Chapter Text
Alastor pulled his knees closer to his chest, lowering his head. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.
Sitting in the hall, he could hear the beating. He didn’t need to be in there to know what every shuffle, thud, gasp, and slap was doing. He could picture it with perfect clarity with sounds like that. Sound was a powerful tool. it told a vivid story. His mother was on the ground. He could imagine blood ruining her favorite, faded, yellow dress. That monster was standing over her, a cigarette hanging from his lips, and the stench of cheap liquor followed him like an evil duppy. His fists collided with her. Her entire body hit the wall and she crumbled.
His father’s nightly routine of blaming everything on him and his mother was nothing new to Alastor. He knew they could never walk together in the city or anywhere. It didn’t take long to find out it had to do with the color his mother’s and his skin.
Despite his mother’s words, it was difficult to imagine there being a time that his father loved them.
Alastor clenched his fists.
Times were becoming harder in the city, and with Alastor turning sixteen he was expected to bring in more. Even though he worked all day cooking, busing, and welcoming guests at a restaurant three blocks away, it wasn’t enough for his father. It wasn’t enough for any of them with how Alastor recognized that his mother would skip meals for them. Alastor could never tell if his father knew or didn’t or if he would care if he did. Father lost connections, Alastor was old enough to know it had to do with them and yet he didn't leave. Alastor wished he would leave. Then they could all get on with their lives if he hated them so much.
He wouldn't go away.
The drunk’s rage was increasing by the day, leading to his ma taking more hits.
Alastor was sick of it, the hits, hiding outside their apartment, and especially the guilt that ate away at him at his inaction regardless of if his mother did urge him to go outside. Tonight was different. His ma screamed.
She never once made a noise. For a reason Alastor found foolish, she took pride in never worrying their neighbors. She took pride in never giving Alastor's father the satisfaction.
It was too much for him or it was the realization that he was more capable than he ever was in his life, whatever it was, Alastor jumped to his feet. He threw the cracked door open and made his way quickly towards his parents’ bedroom. Along the way, while fueled by a self-righteous fury, he stopped His eyes trained on his father’s favorite pump-action shotgun.
His father demanded that Alastor learn his way around the family’s collection of guns and hunting equipment. This was one of few good things his father offered him. While Alastor could never find it in him to love even a fraction of the man despite his mother’s stories of who this man was, Alastor did gain his father’s knowledge with hunting. There was a semblance of peace on long hunts he did with his father. It was quiet. His father wouldn’t– couldn’t yell at him if they wanted to catch something. It was time his father didn’t touch Ma. It was when Alastor saw his father be the most useful he’d ever been in Alastor’s life. He found himself grateful for those days. It was only a few years ago that Alastor wanted nothing more than to make his father happy, but after watching Ma become a shell of herself Alastor found himself feeling foolish. Any portion of love he cut out for his father had dissipated.
Alastor checked the chamber. His fingers grazed over the shotgun. He loaded it and pulled back the pump. He made his way to the bedroom. Alastor did not believe in higher powers of the white men like his ma eventually did, but standing in front of the bedroom door he found himself praying to spirits of his ma’s old faith and the God of the new. He hoped that tonight would be the last night Ma felt pain.
There was the slightest of pauses. It could have been the lack of sound for that split second or maybe there was a part of him questioning what he was doing holding a gun outside his parents bedroom.
But that didn’t matter when the sound of her wails pushed him into action. There was rage, a helpless rage furrowing along Alastor's body.
Alastor raised the gun as he threw open the door. His eyes locked on his father’s figure standing over his mother. There was a knife in his hand. Alastor didn’t hesitate. He aimed between his father’s shoulders.
His father started to turn towards the entryway and his eyes met the barrel of his own shotgun. Alastor saw fear cross his eyes before their eyes met. There may have been the hint of satisfaction that the last thing his father would see was his good for nothing, piece of shit son. All Alastor could think?
Good.
