Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alastor’s last moments are a confusion of pain. Teeth and pain. There is no obvious threshold between life and death. Instead, it seems he is suddenly sinking through the swamp. Away from the teeth – good – but into the swamp. But the swamp is thinner than it should be. Like air. He is in freefall and the landing is just as painful as expected.

Somehow, he is still breathing. At the bottom of the swamp? But then he looks up and sees what appears to be a sky. A red sky studded with…is that a pentagram? What is going on here?

A dream surely. Highly inconvenient to be passed out and dreaming when he ought to be trying to get away from the – he shudders – dogs.

What if they tear his throat out while he’s unconscious?

(He is not unconscious. Deep down he knows that.)

His skin still tingles from the bites and he looks down to examine himself. He is naked.

Shock and shame course through him and scrambles to his feet to hide himself away, then falls back against the hard ground. Concrete ground, in fact, not swampy earth. Least of his concerns just now, Alastor decides. He tries to stand again, falls back again.

No, he has to be able to stand! He is naked! But a third attempt still results in a fall. Naturally, at this point, he examines his feet, which, while not painful, don’t seem to want to support his weight.

He looks. Then he looks away. No, he cannot cope with that just now.

Staring around, he takes in buildings that seem oddly deserted – and oddly present at all, considering he was in the bayou a moment ago. Spotting a narrow alleyway between two of them, Alastor hauls himself onto his uncooperative feet (hooves?!) and half stumbles, half drags himself towards it.

Once there, he presses himself against a brick wall, shielding his shameful nakedness with his hands. For a moment the wall holds him up, but then he wobbles and falls, scraping his side against the brickwork.

Huddled on the ground (concrete, not swamp, and a part of his brain screams that that is important) he can at least cover more of his nakedness. But he can’t stay down here. He needs to wake up. He tries to wake up.

Nothing. No sudden surge of consciousness followed by teeth, hot breath and growling. He should be relieved. He isn’t.

Enough, he tells himself. Apparently he is not waking up just yet. With any luck, the dogs will be gone by the time he does. Help had arrived, after all. He remembers men shouting and a…another sound. Something in his mind shies away from it.

Enough. He has to find some clothing: Even if this is a dream (It’s not a dream) he has no desire to dream about nudity.

There appears to be a clothes store across the street, one of those places that sell off the rack outfits. Rather odd off the rack outfits in this case. It is next to a store selling…Well, Alastor isn’t sure what it’s selling and doesn’t want to. But there is a clothes store. Obviously, he hasn’t any money (or clothes, but why? What happened to his clothes?) but needs must: He will simply have to throw himself on the mercy of the storekeeper and hope they will give him something on credit.

Assuming the place is open. It doesn’t look open. Actually, none of the stores Alastor can see look anything but deserted, even the alarming store next to the place selling clothing.

Well, he has no choice. He attempts to stand, hovering unsteadily on his feet for a moment before he topples again, slamming heavily onto his knees. Twisting his legs from under him, he forces himself to examine his feet again.

His hooves. He reaches for them and attempts to pull them off on the optimistic hope that some prankster fitted him with part of a costume (a ludicrous thought).

No, they are attached. He puts them from his mind. This isn’t real. (It is.) Unable to move or stand, Alastor studies his surroundings again.

He is definitely in a city. But not New Orleans.

The city that isn’t New Orleans is definitely abandoned. Good, given his nudity. But oddly ominous too.

Wake up, he tells himself (but he isn’t asleep).

A city of reds and blacks. Stubbornly empty.

(Hell, mama once said, is a place where a person is always alone.)

Alastor turns from the worryingly empty city to the alley he is crouched in. It is poorly lit but clearly doesn’t contain any convenient clotheslines.

There is a foreboding rumble above him and the heavens (not the word for them) open, smattering the concreate below with rain.

Rain that burns. Alastor yelps, curling in on himself and pressing himself against the meagre cover of the brick wall. Bitemarks that somehow still hurt, despite this being a dream (It’s not a dream) smart as something like hot water or acid spatters his skin and runs, burning, down his back and limbs.

