grandfather asks.

"I was in the Alzheimer's unit. Someone gave Henry a butterknife with his lunch." Mallory lifts her free hand and wiggles her fingers, wrapped in band-aids. "Needless to say, I gave the new girl a stern talking to about giving him metal eating utensils."

Imogen kisses one of her bandaged fingers. "Sorry, Mommy."

"It's not your fault, baby."

"I think Rachel will do better now that she's shadowing you and not Tiffany. She'll be a good CNA someday, you'll see."

Mallory blinks, surprised, and Alastor realizes that Rachel must've been the new girl. She hadn't told Imogen any of this—least of all, Rachel's name.

"Thanks, sweetie ..." Her mother laughs and shakes it off. "Are you ready for cake?"

Imogen beams. "Yes!"

Mallory sets Imogen down on a stool in front of the counter. Alastor watches her remove the plastic covering over the cake. The air fills with the gentle, sweet scent of sugary chocolate. Mallory sticks in eight pink candles and someone flicks the lights off. She ignites the wicks with a lighter, bathing Imogen's delighted smile in golden light.  

Everyone bursts into a rendition of Happy Birthday.

"Make a wish!" her mother says.

Imogen squeezes her eyes shut and clenches her fists, thinking about it with her entire body. She sucks in a deep breath and gusts it out in a rush, blowing out all of the candles in one go.

Everyone cheers. Mallory kisses her on the cheek and they start to cut the cake. 

Alastor lingers for a moment, listening to their bright, happy voices. It's been so long since he has been in a room with a family like this. The last time Alastor saw Imogen's mother, she had been hysterical. Now, her face is lined with exhaustion, but her smile is warm and real. It reminds him so much of his own mother.

Alastor feels a subtle shift inside, an unexpected reaction. Something in his heart cautiously begins to open.

Which is why he immediately closes it off and turns to go.

He slips underneath the front door and solidifies back into his demon shape. Alastor brushes himself off and walks down the driveway.

"Wait! Uncle Al!" 

Alastor turns around to find Imogen sprinting towards him. She skids to a stop, panting and out of breath. 

"You didn't say goodbye!"

"Ah!" Alastor says. "Well—goodbye!"

Imogen extends her arms.

Alastor blinks.

Imogen frowns. She emphasizes by wiggling her arms up and down like a bird attempting to take flight.

Alastor clicks his tongue. Still, he concedes, winking out of existence and re-appearing behind her, making her squeak. He throws his arms around her from behind and lifts her off the ground, and she lets out a happy little squeal.

"Thanks for everything," Imogen says. Alastor sets her down and she turns to face him. "I'll see you when I turn nine!"

"Yes, you will!"

"And I'll call you! Lots!"

"Looking forward to it!"

"Okay. Have fun in Hell."

Alastor barks out a startled laugh. "Don't you have a chocolate cake to get to? Go on. Skedaddle!"

He scoots her towards the house, making her giggle.

"Bye, Uncle Al!"

"Goodbye!"

Alastor waits until she's safely back inside of the house before stepping on top of where the pentagram was drawn two years ago. Shadows twist and morph, rising up his body as he begins to sink down. The last thing he sees is Imogen's cheerful face pressed up against the window, watching him leave.

Alastor gives her one last wave goodbye. Then, he's gone.

🎶 📻 🎶

Once Alastor's returns to the hotel, he is uncharacteristically exhausted. He goes straight to his radio tower and plops down in a plush red armchair, kicking up his feet. He summons a glass of wine and stares into the swamp section of his room. His eyes glow like red taillights in the dark, watching golden fireflies twinkle in and out of the cattails. 

A firefly lands on the back of his hand. Alastor thinks back to those lyrics, about hugs from lightning bugs, until it crawls onto the tip of his claw and flies away.

A small radio sits on the coffee table. He turns it on with a flick of his magic, and a crackly rendition of As Time Goes By tumbles out.

When Alastor was a kid, he found a similar looking radio in the dumpster. It didn't work, but he figured if he got it going, he'd be able to hear his favorite music. Nearly all of his friends at school had a radio these days. He begged and begged his mother for one, but she constantly told him they were too expensive.

That's why he'd been so shocked to find one in the trash. The mahogany only had a few scuffs and scratches. It still gleamed, inlaid with brass, and the dial was cracked by a fall, but other than that, it was in decent physical condition. Alastor couldn't believe someone would toss it out without even trying to fix it, but coming across it felt like a boon, like a pirate's treasure.

His mother didn't understand electronic things as she put it, but this radio meant everything to him. She said if he worked really hard on the farm, she would give him an allowance and he could save up and buy the parts for it.

His father hated the idea. Told his mother that she was giving Alastor false hope and filling his head with stupid ideas about becoming a radio star.

In a way, his father was right. Alastor did want to become a radio star. He would spend hours at his friend's house listening to talk shows, the man's posh voice rolling into the living room. It felt like the broadcaster was right there, like he was sitting right next to them, talking directly to them. 

Alastor started practicing the show host's accent all the time. He wanted to be just like him.

When he wasn't working on the farm or spending time at a friend's house, Alastor was in the barn with the radio. He checked out books on electronics and began to fidget with all of the black and red snaked wires. He became fascinated with tangles. It made him curious about the insides of other things.

But that's neither here nor there.

He took apart his alarm clock and put it back together. He took apart the telephone and put it back together. And then one Sunday, Alastor twisted a green wire with a yellow one, and switched the radio on, and the voice of the radio broadcaster he loved so much spilled out.

He did it all without attracting the attention of his father who insisted radio programs ruined the sanctity of a home. Said people should be going outside or reading the newspaper instead of spending so much time huddled in front of a chunk of wood and brass.

That was why Alastor never brought the radio in the house. He was too afraid of his father finding out and taking it away. He started spending more and more time inside of the barn. He'd sing along to jazz songs while he groomed the horses and fed the sheep. He practiced his accent while he collected eggs from the hens and changed out the water for the cattle. He started sneaking out of his bedroom at night and falling asleep in the hayloft, clutching the radio like it was a teddy bear.

Which is how his father found him. Alastor woke up in the morning to see him towering over him. Alastor jolted back, bits of yellow straw sticking up in his hair, and curled into himself.

His father's eyes settled over the radio like a frost. "You been spending all your time in here with this radio, boy?"

Alastor's arms tightened around it. "I ... I fixed it."

His voice didn't have strength and confidence like how he'd been practicing. It was too high and too thin—small. 

His father reached down and plucked it from Alastor's grasp. Then, he threw it against the wall, so hard, it shattered into a million pieces.

"You can't fix junk," he told him.

Alastor saw his father gut a deer once. He had hung it on a hook and scraped out all of its insides.

He felt like that deer now—like father had just taken out everything good inside of him and threw it in the trash. Months and months of hard work, and Alastor's one solace and comfort, was just ... gone. Just like that.

He picked up the pieces of the radio long after his father left the hayloft. It turned out he could fix it. It took even longer the second time around. It was almost a year before he was able to buy all of the parts because the pieces were even more expensive and harder to find, but Alastor did it. He even carved and finished the wood himself.

Later on, his father told him it was to teach him some humility. Life isn't always fair, he would say. You can be on top of the world one second, and the next, God can take it all away, so you better learn to roll with the punches, but Alastor knows now it was all a way to control and dehumanize him. His father always had a way of making him feel small, so Alastor worked his entire life to make himself big.

The spinel burns in Alastor's pocket as if it has been sitting near hellfire all day. He pulls it out and holds it up between his thumb and pointer finger. It glows scarlet in the shadows. 

"Sentient rocks, indeed," he mutters.

🎶 📻 🎶

TWO WEEKS LATER

"You people are crazy!"

It's a demon in the shape of a shrew. He is covered head to toe in light brown fur and tied to a chair on the roof of the Hazbin Hotel—without the princess' knowledge, of course. 

The blood-red sky is flung out above them, dotted with tiny pinholes of starlight. A mass of charcoal buildings surround them and spread out in the distance, the sound of chaos and traffic blaring in the background. 

The shrew demon's long nose is adorned with a pair of circular spectacles, and he's wearing an emerald sweater vest, rat-like tail curled around his feet as he struggles against his bindings.

Husk tightens the rope. "You're the one making this difficult."

"This is ridiculous! Let me go!"

"We can't do that I'm afraid." 

Alastor steps forward from the shadows with his arms folded neatly behind his back. Power ripples off of him in waves, the air hissing with something malicious and electric, making the shrew demon's fur stand up on ends. 

Alastor circles him like a shark, voice as light and airy as an afternoon breeze. "Niffty is under my protection, you see. I can't let you off after what you've done."

The full force of the Radio Demon standing before the shrew seems to unnerve him. He starts thrashing more desperately.

"From what I understand, our darling Niffty here has already tried to be reasonable with you." Alastor summons his cane and taps the grill of his microphone. It hums to life and burns stop sign red. "Isn't that so, darling?"

"Yes," Niffty says. She glares and crosses her arms. "And he still refused to do it."

"Because I don't have to do anything," the shrew snaps back.

"Ah!" Alastor laments. "Pity! I guess we shall have to use force then."

Horror widens the shrew's beady eyes. "No. You can't—you can't make me!"

A sharp, crazed grin spreads across Niffty's face. She hops onto the shrew's knee and points a sewing needle to his throat that is as long and pointed as a rapier. "Oh," she says. "We can."

"Husker!" Alastor calls. "Bring out ... the machine." His voice darkens in pitch and a sound effect of thunder cracks in the background. He throws in a pinch of 'mad scientist' laughter that he may or may not have recorded while scrubbing in on one of Baxter's experiments.

Husk rolls his eyes at the theatrics. Grumbling, he walks off to fetch a 'machine' that Alastor very well could have summoned himself. He wheels it out on a cart and stops it in front of the shrew demon, who starts fighting and twisting harder against the ropes, until Niffty presses the point of her needle against his Adam's apple, making him freeze.

"W-wait! Maybe we can talk about this!"

"Too late!" Alastor cries. "We've already given you the chance to apologize! Alas! This is your own doing."

"Come on," the shrew pleads. "Anything but this."

"It must be done," Alastor says.

"For my honor," Niffty agrees.

"Please."

"Nope!" Alastor's smile brightens. "Now, Husker! Unbind his hand and bring it before our gadget here!"

Husk does what he's told, freeing the shrew demon's right hand and holding it down against the cart, keeping a firm grip on his wrist. The shrew's tail twitches, curled across his loafers, clearly wanting to struggle more, but cannot with Niffty's needle pressed against his pulse.

"Wonderful! So ... " A wrongness spreads across Alastor's face, elongating his already sharp fangs into a grotesque crocodile smile, eyes sinking into black holes, antlers groaning and stretching over his head. " Shall we begin?"

The shrew's face pinches into a silent scream. He desperately tries to back away, kicking and cowering further into his chair, sweat rolling off of him as Alastor extends his claws and stalks closer ...

"Uncle Al!"

Everyone freezes.

Husk widens his eyes. "Is that the kid? " he mouths.

"Uncle Al, it's me! It's—it's Imogen!"  Alastor's microphone blinks with every word, her excited voice brightening the air. "Can you hear me? Over."

The shrew demon's face screws up in confusion. His beady eyes flick from Alastor to his microphone.

Husk shakes his head. "Don't answer it," he mouths.

"Uncle Al? Hello?"

There's a flicker of movement, and suddenly, Alastor returns to his regular form, grabbing the microphone and beaming. "Imogen! Hello!"

Husk slaps his palm against his face.

"Oh, my gosh! It really does work!" Imogen says, and Alastor can hear her smiling. "How are you? What are you doing?"

"I am enjoying a quiet evening with my associates!"

Imogen's voice pitches with confusion. "What's an associate?"

"Business partners, colleagues, compatriots ..."

"Oh," Imogen says. "So like a friend? Can I meet them and say hi?"

"Of course!" 

Alastor shoves the microphone at Niffty, who lights up and lowers her needle. "Hi, I'm Niffty! It's nice to meet you."

"Hi, Niffty! I'm Imogen. Since your friend's with Uncle Al then maybe we can be friends too?"

"Oh my gosh, yes! I'd love that!"

"Okay, good! What do you like to do for fun?"

"I like reading and writing fanfiction! And sewing!"

"What's fanfiction?" Imogen asks.

"They're stories about my favorite characters!"

"Ooooh," Imogen says. "That's so cool! What are you writing about right now?"

"I'm writing about my favorite ship! Chaggistor!"

"What's that?"

"It's Alastor in a relationship with two girls we know."

Alastor swivels his head. "What?"

"It's with the Princess of Hell and her girlfriend," Niffty adds.

Alastor cocks his head so far that it nearly snaps off his neck. "What? "

"They work at a coffee shop instead of a hotel. There's some enemies to lovers vibes with Al and Vaggie, but it all works out in the end. I also have a space opera romance with Husk and Baxter. No one else sees their potential, but I think it'll kick off one day."

"What the fuck?" Husk is so shocked he drops the shrew's hand. "I've spoken, like, two words to that guy!"

"That's what I'm saying," the shrew demon says. "It's completely unrealistic."

Husk points a long claw at his nose. "No one asked you, you fuckin' clown!"

"Cool!" Imogen says. "Do you write stories about Sailor Moon ever?"

"No!" Niffty says. "Who is that?"

"Oh, you should come out for my birthday next year, and I'll show you, but she's a sailor scout who fights evil by moonlight. Her boyfriend is this guy named Tuxedo Mask."

"Oh my gosh! How cute! I love romance!" Niffty's eye turns to Husk. "Do you want to meet Al's other friends?"

Husk's eyes widen. He frantically shakes his head.

"Yeah!" Imogen says.

"Okay, here!"

Niffty steps back for Alastor to push the microphone at Husk. 

He sighs. "Hey, kid."

"Wow," Imogen says. "Your voice is real deep. Are you Uncle Al's grandpa?"

Husk sputters. "What? Of course not!"

"Oh, sorry. You just kinda sound like a grandpa. What's your name?"

"Husk."

"Husk? " Imogen repeats. "Like for corn?"

"Yeah, I ... guess so."

"Wow, your parents were real mean to you, huh?"

Husk laughs despite himself. "You could say that."

"Sorry. You can do a lot with corn, if that makes you feel any better. There's sweet corn, savory corn, popcorn, corn on the cob, elote ..."

The list goes on. And on. The captive demon groans. "Oh my god, someone shut her up. Nobody cares about corn!"

Alastor promptly summons an ear of corn and shoves it down the demon's throat. He gags, choking on it.

"What was that?" Imogen asks.

"Uh, nothing," Husk says, sweating.

"Okay. Well! There's also baby corn, corn fritters, cornbread, corn chowder ..." Imogen lists about five other dishes and finally pauses. "Hmm. I think that's all I can think of."

Husk laughs. "You're right, kid. Lots of ways to make corn."

"Yeah! Too bad I hate corn."

The demon spits out the whole ear of corn. "Are you fucking kidding me? " he snarls.

Husk narrows his eyes. He picks up the corn and whacks the guy over the head with it like it's a wadded up newspaper.

"I still like you though, Husk," Imogen says. "So don't worry!" 

A faint smile. "Oh, thank goodness," Husk says.

"Kid is fucking annoying," the demon grumbles, and then yowls when Alastor grabs a fistful of fur on the back of his head, pulling so hard, he's forced to look at Alastor from upside down.

The Radio Demon's eyes glow pure crimson and his smile widens to reveal a dazzle of scissor-sharp teeth. His voice lowers and reverberates to a dangerous hiss. "You shut your dirty mouth before I have Niffty shut it for you."

Niffty giggles and brandishes her oversized needle. Its point glints, terribly sharp.

Sweat beads the demon's forehead. "Y-yes, sir," he squeaks.

"Imogen, come on!" It's her mother's voice, rising from somewhere in the background. "We have to get going!"

"Sorry, I gotta go now, Uncle Al. I'm going trick-or-treating with my mom and Ollie. He's going as a Jedi, and I'm going as Sailor Moon! I'll save you some candy for when you show up for my birthday next time, okay? Bye!"

"Bye!" Alastor says, and vanishes the microphone with a puff. He returns his attention back to the shrew demon. "Apologies for the interruption. Where were we?"

"We were going to make him delete his post," Niffty says.

"Ah! Yes!" Alastor flicks his wrist. "Well, go on then. Delete it!"

"Oh, come on," the shrew protests. "I spent an hour on this review. It's not my fault your friend can't take constructive feedback."

"Feedback?" Niffty's pupil dilates to a pinprick. "You call what you wrote feedback?"

"Of course! I'm a fanfic critic! It's what I do."

"You wrote that I should put my fingers in a blender and never write again."

"Yeah," the shrew demon says, shrugging. "Like I said—feedback."

"But that's not even constructive!" Niffty cries. "That's—that's just—"

"Harassment," Husk finishes.

"Not true," says the shrew. "I'm just trying to do the community a favor."

"The community," Husk repeats.

"Yeah, the RadioHusk community. People who ship you and the Radio Demon with other people need to be stopped."

"Radio ..." Husk's face twists in horror. "You ship me with my boss?!"

"Of course!" the shrew cries. "It's the only real ship!"

Husk's lip pulls back into a snarl. "Are you fuckin' crazy?!"

"Yeah!" Niffty cries. "You don't know what you're talking about! It's Husker and Baxter for life!"

Husk rolls his eyes.

The shrew demon scoffs. "At least get their characterizations correct if you are going to write about a random pair that no one cares about."

Niffty jabs the needle at the shrew's throat. "Excuse me?"

"Y-You're writing about real people here!" the shrew blubbers out, craning his head away. "There sh-should be some kind of accountability to realism!"

"Oh my god," Husk says. "You're one to talk. You haven't spoken to anyone she's writing about until today."

"Yeah!" Niffty says. "I have! I know what I'm talking about."

"Okay, well, that makes it even worse! I've only heard of these people by word of mouth, and I know Husk would never be a bottom. And Baxter is way too nerdy to be a top, even if he is the captain of their spaceship."

Husk drops the shrew demon's wrist. "Oh, my god."

"Baxter is a character that's too intelligent for you to even be writing about anyway," the shrew carries on. "This is why you should leave the serious writing for the boys."

Niffy's eye flashes. "What? "

He chuckles, rat-like tail flickering back and forth. "You clearly don't know how a space opera works. Not to mention the mechanics of a spaceship. I'd tell you to research it, but that kind of information would flatten your female mind. If you want to know how to write a real space opera, then look up space_walker1234. He wrote the greatest fanfiction of all time. Not that someone like you could ever compare to his prose, his elegance, his sheer—"

"space_walker1234 is a woman," Niffty says.

The shrew freezes. "What?"

Now it's Niffty who's laughing. "Don't you know that?"

"You're lying!"

"No, I'm not. I met her at a We’ve Got Balls."

Husk makes a face. "Is that a bad boba place or ..."

She giggles. "Of course not, silly! It's my crochet group."

"There's no way that's true," the shrew demon insists. "That person must have been lying to you."

"Nope!" Niffty beams. "She sent me a chapter she's working on. It's a RadioSnake time travel fic. It's really good so far!"

The shrew glares. "Now I know you're lying! space_walker1234 would never write that pairing! And there's no way he would trust the likes of you to—"

Alastor grabs the shrew demon by his windpipe. He's cut off with a squeaking wheeze, resembling a dog's toy, and then widens his tiny eyes as Alastor leans in, nose-to-nose, the air crackling with devil-hot airwaves. 

"I am sick and tired of your pompous attitude. You are in no position to argue. Delete your review. Now. Or I will personally stuff your fingers into a blender and serve them as purée downstairs at Princess Charlie's Halloween party."

Alastor abruptly releases him and the shrew crashes backwards and then forwards against the cart, nearly knocking off 'the machine' which just happens to be Niffty's laptop. He gulps in strangled knots of air, grasping at his neck with his free hand.

Everyone waits. Slowly, with trembling fingers, the shrew demon logs onto his account and then taps the touchpad.

"There," he rasps. "I deleted it. Can I go now?"

"Yes!" Alastor shoos him away like an unwanted stray. "Off with you."

Husk severs the ropes with a swipe of his claws. The shrew shoots to a stand, wobbly on his feet, still lightheaded from Alastor's hands on his throat. He stumbles for the doorway that leads to the stairs down into the hotel.

"But remember," Alastor adds, and he freezes. "If you continue to harass Niffty and her work, I will find you." His cruel smile broadens. "Understand?"

"Y-yes."

"Splendid! Off you go!"

The shrew lunges forward like a racehorse exploding from its stall, only for Niffty appear out in front of him, cutting him off. He tries to run around her, but she zooms out again, giggling, forcing him away from exit. When he tries to get around her, she holds out her foot. He stumbles backwards and cries out, teetering over the edge of the roof, pinwheeling his arms for balance.

Niffty leaps up and shoves him in the chest. 

A strangled scream pierces the air. Alastor leans over to watch him plummet straight down. He splatters like cranberry sauce against the sidewalk.

Husk's eye twitches. He and Alastor slowly turn to look at her.

Niffty lifts her shoulders in a defensive shrug. "What?"

🎶 📻 🎶

NOVEMBER

"Uncle Al! Uncle Al, it's me!"

"Yes, yes!" Alastor tosses some rice in a pan. "Hello!"

"What are you doing right now?"

"I'm cooking!"

"Cooking what?"

There's a blast of heat as a large column of fire shoots up from the stove, crackling and licking the bottom of the pan. Deep-orange light flickers across Alastor's excited grin. "Jambalaya!"

"That sounds like a made up word," Imogen says.

Alastor is scandalized. "You've never had jambalaya?! "

"I don't think so. What is it?"

"What—what is it? " Alastor feels himself rolling over in his own grave. "It's incredible! A Louisiana staple! I'll make it for your birthday next year."

"Okay! What's it taste like?"

"Savory, spicy and ..." The last descriptor hits him as he flips the chicken and shrimp in the pan. "Meaty!"

"Oh," Imogen says solemnly. "I can't eat it then."

"Why not?"

"I decided I'm gonna be a vegan."

"What the devil is a vegan?"

"It's someone who doesn't eat any animal products."

Alastor freezes. "You mean a vegetarian?"

"Vegetarians still drink milk and eat cheese and stuff, Uncle Al. I'm not gonna do that though because people are mean to mama cows."

"What? "

"I know! It's horrible."

"That's nonsense! Cows are fine!"

"No they're not, Uncle Al! Mama cows have been bred for over a millennia to make lots and lots of milk. They artificially impregnate them and then they take their babies away so they won't drink all their milk. They separate them! It's inhumane." She sucks in a big breath, winded from her rant. "Don't worry though. You can just make me jambalaya without any meat in it."

Dead silence.

"Hello?"

Alastor stares straight ahead at the wall. Static drones in his head, and there is no life behind his eyes. His soul, for all intensive purposes, has flown off of the air.

There's a loud burst of feedback as Imogen taps her fingers against the mic. "Uncle Al, are you there? Hello? Hellloooo?"

🎶 📻 🎶

DECEMBER

Alastor has just decapitated a demon dressed as Santa Claus with a reputation for exposing himself to women and random reindeer. He's just saved said reindeer from the horrid sight in the back of a Karmpus Market. They munch on the flesh of what Alastor expects to be a Christmas elf, idly watching Alastor from their stalls. The demon has the characteristics of a rooster and is now running back and forth without his head when Imogen tunes in.

"Hi, Uncle Al!"

"Hello, hello!!"

There's a crowd of imps and Sinner demons shoving into each other, creating a swell, trying to get away. The rooster demon sprints and smacks into the side of a building serving hot chocolate, falling over like a heavy block of wood. He reaches out his hand, desperately pawing at the ground, searching blindly for his head.

Alastor kicks his head out of reach. It smacks against a garbage can and squawks out an ear-piercing COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO, so Alastor steals a nutcracker from a nearby vendor and beats him with it. The rooster's eyes roll into the back of his head and then stills.

"What's that?" Imogen asks.

"Nothing of importance."

"Are you sure? It sounds like people are yelling."

Alastor watches the rooster demon belly-crawl along the ground, still searching for his head. "There's a holiday sale on drumsticks."

"Oh."

"Enough about that! What are you up to?"

"I'm eating ice cream," Imogen says.

"I thought you were going vegan."

"I changed my mind. I like ice cream too much."

Praise Satan, Alastor thinks, but only says, "Oh? What's your favorite flavor?"

"It changes a lot. Right now it's prune."

"There's prune flavored ice cream?"

"Yeah, but no one ever picks it. That's why I do, so it doesn't get lonely."

"I see! Do you have any holiday plans this year?"

"We'll probably go to my grandpa's house next weekend. Today, my mom is going to take me to the mall to meet Santa. I ask him for a puppy every year, and every year, it never happens, but I feel strongly this time." He hears her shuffle around. "Uncle Al, can I ask you an important question?"

"Of course!"

"Okay. I was wondering if you have friends on the other side?"

"The other side of what?"

"I don't know," Imogen says. "That's just what the song is called."

"What song?"

"The one Dr. Facilier sings."

"Am I supposed to know who that is?"

"He's from a movie," Imogen tells him. "You know, the one with the frog? It takes place in Louisiana."

"Really?" Alastor is intrigued. "What kind of song is this?"

"It's really spooky and jazzy. He's got shadow friends like you. And voodoo and hoodoo. Here, listen."

Alastor hears Imogen fumble about with something. Then, she starts playing the song. He has to strain to hear over the panic of the crowd.

Five minutes later, he is outraged.

"This guy has stolen my act!"

"So you do have friends on the other side?" Imogen asks, suddenly excited. "What are their names? Is it your pet octopus?"

"I've told you, Imogen. It's an eldritch horror."

"That's not a very nice thing to call your octopus, Uncle Al. You should name it Oswald. Or Captain Bubbles."

"Who wrote this fellow's song?" Alastor asks, redirecting the subject back to the task at hand.

"Uhhhh." Imogen pauses, thinking. "Disney?"

"Disney, you say?" Alastor remembers striking a deal with a fellow with that name. "I see. I think it's time I cash in a few favors then."

"Okay, good luck. Can you ask them if I can stay in Cinderella's Castle for my birthday?"

"What does Cinderealla have to do with anything?" Alastor's dinner has crawled halfway across the ground. "Apologies, I've got to go. Talk to you soon."

"Okay! Bye!"

"Toodaloo!"

🎶 📻 🎶

MARCH

"Hi, Uncle Al!"

"Hello! It's been a while. Anything new?"

"Yeah," Imogen says. "My mom's got a new boyfriend. His name is Robert. He stinks like monkey butt."

"Then you should tell him to jump into the river with a bar of soap!"

Imogen bursts into laughter. "I meant his personality stinks, Uncle Al!"

Alastor's smile widens into a genuine grin. "Ohhh, no fixing that with a bath, I'm afraid. How long has your mother been seeing him?"

"I don't know. Not that long. Guess what though!"

"What?"

"I'm playing the Big Bad Wolf in the school play! I get to eat a grandma and a kid. Then a hunter cuts me open and spills my entrails."

The radio audience ooo's and ahh's. "How exciting!"

"Yeah, I thought so too! I wanted to use ketchup for the fake blood, but Miss Sparrow won't let me. She said we have to keep it rated G. I told her that her vision lacks realism."

"Quite right!"

"Yeah, she's clearly never poked around at road kill before. Oh, Ollie just got here! He's in the play too. Say hi, Ollie."

"Hi," Oliver says, unenthused.

Alastor brightens. "Hello! How is the violin?"

"It's fine."

"Fine? Fine? "

"Yeah, I'm taking lessons now."

"Oh, well thank goodness for that."

"Hey!"

"What part did you get in the school play?"

"I'm the grandma," Oliver says.

"My sympathies. Imogen, make sure you season him. Oliver is very bland."

"HEY!"

"Lots of seasonings," Alastor insists.

Imogen takes back the mic. "Okay, I will. We gotta go now, Uncle Al. Oliver brought his Nintendo Switch over, and we're going to play Mario Party. I'll call you tonight to say goodnight."

"Wonderful! Have fun at Mario's party!"

She giggles, like he just said something funny. "Thanks! Toodaloo!"

"Toodaloo to you too!"

🎶 📻 🎶

JUNE

One lazy summer day, Alastor decides to tune in. "Hello!"

"Uncle Al!" Imogen cries. "It's you! Are you calling to say hi?"

"Yes! What are you doing?"

"I got a new book. It's really, really good. It's called Kiki's Delivery Service. She's a witch like me!"

"Intriguing! What kind of delivery service?"

"She delivers anything. I'll read it to you, okay? I'm working on my show-lady voice, so you can give me tips."

"Of course!"

Imogen clears her throat. "Once, there was a little town san-witched between ... a deep forest and gen ... gen... gentle! ... grassy hills ..."

She reads the whole first page. Alastor keeps interrupting her to give her tips—important ones like how she should drop her r's at the end of her words and to pronounce her t's as t's not d's and to stretch out her vowels, so words like "dance" becomes "dahns."

"You're getting the hang of it," Alastor tells her. "Keep practicing."

"Okay, I will! I gotta go now. My grandpa just got here and he promised we'd make lemonade for my lemonade stand. Ollie's coming over to help later."

"All right! Goodbye!"

"Bye, bye!"

Alastor vanishes the microphone and feels eyes boring into his back. He turns around.

Husk is standing there, stunned. "Holy shit."

"What?"

"You," Husk says. "You look ..."

"What?" Alastor knocks his fists on his hips. "Look like what, Husker?"

"Soft."

Alastor snaps his fingers. At once, a portal opens from the ground, and several tentacles shoot up and grab Husk by his arms and legs. They twist, dangling him upside down.

"What the fuck?!"

Alastor breezes to the door.

"Hey!" Husk yells. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll go cut someone up or mosey on down to my favorite voodoo shop. Either way, it will be long and slow. See you in a few hours."

"You son of a bitch! Get back here!"

"Good day, Husker!"

Alastor leaves. The door opens again a few moments later.

"Hey, Al, have you seen—"

Angel Dust stops in his tracks. He takes in Husk. Then the tentacles. Then Husk again.

He wiggles his eyebrows. "Kinky."

"Would you shut up and get me down from here?"

🎶 📻 🎶

Imogen calls him back later that same day after Oliver's left and they've finished with their lemonade stand. 

"Uncle Al, guess how much money we made!"

"I don't know! How much?"

"Fifty bucks!"

The studio audience lets out a series of awed sounds and loud cheers. "Incredible! You have a future in sales, kid! Keep it up!"

She giggles. "Thanks! I'm saving up for a bike I saw at Walmart. It has a pink basket and purple tassels."

"A fine investment!" Alastor declares, and then pauses. There's something playing in the background. It sounds like some sort of rock song. "What is that noise?"

"It's not noise," Imogen says. "It's The Beatles."

"They sound terrible. Get your mother to call the exterminator at once."

"They're not real beatles, Uncle, Al. They're a band!"

"I said what I said—call the exterminator."

"You don't know The Beatles?!"

"Am I supposed to?"

"Uncle Al, that is a crime. Don't worry, I'll turn it up and sing it for you."

"Please don't," Alastor says.

Imogen belts out, "LOOOVE, LOVE, LOVE!"

"No," Alastor says.

"ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE!"

"I can think of ten other things off the top of my head—radio, jazz, voodoo, black coffee, a smile, a suit, a raw venison steak, a couple of minions, some solid tap shoes, a tambourine ...."

"LOVE, LOVE, LOVVVEEE!"

"I am going to end this call."

"LOVE IS ALL YOU NEED!"

She keeps going until a dark cloud drones over his head and a headache begins to throb.

By the time Imogen is done, she's out of breath. "Uncle Al, did you really go?"

" ... No."

"Oh, good! I'm gonna sing we all live in a yellow submarine next."

Alastor's ears flick. "A yellow what?"

🎶 📻 🎶

AUGUST

Stormy nights in Hell are rare but not unheard of. It's pouring tonight, the rain lashing against the roof of Alastor's radio tower and streaming long silver fingers down the windows. The wind howls and makes his whole room shift back and forth, the rusted pipes holding his tower together groaning precariously.

But Alastor is not too concerned. Storms are one of the many things he misses about living in Louisiana. Any other person might have gone somewhere safe and turned in for the night, but Alastor sees it as a perfect opportunity to do a broadcast about the weather. Specifically, a fun guessing game about where lightning will strike next.

His listeners think Alastor has something to do with it, which is preposterous. He can't control the weather. It's not his fault lightning just happened to hit Tasty Tofu, a vegan restaurant that's been on his hitlist ever since he discovered what veganism is, but he likes the idea of his listeners believing he has something to do with it. Who knows where—or who—the Radio Demon will strike next!

Finally, after Alastor has had his fun, he signs off and leans back in his chair, kicking his feet up on his broadcast station. He considers going downstairs to bother Husker for a drink when Imogen tunes in.

"Uncle Al, can you hear me?"

Alastor picks up his microphone. "Loud and clear!" He checks the time. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

He hears Imogen sniffle. "I was asleep, but I had a bad dream."

"What sort of bad dream?"

"I had a dream that a monster ate you."

"Oh, how disgraceful! What kind of monster?"

"It was a bunny."

"A bunny?" Now Alastor is deeply offended. "That makes no sense at all. They don't even have the proper teeth!"

She lets out a wet laugh. "It wasn't a normal bunny. It was really big and it had a lot of sharp teeth. I tried to save you, but I couldn't."

"Ah, what an embarrassing way to go!" Alastor drapes his wrist against his forehead, forlorn. His actual death hadn't been his proudest moment either. It appears he can't escape the humiliation, even in a child's nightmares. "I thank you for trying."

But Imogen's voice is still thick with tears. "It was so scary. It pulled out all your juicy bits."

Alastor clicks his tongue. "Darling, I assure you, no monster—especially not a rabbit—is going to pull out my juicy bits."

Imogen sniffles again. "Promise?"

"Of course! No need to be upset. It was just a dream!"

"Still scared," Imogen says, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't think my black tourmaline is working. It's supposed to get rid of bad energy like that."

"Hmm. Perhaps it needs to be charged!"

He's only joking, but Imogen takes it seriously. "Maybe."

Suddenly, he can hear something else in the background. It sounds like two people are shouting, but it's muffled, as if coming from behind a closed door.

"What is that?"

"My mom and Robert are arguing in the kitchen. They're really loud. That's why I'm under the covers with Sour Gummy Worm and whispering. I don't want them to hear me."

"What are they arguing about?"

"I don't know. They argue a lot."

A quiet hum. "I see. That is unfortunate."

"Yeah ... " Her voice wobbles a little. "It makes me sad."

"Ah, then you should smile through it, my dear! Crying will only make you feel worse!"

"My mom says I should always cry if I'm sad because it's bad to keep sad feelings inside."

"Horrible advice!" Alastor declares, but Imogen just laughs.

"You're so funny, Uncle Al." She sniffles again. "I miss you a lot. Can you play me a song?"

"What kind of song?"

"I don't know. Something nice so I can fall asleep without bad dreams."

Alastor considers it. He used to have listeners write in with song requests all the time during his human years. He doesn't get too much of that now—he usually plays whatever he wants on the radio these days. 

He flips through a few selections until he comes across a song with soft, velvet harmonies. The sound quality is incredibly old and worn, white noise crackling in the background, but it's one of his favorites.

We'll meet again

Don't know how

Don't know when

But I know I'll see you again, some sunny day ...

"That's really pretty," Imogen says. "What is it?"

"We'll Meet Again by the Ink Spots."

"I like it."

"Good," Alastor says. "Now close your eyes and try to sleep."

"Okay, I'll try. Will you stay on with me until I fall asleep?"

"I have no choice." Alastor crosses his ankle over his knee. "I'm the one playing the song."

Imogen giggles. "Okay, good."

A small smile lifts the corner of Alastor's mouth. He plays the whole song and waits to see if Imogen is still awake after it's over, but the only sound is the rain drumming outside. Taking it as his cue to leave, he's about to tune out, when Imogen speaks again. "Hey, do you know any stories?"

He puffs out a surprised laugh. "My dear, you are talking to a radio host. I know plenty of stories!"

"Can you tell one?"

"You're supposed to be sleeping," Alastor reminds her.

"I will be soon. I can feel it."

Alastor chuckles. He rotates idly in his chair. "Fine, fine. What story shall I tell you?"

"Maybe your revenge on the bunny. Then I know it won't come back to haunt me, 'cause you'll get it."

Alastor spins back around to face the broadcast station. A wild, sadistic grin cuts across his face and lightning flashes. "Oh, I know exactly how I'd do it, too. But first ..." His voice immediately brightens. "A word from our sponsor! Ivory Soap! Specifically geared towards men named Robert who smell like a monkey's backside. Ivory Soap! It Floats!"

Imogen bursts into laughter. And Alastor cannot even begin his story, his shoulders hunched from laughing too hard.

🎶 📻 🎶

"Al. Al!"

Alastor jerks awake. His staff skids out from under him and nearly makes him fall forward onto his face. 

"Huh? What, what?"

Vaggie stands over him, frowning. "You were asleep in your chair. Have you been like this since last night?"

"I ..." Alastor blinks. He looks around and realizes he's still in his radio tower, pink light pouring in from the pentagram shining outside. The filter over his voice cuts out, genuinely surprised. "Have I?"

"I think so," Charlie says, just as bewildered.

Alastor had stayed up with Imogen later than he planned. She had liked We'll Meet Again so much that he had played it on repeat for her. The sound of an invisible stylus softly scratching against a spinning vinyl floats in the room, as if it's still going on the turntable long after the song ended. Dead air drones from his microphone—Imogen must be fast asleep on the other side. Alastor switches everything off and scrubs his face.

Vaggie crosses her arms. "Okay, what is going on?"

"I don't know what you mean, Vagatha."

"Cut the bullcrap, Al. Are you sick or something?"

"Of course not!" Alastor shoots to his feet and beams. "Fit as a fiddle!" Some notes of Old Joe Clark play over his words.

"Yeah, right. The last time I saw you 'sleep' was when I went into the kitchen for a midnight snack and found you standing stock still next to the fridge with your eyes wide open."

"Yes, because you were after my bread pudding!"

Vaggie scoffs. "You don't even like bread pudding!"

"So? It's still my mother's recipe. It must be protected at all costs!"

"Why did you even make it if you don't ..." Vaggie sighs. "Nevermind! Are you sure you're feeling all right?"

"Yes, yes! I told you I was!"

"Okay, but if something is going on, you need to tell us. We can't have you running the hotel alone for two weeks if something major is going on."

Alastor arches an eyebrow, amused. "You think me sleeping equates to something major going on?"

"Uh, hello? It's you? " When Alastor does not respond, Vaggie waves her arms for emphasis. "The Radio Demon?"

"Quite aware of that, thank you."

Charlie steps forward before Vaggie can lose her cool, smiling one of her wide, nervous smiles. "What Vaggie means to say is that if something is bothering you, you can confide in us, Al. We're your friends!"

Alastor bursts out laughing. "Oh! Oh, I see! It has everything to do with my well-being and not your anniversary plans."

Charlie flushes, abashed. "You know that's not true! We do care about you, Alastor!"

He chuckles and massages the back of his neck. His body aches from being cramped up in the chair all night. Without thinking, he hooks his hand over the top of his head and yanks it hard to the side. His bones dislocate with a wet crunching sound.

Vaggie flinches, disgusted. He shoves his head back on straight, feeling his bones pop back into place with a satisfying crack.

Ah! Much better.

"Well!" he says. "As touched as I am about your concern, I am perfectly well. Nothing wrong with catching a few z's now and then. To what do I owe this morning visit?"

"It's the afternoon," Vaggie says flatly.

Alastor blinks, surprised. "Is it?"

"Yes! Why do you think we were concerned?"

He laughs and waves off the comment with a flick of his wrist. "Like I said! Nothing to fear, just catching up on some shuteye!"

Vaggie scowls, clearly thinking there's something more serious afoot here, but Charlie's face warms with a small smile. "Well, clearly you needed the rest. I'm glad you got some sleep, Al." 

"Thank you!"

Charlie clears her throat. "So, um. We actually do want to go over some things for when we're gone in October ..."

"Ah-ha!" Alastor points at her. "I knew this was about your anniversary!"

"No, no!" Charlie waves her hands, frantic. "Really! We did come to check up on you but since we're here ..."

Vaggie places a hand on her shoulder. "Don't let him fluster you, hon. He knows we had to go over stuff today."

"Oh." Charlie chuckles. "Right." She gestures to the sofa. "Can we sit down?"

"Of course!" Alastor cries. "Do you ladies want something to drink? Coffee? Tea?"

Horror widens Charlie's eyes. "No, no that's really not—"

But a teacup manifests into her hand, followed by a teapot that poofs into existence and floats above her. It tips over and pours liquid straight down into Charlie's teacup. An eyeball pops up to the surface a second later.

Charlie sighs.

🎶 📻 🎶

SEPTEMBER

Slowly, Imogen starts to radio Alastor less and less. She used to call a few times a week. A few times a week turns into once a week. Now, it's been nearly a month, with only a few calls sprinkled throughout. Alastor figures her new toy must finally be losing its shine. 

"Alastor, dear, are you pouting?"

"Of course not." Alastor kicks a pebble with his shoe. "I am simply contemplating."

Alastor is escorting his good friend Rosie through the park. It is a fine day. The pentagram is shining more Turkish delight pink than lollipop red. They stroll arm and arm through worn dirt paths that wind through rows of mighty trees and beautiful rose bushes.

"From what you tell me, she certainly adores you," Rosie says, peering her moon-hollow eyes up at him. "I don't think you have cause for concern. Perhaps she is busy with school."

"Perhaps," Alastor says, but he does not sound convinced. 

The path approaches a vast lake in the center of the park. It glistens bloodred, reflecting the sky above, the light shimmering across the surface like little pink diamonds. A calm breeze billows through Alastor's hair, and a few white ducks float past, comfy and quacking.

Rosie interprets his silence as more sulking and pats him on the arm. "There, there, dear. Maybe you shouldn't take it so personally. It's perfectly normal for children to pull away a little as they get older."

"Do you think so?"

"Of course! Every parent goes through this. Or, so I am told."

Alastor sputters. "Parent ? I'm not her parent!"

"No?" She lifts her eyebrows, amused. "You certainly sound like one."

"On the contrary! I am her ..." Alastor struggles for the word. "Deal maker!"

Rosie bursts out laughing. "Oh, all right! If you say so!"

Her laughter is contagious and pulls a genuine grin out of him. Though it is short- lived, quickly fading into a closed mouthed smile. 

He doesn't tell Rosie what's truly been bothering him—the fact that Imogen's mother and her boyfriend have been arguing. The communication started to fizzle out shortly after Imogen called him that night crying from a nightmare. If the calls started to fade under different circumstances, Alastor does not think he would be so concerned, but ...

Well. Alastor remembers what life was like with his parents. He started distancing himself when their arguing became especially violent. Perhaps this is something similar.

He kicks another rock, frustrated. Even if something truly is wrong, there is not much Alastor can do about it. He is only able to travel to Earth once a year and it's not as though he can send any of his shadows to keep an eye on her. 

Sensing a change in mood, Rosie tilts her head curiously. "If you are genuinely worried, you could always outright ask her if everything is okay, can't you?"

Alastor's thought of that. He's tried contacting her twice this week to see. Each time she must've been away from her radio.

"Yes ..." He twiddles his microphone cane. "I suppose that's true."

She tugs on his arm. "Come on, let's get your mind off it. Want to feed the ducks?"

"You go ahead. I'll watch."

Rosie shrugs and slips out of his grasp to stride ahead. She digs into the picnic basket looped at her elbow, pulling out a handful of raw meat chopped into cubes. She tosses them out into the water, and the ducks all dive towards her at once, lunging and snapping their greedy bills. Two of them break out into a fight over quite a large piece, kicking up water and quacking madly. A smaller duck nabs it while they're distracted and swims away.

Alastor snorts, amused, when suddenly, Imogen tunes in. 

"Uncle Al—"

There's a loud crash followed by a screech of radio feedback. 

Alastor cringes. "Hello?"

"Un—Al—" she hears him say, and then she's black and white, dappled like static. 

He taps the mic. "Hello? Imogen, are you there?"

It's a very bad connection like she's in the mountains and he's only able to catch every third word. He tries to listen, but he's only getting bits and pieces.

"No—d—n't!"

There's another crash. 

"Hello?" Alastor says. "Hello?"

The line goes dead.

Chapter Text

Demons destroyed their radios the night after Alastor manifested in Hell. He remembered it like it was yesterday—thousands of radios piled on top of each other in the streets and the bonfires that followed. It was a devastating sight, flames shaking up towards the sky, the air black from the smoke and aglitter with embers intermingling with tufts of white ash.

Strategically, it made sense. Burning their radios was the only way they could get the Radio Demon's voice out of their heads. Alastor had reached out and tried to summon every bit of his power to bring them back, but there were some things that even he could not fix.

It was like that now. Airwaves gibbered under Alastor's fingers, sputtering like a hummingbird's heartbeat going out, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not reach Imogen again.

He knows Imogen would never destroy her radio herself. So that means someone else had.

Maybe one of Imogen's classmates were responsible. Oliver had mentioned the other kids at school were mean to her, but Imogen never brought up a bully to Alastor before. She had brought up her mother and Robert several times, and anytime Alastor had heard their arguments in the background, they sounded heated. Perhaps Imogen's radio had gotten caught in the crossfire—or, perhaps, whatever happened had been an accident.

All Alastor can do is speculate. He cannot go to Earth early, no matter how badly he wants to or how hard he tries. He knows because he did try—it ended with the Contract Reader teleporting him straight back outside the building eight times in a row. Forcing the iron gate open would do no good either, as no portal would appear for him, and it's not as if Alastor has another way of getting there.

He feels like he is losing his grip, like the bit of control he had is a rope reeling out of his hands. Alastor hates being powerless. He hates not knowing if Imogen is all right. Every morning there is an uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach, a nagging voice telling him that something is wrong.

And he can't do a damn thing about it until October 16th.

So, he buries himself in his work. He disappears into his radio tower for hours at a time and does not emerge until Husk or Niffty check on him. He actually contributes ideas on how to improve the hotel during his meetings with Charlie, even though their opinions on what makes things better wildly differ. He routinely communicates with guests, goes over health hazard concerns with Niffty, and vanishes at night to go on violent rampages when the anxiety is especially high.

All of it finally comes to a head when Charlie and Vaggie leave for their anniversary. Alastor sees them off in front of the hotel while they await their limousine.

Vaggie fiddles with the strap to her duffle bag. "Are you sure you can handle everything on your own?"

"Of course!" Alastor says. "We've been over this."

She crosses her arms. "Yeah, but ... you've been acting weird lately."

"Oh?" He cocks his head. "How so?"

"You've been broadcasting an awful lot. And actually contributing to our activities, addressing issues at the hotel, communicating with customers ..."

"Isn't that my job?"

"Yeah," Vaggie says, shooting him a dark look. "That's what makes it suspicious."

Alastor feigns offense. "You wound me, Vagatha. I have always taken this position seriously!"

"Yeah, for your entertainment!"

But Charlie just laughs. "Oh, I think he's been great! Alastor's really shown that he's able to handle this on his own."

"Aha! See! The princess believes in me. You can count on me too, Vagatha! I'll be on my best behavior." Here, the corners of Alastor's smile sharpen. "Cross my heart and hope to die!"

Vaggie narrows her eyes. "You're already dead, asshole."

"What are you waiting for?" Alastor cries, spotting the limo in the distance. "Don't you have some passionate necking to get to?"'

Vaggie turns as red as a ripe tomato. "That's not—we're—"

Charlie beams and loops her arm with hers. "We do have to get going. Just promise to call if there are any issues, okay?"

"Of course! Enjoy your vacation!"

"Thanks!"

The limousine drives up to the entrance and comes to a stop. Alastor, ever the Southern gentleman, swings the door open, and Charlie and Vaggie slide into their seats. The driver comes around to pile their luggage into the trunk. 

Charlie rolls down her window. "I really do believe in you, Al, okay? You got this!" She gives him two thumbs up. "But again if there are any issues at all ..."

Alastor brightens. "Then there's nothing you can do! Your tickets to Hellsney World are nonrefundable!"

"Okay, well, true! But—"

Alastor waves. "Tah-tah, for now!"

The limo abruptly drives off, so fast, the tires screech against the pavement. Alastor waits with a large smile on his face until they are out of sight.

Husk stops next to him. "So, they're gone, huh?"

"Yes!" Alastor checks his watch. "Oh! By the way! I'm leaving at midnight so you'll be in charge until I get back."

"Fucking excuse me? "

"It'll be October 16th! I have a deal to keep!"

"You don't have to leave at midnight," Husk argues. "The kid will be asleep!"

"Ah, but I must! So many plans and only a single day to complete them all!" Alastor splays his hand over his heart. "It's such a heavy burden, keeping track of all of these poor souls, making their wildest dreams come true, but I suppose someone must do it. You of all people should understand."

Husk rolls his eyes. "Whatever. If that's your way of saying you're worried about the kid, then fine."

"Who said anything about being worried?"

"That's the thing," Husk says. He turns his head and looks right at him. "You don't have to."

🎶 📻 🎶

True to his word, Alastor manifests in Imogen's driveway at midnight. 

A sickle moon grins down at him from the velvet black sky. The wind stirs the autumn trees, branches brushing against each other, letting out a soft woosh, woosh sound. Crickets sing and an owl hoots somewhere in the distance, moths beating against the porchlight.

Four things stand out to Alastor straight away:

1. The garden, although always half-dead, is now completely void of life. The flowers are small and withered, the leaves leached of all of their color, as though they've shriveled up underneath a desert sun. Even the grass circled around the house is limp and yellow. It turns green again about five feet away from the porch.
2. There are two cars in the driveway. He recognizes the first one as Mallory's. The other is a red pickup truck he's never seen before, parked directly behind Mallory's car, even though there is space to park next to it, as if purposely blocking it in.
3. The lights are on in the house even though everyone should be asleep.
4. The front door is wide open.

Cold fingers run up Alastor's spine, raising hackles. He does not even bother to walk up to the door. He teleports straight inside of Imogen's bedroom.

"Imogen?"

She isn't in her bed. The sheets are tangled, and when Alastor checks underneath her pillows, they're still warm. He supposes it's possible she is somewhere else in the house but at this hour?

A distant part of him wonders if she's run away again. An even more distant part imagines something far worse.

He looks around, eyes glowing in the shadows, the sound of a radio dial crackling. The Owl City poster is still on the door. Her collection of crystals and gemstones still glitter on the dresser. The group photo he took with Imogen and Oliver has been added to the photo collage on the wall. But no Imogen.

"LET GO OF ME!"

It's Imogen's mother. It's followed by the sting of a slap. It's a sound you can recognize from any other, if you have heard it before, and the sheer shock of it strikes like a jolt in Alastor's chest.

The ceiling lights begin to flicker on and off. The air suddenly feels too small and too thin. Alastor can hear a man yelling in the other room. Mallory's voice intermingles with his, roaring to be heard over his shouting, two hurricanes crashing into each other.

That's when he notices the portable radio on the dresser.

It looks as if someone has taken a baseball bat to it or threw it against the wall. The baby pink metal is folded into itself. A speaker is missing. The cord to the microphone has been ripped out, the copper wires frayed and exposed. Scotch tape holds the whole thing together, as if Imogen had tried to fix it herself.

Alastor's suspicions are confirmed. Someone destroyed his present for Imogen, and he cannot think. He cannot breathe. His fury surges in his magic as he picks the radio up and wills it back to how it was.

Alastor still has no idea where Imogen is.

The arguing from the other room is getting more and more escalated. Imogen can be hiding. He turns around and accidentally kicks something. It's a child's sneaker, a small light up one that blinks bright red over and over, and tumbles in front of Imogen's makeshift tent. He can make out a blanket inside and a lumpy shape underneath it.

Dread clenches in his stomach. Slowly, Alastor lifts the blanket.

Imogen is a crumpled heap on the floor, her hair a spill of black curls. She is wearing one sock that is only halfway on, and Alastor can't believe he even notices. 