He pulled the trigger and smoke filled Alastor’s lungs. His mind cleared for the first time. No static, no voices, no pain, nothing.
Except it wasn’t nothing. The absence of pain or fear was not nothing, it was joy.
He felt alive. Happy.
The only sound that rang through his ears was not the shot but his own heartbeat.
He felt alive.
The beating increased.
He was alive.
His blood sang. His finger on the trigger twitched.
Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive. Alive.
His father dropped to the ground with a thud. Alastor couldn’t help but think that such a looming and menacing man shouldn’t have fallen so fast, but he did. Any man would collapse, but it was hard to believe that his own intimidating father would crumple like any other. He was just a man. A man like any other. And Alastor killed him.
His Ma was frozen in shock. Silence engulfed the small apartment before his ma moved toward him.
Alastor dropped the gun. He wasn't supposed to. His father would beat him if he saw him drop it. It hadn’t truly sunk in what he had done. It didn’t feel over just because his father was dead, yet it did at the same time.
His mother scrambled to him. He could vaguely see her trip on her dress as she tumbled her way to him. Alastor felt her hands grab his arms then pull him into her. He clutched her tightly in response. Alastor buried his head into her shoulder as he shook. His throat went tight and his eyes stung. She squeezed him. He could feel her nails through the back of his shirt from how she held him.
The rest of the night was something of a haze in his memory. Alastor knew what happened but it did not feel like his own memories. It felt more like a story told to him that he could picture in vivid detail, but not something he experienced.
Yet it was him.
All him.
It was Alastor that directed his mother to wash up in the bathroom as he dragged his father out of the bedroom wrapped in the sheet from the bed.
His mother came out washed and changed. The bruises were tucked neatly away under her other dress.
She fixed up the bedroom bed despite it missing a sheet and wiped down dust.
And blood that Alastor missed with the sheet when he was busy dragging his father’s body to the front door.
A wash of the largest emotions he had ever felt rumbled through his body.
Relief.
Anger.
Fear.
Joy.
It all blurred together for Alastor as he thought of the shot that could have alerted neighbors in the dead of night.
He carried his father’s body in the sheet out of the apartment.
With a mixed family like theirs, one that involved a mixed child out of wedlock because laws wouldn't have had it otherwise, it meant that they were already on the outskirts of the main city, and away from prying eyes. There was no one who saw Alastor carry what was clearly a bleeding body outside of town and there wasn’t a soul to see that he took his father’s coat and dumped the body into the river.
The humming of Alastor’s blood still rang.
He had a clearer head as he watched that body disappear into the dark waters. Something akin to justice or pride latched onto him like fishhooks. They dug into his skin and pried him open to make their home. He killed that man that tormented his mother and him. Maybe it was wrong to do it. Murder was wrong. The fancy, thick book his mother turned to for comfort said so. The church they went to preached forgiveness and strength in enduring hardships.
But where was the fancy book to tell his father to stop beating his mother until even through her dark skin marks could be seen? Where were the rules a man should abide to protect his family instead of harming them? Where were the angels his ma said were watching over them for guidance and protection? If the angels saw anything then they did nothing. Alastor chose to be his mother's angel because no angel or god came to recue them.
They must not have been real or if they were then they weren’t for people like him. This was the white man’s book after all and his sin before his murder was his birth.
Alastor walked back from that river something akin to a new man. One could call it a baptism regardless that he wasn’t submerged or that there was no priest and that his father's body sank in the river. The blood of his father on his hands running through that river water was close enough and maybe that was a form of the holy.
He entered their apartment. There was a part that said his mother would be angry with him but instead he saw his mother already cleaned the bedroom and packed their bags.
Almost wordlessly, they fled from their apartment. They disappeared further into the outskirts of the city, and deeper into the downtown area. It was closer to where his ma had grown up. The whole night, Alastor could only think about the high of pulling the trigger– of watching that monster drop to the ground knowing he would never touch his ma ever again.