He needs clothing. Nudity aside, it would be some protection at least. But Alastor doesn’t move except to curl up tighter. He can’t walk, let alone run for cover. And where could he run? What is this place? (He knows what this place is).

Desperation builds until it feels tangible, and then a burst of green ruffles the air. Suddenly he is wearing a suit. A red suit of a strange sort of cut but it is a vast improvement on nudity. Alastor risks uncurling a little to examine it, wincing as the stinging rain streaks down his face. He has some sense that he did that. How is another matter.

It helps a little. The rain frays and bites at the fabric (like dogs) but at least it is some barrier between burning liquid and skin. Now only his face is being directly burnt, each speck of rain leaving catching and scorching as it hits his cheeks and forehead, burning as it runs into his eyes. He raises his arms to shield his head, scrunching his hands into fists to protect his fingers. A sudden, sharp pain bites his palm. Before he can examine it, a yell from a doorway makes him jump. “What are you doing?” a figure shouts, “Get inside!”

Staring through the rain, Alastor feels a thrill of alarm as he realises the figure doesn’t look human. He shifts back, his hooves (hooves!) scrabbling against the ground, and puts a hand to the wet brickwork, pushing at it for leverage, ignoring the sting as his fingers encounter the burning wetness of it. Another figure joins the first, peering out at him, all limbs and wings. Thankfully, neither creature comes any closer. Possibly they don’t like the rain any more than he does. The first adds, “Seriously, what the fuck are you thinking? They’re coming down here any minute!”

“Who?” Alastor demands. He stops himself from asking, where though he would like to know where he is (He knows where he is).

Then he registers his voice. He sounds like he is on the radio. Not in the usual way, that being that he sticks to the transatlantic accent that inspires respect and better treatment than his native Louisiana drawl. No, now he sounds like his voice is coming out of a transmitter. Like there is a transmitter in his throat.

While he notices this, the thing in the doorway is speaking. “What the fuck?” it says, “The exorcists, who the fuck did you think I meant!”

The other creature shakes its head and murmurs, “New arrival.”

The first creature gets a look of dawning understanding. “You poor bastard” it tells Alastor. Then they both duck back inside, slamming the door firmly behind them.

Well, that was odd. Enough of this, Alastor decides. He can’t be doing with hooves and red skies and burning rain. It is time he woke up and fought off those blasted dogs…

Blast. There had been a blast just as he fell down here, hadn’t there? A sound like a gunshot.

Just then, the sky splits open again, this time spilling a light like dawn. For a moment, it is a sort of relief. Perhaps he is waking up. (He is not asleep). But then there is a scream somewhere in the distance. Alastor looks up despite the sting of the rain and sees, visible above the buildings that loom around the alleyway, a stream of figures. People?

Angels. Angels streaming down, all wings and…spears? Mama was right, apparently: Angels can be avenging. Dangerous. Alastor makes an instinctive – and failed – attempt to stand, falling back against the wall and bouncing off it and onto the ground. As more screams erupt beyond the empty street, he resorts to crawling back, away from the mouth of the alley, his fingers stinging as they encounter puddles. Soon, the pained and terrified noises echoing from everywhere tells him that Hell is very much not a place where a person is alone.

Hell. Yes, that makes sense.

Screams and smoke. No sulphur at least. Unless that is the stuff still falling from the sky. Alastor reaches the opposite wall of the alley, further away from the entrance. He is closer now to the door that the two creatures disappeared behind. Two monsters, really. But probably safer than angels, especially for someone like him. He has long known that he is a monster. He just never expected it to be quite so literal.

He leans sideways, but can’t quite reach the door. He shuffles closer and grabs at the handle, his hands slipping, wet with the acidic puddle water and…blood? He must have cut himself crawling. No matter now. Nor does it matter that his fingers seem to be tipped with claws. Accounting for this, he is able to grab hold of the handle. He rattles it, but it seems to be locked. He knocks, the hammers. No response.

Well then, he’ll just have to hide here. There are no other doorways in the alley, and his only other choice is to drag himself out there. Even if he manages to stay on his feet for a few seconds, he doubts it would be more than that and anyway, where would he go? An inconspicuous alley is better than no hiding place at all. Alastor presses himself to the wall and stays very still. It is not long before the screams come closer. He flinches with the instinct to run, reminding himself that he can’t.