A garbled sound catches in his throat. He crouches and gently rolls her over.

She is barely recognizable. Her left eye is swollen shut and a bruise is starting to purple one cheek. Blood smears her face; her nose is broken and she's unconscious.

A burning rage fills him, quick as the strike of a match. He can feel it scorching through his veins and igniting his insides. An electrical gibber crackles through the air. His chest begins to heave.

She's breathing but barely. It comes out as a tiny, pathetic wheeze, like she's trying to breathe out of a straw.

Alastor can heal but it isn't painless. He cups the back of her head, claws tangling into her blood soaked hair and squeezes.

Imogen's good eye flies open. She screams. It's a horrible, gut-wrenching sound, and Alastor's soul splits in two. She clings to him so hard that her nails dig half-moons into his skin. Her nose clicks back into place. The swelling around her eye begins to clear, the bruises fading, the blood slowly draining back into her split lip.

Finally, when her wounds have stitched shut, Imogen sucks in a rattling gasp. She blinks up at him, eyes red-rimmed and tears silvering her cheeks. She stares at him for a moment as if trying to place him before her face crumples into a sob, and she throws her arms around his neck.

Static electricity buzzes and prickles all over Alastor's skin. He doesn't remember the last time he allowed someone to embrace him without initiating it himself. It makes him want to claw at his own body, rip it apart, bit by bit, until there's nothing left and he can stop feeling so raw and devastated and heavy.

Still, he hugs her back. 

Imogen presses her face into his chest and tries to suck in the sound of her sorrow but everything just keeps trickling out.

Alastor's head pounds. He feels his antlers groaning and stretching wider. His words are not just the speckled droning of static, but they all have sharp edges, enough to cut his tongue. "Who did this to you? " 

But Imogen has crossed the line of panic that small children sometimes do, where her skin is hot and her breath comes in gasps, a punctuation of hysteria.

Then, Alastor hears it again—a glass shattering from somewhere outside. There's shouting, followed by the sounds of a struggle. A man's voice booms, and Imogen grabs onto Alastor like a lifeline, eyes wide with panic. And suddenly, Alastor has a very good idea of who did this.

Alastor picks her up and sets her down on her bed, eerily calm. He cloaks one of her blankets around her shoulders. Imogen hugs her stuffed unicorn to her chest, still crying, large eyes flicking up to his.

"I will be right back. Do not leave your room. Do you understand?"

She lunges and latches onto his sleeve.

"I'm coming right back. Do not leave your room. I'll return when I'm done." When she starts to panic, Alastor holds out his pinky. "I promise."

The tears keep rushing but she holds up her pinky too, shaking. Their fingers interlock. 

And then Alastor heads for the door.

🎶 📻 🎶

Mallory and the man—Robert, Alastor assumes—have stopped screaming at each other.

Instead there's an unsettling silence.

Alastor locks Imogen's bedroom door. He notices scratch marks along the side of the doorframe, deep grooves in the wood.

His eyes drift down the hallway. A radio dial crackles to life, Alastor's mind shuffling through stations, putting the pieces together.

A red smudge slashes along the side of the wall like a comet tail. Family photos have either crashed to the floor or are tilted at an angle. There's another smear on the wall, below the first one, as if fingers had trailed along, leaving the telltale sign of violence in their wake.

Blood.

The static in the air intensifies, a creeping, crawling threat. Alastor follows the trail down the hallway and into the living room.

More signs of a struggle. A small accent table next to the couch is knocked over on its side. The drawer is popped open, spilling out knick-knacks and loose leaf papers. A gray stain spreads on the wall over the television, some kind of liquid, glass shattered on the carpet underneath it.

Alastor moves on into the kitchen.

He finds Mallory pinned against the wall with Robert's hands around her throat. A tortured wheeze drags out of her, clawing at his fingers, her eyes white and blind, rolling into the back of her head.

Rage pours through him, courses through his body, lifting him as Alastor lunges for Robert and rips him off of her. He punches him so hard that Robert's head arcs backwards and blood blooms from his nose and mouth.

Mallory collapses and rolls to the side. She gasps and coughs, her voice as rough and dry as sandpaper, grasping at her own throat.

Robert, splayed on his back, is incredibly unremarkable. Likely only in his mid-thirties. Probably works in accounting or some sort of office job. Light brown hair shifts over eyes that are as dark and empty as a camera lens, his mouth curling into a snarl as he speaks through bloody teeth. "What the fuck? "

Alastor stalks closer and watches raw horror spread across his face. Because Alastor is not just an intruder and a stranger, but some kind of monster. His eyes have become black holes, his antlers have weaved into a crown, and his smile is as sharp and cruel as a scythe's.

Robert scrambles to his feet and tries to run, but he does not get very far because Alastor grabs him by the back of his shirt. He goes to slam his head into the counter, but Robert twists and shoves a steak knife into Alastor's chest.

Alastor cries out, he's that shocked. He staggers backwards, clutching himself. His chest fills with fire, and the distraction is enough for Robert to push the blade in deeper, to slide it past muscle and bone, to twist it straight into Alastor's black heart.

Alastor coughs and ink-colored blood trickles out. He sways and catches himself against the counter. Takes in a few steadying static-laced breaths.

Robert grabs a meat cleaver from the knife block and cracks it between Alastor's neck and shoulder. Dead on. Metal on bone.

A scream rips between Alastor's clenched teeth. Vibrations of white hot pain skitter like insects down his spine. His world tilts, his right arm dangling low, a heavy, dead weight.

Robert yanks the meat cleaver out. Rivulets of midnight blood pour out. He goes to slam it into Alastor again, to split him open like timber, but Alastor wards off the blade with his claws, more blood spraying from his hand.

It's been so long since Alastor's felt pain like this. Since his body has felt such adrenaline, faced such desperation. He's almost forgotten it.

It makes him burst out laughing. Bright, savage laughter. He pulls the knife out of his chest and lunges, quick as a spider, but Robert staggers back, the blade cutting a shallow line across his stomach. 

Robert's eyes flicker to Alastor's chest, watching as the wound stitches shut upon its own accord. "What the hell are you?"

Alastor explodes into motion. Robert barely escapes the knife's cut. He's a slippery thing, but Alastor is merely dragging this out, a predator playing with its food. 

It cracks him up. He thinks he has a chance! What fun! What fun!

The muscles in Alastor's shoulder reknit next, liquidlike, the feeling flooding back into his arm. He rolls his shoulder back with a satisfying crack. The look of horror on Robert's face intensifies, and Alastor's smile broadens until it isn't a smile at all anymore. It's twisted and erratic, like an old picture show frame that doesn't quite fit together.

Then, something crashes into him from behind. 

It's the shock that nearly knocks Alastor off his feet more than anything. Starbursts of pain explode in his eyes. He rears up, someone clinging to his back. They're pressing their fingers into his eyes, blinding him.

It takes a moment for Alastor to realize it's Mallory.

"Get out of my house!" She digs her nails in even harder. "Get—"

Alastor wills a whirl of shadows into the room and sends Mallory flying without a second thought. He hears her scream, hears a door slamming behind her somewhere in the distance.

For a moment, he can't see, and Robert takes advantage of it. He tackles Alastor to the ground and rams the meat cleaver into the corded muscle of his neck. Alastor lets out a garbled sound, a scream mixed with a glitch, black and white static gushing out of his throat.

But Alastor doesn't die. He extends his claws, slick with his own blood, and gouges Robert's face. One claw goes through his eye, the other his cheek. A bloodcurdling wail fills the air. Gratification and a sick delight ignites in Alastor's bones, deep in his marrow.

The meat cleaver whistles through the air, clumsy and thoughtless, but Alastor catches his wrist. He bends it back. It bows under the pressure until it breaks with a sharp, clean snap.

The sound Robert makes has starfire erupting in Alastor's chest. He yanks his claws out of his face, and Robert slams backwards into the kitchen cabinets.

"Stop," he begs, the word warped and wrong, struggling to speak around the hole in his cheek. "Please stop," but Alastor snaps his jaws, shark-like teeth clamping down inches from his throat, and Robert turns his head and sobs like a child.

He can kill this man so easily. He can go straight for the jugular. He can gut him like a fish and watch his insides pour out onto the floor. 

Oh, he could do it. And he would laugh, too.

But this man put his hands on Imogen. He put them on her mother.

So Alastor decides he won't have hands anymore.

He grabs onto Robert's hand and bites straight down. His thumb dislodges with a loud crack, blood gushing into his mouth, the appendage rolling onto his tongue like red hot cinnamon candy.

Robert shrieks. A luminous joy blooms in Alastor's chest. He punches Alastor repeatedly on the side of the head, kicking and flailing, but Alastor barely registers it. He keeps going, devouring his pointer finger and half of his palm. Rips through flesh and tendons, cleaving into bones and sinew, crunching and swallowing, crunching and swallowing.

Ribbons of blood flow down Alastor's chin. It soaks his suit, and his body is shaking, his nerves tickling with euphoria.

Robert is howling. Begging for him to stop. To have mercy.

Alastor devours his entire hand.

Then, he starts on the other one.

🎶 📻 🎶

Imogen can hear Robert screaming.

She hides her face in Sour Gummy Worm's chest and cries, but her unicorn can't stop the bad thoughts in her head.

She can feel what Robert feels. She felt his hatred earlier, right before he punched her in the face. She felt the rush of power he felt when he rose his hand for a second blow as her mother launched herself towards them, between them—

Now, she feels his terror.

She feels him dying.

But Alastor's feelings are louder. Imogen can hear them hissing the air, ugly and droning, descending upon her like locusts.

Alastor's anger is not like Robert's. It is alive and untamable. At the same time, she can feel his joy, a wild, vicious thing, hot and passionate in her chest, burning like a storm of malicious stars.

Imogen's hands feel weird and prickly. Her mouth is itchy. The telltale taste of blood sours her tongue. All of it confuses her. It's scary, and she wants it to stop.

Another horrible scream. Alastor's laughter echoes throughout the house. It's cold and wet, like he's laughing with water in the back of his throat.

Tears blur Imogen's vision. She heaves and rolls off of her bed and onto the floor. Slowly drags herself across the carpet and into her makeshift tent, with her soft pillows and glittery stars, where it is good. Where it's safe.

Her stomach rumbles and aches at the same time. She curls into herself, clutching Sour Gummy Worm and rocking back and forth. "Stop," she begs. "Please stop."

🎶 📻 🎶

By the time Alastor is finished, Robert has stopped moving.

Destruction had been Alastor's only goal and now that he's accomplished it, he pulls back, his stomach full with the upset. 

The kitchen reeks of blood, sweat and vile. Shadows darken the air. They laugh and whisper in every corner of the room, reveling in their master's slaughter.

Alastor returns to his regular form with a flicker of movement. There is no gash in his throat from the meat cleaver. No scar upon his body, but he is slick and sticky with blood, a mingle of oil and wildflower honey. Robert's spreads underneath him, a deep pool spreading. He sits upright against the kitchen cabinets, his inert limbs splayed wide. He's not dead yet, but he will be soon. He stares down at where his hands used to be. 

"What did you do to me?" Robert's voice is weak. He sounds puzzled more than anything else. His one good eye slowly lifts to Alastor's. "What did you do?"

Some people have such a will to live. Alastor's seen it before—men who keep moving after you've slit their throat or shot them in the chest. Sometimes, you don't hit exactly where you need to or they don't bleed out fast enough. Those deaths are the most satisfying. Alastor can watch those people struggle against the inevitable all day. 

But something about the look Robert is giving him makes Alastor's skin crawl. It's not the way his soul is slowly shedding itself from his body, but it's the cold-seething ferocity that somehow pierces through. His whisper vibrates with outrage, with loathing. "What the hell did you do?"

Alastor's seen that look before.

He tries to calm himself down but cannot. Because when Alastor looks down at Robert he does not see him anymore. 

He sees his father instead. He hears his father's voice, too. And suddenly he is back there again, a small and scrawny ten year old, powerless as his father snags the back of his hair. He leans in so close to Alastor's face that he can see the whites of his bulging eyes and smell the sweat rolling off of him. 

"What the hell did you do?"

"I ... I didn't ..."

He shoves Alastor towards his mother. She is spread out on her back like a broken marionette doll, hands slack and eyes closed. Blood pools from the back of her head. His father pushes Alastor forward, until his mouth and nose are sealed against her cheek, against the place where a dimple used to deepen with her laughter, the place where her smile once lived.

"Look what you did!"

"N-no." Alastor can't breathe. He is inhaling his mother's skin and perfume, and he can't breathe. There's so much of it—so much blood. Black spots spin in front of his vision. His father presses him harder against her cheek, until Alastor's stomach cramps. He coughs, choking.

"You made me do this, boy. You did this!"

He flings Alastor backwards onto the carpet. Alastor tries to scramble to his knees and run out the door, but his father grabs him by the throat and pushes him back down.

His hands are a vise around Alastor's neck. He squeezes. And squeezes. A vein pulses in the center of his father's forehead, dark purple against his hot skin, and Alastor knows this time, he means to kill him.

That's when a sound like thunder cracks. Blood explodes from the back of his father's head, a pink halo, and then he falls to the floor.

Suddenly, there's air. Alastor gasps it in as if he was just 100 meters under water.

His mother stands before him, holding a Winchester 54, the barrel still smoking. Red is still trickling down her hair. She says something, but Alastor can't hear it, his ears are ringing too loudly, and his father's dead weight is pressing against him, crushing his lungs and pinning him down.

He starts shaking violently. His face feels wet and something is in his mouth.

It isn't until Alastor spits it out that he realizes its brain matter.

He coughs—heaves—tries to roll away and retch, but his father is dead, and his body is heavy and he can't move, his blood spreading and staining Alastor's shirt. He is everywhere, bloated belly, arms and legs tangled, face stiff and eyes wide. His mother shoves him off and pulls Alastor into her arms.

"Imogen! Let me in!"

Reality comes slamming back down. Alastor gasps, clawed hand gripping over his heart, chest rising and falling like ocean tides.

"Imogen, please!"

It's Mallory. Her voice is as dry and sharp as a cactus', wild with desperation. Alastor can hear her fighting with Imogen's locked door.

Imogen.

He immediately turns to go. Robert's single eye follows him. His mouth is still moving, but no actual words come out. Just a steady gurgle and a hiss.

He leaves him to bleed out on the floor and finds Mallory in the hallway. Somehow, she's managed to escape whatever room Alastor locked her in, and now, she is throwing her entire body weight into Imogen's door, over and over, attempting to break it down.

Mallory must've heard Alastor's footsteps because she freezes. One look at him and her face pinches with absolute terror. She rams the side of her body into the door again and this time, it cracks off of its hinges.

She scrambles inside. "Imogen!"

A bright pink light flashes from within the room.

Confusion swirls in Alastor's brain. He follows Mallory.

And freezes once he gets to Imogen's doorway.

Imogen is sitting upright in her makeshift tent. Mallory has thrown her arms around her, clutching her to her chest, attempting to protect her from Alastor with her body, but Imogen is looking right at him.

Her eyes are as dark and blank as beetle shells. She's clutching onto a charm on her necklace. And Alastor remembers—the black tourmaline—the gemstone that's supposed to get rid of bad energy and protect Imogen from harm, the one her late grandmother left her.

But the stone isn't midnight-colored anymore. It's glowing magenta in Imogen's hand.

And Alastor realizes too late what it is.

A sourceless wind groans to life. It whips about Imogen's hair and curls around her and her mother like a cocoon, her expression grim and lifeless.

Alastor lunges but the stone brightens and explodes. The blast blows him backwards, out the door and into the wall on the other side.

Stars flash in Alastor's head. He barely registers the pain, springing back up to his feet and running back into Imogen's bedroom.

But Imogen and her mother are no longer there. The only sign that anything had been there at all is the imprint of their bodies on the cushions inside of the tent, the dangly stars swaying back and forth, and the remnants of Imogen's stone hanging in the air like dust motes. Dark flecks of fuchsia glitter in the moonlight, the taste of minerals and magic burning on Alastor's tongue. 

He stands there for a moment, stunned, and tries to wrap his mind around what just happened.

Disbelief comes first, and then, when Imogen still doesn't come back, he has no choice but to accept it. Reality and dread both come crashing down on him at once.

It wasn't a black tourmaline. It was an Asmodean crystal. 

Imogen's taken her and her mother down to Hell.

Chapter Text

Mallory has dreamed of falling before.

It is a recurring nightmare of hers. Sometimes the location is different but the ending is always the same. Mallory will walk to the edge of a cliff or a tall building or stare down from the top of a tree. She will hear someone approach. And when Mallory looks to see who it is, it's always herself. Every time, she smiles and takes Mallory by the hand.

And pushes her off the edge.

Most people wake up the instant before impact but not Mallory. There's no pain in the dreams, but there's the sound of it; the sound of muscle shredding and tearing, of her body splattering open like rotten fruit. She'd land arched backwards over whatever awaited her below—sharp rocks, wooden stakes, an iron gate with the finial pierced through her chest, her hair streaming long and black and tangled with blood. 

Then, she'd bolt upright in her bed, gasping.

Mallory's mother has always told her that dreams have meaning. A sudden fall represents forced change, a warning sign of bad luck, with no means to alter it. That something unpleasant will escalate beyond your control and the result will have dire consequences. Dreams of someone else pushing you, like a boyfriend, indicates a betrayal you are bound to experience. 

So, what does it say about her that she always pushes herself?

In the dreams, the fall lasts forever. Sometimes, Mallory plummets through a blue sky or sheets of rain or a sea of stars. There are times when there is no sky at all and she falls through an endless, black void.

But here, the sky is red.

And here, the fall is sudden. Too sudden for Mallory to scream. She plummets like a stone, arms wrapped tight around Imogen, bracing herself for the sickening crunch of impact, when shadows explode into the air. They unspool and wrap around her and her daughter like a blanket. Hands grasp at her and tug, as if trying to pull them to safety.

But it doesn't work. The hands pull more desperately, but they only continue to fall.

Mallory squeezes her eyes shut and prays she'll wake up soon.

🎶 📻 🎶

A woman is falling from the sky in Pride.

No one pays her any attention at first. New Sinners drop in every day. But as she plunges through scorching hot air and dark clouds, shadows erupt from the ground, bursting into the sky like smoke. Grit and dust billow into Pride's eyes—they have to squint against it—and they see the shadows cocooning around the woman, swirling and buzzing like a swarm of agitated wasps, but they do not transport her away. The woman only continues to fall.

The air suddenly crackles with frenzied, warbling radio waves. Panic fills the streets at once, sparkling and visceral, because everyone knows what it feels like before the Radio Demon goes on a rampage.

Cars squeal or crash into each other. Demons sprint and run for cover. But there is no announcement over the radio, no crazed peals of laughter or rivers of blood.

Instead, the sky tears open beneath the woman like paper—a portal—and she and the shadows swallow up inside of it.

Everyone who is still left out in the streets stops to stare, stunned, the panic still raging around them. A gust of wind carries all traces of static electricity away, out into the night.

🎶 📻 🎶

Somewhere in Hell, past Pentagram City, down a winding yellow road and through a dark and tangled forest, a witch is brewing a cup of tea.

The witch lives in a cottage covered in a riot of vines and surrounded by apple trees. Corvids and other forest creatures like to pick at any fallen fruit scattered among the grass. An oak tree stretches its branches over the top of her roof, black as pitch, as though struck by lightning one too many times. Strangely, it still produces leaves, charcoal-colored and tinged silver, shivering in a small rain shower that only pours over the witch's house.

Inside the cottage, the witch stands by the window. A glass lantern glows on the table, burning with the belly fat of a man. Bundles of dried herbs and snared rabbits dangle from the rafters overhead. She tastes her tea, gold and bright as the horizon moon, when all of it hits her at once:

An invisible blow to her face, white-hot, like she's just been punched.

Something constricting around her neck, fingers cinching in, cutting off her air supply.

A constant humming, tangible and furious, crawling like horse flies all over her skin.

And the sound of every single apple tree outside dropping all of their fruit at once, thumping, uncaught, onto the ground.

The witch doubles over and drops her cup, glass shattering at her feet. The phantom hands ease up around her neck and disappear. She takes in a choking breath, holding her throat, the pain and buzzing melting away like a frost.

The window swings open upon its own accord, and suddenly, a horde of crows explode into the room. They bang into the walls and windows, screaming, HERE, HERE, HERE, but the witch already knows. She can feel it mapping her bones, electricity pounding in her head, spreading to her fingertips.

She has to go.

🎶 📻 🎶

Husk does not like to work hard. 

Which is why he is still bitter that Alastor left the hotel in his care for a whole twenty-four hours. The asshole could have at least communicated his plans to him, but no, of course not. That would be asking too much.

A little voice in the back of Husk's head tells him to give his boss some slack. He knows the communication with the kid stopped abruptly and out of the blue, so clearly Al's worried about her. But regardless, Alastor knew when Charlie and Vaggie were going to be out of town. He also knew the date overlapped with the kid's birthday, and the asshole still didn't give Husk any kind of heads up.

Husk slumps against the concierge desk, grumbling. Alastor has never shared Imogen's birth date with him before. At least now, Husk knows what to expect on October 16th if something like this ever happens again.

He checks the time on his phone. Al's only been gone fifteen minutes. This whole thing is gonna drag by so fucking slow.

The hotel is quiet. Most of the residents are fast asleep—except for Baxter, who lives off caffeine and fumes, and Angel Dust, who Husk suspects has a client upstairs, but he's definitely not in the mood to break that up.

He considers starting a game of solitaire to kill the time when a portal abruptly opens up over the ceiling and a dark shape plummets straight down.

It happens too fast for Husk to register what's happening at first. He doesn't even know what it is because now something wide and white is ballooning inside of the room. It takes his brain another second to realize that it's some kind of inflatable structure, like the floor of a bouncy house or an air mattress, expanding and filling the whole lobby like a giant fucking marshmallow. The dark shape hits it and arcs back up into the air, arms and legs pinwheeling, and that's when something else goes flying.

A girl.

No, wait—a kid.

And she's skyrocketing up towards the chandelier. 

Horror flares in Husk's ribs. He kicks up with two powerful strokes of his wings and crashes into her, throwing them both sideways and knocking a notch of air from their lungs.

Meanwhile, the woman slams down into the inflatable again. And again. Then, finally, she rolls across it and tumbles off the edge. The back of her head cracks against the concierge desk with a sickening thud before she flops onto the floor.

Husk lands on his feet, numb and confused, the balloon floor starting to deflate. 

What the fuck?

A wild punch strikes him in his chest, snapping him out of it, the kid fighting him in earnest.

"Shit! Okay, okay!"

Husk lets her go, and the kid runs as fast as she can, darting around the inflatable and towards the where the woman fell.

That's when Husk realizes the kid is human. And suddenly, everything clicks into place.

Husk narrows his eyes. "Alastor!"

Right one cue, another dark shape comes crashing down from the portal. There's nothing to catch Alastor's fall now, the inflatable flattened onto the floor, but Husk knows it's not needed. He expects for him to land with a shower of sparks and flare, but instead, he bends his knees and crashes hard onto his feet. The hotel quakes from the sudden impact, nearly knocking Husk over, glasses shivering on the wall behind the bar. Shadows sluice down Alastor's body and onto the ground.

"It's been fifteen minutes!" Husk explodes. "How the fuck did you manage to—" 

Alastor snaps his head up at him, and the rest of his sentence drowns in the back of his throat. 

He's covered in blood. Not all of it is black, like a demon's might be, but red. Red as rubies, deep red. Red as fire roses, or ladybird wings. Every wiry muscle in Alastor's body is rigid, his breathing hissing out through bared teeth, his smiling face a rictus of rage.

Husk stumbles back. "Holy sh ... What happened?"

Alastor doesn't answer. He spins on his heel, shoulders tight with anger, and starts striding to the other side of the room.

"Al," Husk calls out. "The kid—your clothes ..."

Alastor doesn't stop walking. He snaps his fingers, vanishing the blood and the inflatable in an instant.

Imogen is crying. She's sitting at the woman's side and trying to shake her awake. Husk assumes she's her mother, and the realization makes his head spin.

What happened? How are the kid and her mother here?

One look at Husk and Alastor, and Imogen's eyes widen. She scrambles backwards into the front desk.

Husk assumes it's him she's afraid of. He lifts his heart-shaped paws in supplication. "Hey, kid, it's okay. It's me, Husk."

Imogen's chest moves up and down in fast, panicked breaths, frozen in fear.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a friend of your Uncle Al's. Remember? The corn guy?"

Recognition flickers across Imogen's face. Some of the tight fear dissipates from her muscles, but she still doesn't move.

Her mother is sprawled out on the floor, knocked out cold. Husk stares down at her throat, at the purple necklace clearly made by someone's hands and the bruise blooming on her cheek like an eggplant. It reminds him so much of late nights he's had with Angel Dust that a sick incredulity washes over him.

And suddenly, Husk has a very good idea why Alastor arrived covered in blood.

For all of his rage, Alastor's hands are surprisingly steady as he bends down and scoops Imogen's mother into his arms. One palm cups the back of her head, her midnight hair cascading down.

The bruises fade from the woman's body. Her skin smooths. Blood spirals up each and every curl of her hair and disappears.

But she doesn't wake up.

A notch slips in Husk's stomach. "Is she ..."

Alastor leans his ear close to her face. "No. She's breathing."

"Then what's wrong?"

Alastor shrugs. But her chest is moving. With her wounds healed, Husk can see the resemblance between her and Imogen.

A door snaps shut upstairs. Imogen flinches and dives behind the concierge desk like a rabbit that's just heard a gunshot.

Husk swears under his breath. Alastor snaps his fingers and the woman disappears out of sight.

"What did you do with her?" Husk asks.

"Sent her upstairs into a spare room for now. Maybe she just needs time to recoup."

There's more movement upstairs. Alastor's ears twitch, and Husk holds his breath, but whoever it is shuts the door again. They wait but no one comes down.

Husk exhales slowly. "What are we going to do with the kid?"

Alastor opens his mouth to reply, but there's the sound of dishes banging together, making his fawn ears stick straight up. He glances at the concierge desk.

"Imogen?"

No response. Alastor walks around to the back of the desk with Husk at his heels. 

The concierge serves as a place to check-in and also somewhere to grab a drink. Some empty glasses are shattered on the floor in front of a cabinet built underneath the bar.

Husk puts two and two together. He bends down in front of the cabinet, careful of the glass, sweeping some of it away with his feather-tipped tail. "Hey, kid, it's okay. There's no one else here but us. You can come out."

She doesn't respond, but Husk can hear her crying. Something in his chest twists.

"Imogen," Husk says, trying again. "Really, it's okay. You're safe now."

"Yes, no need to be alarmed! Husker is a giant pussycat."

Husk's fur prickles. "Excuse me?"

"A harmless kitten, really!"

The filter is back in Alastor's voice, and so is his signature happy disposition, both of them fakely cheery, but Imogen still doesn't respond. He crouches down next to Husk. "Imogen, you don't expect to sleep in there, do you?"

She still doesn't say anything. Husk hears her shuffling around inside, knocking around more dishes.

"It can't be very comfortable in there," Alastor continues. "I can bring you upstairs to a room. What do you say?"

No response.

"We could get you a snack if you don't want to go to bed," Husk tries. "Or ... I don't know... you can color or something? What do you want to do?"

She sniffles and doesn't say anything.

"Imogen, you can't stay in the cabinet all night," Alastor says. He opens the door and reaches inside, only for her to buck and kick, driving him back.

Alastor sputters and immediately lets her go, shocked. She snaps the door shut in his face.

Okay. Clearly, she doesn't want to be touched.

He sighs, the sound heavy and full of static. "All right. I am going to teleport you to be with your mother upstairs. That way, no one has to touch you. Sound fair?" At her silence, he says, "I'll take that as a yes. Brace yourself! One, two—"

Alastor snaps his fingers.

There's no sound or flash of light to indicate that she's gone. Carefully, Husk creaks open the cabinet door. Nothing is inside but some empty glasses scattered around on the floor.

"Well," he says. "That went well."

Alastor scoffs. He straightens to a stand and begins to walk away.

"Hey, hold on a second! Aren't you going to tell me what the fuck is going on?"

"No. I have somewhere to be."

Husk's anger is back again, rearing its ugly head. "Are you serious? The kid is upstairs and you're just going to leave?"

"Husker."

"She's scared out of her mind and you're the only person she knows!"

"I'm not going far."

"You selfish bastard. You can't just—"

Alastor whirls around and demands, in a warped snarl of a voice, "SHUT UP, HUSKER!" 

The whole room glitches. Even the air around Alastor changes, deepening into a dark crimson, spilling out like the blood in the water. Hundreds of shadows stretch out from beneath his feet. They pour down the walls, skittering and crawling, advancing towards Husk without elegance or control.

Husk snarls back at him, lips drawn over fangs, wings kicking wide and claws flexed. The shadows close in, and Husk thinks he's really in for it this time, but instead, Alastor's spindly legs melt underneath him. The shadows flood backwards, away from Husk, fingers scraping at the floor like willow tree branches, sluicing into one dark puddle. Alastor clutches at his chest, gasping and hyperventilating.

Husk stares, bewildered.

Has Alastor finally lost it? Is his permanent smile finally snapping him in half?

"Al," Husk says.

Alastor groans low in his throat. His claws extend and dig into the floor like some kind of animal. There's a million sounds overlapping at once: the bellowing of a stag, a man shrieking, the studio audience laughing, an audio file of some kind of carnivore swallowing and crunching, swallowing and—

"Al!" Husk says, stronger this time. He hesitates, unsure of what to do. If he didn't know any better, he'd think the Radio Demon was having a panic attack. "You gotta calm down. The kid is going to hear you."

Alastor groans again. He turns his head to look at him, bone grinding on bone, antlers elongating over his head, his grin taut and terrible.

Husk isn't an idiot. Even at a time like this, he knows touching Alastor is a bad idea, but he has to get through to him somehow. He swallows his fear and bends down to his level.

Alastor hisses at him. At first, Husk thinks he's going to try to lunge and bite him, like some kind of pissed off crocodile, but he only grimaces and turns away. "What is happening to me?"

"I think you're having a panic attack."

"Shut up! I don't ... I don't panic ..." And suddenly, Alastor can't breathe again. He claws at his bow tie around his neck and wrenches it loose, tossing it somewhere on the floor, dragging in more oxygen. He groans and squeezes his eyes shut. "What the fuck?"

He sounds furious with himself. Husk has never heard him swear before. He's also never heard him sound so vulnerable, either. There's a tremor of genuine fear in his voice, the filter gone, and now Husk really doesn't know what to do.

"Look just—just breathe."

Alastor lashes out. "I'm trying!"

"Well, you're doing a shitty job."

Alastor is so startled that he lets out a small, choking sound. A laugh track cuts off into a groan. "That's not helping."

"Sorry." Husk hesitates and moves closer. "Come on, you can do it. Breathe with me."

Alastor sucks in a large breath that rattles behind his ribs. He takes in another, and another. Husk thumps his paw flat against the floor with each inhale and exhale, going steady and slow, long claws scraping against the rug. Alastor seems to either like the motion or the sound, so Husk keeps doing it, until he starts to match his breaths in time with every tap.

It feels like an hour but it's probably only been a few minutes. Alastor's antlers shift down to their regular size. A radio dial swivels, shifting through commercials and jingles, as if Alastor's mind is still trying to right itself. He sits up and rests his head in his palms, elbows on his knees, his breath slowly shuddering out of him.

Husk hesitates, unsure of what to do from here. Everything about this feels wrong and out of place. "You want some water or something?"

Alastor grunts. Husk isn't sure if he wants it or not, but he crosses over to the bar and brings back a cold glass. 

"Here," he says, and to his surprise, Alastor takes it and splashes the water onto his face. He lets out a low sound from the back of his throat and scrubs his blistering cheeks.

Husk sits down next to him. "How are you feeling now?"

"I ... don't know."

"Okay. What do you need? You need to kill something or ..." He cringes. "Fuck, you don't want a hug, do you?"

"Don't you dare."

Husk actually laughs. A sideways smile flickers over Alastor's face. Water magically fills inside the glass in his hand and this time, he brings it to his mouth.

"So ..." Husk's tail flickers back and forth. "Are we gonna talk about this?"

"No. Never."

Husk blows out a breath, frustrated. "Look, whatever happened up there, it's eating you up inside. So just spit it out."

Alastor glares at him from the corner of his eye. For a moment, Husk thinks Alastor is going to teleport out of the room and leave him in the dark, but instead he says, "Imogen was hurt."

Husk doesn't get what he's talking about. Imogen arrived in Hell without a scratch on her, but then, he remembers Alastor's healing powers. He remembers the marks around Mallory's neck, her bruises, and understanding slams into him like a truck.

"Someone hurt the kid too?"

"Yes."

Husk's voice sounds hollow to his own ears. "Who?" 

"It doesn't matter. I took care of it."

Goosebumps spread across Husk's arms, making his fur stand up on ends. "What does that mean?" he asks, but he's already pieced everything together in his head—Alastor's anger. The blood. Imogen cowering from everything. "Jesus. Tell me you didn't do it in front of her, at least."

"Of course not," he says, sounding annoyed that Husk even asked, and it honestly surprises him. He pauses, his next words coming out cold and bitter. "She fell."

"What do you mean? Did they push the kid?"

"No, I mean Imogen and her mother fell into Hell, and I couldn't stop it. Me. I couldn't teleport them away or ..." Alastor clenches his jaw, seething. "A crystal shouldn't make them fall like that. They should just—just transport safely somewhere not ... not ..."

Husk's brows furrow, trying to follow. "Crystal? As in an Asmodean crystal?"

"Yes."

It doesn't make sense. How could two humans use an Asmodean crystal? "Was that the kid's birthday wish or something?"

"No."

"Okay ... But you saved them, right? There was a portal."

"It wasn't mine."

Husk blinks. "Then how? Was it the crystal's?"

"I don't know," he snarls, and Husk flinches by the weight of his sudden ferocity. He's not sure how long it's been since the Radio Demon has been in a position like this: having so much power and still being unable to stop something horrific from happening. Having all his shadows spying around Hell and still not having all of the answers. It's probably the closest he's felt to being human in decades.

"Okay, well, we'll figure it out," Husk says, unsure of what else he can say. "If the crystal got Imogen and her mom here then we can use it to send them back."

"It broke."

"What?"

"The crystal," Alastor mutters. "It exploded after Imogen used it."

"How is that possible?"

"I keep telling you, I don't know."

This is such a mess. Husk doesn't even know where to begin to untangle it. "Do you know how she got it?"

"She mentioned it was a gift from her late grandmother."

"Okay, well, maybe we can start there. If her grandmother's dead, and she's in Hell, maybe we'll get some answers."

"Where do you think I was going?"

"Al, you can't just march off looking for some dead old broad. You don't even know where to start looking."

"I know she's a witch. That narrows down a few places."

"Still," Husk presses. "Imogen's scared out of her mind. I don't think it's a good idea for you to run off right now. At least wait until she settles and see if her mom wakes up. Have your shadows look around until then."

"Right," Alastor grumbles. He swirls his glass and watches the ice cubes rattle around. "Right."

Neither of them get up from the floor for a long time. Alastor keeps nursing his drink, and Husk just sits with his legs crossed, one elbow planted on his knee and balancing his cheek on his fist, waiting in silence.

Finally, Alastor speaks up. "By the way, if you speak a word of this to anyone, I will skin you alive."

"What? The panic attack?"

There's a low hiss of static at the word panic attack as if Al's the cat in this relationship. 

Husk lets out a humorless laugh. "Don't worry. Wouldn't dream of it." He pauses, considering. "You know, you don't have to be ashamed of—"

"Annnd it's time for me to go!" Alastor reaches for his bow tie, still ribboned across the floor, and loops it into a neat bow around his neck. "Thanks for looking after the hotel during my absence, Husker, but it's time for me to put my manager pants back on."

Husk shoots him a flat look. "You hardly need to thank me for that. I was a manager for fifteen minutes."

"All the same! Toodaloo!"

And with that, Alastor is gone—just disappears out of thin air. 

Husk rolls his eyes. "You're welcome!" he calls out.

No response.

He scoffs. Leave it to Alastor to pretend like nothing ever happened. Meanwhile, Husk is still reeling from the whole encounter. Guiding the Radio Demon through a panic attack just wasn't something he had on his bingo card for this year. None of this was.

Husk rises to a stand and stretches, cracking his back. "Fuck," he breathes. "I need another drink."

🎶 📻 🎶

Angel Dust is not supposed to bring his clients to the hotel. He knows this but, well, the princess and her girlfriend are away for their anniversary, so it's not as if they would ever know. Besides, it's just a one time thing. Angel is sure Alastor won't say anything. And it's not as if Finley is an average client.

Angel Dust can't believe he's gotten into a regular arrangement with an aquatic Sinner Demon who arrived in Hell, realized he was a fish and decided to call himself Finley, but hey, at least he's a good tipper. He resembles some sort of tropical guppy with sleek violet scales covering his body and long, flowing dorsal fins. Deep hues of emerald shimmer within the purple, depending on where the light hits him, and Angel suspects he has a tail when he's fully submerged in the water. But up here, on land, he has two legs, and spiny ribs that Angel likes to poke to see him laugh and squirm.

He isn't laughing now, though. A half smile lifts Angel Dust's face. "You like that, huh?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Good. I'm gonna put it in."

Finley's breath thickens. "What if ... what if it doesn't fit?"

"Oh, it will. Don't worry about that, baby. Eyes on me now—that's it—nice and easy ..."

The door bursts open. "Angel Dust! I am here to inform you of—" Alastor stops dead in his tracks. "What the devil are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" 

Angel Dust gestures wildly to the giant lego set in the middle of the table. Finley blushes deeply, turning his cheeks a dark plum color. 

"Very poor architecture?" Alastor wagers.

"No! We're buildin' the Death Star," Angel says, waving a lego block at him. "Just about to put in the final piece too!"

"Fascinating," Alastor says, not at all fascinated. He points to Finley with his cane. "Who is this?"

"That's my friend, Finley."

"He's a client, isn't he?"

Angel pulls a faux shocked expression. "What? No! Of course not!"

"I can tell when you are lying, Angel. I swung by to tell you there is a child on the premises, so I implore you to make WHOOPEE somewhere else!"

He slams the door behind him on the way out.

Angel stares after him, stunned. "What the fuck is whoopee?"

"Uh," Finley says. "Did he say there's a child here?"

"There's no way he means a literal child. No fuckin' way."

"Oh. Okay."

"Let's just finish what we were doing. You're paying for it, ya know?"

"All right. I have synchronized swim practice in the morning anyway, so maybe we should cut it short and skip ahead to the action."

A slow grin spreads across Angel's face. "Oh, yeah? Now ya talkin'!"

Finley grins back at him. His eyes flick eagerly to the Death Star. Angel dangles the last piece above it with a limp wrist, eyes molten and smile full of flirt.

"I'm gonna put it in," he says again.

"Oh ..."

"Just like this. Nice and slow. Just how you like it, baby."

"Oh, god."

"Just ... like ... this!"

He clicks the last piece of the Death Star into place.

Finley lets out a deep exhale. "Wow." He wipes the sweat beading on his forehead with the back of his arm. "That was incredible."

"Told ya you'd get your money's worth." Angel sits back on the table next to the Death Star, his skirt riding high on his thighs. He lowers his voice to something hushed and smooth as velvet. "But that's not the only reason you're here ... is it, baby?"

"No."

"Tell me what you want. Go on. Don't be shy."

Finley sucks in a deep breath. "I want you to blow it up."

Angel slaps his palm against the Death Star and sends it scattering into a million pieces.

The fish demon trembles in anticipation. There's no humor in Angel's eyes as his gaze slides up Finley's violet body and up to his face.

"Now step on 'em," he says.

🎶 📻 🎶

Angel Dust walks a limping Finley out at the front door and turns to see that Husk is still awake at the bar. He smiles and saunters over, sitting down at one of the stools. "Sup, Husky?"

Husk grunts in response.

"So, what gives? Do you know why Smiles is saying there's going to be a kid showing up here?"

"Because a kid is here," Husk says.

"Come again?"

Husk sighs. "Al made a deal with a kid from the mortal world and somehow, the kid brought her and her mother down here. The kid is a witch and somehow got her hands on an Asmodean crystal. It exploded after she used it."

"I—come again?"

"The kid is a witch. Not sure what kind but—"

"No, not that part! You said she's a kid?"

"Yes! Try to keep up."

"A human kid?"

"Yes!" Husk says, getting frustrated, but Angel won't leave it alone.

"Wait. Is she a human or a witch?"

"She's ... a human ... witchy ... kid?" Husk sighs and flicks his wrist. "Fuck it, she's from the mortal world, okay? That answer your question?"

"How old is she?"

"Al mentioned she's turning nine."

Angel stares at him, stunned. He knew Alastor was sketchy as fuck but taking the soul of a child?  "Is that even legal?"

"Probably not, but the deal was sealed three years ago. There's no changing it now."

"What are the terms?"

Husk snorts. "You'll never believe me."

"Try me," Angel says.

"Every year, Al celebrates her birthday in the mortal world. He has to do it until she's eighteen."

Angel gapes at him. "You're joking."

"Nope."

"There's no fucking way. I don't believe you!"

"See?" Husk says, waving his paw. "Told ya! Ask the kid yourself if you don't believe me."

"Fine, I will!" Angel pauses. "Hang on. If the crystal exploded, then how are they gonna get back?"

"I have no idea." Husk slumps against the desk, a dark expression moving over his face. "Al didn't tell me everything that happened before they got here but ... that kind of raw anger ... I haven't seen it in him in years."

"Oh, shit. Really?"

"Yeah. He won't admit it, but I know he cares about that kid. I think something really bad must have happened to her to set him off."

Angel's mouth goes dry. "You think someone hurt the kid?"

"I don't think that someone did." Husk's eyes cut through the shadows to meet his, burning bright yellow. "I know."

🎶 📻 🎶

Mallory wakes up in the middle of the night with a killer headache.

She groans, still lost somewhere between awake and dreaming. Exhaustion makes her limbs and eyelids heavy. The blackout curtains are drawn, covering them in darkness. Imogen is fast asleep and pressed against her back. Rolling over, Mallory wraps her arms around her.

She feels the blankets rustle. Imogen's arms come around her like a jungle vine, but her grip is hard and desperate, like she's drowning. 

"Imogen?" Mallory's voice is thin and creaky. "What's wrong, baby? Did you have a nightmare?"

Her first thought is that Imogen must have slipped into her bedroom in the middle of the night. She rubs her back, hoping to soothe her, but she only clutches onto Mallory even harder.

Confusion swirls in her brain. When had they even gone to bed last night? The last thing she remembered was ...

Raw panic seizes her. Mallory gasps and pulls Imogen back to look at her face.

But there's no black eye. No broken nose or split lip. Mallory runs her fingertips across Imogen's nose, traces the tiny bow of her mouth, the swell of her cheek, cataloging every inch of her.

A dream. Everything had just been a terrible, awful dream.

All of the air rushes out of Mallory's lungs. She draws Imogen into a tight embrace, her face a blaze of relief.

But the relief quickly bleeds into something else: a heightened awareness. Imogen's hair, tucked beneath her chin, does not smell of childhood. It smells like raw earth. And this room is not Mallory's bedroom but someplace strange.

Terror seizes her like a hook in her gut. Did Robert kidnap them? She tries to get up, but Imogen suddenly shakes into a full blown sob. "Imogen? Honey, what is going on?"

Her sob pitches into a wail. Mallory's apprehension feels like a freezing wind snaking up her spine, steadily climbing into a frozen panic. 

"Imogen, talk to me. Where are we? What happ—"

The door flies open. "Imogen, is everything all right?"

Mallory's heart stops and her blood runs cold. There, standing in the doorway, is a man in a red pinstripe suit. The same man who Imogen has always described and who Mallory surmised as her imaginary friend. The one who broke into her house and ripped Robert off of her. The one who had a steak knife plunged into his heart.

She clutches Imogen to her chest and screams.

🎶 📻 🎶

"What do you mean we're in Hell?!"

Mallory has finally calmed down enough to have a conversation—somewhat. She's no longer screaming and throwing things at Alastor's head anymore, at least, but she's still seconds away from having another full blown panic attack.

Husk and Angel Dust came running at the commotion which only escalated Mallory's terror. Eventually, they got Mallory to put down a floor lamp—which she had ripped from the wall socket and lashed at Alastor like a sword—and coaxed her and Imogen out of the bedroom and into the hotel lobby.

Mallory holds Imogen against her hip and paces back and forth like a lion trapped in a cage. 

"We must be dead. We must have died. Robert must have killed us." Her breaths start becoming more and more erratic. "But why is Imogen here? Why would God send an innocent child to Hell?"

Husk steps forward. "Hey, I know this is a lot, but if you could just stay calm ..."

"Calm? I AM CALM!!"

"You're clearly not. Let's just sit down, okay? Have a discussion? Maybe ... we can get you some tea or ..."

"Tea?" Mallory barks out a disbelieving laugh. "You just told me I'm Hell! I don't want tea! I want answers! I want—I want to go home." Her voice breaks a little, emotions clogging her throat. "Just tell me ... did Robert kill us?"

"No," Husk says immediately. "You and Imogen are still alive."

Tears of relief brim Mallory's eyes. She gusts out a shaking breath. "Then why are we here?"

"Well ... it might be best if Smiles explains it to ya." Angel plants one of his hands on his hips and turns to look at him. "I'd also like some more details."

Mallory's gaze snaps to Alastor. He takes a step forward which makes her shuffle back. She regards him anxiously, obviously thinking about Alastor in her kitchen, so he decides to keep a respectful distance. He notices Imogen burying her face in her mother's neck, refusing to look at him.

"The explanation is quite simple! Imogen seems to have somehow gotten her hands on an Asmodean crystal."

Mallory looks even more confused. "What the hell is an Asmodean crystal?"

"It's a crystal that allows travel to Hell from the mortal world and vice versa. Imogen had it around her neck and activated it by accident."

"How would she have gotten ahold of something like that?" Mallory demands.

"She said it was a gift from her grandmother."

"A gift from ..." Mallory blinks rapidly. "You mean that black tourmaline my mom gave her?"

"Yes! My guess is your mother wanted to hide what it really was and disguised it. It disintegrated when Imogen used it."

Mallory gapes at him, flabbergasted. "How would my mother have gotten ahold of a demonic crystal?" 

An exaggerated shrug.

Mallory inhales sharply and pinches the space between her nose and forehead. "God, nevermind. This actually makes sense. My mother was ... eccentric."

"What does that mean?" Husk asks, arching an eyebrow.

"My mother was a witch. She dabbled with weird shit all of the time, she could have gotten it from anywhere." But Mallory is trembling. Alastor can see it from here. Even though she is starting to understand, she does not want to believe it, her hands clawed around Imogen. "Just what do you have to do with all of this?" She meets Alastor's gaze. "My daughter mentioned you all the time. You're exactly how she described. And I ... I saw you. I saw you when Robert ..." 

She swallows the rest of her sentence. Suddenly, she looks so small and so, so tired. "You're clearly involved with my daughter somehow. So, just tell me what is going on. Please."

Well, the cat is out of the bag at this point. There's no point in hiding it or beating around the bush.

"Very well." Alastor folds his arms behind his back and straightens his spine. "Your daughter made a deal with me when she was six years old."

Imogen's back is still facing him, so Alastor cannot see her expression, but he sees her flinch. Her little hands tighten around her mother's shoulders.

Mallory's voice vibrates with emotion. "What?"

"She summoned me with her grandmother's spellboook and signed a contract. I am to celebrate her birthday with her until she is eighteen."

The room suddenly feels too small. Mallory's gaze cuts to the quick. Cool, green and angry.

"And what," Mallory says, chest rising and falling, "do you get in exchange?" Each word is careful and deliberate, but from the look on her face, Alastor can see she already knows the answer.

"Her soul," he says.

Everything happens in slow motion. He watches as Mallory pries Imogen off of her and sets her down on the floor. She marches right up to him.

And slaps Alastor as hard as she can across the face.

🎶 📻 🎶

"You son of a bitch!" Mallory's still kicking and swinging, even after Husk and Angel Dust rip her off of him. "How could you? How could you?"

Alastor throws his head back to protect his pride, but it's that damn smile that Mallory cannot stand. Imogen was right: he smiled, no matter what. Even when he rubs his fingers across his cheek, where Mallory's handprint burns red. It reminds her of a carnival clown's, the way his eyes do not reach his grin, and it makes her want to hit him even harder.

"You can't take her away from me. She's my daughter, you—"

An intense pain pinches Mallory's right hand. She shrieks and realizes Imogen is biting her.

"Imogen!" Mallory snaps.

Imogen reels away from her, breathing hard. Her eyes are slitted, nearly black. Teeth marks rise on Mallory's skin, a bright half moon.

Mallory gapes at her, she's that stunned. "Imogen, you don't bite people."

For the first time, Alastor falters. His hand floats over to Imogen's shoulder, a dragonfly hovering over a stream, but Imogen lurches away before it can settle.

Then, she bolts in the other direction. 

"Imogen," Mallory says. "Wait!"

But her daughter is already halfway up the stairs. Mallory scrambles after her, yelling for her to stop, but Imogen sprints down the hall and reaches her bedroom. She slams the door in Mallory's face.

She twists the doorknob, but it's locked. "Imogen, let me in!" She slaps her palm against the door. When it is clear Imogen is not coming back, Mallory can finally feel the pain spreading like blood from her hand to her wrist to her gut. "Imogen! Answer me!"

But Imogen will not come out. Not even when Mallory says she's sorry.

🎶 📻 🎶

"Maybe Imogen just needs a little space for now," Angel Dust says.

Mallory is on a balcony of the hotel overlooking Pentagram City with Husk and Angel Dust. The wind is as hot as an apple pie in the oven. It billows Mallory's hair as she watches the busy traffic below.

She always thought Hell was supposed to be lakes of fire. A place where only the absolute worst people in the world suffered, but it just reminds Mallory of a rundown city. Strange creatures walk by like schools of fish, all different shapes and colors, like something out of a Halloween picture book.

None of it feels real. She presses her fingertips to her eyelids and hopes that when she opens them, she'll find herself home with her daughter and see that everything was just a bad dream.

But it's not. It's real. And Mallory has no idea when they are going home.

Angel Dust lights a cigarette and holds out the pack. "Want one? Seems like you could use it."

She shakes her head. Angel shrugs and draws in deeply, closing his eyes. Pink smoke puffs out in front of him.

Mallory feels as worn as a pair of old slippers, tattered and threadbare, but she doesn't dare ask for anyone to leave. Mallory doesn't want to be alone. They gave her a spare room when Imogen refused to let her inside, but she doesn't think she will be able to sleep anyway. Especially with her daughter in another room. 

"Is there nothing that can be done about my daughter's soul? Can't he take mine instead?"

"That's something you'd have to ask Alastor," Angel Dust says, sounding unsure. "It really depends on the terms of the contract, but most demon deals don't have a lot of wiggle room."

Anger and anguish make Mallory's temples throb. "I don't understand. Why would he do this? What does he care about Imogen's soul?"

Angel shrugs. "Beats me. I really don't know why Alastor does the things he does." 

"But ..." Husk says, choosing his words carefully. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't think his intentions are all that bad?"

Mallory turns to look at him. "How is taking her soul not bad?"

"Well, that's not great," Husk admits, flushing. "But he seems to really care about Imogen. Almost like a daughter."

"He's not her father."

"You're right, he's not, but ..."  Husk struggles for words. "I don't know. He was really upset about Imogen getting hurt. I've never seen him react like that before. And he was very concerned when Imogen stopped all contact with him."

Mallory scowls. "They keep in contact?"

"Yeah. Through that radio he gave her?"