They were free.
In many ways, they lost the leg up they had by being closer in the city along with Alastor’s father’s connections, but they were free.
Alastor would ensure that his mother wouldn’t live in fear. If they starved then it wouldn’t be to feed the animal beating them. If they shivered or sweltered then it wouldn’t be because of a monster taking and abusing them any more.
If Alastor was cursed for murder then it would be worth it to see his mother know the taste of freedom in her favorite yellow dress
He entered their home, the sound of jazz and smell of something cooking soothed Alastor’s senses. After he removed his coat, he made his way towards the best room in their home, the kitchen. Inside, with a wooden spoon in her left hand, his ma swayed to the lazy beat with a hum of lyrics on her lips. Her favorite yellow dress followed her movement.
Alastor smiled.
It had only been a few months since his father’s death but Alastor had never seen her so happy. Her dramatic shift and encouragement had lightened his spirits enough that he had started going after his dream job.
“Hey, Sugar!” Her smile brightened the room even more. Placing the spoon into the pot, she made her way across the kitchen. Her hands landed on his shoulders, brushing off the dust. “How’d the interview go?”
He gestured at the stove. “Seems you already know, since you’re making jambalaya.”
Her grin made her eyes squint. She pulled him by the neck into a hug. “I just knew you’d get it! No station would turn down your voice.” Alastor leaned into her hug, he was still getting used to being a head taller than her.
He patted her shoulders. “Oh Ma, you know it’ll be a while before they let me on the air.”
Pulling away, she narrowed her eyes. “No foul talkin’ in my house, mister. You gotta know they didn’t gots to hire you unless they saw something special.” She spun around, taking her original spot in front of the pot. She gestured toward the cabinets. “Now set the table before the food gets cold. Then we can talk about what songs you should play on the air.”
Alastor laughed. He turned toward the cabinets and started getting their table set.
He knew she was right. They hired him then and there. He knew it was slightly to avoid more paperwork of them having a man like him at their station. It was clear he wasn’t white but he didn’t need to be white for radio. They liked the cadence of his voice when speaking and singing and he proved he was a fast thinker with the questions they threw at him. A part of him was shocked he wasn’t directed out the door when they saw him but instead he got it. His mother was right. He was going to be on the air soon. They wouldn't have hired him otherwise.
The radio clicked, and the song changed to a familiar set of trumpets filling the kitchen. His ma had fallen for the new solo musician ever since His Hot Five first started playing across radio stations.
With an idea forming, Alastor tapped Ma’s shoulder and spun her around. He smiled at her confused expression as he pulled her along to the fast rhythm. The trumpets’ sound increased in tempo as Alastor swung her back and forth in time with the upbeat tune. Following her son’s lead, the pair danced to song after song from the radio as they laughed at their missteps and successes. Their smiles never left their faces.
He hadn’t noticed it at the time, but she didn’t lose those bruises that should have faded the moment his father dropped to the floor.
Alastor missed the way his mother pulled her sleeves tighter to hide the blossoming bruises on her wrists. They always were harder to spot on skin like hers especially when he thought he would never have to look for them again.
But he felt he should have noticed anyway as her angel.
Stumbling through the door, she clutched her stomach tightly, hoping it would ease the pain. Flashes of the newest clients’ smiles were still fresh in her memory, they looked too much like him. She worked her whole shift without a single problem, but as soon as she entered her home, her body gave out as if it knew it could.
Slowly, she made her way to the bathroom. She had to treat her wound to stop the bleeding before she passed out. There was too much to do.
Her vision darkened in splotches. Gasping, she lunged toward the wall to steady her stance. She refused to fall, it would surely wake her son, who had an early shift in the morning. She couldn't bother him.
“Ma?” A thin whisper came.
She couldn’t move from the wall, her head was too foggy, and her limbs shook. She stood at the wall, willing her body to listen to her pleas to not show weakness. “Sugar?” She cleared her voice to sound stronger. “What are you doing up? Don’t you got an early day tomorrow? Go to bed, hon.”