Then, without warning, a figure rounds the corner, flying down the alley towards him. A masked figure, greyish like a corpse. Despite his lack of success so far, Alastor scrambles to his feet. And falls, right into a puddle. The pooled rainwater burns and he hisses as he twists around, raising a hand as the angel dives for him…

…His arm falls limply back when the spear goes straight through his chest. The angel twists it agonisingly and Alastor cries out, feeling blood at the back of his throat. Then, a terrible yanking sensation as the spear is pulled out and the angel flies on.

It missed his heart. Assuming he still has a heart. A slow death then. Slow second death.  

Is this how it works here? Will he die agonising deaths forever?

Fruitlessly, he tries to move, his arms flailing and his legs shifting uselessly, his hooves making a scrapping sound against the concrete. If he could just shift himself out of this puddle, it would be some relief, except that the rain is still pounding down and every bit of him is wet now, the water finally seeping through the fabric of his strange new suit.

Breathing is getting harder. Alastor makes an effort to breathe deeply but the crackly gasp he achieves only results in air hissing out the gaping hole in his chest. At that, he stops trying to move. No point.

For some indeterminable time, he lies there, hurting relentlessly. Then a chuckle sounds from the darkness. “Oh” says a feminine voice, “Still alive? Bad luck.”

A woman emerges from the shadows. She is tall and terribly beautiful. “Having a bad day?” she asks in a soft, sweet tone.

“You…” Alastor coughs harshly, spraying blood “You could s-say that.” Talking hurts. Breathing hurts.

“Poor deer.” She tilts her head, examining him. He can’t see her face clearly but he can see that the motion is not hurried or concerned. Nor does she study him in the detached way a doctor might look at a patient. This is more like the detached way a diner might look at a dish they aren’t sure they want to eat just yet. The teeming rain doesn’t seem to bother her. Alastor swallows and tastes blood.

She asks, “Does it hurt?”

What do you think, he wants to retort, but instinct tells him not to. Instead he says, “Sh…shouldn’t you be t-taking shelter?” The angels seem to be pouring over every inch of the surrounding streets after all – he can hear them – and unnerving as this lady is, she is still a lady.

She stretches languidly. “I always walk about in it” she tells him. She sits down beside him, ignoring the filth and acidic water streaked across the alleyway. “I like to watch.”

There doesn’t seem a suitable response to that, so Alastor doesn’t try for one. He concentrates on breathing. The rain intensifies, hissing as it hits his face. He tries to lift and arm to shield his face but this time, his limbs don’t respond to his mind at all.

The woman still seems unaffected by it. She adds, “You know, most of them can’t see me. But you could. Is it because you’re so near death?” She leans over him and sniffs. Alastor is reminded uncomfortably of the dogs. He tells her, “I d-died already today.” A remarkable thing to admit.

She smiles, all teeth and malice. “True. But this time, it’s permanent.” She puts a deliberate finger to his wound and presses down hard. Alastor startles and howls. She sits back. “Angelic steel” she explains, “It kills you eternally.”

“What was – ah! – W-warn a fellow, can’t you?”

She tilts her head to examine the red sky. “No new world to wake up to” she adds, “Just true nothingness. Forever.”

Alastor swallows painfully. “I s-see.”

Somehow, there is no denying the truth of her words. Being around her seems to make lying, even to himself, impossible. Suddenly Alastor realises there is some scope for comfort in lies. A person might lie to make themselves brave, or to spare feelings. Such platitudes are missing here. She is telling the truth. And the truth is horrific.

The woman leans forward and sniffs him again. “You have power” she whispers, “Beautiful power. Potential.” She crouches low over him, far too close. He smells something a little like mama’s perfume overlaying something awful. Carrion and smoke. She tells him, “I could save you.”

Alastor struggles to find his voice. He finds blood first and swallows it down. “Pl…please do” he manages.

She chuckles, somehow warm and not. “Poor deer.” She pets his…His ears? What is wrong with his ears?