Realization dawns on her. "Oh, my god. That little pink one? I thought it was just a toy." Imogen had told her she used it to contact her Uncle Al. All this time, Imogen had been upfront with her, telling her the truth, and Mallory had been so dismissive of what she was saying. "Robert smashed it. Imogen was devastated. I bought her a new one, but it just wasn't the same. Now I know why."

"Robert, huh?" Angel takes a long drag and exhales. "Sounds like an asshole."

"He is."

"Who is he to you?" Angel turns to face her, resting his chin on his palm and leaning into the balcony. "Your brother or something?"

"No. He was my boyfriend."

Angel Dust blinks, shocked. "Shit. Really?"

Mallory nods.

"Why'd he smash the kid's radio?"

"Because Imogen would use it all of the time. Robert thought it was annoying." Mallory's tongue feels too big for her mouth as she says the words out loud. "After that, I decided I was going to end things with him and ... that's why everything escalated the way it did."

There's a heavy pause. She feels Husk and Angel's eyes boring into her, but it's Angel who speaks up, regarding her with a strange look that Mallory can't quite place. "Earlier, you asked if Robert had killed you both. What'd you mean by that?"

"He, um. He tried to ..." An enormous pressure suddenly expands in her throat, the sentence locked inside of her, choking her. "He broke my daughter's nose and tried to strangle me to death."

Angel Dust stares at her, incredulous. "He did what?"

Tears rush down her face like wax. Mallory hastily swipes them away, but they keep coming, red hot horror spreading all over her body.

"What the fuck? Why?"

"Because I broke up with him weeks ago over a text while he was out of state. I was too afraid to do it in person." Mallory sniffles, frustration leaking into her voice. The scorching wind sighs across her wet face, combing through her hair. "He showed up at my house in the middle of the night and told me we weren't breaking up. I kept telling him that we were already broken up. He denied it. Kept acting like nothing was going to change, despite anything I said. Imogen woke up and got upset. She told him to leave me alone, and I told her to go back to her room, but she wouldn't and ..."

Mallory holds head in her hands like she's trying to keep her brains in. Her breath shudders out of her, making her whole body shake. "And that's when it happened."

Time can slow down, Mallory realizes that now. The moment Robert struck her daughter, she had felt the blood crystallize her veins. All the sound in the room went out, sucking her into a vacuum, and the next thing Mallory knew, she was between them, shielding her daughter with her body. 

She tells them how she somehow found the strength to grab Imogen and run into her room, but Robert chased them. How he grabbed Mallory from behind and dragged her away while she twisted and fought, latching onto the doorframe, knocking over pictures on the walls. How once they got into the kitchen, he wrapped his hands around her throat, and Mallory thought she was going to die, but suddenly, he was ripped off of her and there was this ... monster ... standing in the kitchen ...

"I saw Robert stab him," Mallory rasps. "He hit him with a meat cleaver and the guy just kept smiling and he .. he wouldn't die."

She doesn't feel like she's making sense anymore. Still, she continues with her whole story, the words tumbling over each other, shaking at the corners. By the time she's done, her voice is hoarse.

"The last thing I remember is flinging myself around my daughter and suddenly falling. When I woke up, Imogen and I weren't hurt anymore. I thought it was all a nightmare."

There's a long stretch of silence. Finally, Husk scrubs his paw over his face. "Fucking hell," he whispers.

Mallory doesn't remember the last time she's felt this ashamed, this small and wrong. "I know it doesn't sound real. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I swear—"

"No. I believe you." Angel flicks his cigarette butt down into the city below. "That monster, that was Al, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Mallory mutters. It isn't until that moment, recalling the story, does Mallory realize that Alastor saved their lives. She supposes she should feel relieved, but mostly, she just feels sick that this demon is in possession of her daughter's soul. "Has Alastor told you two any of this?" They shake their heads. Trepidation twists in her stomach, the next words falling out like heavy stones. "Do you know if he killed Robert?"

Husk laughs without mirth. "Listen, if that guy touched a hair on your daughter's head then he ain't around anymore."

"So ... so he did kill him?"

"He hasn't given us any details about what happened," Husk says, shrugging. "But I know Al. And from your description of how the night went and his state coming back here ... I'd say yes."

The anvil that's been crushing Mallory's chest ever since she sent that breakup text vanishes. Relief washes through her knees, so intense, she has to grip the balcony to keep herself steady. At the same time, she can't help but feel sick.

Angel snorts. "Yeah, right. Al probably did a lot more than just kill him."

Husk grimaces. "Angel."

That gets Mallory's attention. She looks between them. "What does that mean?"

Angel flushes and quickly backtracks. "Uh. Nothing?"

Mallory shoots him a disbelieving look and waits for an explanation. 

"Listen, you ain't gonna like it," Angel says. "I don't even really know myself, okay? I'm just speculating because I know what Smiles' is like."

"This man is going to take my daughter's soul. I should know what he's like."

Angel Dust looks unsure. "Let's just say that Alastor has gotta very interesting ... palate."

"Palate," Mallory repeats slowly.

"Yeah. He likes raw meat."

"So, what? He's into tartar?" Mallory shrugs her shoulders. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Shit. I don't know how to tell you this now." Angel stalls by lighting another cigarette. A plume of magenta smoke curls out into the air. "Look, there's no easy way to say this but ... your ex boyfriend ... well ..."

"Probably got eaten," Husk finishes.

All of the feeling rushes out of Mallory's arms and legs. "What?"

"Alastor's a cannibal," Husk says.

"You're joking. This is some sort of ... sick joke ..."

But their faces are solemn and serious. Angel is speaking to her again, but his voice is drowned out. A nauseating heat flushes through her, tilting the world on its axis. Mallory's feet move upon their own accord as she shoves Angel and Husk aside, retreating from the balcony and into her room. She barely makes it into the bathroom in time, slamming onto her knees and retching into the toilet. She upheavals the contents of her stomach again and again, and still, she cannot get rid of the horror expanding its roots deep inside of her.

Mallory first met Robert at work during a Butterfly Social. It was on the backyard patio of the nursing home, where some of the residents had planted flowers to attract butterflies. Some of the more active seniors caught butterflies in their nets, while the others opted to have lunch and chat. The seniors were always encouraged to invite family members, and Hazel, one of Mallory's favorites, had invited her son.

"He's a very talented photographer," Hazel had told her. "I think he'd get a real kick out of photographing the butterflies."

The nursing home had a strict no tattoos visible policy for the CNAs, but Mallory's whole right arm was covered in them. She always wore a flesh-colored sleeve to hide them, but it was so hot out that day, and her manager wasn't around, so Mallory took a risk and stuffed the sleeve into her pocket for safekeeping.

A monarch butterfly landed on her forearm. She smiled, watching its wings fold and unfold, when she heard the snapping of a camera shutter.

A man lowered his Kodiak and smiled, sheepish. "Sorry, it was such a cool shot. I couldn't pass it up."

Mallory remembered thinking how cute he was and played it off. "Oh, no worries." The butterfly tickled across her skin, still exploring the latticework of inked vines and flowers. "Are you Hazel's son?"

"How'd you know?"

"She said you were a talented photographer."

He laughed. "She makes it sound way cooler than it actually is. Accounting is my day job. Photography is my passion."

"Gotcha." Another butterfly landed on Mallory's arm, bright blue and jewel-like. Then another with marigold eyespots, making her smile.

"Wow," Robert said, watching her. "They love you."

"I think they're just confused."

"No, it's definitely you. You're vibrant." He hesitated and lifted the camera again. "Can I?"

"Oh. Sure!"

The camera went click click click. Mallory felt herself growing warm under his full attention. She smiled and tried to keep still so she wouldn't startle the butterflies and break the spell.

"Hang on," he said suddenly. "I got an idea." 

Robert plucked a nearby pink-violet coneflower and slid it behind her ear, his touch feathering her skin. The heat increased in Mallory's cheeks. A few butterflies lifted away and made a circle around her hair. 

He stepped back and smiled slowly, admiring his work. "There. Perfect."

Mallory laughed. "Yeah, right."

"I know art when I see it."

He took a few more photos and then showed them to her. To Mallory's surprise, she really did look beautiful, surrounded by a swirl of colorful butterflies—like she'd just stepped in from the page of a fairytale.

"See? What'd I tell you?" He turned his head, dimpling. "Perfect."

Mallory had broken up with her last boyfriend after Imogen ran away from home on her 7th birthday, and Mallory remembered thinking Robert seemed so responsible and put together in comparison, but in hindsight, Mallory could see all of the signs had been there.

Imogen never liked him. She told Mallory he wasn't really nice, that meanness festered inside him, like a plum gone soft with rot, but Mallory didn't want to believe it. She'd become swept away so quickly, that soon enough, Mallory found her friend circle thinning, until the only person she hung out with other than her family was Robert. He convinced her to stop wearing makeup because she was beautiful without it which eventually turned into shaming her whenever she wore it all. They argued about petty things all the time—if she wasn't answering his texts fast enough, if her outfits were 'inappropriate,' if she didn't tell him she was off work and spent the day alone.

One time, Robert found an old photo album. Many of the pictures were of Mallory and her ex-husband, but they also depicted Imogen from when she was small.

She'd found the whole thing in the garbage while taking out the trash. When Mallory confronted Robert about it, he didn't even deny it.

"He's not in your life anymore. You don't need reminders of him in your house." 

He'd said it so casually. Mallory was floored, and Robert became furious with her when she argued with him about it. Later that week, she flipped through the album and every picture of her ex-husband's face had been scratched out.

He started showing up at her work all the time. Not just during her lunch break, but also randomly, trying to speak to her when she was on the clock and using his visits to his mother as an excuse.

But it wasn't all bad. Robert could be incredibly tender, especially after a fight. He'd snuggle her and pet her hair, and tell her how sorry he was. He knew Mallory loved flowers and took the time to learn all of their meanings, delivering them to her at work. And every time, Mallory hoped, like how she'd hoped with every ex, that things would get better.

They didn't.

Arguments that should have been over small things escalated into screaming matches. One time, he got so angry, he smashed a glass against the wall and nearly hit her head. Another time, he swept a vase off of her kitchen counter because she took too long at a parent teacher conference. Shortly after that, he broke Imogen's radio and that was the final straw. Mallory waited until he was out of state for work and sent him the breakup text. She didn't check her phone again until her lunch break.

10 missed calls, 28 unread texts.

The texts said they weren't breaking up. That she was overreacting. He promised he'd get Imogen a new radio and to please call him back.

Mallory texted him back and told him this break up was happening, her decision was final, and to have a good trip.

She didn't check her phone again until after work. There were 16 unread text messages. They all said the same thing:

Bitch.

Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch.

She blocked his number but she remembered how after that, she couldn't get warm. Robert was out of state now, but he would be home eventually. And he knew where Mallory lived. A distant part of her wondered if she should have stayed with her dad for a few weeks, just in case.

But then, Robert's mother died. She'd had a stroke while Mallory and Robert were dating that left her completely unresponsive. Mallory felt guilty for feeling relieved. She had been considering applying to another nursing home, just to avoid running into Robert later, but if his mother was gone then this meant Robert could no longer use her as a reason to drop in at Mallory's work.

He got back from his trip and had to deal with the funeral arrangements right away, and afterwards, Mallory still hadn't heard from him. She finally thought things had blown over.

That was, until he showed up in her doorway in the middle of the night.

Mallory wobbles to a stand and turns on the faucet, swishing the bile out of her mouth with cold water. When she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, she doesn't recognize the woman staring back at her. Her hair is windswept, eyes bloodshot and haunted. 

She hates Robert. She hates him for what he did. 

But most of all, Mallory hates herself.

She's always believed there is a special place in Hell for the worst ones—serial killers, rapists, mass shooters. Mallory tells herself they will get what's coming to them.

And so will she.

And the reason she knows is because there is a small part of her that whispers: Good. I'm glad he suffered.

This is all Mallory's fault. This happened because she chose to date Robert. She chose to break up with him, and he snapped. She chose to dismiss her daughter whenever she brought up her Uncle Al, and now, he's going to take her soul, and Robert's dead. She put her longing to be loved over what her daughter said and felt about Robert, and in the end, he nearly killed them. It is her choices that brought them here.

And it's her choices that will send her to Hell someday, too.

🎶 📻 🎶

Alastor's mother had him helping her out in the kitchen ever since he was able to hold a fork. They started out small—when he was three, she'd pick him up so he could throw ingredients into the pan. By age five, he was using the stove with supervision. At seven, he could fry eggs, make omelets and sear pork chops.

She always told him that a mother's first job is to feed her child, so a small part of Alastor believes, if he can do this for Imogen—fill her with something good—then it will keep her from hurting inside.

He arrives in the kitchen early in the morning. He knows Imogen loves sweet things, so he decides to make her pain perdu, the superior version of French toast. He gets to work whisking eggs, milk and honey into a bowl. Slices some bread and pours the egg mixture into a shallow plate, soaking them. He sautés the bread in a pan, the steam rising up to curl over his smiling mouth.

Cooking has always been away for Alastor to escape, but there's something tight and coiled in his chest. It hasn't gone away ever since the panic attack, as Husker called it, but Alastor refuses to believe that's what happened. Just like he refused to believe it when it happened with Imogen in that little cottage in the woods.

The fact that he allowed himself to fall apart in front of someone is mortifying. Alastor has always been so good at stuffing down his humanity that he truly believed it was not in him anymore, but of course, it is. Emotions he does not want to deal with are just disguised as something else—mainly rage. Because fear and sadness are weakness, and Alastor vowed to never feel weak again.

He scrapes everything onto a fresh plate and finishes it off with a dust of powdered sugar. He isn't a fan of sweet things himself, but the Radio Demon doesn't do anything subpar, including this.

He teleports upstairs and discovers Mallory fast asleep in front of Imogen's bedroom door, a mother lion guarding her cub. One hand is stuffed under her pillow, the blanket twisted around her from thrashing in her sleep.

Alastor steps around her and knocks on Imogen's door, but there is no answer.

Perhaps she hasn't woken up yet. He decides to leave it at her bedside for her.

When Alastor teleports into the room, he finds Imogen curled like a precious pearl on the mattress, the blanket drawn tight over her head.

"Imogen, are you awake?"

No response.

He sets the plate down on the nightstand with a quiet thunk. Her little body flinches at the sound.

The coil twists in Alastor's chest again, more prominent than earlier. Something inside of him tells him that Imogen is not asleep at all.

"I've made breakfast for you. It's next to your bed if you're hungry." He summons a glass of water next to the plate for good measure. "Do you need anything else?"

She doesn't even roll over to look at him.

Clearly, she needs more time. Alastor is not going to force her to eat or to speak to him.

"Well, let me know if you do! I'll be downstairs if you need me."

Still, nothing. So, Alastor leaves her be.

🎶 📻 🎶

Imogen feels her whole body tighten when Uncle Al shows up in her room, her muscles bunching.

Please, please, she thinks. Go away.

Lucky for her, he does, and Imogen finally lets out the breath she had been holding.

She didn't even know it was morning until Uncle Al showed up. It still feels like nighttime with the curtains drawn over the windows, cloaking the room in fuzzy shadows. She's barely slept, constantly waking up and crying. She's cried so much that she thinks there are no tears left inside of her.

An hour ticks by. Then another, and another. The fancy French toast goes cold and soggy on the nightstand. She rolls over, starfished out on the mattress, watching the ceiling fan spin round and round until her brain goes numb.

Imogen feels as if she is at the bottom of the ocean where there is no light or color or sound. She wonders if she will ever feel anything else ever again.

But then, her stomach growls, proof that she's still human.

Imogen kicks off the blankets and hops down onto the floor. She digs into the drawers and finds a long pink skirt that reminds her of a tulip and a comfy gray sweater. She changes into the new outfit, tossing her pajamas onto the floor and kicking them away.

Her stomach growls again. There's a mini fridge in the room filled with a variety of foods from A to Z. It's just like Alastor said—the spell would follow her whenever she went.

But Imogen doesn't want Uncle Al's stupid magic food. She wants something else.

So, she twists her doorknob and finds her mother asleep on the floor. Her hair is spread out across a pillow, her body giving little jerks and twitches, lost in a dream. Imogen tiptoes around her, silent as a firefly, and then hurries down the stairs.

She spots the fluffy spider guy from last night in the lobby, talking to a tiny woman in a maid uniform. Imogen scurries away before they can see her, disappearing down another row of stairs.

By a stroke of luck, Imogen finds the kitchen down here. There's a large stove and a giant fridge and a dishwasher. She opens a door at the end of the room, revealing a massive pantry that you can explore like a fancy walk-in closet.

Imogen spots different cereal boxes lined up on one of the high shelves. She grabs a stool from the kitchen and scoots it inside the pantry, crawling on top of it and reaching. She pulls down one of the boxes and rips it open, grabbing a handful of cereal and stuffing it into her mouth.

Artificial grape flavor spreads across her tongue. Imogen immediately gags, nearly spitting it out. Everyone knows that grape flavor is the worst flavor ever. She turns the box over to see what it is.

What the heck is Voot Floops?

There's a guy with a television set for a face grinning up at her from the box. Imogen narrows her eyes at him in suspicion. She reaches inside and nibbles on a pink colored loop that she's hoping will taste like strawberry or maybe even just plain sugar like regular Fruit Loops, but it still tastes like gross fake grapes.

More like Poop Floops she thinks, scowling, and tosses the box aside. She reaches for another one instead that looks like it might be a rip off of Lucky Charms.

This one, she decides, is much better.

🎶 📻 🎶

Husk came into the kitchen to grab some extra supplies for the bar, but it sounds like someone is ransacking the pantry. His ears twitch at the sound of something solid crashing and spilling onto the floor from inside, confirming his suspicions. He wonders if another rat has snuck in. He'll have to tell Niffty.

The pantry door is opened by a crack. He swings it open.

Imogen freezes from on top of a stool, her hand stuffed down a box of Lucky Stars, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.

"Hey, it's okay. You don't have to be scared." 

Husk knows his voice is pretty deep and gruff, so he tries to keep it as gentle as possible—hell knows how that Robert guy talked to her, and the last thing Husk wants to do is set the kid off. He moves off to the side so she doesn't feel like he's hogging the doorway and trapping her inside. 

He hesitates, taking in the mess of Voot Loops on the floor and decides that if the kid is hungry then that's more important. "You lookin' for something to eat?"

Imogen nods.

"All right, what do you want? We got eggs, fruit, oatmeal, waffles ..."

Imogen perks up a little.

"Waffles?" Husk guesses.

A fast nod.

"Okay, but you have to eat some fruit with it. Deal?"

Another nod.

"All right, come out here. I'll make them for you."

Imogen crawls down from the stool and follows Husk into the kitchen. He digs a container of strawberries out of the fridge. "These look good to you?" When she nods again, he sets them onto the counter and pulls out a box of Beelzequick and waffle iron. 

Imogen sits at the counter and watches Husk whisk the batter. The kid's eyes look like they've fallen too deep in her face. There's no life behind them at all. They're like grave dirt.

Husk feels his chest cave. He knows that look because he's seen it in himself—like your very soul has been sucked away. He wouldn't wish that on anyone. Least of all, a kid.

He fashions the strawberries into heart shapes in hopes of pulling her out of her funk. He adds them on top of the waffles when they're done.

"Here you are, kid. Eat up."

Imogen spears a fat strawberry with her fork and stuffs it into her mouth. She digs into the waffles too, which Husk takes as a good sign.

Husk remembers hearing Imogen talk before. She always spoke a mile a minute over Alastor's microphone. She seemed like such a sunny kid, always asking a million questions and laughing. Now, she's not saying a word.

"Hey, kid. Does your throat hurt?"

She shakes her head.

"Does anything hurt?"

Another shake.

"Can you tell me what's wrong? Maybe a little bit about what happened last night?"

Imogen's whole body goes stiff, like granite. To his horror, tears fill her eyes, fast and immediate.

"Hey, hey, it's okay! You don't have to tell me anything. Really, it's fine."

That makes Imogen's body relax a little. She wipes her face with the back of her hand and doesn't look at him, setting down her fork.

Great, now Husk's spoiled her appetite. He frowns, wondering what he can do to salvage this. His eyes drift to a colorful fruit basket.

Suddenly, he gets an idea. "Hey, do you like orange juice?"

Imogen's dark eyes flick up. She nods.

"How's a fancy orange juice sound?"

She gives another nod.

"All right. One mimosa mocktail, comin' up." 

He tosses some strawberries into a blender and then pours the pink paste into a fancy glass. He finds a bottle of club soda from the fridge next, grabbing it by the neck and tossing it into the air, catching it upright on his elbow.

Imogen sits up straighter.

A small smile tugs at Husk's face. He makes it into a show, jerking his elbow so the bottle goes flying like a diver kicking off of a springboard. It arcs over his head before he catches it at the last second with his other hand.

The kid finally giggles. It makes him laugh, too. He pours the soda into the mixture and then reaches for a carton of orange juice, spinning it round and round, before splashing it into the glass.

By the time Husk is done, Imogen's drink looks like a sunset, with dark pinks flushing into sizzling oranges. He cuts open a fresh orange with his claws, adding a wedge to the rim for some garnish.

"Here you go, kid." 

Husk gently pushes the glass towards her, and Imogen takes it, lighting up like she's just been given the moon.

He can't take the kid's pain away. He can't get her to talk to him either. But this—this, he can do.

🎶 📻 🎶

The last thing Alastor expects when he sends his shadow to fetch Imogen's plate is for it to come back untouched.

He tastes it, wondering if he's somehow messed up the recipe, even though he knows he would never do his mother the dishonor. It's terribly sweet, which means it's perfect, and this only escalates his confusion.

Imogen is clearly falling apart at the seams. Alastor wonders if he will have to escalate to drastic measures like ordering fast food to get her to eat, and then decides he could never degrade her by feeding her such garbage.

He drops off the plate in the fridge for safekeeping and finds Imogen sitting at the counter with Husk. There's an empty plate next to her which indicates that she's finally eaten something. She's changed out of her pajamas, and Husk is in the middle of showing her a magic trick. He shuffles a deck of cards impressively, making the cards leap from paw to paw, and then tells Imogen to tap the top of the deck.

"That's seven of diamonds," he announces. "Your card."

Imogen gasps. She beams and bursts into applause.

Husk chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. "Wanna try again?"

She nods furiously.

Hope springs Alastor forward. "Ah! Are you feeling better, Imo—"

Imogen jerks away, so fast, the chair goes skidding out from underneath her. She dives behind Husk and wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his back and squeezing her eyes shut.

Husk sighs. "Aw, kid ..."

Alastor freezes, smile too tight at the corners. "What's wrong?" He tilts his head, trying to peer at her, but she cringes and holds onto Husk even tighter.

With a sharp pain, Alastor realizes he knows exactly what she's doing, because he's seen it a million times: If you convince yourself that if you keep perfectly still, if you don't reach out your hand, or make any sudden moves, then the Radio Demon won't find you.

She's afraid of him.

The realization is a slippery knot twisting in his gut. "Imogen ..." he begins, but Imogen lets Husk go and sprints out of the room as fast as she can.

Part of Alastor wants to follow her, but a larger part of him can't muster the courage. He turns to Husk, who folds his arms and glares at him with his wolf-yellow eyes.

"What?" Alastor demands.

"You know what. The kid is scared shitless of you."

"Yes, thank you! Your input is riveting! Why, I could not tell at all until I heard it straight from your mouth!"

Husk ignores the sarcasm. "You said you didn't kill the guy in front of her."

"I didn't!"

"Then what happened last night to make her run out of the room like that?"

"What a loaded question. Where do you want to start? When I found her beaten unconscious on the floor or when I devoured Robert's hands while he was alive and kicking?"

Husk slides his eyes closed. "Jesus Christ."

"Did she speak to you about it?" 

"She didn't tell me anything." Husk hesitates. "Al, she's not speaking to anyone."

"Why? Maybe she's afraid of others here, too? I suppose she's—"

"Alastor," Husk says. "Was Imogen speaking when you got there?"

"Of course she—" he begins, and then stops. There is so much he remembers about that night. Imogen's crushed nose, the raw hurt and terror, the sound of her crying. He remembers every detail of what he did to Robert, down to the taste and texture on his tongue, but the last words he remembers Imogen saying to him were from a month ago, dappled in black and white.

🎶 📻 🎶

Mallory dreams again. Only this time, she's already fallen and landed curved backwards over a white picket fence. A murder of crows flock around her. They peck out her eyes and tear at her flesh, laughing and shrieking, but it's Alastor who cracks her chest open with his bare hands. He pulls her heart out, wet and red and ripe, and eats it.

Mallory bolts upright, shaking and sweating. She splays her hands over her heaving chest and feels her real heart pounding madly.

A nightmare. She should feel relief waking up from it, but Mallory takes one look at her surroundings and realizes she's still out in the hallway—still in Hell—and still trapped in a real nightmare.

Mallory groans and falls backwards onto the floor. She'd dreamed of Alastor and crows. Mallory hates crows, but she hates Alastor even more. Her entire body aches from sleeping on the hard floor, and her throat feels like meat.

She wonders if Imogen is awake yet when she hears a sound coming from somewhere behind her, like a bag of sand is being dragged down the hall. She turns around and freezes.

It's a life-sized cobra. He's slithering his way towards her, wearing a fluffy pink bathrobe and a luxurious gold sheet mask.

Mallroy screams in horror, so loud, the cobra nearly jumps out of his own skin. She presses herself against Imogen's door, barricading it with her body, and making so much noise, other residents start poking their heads out of their rooms like gophers.

The cobra is quite distressed by this. "Do desist that horrible sssquealing immediately!" he orders, and Mallory shuts her mouth and stays perfectly still. The cobra's crimson eyes flick up and down her body, then up to meet her eyes. "What is wrong with you? Why do you look ..." He gestures at her entire being. "Human?"

Mallory doesn't say anything. She doesn't dare to.

Silence seems to be the wrong answer. The cobra narrows his eyes and leans into Mallory's personal space. "Well? Ssspeak up!" 

But all Mallory can see are those fangs, long and gold, sharp enough to hook into her skin, and dozens of eyes, all of them fixed on her, and she doesn't think—she reacts. She grabs the pillow from off the floor and swings it at his face as hard as she can. 

White feathers burst into the air like a snowfall. The cobra sputters. He blindly lashes out his powerful tail, wrapping it around her middle and shoving Mallory against the wall.

It doesn't hurt but it's strong enough to hold her in place, which only makes her panic and struggle more. "Put me down!"

"Not if you're going to be attacking me with—with this weapon!" The cobra shakes the deflated pillow case at her for emphasis. "Honestly! Do you always sleep in hallways and attack unsuspecting men on their morning stroll? Well? Do you?"

Mallory cannot form words. She tries—oh, she tries—but the cobra's face mask slips off, and she doesn't understand what she's seeing. His features are strangely human but ... he isn't. Mallory is talking to a giant snake.

The cobra pulls away from her, exasperated. "Oh, for Satan's sssake! Stop looking at me like I'm going to eat you!"

"Then quit lookin' at her like you're the main character vore porno, Pentious."

That voice! Relief turns Mallory's legs into jelly. She turns her head to see Angel Dust standing in the hallway, smile upturned and hand cocked on his hip.

The cobra—or Pentious, apparently—turns to Angel in dismay. "What the devil is vore?"

Angel Dust gives him the flattest look of all time. "Wow. I can't believe a snake just asked me what vore is."

Mallory also has no idea what vore is. She also really doesn't care. All she wants is to get out of this situation. Her arms and legs are still free, so she aims a hard punch to one of Pentious' eyes in the middle of his tail. He squeals in pain and immediately lets her go.

Angel shoves the rest of Pentious' tail off of Mallory and holds out his hand, hoisting her to her feet. "Serves you right for grabbing onto her like that," he says.

"She was the one screaming!"

"Yeah," Angel says, "because you look creepy as shit."

"I beg your pardon?!"

"She's a human, you dumb ass! You're a giant snake covered in eyeballs. Get a clue."

Pentious scowls. "Oh, and I supposed you're perfectly normal?"

"Of course! My body is flawless." Angel Dust gestures to himself and flashes a wide grin. "I'm sexy and cute and cuddly. Humans ain't scared of me at all!"

"Aha! So she is human!"

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Hang on." Pentious squints at him. "Why aren't you surprised a human is in our midst?"

"None of your fuckin' business."

"Aha! You know something!" Pentious' smile turns gleeful. "Tell me!"

"No."

"Oh, come on!"

Angel's smile brightens. "Nope! Fuck off!" He throws an arm around Mallory's shoulders and peers down at her. "You good, toots?"

"Y-yes ... thank you."

"No problem. Don't worry, you're not the only one scared of this guy's ugly mug in the mornin'."

It's supposed to be a joke, but Mallory can't bring herself to laugh. Pentious hisses out something nasty, and Angel Dust claps back without a second thought, but a loud thunk against the window makes Mallory's head turn.

A single crow has landed on the sill, one black eye gleaming. It doesn't seem afraid, despite seeing everyone clearly through the glass.

The hairs on Mallory's arms stand up.

No. It can't be the same one. It has to be another crow, some kind of coincidence, but it's now flapping its wings and pecking at the window, trying to get inside.

"Hey, you okay, Mol—Mallory?" Angel clears his throat and arches an eyebrow. "You look like you've just seen a ghost."

But that's just the thing.

She has.

🎶 📻 🎶

Imogen is not speaking. It makes Alastor want to kill Robert all over again because surely—surely—this is because of him.

Alastor did not have a lot of time to dispose of his body while he was on Earth. He merely willed it to disappear, but it isn't really gone. It's a bit like having an invisible pocket within time and space that Alastor can reach into whenever he pleases. 

He considers reaching into it right now. Considers dangling the body by a hook and gutting it like a deer. Considers sawing off his meat and saving it for later.

Instead, Alastor sits at the bar, glaring into a glass of untouched whisky.

Butchering Robert's body will not change the facts. And the fact is, Imogen is afraid of him.

She must have heard Robert screaming. What other reason could there be? She didn't see him do it, but she'd heard it. And now she knows what evil the Radio Demon is capable of.

Maybe Alastor can try explaining things, but what would he even say? What words can fix this?

A flicker of movement blurs from the corner of Alastor's eye. Niffty is cleaning in the lobby again. She dusts the furniture, hopping from place to place, as usual. There's a knock at the door that he ignores, still stewing in thought, but he registers Niffty going to answer.

She returns a second later. "Hey, Al?"

"What?"

"The Weather Witch is at the door."

Alastor squints. "The who?"

"I don't know, but that's what she's calling herself." Niffty tilts her head. "What should I do?"

"Well, let her in, of course!"

"Oh! She's asking to see you specifically."

Of course she is. Alastor holds in his sigh and rises to a stand, smoothing his jacket and straightening his bow tie. He stuffs down all the black emotions brewing inside of him and slaps on his best manager's smile, moseying over to the front door and wrenching it open. "HELL—"

A gunshot cracks and burns past Alastor's cheek. Part of the doorframe splinters and explodes clean off, leaving Alastor to blink rapidly through the dust.

"... llo?"

A woman stands before him, tall and thunderous, with rich brown skin and hair as pale as winter. It dusts her shoulders in thick, spiral-shaped curls.

She reloads a Blessed Tipped shotgun with a loud click and aims it at his heart. "Give me back my family, you son of a bitch."

Chapter Text

"How rude," Alastor says. "We haven't even been properly introduced!"

Imogen’s grandmother looks to be in her mid-sixties, face lined with age, but she holds herself like she's got a spine made of steel. Her horns are long and graceful, and as smooth as polished obsidian, flowing over her head like a gazelle’s and branching off into two sharp spikes. Midnight feathers ruffle around her shoulders and blend seamlessly into a dark cloak, and her eyes are stark orange.

She looks down the barrel and says, "I already know who you are. You're the Radio Demon and you've kidnapped my daughter and granddaughter."

"I did no such thing!"

"You expect me to believe they willingly went with you?"

"Well," Alastor says, considering. "They sort of just dropped in."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're the one who left the Asmodean crystal for Imogen. You tell me."

"The crystal was supposed to take her somewhere safe."

"Oh? Did you enchant it?"

She doesn't answer, but Alastor takes her silence as confirmation. "I see! So the portal was from you."

"Obviously."

"Ah, then fear not! The portal took her here."

"I don't believe you. My spell wouldn't take Imogen to this dump."

"You wound me, woman! You don't know the first thing about—"

Another gunshot. This one cracks over his head and makes his hair fly. 

A slow grin spreads across Alastor's face. "You're a little foolhardy, aren't you?"

"Pissed is what I am." She cocks the shotgun and holds it steady. "I heard you died just like any other man—shot right between the eyes. Who says you can't go out the same way again?"

"With all due respect, madam, your aim is a little off."

She raises the shotgun and fires at something overheard. A pigeon crashes onto the ground at Alastor's feet, a hole blown through its chest, proving just how accurate her aim actually is.

"Hand over my daughter and granddaughter and maybe I'll let you go."

Alastor considers the shotgun with unnerving unconcern. "This hotel is under my protection—that includes Mallory and Imogen." He tilts his head, crimson eyes glowing and calculating. "How do I know the crystal didn’t bring Imogen to be with me because you're the one who is unsafe?"

She chokes, incredulous. "I'm her grandmother!"

"Yes, and you made it possible for a nine year old child to fall into Hell. I am afraid I question your grandparenting."

"And I question why you're so keen on holding onto a human child."

"My relationship with your granddaughter is none of your concern."

"Anything with my family is my concern. Now, hand Imogen and Mallory over."

"Ha! No!"

"Pity! Then I am afraid I am going to have to blow your head off."

Alastor snaps his fingers. A tentacle bursts forth from the ground and wraps around the shotgun, sending a wild bullet arcing through the air. The tentacle yanks it out of her hands and disappears into the depths below, the portal sealing shut behind it.

"Apologies," Alastor says. "But I am rather attached to my head."

"Bastard. Now I am going to have to get my family and my gun back."

Alastor laughs out loud. "I'm afraid that's not possible! Your shotgun belongs to me now. I must thank you for the generous donation."

"We'll see about that."

Thunder claps somewhere in the distance. Clouds gather and begin to darken. The witch's silver curls billow as she turns her head to the side. The tips of her ears are long and come to russet, feathered tufts. Earrings dangle and sway, gleaming with delicate ambers, and her arms are covered in transparent midnight sleeves wrapped in elegant lace. A sunstone cut into the shape of a star glitters from her ring as she examines her long, black claws.

"I heard your little game on the radio, you know. Where will lightning strike next! But you don't control where lightning will strike." She looks right at him. "I do."

Alastor can hear it coming. He teleports out of the way, right before an orange bolt of lightning crashes down onto the doorstep, sparks crackling and skittering up the threshold.

Alastor's eyes turn into radio dials, and his lips stretch impossibly wide. "You, madam, are getting on my last nerve."

"And you're boring me." Imogen's grandmother flexes her claws, lighting sputtering at her fingertips. The veins in her arm glow neon orange beneath her skin. "So come on, Radio Demon. Entertain me!"

Her voice echoes and distorts with the sound of crashing thunder as she hurls another bolt at him. Alastor takes exactly one step to the side and hears it explode into something behind him.

If this woman thinks a little bit of electricity is going to scare him off then she's in for a reality check. Alastor's dealt with far greater light shows from Vox. And although he is not too keen on getting into a bout of fisticuffs with a woman, especially with Imogen's grandmother of all people, apparently, it cannot be helped.

He won't kill her—he'll just knock her down a peg or two. This morning has been difficult, to say the least, and Alastor would very much like to let off some steam. 

And if it's a show she wants, then oh, he'll give her a show.

The temperature drops. The crimson sky turns ash-gray out of nowhere, dark clouds churning like a witch's brew. Within a second the air is wild with the tang of ozone. A curtain of freezing rain pours down and soaks them in an instant.

Alastor's grin widens.

He manifests an invisible shield around his body. The rain bounces off of him with a loud tink, tink sound. Jubilant swing music kicks up. He taps his foot in time to the beat and summons his microphone, speaking out in a strong, animated voice: 

"Ladies and gentlemen, of the radio audience! It's raining cats and dogs out here in Pentagram City! The Weather Witch has invited me out for a jolly! Have you heard of her? I certainly haven't! Oh, she's got a face like thunder, an arm like Waite Charles Hoyt—"

Another bolt of lighting explodes somewhere behind him.

"—a temper as short as her aim!"

The studio audience cracks up at the joke. The Weather Witch, however, does not appreciate the jab. "When I get my hands on you, I am going to shove that microphone straight up your ass."

"And a foul mouth!" Alastor cries. Another roar of laughter from the audience. He swings his arm out like a ringmaster introducing an opening act. "Ladies and gentlemen, I believe there's something brewing here at the Hazbin Hotel! Will the Radio Demon eat his words? Or is this the Weather Witch simply a storm in a teacup? Too early to tell! Stay turned to see which one comes out on top!"

Lightning flashes past Alastor's shoulder and bursts into the window behind him. He feels the explosion hum throughout his body, a shower of glass ricocheting off of his invisible shield.

"Madam, I am going to have to ask you to stop blowing holes into the hotel. Our insurance won't cover it."

"Oh?" the witch says, and stretches out her hand. An orange fork of lightning cleaves the sky in two and strikes down his radio tower. It crashes onto the ground with an ear-splitting boom that shakes the whole earth, crumpling up like a soda can. The On The Air sign creaks off and then spears into the ground, sticking straight out of the cobblestones like a fork inside of a ham. The fluorescent lights hum and give one last heartbeat flicker before going dark.

Alastor's eye twitches.

The witch's lips widen into a massive grin. Her teeth are shockingly white against her black tongue. "Whoops," she says. "Was that yours?"

That's it. This witch is dead. Water is wet, grass is green and ding-dong! Imogen's grandmother is dead.

"How dare you," Alastor says. "Now I have to file a claim and do PAPERWORK."

His voice warps and rises. A hundred shadows pour from his feet and streak down the road as sinuous as ink pouring into water. They rush to enclose the witch with sharp claws and even sharper teeth, but a mass of crows bursts forth from behind her.

It's chaos. Flying limbs and beating wings. The air boils with the sound of screaming crows. The shadows' claws shred through birds' stomachs, splattering the cobblestones in chunks of wet meat. The crows banish Alastor's shadows right back by ripping their throats clean open and jabbing at their hollow eyes, devouring them, gorging themselves.

"Filthy scavengers," Alastor says. "See if I order you lot eggs ever again!"

A decapitated crow flops at his feet. He kicks it and sends it arcing in the air, just as Imogen's grandmother manages to slip out of the fray. She sputters and swats the crow away before it can smack her in the face.

Alastor bursts out laughing. Her face! Oh, her face!

The witch elongates her claws. Amber-colored sparks sizzle between each one, long and sharp as steak knives, and she moves so fast that her electricity blurs through the air. She's quick, but Alastor matches her with a knifelike speed of his own, his own claws stretching to slender, devil-sharp points. They clash with a terrible explosion of power. 

This woman isn't holding back or backing down. She puts all her strength behind their crossed claws with a steady pressure that forces Alastor back, his arm trembling with the effort to hold his ground.

This close, Alastor can feel the power rippling off of her. Her magic runs deep, the edges lined with salt. He should have been able to knock any other demon out flat by this point. This kind of strength ... the transportation spell on the Asmodean crystal … to be able to physically push him back ...

A wave of understanding rushes over him. With it comes genuine surprise.

The witch throws Alastor off and swings at his face. Alastor parries the blow, again and again, the ferocity behind each attack jarring his bones.

A new emotion throbs in the center of Alastor's forehead—annoyance. Alastor prides himself in knowing absolutely everything about everyone. He doesn't understand how someone this powerful was able to elude him for this long.

His irritation bleeds into anger and fuels him forward. He blocks another blow, knocking her off balance, and Alastor is on her in an instant, shoving her against the side of a tree. The wood splinters behind her, leaves flurrying down. She twists her body, and Alastor bites down hard on her feathered shoulder. 

He tastes storms in her blood. Sparks crackle and explode on his tongue, flashing between his teeth.

"Bastard," she breathes. "This is my favorite shirt!" 

A wave of powerful wind hurls Alastor backwards, knocking air and static from his lungs. He skids on his feet, chunks of pavement and dirt flying, leaving long slashes in the earth. 

He finally comes to a stop and straightens. He spits out a mouthful of feathers, black and slicked with a violet sheen. "Good! I hope you never find another one like it!"

The witch unclasps her ruined cloak and lets it fly off into the gale. Blood trickles over her collarbone and slips down her arm, staining her transparent sleeve. She opens her palms and electricity flares, hissing and crackling under the pelting rain. "You petty little man child. Get over here!"

Alastor promptly prances out of range. "I'd rather not!" he says, and hears the lighting crack behind him, illuminating the street in a wash of orange. He hops onto his crumpled up radio tower and summons his microphone cane. "Tell me, Ms. Witch, are you a fan of the Lindy Hop?"

"The what?"

The ground buckles underneath the witch's feet and skeletal crocodiles burst through layers of crust and sediment, flashing sharp teeth and glistening eyes. She lets out a surprised squawk and is forced to leap away, only for the ground to crack apart again as soon as she lands.

Saxophones and trumpets wail, cheerfully macabre. A ghostly stag shears through the earth, forming large fissures that widen into pits that buzz and glitch. Boney, clawed hands pull themselves up from gaping maws of static. The witch is forced to run across a sea of shifting, snarling fossils. It looks to be quite the difficult task, a little bit like a flea jumping around in a hot pan.

Alastor cups his hands over his mouth. "You're off beat, Ms. Witch! You need to feel the music."

A crocodile snaps at the witch's heels. She jumps onto its back, curling her claws underneath its gaping mouth and dislocates its jaw. She rips it off and swings it into the face of a shrieking heron, sending a spray of bones in every direction.

"Your triple step needs work," Alastor adds, and the witch responds by wrestling a stag by the antlers and hurling the entire thing at him. He swings his cane and a shower of ribs, femurs and vertebrae clatter onto the ground. "At least your swing out isn't too bad!"

"Are you always this insufferable?"

"Ah, and here I thought I was being a gentleman by providing you with your requested entertainment. Are you not entertained? Should we change up the song?"

"Don't you dare," she hisses.

"Well, all right. You twisted my arm! Bringing you back to New Orleans with this one! A fast little number from Mardi Gras, My Feet Can't Fail Me Now!"

A rollicking brass band kicks up, even louder than before. More skeletal monsters break free, faster and wilder, matching the pace of the song, forcing the witch to move quicker and jump higher.

Alastor taps the grill of his microphone and it lights up bright red. "Ladies and gentleman, I apologize for the delay! I have discovered a new tidbit of information! The Pride Ring has a new Overlord in our midst! Ms. Weather Witch, may I begin our questions?"

She blinks, baffled. "I—what?"

"Questions, Ms. Witch! Come now, don't be shy!"

She laughs. It's a short, sour sound, but there's a bird's hollowness behind it. "I'm not telling you shit."

"Really, ma'am, I must beg you to mind your tongue. This is a G rated audience."

"My ass it's rated G!"

"Ah!" Alastor laments, ignoring her. "I must admit, I am surprised to hear we have a new Overlord. What a terribly embarrassing blunder on my reputation as the Pride Ring's most renowned gossip! But fear not! I'm here to correct the record and tell you Sinners all about our new horrifying crone. What territory do you rule over, Ms. Witch?"

"Fuck off."

"I don't believe I've heard of that street. Come now, ladies and gentlemen! Have any of you heard of the Weather Witch?"

Alastor cups his hand over his eyes to squint through the heavy sheets of rain and spots a raccoon demon across the street. She's in a light blue sweater and fighting her way through the storm, her ringed tail streaming behind her like a banner. 

“You there!” Alastor cries.

A spotlight shoots down onto the demon like the beam from a lighthouse. She freezes.

“You look like a cultured sort of gal! Have time for a quick questionnaire?” 

The raccoon’s eyes widen in horror. “I—uh—"

“WONDERFUL!”

Alastor appears next to her in a wink. She yelps in shock and immediately tries to turn and run, but Alastor throws an arm around her shoulders like they’re old chums posing for a school photograph.

“Thank you for volunteering! What’s your name?”

He shoves the microphone under her nose. She begins to tremble. “I-it’s Daisy …”

“Daisy! Nice to meet you! Thank you for taking the time to answer my questionnaire. Your time is most appreciated!"

“Please,” she rasps. “I don’t want any trouble. I’m just trying to get to the grocery store …”

“Not to worry! It’ll be quick! Answer correctly and you’ll get a prize!”

The witch, still wrestling with the fossils, yells out from across the street. “Quit terrorizing the general public!”

“Do ignore her, Daisy, I do. Now! How long have you been down here?”

“Um … f-fifteen years …”

“Lovely! What’s your favorite part of the Pentagram?”

Alastor's shadow appears behind her and pops open an umbrella. She flinches and glances over her shoulder, immediately choking back a scream. 

“What a storm we have here today, folks! Gusty winds, rolling thunder and hail stones. Hope you all have insurance.” The studio audience chuckles. A chorus of crunches and howls punctuate in the background every now and again from across the street, joined by bursts of flashing orange light. "Apologies, Ms. Daisy, what were you saying? Ah, yes! Your favorite part of the Pentagram!"

“Um, w-well … My husband and I like Captain Folly’s Crab Pad and Oyster Bar ...”

“Oooh, Captain Folly’s! Never been myself! How do you like their crawfish?"

"I-it's pretty g-good ..."

"Excellent! I'll give it a go! Perhaps I'll see you and your husband there, eh?" He elbows her playfully in the ribs. "Won't that be fun?" 

There's another yowl, accompanied by the sound of solid bones being flung against the cobblestones.

"Alrighty, let's get this show on the road! Time for your first question! Who are all of the Overlords in the Pride Ring?" When Daisy hesitates, clearly distracted, Alastor produces the sound effect of a ticking clock. "Now's not the time to be shy, Mrs. Daisy. Times a-ticking. Tick-tock!"'

"W-well there's Rosie from Cannibal Colony ..."

"Ah, yes! A favorite of mine!"

"There's also Vox."

Static hums and makes Daisy's fur stand up on ends. She quickly and desperately hurries along, naming the rest in quick succession.

"Valentino, Velvette, Zestial, Carmilla Carmine ..."  She stumbles through the names of a few others and then shoots Alastor a nervous glance. "You."

A game show bell rings out loudly. The studio audience erupts into jubilant applause. "Wonderful! Great job, Mrs. Daisy! Keep it up and you will be on your way to win yourself that prize! Time for our next question. Have you heard of the Weather Witch?”

The clock ticks again. Daisy starts sweating. “Um. I … I don’t …”

“It’s not a trick question, Mrs. Daisy. Come now, be honest!”

“I haven’t.”

“Me either! How strange she came out of nowhere, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Y-yes …”

"Yet, she's been among us for ..." Alastor thinks back to when he met Imogen. "Oh, I don't know. Probably four or five years, give or take. Why do you think no one has heard of her?"

"Please, I really don't know."

"Me either! Such a grand mystery! Which brings us to our next question. How do demons gain power?"

"Through deal making," Daisy says immediately.

Another series of game show bells. "Correct! Which means our Weather Witch here has probably made a few deals in her time, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would imagine so."

"Which means someone out there has heard of her. You demons are either spectacular at keeping a secret or you're too afraid to spread the word. Not to worry, I'll spread the gossip for you. But if you have sold your soul to the Weather Witch and want to talk about your experience, give our show a ring! Now, Mrs. Daisy, onto your prize. You said you were going grocery shopping?"

"Yes."

"How is your refrigerator?"

"It's—I don't know—fine, I guess."

"That's what I thought! Mediocre at best! Well, not to worry, Mrs. Daisy, I'm feeling quite charitable today and here to grant you a better one. Here you go!" 

Instantly, a 1930s-inspired refrigerator slams onto the ground in front of them, making Daisy jump. 

"This is your lucky day! Allow me to introduce you to the splendid MONITOR TOP!" Alastor smacks it on the side and a trumpet fanfare plays. The studio audience oohs and ahhs, clapping in appreciation. "It contains a sealed-in-steel mechanism. No fans, no belts, no oil cans to remember! Easy peasy sliding shelves, all steel cabinets, eight point temperature control! The standard of excellence! How do like that, eh, Mrs. Daisy?"

Sudden silence captures Alastor's attention. He glances over to see the Weather Witch standing on top of a pile of unmoving, broken bones. Her stance is wide, shoulders hunched, chin dropped to her chest, peering at them from across the street through glowing slitted eyes. Electricity purrs in her hands, growing bigger and bigger like a ravenous cat's cradle.

"Well!" Alastor says. "It appears that's all we have time for today! No need to thank me for the refrigerator, Mrs. Daisy, I can tell your tickled pink. Off you go!"

Alastor summons a portal to a random grocery store and shoves her through. Daisy lets out a strangled yelp.

"Whoopsie, Daisy! Almost forgot your prize!" He snaps his fingers and the refrigerator rises up on eight legs, resembling a spider, or some kind of eldritch horror abomination. It quickly scurries after her, resulting in terrified shouts from within the store. "Your refrigerator is running, Ms. Daisy! You'd better catch it! HAHAHA!"

Alastor closes the portal and slaps his knee at his own joke. Ahh ... classic.

The world hiccups, warping wildfire orange, a series of muffled pops resounding in his ears. Alastor dissolves into shadows and reappears standing behind the witch, watching the street corner erupt, long fingers of electricity scorching anything around it. A car vaults into the air and slams upside-down onto the pavement, flames leaping through the windows and spreading. Somewhere, people are screaming.

"Well! That went off with a ring-a-ding-ding and bang, wouldn't you agree?"

The witch jumps and whirls to face him, glaring through the torrent of rain.

"The Weather Witch has just blown up half of Happy Street—yes, Hellion's Street was renamed Happy Street two weeks ago, courtesy of Your Royal Princess Charlie. Please know I fought for Hazbin Street. They threw out my vote, unfortunately, all eighty seven of them. You have no one to blame but yourselves for not participating in the community election, and now you heathens are stuck with a Happy Street in Hell. I hope you're happy."

"Good, lord. Do you ever shut up?"

Alastor beams brightly. "No!" he says, and ignores it when the witch rolls her eyes. "Ladies and gentlemen, don't touch that dial! We'll be right back, after another bout of fisticuffs. But first, a tune that never loses favor, the ever-popular Benny Goodman!"

The witch leans forward and speaks directly into the microphone. "Don't listen to him, folks. Benny Goodman hasn't been popular since the Great Depression."

"Oh?" Alastor's ears flick with irritation. "And what does someone like you consider popular?"

"Anything on Vox Music's Top Hits."

Bitch.

🎶 📻 🎶

"Aw, shit tits," Angel says. "Who let Leviathan out of the Envy Ring again?"

This storm came out of nowhere. Rain lashes against the windows, so thick, it feels like being underwater. Mallory can't see out of it or tell where the crow has gone. Wind howls and thunder booms, making her jump.

"I-is it really Leviathan?"

"Huh? Oh. Probably not." Angel flashes her a reassuring grin. "I was just kiddin’."

That makes Mallory relax a little. She tries to calm down and breathe slowly, but her tight muscles won't unwind.

Angel notices. "Hey, don't worry. I really was just kiddin’."

"It's not that ..." Mallory swallows around the fear clawing at her throat. "It's just ... I hate storms. My mother died in one."

"Oh, shit. Really?"

Mallory nods.

"Damn, that sucks. Was it a car accident?"

"Tornado," Mallory whispers.

Angel Dust’s eyebrows shoot up. "Fuck. No kidding?"

"Yeah, it ... was sudden and ..." 

Mallory's voice trails off. Hail clatters against the roof and the wind howls just as it did that day. The lightbulbs on the ceiling flash on and off slowly, like an unsteady heartbeat, bathing them in erratic washes of light.

Sir Pentious cups his palms over his eyes and presses his face against the window. "I can't see a blasted thing," he mutters.

Anxiety clenches Mallory's chest. "You shouldn't stand so close to the window."