She felt his warm presence at her side, leaning her weight away from the wall onto himself. “Ma, you’re bleeding.”
She couldn’t respond to the concerned statement, couldn’t explain that she was fine and just had a very long night. Those dark splotches overtook her vision, filling everything with darkness. Her body felt light.
Alastor sat in their small living room. Crumpled bandages and an open bottle of whiskey with a drop hanging off the edge mocked him from the table. After finding his mother in the hallway, barely conscious, it terrified him to his core. It reminded him too much of their old life, the one they left behind.
With the removal of his father, Alastor thought their lives would be better now. He was baptized and cursed by his father’s blood on his hands so why shouldn’t they be happier? He thought they were free.
He groaned into his hands.
How naive.
He believed he finished the monster in their lives but he had been awakened yet again to the discovery that monsters were everywhere. How could Alastor protect her from all of them? He couldn’t be naive again. He couldn't assume that if they were to run somewhere else they would be safe. He couldn’t be a child and believe that there was a home somewhere out there where they could walk the streets without glares or hateful words spit their way. To exist without the risk of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when anywhere they was the wrong place. He couldn’t let himself be gullible to think their luck turned around with his father’s death when he could see his mother sacrificing herself for his happiness. This illusion of happiness.
Lifting his eyes, he saw her sleeping figure on the bed. Fresh bandages were wrapped around her stomach, arms, and thighs. After she collapsed in his embrace, Alastor spent the next hour cleaning her wounds. He laid her on her bed and ensured she’d have her decency as he found and treated multiple bruises across her body, all of them in different stages of healing. He even found cigarette burns on her forearms.
His blood boiled at the thought of how she hid the marks from him. Even the previous night, while they explored downtown, she was in pain. She danced around and laughed at his jokes, all while ugly secrets were beneath her clothes. He failed her again. Only this time, he did not have the excuses of childhood holding him back. He was supposed to be her protector. He was supposed to keep her safe because the angels couldn't. Monsters got her again and took away her happiness again.
He could not undo what was done. He wished he could, but if he could not undo the damage then he would avenge her. He did with his father when he pointed that shotgun at his father’s chest. He could…
Do it again.
But Alastor wasn’t foolish. He knew his ma’s night job attracted powerful monsters, and he couldn’t kill them all. He needed power. Reaching for the opened whiskey bottle, Alastor threw back another swig. He wanted to quiet his mind.
What was he even considering? Murdering all of them?
He couldn’t despite wanting to.
Injustices filled every day of any man’s life. Plenty wished they could do something. Plenty of men like him wished they could spit back in the eyes of those that looked down on him. Plenty of men like him wanted to give back just as hard as the white men took.
But what could he do as one man with nothing?
He lowered the bottle from his lips and his eyes landed on the crooked bookshelf across the room.
An idea sparked his movements.
Recently, his ma had started collecting more books, anything she could get her hands on so they could read together or so she could make him practice his speaker’s voice while learning, she always wanted him to have as many advantages as she could offer. Back and forth they would speak with Alastor practicing his presenter's voice so that it would become his natural voice and hide his skin. Or, that was what his employers told him to do. Couldn't risk a scandal when they were on the rise with a speaker they wouldn't have to worry about proper pay.
Alastor grimaced.
Her oldest book was the one he grabbed off the shelf.
She had…
An interesting history with the spiritual. He remembered her having a variety of songs, teachings, signs, or traditions that disappeared as he got older. It disappeared more and more with his father around is what Alastor realized. She was close to her spirituality and while Alastor was not, he was close to her. She may have let it fade in the years with his father but...
This didn’t change how she had difficulties letting go of items even if she had let go of them emotionally. She switched to verses and hymns as if it were the same practices she had. As if it didn't matter what faith she practiced but that she was practicing something.