Least of his concerns at present, he tells himself. “Y…you …said you can s-save me?”

“Mm-hm.” She lets her fingers trail down the side of his face. There is a terrible strength in her flexing fingers. Alastor senses that she is quite capable of cracking his skull if she chose to, even if she is not especially interested in doing so right now. She sighs and adds, “Not just that. I could whisk you off somewhere safe. No point saving you only for you to get skewered again, is there?”

“I…I’d appreciate that.”

“And I could amplify your power. Turn all your bloodlust into something tangible. You could give me so much death.”

“Death?” says Alastor cautiously. 

She chuckles, the sound eerie and bright. “Oh, little deer, do I detect principles? How delicious.”

Alastor wants to deny it but her presence still seems to suck all comforting pretence from the surroundings, leaving him with bare facts: He is dead. Back in the world, his body is presumably already sinking into the bayou. What is left of it, at least. He is in Hell, eternally damned. Eternally separate from mama.

Alastor flinches at the thought of mama and the woman grins as though she can taste the thought. There must be flames nearby: He sees the light of them glint off her sharp teeth.

The cold truths keep seeping through his mind: Hell is real and he is damned. Eternally. And now he will die again. There will be nothingness forever. And he still – still – wouldn’t cross certain lines to get out of it. He still wouldn’t harm an innocent. Not someone like mama.

The woman is right: He does have principles. Weaknesses.

And then Alastor feels a flicker of defiance for the first time since this woman showed up. Weakness it may be, he thinks, but at least it makes him different from other violent men.

The woman seems to sense the defiance and grins wider. How endlessly amusing she seems to find him. She murmurs, “You won’t find innocents down here.”

Alastor thinks of Mimzy. Far from an innocent but someone he wouldn't hurt. She is probably here too…

…And then the tendrils of cold truth around the woman flicker again and he knows that Mimzy is here too, in this place of flames, burning rain and bloodthirsty angels. He tries to stop thinking of her before the woman senses the thought. He stares stubbornly up at the red sky. “St-still” he grinds out, “There are…I…I have always had a…a code. The-they have to m-meet certain criteria, to end up on my list. I don’t kill just an-anyone.”

She laughs again. “Oh precious” she says. She reaches out and starts running a rough, long nailed hand through his hair. “A list? Mine is so succinct.” She traces a pattern on his burning skin. A figure of eight. Eternity, Alastor recognises as it skims him. "Principles are pointless down here, deer. Too late for that."

The woman shifts languidly and, for a moment, Alastor thinks she won’t help him after all. Well, so be it. He doesn’t want to die but he won’t beg. He still has some dignity. And he senses she isn’t much given to mercy.

But then she says, “But, death is death I suppose.” She resumes tracing the pattern into his skin. Eternity, eternity. “And you could give me so much of that. You could be very…what is the word you use?” She leans closer and licks the side of his face while he gasps “Oh yes” she murmurs, “Entertaining.” She reaches for his shuddering chest, and presses her fingers to the wound, lightly this time. “I can save you” she tells him, “Get you out of here and enhance that power of yours. But I will need payment.” She tilts her head unnaturally, like a cat. How unfortunate that Alastor suddenly feels like a mouse. She tells him, “I will save you. I only ask for one little thing…”

Chapter Text

Alastor finds himself on a couch. He jumps a little at the sudden change of scene, staring around.

He is still in Hell. Which perhaps he will just have to get used to. Hell which, more to the point, is still under attack, as evidenced by the screaming outside.

The woman from the alleyway is gone. But there is no denying that she sent him here, as soon as he signed that contract, her cold hand steadying his until he was able to grasp the quill she materialised out of nowhere. Once that was done, she dismissed him into a sort of fog that spat him out here.

There is a horrible sensation around his neck. Something heavy, like a chain. Alastor clutches at it, only to find nothing there. But the terrible sense that it is there, just out of the range of his senses, stubbornly remains.