He laughs and turns to look at her. "Sssilly human! A little rain doesssn't frighten the likes of Sir Pen—"

An orange bolt of lightning cracks down inches from the window, a giant zigzag, and Sir Pentious yowls and leaps away.

Angel bursts out laughing. Sir Pentious shoots him a scowl.

A radio sitting on a console table in the hallway flickers to life by itself. Everyone flinches when Alastor's cheerful voice speaks out: "Ladies and gentlemen, of the radio audience! It's raining cats and dogs out here in Pentagram City! The Weather Witch has invited me out for a jolly!"

"The who?" Angel says, confused.

Sir Pentious scoffs. "How should I know?"

"You're the politically inclined one!"

A cruel smile spreads across Sir Pentious' face. "Exactly. Which meansss she is hardly worth noting if I haven't heard of her."

Angel accepts this with a noncommittal grunt. Unease clenches at Mallory's gut. Weather Witch? Is that whose responsible for the storm? 

She strains to listen to the rest of the broadcast. Alastor is still speaking, every single word bright and clear, like jubilant exclamation points. A woman's voice is in the background but it's too muffled for Mallory to make out what she's saying. She's about to question why Alastor is on the radio in the first place when there's a deafening clap of thunder, one after the other, making her jump.

The ceiling lights buzz louder. They begin to flicker on and off more rapidly.

Cold fear sweeps through her. "Maybe we should go into the basement."

"Nah," Angel says. "I wouldn't worry about it. Al's able to handle this Weather Witch person before anything bad happens."

Just then, the ceiling lights burn and brighten, nearly blinding, before they abruptly burst into pieces.

Sir Pentious screams again as the hallway is plunged into the darkness, and Angel Dust curls over Mallory to protect her from the shattering glass. There's an ear-splitting explosion from a few floors above them that makes the walls tremble and the windows rattle, followed by the cacophony of scraping metal. 

It's the loudest sound Mallory has ever heard in her life—like two jet planes hurling into each other or a sonic boom. The walkway heaves and judders, and Mallory is forced to grab onto Angel to keep herself from falling over.

No one speaks until everything stops shaking. "Are you okay?" Angel finally asks.

"Yes," Mallory rasps. "Are you?"

"I'm good," he says, and Mallory tries not to gasp as Angel Dust straightens. His eyes glow in the dark, one solid pink and the other jewel yellow with a magenta iris.

More eyes blink in the shadows, each one crimson and oval shaped, and Mallory realizes they belong to Sir Pentious. Mallory's own eyes adjust slowly and poorly to the lack of light. It's eerie not being able to see anything around her, and Angel doesn't object when she continues to cling onto his arm.

"What ..." Mallory's heart thunders. "What was that crash?"

"I'm not sure," Angel says. He lets out a nervous chuckle. "Maaaybe we should get you and Imogen to a basement."

She squeezes his arm. "Yes, please."

"Ladies and gentleman, I apologize for the delay! I have discovered a new tidbit of information! The Pride Ring has a new Overlord in our midst!"

Sir Pentious makes a shocked, choked sound from the back of his throat. Mallory feels Angel reach over her and backhand Sir Pentious across the head.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"You said she wasn't important!"

"She isn't!" Sir Pentious insists.

"Like hell! Alastor just said she's an Overlord!"

Mallory raises her voice over the chaos. "What's an Overlord?"

"Only one of the most powerful beings in the Pride Ring," Angel Dust says, clearly agitated. "You know, like Alastor."

"I—what? "

But Angel's gaze snaps to Sir Pentious' dark shape frantically slithering away. "Hey! Where are you going?"

"To dressss for the occasion! I can hardly be expected to challenge a new Overlord in a bathrobe, now, can I?"

🎶 📻 🎶

Husk is worried about the kid. He hasn't seen Imogen ever since she hightailed it out of the kitchen. The storm outside is getting pretty bad. It cut off the power and ruptured most of the lightbulbs in the building, covering the hotel in pitch darkness. Husk has no trouble seeing without light, but he remembers how bad his eyesight was as a mortal. He hopes the kid isn't afraid of the dark.

He wanders into the lobby and discovers Niffty has already cleaned up the broken glass. He finds her hunched over the fireplace in the lounge section. Flames the size of woodland sprites flicker and dance among the logs before she fans them to life, making them grow tall and yellow.

"Niffty, do you know where Imogen has gone?"

She peers up at him. "Oh, no. I haven't seen her!"

"Can you keep an eye out for me?"

"Of course!"

"Thanks."

One of Alastor's radio's is still droning on in the lobby, even with the power out. Husk has been tuning out most of it until Alastor announces the Pride Ring has a new Overlord, and he stops dead in his tracks.

A new Overlord? Since when? And why is Alastor the one introducing them?

Husk's ears perk up at attention. Alastor's now interviewing someone on the street. As the interview goes on, Husk understands the point Alastor is trying to make which is ... People talk. That's how demons gain their reputations. Word spread about their abilities, their brutality, the favors they are willing to do in return for someone's soul. The more deals that are made, the more their reputations grow. 

So, how can someone make enough deals to be considered an Overlord, and not have anyone say anything? It doesn't make any sense. The newest Overlord before today was Velvette, and the only reason she climbed to power so quickly is because of her power over social media, not to mention the extra help she had from Vox and Valentino. That Weather Witch outside either has friends in very high places or she's extremely good at keeping everyone else quiet.

Carmilla isn't going to be too happy when she finds out.

There's a deafening crack of thunder, making Husk jump. An orange bolt of lighting explodes through the window and sets a couch on fire. Glass shatters and releases a melting pot of noise: howls and cymbals, cries and stomps. Laughter and shrieks. A murder of crows bursts into the hotel lobby, knocking over the flower arrangements and the pictures on the walls, screaming here, here, HERE!

"What the fuck?" Husk roars. He grabs a fire extinguisher off of the wall and swings it into the crows like a baseball bat. "Where did these things come from?" 

Niffty's singular eye follows the crows as they bounce around the room, her pupil dilating and shrinking, taking in every single one. "Oh, nooo," she says, her grin growing impossibly wide. She reaches behind her back and pulls out a chopping knife. "Pests."

She smashes the knife into a crow's head. The flock shrieks with outrage and swarm her, but Niffty is fast. She leaps from crow to crow, killing each one in midair with severe brutality and precision. Husk watches her skewer four of them at once onto her oversized sewing needle—a crow shish kabob—and then decapitates another one with a pair of kitchen shears.

Husk aims the extinguisher's hose low at the base of the fire, coating the flames in fluffy white powder. They go out with one last sweep and then he sighs. The Princess hasn't even been gone a full day and the hotel's already burst into flames. He marches past Niffty, grumbling how he's too old for this bullshit, ducking to avoid a rogue crow streaking across the room.

He cups his paws over his mouth, bellowing at Alastor through the hole in the window. "HEY! We got bolts of lighting and crows coming in here!"

"I'm a bit BUSY right now, Husker!"

"You're the manager! Do something!"

"I am doing something!"

"Well, do something else! We got mortals to worry about!"

There's a flash of red voodoo symbols and then nothing. Husk reaches his paw through the window, but he can't feel anything—not even the rain or wind. He picks up a dead crow and hurls it as hard as he can outside. It soars a short distance away and then smacks against something invisible and solid. Must be some kind of barrier.

"There!" Alastor's voice calls out. "Satisfied?"

Husk scowls. "About time, don't you think?"

There's the sound effect of someone blowing a raspberry in response. Husk rolls his eyes and turns around to find Niffty standing proudly among a mass of dead crows strewn across the floor.

"Damn," Husk says, impressed. "Good job, Niffty."

"Thanks! I'm going to get a bag for these."

"Need any help?"

"Sure!"

Husk follows her to the supply closet. They each grab a broom and a large trash bag and get to work sweeping the dead crows inside. Their blood and insides smear the carpet. That's going to be a bitch to get out before Charlie comes back ... they're also going to need a new couch.

"GET OUT OF MY WAY!"

Sir Pentious quickly slithers down the stairs while straightening his blazer, as if he had hastily pulled it on. At his back are a hundred of his Egg Bois, all of them armed with ray guns or impressive machinery, scrambling after him like a steampunk Easter parade.

"Where the hell are you going?" Husk says.

"To assssert my dominance!"

Husk arches an eyebrow. "What?"

"Move," Sir Pentious says again, shoving him aside and wriggling to the front entrance.

"I wouldn't go out there if I were you," Husk says.

"Quiet, peasant!" He wrenches the door open and disappears outside. "It's time for this Weather Witch to know the name of Sir Pen—" 

His voice is cut off by a solid smack followed by a cry of pain. The Egg Bois in the front abruptly stop. It causes a swell in the conveyor line, a tide of pinstripe eggs rolling and falling into each other. One of them cracks open and spills their white guts all over the carpet, making Niffty's eye twitch.

Husk cranes his neck to peer around the doorframe. Sir Pentious splays his hands out in front of him and the air ripples scarlet. He presses harder but it won't budge, horizontal water and hail bouncing off of it like a sheet of solid glass.

Lightning stretches wide across the sky like a slash of a knife. It illuminates a graveyard of shattered bones and upturned earth. Even more crows swoop around the battlefield, raging against shadows. Alastor snaps his fingers and sends a car careening. The Weather Witch lifts her hand and electricity lashes out, splitting the vehicle in half like the Red Sea, hitting the ground on either side of her like cannonballs, wiping out anything in their path. A brilliant explosion blooms behind her, followed by people screaming, but she stands with her back straight and silver hair flying behind her in the churning gale.

The light fades and swallows the scene into black.

"No," Sir Pentious rasps. He scrabbles his claws against the barrier. "No, no, no!"

Husk gives him a flat look. "Aren't you being a little dramatic?" 

"No!" He pounds his fists against the invisible wall. "RELEASE ME!"

Husk shakes his head and walks around the Egg Bois. Something flutters in the corner of his eye, and he looks up.

Another crow is perched on the gold railing, huge and black, watching everyone with gleaming dark eyes.

"Niffty, it looks like you missed one."

"Hm? Oh!" She draws another chopping knife. "Come here, little bridie." 

The crow squawks and kicks off into the air. Niffty jumps onto the railing, leaping after it with the chopping knife raised high, blade glinting silver.

The crow spins around and spreads its wings. On the inside of each one and in the center is an eye of brightest crimson, as rich as blood. It flaps its wings once and a gust of wind bursts forth. Niffty is flung back into the wall with devastating force. She cries out and crumples onto the floor, chopping knife skittering away.

Husk sprints over to her. "Shit! Niffty, are you okay?"

"Ugh, I think so ..." 

He helps her to her feet. She brushes herself off and looks around. "Oh, no! Where did it go?"

Husk spots the crow flying to the second floor. "Over there," he says, but Niffty isn't paying attention.

"Uh, Husk?"

"What?"

"I think we have bigger problems."

"What do you ..." 

Something brushes against Husk's ankle. He glances down.

A headless crow is standing on its feet. It's standing on its feet, and it's touching him.

He cries out, shocked and disgusted, and kicks it. It thumps onto the floor, flopping over with the rest of the bird corpses, and that's when Husk realizes it isn't just one crow rising up from the dead.

It's the entire murder.

Shifting muscle, sinew, and cartilage echo in the dark as broken wings mend and reform. Beaks click and clank—talons rasp against the carpet. Blood and organs slither back to where they belong. A symphony of throaty calls fill the room, growing louder and louder as each and every crow opens their eyes, one by one. 

Then, they burst into the air, wild, uncontainable, raw, screaming. 

Niffty picks up her chopping knife and starts killing them off again. There's a group still speared onto her rapier needle that are flailing their wings violently, trying to free themselves. The others struggle in the garbage bags, tearing them open with their beaks, breaking free and joining the others.

This isn't possible. Crows are Hellborn. They can't regenerate. Only Sinners—

All of the fur stands up on Husk's arms and neck.

No.

No, it can't be.

But there's no other explanation. Horror crystallizes in Husk's stomach as the crows dive at his head. He ducks and swats at them, too stunned to do anything else because these aren't crows. 

They're people.

Sir Pentious abruptly shoves Husk aside. He bats some of the crows away with his powerful tail and zig-zags around the battle, shielding his head and making his way up the stairs. His loyal egg army blasts a few birds apart with their ray guns and hobble after him.

"Now where are you going?" Husk says.

"To my airship! I am going to blow this barrier to sssmithereens!"

🎶 📻 🎶

The air is filled with roaring swing music and rolling thunder. Trumpets and violins clash against the wailing wind. High-pitched, maniacal laughter echoes against the corners of the buildings. Smoke shakes up into the sky, covering the pentagram. Lights flicker orange and red, orange and red, cars squealing to avoid the chaos and spinning out of control.

"Many traffic stalls out here, folks!" Alastor says. "You'll be sitting ducks if you're commuting to work out this way. I think it's safe to say we'll still be experiencing heavy rainfall, but with the Weather Witch in charge of our forecast, who knows what else we'll be seeing today! Tell us, Ms. Witch, are you going to be summoning a blizzard as well or are you a one trick pony?"

Black clouds swirl and expand around the Weather Witch's face. Her white hair bursts behind her like a plume of flames, changing from silver to gray to jet black, and suddenly, it doesn't look like hair at all anymore, but flowing mist and smoke. With a woosh, the Weather Witch disappears behind a curtain of wind and darkness, the air around them spinning faster and faster, one cloud blurring into the next, and Alastor realizes she's not just forming a tornado—she is the tornado.

He digs his heels into his shadows to keep from getting swept away, hair and coattails flapping behind him. The sound of a freight train bursts in his ears. Alastor can hear nothing else, his head stuffed with it.

"Good golly," are the last words Alastor says before he's sucked into the twister.

🎶 📻 🎶

When the ceiling lights begin to flicker, Imogen sinks to the floor inside of a bathtub and pulls her knees to her chest.

She'd ran into the nearest hotel room when she bumped into Alastor in the kitchen. It wasn't locked, and it didn't seem to be occupied by anyone, so she'd stayed. She was going to try to find her mom after she'd calmed down, but the sound of an explosion from somewhere upstairs, followed by rupturing metal, scared her so badly that she'd darted into the bathroom and hid in the tub.

Shortly after, she could hear the rain lashing and thunder rumbling. The lightbulbs burst one by one and glass showered onto the tile. Imogen gasped and curled into herself as darkness filled the room.

Imogen isn't afraid of the dark. She isn't afraid of storms either but right now, she's afraid. She wants her mom, but she's too scared to move because she can feel it again—Alastor's emotions. They rise up inside of her giddy and scarlet and confusing.

She hears Robert's voice again.

She hears him screaming.

Imogen wants Sour Gummy Worm, but he's at home in her room where she should be. She hugs herself instead, whimpering against the bathtub floor. Her nails dig deep gouges into her arms.

Crunching bones, terror and cruel delight rush through her, a heady mix of memory and sensory overstimulation. Blood fills her mouth. Imogen tries to spit it out, but the taste keeps coming back, obstructing the back of her throat, making her gag and heave.

Please stop. Please, please—

"Hello!"

Imogen jerks her head up. She looks around but she can't see anything in the pitch dark.

She sits perfectly still. Her tongue smacks against the roof of her mouth—no blood. No blood at all. She leans against the wall, cool against her feverish skin, and strains to listen.

"Hello!" they say again.

It's her grandma's voice.

Imogen shoots to her feet. She's still foggy and shaky from the memory of Robert's death, but the hope blooming in her gut overpowers it. She shoves the shower curtain aside and crawls out of the tub. Her hands stretch out in front of her like a sleepwalker, knocking over a stepstool and a bottle of soap on top of the sink, desperately searching.

"Hello, hello!" her grandma sings.

Where are you? She wants to ask the question out loud so badly, but each word feels like river stones gathering on top of each other in the back of her throat, choking her. Her fingers wrap around a wooden threshold as she steps from the bathroom and into a bedroom.

Lightning flashes, and in its orange brightness, Imogen sees a large crow perched on top of an opulent dresser.

The flash of lightning dissipates. Darkness covers the room again.

"Hello!" the crow calls.

Not her grandma—just her familiar, Echo. Imogen remembers him. He was her grandma's best friend and really good at mimicking voices. Imogen's mom used to get mad thinking she was talking to Grandma from another room, but it was just her crow.

If Grandma's crow is here then that means she must be here too. 

Warmth burns in Imogen's chest. She stretches out her hand and hears Echo's wings rustle. Two powerful wingbeats, and he lands upon her arm. He is bigger and heavier than Imogen remembers, his sharp claws prickling her skin.

Echo chitters and gently nips at Imogen's cheek. He mimics the sound of a kiss. "Hi, sweetie!" he says.

It's exactly how Grandma used to greet her. Hi, Imogen thinks back. She strokes his silken feathers and smiles when she feels him get all fluffy around his neck.

"Mallory?" Echo cocks his head, studying Imogen with one, gleaming eye. "Mallory?"

Imogen shakes her head.

"Mallory," Echo repeats. Click, click goes his sharp beak. "Mallory?"

He's looking for her mom, but Imogen can only shrug. Where is Grandma? she wants to say, but then, she feels it—her Grandma's magic. She can taste it in the air, not like her own, or even Alastor's, but of storms and hurricanes. It's been a long time, but Imogen would know it anywhere.

It's coming from outside.

She turns around and stumbles to the door, slightly ajar, and pushes it open. Echo hops onto her shoulder instead. Lightning flashes and lights up the hallway before fading away. Imogen presses her hand against the wall and feels her way along the corridor, moving blindly towards the stairs.

Imogen stops at the top landing, wide-eyed.

A hundred crows are screaming and flying all around the lobby. Husk and a tiny maid are trying to fight them off, but the birds' dark shapes blur through the air, coming in all different directions.

"Houston, we have a problem," Echo says, snapping Imogen out of it. She hurries down the steps, ducking to avoid the crows streaking overhead and escapes into the kitchen.

It's really dark in here. There are no windows, no fireplaces, no candles. Imogen stumbles around in the pitch black, bumping into the counter and stumbling into a few chairs before finally making it to the back door.

She hesitates, one hand poised, ready to open it. The wind is howling outside like a living creature and the rain sounds like coins jingling around in a jar. She hears Alastor's laughter, high-pitched and maniacal, intermingling with the laughter of someone else. It's her grandmother's laugh but it sounds different now, like she's swallowed a bird and it's laughing along with her.

"Bad idea," Echo says.

Imogen swats him away. He flutters back down onto her shoulder.

"Bad idea," Echo insists.

She opens the door and a surge of static electricity blows her hair back. A torrent of rain is pouring down all around her, but it bounces off in midair, each strike shimmering iridescent red, almost like the film of a soap bubble.

Imogen takes a few steps forward and reaches out her hand, smushing it against the air. The world shimmers again. She presses harder against it, but it won't budge.

It's some kind of protective magic. The entire sky flashes brilliant orange. Across the street, bricks blow off of a building in rapid succession. They go flying and bounce off of the barrier directly in front of her, making her jump. Telephone poles crack and fall over under the fierce winds. Tree branches flail out and scrape against the barrier like clawed hands, and a stop sign bends at a sharp angle. 

Imogen's heart pounds and Echo keeps chanting bad idea, bad idea, but her grandmother is out here, and Imogen wants to see her again.

She walks around to the front of the hotel. When she gets there, she stops dead in her tracks.

It's a tornado.

Imogen's seen pictures of tornadoes before. She's never seen one in real life. It's as black as a starless night and so massive that it looks like it's splitting the sky in two. It wheels round and round, roaring louder than a dragon.

It's strange. Imogen can feel Alastor and Grandma, but she doesn't see them. Are they trapped inside of the tornado?

No, they can't be trapped. Imogen would feel it if they were. Then again, Grandma was never afraid to put herself into the eye of a storm, and Alastor isn't afraid of anything. 

Around her, Imogen can feel their emotions pulsing like a drumbeat. She can feel Alastor's raw excitement and his black annoyance, prickling from her toes all the way up her spine. She can feel a surge of intense hatred from her grandmother, tangled with the delight of danger and power, and a fierce, tangible sense of protectiveness that's coming from both of them.

The source of their emotions is coming from the tornado. Orange light strobes from inside it, illuminating Alastor's figure, and with a start, Imogen realizes that they're fighting each other.

No. No, they can't fight. Imogen has to stop this somehow before everyone gets hurt—but especially, Grandma. She doesn't know what Alastor is capable of, what he can do. She slams and kicks against the barrier, but it won't budge.

"ALASSSTOR! REMOVE YOURSELF FROM THAT TORNADO AND GRANT ME ACCESS TO THE BATTLEFIELD AT ONCE!"

Imogen jumps at the voice. It sounds like it is being amplified by a loudspeaker. She looks up and freezes, watching in wide-eyed amazement as a colossal airship soars into view from behind the hotel.

She's never seen such a thing before. It looks sort of like a blimp in the shape of a narwhal, the golden horn poking against the barrier and making it wriggle.

"YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDSSS! IF YOU DO NOT COMPLY, I SHALL BLOW APART THE WALLS YOU HAVE BESTOWED UPON ME!"

Another voice suddenly speaks up, this one sheepish. "Uh, Mr. Bossman? It's going to take a little longer to charge up the plasma cannon."

"I—what? How long?"

"At least a full minute. Someone unplugged it yesterday.”

“Why?”

“It appears they wanted to use the outlet for the toaster, sir.”

“Toast? My kingdom is on the line over toast? ”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

"Of all the incompetent, ridiculousss ... FINE! I WILL BLOW UP YOUR WALLS IN EXACTLY ... ONE MINUTE!"

A large canon emerges from the bottom of the blimp. It brightens and begins to build with power, the sheer force of it billowing Imogen's hair.

Echo cackles. "Hasta la vista, baby! "

🎶 📻 🎶

Well, Alastor thinks to himself. This is a first.

Inside the tornado, everything is as still as death. The air smells like burning wood and sulfur, and the wind is so loud, Alastor can no longer hear anything at all. The only indication that his music is still playing is the constant beat pounding in his skull. He can't even hear his own voice when he broadcasts into his microphone.

"Ladies and gentleman, this is Alastor, speaking to you from inside of the Weather Witch's tornado. I am standing directly in the middle. There's a circular opening directly overhead, roughly 50 to 100 feet in diameter and about a half mile high. And what a great sight it is, a thrilling one, just a marvelous sight! There's—"

Suffocating pain suddenly crashes in on Alastor's lungs, like he's drowning. He gasps, clutching at his throat, the rest of his words folding in on themselves. Brisk, sharp cold envelopes him, the temperature and oxygen levels dropping. 

His shadows are only going to be able to tether him onto solid ground for so long. He needs to come up with a plan, fast.

His microphone speaks up for him. "Ladies and gentlemen, due to circumstances beyond our control, we are unable to continue the broadcast. However, we will return at the earliest point of opportunity. In the meantime, please enjoy this piano interlude."

Alastor leaves his audience with a rendition of Stardust by Raymond Scott and disappears off the air.

Laughter cackles from every corner of the twister. It's a triumphant laugh. A killing mania. Alastor knows because he's heard it from himself.

He can feel a radio dial clicking and shuffling through stations, but not being able to hear it is unsettling. Alastor does not appreciate not being able to discern anything but the Weather Witch and her storm.

So he will just have to be louder.

Static garbles over Alastor's skin like a mirage shimmering on a hot dry surface. It transforms into an undulated liquid sound that sharpens to a high-pitched frequency. It rises up about fifty feet above Alastor's head, a crescendo building and building, voices and brass instruments warping, until Alastor finally lets it loose and it explodes.

Soundwaves rack the twister, blowing the clouds apart, and the witch shrieks like a raven set on fire. The sound is twinned by the cries of her crows. Crimson electricity rages against citrine sparks, the twister wobbling back and forth precariously.

Alastor relishes in the feeling of another soundwave ravaging through his body. It shoots up into the air as a triangle of scarlet noise.

There's another bloodcurdling scream. The witch finally manifests within the swirling wind, her shape changing from arms to wings, moving so quickly that Alastor cannot get a good look at her. She siphons up into her own vortex, trying to speed it up again.

Alastor won't allow it.

He snaps his fingers. The ground rips out beneath his feet, a portal expanding inside of the twister like a great maw. Alastor lands on top of something large and slippery. It hoists him up as a swarm of impossibly long tentacles burst forth. They ripple and writhe, propelling through the struggling twister, smacking aside the crows like pebbles.

Alastor is hoping to find Imogen's grandmother, but so far, his eldritch has only found hundreds of crows. They scream and flutter around him, trying to divebomb Alastor's head, but the tentacles remain in constant motion, boneless and sinuous, swatting them away.

The clouds finally break apart. The tornado shrinks down into a curtain of dust that spreads across the cobblestones, puffing out like a candle.

His eldritch carries Alastor to solid ground. He leaps off but doesn't dismiss it quite yet, pressing his palm against it, a master keeping his beast at bay on a leash. But the witch is nowhere in sight.

Alastor doesn't believe she's really gone, not for a second. He narrows his eyes, a radio dial crackling as he surveys the area.

Something bursts behind him with a screech. Alastor whirls around.

The witch shoots through the air, hair wild and fringed with foamy dark clouds. She whizzes past him and dives into the portal.

Alastor blinks rapidly.

Is she mad?

He peers over the edge, intrigued. This woman is either going to get constricted or get eaten, and he's curious to see which it is, when an electrical ding makes his ears swivel, followed by a victorious, "FINALLY!"

He spins to face the glowing jaws of Sir Pentious' fully powered plasma cannon.

Shrilled, crazed laughter blares from a loudspeaker. "You are too late, Alasstor! Your wallsss cannot contain me! I shall now defeat your invisible doors with my sssuperior technology!"

Alastor smiles with all of his teeth to keep himself from sighing. Without lifting a finger, he wills his shadows to swarm to the airship and twist around the cannon, slipping inside of it, stuffing it, crushing it from the inside.

Sir Pentious squeaks. "My baby!"

The cannon creaks and bends, resembling a wadded up ball of paper by the time his shadows are through with it. They pour up into the cockpit next, and Alastor commands one of them to latch onto the steering wheel.

The ship jerks wildly into the side, clipping the edge of the hotel, kicking up debris and sending a tremor throughout the building. Alastor vanishes the barrier, and Sir Pentious' furious shout echoes over the Pride Ring as he flies off into the distance. When he is far enough, Alastor snaps his fingers. Fireworks explode into the airship, all glittering reds and golds, blasting it to pieces.

Alastor brushes himself off. He's starting to lose the joy in destroying Sir Pentious' airships, he's annihilated so many at this point. He turns but something catches eye.

His blood turns cold. What is Imogen doing out here?

She's standing beneath the circus awning, clutching onto a pillar, right in front of the hotel's front entrance. How long has she been standing there?

The sound of groaning metal makes Alastor's ears perk. He glances up. A vacancy sign the size of an Oldsmobile car hangs over the awning—but it's hanging on its side, probably gone loose from the airship. It wiggles back and forth, slowly unhinging itself. Any moment, it'll fall.

It's going to crush her.

Something takes over Alastor. Something far stronger than rage and sadistic delight, something so primal, so instinctive. There is no space inside of him for anything else. His head is throbbing, full of buzzing white noise, and there is only one impulse loud and clear—the need to save her.

Lightning strikes behind him. His eldritch bellows in pain, tentacles flailing about madly. Alastor doesn't know how badly his monster is hurt or if Imogen's grandmother is dead or alive.

He doesn't care.

Alastor latches onto Imogen's shadow, and makes a quick, crooking gesture with his finger. She lets out a squeak of surprise, flying towards him like he's just pulled an invisible string tied around her waist. At the same time, the vacancy sign crashes through the awning and spears into the ground, forming a large crater right where Imogen stood seconds ago.

Alastor pulls her into his arms, pressing her against his chest, and Imogen immediately panics. She flails and strikes out her feet, kicking him as hard as she can between his legs.

The Radio Demon has not felt this specific sort of pain since 1913, when Danny O'Sullivan hurled a soccer ball at him. Needless to say, it is just as excruciating as he remembered, and he immediately doubles over with a sharp cry, punching out a random sound effect that sounds suspiciously like a squawking rubber chicken.

Imogen wiggles out of his grasp and runs away. Alastor crashes to his knees and hisses static between his teeth.

At that exact moment, the witch streaks out of the portal in a shower of reddish-brown feathers. The portal seals shut behind her, and she lands before him—her spine straight, bones no longer hollow, wings replaced with solid arms. She tosses the Blessed tipped shotgun up from one of her gnarled feet and catches it in her hands.

And aims it at Alastor's head.

Alastor does not know if he is impressed or flabbergasted. "You're insane."

"And you're a chatterbox exhibitionist." The Weather Witch cocks her gun. "Hand over my daughter and granddaughter. I won't ask you again."

But Alastor's gaze snaps to something behind her. Imogen sprints up to her grandmother and throws her arms around her leg from behind.

Alastor does not know what the witch thinks in that moment—that it's another skeletal monster ripping up from the ground? That his eldritch lashing out to pull her to the depths? 

She whirls around and turns the gun on Imogen.

Alastor's wrath explodes. He lunges and grabs onto the barrel of the gun, wrestling it out of her hands. Muscles shift, antlers and claws elongate as he tackles her to the ground. A sound of roaring comes directly from him and the sheer force of it makes the witch's silver hair fly back.

Crows crowd Alastor, covering him in a mass of blurring, black feathers. He barely registers it, blinded by the rush of mad panic. The witch snarls back at him and slams her palms into his shoulders. Electricity blasts through him, throwing him backwards onto the ground.

The witch towers over him, orange sparks dancing between her fingers. "Why you little ..." Footsteps scamper and stop out in front of him. Shock slaps the savagery right off of her face. "Imogen?"

Imogen glances nervously between them, palms lifted in supplication, imploring for them to stop. From the horrified way the witch is looking at her, Alastor can tell she now realizes it was her granddaughter standing there, of all people.

Alastor doesn't care, not when a gun was pointed at her. It escalates the red, hot spiral of aggression coiling inside of him. His body is on fire, and his hands are tingling, and his chest feels split open, but he rises onto his feet, his shadows bursting around Imogen and transporting her behind him.

He teleports and reappears right in front of the witch, so close that the air makes her hair stir. Reality distorts around them, sizzling black and red, black and red. His jaws open wide, his breath wet and rank on her face, but the witch does not even blink. She lifts her chin and stares straight back at him, studying him with a strange expression. It isn’t fear or even rage—it's genuine surprise. 

Then, it morphs into something else.

A small smile.

"Heh. Well, I'll be damned. I guess you really are the best person to keep her safe."

That snaps him out of it. Alastor leans back. "I ... pardon?"

"My sincerest apologies! I seem to have misjudged you. Not that I can be blamed, you have a reputation, you know."

Alastor’s fangs and claws shrink down to their regular size, eyes transforming from black pits to their normal bright carmine, completely baffled. 

The rain slows to a drizzle and the fierce wind dwindles to a gentle breeze. Sunlight breaks apart the dark clouds, despite there being no sun in Hell. The remaining crows perch calmly in the surrounding rubble.

"I'm Nora Jean. Pleased to meet you."

She extends her hand. Alastor stares at it.

"Oh? No? And here I thought a cannibal's favorite drink was a handshake." 

She bursts out laughing at her own joke. Alastor keeps staring.

"Oh, I suppose you're nervous I'm striking a deal with you? Don't worry. I have no desire to put either of our souls on the line. I was simply being polite." Nora Jean tosses her hand. "Let's put all this fuss behind us. Bygones be bygones! No?"

Bygones be ... what?

"No?" Nora Jean says again. "Too soon?"

There's a sound of a struggle from behind him. Alastor turns to see his shadows still grasping onto Imogen. One covers her ears, the other her eyes. But she wiggles and fights in their grasp, so he wills them to release her.

Imogen stumbles forward and catches herself before she can trip. She sprints past Alastor and straight into her grandmother’s open arms.

"Imogen! Oh, I've missed you!” She squeezes her close, palms spreading up and down her spine, searching for any injuries. “Are you all right? I'm so sorry, I had no idea you were there." Imogen latches onto her even more fiercely, burying her face into her shoulder. "Goodness, you're so big now. Happy birthday!"

A crow flutters onto Nora Jean’s shoulder. "Happy birthday!" it repeats, in the exact same pitch and cadence.

Nora Jean turns her head. "And where the hell have you been?"

The crow squawks something back. This one looks to be the largest in her flock.

"Excuses. I was almost eaten, you know."

The crow lets out a chattering laugh and bobs its head. "Happy birthday!" it cheers again.

Nora Jean rolls her eyes. She turns her attention back onto her granddaughter. "Oh, dear. I'm soaked to the bone and getting you all wet. Are you cold?”

Imogen nods.

“Let go for a moment, sweetie. I'll dry us off."

Imogen seems reluctant, but she does as she's asked, taking a step back. A beam of sunlight pours over her and makes Imogen smile, trying to cup it in her hands. Her sweater dries off almost instantly.

"Okay, now back up a little," Nora Jean says.

Imogen does. The crow flies away.

"Farther," Nora Jean insists.

Imogen shuffles back until she is at the front door.

"Perfect," Nora Jean says, and is abruptly struck down by a bolt of lightning.

The surrounding crows take off, scandalized. Alastor's eyes sting from the brightness of it, squinting until it finally fades and he sees Nora Jean standing there, unburnt and dry once more. She runs her hand through her curls and orange sparks skitter out like long fingers. 

"Much better," Nora Jean says.

A huge, delighted grin spreads across Imogen's face. Nora Jean grins back at her.

Something painful constricts in Alastor's chest. He doesn't understand the whiplash of emotions he's experiencing. Half of him is still reeling from the turn of events, and the other half is furious. He still doesn’t understand why Nora Jean brought Imogen to Hell, and he's tempted to rip out her heart and stuff it in a mason jar over her sheer recklessness with firearms, accidental or not—but he can't bring himself to do it. Not when Imogen is clearly so happy to see her.

Her grandmother had said the crystal was supposed to take Imogen somewhere safe. Was she trying to see if Alastor would really protect her? 

That seems a little too simple. Her ferocity when she’d challenged him had been real enough and so had her terror when she’d realized what she’d almost done. He decides to be cordial for now—find out her true intentions and see if it’s worth stuffing her heart in that jar later.

Alastor stretches his grin wider and shoves the uncomfortable feelings down, turning his attention onto the wreckage instead. He snaps his fingers and the bones vanish underground, cobblestones and pavement smoothing over without a wrinkle. Glass tinkles as the hotel's windows are restored, followed by the vacancy sign, lifting it up into the air and clicking back into its rightful place.

The front door swings open. "Imogen! What are you doing out here?"

Imogen flinches and turns around. Mallory comes up from behind her. "I've been looking all over for you! You can't go outside, we're in Hell, you can't just—"

"Ah, Mallory. I see once again your life is in shambles."

Mallory freezes. She slowly turns her head, her face pinching in horror. "Mother? "

"Don't worry," Nora Jean says. "I'm here to help."

"Oh, god."

"Is that any way to greet your dead mother? It's been ages!" She grins and spreads her arms wide open. "Come! Fly into my arms!" 

From behind her, a lamppost slowly tilts over from across the street with a low moan. It slams onto the asphalt with a shower of copper sparks, popping and hissing out like adders. 

"Oh, my god," Mallory whispers. "I really am in Hell."

Chapter Text

Mallory's mother has always been a towering figure in her life. In death, she's nearly seven feet tall, not including the horns. She recognizes them as pronghorns, a kind of prairie antelope Mallory had seen as a child before they moved out of Oklahoma. There are no whites around her mother's eyes—those are orange now, though they're a lighter hue than her irises, which are an even deeper and brighter saffron color. Her brown skin has jewel-violet shimmer in certain angles under the light, like she's been kissed by fairy dust, and her feet are gold and scaled, resembling some sort of bird of prey. But strangely enough, Mallory can still recognize her.

Nora Jean crosses the space between them and envelopes Mallory into a strong, warm hug.

Mallory stands there, frozen, her arms pinned to her sides. It's been five years since her mother has hugged her like this. She’s hit with a rush of familiarity: the scent of her mother’s skin, the security of her embrace. And for the briefest moment, she allows herself to melt into the touch of someone who’s always been such a pillar of strength.

A confliction of emotions rage through her. Half of her is overwhelmed to see her mother again. She wants to wrap her arms around her and hold on tightly. She wants to let her soothe and comfort her after everything Mallory's been through.

But she can't.

Because Mallory is also heartbroken and furious. Seeing her mother again doesn't rectify the fact that she's the whole reason she and Imogen are here.

Nora Jean pulls away. "I'm so happy to see you! How are you doing?"

"I ... could be better."

"Not to worry! Like I said, I'm here to help." She cups Mallory's cheek, her heart in her eyes. "How is your father?"

"Fine."

"That bastard. He should be in mourning!"

"You died five years ago."

"Exactly! Not nearly long enough for him to be fine! How is his farm?"

"He sold it."

"Sold it?"

"Yeah, Mom! He's old. It was time for him to retire."

Her mother staggers back as though his news hits her with a rush of lightheadedness. "Oh, this would have never happened if I hadn't died. Clearly, he's in a state of misery without me!" She summons a paper fan and spreads it open, fluttering it over her cheeks to cool her face.

Mallory sighs. "Why do you look so different?"

"Hm? Oh. Well, I suppose this new form reflects in my soul." Nora Jean grins, instantly recovered, and snaps the fan shut. She gestures to herself. "Do you like it?"

No, she doesn't like it. It's bizarre seeing her mother without her velvet brown eyes, with russet feathered-tipped ears and fangs.

"The horns are fitting," Mallory finally says.

"Thank you!"

It wasn't meant as a compliment. Sensing her hostility, Nora Jean frowns. "Mallow flower, are you still angry with me from all those years ago? Please, let's leave all that behind us. We can start all over and—"

"No," Mallory says.

Nora Jean deflates. "No?"

"No. Not until you explain why we're here."

"I was going to ask you the same question."

"You ..." Mallory hesitates. "You don't know?"

"Oh, I know how you got here. I just don't know why you're here. You have quite a bit of explaining to do."

"No," Mallory says, narrowing her eyes. "You do."

"Very well! Let's sit down. I shall explain everything!"

Imogen grabs her grandmother's hand. Nora Jean glances down and softens, picking her up and balancing her on her hip.

"And how are you? You must be up to all sorts of mischief by now!" Nora Jean gently boops Imogen on the nose with her finger. "Tell me everything!"

Imogen smiles and shrugs.

"I've never known you to be shy. What's the matter? Is it because I look different?"

Imogen shakes her head.

Alastor brushes himself off. "Because Granny turned into a sentient tornado and is irresponsible with firearms?"

Mallory blinks. "I—what? "

Nora Jean ignores him. "Why isn't she talking?"

"I don't know," Mallory says, shrugging. "She's probably just surprised to see you."

"No, that's not it."

Mallory hesitates. She steps closer and presses her hand flat against Imogen's back. "Honey, can you say hi to Grandma?"

She shakes her head.

Trepidation starts to creep in. "What's the matter? Are you scared? Does something hurt?"

Another headshake.

Anxiety digs its claws deep into Mallory's chest. She presses closer. "Sweetie, can you try saying something? Anything?"

Imogen's eyes turn downcast. She picks at a feather on her grandmother's shirt and doesn't respond.

"How long has this been going on?" Nora Jean asks.

"I ... I don't know. She was talking yesterday ..."

Nora Jean arches an eyebrow. She turns back to her granddaughter. "If you don't want to tell me," she says. "Show me."

Imogen stares at her.

"You're clairsensitive. You can share your thoughts and emotions the same way you can read them. All you have to do is touch someone and open your mind. Go on, give it a try."

Imogen hesitates. Slowly, she presses her hand against Nora Jean's cheek, small fingers fanning out like the points of a star. She tips her forehead against her grandmother's, right between Nora Jean's pronghorns, and squeezes her eyes shut.

At first, Mallory doesn't think anything is happening. But then Nora Jean's expression turns from puzzled to dismayed to downright horrified. The horror is quickly chased away by the mask of slow, icy rage.

The temperature around them drops twenty degrees, and Mallory's skin burns with cold. Ice crawls up Nora Jean's skirts, her skin. Mallory watches, dumfounded, as her mother's hair begins to change color. It grays, like storm clouds, and then physically becomes storm clouds, rising above her shoulders and churning up into a fist.

Touches of frost creep upon Imogen's face. She lets out a shuddering exhale, her breath puffing out like a dragon's.

Nora Jean abruptly pulls back. "All right, dear, that's enough."

Imogen jerks away. The cold shatters in the air, a light mist falling onto her cheeks.

Nora Jean immediately pulls her into another fierce hug. 

"I'm so sorry," she whispers into her hair. "I'm so sorry I couldn't be there to help you, Imogen."

Imogen squishes her face between her grandmother's neck and shoulder, clinging onto her with all the strength her little body is capable of. She lets out a tiny noise, a choked sob, and the sound threatens to make Mallory's chest crack. She reaches out and rubs Imogen's spine, trying to soothe her.

"What did she show you?" Mallory whispers.

"She only showed me bits and pieces. It wasn't much of an image. It was more of a ... feeling. It's difficult to explain, but ... it’s clear she was hurt." Nora Jean turns her gaze directly onto Mallory. “Were you hurt, too?”

“No.”

The lie is instant. It hangs in the air between them, bold and scarlet.

Nora Jean has always had a way of looking at Mallory in a way that makes it impossible for her to lie to her. Imogen has the same look sometimes, like she’s staring into her soul. It’s even harder for Mallory to face her mother in this form, her eyes orange and piercing and severe.

“Are you sure?”

Mallory’s insides squirm. She feels sick. “Yes.”

“Do you know who hurt Imogen?”

“It was … someone I was dating.”

“What?” Her mother’s alarm quickly morphs into urgency. “Was it Fletcher?”

Fletcher is Mallory’s ex-husband, and Imogen’s biological father. “What? No. Of course not.”

“Then who was it?”

“Someone you’ve never met. He’s … he’s not around anymore  …” Mallory crosses her arms and sucks in an unsteady breath. “He’s gone now. He’s gone for good.”

She can still feel her mother’s sharp gaze on her. A wave of heat and shame rushes through Mallory, unable to bring herself to look up. She fears, if she meets her mother’s eyes, then her lie will be uncovered. Admitting what happened to strangers, like Husk and Angel Dust, is somehow so much easier than admitting it to someone she knows. She feels like if she tells her mother the whole truth of what happened then Mallory won’t be able to bear it. She’s afraid of her mother’s judgment. That she will be so disappointed in her, when Mallory already feels like such a failure.

“I should hope anyone who hurt your child is gone,” Nora Jean says, speaking each word slowly and with suspicion. She turns to Alastor. “You’re the one who got rid of him, I take it?”

Alastor’s expression is hard to read. The only sound is the click and swivel of a radio dial, his thoughts silently surging towards a conclusion, but what kind … Mallory cannot tell. For a moment, she worries he is going to tell her mother the truth, but he only says, “Yes.”

Nora Jean grunts. “Good. At least someone got rid of him.”

Mallory feels a fresh flash of guilt. She hates herself for lying but mostly, she hates herself for being so weak—for not being able to get rid of Robert herself.

As a mother, Mallory is supposed to keep her child safe. To tell her when it's okay to cross the street, to comfort her when she's at the doctor, to protect her from horrible things like darkness and monsters hiding under her bed. She's always failed so badly at everything, but this, Mallory thinks, is her worst failure of all.

🎶 📻 🎶

Alastor doesn’t fully understand why Mallory is lying to mother, but he decides that’s her business. He’s certainly not going to be the one to say anything when he has no reason to.

… Not yet anyway. He’ll hold the information close to his chest and if an opportune time presents itself, he’ll consider what to do with it then.

After Husk and Angel Dust have had their introductions to their new guest, Alastor leads the group into a private room. They gather around a round table in front of a stained-glass arch over a transparent window, where they can see Nora Jean’s birds perched nearby. A depiction of a gold star is painted on top. Beams of scarlet and amber radiate from it and cast puddles of warm light across the walls and floor. 

Niffty zips in with a trolley and sets a tray down on the center of the table, complete with sandwiches and assortment of pastries. She also provides tea. Mallory takes hers with lemon, Nora Jean takes hers with milk, and Alastor, Husk and Angel opt to have coffee.

Echo swoops onto the table and steals a fruit tart. He flutters onto Nora Jean’s shoulder and holds onto the pastry with one foot, ripping off pieces of it with his sharp beak. Imogen sits on her grandma's lap and helps herself to some chocolate chip cookies.

"So," Angel Dust says, finally breaking the silence. "I hear you died in a storm."

Mallory winces at how casual Angel says it, but asking about someone's death down here is almost an equivalent to nice to meet you and what do you do for a living? Some people are touchy about it, but Nora Jean is not one of them.

"Yes. I died because of a little miscalculation on my part, sadly."

"No," Mallory says, suddenly heated. "You're dead because you insisted on hunting lightning that night and storing it in a jam jar."

"It wasn't just any lightning," she insists. "It was a superbolt from Heaven."

Mallory leans back in her chair and crosses her arms, breathing hard. "Yeah. And now you're dead."

"I died because a house fell on top of my head, Mallory, not because I'm an unproficient lighting hunter. Does your father still have it?" 

Mallory glares in response. When it's clear she is not going to answer, Nora Jean dips her head down to her granddaughter’s ear and whispers, "Well? Does he?"

Imogen tries not to smile and nods.

"Good. When you're older, you can make a pentagram and send it to your dear old grandmother." She gestures to Alastor. "Don't give it to him or tell him where it is. He'll probably keep it for himself." When a genuine smile pulls from Imogen's face, her grandmother adds, "While you're at it, send me a bundt cake."

Mallory makes an incredulous sound. "Don't use my daughter to send you lighting jars and cake!"

"Why not? You're not sending me lighting jars and cake!"

Angel Dust is floored. "People can send us cake?"

"Enough about the fucking cake," Husk says. He folds his arms against the table and takes in Nora Jean with suspicion. "If you're an Overlord then why haven't I heard of you before?"

"Because I made sure of it." Nora Jean reaches around Imogen and sets her teacup down carefully into its saucer. "I place a spell on anyone I make a deal with to prevent them from speaking my name. They cannot describe me or give away my whereabouts. That way, no one can spread the word about me, and I have my privacy. Or ... I did." She shoots Alastor a flat look. "Up until about twenty minutes ago."

"You fired an angelic weapon at me," Alastor says. "Exceptions should be made."

"I thought you kidnapped my family. I shall take no responsibility."

Alastor ignores that and takes in this new tidbit of information. If there are no rumors about the Weather Witch and she does not make it a point to show off her abilities, then it's no wonder no one has ever heard of her—she's been building her power quietly and in secret for the past five years.

However, as embarrassing as the blunder may be, nothing about this woman is getting past Alastor now. There's something more to this that she is not mentioning. His giant grin widens by a fraction of an inch. "You know, I noticed something quite peculiar with your birds."

Nora Jean's eyes flick up to his. "Oh?"

"Yes. My shadows tore them apart. I remember quite vividly how some were even decapitated. Husk tells me that Niffty cut up quite a few of them herself. And yet, every single one is sitting outside perfectly fine." Alastor's claws go tap, tap, against the table. "How odd that a few scavengers can regenerate, wouldn't you agree?"

Angel Dust laughs. "What? Hellborn creatures can't regenerate. Only Sinners can."

"Sinners?" Mallory repeats. She looks around the table. "What does that mean?"

"Sinners are like Al and I," Angel says. He reaches for an eclair and flicks a limp wrist. "They're demons who used to be human before dying and ending up down here. Sinners can regenerate if they're killed because they're already dead. But creatures born in Hell are not able to come back after someone's pulled a fast one on 'em."

"Oh," Mallory says. "So ... birds can't regenerate ... because they're Hellborn?"

"Exactly."

Mallory frowns. "Then how ..."

Nora Jean coughs and quickly sips her tea to hide her expression.

Mallory's frown deepens. She glances outside at the birds huddled in the trees. Alastor watches the cogs slowly turning in her head. Then, she gasps. 

"Oh my god."

"What?" Angel glances at her, confused. "Why do you have that face?"

"Angel," Alastor says, delighting in Nora Jean's squirming. "I think it's best if you take Imogen outside."

"What? Aw, come on!"

"No, he's right," Mallory says, and then immediately winces. She sucks in a breath. "Angel, can you please take Imogen outside until we're done talking?"

Angel Dust groans. "But I wanted to hear all the tea!"

"I'll catch you up later," Husk says.

Angel crosses a set of arms, sulking, but one look at Mallory's pleading expression and he resigns with a deep sigh. "Oh, fine. Come on, kid."

He peels himself up from the chair. Imogen immediately grabs her grandmother's hand.

"You'd better listen to your mother, dear. Go on, I'll see you in a moment." Nora Jean gently scoots Imogen off of her lap and passes her the plate of cookies. "Here, take this. Little birthday treat."

Imogen perks up. She stuffs a cookie into her mouth and walks out of the room with Angel Dust at her heels.

Nora Jean angles her head to Echo. "Go with them."

He immediately takes flight and disappears out the door. It magically shuts behind them.

Mallory cuts straight to the point. "Mother," she says, seething. "Do not tell me those birds out there are people."

Nora Jean sips her tea delicately. "All right. They're not people."

Mallory lets out a breath of relief.

"They're demons who couldn't hold their end of the bargain."

Mallory squeaks with shock. "Mom! How could you do something like that?"

"How? Quite easily, I assure you." At the increased look of horror on her daughter's face, she adds, "Really, mallow flower, it's not as bad as it sounds! I can't help it that I'm so good at transformations, my magic just manifests this way. Besides, not every deal I make turns another person into a bird, and I can change ... some of them back if I feel like it."

"And how often is that?"

"Usually when I need groceries."

Mallory scoffs. "Unbelievable! I can't believe you're still transforming people against their will!"

Alastor's ears twitch. "Still?"

"Yes," Mallory says, crossing her arms. "She turned my prom date into a salamander."

"Only for a little while," Nora Jean sniffs.

"He flicked his tongue out whenever he saw a bug for weeks."

Nora Jean hums and raises her eyebrows from behind the lip of her teacup. "Then perhaps he shouldn't have stuck it down another girl's throat, yes?"

Some of the fire drains from Mallory's body. "That's besides the point."

"Oh, I'd argue it's the whole point."

"What about Echo?" Husk asks, suddenly curious. "Is he someone you made a bargain with, too?"

"No. Echo is my familiar. We died together and we arrived in Hell together.” She reaches for the teapot and pours herself more of the tea, adding milk and sugar. “Now! Enough about me. I'm curious how you've crossed paths with the Radio Demon."

"Your granddaughter made a deal with him," Mallory says.

"Oh?"

"That's right. In exchange for a few birthday parties, he gets her soul."

Nora Jean lifts her eyebrows. She glances at Alastor and looks at him—really looks at him—and then tries to hide her laughter by snorting into her teacup.

Mallory stares at her. “What is so funny?”

“I’m … I’m sorry. But you’re telling me Imogen sold her soul to … to him?” Apparently, it is too hard for her to believe because she bursts out laughing. “Oh, please. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” When no one else laughs, she blinks, taken aback. “Oh! Oh, you’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” Mallory snaps. “Imogen and I are in this mess because of you!"

Nora Jean presses a hand over her heart. "Me?"

"Yes! It was your Spellbook she found!"

"I hardly see how that's my fault when I'm dead. You should have locked it up if you didn't want her using it."

Mallory scowls. "I would have if I had known you left at my house!"

"I didn't! She must have swiped it from your father. You've always underestimated Imogen. Girl is sharp as a whip and very sneaky when she wants to be."

"Gee," Mallory says flatly. "Wonder who she learned that from."

"Sneakiness is a valuable life skill," Nora Jean says, waving a ham sandwich at her. "You can learn a thing or two from Imogen."

"Regardless," Alastor says, stepping in. "You still left Imogen the Asmodean crystal, yes?"

"Of course I did."

Mallory glares at her, furious. "Why would you give your granddaughter something that can take her to Hell?"