Alastor supposed it wasn’t what she did, but that she had these practices at all to keep her going.
Still, there was an interesting book on her shelf that he didn’t know why she kept or if she even remembered ever getting it.
Opening the book, he scanned the pages of remedies or curses until a horrific image stopped him. A pentagram with the words Summoning Circle scribed below.
He took another swig of whiskey.
Alastor’s mind was made up.
If the angels did not protect them then something from Hell might.
Or it was all for naught and Alastor merely wanted to feel in control of his and his mother’s safety once and for all in his life.
He moved the table off the tattered rug. He lifted it to reveal the cracked wooden floors below. Pulling out his hunting knife from his pocket, he stared at his ma’s blood on it, thoughts of cutting off her bloody clothes that would have begin to crust made him shiver in anger. He set the knife to the floor and started carving the book’s symbol meticulously.
Alastor always considered himself an artist though more of the musician or even writer type but he could admire the circle with intricate markings on the floor. There was something soothing about matching each design to that of the book. He remembered thinking it was a shame his little tipsy artwork would have to be covered by their rug and hopefully never explained to future owners.
Sitting on his heels, Alastor rolled up his sleeves and didn't hesitate when pulling the blade across his left wrist. It stung enough to make Alastor question what the hell was he doing to waste his time and energy doing this. He would waste a perfectly good bandage for the sake of his brief moment believing in the superstitions of his mother.
He folded the hunting knife and placed it back into his pocket. He extended his wounded wrist over the circle and watched his blood drip on it and into the cracks. Alastor waited a few moments, he glanced back at the open book and started reciting the Latin phrases. He was slow and deliberate because his French and English had always been his stronger languages.
Once he finished his chanting, Alastor paused. There were no sounds in the dead of night, far from the city. He scanned the small room but nothing seemed different.
Alastor sighed and slumped in his still-knelt position on the floor. The time he put into the little ritual had sobered him and he became flustered from his attempt at all. How had his mother done any ritual without feeling foolish?
He considered attempting to chant again to really look the part of the fool who tried a summoning circle when a red light overtook the room in pulses. A gust of air blew as if from the circle he carved on the floor.
Alastor covered his eyes as wind whipped around him. Pages turned from the book and furniture wobbled. Once the red light dimmed and the wind ceased, standing in his living room was a shadowy figure. Its’ only features that Alastor could recognize were two bright red eyes.
“Why did you summon me?” The booming voice shook the room slightly.
There was a pause as Alastor took in the being but he could not back down when his purposes for summoning such a creature were to protect his mother.
Curiosity or cowardice would have to wait. Alastor could not afford either at that moment.
“I want power.” Alastor surprised himself with how he controlled his voice.
The shadow figure scanned him.
Alastor kept his eyes steadfast on the creature but considered his surroundings as the creature scrutinized him.
He knew his clothes were covered in blood, though he was not injured himself. A lack of wounds would tell it was someone else’s.
The creature’s eyes met his.
Its smirk widened.
“What would you offer for this power?”
But Alastor had nothing of real value to offer. He had not truly thought this summoning circle would work. But spirits worked on the intangibles. Something Alastor could offer…
“My soul.”
The creature leaned in a fraction closer to Alastor enough for there to be a noticeable uptick of something of a brow. Then it turned its head to the door Alastor left open to keep an eye on his mother.
“Why not better health for another?”
Alastor tilted his head. The answer was simple. “Those monsters shouldn’t be given the chance to try it again.”
A moment passed in silence before Alastor heard the snapping of fingers. Appearing in front of him was a single golden piece of parchment. It glowed and hovered in front of him. His eyes scanned the words scribed across the page.
“I’ll bestow you the power to hunt down these ‘monsters,’” it promised. “In exchange you’ll serve me in your afterlife.”
The blank line at the bottom of the page teased Alastor. He hesitated His whole afterlife? So there truly was one. Was revenge worth selling his soul to some figure he summoned from a devilish book? Everlasting servitude.