He forces himself to ignore the disturbing impression of it, focusing on how his skin still stings from the burning rain until the feeling of chain fades into the background. He looks around. He is in an ordinary looking living room. Rather small, rather drab, but whoever lives here has tried to cheer it up by displaying a few striking fashion prints and covering the space above the modest mantlepiece with an art deco wallpaper. There is a scent of perfume in the air and a feather boa draped over a rickety wooden chair a corner. A woman’s home, he concludes with some relief. Then the relief fades as he wonders if it might be the home of the woman from the alleyway. But surely not. She didn’t strike him as someone who would live somewhere so small and ordinary. She wouldn’t take time to select prints or painstakingly apply what little wallpaper she could afford to her wall. She wasn’t a person.

No, he must have been deposited in the home of a different woman. Really, the polite thing to do would be to find her and offer his apologies for her unplanned hospitality. But calling out to alert anyone to his presence seems unwise with the angels still apparently slaughtering everyone they can find outside. Alastor glances apprehensively at the window. The curtains are drawn but he can see shadows flit about beyond them. The woman in the alleyway said she would send him somewhere safe, among other things.

Other things including not dying, he reminds himself. Stupid not to check right away. Lifting the pierced and bloody fragments of his suit, Alastor examines his chest. No spear wound. The skin where he was impaled is red and angry, but he isn’t sure if that is residual stab wound or just the effects of the rain soaking through the fabric. He sheds the jacket.

The other small injuries are still present too, the cut on his hand – probably made by his own claw, he realises – still smarting and the little burns that dot his hands beginning to blister. But he is not dying. So she kept her promise on that at least. But is he safe here? There are no obvious security measures beyond the curtains being closed.

Being in the middle of the room feels too exposed. Alastor clambers to his feet. Well, to his hooves. Immediately, he totters and falls. A shape looms up beside him, slipping up the wall as he drops. Alastor gasps, then bites back a scream.

A shadow. Just a shadow. His own, in fact. He is glad no one is around to witness that pathetic moment of fear.

Then the shadow moves by itself and the fear is back. Alastor stares at the thing.

It slinks closer and tilts its head. A noise outside seems to startle it and it hurries to hide behind him. Alastor tenses at its closeness, but it doesn’t seem aggressive. Silly, really, to be frightened of shadows, especially one’s own.

Something shatters against the wall beyond the window. Cursing, Alastor crawls instead of making another failed attempt to stand, his burnt skin throbbing as his knees brush the floor. Heading through a doorway he finds himself in a little hall. No windows here, which feels safer. He tucks himself against a wall and looks around to confirm that the shadow – his shadow – followed him. He isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or unnerved that it did. It slips along the wall, a looming sharp toothed thing, before merging with the shadows already gathered in a high corner. Now that he has noticed it, he can feel it even now it is hidden. He senses strength there, and purpose. He isn’t at all sure he trusts it.

There is a door at the end of the hallway, which makes it nearby, the hallway not being long.  It is studded with bolts, some broken and some apparently new and hastily installed. All are currently unlocked: The apartment’s resident must not be home.

None of these marks of excess security, Alastor decides, can be a good sign. Then he thinks actually, this being Hell, perhaps he should give up on hoping for good signs.

How unfortunate for whoever lives here to have gone so just as violence erupts outside. Perhaps the poor woman won’t return and the apartment is his? Perhaps that is what the woman in alley meant about sending him somewhere safe.

A horrible thought occurs to him: If the woman in that alleyway is what women are like in Hell, what are the men like?

No need to worry, he tells himself. It is not as though he doesn’t know what to do with violent men. And now he seems to have all sorts of new tricks to try on them. Claws for one.

Claws at the end of blistered fingers. Alastor winces, aware with each movement of how the dampness of his clothes continues to bite at his arms, chest and back. Shedding his waistcoat and shirt is not an appealing prospect but he has little choice. Foolish to sit around in clothing that is actively burning him. He peels them off, exposing the skin and streaked burns of chest, then looks around in hope of something to cover himself up with. Nothing. Well that settles it: He will not be removing his pants. He has been naked quite enough today. His lower half is less burnt anyway since it was better shielded as he crouched in the alley and only really exposed to the rain when he lay in the puddle after that damn angel attacked. The backs of his legs throb but he will just have to put up with that. His legs are quite useless just now anyway.