"Come now, Mallory! I put a spell on the crystal so it would only take Imogen here if she ever truly needed me. And look! You see! She needs me. And so do you."

"You are so full of yourself. Imogen and I were doing just fine."

"Clearly not if the Radio Demon ate your boyfriend."

Mallory makes a face. "God! Don't remind me."

"Oh, but I must! You've always had terrible taste in men, but it's time to grow up. It's not just about you anymore."

Mallory sighs. "I know that."

"Well if you know, then—"

"God, would you stop it! This is what I mean! I don't need a lecture. What I need is someone to hold my hand and tell me it's going to be okay, and get us a ticket out of Hell so Imogen and I can get back to our lives!"

A pained expression washes over Nora Jean's face. "Oh, mallow flower. You know I won't sugarcoat things for you. It's going to take a bit of planning to get you two home."

"Planning?" Mallory repeats. Her eyes narrow. "You mean you don’t already have a plan?”

Nora Jean squirms. "Well ..."

"Typical. This is just like you! You and your stupid stupid Satanic rocks!"

"It's an Asmodean crystal, Mallory. It's rude to call them rocks. And Satan has nothing to do with it."

"I don't care what they're called! I just want to go home!"

"You will! Eventually." Nora Jean smiles and pats her hand. "I promise. You'll just have to hold on tight for a little while."

Mallory inhales sharply. She pulls her hand away and rubs the center of her forehead. "How did you get a hold of something like that in the first place?"

Alastor is also curious. He waits with his head tilted to one side.

Nora Jean coughs. "Well ... you see ... your father and I were feeling adventurous. So, we summoned an incubus."

Mallory stares. "What?"

"An incubus. You know, male demons who have sexual relations with humans."

"I know what an incubus is!"

"Ah, wonderful! Well, we kept getting this one fellow, Antonio. Very passionate man, Antonio. He made me feel things I haven't felt in years—not your father's fault, he has a bad hip, you see."

Mallory groans and hides her face in her hands. "Get to the point, please!"

"Yes, well, eventually, we didn't have to summon Antonio anymore. We established a schedule, and he started showing up a few times a week on his own. I kept an eye on him when he would come and go, and I realized he was able to do so with this pretty bracelet. Got very sensitive when I tried to take it off. Naturally, I was suspicious, but I wasn’t planning on doing anything about it until I caught him trying to steal from me. So, I shanked him and took his little crystal."

"Mom! "

"What?"

"You just can't shank demons and steal dangerous artifacts!"

"Why not? I saw an opportunity, and I took it!"

"Does Dad know about this?"

"Oh, of course. He was very upset. Antonio was his favorite harlot. We had to start all over."

Mallory massages her throbbing temples. She looks like she wants the floor to swallow her whole.

“Anyway, back to the crystal," Nora Jean says. "I tried to use it myself but it wouldn't work. I figured you needed to be a demon to use it. Lucky for me, I already drained Antonio's body of most of his blood and harvested a few body parts—you never know what might be useful—and started experimenting."

Mallory's reaction is different from what Alastor expects. He's waiting for her to look shocked or horrified, but she only lets out an irritated sigh. “Seriously? Again?”

“This is different from that other time, Mallory, I assure you.”

“No it isn't. You always pull the same shady shit every time. This is exactly why I didn't want you messing with this stuff or telling me about it. I didn't want it to come back and impact my life!”

“I know,” Nora Jean sniffs. “That's why I didn't tell you. Now, where was I?"

"Experimenting with body parts," Alastor says.

"Ah, yes. Incubi are Hellborn, so I figured with a bit of tinkering, I'd be able to figure out a transformation potion to temporarily turn me into a Hellborn and trick the crystal, so to speak."

"Did it work?" Alastor asks.

"Yup!"

Everyone waits for her to elaborate. When she doesn't, Alastor waves his hand. "Well? And?"

She laughs. "You think I want that kind of potion being common knowledge? Oh, no. No, I'm not telling you how it works. The point is, it did work and when I used the crystal, it took me straight to Hell." She scrubs her chin in thought. "Of course, then I was stuck there. I didn't realize the crystal would self-destruct after I used it. Asmodeous and Lucifer were very cross with me. Not my first offense, you know."

Husk frowns. "What was your first offen—"

"ANYWAY," Nora Jean cries, steamrolling along. "All that matters is that they sent me back and ransacked my house. They banned me from summoning more demons from the Lust Ring. Not that it mattered. I cracked the crystal in half, so I had a piece of it left over. I kept it hidden at your house, Mallory, just in case my little vacation went wrong. They never suspected a thing."

Mallory closes her eyes. "God, I'm afraid to ask, but where did you hide it?"

"In your Bible."

"Mother! "

"Stuck it right in the middle of the Nativity Story."

"That has to be considered sacrilegious."

"Probably." Nora Jean chuckles darkly, bringing her teacup to her lips. "But it worked, didn't it?"

"The point is, you deliberately went behind my back and did this. Imogen thought the crystal was a black tourmaline because you deliberately disguised it."

"Yes, well, I had to disguise it because Imogen's father came sniffing around for it."

Mallory blinks. “Fletcher?”

"Yes. The scumbag tried to manipulate me into giving it to him, but not to worry." Nora Jean smiles and pats Mallory on the arm. "Your father and I fended him off."

"Dad knew about this too?"

"He only knew Fletcher was looking for it. He didn't know I left it for Imogen."

“Why did Fletcher want it?”

“Oh, he was pulling the same shit. Trying to find another way to get in contact with one of the Seven Deadly Sins.”

Mallory winces, scrubbing her face with the heel of her hand. “Oh god. He’s insane. I told him to stop messing around with things like that. He’s only asking for trouble.”

Husk is surprised. “You know about the Seven Deadly Sins?”

“Only a little,” Mallory says, uncomfortable. “My ex-husband started researching one of them and fell down a really deep rabbit hole. He became obsessive and started doing a bunch of shady things around the house, and I didn’t want any part of it. It was part of the reason we got divorced.”

“So … Imogen's father is magical?”

“He’s clairsensitive. He has the same powers as Imogen, but he’s …”

“An asshole,” Nora Jean finishes. “Remember when he drained your savings and spent it all on that tacky car?”

Mallory's annoyance bleeds into exhaustion. “Believe me, I wish I could forget.”

Her voice is so sad that it gives Nora Jean pause. She places her hand on Mallory’s arm. “I'm sorry. I take it you're still struggling with your shop?”

“My shop isn’t … I mean …” Mallory shakes her head and meets her mother’s eyes. “I don't want to talk about that. What happened with Fletcher?”

"Well, he came to my house looking for the crystal. We got into a pretty heated argument, you see, and I started to do a bit of reflecting after he left. I worried just how far he would be willing to go to get what he wants. It was around the same time you were getting divorced, Mallory, and you and Imogen were both just so sad. I knew I'd die and go to Hell someday, and I worried how you two would fare once I was gone. But I especially worried for Imogen. I wasn't going to let a silly thing like death stop me from protecting her. I left her the crystal to give myself assurance that if she was ever in danger, she could easily travel to me. I made sure to enchant it so it would only activate if she were ever in any danger and transport her to the safest place possible. I assumed she would appear with me but ..." She glances at Alastor. "Apparently, the safest place is with him."

"What?" Mallory snaps.

"Yes!" Nora Jean cries. "Surprising, isn't it?"

"That cannot be possible. That man made a deal for Imogen's soul."

"Yes, like I said, it is surprising. Though, I suppose the safest place is technically this hotel." Nora Jean pauses, thinking about it more and points to Alastor. "But also with him."

"Why?"

"Well, he protects the hotel. I suppose that's why."

Alastor feels a curious twinge of pride, to be considered the safest place for Imogen, but it is short lived due to Nora Jean's immediate dismissal. He opens his mouth to argue and then stops himself. What is he supposed to say? That he is the safest place for Imogen? If that were true, she wouldn't avoid eye contact with him whenever they were in the same room. She wouldn't run or cower in fear at the mere sight of him.

"Of course," Nora Jean continues, "the enchantment on the crystal immediately informed me of your arrival. I was shocked that not only had Imogen taken you down with her, but that you two were with the Radio Demon. I assumed Alastor had gotten through my enchantment's defenses and taken you both against your will, but I should have known better." She laughs and shakes her head. "My magic would never make such a blunder."

Bitterness sours Alastor's tongue. "If your magic is so safe, then why did Mallory and Imogen fall?"

She cocks her head to one side. "Fall?"

"Yes. Mallory and Imogen didn't simply transport down here. They fell. Quite far, in fact." Alastor's voice is measured and his hands are neatly folded on the table, but there is a kind of anger in his smile that is all predator: cold, furious and deadly. A rare kind of anger that Alastor has not felt in a long time—the kind from being stripped powerless. "I tried to teleport them to safety and found that I could not. And according to you, being with me was where Imogen needed to be. If that is the case then I don't understand why I couldn't transport her myself."

"That's part of the enchantment," Nora Jean says simply. If she's nervous or intimidated, she shows no sign. "I made it so no other power was to interfere with transporting Imogen other than the crystal. It was a safety precaution. I hadn't considered any place other than with me would be considered the safest for her." She pauses. "But I am surprised to hear you even had to attempt to teleport them at all. The portal should have arrived straight away. Sounds like it was a little late, hm?"

Late? Late? If that portal hadn’t arrived, Imogen would have plummeted to her death. This woman and her flippant attitude—

Radio waves flow and pulse, shimmering in the air around them and zigzagging down Alastor’s spine. His claws dig into the table, tearing the tablecloth and puncturing through the wood, his eyes narrowing and grinning mouth sharpening.

Mallory sucks in a terrified breath and sinks down into her chair.

Nora Jean glares back at him from over the lip over teacup. The ends of her curls transform from solid white to rolling black storm clouds. "Didn't your mother teach you any manners, young man? It's rude to glower.”

Alastor has a very strong urge to bite her, but his vicious predator nature is overcome by his Southern upbringing, as if his own mother has just walked up behind him and smacked him over the head with a book full of manners. 

The anger melts away like snow in the sun. He feels his power shrink down and he blinks, face returning to normal.

Mallory gapes at the two of them, her face wrenched into a silent scream.

Alastor clears his throat. "I do apologize, Mallory. Your mother is absolutely right! Why, we should all respect impulsive grandmother’s who drag their family down to Hell, shouldn’t we!”

“Oh, just like we should all respect egotistical cannibals planning to take a child’s soul?”

Animosity darkens the air between them. It fills with the sound of static, of a billion black-and-white bees and the murmur of distant thunder. Alastor flashes her another vicious smile. She smiles right back.

Husk coughs.

Alastor cuts off the eye contact with a sound of a radio dial switching into a new station, breaking the static. The heavy, black storm clouds crumple apart and dissipate above their heads. Nora Jean settles back into her chair, taking a tiny sip of her teacup.

"Something doesn't make sense." Husk turns to Nora Jean, his brows furrowed. "You said earlier you needed to take a transformation potion to be able to use the Asmodean crystal. Imogen and Mallory didn’t use one, so how are they here?”

"Oh, well." Nora Jean tosses her wrist. "Mallory has demon blood in her."

Mallory whips her head up. "What?"

"A very, very, small amount. Around 0.5%."

Mallory stares, half-horrified and half-furious. "How is that possible? Did you—did you cheat on Dad or—"

Now it's Nora Jean who is upset. "Oh, don't be ridiculous! I would never betray your father! Besides, your demon blood is from your father's side."

"Dad is a demon?"

"Yes, imagine my shock! I thought your father was Irish. Turns out he's mostly English."

"Are you kidding me?"

"I would never joke about England, Mallory. Terrible food. They named their pudding after a dick. Poor Cornelius almost had a heart attack. He's identified with being Irish all his life, you see, and to find out at sixty-six years old that he's only 18.4% —"

"I don't care about that!" Mallory cries. "I care about the demon part!"

"Oh, relax, Mallory. At least you're not a Nephilim."

"Or dick pudding," Husk mutters.

Mallory takes a deep breath. She lets it out slowly, trying to get ahold of her bearings. "Mother," she says, shooting her an intense look. "How do you know this information?"

"Your father saw an advertisement for Ancestry.com and bought one of those silly DNA kits. That's how we found out about being only 18.4% Irish. He was still sulking about it, so I told him it was probably a broken system, and I'd summon a Baphomet to do another test. The Sloth Ring has the most state of the art clinics and labs, you know, so I trust them over anything on Earth. Anyway, the results came back exactly the same, much to your father's disappointment and to my chagrin. However, there was a tiny percentage that was simply 'unassigned' on the original test. But on the Baphomet's, it said that percentage was Hellborn. Naturally, we were both very surprised. It made me curious if you inherited it from him. So, I pricked your finger while you were sleeping."

"Oh, my god," Mallory says. "I remember that. I thought I was dreaming."

"Ah, but it wasn't a dream! The Baphomet did another test with your sample. And behold! You're 0.5% Hellborn. Congratulations! I was going to celebrate by baking you a cake and throwing you a party, but you've always been so sensitive about these things, so I thought it best not to say anything."

"But how can you trust some random demon to tell you that?" Mallory presses. "Maybe he was lying or ..."

"Clearly not because you're in Hell," Nora Jean reminds her. "Of course, if I had known you and Cornelius shared demonic blood, I would have stopped skewering Hellborns and just took a bit of yours. But ah, well. Water under the bridge, as they say."

Mallory runs her shaking hands over her thick hair, pushing it away from her face. "What kind of demon are Dad and I?"

"It's such a small amount that the results couldn't pinpoint the exact Ring of Hell your father's ancestor was from. It just said 'Broadly Hellborn,' so you could be anything down here, it's hard to say."

"Great! Wonderful!" A horrifying realization suddenly slips into Mallory's mind. "Wait, so does that mean Imogen is also ..."

"Eh," Nora Jean says. "Possibly? We're only talking about one or maybe two tiny bits of DNA. It's so small that Imogen only has a 50% chance of inheriting it from you."

Mallory lets out the breath she had been holding.

"... Though my spell did work, and she is here, so? Probably?"

Mallory throws her hands up into the air. "Goddammit!"

"That's the spirit!" Nora Jean says. "Forget this tea, let's open a bottle of champagne."

Alastor snaps his fingers. The teapot in the center of the table flashes bright green before returning to normal. He picks it up and tips it over into some fresh teacups, spilling out sparkling champagne.

Alastor lifts his cup. "Cheers," he says.

He and Nora Jean click their cups together. 

Mallory shoves her chair away from the table, so fast, the legs screech against the floor. She shoots up and begins to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Nora Jean says.

"Away from you two."

"Away?" Nora Jean pouts. "But why?"

Mallory rounds on her. "Why? Because neither of you can take anything seriously! You both meddled with my life, with Imogen's life, like it's a big joke!"

Nora Jean bristles. "I did not—"

"You were so concerned about Fletcher, and instead of telling me about it, you kept it a secret. You brought us down to literal Hell over it. I tell you Imogen's sold her soul and all you can do is laugh. You tell me I'm related to some obscure demon and celebrate like it's a good thing."

"But it is a good thing," Nora Jean says, frowning.

"Not to me! This is just another one of your crazy adventures, only this time, you've dragged me and Imogen into it. I told you to keep this stuff out of our life and you did the exact opposite. Then you went off and died and left us all alo—"

The rest of the sentences catches in Mallory's throat. Tears brim her eyes.

Something in Nora Jean's expression shifts. "Mallory ..."

"Just save it. Talk to me when you figure out a way to get Imogen and I out of Hell."

Mallory turns and slams the door on her way out.

Nora Jean stares after her, stunned. The curls dusting her shoulders have turned to wispy, peachy clouds. Beams of sunlight slip through, resembling a sunset—or, perhaps a blush.

Alastor taps his claws against the sides of his mug. His desire for physical violence has mostly dissipated, satisfied in watching Nora Jean's own daughter scold her like a child.

"Well," he says after a pause. "That went well."

Nora Jean scoffs. She shakes out her hair, sending the clouds scattering.

"Sooo," Husk says slowly. "Does anyone have any ideas about how to get Imogen and Mallory back to Earth? Sounds like Lucifer was able to send you back last time. Should we ask Charlie to ask her dad for help?"

"There's no need to get Lucifer involved," Nora Jean and Alastor say at the same time. They blink and turn to look at each other.

Husk crosses his arms. "Why not?"

"Because," Nora Jean says, lifting her chin. “I have an idea "

Husk laughs. "If you're planning on getting your hands on another Asmodean crystal, then good luck with that. They're not exactly common in the Pride Ring.”

"Actually, I was considering stealing a Grimore."

Husk chokes. "Do you have a death wish?"

"Not particularly. I just don't think they'd notice if we were quick about it. We'd only need to borrow it for an hour or so."

"Borrow," Husk repeats.

"Of course! They'd notice if we kept it, wouldn't they?"

"What happens if you get caught?"

She laughs. "Caught? Oh, that's so funny."

Husk scowls.

"Oh, you're serious. If something goes wrong, then I suppose I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

"Wow," Husk says, staring at her. "You really don't think anything through at all."

"I do tend to be a bit ..." Nora Jean considers the word. "Impulsive. One of my very few faults."

Husk rolls his eyes. "Well, that's just great. Al, you got any better ideas?"

"Not particularly. I suppose I could send someone along to assist."

Husk stares at him. "You're actually going along with this?"

"Do you have any other suggestions, Husker?" Alastor crosses his ankle over his knee and smiles a menacing smile. "Or perhaps you would prefer that I send you? Would that make you feel more secure?"

"I ..." Husk lets out a breath. "No."

"Wonderful!" Nora Jean cries. "Then it's settled! Oh, how exciting. I do love a good heist."

Husk groans. "This is not gonna end well."

"Goodness, you are quite negative, aren't you? Well! I think it's going to go just fine. Personally, I vote we go after Stolas."

"Why?"

"Because Stolas is the only other Ars Goetia I know of who lives in the Pride Ring, and I've heard on the grapevine that he's neglected his duties for quite some time. I'd say he's our best shot."

"Good idea!" Alastor says. He begins to rise out of his chair. "Should we get a move on?"

She beams. "Nope! We'll have to get started later."

Husk blinks, flabbergasted. "What? Why?"

"We can't just barge into an Ars Goetia's manor without any preparation. I may be impulsive sometimes, but I'm certainly thorough with a heist. Stolas is hosting a ball in a few days, it'll be the best time to sneak in and take it while he's distracted. And besides, Imogen and Mallory are here because they need my help."

Husk resists the urge to growl. "Wouldn't helping them be sending them back as soon as possible?"

"Not in Imogen's current state, no. She's currently being weighed down by Alastor and that man's emotions, and I intend to do what I can for her before I send her home. And Mallory clearly—"

Alastor's ears swivel. "I beg your pardon?"

"What?"

"You said Imogen is being weighed down by my ..." Alastor's smile nearly curls in contempt at the word. "Emotions."

"Yes," Nora Jean says. "Imogen is clairsensitive. She has the ability to sense other people's thoughts and feelings."

"I'm aware."

Her eyes narrow. "If you are aware then why did you kill that man?"

"Why are you pissed about it?" Husk cuts in, even more irritated. "That asshole got what he deserved."

"You misunderstand. I have no qualms about who Alastor has for dinner—especially if that someone hurt my granddaughter. No, I'm pissed because that means Imogen felt it."

Husk's frown deepens. "What do you mean?"

"Imogen is highly sensitive to other people's energies. Joy, for example, can feel like an energy booster for her. Too many negative emotions, however, can be incredibly overwhelming." She lifts her ochre eyes to Alastor's. "Now, imagine being in the same vicinity as a cannibalistic serial killer on a violent rampage. All the emotions you felt during the murder—she also felt them. And she likely felt your victim's emotions, too."

White noise rings in Alastor's eardrums. All of the feeling rushes out of his hands, and for a moment, he stands there paralyzed. 

He hadn't thought of that. Why hadn't he thought of that? He can still feel it: the give of Robert's muscle and bone underneath his teeth, the woosh of blood flooding into his mouth, how good it had felt and tasted, but now he can't taste anything but the acid truth on his tongue: Imogen had felt it all too. She had felt what Robert felt.

"Oh," Husk breathes. He falls back in his chair. "Shit."

🎶 📻 🎶

Imogen shuffles instead of skipping from place to place. She's like a watercolor painting that's been diluted with too much water. You can discern who she might have been before, but all of the sunny yellows and vibrant pinks and glittering golds have bled off of the page, leaving her no more substantial than a ghost.

Alastor looks through the open doorway, to the lounge section in the lobby, where Imogen is coloring on the floor next to Angel Dust in front of the picture box. Echo is perched on one of the plump armchairs, watching Alastor with one eye. He remembers a few months ago, when Imogen used to call him over the radio all the time, and she told him she had drawn him a how-to comic on how to brush your teeth.

"Why?" Alastor asked.

Her instant response: "Because I've never seen you brush your teeth."

Alastor has no idea what to say to her. Logically, he realizes he should be feeling guilty. He knows his actions lead to something that hurt Imogen and therefore, he should be heartbroken.

The problem is, Alastor has never felt remorse a day in his life.

He didn't do anything wrong by killing Robert. He did it all to protect Imogen and yes, he had also done it for himself—because he enjoyed it. He loved killing that man and making him suffer, but that doesn't mean he wanted Imogen to know that. He certainly didn’t want her to experience the delight he’d taken from it or, even worse, Robert’s point of view. The realization that she had left him reeling, and now, Alastor doesn't know what he feels. There's just an empty ache deep in the center of his chest. An odd, numb sort of loss.

Once again, Alastor can’t help but think how all of this is Robert’s fault. He’s the reason Imogen is so scared of him. She experienced his emotions, after all. If Alastor can somehow show Imogen that he's still exactly the same person as before, then perhaps she won't run away from him anymore. Perhaps, eventually, things will go back to as they were.

And so, Alastor does what he always does:

He stuffs everything down.

Puts on a happy face.

And pretends like nothing ever happened.

He dissolves into shadows and reappears next to her. "Hello!"

Imogen jumps as if he's struck her. Her arm knocks into the Krampus holiday tin being used to store the crayons and they go flying across the floor.

"Whoops!" Alastor snaps his fingers and they magically float neatly back into the tin. When he's finished, he turns to find Imogen staring at him from the floor. Her eyes have gone huge in her face, her whole body rigid.

Buzzing static clenches in the pit of Alastor's stomach. “It’s just me.”

That doesn’t seem to make it any better. She’s just as quiet, just as still. 

Alastor clears his throat and cuts straight to the point. "Imogen, I need to talk to you. It's your birthday today, and I need to know how you want to celebrate it. We could do anything you want! Well ... almost anything as long as we are in the hotel. We can't have the rest of Hell finding out there's a human here, can we?" Cue jaunty laughter from the studio audience. "But! Not to worry! I can bring the fun to you. Just tell me what you want me to manifest! An ice rink, a playground, hell, even a dog park! All you have to do is name it! We also have to plan your birthday dinner. What are you in the mood for?”

Imogen still doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t move either. It’s as if she’s trapped in time, like the air has frozen around her. Angel Dust, sensing her discomfort, sits up and scoots closer to her, shooting Alastor a quizzical glance.

The static in his stomach expands into white noise. Alastor can’t stand this. This awkward, shrieking silence. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

The fear in Imogen's face shifts into something Alastor doesn't recognize. Something dark and ...

Angry.

She's angry with him.

Imogen snatches a fresh piece of paper. She flops onto her stomach and continues drawing. 

Alastor hesitates. He takes a step towards her and folds his hands behind his back. "Imogen? Did you hear me?"

Imogen doesn't look at him. She keeps doodling.

"Did you want me to make jambalaya? I promised I'd make it for you this year."

No response. She scribbles harder.

"Do you have any gift ideas?"

More, viscous scribbling.

"Imogen," he says, nearly sighing. "Part of the deal is doing whatever you want to do. I need some ideas here."

She snatches a new piece of paper and writes something down in big black letters. She shoves it at his feet. Alastor bends down to pick it up.

I want you to go away. 

Something rises in his chest, something painful and uncomfortable, with gnashing pinchers and crawling feet, like carrion beetles devouring a corpse. His smile thins and yet, it feels cramped on his face.

"That's not possible, Imogen. The deal states I have to be there."

He hands it back to her to write something else. But she shoves the paper at him again, so hard, it starts to tear.

Alastor's lips twitch at the corners, and he forces himself to smile wider—smile until it hurts. "Very well! I suppose I'll just have to wing it." 

When Imogen still doesn't respond, he looks down at the stack of papers she's already finished. Desperate, he reaches for one. "Oooh, look at this!" The studio audience lets out a series of awed murmurs and scattered applause. "What fine artistry! Can I keep it? Why, I'll hang it in my wall, and whoever walks in can—"

Imogen rises to her feet and snatches the paper out of his hands. She rips it down the middle. And again and again, tearing it into pieces. Then she runs up the stairs, Echo kicking off of the armchair and soaring after her, disappearing with her as she slams her bedroom door shut.

"Well," Angel Dust says dryly. "That went well."

Alastor scoffs. He bends down and picks up the paper, magically willing the pieces back together.

It's a drawing of him. His body is emaciated, each rib straining against his crimson jacket, chest on the verge of collapsing. His face is not his face, but something else entirely. It’s the elongated skull of a deer. And yet, he still has his smile, yellow and stained red, blood flowing down his chin. His eyes are black sockets, and his skin sloughing off of his hands, revealing the spindly bones underneath. His chest is cut wide open, and inside of it, burns a storm of glittering stars. A chorus of ha, ha, ha's! is scribbled violently all over the page, drawn on top of black-and-white static droning around him.

Alastor's revealed pieces of his demonic form to Imogen, but never the whole transformation. Something about this is more unsettling than what it actually looks like. More corrupted somehow—rotten.

He crushes the drawing in his fist. Green flames burst between his fingers, the paper blackening and curling, folding down into ashes. At the same time, his shadows twist and morph about his body, covering him and sweeping him out of the room.

🎶 📻 🎶

Husk had seen the whole display from the bar. He watched holding his breath, waiting to see how Alastor would try to smooth things over with the kid, and of course, it all went to shit. He watches Imogen run upstairs and Alastor vanish shortly after.

Honestly, what did Alastor expect? He can't just pretend like everything is normal. Then again, Alastor's definition of 'normal' is wildly different from everyone else's. Husk has never seen the guy be vulnerable a day in his afterlife—the panic attack doesn't count. Husk being there for it was merely circumstantial. True vulnerability is willingly letting your guard down.

Angel Dust places the stack of Imogen's drawings and the Krampus tin on the coffee table and heads over. He takes a seat at the bar and folds a set of arms over the counter. "So," he says. "You gonna tell me what all that drama was about?"

Husk sighs. "You're gonna need a drink."

By the time Husk is done filling him in, Angel hasn't touched his drink, and he's staring at him with a wide-eyed, horrified expression.

"What the fuck? You're telling me that kid could sense everything going on in the other room as Alastor was eating the guy alive?"

"From what I understand, she sensed the ... emotions behind it," Husk says, struggling to put it into words. "She sensed Alastor's emotions around killing the guy, and she sensed the victim's emotions as he was doing it. I'm not sure how much she actually knows, if that makes sense."

Husk, who considers himself to be a pretty empathetic person, can't even begin to wrap his head around empathy at that kind of level. And Alastor, who experiences very little empathy, probably can't wrap his head around it at all.

"So, what's why the kid is pissed?" Angel says, trying to follow along. "Because Smiles' is pretending like nothing happened?"

"I mean, I can't speak for how Imogen feels, but most likely." Husk frowns and scrubs the inside of a glass to try to get out a water stain. "I've been in her shoes before—not the same circumstance, obviously—and Alastor's done exactly the same thing. Just acts like nothing ever happened and moves on. It's frustrating and annoying as hell, but it's what I've come to expect. I get where the kid is coming from. And considering everything she's been through, I think my emotions would be all over the place too."

Angel grunts in acknowledgement. He cups his cheek in his palm and sighs, eyes downcast. "Poor kid," he grumbles.

"Seriously," Husk sighs. "This has gotta be the shittest birthday ever."

Angel Dust nods and drums his fingers against the table. Suddenly, a lightbulb goes off. "Hang on a second, I got an idea!"

"Oh no," Husk says.

"Hear me out!"

"That has not worked out well for me in the past."

"No, really! We should do some fun shit for the kid. You and me. Bake her a cake or somethin'."

Husk lifts a feathered eyebrow. "You bake?"

"Well, no! But it can't be that hard, right?"

"You tend to make everything hard."

Angel tries to hold in a smile. He really, really tries. 

Husk sputters. "Not like that you pervert!"

Angel bursts out laughing. Husk glares in hopes to hide his searing blush, but it only increases when Angel Dust leans over the counter and throws an arm around him, squeezing him close. "Awww, come on, it'll be fun! And it'll cheer her up!"

Well, Husk can't exactly argue with that. "Fine," he huffs. "We'll bake her a chocolate cake with sprinkles."

"I was thinking of something with more pizazz. Give me a second to find something." Angel releases him and settles back in his chair, typing in kid cake ideas on Sinterest. He scrolls through a few images and then perks up. "Holy shit! Look at this one!"

He presents his phone screen with a huge smile on his face. Husk squints at it. "That ... looks really complicated."

"We could do it!"

"It's got three tiers."

"Exactly! Three cakes is way better than one!"

"It's a fucking unicorn," Husk points out.

"Yeah! Kids like unicorns! What else do kids like?" Angel's face screws up in thought. "Rainbows? Sprinkles? Glitter? Wait, do they make edible glitter?"

"Now you sound like Charlie."

Angel points a crooked finger at him. "You take that back."

"Nope." Husk flashes him a shit-eating grin. "All right, I'm down. We'll make your Princess Charlie cake."

"It's not a Princess Charlie cake!"

But Husk is already walking away. "Let's start on the Charlie cake before I change my mind."

"Stop calling it that," Angel says. He pockets his phone and jumps out of his chair, power walking to catch up. "I never called it that!"

🎶 📻 🎶

"I wouldn't just kill someone for anyone you know!"

Alastor's shadow murmurs in agreement.

"Why, I've made deals to kill for someone before! I've taken souls as payment! But I did this one free of charge and because I wanted to. And yet, she's furious with me. It's completely uncalled for!"

Alastor paces back and forth while his shadow observes from the back wall. It took only a few moments to put his radio tower back together after his battle with Nora Jean. He figures all the way up here, perhaps Imogen can't sense him stewing.

Remorse is useless and contrived. This kind of outlook is what's helped Alastor to become so successful. He's never cared about who he had to stab in the back or what Overlord he's had to topple over to get to where he is today. And even if he did feel remorse, what was the point in dwelling on it? Once something is done, it's not going to be undone because you feel bad about it. Alastor should have made better decisions—perhaps, drag Robert into the woods somewhere and devour him there—and that's the only thing that Alastor would go back and change if he could. It was a bad decision to kill him in the house, but is dwelling on it going to help? 

Absolutely not.

Alastor doesn't get it. He tried to show Imogen he's still the same person as before. Clearly, he wouldn't eat her. She has to realize that—she can sense his emotions, for Satan's sake. She must realize on some level that Alastor is trying. He protected her and now, he's just trying to carry on and celebrate her birthday. What more does she want?

The spinel burns in his front pocket. It's always felt warm but this kind of heat is searing, as if it's been sitting amongst hot coals.

Alastor hisses and snatches it out, dropping the crystal onto his workstation like a hot iron. The spinel brightens to a violent cherry, the desk smoking and blackening underneath it.

Finally, after a few moments, the bright light within the crystal shrinks down to the faint glow of a firefly. Alastor sits at his chair and pinches it between his thumb and pointer finger.

He knows, deep down, this is so much more than murder. It's the fact that Imogen experienced the murder with him from both points of view. Alastor already struggles to understand basic human emotions, including his own—but this is another level that he cannot even begin to grasp.

The only person Alastor has ever cared about, other than his mother, is himself. But he cares about Imogen. For the first time in ninety years, he has something to lose.

And that terrifies him.

Suddenly, something crashes into his radio tower, snapping him out of his thoughts.

What the—

The entire tower abruptly jerks to the side as if yanked by an invisible string. Objects go flying off of Alastor’s desk and crash into the wall behind him. He latches onto his workstation to keep himself from pitching out of his chair, his shadow quickly sluicing down the wall to flush with his hooves.

What in blazes is going on now?

The room trembles, followed by the shattering of glass. He looks up to see a massive pair of black talons digging into his roof, raining glittering shards everywhere. 

Clearly, there's some kind of colossal creature struggling for purchase on his roof. But what kind of demon would dare—

Alastor tilts his head to get a better look. It takes him a moment to comprehend what he's seeing. After he registers what it is, he's instantly outraged.

"No!" He leaps to his feet. "No! No, absolutely not!"

He teleports outside where Nora Jean is standing with her hands on her hips and looking up at the Hazbin Hotel. A cottage covered in wild vines is standing on top of his radio tower on a pair of chicken legs. It crouches low like a living creature, gearing up to pounce onto the roof of the hotel, his tower wobbling back and forth precariously under its weight.

"What is the meaning of this?" Alastor demands.

"Ah," Nora Jean says. "It appears that I have moved."

"Mov ..." He's so angry the filter cuts out. "MOVED? "

"Yes! I am staying! Indefinitely." She tosses out a dismissive hand. "Do inform your little princess."

"Absolutely not," Alastor says. He jabs his microphone cane towards the display. "Get your ... chicken hut out of here!"

"First of all, it's not a chicken. I suspect it's a cassowary or a very athletic emu. Second of all, I can't. My cottage has a mind of its own. Where I go, it goes."

"Then go somewhere else!"

"That's not going to happen as long as Mallory and Imogen are staying here." Nora Jean glances at him from the corner of her eye and smiles. "Unless, of course, you're saying that you'd rather them come stay with me. Is that what you're saying?"

Alastor grins with seething rage barely contained. Meanwhile, the cottage launches itself onto the roof of the Hazbin Hotel with a powerful kick. Metal roars as his radio tower crashes onto the ground for the second time today, billowing up a cloud of dust and debris.

Alastor’s eye twitches.

Nora Jean's skirts swish as she turns away. "I'll be upstairs if you need me! Let me know if you need any assistance with my granddaughter's birthday party. I look forward to seeing what you have planned!"

She vanishes with a crack of thunder and reappears on top of the roof. Her cottage's legs melt underneath it as it sinks down behind the Hazbin Hotel sign like a goose cozying up to its nest. 

What an obscene display! Her house completely ruins the décor! Who does she think she is? Planting herself right in the middle of the hotel like she's so important? There's only room for one Overlord at this establishment, and it's certainly not her!

There are now three very important things on Alastor's to-do list:

1. Throw Imogen a birthday party so incredible, they can leave all of this behind them.
2. Steal Stolas' Grimoire.
3. Get rid of Nora Jean Woods. 

🎶 📻 🎶

Nora Jean calls herself the Weather Witch but the weather isn't her only specialty. When the house fell on top of her head, she was given something else—another gift. One that came with her when she manifested in Hell. It’s quite useful for the most part: sturdy, strong, loyal to a fault and fiercely territorial.

It’s also a major pain in her ass.

The cottage’s door bangs open upon its own accord. “I was wondering when you would show up,” Nora Jean says.

The door slams shut behind her in response.

Grandma Woods’ home is cluttered but organized. Small but tasteful. Shelves line the walls, stacked with leather-bound books, colorful jewels, crystals and glass spheres. Nothing has fallen out of place, despite her cottage running all the way here. Suncatchers cut into the shape of stars dangle in front of the windows and cast spinning, twinkling lights across the walls. A rocking chair sits before a fireplace and some candlesticks melted into the tawny mantle flicker to life.

The books shudder against the shelves like living creatures, flapping their pages in irritation.

“Yes, I know you don’t like the city. I don’t like it either, but we will have to make do.”

She wanders into the kitchen. The ceilings are high, so she doesn’t bump against it with her pronghorns, but she suspects the cottage lowered it a couple of inches because she knocks into a bramble of lavender hanging from the rafters. She sputters and swats it away, dried petals drifting onto her face.

The surrounding cupboards fly open and slam shut repeatedly.

“No, I don’t know how long we will be here. We’re staying for however long it takes."

The cottage does not like that answer. A ceramic dish hurdles out of the cabinet and crashes onto the floor.

She scoffs. "Oh, very mature of you." If it decides to start destroying Nora Jean's favorite rooster dinnerware set next then they are going to have even more problems. She steps around the broken glass and holds out her hand. "Now, if you're done throwing a fit, can you hand me my bag?”

Everything goes still.

Nora Jean clicks her tongue. “Really?”

More silence.

“Very well! I’ll get it myself.”

She crosses back into the living area and over to the storage closet, only to hear the faint click of a lock sliding into place. She wiggles the doorknob, but it doesn’t budge.

“Seriously? Is that necessary?”

The window shutters rattle in answer, and the books thump against the shelves again, even more irritable than before.

“The longer you pout and refuse to help, the longer we’ll be staying here.”

A crystal ball spits out from the bookshelf and plummets to the ground. It rolls across her feet, spiderweb cracks twisting around it.

Nora Jean sighs. There’s no use arguing with the cottage. It’s old and set in its ways. Grumpy, too and afraid of change.

“I know you're unhappy and miss the forest. This is the last place I want to be too, but unfortunately, we need to be here. Mallory and Imogen need me, and they need you too." She presses her hand against the door and reluctantly adds, "... I need you."

A moment of silence. Clearly, the house is still waiting for something.

Nora Jean gusts out an irritable breath. “Please?"

The closet door finally swings open. Her carpet bag flies out and gently falls into her open arms.

“Thank you,” Nora Jean huffs. She strolls into the kitchen and sets it atop of an antique table in the center of the room. Somewhere behind her, a broom springs to life and starts sweeping up the broken dish. She opens a glass-fronted cabinet, skipping over jars containing electric-blue lightning, crackling and humming, and grabs a glass bottle containing royal purple liquid instead.

Nora Jean doesn't know everything that happened to her daughter and granddaughter, but several things are very clear to her: Someone hurt Imogen. The Radio Demon reacted and killed him. The man who harmed her was one of Mallory's boyfriends.

Mallory says she wasn’t hurt, but Nora Jean is not so sure. She touches the tips of her fingers to her throat and remembers when she was alerted her family was in Hell—remembers the feeling of phantom hands squeezing around her neck, of the invisible blow to her face.

If this man did enough to Imogen to make Alastor kill him, then what could he have done to Mallory?

Her blood pounds hot with anger at the very thought. She squeezes the bottle and jumps when it shatters. Liquid splashes onto her skirts, onto the floor. Nora Jean curses herself for being a damned emotional fool and dunks her hands into the sink, washing off the potion and bits of glass. She can't lose control like this—not when there is work to be done.

That man is lucky Alastor got to him first. If Nora Jean had been there, she would have dug her claws into his chest and blast 300 billion volts into his heart. She would have watched him scream and convulse like a tea kettle boiling over, watch eyes melt out of their sockets and his body split in two. She wouldn’t even leave his charred bones. She’d grind them up and turn them into fertilizer for her garden.

A man like that is most definitely in Hell, but Nora Jean wasn’t going to tell Mallory that. If he ever showed, Nora Jean would have her revenge. She’d put that Blessed Tipped shotgun to his head and blast his brains out. Her pumpkins would be happy—a man like that is only good for dirt.

She gathers a few more potions and when she has everything she needs, she zips the bag shut. 

“I’ll be off,” Nora Jean tells the cottage. “Don’t let anyone in while I am away.”

The candles gently flicker in response. She exits through the front door, taking the emergency exit's stairwell on the roof and down into the hotel.

🎶 📻 🎶

Nora Jean finds an opulent bathroom and then gets to work preparing Mallory’s bath.

Water is a perfect conductor for magic. It has healing energy which is why spells and potions work so well in it. Baths are also associated with cleansing, not just in the physical sense, but in the spiritual. 

A river would be better to carry away whatever darkness is clinging onto her daughter, but this will do for now. Nora Jean adds the last few touches and swishes her hand through the water, watching it change from crystal clear to a deep, foamy violet.

Satisfied, she shuts the door behind her and searches for her daughter.

The hallway is dark and dim. Nora Jean is not sure she knows where Mallory’s room is. She wanders for a little while and then stops in front of a door.

A golden plaque in the middle says: Alastor.

Oh? So this is where the Radio Demon is staying. She wonders if Imogen signed a contract. If so, would it be in here? Or does Alastor keep it on him? Curious, Nora Jean raps her knuckles against the wood.

No response. She twists the door knob.

Locked. Of course.

Nora Jean is quite good at picking locks, but she suspects it’s going to take a lot more than that to break into the Radio Demon’s room. She could transform into clouds and slip under the cracks, but this door in particular has a strong protective aurora around it. Most likely enchanted, but if Nora Jean can find a weakness ... Determined, she presses her palm against the center of the wood. 

She's instantly met with resistance and seething sound—black and white static, an inhuman apocalyptic chorus.

Tingles race up and down her arm, and she hisses in a breath. Under the pins and needles, the feeling of the wood changes, a cool heat, like an ice-melt on frozen pavement. She spreads her fingers wider, pressing into the door more, refusing to back down. The tingles intensify, a creeping, insectile buzz beneath her skin ...

"YOU!"

Nora Jean jumps, shocked. She whirls around to see a slender snake-like fellow. He looks like he has seen better days, covered in dirt and bruises, the sleeve of his jacket torn. Still, he wipes the blood off of the corner of his mouth and continues to approach.

"You!" he says again. He stops to catch his breath, one hand splayed against the wall, and points a crooked claw up at her. His sentences curl and flow with a posh, British accent. "I challenge you to a duel!"

Nora Jean sucks in an irritable sigh and closes her eyes.  

Oh, no. A spotted dick.

She fixes him with a bored expression. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

The serpent sputters, clearly unhappy with not being recognized, and then narrows his eyes in indignation. "I am Sir Pentious, Hell's greatest supervillain!" He puffs out his chest. "And I plan to seize your souls and title!"

"Oh, dear," Nora Jean says. "Can it wait?"

"I—wait? "

"Yes. I'm visiting my family right now. I can pencil you in, in about ..." She considers it. "Five business days? Give or take."

"Absssolutely not"

"Let me rephrase—I am here to see my family. I do not have time for this today. Now, off you get."

The ferocity slaps off of Sir Pentious' face, replaced with genuine surprise. "Your ... your family?"

"Yes."

"What family?" Sir Penious squints at her. "Are you Alastor's grandmother?"

Nora Jean laughs out loud. "Oh, god no! He would be a dreadful grandson. No, I'm here to see my daughter and granddaughter."

"Daughter ..." Sir Pentious' voice trails off as he starts to connect the dots. "Hold on ... that human woman—she looksss just like you. She's your family?"

"Oh, so you've met?"

"How is that possible? How is she here?"

"It's a very long story," Nora Jean says.

"But somehow you brought a human woman down to Hell?"

"Unfortunately."

Sir Pentious' expression turns gleeful. "Well then! How terrible would it be if I told Lucifer about this? Hmm?"

The word Lucifer is drawn out with a long slithering sound. Nora Jean lifts her eyebrows. "Are you threatening me?"

Sir Pentious rears up, a serpent's equivalent to widening their stance, and smiles with an arrogant angle of his chin. "Oh, I most certainly am!"

"I see," Nora Jean says mildly. Her expression is unreadable as she folds her hands neatly behind her back. "That's unfortunate."

Sir Pentious' grin turns wicked. "Oh, I got you now, don't I! Now you have to challenge me!" He slithers even closer. His forked tongue flickers out against her cheek, long and pink. "We'll sssee how—"

Nora Jean moves as quick as a cottonmouth and snatches his tongue between a pair of small silver forceps. He lets out a muffled yelp and tries to push her away, but she stretches his tongue and stabs a 10-gauge needle through it. 

Sir Pentious rears back with a scream. She lets him go and he crashes hard into the wall, crumpling into a small heap. 

"Oh, dear. Did I hit a nerve?"

Nora Jean bends down and rolls him over. Blood streams down his chin like Alastor after a successful kill. He lashes out, trying to push her away, but Grandma Woods' is stronger than she looks. She hooks Sir Pentious' chin between her fingers and forces his jaw to part. His tongue automatically lolls out, revealing a thick silver ring through it. 

"Hmm, maybe a little, but I think I did a pretty good job, considering my circumstances. If you were human, the swelling would take a week to subside, but I'll wager you'll be fine in about thirty minutes or so."

She smiles down at him, like he's a dog who just did a very clever trick, and pats him on the cheek.

Sir Pentious winces in pain. He shoves her away and this time, Nora Jean allows herself to fall back. She rises to her feet and pockets the gauge needle.

He foolishly fishes about with his tongue for the piercing and grimaces. He swallows, still processing what's just happened, but it's the horror of it that pushes his words through more than anything else, rough and wet and throbbing at the edges. "What did you do to me?"

"Not much. Just a little spell." 

"You—you ssstabbed my—"

Sir Pentious' voice is cut off with a groan. He clutches his mouth, the end of his tail curling around himself in a soothing gesture.

Nora Jean delicately wipes the blood off her forceps with a handkerchief. "There's a reason no one has heard of me, you know. The main reason is because most people can't keep their end of the bargain and turn into birds, but occasionally, someone keeps their promise and surprises me. I have to find other ways to keep them quiet." Click, click go the forceps. "Cats out of the bag now, thanks to Alastor, but I suppose this little trick will still come in handy once in a while."

He flashes his yellow teeth. "You conniving—"

Sir Pentious' mouth snaps shut, as if the ring on his tongue sealed itself to the roof of his mouth.

"Oh, there's no point trying to describe me now. You won't be able to spread the word about me or my family as long as the ring is there."

Sir Pentious sticks out his tongue and tries to yank the piercing out himself—can't. Nora Jean smiles wider.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to talking around it. Who knows! If you remain on your best behavior, maybe I'll even take it out for you once I send my family home. Wouldn't that be generous of me?"

Sir Pentious' horrified expression curdles into rage. He rises up and lunges for her, but as soon as his arms come crashing around her, Nora Jean disappears. Sir Pentious falls through nothing but freezing air, wind and clouds whooshing past. He collapses hard onto the floor, the Weather Witch’s cackling laughter echoing in the hall long after she's vanished.

🎶 📻 🎶

Mallory has always been closer to her father than her mother. Cornelius Woods loves being outdoors just as much as she does. And although he's a man of few words, they could spend hours together in the garden, under the warmth of the sun and the blue sky.

Meanwhile, Mallory and her mother have very little in common. Nora Jean has a spirit of adventure that's rooted deep in the wild fringes of electricity and an iron will wrapped in barbed wire. 

So, when she had Mallory, a girl that was quiet and content to live life on the sidelines, Nora Jean likely didn't know what to do with her. 

Mallory’s never been interested in summoning demons. She’s never heard of Asmodean crystals or had any idea of what Hell was actually like. She would much rather spend her time talking to the flowers than doing whatever the hell her mom and Fletcher got up to. That kind of magic frightened her, and she wanted nothing to do with it—and now here she is, directly a part of it.

Her mind drifts back to Imogen telling her about her ‘imaginary friend,’ and once again, she wants to kick herself for being so stupid. She didn’t know Imogen had taken her mother’s Spellbook—if she had, maybe she would have taken it more seriously. Mallory’s always worked so hard to keep them afloat, to try to give Imogen a life where she could use her gift without dark magic or curses or demons.

So much for that.

Mallory stares up at the ceiling, starfished out on her bed, and considers staying there forever.

Instead, a tall shadow casts over her. "Hello, Mallory," her mother says.

Mallory groans and hauls a pillow over her face. "Leave me alone."

"Oh, I will—as soon as you take a bath. We need to wash away whatever curse keeps attracting you to such despicable life partners."

"I can't."

"Oh, yes, you can. You've been wallowing in here long enough."

"You don't get it," Mallory says. Tears brim her eyes. "It's too hard."

"Yeah? Well that's why I'm here." Nora Jean drags Mallory up by the arm and so she's sitting upright. "There, see? You moved."

Mallory feels lightheaded from sitting up so fast. She groans and scrubs her face again.

Her mother crosses over to a dresser and digs into her bag, pulling out a glass bulb with a bushel of brilliant white flowers inside. "Now, be a dear and help me out. These geraniums are a little limp, I need you to perk them up for me."

"There's no point. It won't work."

"What are you talking about?" Nora Jean laughs. "Of course it will. You're a garden witch!"

"No, I'm not," Mallory says. "Plants don't respond to me anymore."

"You ..." Her mother, for the first time in her life, is at a loss for words. "What are you saying?"

"I've lost my powers."

Nora Jean stares at her. "Since when?"

"Mom, I really don't want to talk about it."

"But I need to know! If it was something recent then we can boil down what's blocking your magic, and—"

"It happened after you died, okay?"

Her response falls between them like a guillotine.

"But ... but that's ..." Nora Jean stares at her, flabbergasted. "That was five years ago." When Mallory doesn't say anything, her eyes widen. "You haven't been able to use your magic for five years?"

"Yup."

The glass bulb Nora Jean's holding drops onto the carpet with a loud thunk. She hurries away like a raven taking flight.

Mallory calls after her. "Now where are you going?"

"To draw a new bath! This is FAR worse than I thought!”

Chapter Text

When Mallory Woods was twelve years old, a cat crawled underneath her mother's juniper tree to die.

It was a calico. Its coloring reminded Mallory of an old photograph someone had folded up and forgotten in the back pocket of their jeans—after throwing them in the washer and dryer, you'd unfold the picture, and the colors would be softer and faded, worn at the edges. Its fur was disheveled, short and cream-colored, painted in terracotta blondes and light gray patches. It crawled underneath the juniper tree, dragging its hind leg behind it, and collapsed against the roots.

Back then Mallory's family lived in a farmhouse on the edge of town, next to a vast green cornfield. The juniper tree was old and unusually colossal for its kind, full of strong, twisted branches and dark green needles. The sky burned pink and gold, day melting into evening, the air filled with fireflies and the song crickets. Mallory hopped down from the front porch and tiptoed around patches of lavender and sage, peering under the tree to investigate.

The cat's leg was bent at an unnatural angle. Deep gashes carved into its thigh, some of its fur ripped clean off, as though it had wrenched out of the grasp of an animal with vicious teeth.

Mallory's stomach cramped—she felt sick. It looked like it had lost a lot of blood. A trail of it was smeared down the path the cat had taken and soaking into the juniper's roots. When it breathed, it sounded like it was dying.

She wanted to pick it up, but she was afraid of accidentally hurting it and making it worse. She immediately turned around and barreled straight into the house. 

Her mother was in her rocking chair in the living room and engrossed in a book. Her hair hadn't gone full white yet, only a little salt-and-pepper around her temples, the majority of it full and black. Her father sat in his favorite chair next to her, attempting to crochet a little amigurumi cactus.

"Help! I think it's dying!"

Both of her parents jerked in surprise.

"Dying?" her mother repeated. "What's dying?"

"There's a cat outside. Please, it's really hurt, we've got to do something!"

Her parents sprang up and followed Mallory outside to the juniper tree. Her father got there first and bent down to the cat's level. His hair had been a deep auburn color back then. Mallory could see dark reds spun throughout warm browns when the light hit it, a frown knitting between his eyebrows. He gently examined the cat's leg and cursed under his breath.

"Something mauled it."

Nora Jean scowled. "Coyote?

"Most likely ... but not sure how it got away ..."

He pushed aside the cat's lips with his finger—its gums were white. A sinking feeling twisted in Mallory's gut. "We can take it to the emergency vet. They can help it."

Her father hesitated, probably trying to come up with a way to soften the bad news, but it was her mother who turned to her. "The emergency vet is too far from here, Mallory. By the time we get there, it'll be too late. That cat is halfway through death's door."

"You can do something. You can't just let it die! You're a witch, you can ..."

"So are you." Her mother crossed her arms and looked her dead in the eye. "You want to save it? Then go ahead and do it."

"I ... I don't know how," she hedged.