Flashes of his ma’s smile while singing in the kitchen filled his mind. At least she would be safe. His crimes would not be her crimes. She was innocent. She would be free in life and in death with a sign of a signature.
A black pen appeared in front of him. He snatched it from the air.
“This will give me the strength to–”
The creature leaned in again.
Alastor broke away from looking at the figure and to his mother who’s sleeping form moved only slightly from gentle breaths.
He had to.
He squeezed the pen and brought it to the parchment before he could second guess himself again.
Alastor signed his name in cursive. It bled onto the page. Before he could blink the golden paper was engulfed in green flames and the whole room shook as the figure laughed. “I look forward to seeing you in Hell, Alastor.”
It purred on the syllables of his name, sending a shiver down Alastor’s spine.
“Don’t keep me waiting for too long.”
And with a blink of his eyes, there was nothing. The figure was gone. Even the wooden pentagram was removed from the floor as if he had never carved it.
Alastor knew he should have felt fear from selling his soul to some shadowy figure that he summoned, but instead, his blood buzzed with excitement. There was no room for hesitation or dread when something new entirely entered his chest.
He couldn’t wait to slaughter those monsters who touched his ma.
After the mortal man, Alastor, signed the contract, Lucifer continued to watch him from the shadows. It had been a while since the King of Hell interfered with mortal affairs. It was a rare occasion, more rare than mortals would believe with how often he was blamed for their sins. But, the power of that mortal’s soul was buzzing with potential as well his motivations being intriguing to Lucifer. With his beautiful wife becoming more involved with sinners, Lucifer found himself with more downtime.
It wasn’t often Lucifer took a quick peek into Alastor’s life, but often enough considering he was over ten thousand years old.
He wanted to see how his power was being used. Alastor wanted power. Lucifer could have rolled his eyes at that. But Alastor wanted power to get what he knew other mortals would not give him.
Justice.
Sinning for something that felt righteous.
Trying to do good by doing bad.
Sounded familiar.
In one month, Lucifer watched as Alastor mastered his new talents, and hunted down not only the men who assaulted his mother but the entire mafia branch they were in.
One by one, their bodies hit the ground, but Lucifer’s eyes stayed on Alastor’s face. He was smiling the whole night. This mortal continued to pull Lucifer in. Righteous while sadistic. If he were the right kind of righteous and sadistic then Heaven would have loved him, but be as it may, Alastor was the wrong kind which made him part of Hell even if he hadn’t given his soul to Lucifer.
Good souls were impossible to come by in Hell. Alastor was by no means a good soul, but Lucifer craved having souls that could be good. If he was going to be surrounded by murderers and thieves then he wanted to decide which murderers and thieves were worth interacting with.
Alastor was worth interacting with.
Poor kid may have already committed murder by the time Lucifer met him and was on track to go to Hell but he had his reasons that Lucifer could understand.
He couldn’t wait to watch the mortal sin more until he fell into Hell. There was so much he could already be curious about even if it was the minor things that made Lucifer eager for answers. What would the mortal’s demon form be? Which powers would he retain in the afterlife? What human features would he keep?
Would that same stone cold determination present in his expression stay? How long would Lucifer have to wait to have that soul in Hell in the flesh?
Lucifer knew his father didn’t listen to prayers, but Lucifer found himself praying that Alastor would keep that determination and those psychopathic moral principles that played on the edge of righteousness.
With a thrum of pride, Lucifer watched as Alastor did his first-ever broadcast in the mortal realm a month after their contract. His voice was smooth as he described the fall of a powerful mafia branch. Its members were slaughtered, such a shame for the loss of life but there is sure to be a downtick in crime, wouldn’t you say?
Lucifer chuckled as he watched Alastor speak into a microphone.
All while his dark eyes shone with pride. A gleam of red with their deal intact.
Pride.
Lucifer’s own sin. Lucifer couldn’t help but laugh.