"You do know how."

Her father sighed. "Nora Jean ..."

"No," she said, lifting her hand. "She does know how. All she needs is a little confidence."

Mallory shook her head, her throat tight. It wasn't possible. She couldn't do it.

Nora Jean clasped her hands on either side of Mallory's face. "Do not underestimate yourself. You are a garden witch. You bring life," she told her, reverent. "You can find a plant that's withered and brown, one that anyone else would deem beyond saving, and press your fingertips into soil and find a single heartbeat. You can make flowers bloom, bright and full, speak to them in a language no one else understands. You are a direct connection to nature itself. The cat has come to the juniper to die. It has shed its blood upon its roots. I'm certain that is enough. If you ask the tree, it should help you."

The juniper was a tree the other trees in the surrounding area revered and respected. Most trees of its kind only grew to be small shrubs in the midwest, but ever since Mallory's family moved here seven years ago, the giant juniper had doubled in size. It was also one of Mallory's dearest friends. The juniper welcomed her to rest in its gnarled branches and allowed her to collect its berries for their magical properties. In return, she would read aloud to it. Sometimes, when Mallory read a story it particularly liked, the juniper would sing to her. But can she really do this? Ask the tree to help her regrow what has been torn apart?

She pried herself away from her mother's grasp and crouched next to the cat. Its eyes were closed, its breath hissing through sharp feline fangs. She pressed one shaking hand against its bloodied fur and wrapped another around one of the juniper's damp, red roots, searching for a pulse.

Please, she thought. Please help me.

Above her, a breeze jangled the juniper's dark green needles. It reached down one of its low branches to gently brush Mallory's cheek. She leaned into its touch and inhaled deeply. She concentrated on the feeling of the wind on her face, on the strong scent of sap, on the way her power boiled inside of her middle. Her anxious thoughts melted away like a physical thing, unraveling like one of her father's chain stitches coming undone, until there was nothing left but courage and clarity and stability.

Magic flowed through her veins, pooling in her palms. The juniper tree's roots lit up like daylight. A wind howled all around them, blowing back her hair, the branches groaning and thwacking together. The roots pulsed in time with Mallory's heartbeat, and she heard a single crack: the cat's bones snapping back into place. It screamed, and Mallory cringed, but she couldn't stop now, she had to keep going. She felt its muscles reknitting underneath her hand, tissues mending and soft fur regrowing. Plantlife burst from the soil and blanketed underneath the cat's body:

Comfrey—to heal, to bring together, to bind.

Woundwort—antibacterial, antiseptic, anti-inflammatory.

Moss—renewal, resilience, the interconnectedness of all living things.

Slowly, the wind churned to a stop and the light faded away. The old juniper sagged and let out a deep sigh. A single tree branch broke off and slammed onto the ground, making Mallory jump. The needles fell from it in a flurry, no longer evergreen in color, but dark brown, the bark stripped bare and white as bone.

🎶 📻 🎶

"They say cats are lucky," Nora Jean says. "This one is extremely lucky by the looks of it."

The cat purred and rubbed its chin against Mallory's hand. It was standing up upon the juniper roots without a scratch—completely whole. Its fur changed on its thigh, in the place Mallory's hand  had been pressing against. If you looked closely enough within the patches, you would see swirling, compact spirals, resembling the pattern of rose petals.

Mallory pressed her face against the tree bark and started crying. She couldn't help it. "I'm so sorry," she told it. Together, they had saved the cat, but the juniper had sacrificed a part of itself in the process.

A low hanging branch gently nudged her cheek. It was trying to comfort her, murmuring how it wasn't in pain, how it would be all right. Mallory gusted out a sigh of relief. 

Her mother bent down and wrapped her arms around her from behind, squeezing her tight. "You did so well," she said into her hair, and even though Mallory was exhausted, the reality of the situation finally started to sink in. She had done it—she had helped save the cat's life.

"She's a brave little thing," her father said. He clasped his hand over Mallory's and winked. "So is the cat."

Mallory let out a small, disbelieving laugh. A few more tears slipped down her face, and the cat mewed and gently licked them away, an action so sweet, it made Mallory's chest fumble with warmth.

"Can we keep it?" Mallory asked.

Her father shrugged. "I don't see why not."

"I agree," Nora Jean said. She gave Mallory's shoulders an affectionate squeeze. "Every witch needs a familiar—I think you've just found yours."

The next day, Mallory's dad drove her to the vet and the cat got its shots, and when the vet asked Mallory for the cat's name, she named her Juniper after the tree she had found her under.

Juniper never aged a day after that or grew weary. From that day on, wherever Mallory went, Juniper was not far behind. She walked Mallory everyday to the bus stop before school, and when Mallory came home, she found Juniper sitting in the driveway waiting for her. Mallory liked to peddle around the country roads on her bicycle and listen to music on her headphones, and Juniper would sit in the bike basket, her little face peeking out and appreciating the warm breeze.

Over the years, a new tree branch eventually grew in place of where the old one had been. The needles came in colored cream, orange and gray, the same color as Juniper's fur and standing out amongst the fluffy pine-greens. Mallory would always greet it by reaching up to gently touch the calico branch, a silent thanks.

Juniper was there when Mallory transitioned from middle school to high school. She was there when she met Fletcher. She was there when Imogen was born, when Mallory went through her divorce and when she lost her mother. For almost all of Mallory's life, Juniper was at her side.

Until she wasn't.

🎶 📻 🎶

"This is pointless. A bath isn't going to give me my powers back."

Mallory stands inside of an open doorway with her hands braced on either side of the threshold. Her mother is directly across from her in the hall, having dragged her out of bed for this.

"No," Nora Jean agrees. "But it will help. You and Imogen have been through something unspeakable and a bath won't fix that either but ... it's a start." She fixes her with a serious look. "It would help you more if you were willing."

Mallory sighs. She glances over her shoulder at the bathroom and then turns to face her mother again, squaring her shoulders. "Fine. This bath will be my last act of witchcraft. When I get home, Imogen and I are going to church."

Nora Jean presses her hand over her heart, scandalized. "Church?!"

"That's right, Mother. Church! Every Sunday!"

"Like HELL you are! You'll catch on fire!"

Mallory scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not ridiculous, you're ridiculous. Yer a witch! Step one foot in a church and you'll spontaneously combust!"

"Then I should be perfectly fine since witches don't burn."

"They do when it's sent from the wrath of heaven!"

"Whatever. You can't stop me. It's my life, my decision. Imogen and I are devoted Catholics from this day forward."

Nora Jean throws her hands into the air. "No! I will not hear one more word of this!" She turns and flees the other way, skirts flying behind her.

Mallory calls after her. "Now where are you going?"

"To create a fire resistance charm. No Catholic God is going to burn my family!"

Mallory rolls her eyes and throws the bathroom door shut behind her. She locks it and turns around.

It's the most opulent bathroom Mallory's ever been in. The floors are gleaming white marble with sleek, golden waves spreading out within like a latticework of tree roots. There's a stained glass window behind a massive claw-foot tub, depicting crimson lotus flowers, their petals outlined in the color of sunshine and casting warm, rosey pink pools across the floor. A marble bookshelf is built into the wall near the tub with an assortment of glass bottles, all of them various shades of the rainbow, most likely different kinds of soaps and shampoos, but what really confuses Mallory is how the bottles only fill one row—the rest of the shelves are dedicated entirely to rubber ducks. 

She picks one up and gives it a little squeak. She's surprised Hell has cute things like rubber ducklings, of all things. She wonders who loves them so much.

Mallory puts it back and looks around. There are plants in here she does not recognize. One is balanced on the windowsill, resembling a snake plant, but its sword-shaped leaves gleam like they can actually pierce through skin, and on the floor is what looks to be a majesty palm tree. It's growing out of a pot and bowing over the tub, but some of the saw-edged fronds are formed together to resemble the mouth of a venus fly trap.

Mallory bends down and dips her fingers into the soil but she feels nothing. No pulse. No voice. No connection whatsoever.

She sighs and straightens her spine. The gilded mirror over the sink catches her eye, and Mallory turns to look at herself. Her black hair resembles a cloud and her eyes are sunken in. She touches the tips of her fingers to her throat, where the bruises from Robert's fingers should be, but her skin is smooth and brown.

Was any of it even real? Mallory remembers it well enough, but without any physical evidence, Mallory feels herself questioning her own reality. But the longer she stares at her neck, the clearer she can remember it: the feel Robert pressing down on her windpipe, the fire in her lungs—

She gasps and jerks away from her reflection, bumping into a small wooden pedestal being used to store the towels and a shower brush, nearly knocking it all to the floor. She straightens the pedestal and rearranges the towels, feeling jittery and shaky.

The bathwater is a deep, vibrant forest green. It smells divine, but Mallory stalls. She finds the courage to return to the mirror and finger-detangle her curls, trying not to look at her neck. There's a small bottle of grapeseed oil on the sink—she wonders if her mother left it there—and she pours it onto her palm, breaking apart the large mat underneath her hair and then working out a bigger knot in the back.

Finally, once she's done, slips out of her clothes and into the tub.

She shivers at the first touch of heat, and then settles deeper into the water, enveloped in a vapor cloud. It smells strongly of patchouli and neroli—herbs to relieve feelings of emptiness. Neroli, specifically, is supposed to help overcome an emotional blockage and attract joy, but Mallory hasn't felt true joy in years. The truth is, she has been sad for a long, long time. The kind of sadness coils like vines behind your ribs and spreads so deep inside of you, there's no visible end to it. She was sad before Robert and she was sad before she got dragged down into Hell. She can't even imagine a future without it.

Velvet-white chamomile flowers drift along the surface: tranquility and calmness. She scoops them up in her palms, dark green water pouring between her fingers. They're rough and calloused from years of hard labor. They used to be worse when she worked in the dirt, and Mallory can't even do that right anymore.

Grief suddenly strikes her in the sternum. Mallory sucks in a shuddering breath and sinks low until the water brushes her chin. She squeezes her hand into a fist under the surface, clutching the soft chamomiles over her pounding heart, waiting for a full minute for the pain to subside. Eventually, the frozen shame she's been carrying with her starts to unwind out of her body and melt into a shadow upon the surface of the water, iridescent and oily to the touch.

The bath has been prepared perfectly. Mallory expected nothing less from her mother. It's strong magic. Almost strong enough to make a difference. When she unfolds her hand, the chamomile petals are crushed and dry as paper—dead. The snake plant on the sill withers into an ashen husk and the palm's fronds fold into themselves, crinkled and brown, reeking of rot and decay. The surrounding white flowers floating upon the emerald water all die too, one by one.

Mallory sits up and unclogs the drain, watching the green water spiral away, carrying the manifestation of her guilt. She reaches for the faucet with a retractable hand shower and turns it on, pouring it over her head.

Almost.

🎶 📻 🎶

Imogen met a sheep at the County Fair once when her mom and dad were still together. It was in a stall all alone, with barely any room to turn around or sit, and there was no light behind its eyes. It didn't look up, not even when Imogen tried to hand it pellets for a snack. When she pressed her palm against its fuzzy cheek, she saw an image of rolling green hills and a sky so blue it made you want to cry.

She feels like that now. Like she is stuck in a dark, dark place and no one is able to help her go back to where she had once been.

Imogen sits on the floor in her bedroom with her knees tucked into her chest and her head down.  She feels like crying, but she can't. The feeling is too deep. Echo hops onto her shoulder and coos gently, brushing her cheek with his beak, trying to cheer her up.

Her bedroom door creaks open. She must have forgotten to lock it. For a moment, she's worried it's her mom or Alastor, but it doesn't sound like either one of them. No, this person has tiny, quick footsteps that scuttle somewhere into the room.

Frowning, Imogen brushes her hair from her face and peeks over the edge of her bed, but she doesn't see anyone there.

"Hello!"

Imogen jumps and whirls around.

A massive cyclopean eye stares at her.

Imogen yelps, stumbling backwards against the bed.

"Whoops! Sorry, did I scare you?"

The girl takes a polite step back. She smiles, revealing two cute pink dots on either side of her mouth, resembling dimples. She's a little shorter than Imogen, her hair cut and styled into a bob. It's a very pretty color, a bright reddish-pink, but Imogen can't stop staring at her eye. It dominates the entire center of her face, glowing with fiery oranges, yellows and magentas, resembling a sunset.

Echo lands on Imogen's shoulder. His feathers get all fluffy around his chest, letting out a warning hiss.

"You have a pest on your shoulder." The girl brandishes a sewing needle from somewhere behind her back. It's the biggest one Imogen's ever seen—maybe the size of a really long, skinny sword. "Want me to get it for you?"

Imogen shakes her head.

"You sure? Birds carry all kinds of diseases."

Imogen doesn't think Echo is like that. She glances at him and shakes her head again.

"Hmm, okay! Let me know if you change your mind!" She lowers the needle and beams. "I'm Niffty! Remember me?"

Niffty ... 

Oh, yeah. Imogen recognizes her voice now. She's the one that spoke to her over the radio who said she likes fanfiction. Now that she's calmed down, Imogen realizes she's spotted her around the hotel a few times too. She gives a small nod.

"Great! You're Imogen, right?"

Another nod.

"It's nice to finally meet you!"

Niffty's energy is all over the place. Standing next to her feels like standing too close to a star that's on the verge of exploding. But she also has a poodle on her skirt, so Imogen thinks that maybe she can be trusted.

Imogen's eyes drift back to the giant sewing needle. Niffty follows her gaze and brightens. "Oh, you want to know what I'm doing with this? I'm hunting bugs!"

Neat, Imogen thinks. She wants to ask her what kind of bugs, but the stupid sentence feels like glue on the roof of her mouth.

"Wanna help?"

Imogen is really good at catching stuff. She caught some toads once when she was five and always had to go outside to hunt food for them—worms and crickets and stuff like that. She named them Patrick and Lilo and kept them in her sock drawer for a few days, until her mom found them and made her let them go.

Hunting bugs sounds fun. She nods.

Niffty cackles. "Oooh, wonderful! Here, you can use this."

She hands Imogen a fork. Imogen frowns and turns it over in her hand, wondering how this is going to help her catch anything, but then Niffty heads out of her room, so Imogen scampers to catch up. Echo soars after them and perches on a narrow table in the hallway, keeping a watchful eye.

"No one's ever helped me hunt bugs before," Niffty says. "This'll be really fun!"

There's a soft skittering sound. Niffty darts across the hall as quick as a lightning bolt and slashes down the needle, stabbing a cockroach through its back with a gross crunching sound.

Yuck, Imogen thinks, but the thought is chased away once Niffty zooms to the other side of the hall in a blink, killing another cockroach within seconds.

Wow, Imogen thinks. She's super fast.

Something moves from the corner of Imogen's vision. She turns her head and sees a big black bug running along the carpet. Imogen lashes out the fork and stabs it good.

"Oh, my gosh! You did it! Great job!"

Imogen beams, proud of herself. She shakes the gross bug off and stomps on it for good measure.

Niffty cackles. "Oooh, you're a natural! Come on, let's look for more."

She grabs Imogen's hand and a jolt hits her in the chest, like she's just been zapped by a really powerful battery. A bright light blooms inside of her head and chases all of the dark thoughts away—all of the sadness and emptiness, replaced with something fun and fierce and exciting.

They leap around the hall, killing any dumb bug they come across. Imogen can't get a clear reading on Niffty's thoughts whenever they brush or hold hands because she's wearing gloves, but she can sense her emotions. They're strange. She's happy, but it's a weird kind of happiness centered around killing the bugs. Happiness might not be the word for it. It's more like ... a relief—like a paperweight is lifted off her chest each time she does it. Imogen doesn't understand where the weight stems from exactly, but she knows that killing the bugs makes Niffty feel a little bit better, makes her laugh a bit little louder, makes her feel a little bit more in control.

Another cockroach spindles out in front of them. Imogen chases it and falls to her knees, cornering it. She slashes her fork against the floor, tearing the carpet when she misses. She tries again, but the stupid bug keeps getting away.

Imogen's so angry at everything. She's mad at her mom for ever dating Robert and she's mad at Alastor for pretending like nothing bad ever happened. She doesn't want to celebrate her birthday anymore, she just wants to go home, she misses Oliver and her grandpa, and she wants to make Niffty proud of her by killing the stupid bug, but the stupid bug just won't die—

Anger rises inside of her like the jagged jaws of a crocodile and she finds herself swallowed whole. She slams the fork down as hard as she can. 

Her vision glitches red. An electrical tingle shoots up from the small of her back to the top of her head, a low buzzing droning bone marrow-deep, traveling down her arm and bursting from her hand the moment the fork touches the ground. The air explodes into red, red, red, a shockwave edged with static that hisses and gobbles over everything. It crashes over the entire hallway, a tsunami of pure rage, knocking over the console table, a vase shattering. Somewhere, she can hear Echo flapping his wings and shrieking.

The anger slowly drains out of Imogen's body like blood from a wound. She sits there, panting, her vision returning to normal. The cockroach is speared onto the fork, the metal bent in half. The hall lights blaze on and off before they settle to a quiet hum.

"Wooooow," Niffty says, impressed. "You got him good."

Imogen drops the fork. Instantly, she feels ashamed of herself.

"Hey, what's wrong? Did it get cha?" Niffty grabs Imogen's hand, looking it over.

Imogen's hands are shaking because she doesn't understand what that was. There's a strange humming sensation underneath her own skin. She can't explain it, but it felt like something bad happened inside of her. It's been that way ever since Last Night, like her soul is colored in a black and red crayon, full of harsh, violent scribbles that can barely fit inside of her. And just now, it felt like a little piece of it escaped—like her chest had cracked open and all of the bad colors leaked out.

"Hmm, I think you're okay!" Niffty lets go of her. "Maybe you just went a little too hard. I do that too sometimes."

The bathroom door creaks open and a sweet, woodsy scent puffs out with the steam. Imogen's mom walks out dressed in a white bathrobe and a microfiber towel on her head. She spots Imogen and Niffty and stops, surprised.

"Imogen? What are you doing?"

Imogen opens her mouth to tell her but nothing comes out. Niffty smiles up at her. "We're hunting bugs!"

Mom frowns. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Oh, I'm Niffty!"

"Oh ..." Mom looks unconvinced. "Okay, Imogen, I think you should stop playing for now and come with me."

Imogen shakes her head. She latches onto Niffty and hugs her tight.

Mom sighs. "Imogen ..."

Imogen squeezes Niffty even harder. She doesn't want to go with her mom where all they're going to do is sit in her room and zone out and become even more sad. This is the closest she's felt to herself all day because Niffty is so hyper. She thinks if she can stay close by, then maybe she can push down everything bad and some of Niffty's excitement will shimmer onto her—like Tinkerbell's pixie dust.

"I don't mind!" Niffty says. "I can watch her. Really!"

Mom hesitates. "I'm sorry, how old are you?"

"I'm twenty-two!"

Mom blinks, shocked. "Oh! Oh, jeeze. I'm so sorry, I thought ..."

"Well," Niffty adds, thinking about it. "Biologically I'm twenty-two. I guess technically I'm ninety-six."

Mom chokes.

Grandma manifests behind Mom with a crack of thunder, making her jump. "Great idea! Mallory, let them have fun. Come on, I've got something to show you."

"Mom," Imogen's mom hisses under her breath. "We don't even know her."

"Not to worry! Echo will go along with them."

"What the hell is a bird going to do?"

"Oh," Nora Jean says, holding back a smile. "You'd be surprised. Be on your best behavior and look after my granddaughter, hmm?"

Niffty beams. "Okay!"

"I was talking to the bird, dear, but you know ... you too. All right, Mallory, let's be off!"

🎶 📻 🎶

Mallory's mother wheels her around the corner and suddenly, she's surrounded by roaring wind and dark storm clouds. She shrieks, the world falling out from underneath her feet, her mother's diamond-shaped nails squeezing hard into her shoulders—

Before the darkness melts away and Mallory is standing in an old-fashioned cottage. She blinks, shocked, and whirls around, surveying the warm wooden shelves and floors. There's a stone fireplace and red sunlight streaming through the glass windows. Somehow, the room smells of rainfall.

"Where are we?"

"Don't worry, we're still at the hotel. We're on the roof." Nora Jean gestures around them. "This is my house. It followed me here and made itself at home. Do you like it?"

Mallory clutches her robe tighter around her chest and peers out a window. It's true. They are on the roof. She turns back to face her mother, brows furrowed. "What do you mean it followed you?"

"I mean exactly as I said."

Mallory sighs. Honestly, she doesn't really care. The explanation is probably something outrageous or strange. "Is this what you wanted to show me? Your brand new house in Hell?"

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you in private. It's Imogen's birthday today."

Mallory flinches. Her daughter's present is hidden in her bedroom closet back home. "I don't have anything here."

"I figured as much. Don't worry! We can figure it out together."

"Don't you get it? I don't want to be around you. I'm still angry with you."

"Well, fine, but don't take it out on Imogen. At least let me help you get her a present. Alastor is still going to be celebrating her birthday today whether you like it or not."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. You're perfectly fine with your granddaughter losing her soul to a cannibal as long as he throws her a good party!" 

"I never said anything about it, actually."

"That isn't any better!" Mallory sucks in a deep breath and levels her with an intense look. "Look, you're powerful too. Can't you do something about this?"

"I'm afraid power doesn't have much sway in this situation. What matters is the terms of their arrangement."

Mallory starts pacing back and forth, her mind racing. "Okay, then we need to find out what the terms are. Maybe there's a loophole or ..."

"I won't lie to you, Mallory, it's very unlikely. Alastor has been doing this for a long time. Much longer than I have. Any deal he makes is going to be thorough and the terms are always crafted to make it difficult for the other person to wiggle out of."

"But not impossible," Mallory says.

Nora Jean shrugs. "Perhaps. But he isn't going to offer a loophole to us on a silver platter. We need to be smart about it."

"So ... you think there's hope?"

"I don't know. I promise to find out what I can. In the meantime, you two are here, Alastor is preparing to uphold his end of the bargain, and we have to make the best of it." Nora Jean tilts her head and softens her tone a little. "How did the bath go? Do you feel any different?"

"I feel the same," Mallory says, which isn't entirely true. She feels a little more energized and a little less burdened—a little more optimistic about Imogen's situation. But mostly her skin just feels clean and soft.

"You should let me keep preparing the baths for you. It would be good for your soul. You and Imogen."

"I told you, that was my last act of witchcraft."

Nora Jean throws up her hands, exasperated. "Oh yes, that's right! You're going to be the Catholic garden witch. I'm sure the priests and nuns will all come flocking once their Virgin Mary is covered in devil's ivy and the wrath of God rains down upon your head."

"That isn't going to happen," Mallory says. "It's literally impossible for me to grow anything anymore anyway."

Nora Jean frowns, orange eyes concerned and darting over Mallory's face. "I don't understand. Did your magic really go away because I ..." 

She gestures between them and the rest of her sentence trails off. Mallory crosses over to the window, unable to hold her mother's gaze. She reaches for one of the crystal suncatchers and makes it spin, setting off a shower of rainbows.

"No, I don't think that's the reason why. It completely vanished after you were gone, but it started before then—around the time Fletcher and I were getting divorced. It was ... slow at first. I noticed the voices of the plants becoming softer. I thought I was just having an off week and their voices would become stronger again, but it only got worse. I'd try to coax the smallest flower into blooming and it just felt so ... so draining. Like it took so much energy to do even the simplest thing. And then one day ..." The rest of her words fail her, a powerful yearning piercing her through the chest. She takes a steadying breath and tries again. "And then one day, it was just gone. I don't know why."

Mallory hears her mother's talons scraping against the hardwood floor, coming to a stop next to her. She clasps her hand over her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Emotions clog Mallory's throat. "It's fine."

"No, it isn't. I can see how heartbreaking this is for you—losing something you loved so dearly. I just ..." She starts to say something, thinks better of it, then starts again. "I just don't understand. Magic doesn't just vanish. It's directly part of who you are. It has to be there somewhere."

Mallory snorts. "Well if it is, it's making itself pretty hard to find." She hesitates, fiddling with the sharp point of the star-shaped suncatcher and changes the subject. "You said you'd help me find Imogen a present?"

Nora Jean perks up. "Yes, of course! We can make one together."

"What did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking we could make her a protection jar. She'll need one if you're taking her to church."

It's meant to be a joke but Mallory doesn't laugh. A protection jar is a spell enclosed with the caster's pure thoughts and intentions. The ingredients inside can vary wildly, depending on the kind of spell. Mallory used to keep one in her car filled with Angelica root and moonstone for safe travels and seletine jars near her doorways to neutralize people's energies when they walked into her house, but she stopped making them a long time ago. Fletcher, being clairsensitive, used to be very good with spell jars that sealed away negative thoughts, and her mother's always been able to trap lightning.

"I can't help you make that," Mallory says. "I already told you, my magic is gone."

"And I told you, magic doesn't just disappear," Nora Jean says, stern but not unkind. "If it's not working then there has to be a reason. I figure, if we start with something basic, then maybe we can help you start to rebuild your magic from the ground up. We can start very small. You wouldn't even have to purify the jar or seal it. All you would have to do is choose the ingredients and tell me your intentions for the spell. I can write it down and do the rest."

Mallory bites her lip. Well ... she can't exactly start going to church right now while she's in Hell. She can certainly think of good intentions for her daughter and choose what to put in the jar, can't she? She can't use her magic, and she wasn't able to protect Imogen from Robert or Alastor, but she can do this thing, this one small thing, to try to keep her safe.

" ... Okay, fine. But I'd like to get dressed first."

🎶 📻 🎶

Sir Pentious is not having a good day. Alastor has destroyed his airship, he's down to five Egg Bois, every inch of his body aches, and worst of all, he has been bested by a grandmother. A grandmother with a gauge needle! What kind of old woman walks around with something like that? Was the thing even sanitary? Is Sir Pentious going to get some kind of infection?

He wiggles his tongue around in his mouth, trying to feel the ring. Most of the pain from it is gone, but it still feels odd, like something that isn't supposed to be there. 

Sir Pentious groans and flops down onto a couch in the lobby, completely spent. Bruises throb on his arms and back, and pain stabs him in his ribs when he breathes. Pulling himself back together after Alastor sent fireworks into his airship was long and excruciating. The rest of his body should heal up soon—at least he hopes so.

His eyes begin to drift shut when his phone suddenly vibrates in his pocket. He fishes it out and squints at the screen. 

Why is Princess Charlie calling him?

BANG!

Sir Pentious jumps from the sound and nearly falls off of the couch. What the devil? He looks around, searching for the source, when he hears Husk and Angel Dust's agitated voices coming from somewhere downstairs.

He pockets his phone and slithers to the kitchen to investigate. He stops in the doorway, utterly taken aback.

Vanilla cake is splattered all over the walls. It's on the floor and burning inside of the oven, which is wide open and currently on fire. A lava flow of half-baked batter pours out of the pan and into two other cakes on the rack below, the air thick with black smoke and the smell of burnt sugar.

Angel shoves the back door open, waving a dish towel like a white flag, trying to air out the smoke. Husk grabs the fire extinguisher and sets it off over the oven, smothering the flames with a puff of snowy dust.

"What the Hell are you two doing?"

Angel and Husk stop to look at him.

"We're making a cake for Imogen," Angel says.

Sir Pentious stares. "Who?"

"Imogen. You know, Mallory's daughter?" When Mallory's name also does not register, Angel Dust plants a hand on his hip and adds, "the girl you grabbed onto in the hallway this morning?"

Oh. Yes, Sir Pentious realizes now he never asked her for her name. Nora Jean had also mentioned she was here to see her granddaughter, and he quickly concludes that must be who Imogen is. He hadn't realized Husk and Angel were already acquainted with her.

Sir Pentious chooses his next words carefully. "I see. And ... why did you decide on a cake?"

"Because it's her birthday and she's had a shitty day. We're trying to cheer her up but ..." Angel coughs and waves some lingering smoke away from his face. "It's a little tougher than we thought."

Well, Sir Pentious supposes getting transported to Hell would dampen anyone's birthday. He circles around the oven. "How did you two manage to blow it up?"

"I'm not too sure," Angel Dust says. He snickers. "But ya gotta admit, it's a pretty impressive blow job, huh?" 

Sir Pentious blinks.

Angel waits for some kind of further reaction. When he doesn't get one, he tosses both sets of hands up into the air. "Goddammit. I waste my best material on you!"

Sir Pentious rolls his eyes. He slithers up to the cabinet, grabbing a fresh mixing bowl and some baking supplies.

"What are you doing?"

"Fixing this."

Angel stares at him, dismayed. "Hang on, you wanna help us?"

"Of courssse."

"Why?"

Because if I can please Nora Jean's granddaughter then perhaps, she'll eventually take out this piercing, and I can speak freely again.

"Because! Baking is a ssscience! And you two clearly sssuck at it."

A slow smile. "I'll have you know anything I suck is—"

Husk slaps his paw over Angel's mouth. "Shut up and let him help." A mischievous twinkle glitters in Angel's eye. Husk's serious expression morphs into a disgusted grimace, abruptly pulling away. "Ugh! Did you just lick me?"

Angel flashes him the goofiest, derpiest smile of all time. 

Husk makes another disgusted sound and wipes his paw off on Angel's jacket. Sir Pentious ignores the crude display and grabs a pink whisk, smacking it in his palm like a riding crop. "Now! What kind of cake are we making?"

"We're going for this fancy ... tiered thing." Husk flicks his wrist vaguely and turns to Angel. "Show him the picture."

Angel pulls up the image on his phone. Sir Pentious accepts this with a noncommittal grunt and reaches for a daisy-yellow apron hanging on a peg on the wall, tying it in a neat bow around his waist. "All right, you two, this is what's going to happen. If we are to make three tiers then we need to clean up this messs and ssstart all over."

Angel Dust gives Sir Pentious a double-take. "Hold on a second! Ya got your tongue pierced!"

His spine stiffens. "Um, yes."

"When'd you do that?"

"It wasss—"

He tries to say it was that new Overlord, but the ring hits the back of his teeth with a sharp, metallic sound. His tongue seals itself to the roof of his mouth, unable to form any words. He tries—oh, he tries—but he's unable to release anything but an irritable muffled sound. The more he fights it, the worse it becomes, his tongue starting to burn as if he'd just bit into a hot pepper. 

Angel arches an eyebrow. "Uh, you good?"

No, Sir Pentious is not good, but he can't tell him that either. It's only when he decides to give up, does his tongue finally go lax in his mouth.

He gusts out a long breath. "Today," he says. "I got it done today."

"Huh," Angel says, mostly to himself. "Looks cool."

Sir Pentious freezes. Angel Dust crosses over to the sink to grab a bottle of dish soap and a sponge, sauntering over to the oven to help Husk clean.

Sir Pentious has been waiting his entire afterlife for someone to say that to him. He feels awesome. He feels badass. Tears of joy fill his eyes, manifesting all around him as glittering stars. 

I'm ... cool!

🎶 📻 🎶

Alastor strolls down the hall, his hands laced behind his back, squeezing tightly around his cane. Tonight's weather forecast won't stop ringing in his head no matter how many times he tries to switch it off. He hasn't quite been able to shake off his annoyance from earlier and his radio station is certainly reflecting that. He's nearly to his room when he stumbles across a console table tipped on its side.

Oh? What happened here? He straightens it back onto its feet and pauses. Something about this feels ... off. He brushes the wood and rubs the pads of his fingers together, mulling over the soft pins-and-needles sensation tickling there. It's faint but familiar, like the prickling of static underneath his skin, laced with electricity and the red-hot anger he's been struggling to swallow all day.

It doesn't make any sense—Alastor hadn't been the one to knock this over.

A giggle ribbons from somewhere and snaps Alastor out of his thoughts. His ears swivel when he hears the sound again. 

Is Imogen laughing?

He follows the sound further down the hallway. There, he finds Imogen and Niffty running around and chasing cockroaches.

Alastor waits around the corner. When Niffty is close enough, he latches onto her shadow and gently tugs. She lets out a small squeak and stumbles out in front of him.

He flashes her a gracious smile. "Niffty, dear, what are you doing?"

"Imogen and I are hunting bugs!"

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it's so much fun! We're going to collect some for crafts later."

"I see." A pause. "How is she doing?"

"Oh, she's good! She's a natural. She totally demolished this big roach earlier. It was great ."

"I see ..." Alastor twiddles his cane behind his back. If Imogen is playing with Niffty then maybe that's a sign things will go back to normal. "Niffty, I have a job for you. I need to know what Imogen wants for dinner for her birthday party tonight, can you see if she'll tell you?"

"Oh, sure! I'll ask her right now!"

"Wonderful!"

Alastor manifests a piece of paper and a pen. He hands it to her and watches Niffty scurry off to Imogen in the hallway. Her crimson skirt pools around her as she plops down next to Imogen and asks her.

Imogen meets Alastor's eye across the hall and scowls. She writes something down and hands it over to Niffty. Niffty reads it over, brightens, and runs back to Alastor.

She lifts up on her tiptoes. "Here you go!"

Alastor takes the note from her and reads Imogen's request.

There's a long pause. Finally, Alastor looks down at her. "Is this a joke?"

Niffty considers it. "Hmmm ..." She lights up. "No, I don't think so!"

Alastor reads the request again, hoping his eyes are deceiving him, but no. The request is plain and simple, staring back at him in messy black ink:

I want a salad bar.

When Alastor looks up, he sees Imogen glaring at him from across the room, as though challenging him.

Alastor's eye twitches. He forces his smile to widen so he doesn't snarl. "I see," he says, trying to keep his voice steady through clenched teeth. "Any special requests with the ... salad bar?"

"Oh, yeah," Niffty says. "Turn it over."

Confused, Alastor does.

No meat allowed.

"What? Not even a boiled egg? Ham? Chicken? Deep fried calf brains?"

"Nope! You can add tofu though."

Alastor nearly blacks out on the spot.

"Maybe some beans." Niffty perks up. "Ohh! Can we add bugs? Imogen, do you want bugs in your salad?"

She shakes her head.

"Aw, okay. No bugs either."

He clenches the paper in his fist. "All right. I shall prepare your ..." He nearly cringes at the word. "Salad bar. But! Don't think I won't be including my own meal!"

Imogen shrugs, like it doesn't make a difference to her, and turns away from him.

Chapter Text

The Radio Demon does not do anything subpar. Imogen wants a salad bar? Fine! Then it's going to be the best goddamn salad bar Hell has ever seen.

Everyone thinks the Radio Demon is completely against vegetables. The truth is, he isn't. In fact, he considers some of them to be very important—after all, any Louisianan cook worth their salt knew you couldn't make a proper meal without onions, bell peppers or celery. Why, he's even been known to whip up a proper side dish from time to time! The issue is that Alastor has usually only sought out vegetables to add something to a dish or to accompany an entrée. He's never gone out of his way to make a purely vegetarian meal.

Alastor trots into the kitchen. "Husker! I am cashing in on a ..." He stops in his tracks. "What the devil are you doing?"

Husk freezes. His paws are stuffed inside of a pink tupperware bowl, clearly in the middle of kneading some kind of dough.

His yellow eyes dart to the dough. Then to Alastor. Then to the dough again. "Uh ..."

Angel holds in a laugh. "He's baking biscuits."

Sir Pentious whips his head up. "Don't knead the batter, Husker! You're baking a cake, not cooookiessss."

Husk lets out something akin to a low growl. "I can't help it, okay? This shit just happens sometimes." He pulls his paws out of the bowl and runs them under the sink.

"Use the electric mixer, it'll get the job done fassster."

Alastor blinks. "You're baking a cake?"

"Not just a cake," Angel says. "We're making three cakes! A tiered one! You know, for the kid." He leans against the kitchen counter, where there's different ingredients set out: a bag of flour, a box of sugar, a carton of eggs and a yellow block of butter. "We had a first attempt. Didn't go very well, but Sir Penny here is helping us out."

Sir Pentious grunts from across the room, whisking the flour and baking soda together.

"Ah, a fine idea!" Alastor announces. "And it's all thanks to me."

Husk gives him a flat look. "But you didn't do anything."

"Me!" Alastor cries. "All my idea! Keep up the good work, gentlemen!"

Though, this does put Alastor in a predicament. He can't send Niffty to go shopping since she's with Imogen. He can't send Husk if he wants him to continue working on the cake. He could ask any of the thousands of souls he's made a deal with but quite frankly, he doesn't trust any of them to be up to the task. For a moment, Alastor considers just manifesting a salad bar into existence—he could certainly do it—but this birthday has to be perfect down to the letter if he wants things to go back to the way they were. Alastor would much rather do it himself.

Husk snaps him out of his thoughts. "What is it you needed me to do?"

"Nevermind, Husker. I'm going to be going to the grocery store."

Angel perks up. "Say, if you're going out, do you mind stoppin' at the club I go to? I need some edible glitter."

"Absolutely not."

"It's not for me! It's for the cake."

"Absolutely not."

Angel plants a set of hands on his hips. "What's your deal? Do you gotta problem with the glitter or the club?"

"Both," Alastor says. "Your sweaty ... club glitter! Does not belong anywhere near Imogen's birthday cake."

"Okay, first of all, it ain't that kind of glitter. It's glitter specifically made for pastries and shit. I Voogled it, kids love it! And I'm not talkin' about that kind of club. It's a warehouse club. They got anything you want over there. You should really stop there if you need groceries, they got tons of organic shit from Wrath."

"No thank you! I already have a place in mind."

"Suit yourself," Angel says. He slips his membership card into Alastor's breast pocket. "Just in case you have time to stop by."

Alastor beams brightly. "I won't!" He tosses out his hand and sweeps out the door. "Good luck, chums!"

🎶 📻 🎶

Alastor's favorite grocery store is currently being demolished by a massive wrecking ball attached to an excavator. It slams straight through the brick building, shattering the wall and windows, bringing forth a dense cloud of debris.

It's a quaint little building called Hy-Vee. The store originally opened on Earth in 1930 before arriving on the scene in Pentagram City ten years later, after one of the original founders manifested in Hell. There are several chains in Pride, but Alastor is fond of this one in particular due to its 30s vintage theme, closely resembling the charm of his era. And, perhaps most important of all, they promised A Helpful Smile In Every Aisle. They have never once disappointed him.

Now, what Alastor suspects was once the delicatessen, is in a large pile of rubble on the sidewalk. The air is filled with the sound of roaring hydraulic hammers and crushing concrete. Imps in hardhats and orange vests mill about, piloting heavy machinery. A bulldozer beeps by and scoops up a pile of broken bricks, transporting them into a dump truck waiting off to the side.

Alastor nearly frowns at the sight.

Nearly.

A Sinner Alastor recognizes passes him on his way to the parking lot. He has giant ram horns spiraling on either side of his head and curly, white hair resembling wool.

"Ah! Baachus! There you are." Alastor gestures grandly to the wreckage. "What the Hell is going on here?"

Baachus blinks, surprised. "Alastor? I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Yes, well! I was in dire need of some vegetables."

The surprise on his face intensifies. "Really?"

Baachus is—was—the manager of this fine establishment. Alastor lifts his eyebrows and fixes him with a tight-lipped smile that clearly implies he will not be elaborating.

Baachus catches his drift and clears his throat. "I'm afraid we're closing down. We got slapped with a copyright infringement we can't afford."

"Copyright?" Alastor repeats, incredulous. "Over what?"

"The word 'Vee.' Vox says he owns it. He demanded the demolition of every single Hy-Vee in the Pride Ring."

Alastor has a rare moment of being stunned into silence. He opens his mouth, emitting nothing but a pop of static and white noise before promptly snapping it shut. 

"That's preposterous! You've been down here since 1940!"

"That's what I said."

"Why does he suddenly care about foodstuffs? That walking picture box wouldn't know a good Krampus ham if it jammed itself inside his audio port. He's ignored quality products for this long! What is he going to get rid of next? Our clerks? Our newspapers?" Alastor lifts his cane in outrage. "RadioShack?"

"That's—" Baachus stops mid-sentence as if he decided whatever it was he was going to say was a bad idea and swiftly nods. "Uh, yeah! Who knows ..."

Obnoxious, cultish, egotistical bastard. He's completely ruined Imogen's birthday! Alastor feels like kicking something.

Instead, he sucks in a breath and begrudgingly asks, "You wouldn't have happened to have salvaged anything from the produce aisle, would you?"

"Sorry," Baachus says. "We got rid of everything a few weeks ago."

Alastor's ears flatten a little before he composes himself with a wide smile. "No matter! There's another place I can try."

🎶 📻 🎶

Alastor's second favorite grocery store is on fire.

It's a tiny family-owned place smack dab between the border of Cannibal Town and the Doomsday District. It's run by a cannibal who met a Sinner with a vegetable farm and fell in love. Quite the scandal at the time, but thanks to Rosie, the two were able to wed, open their store, adopt a couple of imps and welp! Their business has been booming ever since. It had a bakery, gourmet foods, liquor, a butcher and fresh produce imported directly from the family farm. Alastor had been hanging most, if not all, of his final hopes on this little establishment.

And that's certainly gone up in flames, hasn't it?

A fire truck siren blares somewhere in the distance. The inferno eats up everything in its path, flickering through the windows and engulfing a scarlet-colored awning. It creaks and collapses onto the sidewalk, the metal glowing bright orange, folding into itself like origami.

Alastor removes his monocle and polishes it against his sleeve. He sets it back onto his face and blinks rapidly, as though that'll change what's before his eyes.

But no. His second favorite grocery store is still burning.

Finally, after he snaps out of the initial shock, Alastor looks around. There's some Sinners and imps scattered around trying to vacate the premises.

"You there!" he says. "A quick word?"

An imp turns around. She's only a few inches taller than Niffty and wearing a store uniform. She blinks, surprised. "Alastor?"

He beams. "Clara! Fancy seeing you here! How are your parents?"

"They're out of sorts right now due to the whole ..." She tosses a hand towards the twisting inferno. "You know."

"Ahh, yes. I was wondering what happened."

Clara sighs. "There was a brawl over a meat pie. It was the last one in stock, and this guy tried stealing it out of Susan's cart. So, she pulled a flamethrower out of her purse and set him on fire."

A murmur of awe and intrigue from the studio audience.

"He fell into one of the shelving units. That should have been enough but no—she kept going with the flamethrower. Fire spread and well ... I guess I'll be out of work for a while."

Ah, what a pity! Alastor turns to observe the fire engulfing the rest of the building.

It is always a sad day when Alastor's favorite places are subjected to such brutality. Alas, blood and chaos is the heartbeat of Pentagram City. No business is safe, regardless of what era a Sinner is from, consistently growing worse and worse with each and every generation. Perhaps violence isn't always the answer. Perhaps everyone can rally together to protect their favorite small businesses in hopes for a better tomorrow.

"Hey! Aren't you that radio bitch who ruined Vox's song?"

Alastor's ears flick. Slowly, he turns his head. 

A spaniel-shaped hellhound stands before him with her hip cocked. She has a silky cream coat with rich chestnut markings and a feathered tail. Her hair is tamed into an elegant cinnamon-colored braid draped over her shoulder—and she's wearing a T-shirt displaying Vox's face surrounded by a pink heart.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," the hellhound says. "Vox started a perfectly good song until you came in and ruined it. You should have stayed gone!"

Alastor squints. "Gone?"

"Vox reported you cavorting around town after a seven day absence."

Alastor rolls his eyes. Seven days. He acted like it'd been seven years! If anything, the song was lacking until Alastor took it over. He simply went off the radar for a week when Imogen needed help with a school project.

"Why don't you do us all a favor and throw yourself back into your grave? Because radio is dead." The hellhound dramatically flicks her braid off of her shoulder. "No cap."

Alastor, who has only just recently wrapped his head around fun phrases like that's the tea and clout chaser, has absolutely no idea what no cap means. He spends a few moments staring at her in complete ignorance before finally blurting out, "What?"

The ground abruptly opens up underneath the hellhound and black tentacles burst forth. She shrieks as they latch onto her and fling her as hard as they can into the raging inferno, a ripple of heat pushing out from the window as her body is consumed.

Oh, dear! She dropped her phone! Better get it back to her! Alastor punts it into the fire for good measure and then turns on his heel, trotting down the sidewalk.

The hellhound's screams fade underneath the wailing of sirens as a firetruck swerves into the parking lot. Alastor stares wistfully up at the smoke shaking over the crimson sky and contemplates what has become of the English language. Why is it that one must "spill the tea" or "sip the tea" but no one "brews the tea?" Is " bussin'" feminine or masculine? How many GOATS in a squad, how much ass before someone is "dead ass?" Alastor will not be challenging Vox to any more spontaneous musical numbers until he understands.

🎶 📻 🎶

This grocery store mission is not going how Alastor had planned. Dare he say, he's starting to feel a little bit out of his depth.

He wanders to the same park he escorted Rosie through not that long ago and rests on a bench underneath a tree. When he closes his eyes, he can still hear that hellhound's grating voice. 'No cap.' No cap, indeed! What lunacy! Alastor rubs circles into the center of his forehead, trying to break up the static building there.

A giant yellow banner waving in the wind catches his attention. It's hanging between two trees and says PUPPIES FOR SALE. There's a horse-drawn wagon parked underneath and an old hag who's crawled on top of it, trying to tear the sign down. An imp in overalls loops his arms around her from the middle and carries her away, making her twist and rage. A burlier imp in a cowboy hat checks on the puppies in the wagon.

Oh, no. No, Alastor cannot possibly entertain the idea. He turns away.

The old hag must be stronger than she appears because it sounds like she is putting up quite the fight. Alastor turns his attention back to the scene.

Imogen still has not told him what she wants for her birthday. He needs to provide her with something she actually desires, and he's not certain if she'll tell him—but Alastor knows there's one thing that she wants more than anything.

He can't believe he's actually considering this, but what other options does he have? He has to uphold his end of the bargain somehow. That doesn't change the fact that he'd rather set the wagon on fire.

Alastor contemplates hunting down Susan to see if he can borrow her flamethrower. A smaller part of him remembers the lifeless look in Imogen's eyes, a radio dial shifting and crackling somewhere deep inside of him.

Well ... it's not as though he'd actually have to spend time with the stupid thing. He'd only have to see it once a year. Alastor can choose a dog that would grow up to protect Imogen while he's in Hell, and she'd be so delighted, she'd forget all about their kerfuffle and bounce back to her happy self again. They can even lock it in a cage when he comes around for her birthday or throw a muzzle on it or who knows, temporarily send it off into a dark void. It's genius. Foolproof! Yes, this is exactly what she needs!

Alastor springs to his feet before he can change his mind. "Good afternoon, gentlemen!"

The imp in the cowboy hat turns around. He's old, but it looks like he hasn't lost a bit of strength from his youth, arms broad and powerful, like he did a lot of work outdoors. He smiles and tips his hat. "Afternoon, sir. You lookin' for a dog?"

"I suppose I am!"

"Great. Most of 'em were sold already but we got a few left. Feel free ter take a gander."

Alastor is delighted to realize that this imp is not afraid of him in the slightest. Clearly, he spends most of his time tucked away in the deserts of Wrath and not enough time in Pride.

"What's your name, mister?" the imp asks.

Alastor notices a sign stapled to the tree behind him that reads BEWARE OF THE RADIO DEMON with a drawing in his likeness. He steps out in front of it, blocking its view, and offers his signature wide smile. "Al."

"Nice ter meet ya, Al. I'm Blaise. This here is my grandson, Floyd."

He gestures to the imp in overalls who is still wrestling with the hag. Things do not appear to be going so well for him, for the old woman has caught him in a headlock, jumping onto his back and pinning him to the ground. He claws at her arms, choking, flailing about like a disgraced carp.

Blaise waves a dismissive hand. "Sorry, he's a bit preoccupied at the moment."

"Not a problem."

Alastor's eyes wander to the puppies. There are only four left. Unsurprisingly, they are all quieves, the most popular dog breed in Hell, a mixture between a chihuahua and the common house fly. These ones are still in the larvae stage, worm-like and pale green or gray in color, with fluffy pointy ears and stubby little legs with paws. They have hooks for mouths and are sound asleep on their backs, perhaps ready for metamorphosis any day now.

How are these common fly dogs supposed to protect Imogen when he's not around? Alastor's never liked chihuahuas. One of Lucifer's inventions, he's sure. He hums and is about to turn away, when he notices one puppy standing out amongst the rest. It too has tapered ears, but this one has a fluffy midnight coat and no insect-like features at all. It's sitting up and scratching its neck with its hindleg, small enough to fit into the palm of Alastor's hand.

He points at it. "What is that?"

"That's a queef," Blaise says.

"It is not."

"Are you saying I don't know what a queef looks like?" Blaise demands, puffing out his chest. "Are you saying I don't know the kind of dogs I have for sale? Huh? Is that what you're saying?"

"Clearly not since that's a pomeranian." 

Or a very, very small wolf. Perhaps it's a hybrid of some kind?

"You're both wrong," the hag says. She tosses Floyd aside like a discarded bone and approaches them. Up close, Alastor sees she has the face of a craggy old woman, but the rest of her body is covered in coarse silver fur. When she moves, a bushy tail sweeps at her bare feet, gnarled and black, looking a little too much like human hands. She's clad in a tattered cloak, and her eyes are huge and round, taking up most of her face—one is squash yellow, the other milky white. "That's a gwyllgi."

"Gesundheit," Alastor says politely.

"GWYLLGI!" she repeats, even louder and more menacing than before, as if that's supposed to make Alastor understand her better. "The Dog of Dusk! Of Darkness and Gloom! A mythical, prowling beast of fearsome visage! It will grow up to be larger than a steed nine winters old and capable of burning down trees with its breath!"

"Neat!" Alastor says. "Are they good with kids?"

"Probably," Blaise says.

"Of course not!" The crone shoots an accusatory finger at the puppy in question. "The Welsh regard the gwyllgi as the devil himself. Simply seeing one paralyzes its foes with fear!"

The puppy yawns and closes its eyes, curling up for a snooze.

Floyd rises to his feet and brushes himself off. "Oh, yeah. I'm shakin' in my boots."

"Where did you come across it?" Alastor asks, intrigued.

"Found it wandering around near the road at dusk," Blaise says. "Picked it up in the Wrath Ring, but it's definitely not native to the Wrath. It was in pretty bad shape. Had no tags. Figured it was abandoned by someone."

"Of course it was abandoned," the old woman snarls. "The gwyllgi manifest from the darkness and haunt the lonely roads at night, preying on unsuspecting travelers. Be thankful it didn't tear you to pieces!"

"Seriously? You're talking about this puny thing?" Floyd leans down and flicks the puppy's nose. It jerks awake with a small yip. "Awww. You're nothing but a stupid little mutt, aren't you?"

The puppy's muzzle wrinkles with a snarl, flashing its spindly fangs, but the imp just laughs and does it again. 

The hag hisses at the sight and backs into a tree. She quickly scales to the top on all fours like some kind of deranged spider, disappearing into the branches and cowering.

"You're dumb," Floyd coos. "Just a dumb, little—"

The puppy suddenly bursts into flames. Floyd leaps back from the blast of heat, the puppy engulfed in a crackling, scarlet blaze, but Alastor watches the whole thing with a morbid fascination. He can see the creature's shape burning like a coal from within and rapidly changing in size, growing larger and larger, until the flames recede, and standing before them isn't a tiny puppy anymore—it’s the size of a full grown German shepherd. Crimson flames flicker along the length of its plumy tail and lick around its ankles, the edges around its shadowy body undefined, melting into the ruby sky like a ghost dissolving into air. Incisors curl from lips, its mouth full of red hot fire.

The dog leaps out of the wagon, knocking it over in the process, sending the quieves scattering onto the ground. It runs past Alastor and latches onto the imp's arm, shaking it back and forth.

Floyd lets out a bloodcurdling scream. He strikes the dog over the head, but it easily flips him onto his back, mauling and snarling.

“Help!” he cries.

"FOOL!" screeches the crone.

The quieves roll around the grass with pitiful high-pitched cries, uselessly waving their stubby legs. Blaise turns to assist his grandson, but Alastor stops him. “How much?”

“What?”

“How much for the dog?”

Blaise crosses his arms. “How much you got?”

Floyd's voice pitches to a wail. “Are you serious?”

Alastor digs into his pocket and untangles a wad of bills. “I’ve got a hundred and thirty two … thirty five cents.”

“No.”

“And a paperclip.”

“No.”

“And a gift card to RadioShack.”

Floyd roars and keeps punching the dog in the face.

"Got anything else?"

Alastor notices a Billie Holiday bumper sticker stamped onto the back of Blaise's wagon. "I've got a Billie Holiday vinyl."

He pulls it out from behind his ear like a magician's coin and balances the vinyl on the tip of his claw. He twirls it around and The Very Thought Of You croons out.

Blaise's eyes pop. "Oh, wow. That's a pretty nifty trick."

"Thank you!"

"I love that song," Blaise sighs, wistful. "My missus used to like it when I sang it to her, Satan rest her soul."

"Ahh, yes," Alastor laments. "Such fond memories. I'm partial to this one myself."

"You got a lady, mister?"

"Just a little one."

"Daughter, huh? That's great. How old is she?"

"She's nine."

"Aww."

"Yes, she's always wanted a dog."

"No greater companionship than a hound," Blaise agrees. "That vinyl first edition?"

"Yes." It hurts Alastor's little black heart to part with it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Well, all right. You’ve twisted my arm. I'll take the vinyl." Blaise thinks about it. "And that paperclip too."

The music abruptly cuts off. "Done!"

“Would you two shut up and GET THIS THING OFF ME?”

A moment later, after Blaise stores the vinyl and successfully pries the dog off of his grandson, the flames smother out and the puppy returns to its miniature size.

He holds it out to Alastor. "Here you are."

Ah. Right. He actually has to take this thing with him now. Alastor's smile curls with disgust as he takes it by the scruff, pinching it between two fingers and holding it as far away from him as possible as if it might transform into a steaming nappie.

“Take this.” Blaise takes off his necklace and hands it to Alastor. It's an amethyst that's been carved and buffed into a flute shape. “This was around the dog's neck when we found it. It's a whistle. He responds to the sound. Use it and he’ll always show up where you are, no matter what.”

“Wonderful!”

“Take good care of him. His name is Hulk Hogan.”

Alastor lifts the puppy up and glances between its legs. “This is a lady.”

“Oh," Blaise says. "Well, it's still her name."

“No, it isn’t.” Alastor tucks the puppy underneath his arm like a football. “Goodbye, gentlemen! Pleasure doing business with you.”

🎶 📻 🎶

Alastor's reputation will never survive if Hell sees him walking around Pentagram City with a fluffy little whelp, so he stuffed it into his jacket for safekeeping. His breast pocket is deep enough for it to fit inside, and The Thing is small enough that it isn't very noticeable, curling up for another nap.

The air is heavy with the scent of brimstone underneath old exhaust. He strolls down the sidewalk deep in the heart of the city and tries to figure out where to go from here. Alastor needs to make it back to the hotel in time for dinner, but he still has not found an acceptable shop. He passes buildings and restaurants, all nestled next to each other. When he nears the last store at the end of the block, his pace slows. A hand-lettered sign painted carefully onto the center of the window and reads, Growls & Howls: Pet Shop.

Alastor supposes The Thing is going to need supplies. It'll also need restraints and something to play fetch with. (That's what kids liked to do with dogs, right? Play fetch?) Perhaps he can find a few things in here to Imogen's liking.

The bell dings overhead as Alastor walks into the shop.

The place is filled with squawking birds, hissing cats and yipping quieves. There seems to have been some kind of tussle. A gush of meat and intestines are wildly unspooled around a Sinner sprawled out across the floor. Whatever animal got him is nowhere in sight. The clerk doesn't even acknowledge Alastor, music blaring from her earbuds and mopping up the blood.

Alastor tiptoes around the caution wet floor sign and the Sinner's insides. He pauses at the end of the aisle and somehow finds himself in the aquatic section.

Glass tanks line up against the wall. The light is blue, eerie, and all around him, fish are swimming. He watches electric eels wriggle like otherworldly creatures as they pass by. At the silvery piranhas darting back and forth, gnashing their bloodthirsty mouths.

There's a sign that says, Please don't feed the piranhas, which is really only asking Alastor to do it. He's debating going back and grabbing one of those annoying quieves when dark, ominous laughter trickles in from somewhere next to him. Alastor turns his head to see Vox's face filling the frame on the television set propped up against the wall at the end of the hall.

Ah. Someone's audio inputs must have been burning today.

Vox straddles one, long leg out of the screen, slowly emerging out of the picture-glass like that creepy girl from The Ring, a film Angel Dust got off of the black market and insisted they all watch one Halloween. Alastor did not agree to watch but happened to silently pass by right as the girl was crawling out the television, looking so absurd, he burst out laughing and made Charlie scream and fling her popcorn into the air. To think this was the kind of entertainment they had on Earth! Why, it wasn't even scary! It was ridiculous that a picture box should have such power to influence the story, not to mention how undignified it looked to see the girl crawl out of it like that. Now, watching Vox struggle to fit through, Alastor can see he was right in his assessment. 

Vox ducks his square-shaped head to avoid bumping it against the television frame and leaps down onto the floor, straightening to his full height. Power ripples off of him in waves and pulses in the air, an electrical tingle that scurries its fingers down Alastor's spine. Vox grins and prowls closer, circling around Alastor like a shark closing in on its prey, ready to leech every potential moment of peace and quiet from his life. 

"Hello, Alastor," Vox says.

"Hi."

"Hi? Hi? Not even a clever quip or a quirky salutations?" Vox's smile widens, full of sadistic delight. "Oh, you must be in a miserable mood."

Alastor sighs. He has been out on a search for adequate vegetables all afternoon. His hooves are heavy and his temples throb. He still has a last minute party to plan, a dinner to whip up and a mangy mutt curled up against his heart. Dealing with Vox is not on his agenda for today.

"I'm surprised to find you in a place like this," Vox says, gesturing around them. "Planning to adopt a kitten?"

Idiot. Alastor already has one of those. "No. I'm buying Rosie a fish."

"... A fish," Vox repeats.

"Yes, so the next time you arrive unannounced, we can dunk your head into the tank and see what happens."

"Wow, fuck you." Vox brushes off the last remaining bits of turquoise sparks off of his suit. "Your broadcast ended so abruptly a few hours ago. I was thinking that new Overlord finally did me a favor and killed you off."

"Nope! Still kicking!" Supportive cheers from the radio audience.

"Then I wager you killed her?"

"No."

Vox squints. "Why not?"

"I decided it's not worth my time."

"Yeah, right. She kicked your ass, didn't she?"

"She did not."

"She did! She totally did!" Vox bursts out laughing. "Oh, man. I would have loved to have seen you get fucked by that tornado."

"Actually, I'm the one who destroyed it."

"Uh-huh. And how, exactly, does one destroy a tornado?"

Alastor's eyes cut narrow. "Didn't you watch the whole thing?"

"I wish. The tornado destroyed all of my surrounding voyeur scopes. I tried to rewind the video to catch the beginning of it, but all I got was that Weather Witch coming up to the front door with a shotgun. A flock of crows swarmed the cameras and pecked out the screens after that." He crosses his arms and leans his shoulder against the transparent glass. "Pentagram City needs to get on top of their pest control issues."

Clearly, Vox has no idea how the crows are connected to Nora Jean yet. "Ah, what a shame! I'll have to personally thank them for defacing your property."

"It doesn't matter. I have more I can set up later." 

Alastor hums in response. He snaps his fingers and a chicken leg appears inside of the piranha tank. The piranhas swarm around it before it can sink to the bottom, flashing bright silver, devouring it to the bone in a matter of seconds.

"Though, I find it strange," Vox says. "I've never heard of any Sinner who controls the weather."

Alastor lifts an eyebrow, intrigued. "You've never heard of her either?"

"No."

"Truly? Not even with all of your little spy cameras scattered around this crumbling cesspit?"

He shoots Alastor an irritable glance. "... No," he admits.

Interesting. Nora Jean's somehow been able to even go under Vox's radar. He wonders how the Hell she was able to pull that off, but he tries to feign nonchalance. "I see! What a terrible blunder on your reputation as Pentagram City's number one snoop."

"Hey, your reputation isn't any better! Pentagram's biggest gossip never heard of her either!"

"Touché."

Vox blinks, surprised. "You're actually agreeing with me?" He chuckles. "Wow. You really are in a bad mood." 

Alastor ignores that, watching Vox out of the corner of his eye as he moves to stand next to him. He mirrors Alastor by crossing his arms behind his back, turning to watch the fish. His screen is the same color as the water, a deep, pure cobalt.

"But ... it's a little too convenient, don't you think? No one's heard of this person until you introduced them." Vox fixes Alastor with a knowing stare. "What did you do to help her gain power?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, right. You clearly gave her the soul of some old Overlord or ..."

"I did no such thing."

"Come on, just admit it! You two are in—in cahoots!"

A small, amused smile. "Cahoots?"

"Yes! You're in cahoots with the witch!"

"Oh, dear. In that case, you'd better toss us into the river together! Whatever you do, don't roll up my right pant leg, I got a mole on my calf in the shape of Louisiana. My mother always did say it was a mark of the devil."

Vox lifts his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"I would actually," but his voice comes out so serious and earnest that it takes Alastor off guard. He turns away from the piranhas to stare at him.

"I—I mean—" His screen glitches bright pink. "That's not what I meant!" 

Alastor's nose crinkles with annoyance, dismay and a little bit of disgust, abruptly turning on his heel and wheeling away into another aisle. He wonders if there's anything in here he can use to jam into Vox's power supply board.

Predictably, Vox trots after him. "I've already got you two figured out, so just come clean already. Tell me how the Weather Witch gained her power and how no one's heard of her until today."

"Why don't you stop bothering me and go ask her yourself?" Alastor scans the shelves and finds a donation box filled with an assortment of random dog toys—a bouncy ball, a bloody femur and a used meat cleaver. Alastor picks it up and lifts it up to the light. Hmmm. Looks a little rusty.

"Fine! Maybe I will!"

"Go ahead. It's no skin off my back. Now, be a good sport and hold out your arm, will you?"

"Why?"

"I want to see if this meat cleaver still has what it takes to cut through bone."

At that exact moment, Imogen's birthday present decides to wake up and squirm from within Alastor's jacket. It tries to nudge his coat open with its tiny wet nose, perhaps catching a whiff of something appealing in the store. Alastor narrows his eyes and immediately shoves The Thing back down.

Vox squints. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"Something moved."

"No it didn't."

"You think I'm blind? This an 8k 480hz monitor on my face, mother fucker. Yes, it did!"

Alastor is about to retort when The Thing from within his jacket whines. He smothers the sound by pressing his hand over it.

A slow, delighted grin spreads across Vox's screen. "You're hiding something."

"Don't be ridiculous," Alastor says.

"Oh, yeah? Then let's see. Take your jacket off."

"Ha!" Alastor says. He pulls his jacket closed up to his neck. "That's very forward of you, but I must decline."

"HA!" Vox cries. "You ... you wish I was propositioning you."

Alastor rolls his eyes. He returns the meat cleaver and spins on his heel, exiting the store without buying anything.

Unfortunately, Alastor hears footsteps scampering against the pavement a few moments later. "I wouldn't be caught dead going out with you," Vox says, as if Alastor even asked. "You and your bitch ass bob and your dumb dildo stick and your dumb red jacket ..."

"And yet, you're dead and still following me."

Vox sputters. "Because—because you're miserable, and I'm gloating!"

"Mmm," Alastor says. "Doesn't have as much of an effect when you have to explain that to the person you're trying to tournament, does it?"

"Aha! So you are miserable!"

"I didn't say that."

"You don't have to. Your routine is all off! You didn't drink your morning coffee at 8AM on the  hotel's balcony. You didn't walk arm-and-arm with Rosie through Cannibal Town or stop by at your favorite butcher. And, most of all, you didn't go where you usually go on October 16th."

Alastor stops in his tracks. He turns and arches an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Vox's cyan grin widens as if to say oh-ho-ho! I got you now!, but Alastor just smiles with a bored and neutral expression. Vox waits a moment longer, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction and then hesitates when he doesn't get it. His shoulders slump a little before he quickly recovers, shrugging it off and straightening his back.

"You heard me. Every year on October 16th, you disappear. You think I haven't noticed? I've seen you on my screens whenever you wander through Hell's TSA. You go to Earth, and you don't come back until late in the evening. And yet ... you left at midnight and came back within fifteen minutes! You've been in Hell for the rest of the day." Vox gives Alastor a very intense look. "Care to explain that?"

"Not particularly."

"Fine, then I'll break it down for you. You're gone for a deal that requires you to be on Earth for the majority of the day once a year. That means you made a deal with someone important. Who is it?"

"It's hilarious you think I would tell you."

"It's Jimmy Fallon, isn't it?"

Alastor wrinkles his nose. "What?"

"Is it Jimmy Fallon? Tell me it isn't Jimmy Fallon."

"All right," Alastor says. "It's Jimmy Fallon."

"Goddamn it, Alastor! I've been after his soul for years!"

"Snooze, you lose!"

"Really? Snooze, you lose? That's the best zinger you got? Where do you think we are, the playground?" But Alastor is already whisking further down the street. "HEY!" Vox scrambles to catch up with him. "This is a new level of low, even for you. You got his soul just to fuck with me, didn't you?"

A series of game show bells ring out. "You got me!"

"Tell you what," Vox says, immediately changing his tune. "I'll give you David Letterman if you hand over Jimmy."

"Ha! I'm not interested in that trash picture box host."

"But you're interested in Jimmy?"

Alastor, who still has no idea who Jimmy Fallon is, flashes his brightest and most confident smile. "Yup!"

"Come on, this is a fair trade. I'll even throw in Oprah."

"No."

"You're right, she's been irrelevant for far too long." Vox sucks in a breath and levels Alastor with a glare. "What kind of deal would require you to visit Jimmy Fallon once a year? It doesn't make any sense!"

"Don't you have somewhere else to be? Someone unexciting to interview on your tacky late night show?"

"Oh, that's rich, coming from the guy who's had the same antique schtick since—"

A high pitched whine suddenly drones loudly from within Alastor's jacket. The Thing starts wiggling again. Alastor quickly shoves it back down.

"Oh!" Vox says. "Oh-ho-ho! There it is again! Nothing my ass."

Vox leans forward into Alastor's personal space, bathing his face in eerie turquoise light. His left eye buzzes with a strange, hypotonic symbol, attempting to draw him in. Alastor leans away from it, baring his teeth, static hissing between his clenched fangs.

"Now," Vox says, reaching out his hand. "Let's see what you're hiding ..."

There's the sound of splintering metal and a roar of shock and outrage as Alastor's microphone cane spears straight through Vox's left eye.

"OW! You mother fu—"

Alastor retrieves his cane and shoves Vox hard in the chest. He stumbles backwards and falls flat onto his back, clutching his face and writhing in pain. 

Alastor stands over him and twirls his cane like a baton, flicking bits of sputtering bright blue electricity off the end. "Riveting chat, ol' pal, simply riveting. But I've got more important places to be. Toodaloo!"

He steps over him, whistling a merry tune. Suddenly, he feels a little lighter.

🎶 📻 🎶

Once Alastor is at least several blocks away from Vox, he pulls Angel's membership card out of his pocket. His fawn ears fold back with an irritable sigh.

Well ... he supposes he could give this a try. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

🎶 📻 🎶

And that, my friends, is the story of how the Radio Demon, Violent Monster of Chaos, Master of the Airwaves and cannibal eldritch horror, walks into a warehouse club titled Cuntsco in a last ditch attempt to uphold his end of the bargain.

What a slum this place is! Picture boxes. Picture boxes everywhere! All gathered together at the front entrance! The owner of this place has no sense of style or décor.

The majority of the brand is predictably VoxTek. They range from a variety of models, but each one is playing the same demo reel of Vox in a rainforest, surrounded by lush plantlife and vibrant, tropical flowers. He's wearing a stupid safari hat and balancing a royal blue macaw on his arm. The worst display is on a massive flatscreen that's a whopping 70 inches.

70 inches! Who needs 70 inches of TRASH. Alastor gives the screen exactly one strong poke and the whole thing teeters backwards. It slams into the picture box behind it. And the one behind it. Until it's a domino effect, each VoxTek television set collapsing into the other, slamming onto the ground. One of them sparks and catches fire, setting off the sprinklers on the ceiling. Somewhere, someone screams.

"Hey! Where's your ID? You're gonna have to pay for those!"

Alastor turns his head.

An imp wearing a Cunstco uniform squeaks. "O-oh! Oh, my god. It's—you're—"

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"N-nevermind! Happy shopping, Mr. Radio Demon!"

The imp darts in the other direction. 

Alastor rolls his eyes and breezes out of range of the sprinklers, heading towards the produce section. He snaps his fingers and five shopping carts magically wheel themselves from the cart corral to follow him.

The produce section is located in a refrigerated room. It's massive. Much larger than any produce aisle Alastor's been in before. Everything is stored in open boxes in floor-to-ceiling shelves and already prepackaged.

This stuff is supposed to be organic from Wrath? Alastor has his doubts. The vegetables look fresh but anything served in a plastic bag or container is simply improper. (Then again, this entire request is spiteful and improper.) He rips open a package of spinach to examine the leaves. 

Hmmm ... none appear to be yellow or wilted ... 

There's a flash of white light. Alastor looks up to see a female hellhound in gothic attire taking a picture of him.

Alastor narrows his eyes. The hellhound's phone sparks in her hands. She yelps, nearly dropping it.

"Um," she chokes out, ears flattening to her head. "Sorry." She grabs her cart and sprints in the other direction.

Alastor lets her go and adds several packages of fresh spinach to his cart. His shadow returns with tofu to Alastor's absolute horror and disgust. He demands it search for another source of protein at once—he may have to tolerate a salad bar, but there's no way in Hell he will tolerate tofu. It returns with a variety of beans instead which is ... acceptable, he supposes. More shadows flood into the room and start grabbing anything they think might work off of the shelves: fresh lettuce, carrots, cucumbers, peas, tomatoes, avocados, broccoli. They toss aside anything that isn't remotely crisp or with a hint of bruising. Eventually, after all five of Alastor's carts are filled to the brim with leafy greens and vegetables, he wheels to the check out. The carts organize themselves in a neat line before him while Alastor waits with his hands tightly laced behind his back.

Someone stops behind him. Alastor turns around.

It's Vox and Valentino.

Valentino is clutching his signature cigarette and a small pink box that reads Shimmer & Glitter: Bedazzler Kit, and is not paying Alastor any attention, holding the box up to the light and squinting as though trying to make out the fine print. There's a hole where Vox's left eye should be, shards of glass held together by clear tape and sheer hope. He's gripping onto a shopping cart with a box inside that has a picture of a TV monitor on it. It says BoxTech in big bold letters, clearly a knock off brand.

"Have you considered getting a hobby, Vox? A life of your own, perhaps?"

"Shut up, @ꞩꞩħθłē! I'm here getting ⱥ ꞥēⱳ screen because of ɎØɄ!"

"I find it hard to believe you would not have an extra one at home."

"Ī đꝋꞥ'ⱦ! I s0ld my last sp@re! Because unlike s0me pe0plE, I run ⱥ ꞩᵾȼȼēꞩꞩӻᵾł ēᵯꝑīɍē."

"Mmm ..." Alastor glances at the box. "Dear me! Is that one two inches shorter than your old one?"

Valentino chokes on his own smoke, trying not to laugh. Vox's screen glitches even harder, cycling from bright blue to an assortment of rainbows. "Sh-shut up! Some @ꞩꞩħθłē destroyed all of my televisions in the st0ɍē. Ⱦħīꞩ īꞩ ⱥłł ⱦħēɏ ħⱥđ left!"

"Oh, what a shame."

Valentino's grin widens. "My, my, Alastor. I didn't know a gentleman like you made those kinds of jokes."

"What kind of jokes?"

"I—nevermind." He nods towards his carts. "What's up with the vegetables? Some kind of herbivore staying at that ratty hotel?"

Imogen's request flashes in Alastor's mind. Good lord. He hopes this doesn't lead to another dreadful vegan phase. Alastor suppresses a shudder at the very thought, fawn ears folding back in irritation. "Let's hope not," he grumbles.

Valentino arches an eyebrow. He turns to Vox, who shrugs.

After the demon before him checks out, Alastor snaps his fingers and his vegetables float from his cart and onto the conveyor belt.

The slug demon working the cash register offers no reaction to Alastor or the other two Overlords at all. She either has no idea who they are or she simply does not care. She shoves the items at the end of the counter after scanning them and doesn't comment after each cart magically zips away after unloading. Alastor estimates her to be in her late fifties, with damp mustard-colored skin peppered in black spots and short, curly red hair that Alastor suspects to be a wig. Two eyestalks emerge from the top of her head and twist and swivel in different directions. Her name tag reads: Janis.

Janis' acrylic nails clack against the keys on the register, chewing a wad of gum. "How was everything today?" she asks in a voice that's as dry and raspy as a cactus, like she smoked a lot of nicotine.

"Better now that your electronics section is on fire."

"That's great," she says, with the enthusiasm of someone watching paint dry. She slowly turns both eyestalks onto him. "You got your membership card?"

"I do!" Alastor hands it to her.

Janis takes the card and squints at the picture. "You're Angel Dust? The porn star?"

"Do I look like the sort of fellow who'd be a porn star?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

"He isn't," Vox says.

"But he could be," Valentino interjects. He looks up and down Alastor's body, then up to meet his eyes. "We could work something out. Tell me, what are you into? BDSM? Sadism? Caning people with that radio stick?" His smile stretches wider and his voice darkens in pitch. "You look like you'd be a real mean top."

"D0n't b0ther, Val," Vox says, genuinely exasperated. "Alastor isn't ɨnŧɇɍɇsŧɇđ in porn."

"You don't know what you're talking about. Everyone is interested in porn. People who say they aren't are a myth. You know, like the dodo bird."

"He's not ɨnŧɇɍɇsŧɇđ, Val, I'm telling you."

"Yeah?" Valentino says, planting a set of hands on his hips. "And how do you know that? Did he turn you down after you offered to suck his dick?"

Alastor beams brightly. "Yup!"

Vox sputters. "YOU FUCKING L̷̷I̷̷A̷̷R̷!"

"Wow, that sucks," Janis says. "Shot down by a porn star."

"Ħɇ's nøŧ Ⱥ ᵽøɍn sŧȺɍ!"

"Honestly, I don't get paid enough to care. I'll let it slide today, red guy, but next time you wanna shop here, bring the owner of the card with you or get a membership." She slaps the card down in front of Alastor and finishes ringing up the rest of his items. "Do you want to donate 50 cents to Princess Charlie's rehabilitation project, the Hazbin Hotel?"

"Well sure!"

"Really?"

"Why not! It's for charity!"

Janis shrugs and adds his donation to the total. She shuffles behind the desk and pulls out a large party popper. A shower of colorful confetti explodes, raining everywhere as she regards Alastor with the flattest, most unimpressed look he has ever seen. "Congratulations. That is the Hazbin Hotel's first donation."

"Hazzah!"

"Hooray," Janis agrees flatly.

Alastor brushes some confetti off of his bell peppers and finds neither paper or plastic bags to store his groceries in. He's not at all surprised that Cuntsco's customer service is mediocre at best. It seems he will simply have to do everything himself. He snaps his fingers and his groceries are automatically stored in brown paper bags.

"Did you find everything you were looking for?" Janis asks.

Alastor considers it. "Actually, do you have any ..." He leans closer, whispering so only she can hear.

"I don't know," Janis says robotically. "Let me check." She rotates one of her eyestalks towards the register over and cups her hand over her mouth. "HEY, TOM! WE GOT ANY EDIBLE GLITTER?"

"In bakery and desserts," he says without looking up.

"Perfect." She turns both eyes back onto Alastor. "You want me to call someone to bring it up here?"

"That's quite all right, I can just—"

Janis picks up the intercom. "EDIBLE GLITTER TO REGISTER THREE! I REPEAT, EDIBLE GLITTER TO REGISTER THREE!"

Her raspy voice echoes throughout the entire supermarket. There's a large crowd of Sinners standing in line at the surrounding registers. Each and every one of them slowly turns their heads, faces drawn in surprise and confusion.

Vox bursts out laughing. Bright, boisterous laughter. 

Black static drones inside Alastor's head. Without turning around, he wills a shadow to sluice across the floor and deliver a wicked uppercut to Vox's face. He hears a thwack and a shout, followed by Vox cursing a second later.

"Ooooh, you need glitter, huh? I got some." Valentino shakes the bedazzle kit for emphasis.

Alastor glances over his shoulder. "Is it edible?"

"Probably not."

"Then no thank you. I need it for a cake."

Valentino is highly intrigued. "Who's cake?"

"Jimmy Fallon's."

Vox throws his hands up to his head and lets out a bewildered, disembodied cry. A flood of error messages wreck through his systems. The crowd screams as fluorescent lights blaze and then flicker out, plunging the warehouse into pitch darkness. 

Vox slumps over his cart, arms hang limply at his sides, completely spent, face covered in an array of rainbow bars. The cart gently wheels forward and nearly slips out from under him, but Valentino yanks him by the back of his collar, holding him upright like a puppet with its strings cut. Electricity sparks from the hole in Vox's screen, so hard, it bursts into flames.

A dark chuckle. Glowing, magenta smoke curls around Valentino's smiling mouth. "See, Voxxy? What'd I tell you? Everyone likes porn."

Alastor makes a face. "What?"

Janis rummages behind the cash register and emerges with a megaphone. "I NEED A FIRE EXTINGUISHER TO REGISTER THREE! I REPEAT, A FIRE EXTINGUISHER TO REGISTER THREE!"

Chapter Text

Alastor trots into the kitchen of the Hazbin Hotel clutching his groceries. He's sprouted tentacles from his back, each one curled around a paper bag. He places them on the counter and sucks the tentacles back into his body with a series of slippery, wriggling sounds.

Sir Pentious makes a face. He's wearing a pair of steampunk goggles and rolling a rope of pastel pink fondant. More strings of colorful fondant are off to the side, likely making a rainbow.

Husk leans against the counter and nurses a bottle of beer. "You sure took a while."

"I had a bit of trouble finding a grocery store that wasn't in ruins." Alastor notices a tub of ice cream someone has set out. "What is this?"

"Vanilla ice cream for the party."

"Absolutely not. Get that mediocre monstrosity out of here!"

Husk arches a feathered eyebrow. "Why? You got a problem with vanilla?"

"To be fair," Angel Dust says, dusting a set of hands against his apron, "it ain't very exciting as far as flavors go. What does the kid like? Sherbert?"

Alastor snaps his fingers. At once, a new tub of ice cream appears.

Husk frowns and opens the lid to peer inside. "What are those things in it? Chocolate chips?"

Angel Dust shrugs. He grabs a spoon and dips into the tub, sticking a large dollop into his mouth. Immediately, he makes a face. "Ugh, god. What is this? Prunes?"

Alastor beams. "Precisely!"

"You sick bastard. This isn't ice cream for a kid. This is shitty old man ice cream!"

"I'll have you know this is Imogen's favorite flavor."

"I don't believe you. This shit is for hernias and bingo nights, not birthday parties!"

But Alastor is no longer listening. He points to something behind Angel with his cane. "What is this?"

"It's a cake."

"Are you sure?"

Angel plants his hands on his hips. "What do you mean, am I sure? Course I'm sure! What does it look like to you?"

Quite a few possibilities. Perhaps a distressed squash or a mashed potato in disguise. Alastor pokes it with the end of his staff. A glob of rainbow frosting plops off onto the plate. "What is that thing protruding from it?"

"It's a horn."

"Why?"

Angel laughs. "Oh, come on. You seriously can't tell what it's supposed to be?"

No, Alastor cannot tell. He leans forward, adjusting his monocle. There are funnel-shaped ears on either side of the cake made out of fondant. Goofy, cartoonish eyes that Alastor wagers are edible, sit above a smiling mouth drawn on with pink icing. The horn is steadily melting down precariously close towards the cake's smiling mouth, which, in Alastor's humble opinion, looks more like a squiggly line and could use a lot more teeth.

Realization slams into him. "Fools! Imogen doesn't like rhinos! She likes dogs!"

Now Angel is offended. "Hey! It ain't a rhino! It's a unicorn!"

"Stand aside," Alastor says. "I can fix it."

"No," Angel says.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We ain't putting voodoo in the cake."

"Don't be ridiculous. You can't put voodoo in the cake. If you could, I would eat cake."

Angel points a crooked finger at him. "You ain't touching my cake, Al. I worked hard on it!"

"At least let me fix the horn."

"No," Angel says. "It has character this way."

"It's crooked."

"Exactly! Character!"

"Character assassination! You've never met a unicorn in your life!"

"And you have?"

"I happen to be on very good terms with a Sour Gummy Worm."

Angel cocks an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Never you mind. Move over."

"No."

The air glitches. "Yes!"

"Hey, has anyone seen any wrapping paper? I can't seem to find ..." Nora Jean stops and presses her hand over her heart. "Sweet Satan, what the Hell is that?"

"It's a cake," Angel says.

"Are you sure?"

Angel Dust throws his hands into the air. "YES!"

"Goodness! No need to shout." Nora Jean stands next to Alastor and examines the cake in question. "Hmm ... I think you went a little heavy with the icing, don't you think? Is it supposed to be a narwhal?"

"Oh, my—it's a unicorn! "

"Move aside," Nora Jean says, rolling up her sleeves. "I can fix it."

"No!" Angel says, squaring his shoulders. "Both of you bitches back off of my cake!"

Nora Jean clicks her tongue. Her critical gaze slowly drifts past the cake and over to the tub of ice cream. 

She lights up. "Oh, are those prunes?"

Angel Dust gives Alastor a long, meaningful stare.

"What?" he demands.

"You know what. I told you this is ice cream for the elderly."

"And I told you this is Imogen's favorite flavor. You think I don't know my own Imo—my own minion's —favorite ice cream?!"

Husk crosses his arms. "Okay, asshole. What's my favorite?"

"Dark chocolate infused with whiskey."

Husk lifts his eyebrows. "They have that?"

"Probably."

"These are the best prunes I've ever had in my entire afterlife," Nora Jean declares. She'd helped herself to a bowl while the others had been arguing. "You guys should let me bring this ice cream to my book club. The ladies would love it."

Husk arches an eyebrow. "You're in a book club?"

"Oh, yes. We do puzzles too. And crafts! You should join us. You too, Alastor—plenty of people from the Great Depression are there."

Alastor feels a muscle tweak in his jaw. Angel stifles a laugh.

"And, you know, some mafia members too."

Angel's smile falls.

"Ah, someone take this ice cream away from me! I'll eat the whole thing!" Nora Jean laughs and scoops herself another spoonful. Meanwhile, Sir Pentious attempts to put the cake together, carefully shimmying the second tier onto the bottom one.

Nora Jean brightens. "Oh, you're here to help? How fun! How's your piercing?"

Sir Pentious glares. "It'sss fine."

"Make sure you clean it," she says, wagging her spoon at him. "You don't want it getting infected."

"You're the one who pierced his tongue?" Angel asks, surprised.

"Oh, yes," Nora Jean says. "I have many talents."

"Damn, I'll say. Where'd you learn how to do that?"

"Juvie."

Husk chokes on his beer.

A slow, delighted grin spreads across Angel's face. "No kiddin'? What'd you go in for?"

"I stole a police horse at a protest when I was fourteen."

"You're joking."

"Not at all. I saved the poor thing! My father and the court didn't see it that way though." 

"What kind of protest was it?" Angel asks.

"I grew up in a small Conservative town. The church wanted to ban disco music from the school dance so a bunch of us gathered together to protest."

Alastor's smile nearly twists into a grimace. "Ugh. Disco."

"I died when it was just getting started," Husk says. "Thank god."

"What are you two talking about!" Nora Jean cries. "Disco is great!"

"Name one good disco song," Alastor says, jabbing his cane at her chest. "And don't say I Will Survive—because you won't."

"Dancing Queen! Disco Inferno! Booty Time!"

"I am going to tear you apart for mentioning Booty Time." Alastor vividly remembers Booty Time from Vox's disco phase. Seeing that egotistical picture box shaking it in a vibrant satin suit and platform shoes is an image he wishes he could forget.

Nora Jean clicks her tongue. "Don't be ridiculous. Booty Time was so fun! How'd it go again? Ah, yes. What time is it? It's booty time! " She shakes her ass for emphasis. "Booty time, booty time."

"Stop that," Alastor says.

"Booty time, booty time, all across the—" Nora Jean stops when her backside bumps into the counter and notices the groceries. "Why are there so many vegetables?"

"Your granddaughter has requested a salad bar."

Nora Jean snorts. She tries to hold in a laugh, but it quickly tumbles into a full blown cackle. "Oh, my god. Where is she? I want to give her a high-five."

Alastor pushes past her a little too hard and dumps the vegetables onto the counter. The jar of edible glitter rolls out.

Angel beams. "Oh, hey! You got my glitter!"

"I did." Alastor digs the membership card out of his pocket and hands it to him. "Your boss was also shopping there."

Angel's face crinkles in disgust. "Seriously? What was he buying?"

"Some kind of craft kit."

"Of course he was. Probably making a scrapbook with a page dedicated to his dick." He tears off the plastic packaging for the glitter and shakes it over his abomination of a cake. "There! Perfect!"

"Excellent!" Alastor claps his hands together. "Now, all of you get out of my kitchen! I have a salad to prepare."

Angel takes out his phone. "Wait, can you say that again? I want to get it on video."

A black tentacle emerges from the ground and snaps around Angel's waist. He screams as it tosses him out of the kitchen, the door slamming behind him.

🎶 📻 🎶

Alastor transports the salad bar into the lobby, where the others are finishing setting up the cake on a table near the bar. All three layers showcase different levels of artistry and skill. The top one has Angel Dust's glittery mashed potato abomination with the horn melting down its face. The second tier is circular and coated in pink frosting. Carefully piped in the center (though not necessarily neat) and inside of a white buttercream cloud says, 'Happy Birthday, Imogen! ' The bottom tier is the most impressive and clearly the one Sir Pentious designed. It's blue and adorned with a rainbow made out of marshmallow fondant and gold cogs and stars.

Imogen and Niffty bolt into the room, giggling and chasing an unfortunate cockroach. Niffty gets to it first and stabs it.

Imogen spots the cake and skids to a stop, stunned. A giant smile blooms across her face.

Angel beams back at her. "Do ya like it?"

She lets out a tiny squeal of delight and throws her arms around his leg. Angel laughs and bends down to her level, squishing her into a proper hug.

"These guys helped out too!" Angel says, gesturing to the others.

Imogen launches at Husk and Sir Pentious, barreling into them with all of her excitement, making them both let out a grunt of impact. Husk wraps an arm around her and Sir Pentious awkwardly pats her on the head, unsure of what else to do.

"Happy birthday, kid," Husk says, and Imogen gives him a squeeze that clearly means thank you.

Alastor clears his throat. Imogen lets them go and steps away.

"Hello, Imogen. As you can see, I have gone to the liberty of preparing your rabbit food," he says, unable to keep the spite from curling on his tongue, tossing his hand in its general direction. "So! I believe a thanks is in order."

She narrows her eyes.

"Any day now," Alastor prompts.

Her stubborn scowl only deepens.

"No? Still struggling? Quite all right! I'll show you how it's done."

Shadows curl around Imogen's hands and feet. She yelps as he makes her move to his whim like a marionette on strings.

"Thank you, Alastor!" he cries, making Imogen sweep into a low, mock bow. "I can't believe you went to such l lengths, Alastor! It looks delicious, Alastor! " 

He's gracious enough to give Imogen some control, allowing her to twist out of his hold. She shoves him away from her, and Alastor politely falls a few steps back. The others shift and exchange nervous glances, but Alastor only clasps his hands behind his back and returns her icy glare. Irritated static dances over his skin, filling up the space between them and spreading into a huge bulk, an elephant driving them to either side. 

Mallory and Nora Jean arrive and the static cuts off. They're carrying presents wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a string. They set the gifts down next to the cake, and Mallory bends down to press her hand flat against Imogen's back.

"Hi, sweetie. How are you feel ..." She leaps away. "Oh, my god! What is on your head?"

Imogen peers up at her. She's wearing a circlet crown on her head with long, purple ribbons flowing from the back. At first glance, it looks like there's flowers and colorful gemstones glued on top of the crown, but Alastor knows Niffty better than that.

Niffty scampers up to the crowd. "I made Imogen a crown for her birthday! She's Princess Roach."

"Those are cockroaches?"

"Yup!"

Mallory squeaks in horror and slaps the crown off of her head.

Imogen blinks.

"Honey, I'm sorry, but you can't wear that."

Imogen's little face twists into a glare. She snatches the crown off the ground, makes direct eye contact with her mother, and squishes it back on top of her head. Then she whirls around, carrying herself with the dignity of a queen.

"Imogen! "

Nora Jean clicks her tongue. "Oh, come on, Mallory. Let the girl have a bit of fun."

"I'm not letting my daughter wear cockroaches on her head, are you insane?"

Niffty beams. "Don't worry! I dipped them in bleach."

"You ..." Mallory is at a loss of words. "Huh?"

"Yeah, it's okay, I definitely cleaned them all! Then we painted them and glued gemstones over their eyes—that was Imogen's idea." Niffty cackles. "She's really creative!"

Mallory lets out a distressed sound from the back of her throat.

"We made a crown for everyone! Imogen wants everyone to be part of the roach kingdom for her birthday." Niffty pulls out a plastic bag behind her bag with several different crowns. "Now let's see ... This one is for Imogen's granny! We dub thee Queen Roach!"

Nora Jean allows Niffty to place the crown on top of her head. "Ah, yes. Finally, the power I deserve." Her pet crow flies onto her shoulder to peck at the roaches. She swats him away. "Leave my jewels alone."

"Angel, this one's for you. You're the Court Spider."

"Uh," Angel says, taking the crown. "Gee! Thanks ..." He places it on his head. "I think."

"You're welcome! Husk this is yours. We dub you Sir Husky, Princess Roach's Royal Knight. Sir Pentious, I made this one for you. You can be the Royal Inventor. Mallory, you're Mama Roach. Alastor, I wanted you to be King Roach or Papa Roach, but Imogen says you're the gentleman-in-waiting, and what she says goes, so here you go."

Alastor knows from his time with Zestial that the gentleman-in-waiting is the lowest position in the royal court. His gaze snaps to Imogen who is pretending to examine a speck of dust on her shirt. 

Niffty leaps up onto Alastor's shoulder and graces him with the crown. His teeth clench into a bitter smile in an attempt to pretend that the insult doesn't bother him in the slightest. 

"Wonderful!" he bites out. "Now then! Let's get this show on the road, yes?" He cracks his knuckles. "Any suggestions, Imogen?" He's thinking of a jazz band! Swing dancing! Great Gatsby-esque flair!

"Yes," Niffty says. "She wrote it all down."

Finally! Something Alastor can work with. Niffty hands Alastor the note.

The Royal Roach Dance Party must include:

• Skates
• Roller Rink
• Miku

"Miku?" Alastor repeats. "What's a Miku?"

"Oh, she's a singer I really liked growing up." Mallory winces, looking a little embarrassed. "I got Imogen into her. She's an anime character that has concerts."

Angel cocks his head. "Like Vee-ku?"

"Who?"

Angel pulls up a video on his phone of a girl with long aquamarine hair pulled into two twintails. The audience cheers and waves their glow sticks, whooping as she belts out something in Japanese. Her voice is appalling. Cutesy and robotic all at once. A particularly high-pitched note assaults Alastor's ears, causing them to fold back, his face twisted in annoyance and utter confusion. The strangest thing about it all is that the girl doesn't appear to be ... well—solid. It's like she's a beam of light being projected before the audience.

"Yes!" Mallory says. "This is exactly the same thing."

"I don't get it," Alastor says. "How is this animay woman performing on stage?"

"She's a hologram."

"I beg your pardon?"

"A hologram," Mallory repeats. "She's not real."

Alastor feels his eye twitch. "People are cheering for someone who isn't real?"

"Technically she is not from an anime. She's a voice synthesizer."

"What?"

"Ohhh, I love Vee-ku!" Niffty says. "Great idea, Imogen!"

Imogen beams.

Alastor has considered himself to be incredibly generous up until this point. He's done everything in his power to go out of his way for this child out of the goodness of his heart, from eating her mother's abuser to providing her with her ridiculous request for a salad bar. You can only get away with poking a bear for so long, even one that's in your good graces, and a hologram voice synthesizer is the last and final straw.

So, Alastor treats this request as he would with anyone else.

He looks for a loophole.

He hands the paper back to her. "Cross out Miku, write Vee-ku." It needs to be specific.

Imogen does. When she hands the paper back to him, the request is misspelled: V-I-I-K-U.

This is exactly what he was hoping for. A snap of his fingers and the paper bursts into bright green flames. Pure power rushes through the room, wind whipping about their hair, lime green symbols searing into the walls. Hardwood flooring rolls out over the lobby and the furniture is thrown aside to create a bigger room for the roller rink. The couches dissolve into each other, transforming into a spectacular stage with crimson curtains pushed wide open. A spotlight beams down but standing before them isn't the traditional Vee-ku. Her twintails are blood-red and hang all the way down to her calves, and she's wearing a stylish crimson suit with a black skirt. Alastor's shadow minions appear next to her with a variety of brass instruments and kick up a song. Upbeat electro jazz music rings out.

"Uh," Angel says. "Who the fuck is that?"

"That's Vee-ku," Alastor says.

"No it ain't! That's just you in a skirt!"

"Nonsense! She can't be me! How could it be? She's singing in Japanese. I don't know any Japanese."

"The band is playing jazz songs."

"A minor coincidence."

"Her teeth are yellow!"

"Well it's not her fault Vox doesn't give the poor girl dental!"

Vee-ku tap dances across the stage and tosses her microphone cane high into the air. She turns to the audience, her smile twisting into a sinister grin, flashing bright yellow fangs, antlers elongating, acid-green sparks crackling ... Then she catches the cane and—woosh—she's back to normal, chipper and adorable, skipping around with flair. Her voice is missing that grating computer generated sound, but it has a distinct radio effect.

"Oh, yeah," Angel Dust says, unimpressed. "Not you at all."

"That wasn't the kid's request, and you know it." Husk levels Alastor with a glare. "Do it correctly."

"I don't know what you mean, Husker." Alastor slides into a barstool and flicks his wrist. "Imogen wrote down what she wanted, and I delivered exactly as instructed."

Husk sighs. "The kid spelled the girl's name wrong, didn't she?"

Alastor remembers very specifically how Vee-ku's name was spelled from the video. "Hmm, I wouldn't know! This is simply how her request showed up!"

Personally, Alastor doesn't see what all the fuss is about. As far as he is concerned, this version of Vee-ku is significantly better. The gal's got pizazz! Style. And she's actually solid and not some tateless hologram.

A snap of his fingers and the second part of Imogen's request is fulfilled. Wheels manifest on either side of her shoes, resembling the tires of a bicycle, attached with braces up to her calves. Two wooden poles materialize into her hands next. Imogen glances at them, clearly confused on what she's supposed to do until Alastor provides the same supplies for Niffty, who laughs and takes off like a skier shooting across snow.

Imogen perks up. She plants the poles into the ground and pushes off to follow her.

Mallory runs up to him, panic flaring in her eyes. "Alastor, what are those?"

"Cycle skates! All the rage in my day."

"She meant modern roller skates."

"Did she? It wasn't specified."

"She doesn't know how to use those. She could get hurt!"

"Nonsense! They're perfectly safe!" he says, and watches as Imogen wheels straight into one of Lucifer's vases. The ceramic shatters with a loud crack, the poles clattering to the ground. Imogen catches herself by slapping her hands against the wall.

Mallory calls to her across the room. "Imogen, are you okay?"

She nods and brushes herself off.

Mallory whirls back to face Alastor. "Do those things even have any breaks?"

"Hmmm ..." Alastor brightens. "No, I don't think so!"

"At least give her a helmet or something!"

"Very well!"

He snaps his fingers and a leather helmet appears on Imogen's head. Poof! And leather elbow pads and knee pads follow. Imogen glances over herself and shrugs. She leaves the poles on the ground and wobbles after Niffty.

"Imogen, please be careful! Go slow and—MOM! Stop twerking!"

"It's a party, Mallory, you're supposed to dance."

"Not like that!"

Nora Jean clicks her tongue. "You sound just like your grandfather. 'Music should be glorifying God, Nora Jean! The nightclub is controlled by Satan, Nora Jean! Don't shake your ass, Nora Jean, you'll go straight to Hell!' Ahh, I suppose he's right. Booty Time is why I'm here, isn't it?"

"I'm not saying any of that, I'm saying—" She's cut off by the sound of glass crashing somewhere in the background, likely another one of Lucifer's ugly vases being destroyed. Mallory squeaks and sprints after her daughter.

"Wow," Husk says, crossing his arms. "Those skates are the most ridiculous looking things I've ever seen."

"Agreed," Sir Pentious says, but without any genuine feeling. He glances down at his smooth tail and pouts.

Angel turns and walks away.

Alastor glances over his shoulder. "And where are you going?"

"Gettin' my own skates before you manifest those monstrosities on my feet."

🎶 📻 🎶

Nora Jean summons white clouds around the perimeter of the roller rink upon Mallory's constant fussing over Imogen crashing into vases. (Personally, Alastor thinks the vases broken into pieces are a major improvement in their design but alas.) The clouds bend and fold into each other, making large, foamy guardrails that cushion Imogen whenever she slams into them. 

Angel returns with some disco party lights he had stored in his room. He sets them up so that the rink is full of bright splashes of color that dance to the beat of the music. Soon, the party is pulsing like a carnival.

"Hold on, little eggies!" Sir Pentious ties plush pillows around his Egg Bois' and places a helmet on each of their heads. Once he's sure they're secure, they go flopping all over the rink with Sir Pentious following on a skateboard, pushing off with his arms. 

Niffty has gotten the hang of the cycle skates rather quickly. She ditches the poles and whooshes past the Egg Bois, circling around the edge of the rink. Imogen, copying, tries to keep up and loses her balance, flailing like Bambi on the ice. She falls and smacks flat onto her bottom. 

She blinks, shocked, but just as the hurt begins to register, Niffty whirls around shouting, "YAY! PAIN!" and throws herself onto the ground too. That seems to startle Imogen so much that she bursts out laughing.

A cockroach skitters past and the two of them perk up like a fox catching whiff of a rabbit. They chase after it until Niffty successfully spears it onto her needle. Then, they continue skating, with Imogen clasping onto Niffty's hand, laughing whenever they fall down.

Finally! Alastor's efforts are paying off! But Mallory stands next to him and watches the whole thing from the edge of the rink, a little perplexed. "Is it just me or is Imogen acting  ..." She struggles for the word. "Odd?"

"Hm?" Alastor says. "Oh, I don't think so."

"No, it's strange," Mallory insists. "Her behavior in general is strange."

"Don't be ridiculous! She's having fun."

"Alastor. She was hurt and got transported to Hell all in one day. Now she's chasing bugs and laughing whenever she falls over. I know my daughter and this isn't normal. Something's wrong."

"The only thing wrong is your attitude." He boops her on the nose with the tip of his finger which makes her sputter and swat his hand away. 

"Don't patronize me."

"Wouldn't dream of it! I just think you need to learn to take your hair down. In fact! Why don't you go spend some quality time with your daughter? Go on! Shoo!" Poof! The same cycle skates appear on Mallory's feet. She yelps as Alastor grabs her by the shoulders and shoves her hard, sending her wheeling across the rink.

Someone clears their throat. Alastor glances over his shoulder to find Nora Jean watching the whole thing. "And why aren't you out there?"

"I wasn't invited!"

"Uh-huh. Sounds like to me you don't know how."

Preposterous! "I'll have you know skating was considered a gentleman's sport back in my time."

"Oh, along with prohibition?"

"No! Along with baseball! Boxing! Murder! You wouldn't understand."

"All you're doing is stalling and further proving to me that the Radio Demon cannot skate."

"HA! I have nothing to prove to you."

"I knew it. You don't know how. Quite all right, Alastor, we all have our weaknesses. I, for one, never mastered ventriloquism. A fine and respectable form of art that ..."

Her voice fades into background noise as Alastor spots Imogen floundering by. Seizing an opportunity, he reels her in by the back of her shirt, making her let out a surprised shout. He hooks his arm underneath her legs and spins her into a backflip over his arm, helping her land right-side up. 

Imogen sways back and forth, a little dizzy. Shadows pool around Alastor's ankles and solidify into the same cycle skates he manifested for the others. He kicks off, pulling her along.

Boisterous trumpets and bright piano keys swirl through the air. Imogen scowls and tugs at Alastor's iron grip, but he scoops up her bridal-style, flipping her behind his back and spinning her around to his center.

Imogen's militant scowl finally wavers into a tiny smile. He grins and does the lift again, pulling a genuine giggle out of her. Encouraged, Alastor pushes forward, taking long strides, gliding, spinning and twirling Imogen around as easily as a dance partner.

The room blurs as Alastor gains speed and momentum, sweeping them around the rink, the music and Mallory's horrified expression only spurring him on. For his grand finish, he tosses Imogen high into the air. She soars over his head, squealing with delight, before plummeting straight down. He catches her, the impact making him rotate round and round, her laughter like a tiny earthquake shuddering up from her ribcage.

He gradually slows to a stop, sweat trickling down the back of his neck, beaming down at her. "Ah-ha! So you can still smile, hm?"

The smile slowly fades from Imogen's face, uncertainty passing over her expression.

"What's the matter? Cat still got your tongue?"

Her little face settles back into its boring, resolute frown. She wiggles in his grasp until he sets her down, beelining away from him.

Hmm ... that hadn't gone entirely as he'd hoped. He brushes himself off and turns to make fearless eye contact with her grandmother instead. "Now what was it you were saying? The Radio Demon can't skate, was it?"

Nora Jean lifts her eyebrows. "Well, I'll be damned. Guess I stand corrected."

"HA! That's right!"

She shrugs and sashays away. "But I'm sure Vox does it better."

🎶 📻 🎶

Mallory calls from outside of the rink. "Imogen, come have some dinner! You can keep skating when you're done."

Imogen lights up and zips over. Niffty clutches onto the back of Imogen's shirt, enjoying being dragged along. They slam into the salad bar to stop, making the leafy greens jump, and the two of them burst into giggles.

Everyone forms into a line. Imogen gathers her favorite ingredients and smothers it in Alastor's homemade salad dressing.

"Hold up," Angel says. "Why is there only one kind of dressing?"

"I'm glad you asked!" Angel jumps as Alastor manifests behind him, throwing an arm around his shoulders and gesturing excitedly towards the spread. "Imogen didn't specify what kind of dressing she wanted. So! I've taken the liberty of preparing my mother's famous recipe."

"Does it have meat in it?"

"Heavens no! I am a man of my word, through and through!"

Angel looks at him doubtfully, but he uses the ladle set out to scoop up the dressing. He passes it to Sir Pentious, who spreads it over his salad, and then hands it to Mallory.

Alastor breezes over to Husk's bar and settles into a stool. Husk pours him a whisky highball, and he summons his own meal—a venison sandwich he'd prepared earlier—and swivels in his chair to watch the show.

A round table manifests nearby for everyone to gather and enjoy their meal. Imogen sits down and stabs a piece of lettuce onto her fork, taking a large bite.

Immediately, she makes a face. She chews it slowly, mulling over the taste, looking increasingly confused. Meanwhile, Niffty cackles and starts shoveling even more salad into her mouth.  

"Imogen, are you okay?" Mallory asks.

Imogen hesitates. She lifts her head and makes eye contact with Alastor across the room, who's grin widens a fraction of an inch. She narrows her eyes and spears a fat tomato onto her fork, popping the whole thing into her mouth.

"Um," Mallory says. She glances suspiciously down at the food set out before her, and then to her daughter, who is now scooping up more salad and devouring it with the ferocity of a stubborn country goat.

Niffty finishes her plate and stands up in her chair. "Ooh-hoo-ho, delicious! My mouth is all tingly! I'm gonna get more!"

"Tingly?" Mallory repeats, but Niffty is already zipping away. She jumps when Imogen slaps her fork down, her plate clean, brow creased with fierce determination, and visibly sweaty. She scoots out of her chair and follows Niffty for seconds.

Angel twirls his fork back and forth, holding a chunk of avocado up to the light and eyeing it skeptically. He pokes it with the tip of his tongue. 

"How is it?" Mallory asks.

"I dunno know ... seems fine." 

Angel shrugs and eats up several forkfuls. Suddenly, his fork drops onto his plate with a sharp clatter. Angel covers his mouth, coughing and hacking, turning redder and redder. Meanwhile, Sir Pentious, who had also consumed several bites, claws at the table, searching desperately for a glass of water, but is unable to find one, forked tongue ribboning out as he releases a strangled hiss.

Mallory stares at them, horrified. "What is the matter with you two?"

"The sssalad dressssing," Sir Pentious rasps, now tearing up. "It's—"

"Spicy as Hell! " Angel shoots to his feet. "Husk! I need a glass of milk!"

"Milk?" Husk repeats. "You think I got milk? At a bar?" He lifts his arms over his head. "MILK?"

Angel takes off like a shot to the kitchen with Sir Pentious hot on his heels, moving so fast, the air billows Alastor's hair and nearly knocks off his monocle. He brings his highball to his lips and sips calmly.

He is quite pleased with himself. Alastor had, in fact, kept his end of the bargain by keeping the salad bar purely vegetarian. However, in order to do that, he had to sacrifice one of his mother's key ingredients for the salad dressing. Mayo had eggs in it and eggs had been strictly banned. Therefore, he had been strong-armed into creating a vegan alternative and loathed every single second of it. In his spite, he may or may not have added just a dash more of Cajun seasoning than what was necessary. Just a dash! Nothing more!

"Pathetic," Alastor says, swirling the ice cubes around in his glass. "Absolutely disgraceful."

"Says the only one not eating the salad," Nora Jean observes. She sits down next to him and smiles. "Go on, then. Take a bite."

"Are you referring to the salad or that poison apple hidden in your cloak?"

"Very funny, but I was killed by a house, not by seven little men driving me off a cliff."

"Ah! You're right! In that case!" Alastor turns around and smacks his hand on the counter. "Bartender! I need a bucket of water! Stat!"

Nora Jean punches him in the arm.

🎶 📻 🎶

This is the weirdest kid's party Mallory has ever been to.

Angel Dust fishes some extra salad dressing from the kitchen and distributes it to the others, much to Alastor's great offense. He goes on a tangent about how everyone's palate is too weak-willed, except for Niffty, who thoroughly enjoys the kick, and the Egg Bois, who all requested seconds. Alastor said the eggs had "impeccable taste." Personally, Mallory thinks that they're just too slow to process the pain. She tries to get Imogen to use some Ranch but she refuses, too stubborn to admit defeat.

After dinner, Mallory follows Niffty and Imogen to the bar, where Husk has mocktails lined up, all of them various shades of the rainbow.

"Wow," Mallory says. "These look really cool. Which one do you want, honey?"

Imogen picks out a pink one with fluffy cotton candy floating on top. Niffty bounces in place and makes grabby hands towards the counter, unable to reach anything, so Imogen lifts up on her toes and hands her a bright red drink.

"Thanks!" Niffty says.

They clink their glasses together. Imogen pauses, surprised as Niffty downs the whole thing in seconds. She giggles and copies her, swallowing hers down as fast as she can.

Mallory frowns. "Imogen, slow down."

Imogen slams her empty glass onto the counter. She reaches for an electric blue one for herself and grabs another for Niffty. It turns into a race to see who can chug the most sugar the quickest. Of course, Niffty wins. They slam their glasses down, cheering in victory, before zooming back into the fray like two hyperactive demons on a sugar high.

"Augh ..." 

Mallory sits down. It's not like Imogen to blatantly ignore her like this. It feels exhausting.

The jazz band strikes up another song that Mallory can feel in her ribcage. Husk clears the empty glasses off the counter and sets down some new ones.

She turns her attention to the roller rink and watches her daughter shooting after bugs under the glittering lights. Whenever Niffty crashes to the ground, Imogen does too, laughing like the whole thing is hilarious. Apparently, Imogen's also taken off her elbow pads and knee pads ... her knees are bleeding.

Mallory's stomach sinks. Is this Imogen's way of lashing out? To get Mallory to pay attention to her? Or is there something deeper going on? But before she can get up, her own mother is out there, bending down and helping Imogen put the pads back on. 

Angel Dust wheels up next to the bar, easily breaking with a T-stop. "Your kid's got crazy energy, Mallory. I need a break. I can barely keep up!"

"I know ..." Mallory sighs. She turns and selects one of the cotton candy mocktails, taking a sip. "Ugh, god. That's so sweet."

"Sorry," Husk says, shrugging. "Imogen gave me a note requesting these."

Of course she did. She's going to have to cut her off soon or else Imogen will never go to bed. In the same thought, she wonders why she's worried about a proper bedtime when they're in Hell anyway.

Angel chooses a glass with gummy bears speared on a toothpick for garnish. Upon closer inspection, Mallory realizes they're not bears at all but little demons with horns.

"Be careful," Mallory tells him. "I think there's enough sugar in these things to kill someone."

"Something much stronger than this already did, sweetheart."

"How did ..." Mallory trails off. "Sorry. Nevermind."

"What?" Angel puffs out a small laugh, amused. "You curious about what killed me?"

"Well, yeah," Mallory admits. "But that's not what I was going to ask."

"Oh? Well now I'm curious. Now you have to ask."

"It's ... sort of a personal question."

Angel snorts. "I do porn for a living, toots. Can't get more personal than that. Go on, shoot."

"I—wait, really?"

"Shoot, " Angel insists.

"Okay." This whole experience has had Mallory thinking of her own morality, of what makes someone damned and how she can avoid it. "Do you know how you ended up in Hell?"

"Eh, I made a lot of bad choices while I was alive. May or may not have been involved in the mafia."

Mallory chuckles a little. "Oh, yeah? Me too."

It's just a joke but no one else laughs. Husk coughs gently from the back of his throat. Angel swirls the liquid around in his glass.

Mallory stutters. "Hang on—that was a joke ... right?"

A dark smile lifts the corner of Angel's mouth. He slides a red gummy off the toothpick with his fangs and chews it slowly, eyes glittering with amusement.

"Right?" Mallory says, but Angel only laughs and skates away.

🎶 📻 🎶

There's a knock at the front door.

Angel blinks. "Were we expecting anyone else?"

Alastor appears behind him again, making him jump. "Yes! Right on time! Do let them in, won't you Angel?"

Angel shrugs and skates to the front door. He opens it to reveal a shark demon in a suit and a fedora. He raises his voice to be heard over the music. "Hello! Sorry for the interruption. Is Nora Jean Woods here?"

"Uhhhh ..." Angel hesitates, unsure of what to say, but Nora Jean comes forward.

"That's me! What's this about?"

"Perfect." The shark hands her a manilla envelope. "You've been served." He tips his hat and leaves.

"What?!" Nora Jean rips open the envelope and glances over the papers. She glares at Alastor. "What the Hell is this?"

"Ah, yes." Alastor kicks off on his skates and sweeps around her in a circle. "I'm suing you."

"For what?"

"Property damage."

"You're joking."

"Oh, no," he says, now gliding backwards. "My jokes are funny. This is serious."

Nora Jean flips to a second document. "What is this for?"

"Emotional distress." Alastor sips his highball and glides away like an autumn leaf turning in the breeze.

The papers crunch in her fist. "Get back here, you red little bitch."

"Mom!" Mallory hisses. She wobbles up to her and loses her balance, latching onto her arm before she can trip. "Don't swear like that in front of my kid!"

"Oh, she can't hear me. Where is she anyway?"

Right on cue, Imogen belly flops onto the floor. She coughs, the wind knocked out of her, limbs splayed out like a starfish. Niffty slowly skates up to her, clearly out of breath, and copies by purposely slamming onto the ground too. Imogen's shoulders shake with laughter, the sound muffled against the ground.

Mallory rubs the center of her forehead. "It's getting late. We need to sing happy birthday and send her to bed."

"Grand idea!" Alastor claps his hands. The music spirals into a deadening moan, then ceases altogether. Vee-ku and the band disappear with a puff of smoke.

Imogen lifts her head.

"It's time for cake and presents," Mallory tells her.

Imogen beams. She helps Niffty up, who staggers, trying to find her balance. Alastor snaps his fingers and the skates vanish right off of everyone's feet.

"Do you want to do cake or presents first?" Mallory asks.

Imogen beelines to the table. She reaches up and selects Nora Jean's gift.

"I guess it's presents then."

Imogen tears the paper apart to reveal a tiny black box. She shimmies the lid open and amber glitter explodes into her face. Her nose crinkles, letting out a sneeze.

"That's a fire resistance charm." Nora Jean bends down and whispers harshly into Imogen's ear, "in case your mother drags you to church."

Imogen's face scrunches up in confusion.

Mallory hesitates. "It's—you know—something we might do when we get back."

Imogen's frown deepens.

"It will protect you," Nora Jean carries on. "Should Heaven rain down their wrath upon your small head."

"Damn," Angel says. "Sounds useful. Can I have one of those?"

Nora Jean holds out her hand. "Nine hundred bucks."

"What? Absolutely not!"

"Then no."

"Okay, that is not going to happen," Mallory says, irritated. She sighs and hands Imogen her present. "Here, open mine and forget about that for now, all right?"

Imogen shrugs and rips the paper. It's a beautiful glass jar sealed with magenta wax that pours down the sides. Some ingredients rattle around inside: star anise, pink sea salt, lavender, rose petals and clear quartz shards. Imogen holds it up to the light, curious.

"It's a protection jar. You know, like the ones I used to make. It's not much, and you have another present waiting for you at home, whenever we get out of here ..."

Imogen hugs her mom tight around the middle in thanks.

Alastor clears his throat. Imogen lets go and peers up at him.

"I believe it's time for my gift, yes?"

Imogen frowns and looks around for Niffty—who is apparently sleeping in the middle of the floor.

... Odd. Alastor's never seen Niffty curl up for a nap like this. Though, he supposes she has exerted a lot of energy by running around with Imogen all day. She snores softly, using her hands for a pillow.

Imogen shakes Niffty awake. She sucks in a breath of surprise and sits up, groggy. "Huh ...?"

Angel laughs. "Sleepy, Niff?"

"Hm? I guess so ..."

Imogen pulls on Niffty's sleeve and nods to Alastor.

"Oh!" Niffty yawns and rises onto her feet. "Imogen wants a computer for her birthday."

Alastor freezes. "Excuse me?"

"A computer," Niffty repeats. "Right, Imogen?"

Imogen nods seriously.

Niffty unfolds a piece of paper from her pocket and reads the request. "Specifically, she would like a pink computer with high speed Internet. She also wants it to be able to fold up and fit it in her pocket if she needs to bring it anywhere, but then when you unfold it, it's normal sized."

Mallory rubs the space between her nose and forehead. "Imogen, absolutely not. We've talked about this. I do not want you on the Internet. Not until you're at least 13."

"Better listen to your mother," Alastor says. "Terrible thing the Internet! It's got cybercrime! Eyestrain! WEIRDOS!"

Imogen glares and shakes her head.

"Are you sure you don't want anything else?" Alastor's smile is so wide he feels like it's going to snap in half. 

Another head shake.

"Nothing?" Alastor prompts. "Nothing at all?"

She shakes her head even harder.

"Perhaps something ... in here?" Alastor pulls a brightly wrapped present from behind his back. He shakes it and the mutt thumps around from inside. "Perhaps something fluffy and sloppy and annoying!"

The mutt growls from within. It tries to transform and spontaneously bursts the gift into flames.

Everyone leaps back in horror. A column of fire flickers upwards and past Alastor's head. The side of his face bathes with orange light and blistering heat, grinning like a chef who'd just demonstrated his skills with flambé. He'd already prepared for this and enchanted the present. Green symbols sizzle in the air, and suddenly the blaze is sucked back into the box as if by an invisible vacuum.

The last of the flames disappear, the roaring cut off. The wrapping paper and bow remain perfectly intact! The present gives one last shake before going still.

Silence.

"On second thought, yes!" Mallory cries. "A computer is fine!"

"Oh, I don't think you really want a computer. You want what's in here! Right, Imogen?"

Imogen scowls. No, she mouths and pats Niffty on the back for emphasis. Give me a computer.

Alastor is not quite sure what is worse: the fact that he traded a first edition vinyl for this mangy thing or now he is being asked to manifest a piece of technology that he hates.

"No. I don't want to give you that. If you want this then it will be right over here."

He sets the present on the table. With a spotlight. And arrows pointing at it. And neon flashing signs that say WOW, LOOK AT THIS with flashing little lightbulbs. 

Imogen crosses her arms and waits.

Alastor's eye twitches, he's that annoyed. "FINE! Here!"

A giant machine slams onto the ground before them. It is pastel pink and has a typewriter for a keyboard. It's set out before a round, black screen that looks like the window of a submarine. The rest of it is comprised of enormous gears, coils and vacuum tubes. Dark liquid leaks from the discs, slowly dripping onto the floor.

Mallory stares at it in horror. "Oh, god."

Imogen dashes over to it and tries to figure out how to turn it on.

"Imogen, if you are going to be on the Internet then there are rules. You have to—Imogen Eleanora, are you listening to me?"

"Wow," Angel says. "That's what a computer manifested by Alastor looks like, huh?"

"Horrifying," Husk agrees.

"Do you think it requires a human sacrifice or dial-up?"

Sir Pentious circles around the machine, clearly interested, and tries to figure out how to turn it on. He grabs a crank sticking out from the side and wheels it around like a fishing reel. The gears grind together with a series of enormous clunking sounds. After a few more cranks, the discs start spinning on their own. The machine shudders, letting out a low, rattling groan like a creature waking from the dead.

"Probably both," Husk says.

Alastor turns and heads for the stairs.

Husk angles his head. "Where are you going?"

"To go drive my head into a wall."

"Are we going to have any of this cake?" Nora Jean grabs a knife set out next to the paper plates and pokes the mashed-potato-unicorn with its sharp point. "I very much want to stab this thing."

Alastor's ears stick straight up. "What a grand idea!" Nothing to cheer you up like a good stabbing. He spins on his heel and snaps his fingers, birthday sparklers appearing on top of the cake.

Imogen brightens, her new toy forgotten, and dashes to the cake. Mallory hovers by the computer, desperately trying to figure out how to turn it off. She smacks the top with her palm until the screen flickers off and the cogs stop whirring.

Imogen skids to a stop when she realizes Niffty is not next to her. She looks around and finds her leaning against the base of the bar. She sprints over and grabs her by the hand, pulling her along. Alastor takes note of how Niffty trips a little over her own feet, of how it seems to be a struggle for her to keep up with Imogen's breakneck pace.

Vee-ku and the band appear behind the table. Imogen lets go of Niffty to crawl onto a chair, and a jazz rendition of Happy Birthday breaks out. The others join in, except for Niffty, who's wobbling back and forth. Her large eye rolls into the back of her head and before Alastor can begin to grasp what's happening, she faints, right there, face forward onto the floor.

🎶 📻 🎶

The music comes to a squealing halt.

"Oh, my gosh!" Mallory bends down. "Are you okay?"

Niffty doesn't respond.

Mallory knows basic first aid from working in the retirement home. She gently repositions Niffty onto her back and unties the scarf around her neck. "How did this happen?"

Imogen slides out of her chair, alarm spread across her face.

Nora Jean bends down to investigate. "Hmm. I thought this might happen."

Mallory snaps her head up. "What?"

"I think her energy might have been ... well ... drained."

"What do you mean?"

"Imogen's clairsensitive. She can feel other people's energies, their emotions. She can also absorb them. You of all people should know what that's like."

Mallory closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath to steady herself and says, "What does that have to do with Niffty passing out?"

"Think of it a bit like a parasite. They feed off of their host for survival. This is nearly the same thing but instead of blood, Imogen is absorbing Niffty's energy and thriving off it as a way to ... well ... probably cope. In moderation, it'd be fine, but she's taken a bit too much."

That explains why Imogen's been acting so strange—why she's been so fixated on bugs, why she's been laughing whenever she gets hurt, why she's so hyper. "Why didn't you say something sooner!"

"Because I was curious if my theory would play out."

"AND?"

"And I was correct. I often am."

Imogen shakes her head, horrified. Her eyes dart to Alastor, who is regarding her with a strange look on his face. She turns and flees up the stairs.

"Imogen, wait!" Mallory calls, but she hears her running across the hall, followed by her door slamming shut.

"Is Niff gonna be okay?" Angel asks.

Nora Jean clicks her tongue. "Oh, she'll be fine. Only a little fall. Tell her to rub some dirt on it!"

Niffty bolts upright with a great raw gasp. She holds her head like she's trying to keep her brains in. "Woooah," she says. "Everything is spinning like ring-around-the-rosies."

Husk hands her a glass of water. "Here," he says, and she takes a small sip.

Alastor bends at the waist and flashes his signature smile. "So! How do you feel?"

"Sleepy! And really, really weird."

"You passed out," Mallory tells her. She winces and then explains what happened. "I'm so sorry, Niffty. Imogen really seems to like you, and I know she didn't mean to do it on purpose."

Niffty cackles. "What, are you kidding? That was awesome! I wanna do it again."

Mallory sputters, taken off guard. "What?"

"Where'd she go?"

"She's upstairs ... she's really upset over what happened."

"Awww, why? I thought it was fun! I'll go talk to her and ..." Niffty tires to stand up and immediately loses balance. She laughs, falling onto her butt. "Whoopsies!"

Angel glances at Nora Jean, concerned. "How long do you think she's gonna be like this?"

"I'm sure she'll be fine after a good night's sleep."

"All right, Niffty ..." Angel scroops her up. "Let's get you to bed." 

She pouts. "Aww, but Imogen didn't get any cake!"

Mallory looks over her shoulder at the giant cake, untouched. "I'll bring her a piece," she says.

🎶 📻 🎶

Mallory gently pushes Imogen's door open. "Hey, honey. I got you a piece of that goofy unicorn Angel made. I mean ... I think it's a unicorn. He's kind of squashed, huh?"

She lifts the plate to show her, but Imogen doesn't even turn around. She faces the wall, wrapped up like a cocoon. 

Mallory sets the plate on her nightstand. She crawls onto the bed, wrapping her arms tight around her. "Imogen, it's okay. Niffty woke up.

Imogen wipes her face and lets out a shaky breath.

"It was just an accident. Niffty knows and isn't upset with you."

But Imogen just buries her face deeper into a pillow. Mallory isn't sure if Imogen's relieved or beating herself up more, but it makes her heart ache to see her like this. "Were you just trying not to feel sad anymore by hanging onto her like that?"

She feels her tiny head nod.

Imogen's father used to do the same thing. It was another reason their marriage didn't work out—Mallory constantly felt drained by him. He should have been here to explain Imogen's powers to her, but he wasn't, leaving Mallory to fumble with the pieces.

Coming up on an elbow, Mallory gently turns her daughter onto her back. "I know it can be ... overwhelming to sit with our own emotions sometimes. It's okay to distract yourself, but we can't do it too much or else we can become disconnected from ourselves. Avoiding painful feelings only makes them more powerful—there has to be a balance. And when we borrow someone’s joy, we leave them open and vulnerable ... like a big cut without a bandage. So we must make sure to process our scary emotions within ourselves, so others don’t have to carry them for us.  Facing your feelings can be hard, but I want to help you get through this, if you'd let me."

Imogen doesn't respond, but she takes her mother's hand. Mallory hesitates, fiddling with their fingers.

"I also wanted to talk to you about something ..." Her stomach twists with nerves but she pushes through. "You never liked any of my boyfriends ... but especially Robert. You knew right away that he was ... bad. I didn't listen to how you felt and that must have really hurt you. And I know I haven't been around very much because of work. I missed so much time with you and that must have really hurt your feelings too." Imogen doesn't say anything, but Mallory knows it's true. She squeezes Imogen's hand. "I'm really sorry. I'll listen more from now on."

Imogen sits up and reaches for the pad and paper on the nightstand. She writes, It's okay, Mommy.

It isn't, but her quickness to forgive makes the guilt in Mallory's chest lessen a little. She kisses her daughter on the cheek. "I'm sorry your day went a little sideways." This is a massive understatement, as if both of their lives have not just become a snow globe and turned upside down. "Did you still have fun tonight?"

Imogen shrugs. Kind of, she writes.

Mallory checks her watch. It's really late, but ... 

"I have an idea."

🎶 📻 🎶

Imogen watches her mom fish around in the closet for some extra sheets and a box marked Holidaze . She pulls out a string of fairy lights and drags some chairs over to the foot of the bed in front of the TV. She pushes them together, draping the sheets over them to make a tent and padding the inside with the softest blankets and pillows she can find. She strings the fairy lights all along the ceiling, reminding Imogen of fireflies. 

Mom scoots over and pats the spot next to her. "How about we stay up late and share this cake, hm?"

A genuine smile wreaths across Imogen's face. She crawls inside the tent and snuggles close into her side.

"There's gotta be some cartoons on, right?" 

Her mom flips through the channels, trying to find something, but Imogen isn't paying any attention. She hasn't been with her mom on her birthday for a long time. She realizes, having her with her right now, that it's all she's ever really wanted.

Eventually, her mom settles on something and they share the spongy piece of vanilla cake. Imogen tries to stay awake but her eyelids are so heavy. She holds onto her mother tightly, until there is no space between them for words or demon deals or anything else. She drifts off to the sound of her steady heartbeat, of the feeling of her mother's love washing over her, the sheer warmth of it settling around her like an extra blanket.

🎶 📻 🎶

Meanwhile, outside of Imogen's bedroom door, is a large, wrapped present. Echo soars down the hall and spots the package shaking back and forth.

The crow swoops down to investigate. Something inside of the gift scratches and whines. 

Echo lets out an excited caw! caw! and pulls at the red ribbon with his beak. He keeps tugging until it loosens enough for the creature within to shove the lid aside.

🎶 📻 🎶

Alastor enters his room and collapses into an armchair, static raging at his temples. A flick of his wrist and the fireplace roars to life. Green firelight plays along his features, along his grim upturned smile, heat bathing his skin.

So much for his grand plans. It's clear to him now his efforts of trying to sweep everything under the rug are not going to work. He needs to try a different approach—a new strategy. 

A bigger part of him keeps replaying the moment with Niffty in his mind. Other strange instances start to piece together. He remembers when Imogen calmed Oliver during his panic attack at the concert, when she'd soothed her mother after she'd run away. It hadn't just been Imogen consoling them. No, she'd influenced how they felt.

A witch bound to him with that kind of power could be incredibly useful. Someone who could sway the emotions of his enemies, who could drain their energy and always know their true intentions. Darker thoughts start to whisper, spreading like an indistinct tangle of vines, hissing about how Alastor needs to repair this rift between them in order to morph Imogen into exactly the kind of tool that he wants.

But strangely enough, Alastor finds that he does not want to.

The realization takes him off guard—like biting into a corpse and tasting fresh fruit instead of rotten flesh. His lip curls into a near snarl, claws digging into the plush armrest.

When he first met Imogen and asked for a demonstration of her power, his mind had wandered to a private memory. He had even shed tears. He'd felt genuine terror from the sound of hunting dogs barking, a fear he'd made sure to smother years ago, only for it to resurface in that cabin.

Had Imogen coaxed him to let his guard down? Had he been too arrogant to notice? The thought of a child manipulating him was laughable, but ...

A strange sound suddenly makes Alastor's ears twitch. He dismisses it at first, too used to being surrounded by constant radio noise and chatter, but it gradually comes to his attention that it isn't coming from him or the swamp. His ears perk up at attention, listening more intently. It's a soft tinkling sound—like a stream of running water.  

Confused, Alastor sits up and twists his head around 180 degrees, locking eyes with the puppy he left at Imogen's doorstep.

And it's lifting its leg on his bookshelf.

Searing red symbols flood into the air. Alastor springs to his feet, bones cracking as his body rotates all the way around, antlers weaving over the top of his head, voice distorting and reverbating as he spits out, "What do you think you're doing?"

The puppy yelps and streaks between Alastor's legs, diving head first into the fireplace. It dissolves into the flames and disappears up the chimney as a puff of black smoke.

Wonderful! Everything is falling apart. He whirls around onto his shadow, stretched out along the wall behind him. "How did that thing get in here?"

A low mumbling sound.

"No, I did not leave my door open."

It hisses back at him, clearly arguing.

"It doesn't matter. Find it and bring it back here. Preferably alive."

His shadow glides across the floor like a sinuous flow of ink and disappears into the chimney. Alastor falls back into his chair and sighs.

🎶 📻 🎶

Nora Jean is winding down for the night inside of her cottage. She's changed into her nightgown and covered her curls in a satin bonnet, fishing around in the kitchen for a cup of tea. The window slides open upon its own accord and Echo swoops inside.

"Ah," Nora Jean says. "There you are. I was wondering what happened to you."

He's carrying a scarlet ribbon and an amethyst in his beak. He drops both into the palm of her hand.

"What's this? A gift? How generous of you." Nora Jean sets the ribbon aside and holds the amethyst up to the candlelight. It's shaped like a whistle and on a gold chain—clearly someone's necklace. She shrugs and pockets it for now. "How did babysitting my granddaughter go? Find anything interesting?"

Echo shrieks and flies in a circle by the cabinets. Nora Jean grabs a bowl and sets it on the kitchen table. She summons a storm cloud the size of her fist, filling the room with the sound of rain pelting against glass, and then vanishes it once the bowl is full.

Echo clicks his sharp beak against the edge of the bowl. The water shimmers and an image appears upon the surface. Dark colors brighten and murky shapes start to take form. An image of Imogen appears in the hotel's hallway. Her face curdles with rage, and she stabs a fork straight down into something. An electrical shockwave explodes and washes over everything.

"Oh, " Nora Jean says, surprised. She waves her hand over it, replaying the scene again. "Well ... shit. That doesn't bode well, does it?"

Echo caws in agreement. He flutters onto her shoulder.

"Quite all right. We'll just have to rip the Radio Demon out of her by the root, won't we?"

Echo cackles. "Rip it out! Rip it out!"

She waves her hand over the water. Imogen's face ripples and dissolves into black.

Chapter Text

"You are so screwed."

"Shut up," Oliver says. "I'm not screwed. I have soup."

"What kind?"

"Chicken noodle."

"Hmm," Joshua says, seriously considering this. He's got smooth brown skin and black hair that's buzzed short, nodding his head in approval. "Okay, I'll give you that. It's a good choice. Very convincing—but you still gotta get past Loretta."

Loretta is the school bus driver. Typically, Oliver walks home after school, but sometimes he rides the bus with Imogen to hang out at her house. But Oliver hasn't seen Imogen for the past three days.

The last time Oliver saw her was on Thursday. She'd hugged him tight before she got on the bus to go home and said she'd see him tomorrow. They were supposed to go to Skateland after school the next day for her birthday, which Oliver was already worried about. He knew how to go on the skates, he just wasn't sure how to stop without crashing into a wall or like ... a person. Unlike Imogen, who knew how to dribble and pivot and skate backwards. Oliver assumed her creepy, smiling demon friend was going to be coming along, but then Imogen didn't show up to school.

Imogen never missed school unless she was sick, but Oliver thought it was weird. If she was sick then wouldn't Ms. Woods call to let him know they weren't going to Skateland? And then when Oliver couldn't get ahold of Imogen all weekend, his anxiety started to spiral. What if Alastor had done something bad to her?

Oliver begged his mom to let him see Imogen after class. She called Ms. Woods to see if it would be all right with her, but it went straight to voicemail.

"Sorry, Ollie," his mom said, hanging up. "I can't let you over there without talking to her first."

His mom told him Ms. Woods was likely just busy, especially if Imogen wasn't feeling good. Oliver figured Ms. Woods would call back later, but she never did.

So, he devised a plan.

Oliver's mom was cool with him going to Josh's house instead. She was supposed to write him a permission slip but ended up running late for work this morning and forgot. So, Oliver was forced to come up with an alternative. He had an old note instructing the bus driver to drop him off at Imogen's house. He would check in on her and once he saw everything was all right, he'd drop off the soup, and then walk to Josh's afterwards.

Oliver thought it was all a very good plan ... as long as Loretta didn't notice the real date on the note. If she did, she'd call his mom, and then Oliver would be screwed.

Drexton Rockstone, a kid whose personality is just as dense as his name, is sitting in front of them and must have heard part of their conversation. He turns around and peers at them over the seat. He's tall for his age and white, with light brown hair and dressed in a red basketball jersey. "Hey, Oliver, does your soup have frogs in it?"

"No."

"Then it won't be any good. Witches eat frogs in their soup."

Oliver glares. "Shut up, Drexton. Imogen isn't that kind of witch."

"I think it's sweet Ollie is bringing her soup," Chelsea Thompson cuts in. She's sitting in the seat across from them and flushes a faint shade of pink. "It's very gentlemanly."

Drexton and Josh burst out laughing.

"Hear that, Oliver?" Drexton says. "You're a gentleman."

Oliver glares at his sneakers and feels his ears burning. He wasn't trying to be a gentleman or anything like that. It just seemed like a nice thing to do.

"Hey, don't make fun of him," Chelsea says.

"Don't make fun of him!" Drexton repeats. He turns to Oliver and laughs. "Why do you always have girls sticking up for you, dude?"

"At least girls talk to him," Chelsea shoots back. "What girl in her right mind would want to talk to you, Drexton?"

That slaps the smile right off of Drexton's face. He sputters, turning steamy red.

"She has a point," Joshua says. "Girls are always talking to Oliver. What's your secret?"

"I don't have a secret," Oliver grumbles. He doesn't like this kind of attention on him either. He glances out the window and sees Imogen's house coming up next.

His stomach swoops with nerves. It's now or never. Oliver slings on his backpack and balances the permission slip on top of the tupperware. "Ms. Loretta, I need to get off next!"

Loretta squints at him through the rearview mirror. "Eh? Oliver, is that you?"

"Yeah!" he says, and winces when his voice cracks.

"I didn't know you were on the bus."

Oliver's clutches the tupperware, his palms sweaty. That's because he'd ducked his head and disappeared with the flow of the crowd, clinging to Josh's jacket and following him to his seat. "Um, yeah."

"You're supposed to show me your permission slip before you get on the bus," she scolds. The bus slows and comes to a complete stop at Imogen's house. "All right, let's see your note."

"Aw, man," Josh whispers in his ear. "She's mad. You're so screwed."

"Shut up, " he hisses under his breath, but his heart is racing. This is the most daring thing Oliver Day has ever done—other than teleporting to Chicago with an old-timey demon and sneaking into an Owl City concert without his parent's permission, but you know. This is also pretty up there.

Joshua claps him on the shoulder. "Just play it cool. Because if you don't ... you're —"

Oliver shakes him off. "I am not screwed," he insists and rises onto his feet. His legs are wobbly and feel like jello as he walks down the aisle. 

"Um, here it is." Oliver's taken the bus plenty of times to Imogen's house. As long as he plays it cool, Loretta shouldn't suspect a thing. He angles the permission slip towards her while keeping the note pinned on top of the tupperware, carefully covering the date in the upper corner with his thumb.

Loretta frowns and leans over to read the note. "Is that soup?"

"Yeah, uh ... Imogen's not feeling well ..."

Loretta's frown deepens. Oh, no. She's suspicious. She's going to ask him to move his thumb and then she's going to see the date is wrong and take him straight back to school. The principal is going to call his mom and then he's going to get grounded or be suspended or—

"That's a shame. Tell her I hope she feels better."

The bus' door swings wide open.

Oliver nearly gasps. He whips his head towards Joshua who grins, revealing a missing front tooth, and gives Ollie a thumbs up.

"Thanks, I will!" he says, and rushes outside before she can say anything else. The door snaps shut behind him and the bus takes off.

There's a red pickup truck parked behind Ms. Woods' car that Oliver doesn't recognize, and the front door is cracked open. That means someone must be home, right?

He doesn't want to just barge in so he knocks. "Hello? Ms. Woods? Are you home?"

No response. He tries again.

"Hello, Ms. Woods? It's me, Oliver."

No one comes to the door. He tries the doorbell instead. Chimes ring throughout the house, but Oliver doesn't hear any footsteps coming to answer. No voices or doors opening and closing. It's as if no one is home, but that doesn't make any sense with the cars in the driveway.

Oliver squirms, uncomfortable. Maybe Ms. Woods couldn't hear him? She could be in the shower or taking a nap? Or they could have gone for a walk? He supposes if the door is open, then he can drop the soup off with a note for when they wake up or get back.

He creaks the rest of the door open and steps inside.

A chill teases his arms as he moves from the sunlight and into shadow. Dead leaves cover the floor, having blown in from the wind. It's cold too, like the door has been open for a really long time and filled the house with fresh autumn air.

"Hello?" Oliver calls again. 

His anxiety increases when no one answers. But he can't go, not without confirming that Imogen is okay first. He pads into the kitchen.

The floors and counter are squeaky clean. Ms. Woods keeps her house tidy, but this is ... weird. Really weird. There is not a single dish left in the sink. Not one smudged fingerprint on the fridge or the microwave. Even the cabinets look freshly polished. Oliver can't explain it, but something about it gives him the creeps. It's like that feeling when you can sense someone is standing behind you, but when you turn around, no one is there. And yet, the feeling still lingers, a kind of invisible presence that is pressing in at him from all sides.

Oliver shakes off the tingles and opens the fridge. He places the soup inside and crosses into the living room. 

Everything is neat and tidy in here too. It looks like the floors have been vacuumed and the coffee table's been dusted. Frowning, Oliver walks down the hall and into Imogen's room.

All of Imogen's toys are put away instead of scattered on the floor. Her bed is neatly made, the pillows fluffed up and lined up into rows. It reminds Oliver of those furnished display rooms at Ikea, where it's meant to look like a slice out of someone's life, but everything is too cold and too pristine. It's obvious no one actually lives there, and that's how Oliver feels right now. It's like no one's been here to actually sleep or play.

That creepy feeling returns. It brushes down the nape of Oliver's neck and makes his hair stand up on ends.

Imogen isn't here. He's about to check the backyard, but something catches his eye. Oliver does a double take.

Imogen's radio is sitting on her dresser and it's ... fixed. 

He remembers Imogen came to school heartbroken because it'd been crushed. She brought it to recess for Oliver to look at, but it looked like it had taken a bad hit, and it wasn't something Oliver knew how to fix. But now it's sitting on her dresser perfectly fine.

Weird ... Oliver picks up the mic. Maybe Alastor knows where Imogen is? Would it even work if Oliver tried to use it?

He supposes it's worth a try. How do you turn this thing on anyway? Oliver flicks on a little switch and a red light flashes.

"Uh, hello? Alastor, are you there?"

There's only dead air in response. Oliver waits a few moments for something to happen. When it doesn't, his shoulders wilt. 

Suddenly, Alastor's voice breaks though. "Oliver?"

Hope swells in Oliver's chest. "Alastor! Oh, my gosh! It's you! Have you seen Imogen? She  didn't come to school! I came over to her house and she isn't here, are you with her?"

"Fear not! She's with me."

Relief crashes through him, followed by a sting of disappointment. Imogen was with Alastor and she didn't even think to invite him or tell them that their plans had changed? They're supposed to be best friends, and it hurts his feelings, knowing she'd drop everything to go hang out with Alastor instead.

He tries to let it roll off. "Oh ... okay. Where are you guys?"

"Bit of a funny story, actually. We're in my neck of the woods."

Oliver squints. "New Orleans?"

"HA! I wish."

"Then where are you guys?" 

"Hmmm ... somewhere very far down."

Oliver chokes in horror. "You took my best friend to Hell?! "

"Now, now! It wasn't my doing. Bit of an accident, actually."

"How do you accidentally take someone to Hell?"

"It wasn't my accident, I assure you."

"Alastor, what the heck! When is she coming back?"

"I'm not too sure."

"What do you mean you're not sure? Imogen can't stay down there! She's a good person! She doesn't belong there! She belongs up here! What if she gets hurt? What if a demon eats her? What about school? Halloween? BAND PRACTICE?"

"I'm taking care of it, young man, don't worry."

"But I am worried. Isn't Hell full of fire? Is Imogen on fire?"

"No."

"I am going to need proof of life. Can you put her on?"

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

"Why not?"

"Imogen doesn't want to talk right now."

Oliver narrows his eyes. "That sounds real sus, dude."

"Well, it's the truth!"

"Imogen's mom is gonna freak out when she finds out, you realize that, right?"

"Actually, she's here too."

"What? "

"Would you like to talk to her?"

"Um, yeah?"

"Very well!"

There's some shuffling on the other line before Ms. Woods' voice breaks through. "Hello?"

"Ms. Woods, is that really you?"

"Ollie? Oh, my gosh. Hi, sweetie."

Tears of relief sting Oliver's eyes. He's so overwhelmed. "Hi, Ms. Woods. Are you and Imogen okay?"

"We're fine, sweetie. Well ... mostly fine. We're not hurt. Just kind of stuck at a hotel."

"A hotel? You mean like the Holiday Inn?"

"Yeah, sort of ..."

Now Oliver is just confused. He didn't know Hell had hotels. "How did this happen?"

"It's a long story."

"But you're okay? Is Imogen okay?"

"She's ... all right. She isn't speaking."

"Why not?"

Ms. Woods sighs. "Look, sweetie, Imogen experienced something very scary. I can't really go into details about what happened, but it scared her badly enough to make her stop talking."

"What?" Oliver's gut twists, horrified. "Is there a way I can help?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure ..." Ms. Woods pauses. "Hang on. Ollie, are you at my house?"

"Yeah."

She suddenly sounds really nervous. "You didn't go into the kitchen, did you?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You—you didn't see—"

Alastor suddenly scoffs in the background. "Oh, calm down. You think I left him there? What do you take me for? An amateur?"

Oliver hears Ms. Woods let out a breath of relief. "Oh, thank goodness. Did you get rid of his car too?"

A long pause.

"YOU LEFT HIS CAR IN MY DRIVEWAY?"

"Wow," says another female voice, this one older and sharper. "And you call yourself a professional."

"I was busy!" Alastor cries.

"What kind of professional leaves the evidence out in the open?"

"The kind that was busy making sure humans didn't splatter open on Pentagram City's concrete!"

"Oh, please," says the female voice. "Someone get that kid back on the phone."

"It's a radio," Alastor says.

"Whatever!"

There's some shuffling again, like two people are wrestling for the microphone, before Alastor's voice breaks through again. "Hey, kid! Ever drive a car before?"

"I'm eleven," Oliver says.

"So?"

Oliver glares. "No, I've never driven a car before. Why?"

"Well, there's a first time for everything," Alastor says.

Oliver has no idea what any of this is about, but if Alastor is involved, he's immediately suspicious. "I'm not driving a car to help you cover up your crimes."

"Actually, the crime wouldn't lead back to me. It would likely lead back to Ms. Woods."

"What?!"

"Yes, so I'm going to need you to find a high cliff and drive the car off of it. Can you do it?"

"You want me to find a cliff? In Illinois? The flattest state in the US?"

"Oliver, don't listen to him," Ms. Woods says. "Do not go near any cliffs.

"I won't, Ms. Woods."

The other female voice is back. "Oh, for the love of—kid! Go find my husband. He can get us out of this mess."

"Who is your husband?"

"This is Imogen's grandma, Mrs. Nora Jean. You know her grandpa, Cornelius?"

"Yeah ..."

"He's my husband. Go to his house as soon as you can and ask him to get rid of the car."

"Okay, should I call him?"

"Sure, why not?"

"NO!" Ms. Woods cries. "Absolutely not! You have to go to him in person, Oliver. No phones. The police can track everything on your phone."

Mrs. Nora Jean sounds surprised. "Really?"

"Of course they can," Alastor says. "Tacky, piece of shit technology ..."

"Okay, is the swearing necessary?" Ms. Woods snaps. "Oliver, I'm sorry, but you'll have to go to my dad's house when you can. Just bring the ... demonic radio and let my mom talk to him. He'll believe her."

"Okay, I guess I can do that."

"Thanks, Ollie. I'm so sorry you're dragged into this."

"It's okay, Ms. Woods. Can I talk to Imogen? Even if she doesn't want to talk, that's okay."

"All right. I'll see ..." There's some more shuffling in the background. "Okay, Ollie, she's here," Ms. Woods says.

"Hey, Imogen," Oliver says.

No response. He can hear her breathing.

His stomach slips several notches. "Are you all right? Alastor said you're in Hell ..." She still doesn't say anything, and Oliver is starting to get scared. This isn't like her at all. "Imogen, how come you're not talking?"

He hears a sharp intake of breath—like maybe she's going to tell him why—and then nothing.

"It's okay," he says, his voice tiny. "You don't have to say. Um. I'm really sorry for what happened, whatever it was. I'm here for you, okay?"

Still nothing. Ms. Woods said Imogen saw something really scary ... was it something Alastor did? What other scary things is she seeing down in Hell? 

The fear in his chest starts to drain away, replaced with a fierce determination. "Imogen, just hang on okay? I'll get you out of there somehow! I'll save you and your mom! I promise!"

He switches off the radio and bolts out of the room, leaving it behind in his panic. He skids to a stop and turns around to grab it. Then he bolts out the front door and runs to Joshua's house as fast as he can. 

His best friend is trapped in the depths of Hell. Joshua is right—Oliver is screwed.

🎶 📻 🎶

Joshua's mom drives Oliver home straight away from how distraught he was. He refuses to explain anything and just tells her he has to get home. He quickly thanks her as soon as she pulls up in his driveway and runs out of the car, bursting into his house and throwing his backpack on the floor. "Mom! Mom, where are you?"

"I'm in the kitchen! I thought you were going to Josh's house?"

He finds his mother feeding his baby sister, Sophie. She's six months old and pretty much only knows how to sit up and drool. She's small and chubby, with big blue eyes and a tuft of brown hair pulled up into a sprout on the top of her head. She giggles at him from her highchair and slaps her hands against her mashed peas, making a mess. His father is sitting at the table and helping his other younger sister, Amelia, with her math homework.

"Mom! Mom, you've got to help me! Imogen and her mom are in Hell!"

Mom gasps. "Oliver James!"

Amelia looks up from her worksheet. "What's Hell?"

"It's ... uh ..." Dad struggles, at a loss for words. "Well, it's ..."

"Something we are not going to discuss," Mom says firmly. She turns back to Oliver, flabbergasted. " Where did you hear that kind of thing? You do not say that about other people!"

"No, you don't understand! I mean literally—they're in Hell."

"Oliver!"

"Mom, " Oliver groans, frustrated. "You're not listening to me! They're both down there right now! We have to get help! We need to find a pastor or, I don't know, ring up the Pope!"

Dad frowns. "Ollie, slow down. What are you talking about?"

"My best friend and her mother got taken down to Hell by the Radio Demon, that's what!"

Amelia's nose crinkles. "What's a radio?"

"That's not important," Oliver says, exasperated. "They're probably being forced to join Alastor's dumb jazz band, we have to do something!"

"Cool," Amelia says. "Can we go to Hell, too?"

"No!" Mom cries.

"Hell isn't real," Dad says.

Mom throws her hands up in the air. " Oh my god, Johnathon! I said we are not talking about this!"

"It's something religious people made up to scare people," Dad says. "You don't have to be worried about it, Oliver, Imogen and her mom are fine."

"Hell is real, Dad! Imogen is down there!"

"That's it." Mom points down the hall and towards the stairs. "Go to your room!"

"But—"

"No buts! We do not say that about people, Oliver. It's unkind. You can come back down when dinner is ready."

Oliver throws his head back with an exasperated groan and marches away. 

"No Nintendo Switch, Oliver! You hear me?"

"Fine!"

Oliver yanks his backpack off of the floor and stomps up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door shut. He should have known his parents would be no help. What is he supposed to do now?

Oliver's room has posters of Star Wars and Owl City. There's a computer with a black screen on his desk and books everywhere, stacked on his shelves and his nightstand. His bed is unmade, the sheet tossed aside, in too much of a rush to get to school this morning.

He kicks aside a pile of clothes on the floor, temples throbbing with anger. He can feel butterflies in his stomach. Not the good kind, but the bad kind, the kind that rises up in his chest. He tries to breathe. It isn't really working—his throat feels like it's closing, and his heart is racing. He reaches into his hoodie pocket and takes a puff of his inhaler, but that isn't helping either because everything is falling apart. His best friend is in Hell. His parents don't believe him. He may never see Imogen again.

The only reason Imogen joined band was because Oliver was nervous to join it by himself. She played the xylophone, and Oliver was the only kid on strings because Candlewick Elementary didn't have enough students to start an orchestra. She helped him feel brave all of the time, and Oliver couldn't even help her when she needed him most.

On impulse, on something, he reaches for the rock he picked out at Imogen's house from his bookshelf—the aquamarine—and squeezes it tight in his fist.

Imogen said the aquamarine is supposed to calm the anxious thoughts in his head. He's never really believed in it, but holding it now makes Oliver feel like Imogen is standing right there with him. Makes him remember the times when he was really nervous or scared, and how Imogen would always just know, even without Oliver ever having to say anything. She would touch him—a comforting hand on his shoulder or a tight hug—and all those big, panicky feelings building up inside of him just ... lessened or disappeared entirely.

It's kind of stupid, but squeezing the aquamarine almost feels like Imogen is holding his hand. The rock should be warming up in Oliver's sweaty palm, but it's as cool as ice water. The shock of cold against his heated skin soothes him ... makes him feel grounded. Oliver takes deep, measured breaths, and the anxiety starts to bleed out of him like a wrung out dishrag.

He crawls into bed, huddling the aquamarine close to his chest, and pulls the covers over his head. He keeps practicing his breathing and doesn't come out for a long time.

🎶 📻 🎶

Oliver kneels on his bedroom floor and folds his hands over his bed. "Hello, God? Can you hear me? It's me, Oliver Day."

He doesn't think he's very good at this. Oliver doesn't have much experience with talking to God. His mom only makes everyone go to church on important holidays, and his dad is an atheist. He's never really known what he believes in, but if there is anyone who can save his best friend, it'd be the Big Guy in charge. Besides, Alastor's proven that Hell is real, so ... that must mean Heaven exists too, right?

His bunny, a cream colored lop-eared named Newton, presses against Oliver's leg for some head pats. But this is very serious, and Oliver cannot let himself be distracted.

"Look, I know we haven't talked since Christmas, and I'm really sorry about that, but I need your help. My best friend and her mom are in Hell. It was an accident—erm, somehow. It's probably Alastor's fault. He's this demon over the radio, I'm sure you've heard of him. Probably. I'm not sure how they got there, but I know it wasn't Imogen's fault. She's not even dead yet! Imogen is really funny, smart and nice . She would never hurt anyone. She has her whole life ahead of her! And her mom works really, really hard. She always makes us Bagel Bites when I come over, and she takes care of old people for work! Like, someone who makes helping other people their entire job probably shouldn't be in Hell, right? I really think you should take that into consideration. And if anyone can spring Imogen and her mom out of there, it'd be You. You're all powerful. You can just go down there and get them out yourself! If You're—uh—feeling up to it. No pressure though. I'm sure you got a lot going on. But if you can flood the Earth and raise people from the dead, then you can probably do this in your sleep. But again. No pressure." A pause. "Also, if my pet turtle, Speed Racer, is up there, he's really picky and only likes fresh strawberries, just as a heads up. Please tell him I say hi. Thanks. Amen."

Newton nips at Oliver's leg, agitated that he has still not received any head pats. Oliver scoops him up and flips the light switch off, crawling back into bed.

"What am I going to do, Newton? Imogen is in Hell and no one believes me." He gusts out a long sigh. "Why are adults so useless?"

Newton squishes himself into a loaf on top of Oliver's chest in response. His weight and warmth comfort him, making him smile, just a little. He brings up a hand to gently run his fingers through Newton's marshmallow soft fur.

"I hope God listens to me," Oliver says. "I don't know what else to do."

Newton presses his twitching nose to the bottom of Oliver's chin. Well, if his parents don't believe him, and if God refuses to listen to him, at least his rabbit understands.

Oliver doesn't think he'll be able to fall asleep anytime soon, so he just keeps stroking Newton's back and staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars pressed against his ceiling, hoping for a miracle.

🎶 📻 🎶

Meanwhile, in Heaven, there is an old woman cozy in her house and rocking in a rocking chair. An alligator named Smiles is curled around her feet and dozing off for a snooze. 

Her radio receiver hums to life on the coffee table. A couple of voices break through. Most likely some angels on field duty and speaking through their two-way radios.

"Hey, has anyone seen Moses?"

"Dude, I haven't seen that guy in forty years."

"He probably made a wrong turn and got lost again. Damn it. His sheep are all over the place! They're blocking the highway."

Sure enough, the emergency code for livestock on the highway beeps out a second later.

Madame installed this radio receiver in her house decades ago. Her son was a radio host while he was alive, and when she manifested in Heaven and realized her son wasn't here, well, she figured where he ended up. Madame had to pull a lot of strings to get this receiver. It operates like a police scanner by receiving frequencies that regular radios cannot. She initially wanted it hoping to be able to listen to her son's broadcasts all the way down in Hell but sadly, the signal wasn't always the greatest. Most of the time, Alastor's words were muffled and inaudible, but sometimes she could hear his bright voice break through. She remembers how tears filled her eyes the first time she heard it again, how her chest swelled with a fierce sense of warmth, pride and protectiveness.

She knew a few things about his life now—that he's some big important figure down there called "The Radio Demon," and apparently struck down a vegan restaurant a few months back. She'd tuned in at the end of some kind of scuffle he'd gotten into with someone yesterday, but that one had been mostly thunder and garbled radio frequencies.

The emergency code is suddenly interrupted by a pop of static, followed by overlapping chatter—some prayers trickling in.

Prayers work a lot like airwaves. Voices float around in the ether before their words are transcribed into a physical letter in the mailroom. Sometimes, Madame hears the prayers people say, but she tunes them out for the most part. People always ask for the same things.

A small voice breaks through on the scanner. Sounds like a kid. 

"I need your help. My best friend and her mom are in Hell."

Madame snorts. Welcome to the club, kid, she thinks.

"It's probably Alastor's fault."

She stops.

"He's this demon over the radio —"

Madame leaps to her feet, scaring Smiles so bad, he lashes out her tail. She rushes to the receiver and turns it up, but it's all static.

"Goddamn," she mutters. She slaps the stupid chunk of metal on its side.

"I'm not sure how they got there, but I know it wasn't their fault, and they're not even dead yet! Imogen is really funny, smart and nice."

Madame squints. Imogen? Who is that? And how did she get involved with her son?

The rest of the prayer crackles in and out. Madame can only capture bits and pieces of it, but one thing is clear. This human child knows her son by name. He also knows Alastor as The Radio Demon. And according to this child, somehow, her son had dragged two other humans down to Hell.

She starts to pace around the room. There is no way that's possible. Right? Even if her son wanted to, it shouldn't be possible.

And yet ... 

That prayer is going to manifest into a letter. She needs to get a hold of it. She needs to read it for herself and see what Alastor's done. Grab it before it falls into the wrong hands. If this prayer reaches the Seraphim and they investigate ...

"Goddamit, Alastor!" What has her son gotten himself into this time?