Alastor takes a moment to examine his new form, other than the blasted hooves. Claws, hooves, he is every inch the demon. Or not, he thinks, reaching for his head and feeling the new protrusions there. Not the expected horns but…antlers?

And then his ears must be…ah. Clearly God has a sense of humour.

Unless it is presumptuous to suppose God has anything to do with his existence now. Mama would think so.

Once again, the thought of mama brings with it a little tide of pain. Alastor listens to the screaming outside until the memory of her passes.

A new sound – an explosion – and then the screams renew. Alastor shifts closer to the door and slides the bolts he can reach into place. Then, clinging to the doorknob to avoid falling yet again, he stands shakily and ones higher up. Feeling a little more protected from the slaughter outside, he lowers himself quietly and positions himself with his back against the door to wait for the screaming to stop.

It doesn’t. It goes on and on. At first it seems his uneasy mind must be exaggerating the time creeping past, but then more time passes and there is no denying that the screaming has lasted for hours.

Still they don’t stop. They merge now and then with more explosions, and a sound like shattering glass. Several times Alastor is certain the noise is coming from inside the apartment, but every time the sounds move further off again and he relaxes. Or, relaxes as far as one can while hiding from avenging angels in Hell.

After years spent killing those men who are better company once dead, Alastor considers himself rather indifferent to the sound of screaming. But hours of listening to nothing else is grating, even for him.

Just as he is truly sick of the din, a new noise joins the mix. Jazz. Soothing jazz, the first pleasant sound he has heard down here. For a moment Alastor thinks there must be someone in this apartment after all, but then he realises the sound is coming from him.

No. Impossible, surely? Of course, today has been rather surprising, all told, but to think his own body is functioning as a radio? Whacky nonsense!

As soon as he thinks that, the jazz stops.

So he sits and listens to the screams. Ridiculously, for a dead man, he starts to feel hungry. Well, he decides, he will just have to put up with it. Even if there is a kitchen here, he can’t walk and there is an active warzone beyond the window. Best stay put.

Stay put for how long, exactly? What if it never stops?

It will stop. It has to. Alastor forces himself to remain calm and reminds himself of how quiet it was when he first fell down here.

There is a little side table in the hallway, one he can reach by half crawling, half dragging himself. He does this on the unlikely off chance that there is anything edible in its drawer.

Nothing, of course. Well, nothing and a little switchblade and a phone book. Pocketing the switchblade, Alastor resumes his place by the wall and examines the phone book. Hell, it seems, is not without restaurants. Interesting.

None will be delivering just now. Alastor sets the phonebook aside and waits, listening to the wails and crashes outside. He thinks over his last day on earth, skirting around the distressing final moments. Damn those dogs.

It occurs to him that he is highly unlikely to ever see New Orleans again and the thought is painful enough that he puts the entire planet out of his mind and focuses on everything that has happened since he left it. The strange creatures peering at him from that doorway. The bloodthirsty angels. And the woman. The woman who smelt of death and perfume and who claimed his very soul.

An unfortunate setback, he assures himself. Just something he had to do, in the moment, to survive. Reversible, surely.

And at least he got some power out of it. Not the social power he spent a lifetime building, the power that comes from smiling a charming smile and looking enough like his wretched father to get by. Actual, literal power. Alastor can feel it surging in his blood. He knows can do more than materialise suits now.

Now there’s a thought: What else could he make?

Perhaps finding out had better wait until there isn’t a murderous angelic legion outside. So he waits. After a while, he sleeps.

He is woken by fireworks. Strange but there is no denying the sound, somehow cheerier than the earlier explosions. Then silence.

He is curled on the floor of the hallway. Hardly comfortable, but it has been a long day. Alastor listens, his new ears straining to pick up any indication from the unnerving silence as to what happens now. When he is met with only more silence, he considers going back to the living room and looking out the window, but decides against it when he recalls that he can’t actually walk. Dragging himself seems far too much effort, especially with the burns actively smarting now. He stays where he is and starts to drift off again.

He wakes again when the door shudders in its frame.

“What the fuck?” says a woman’s voice on the other side. The door rattles harder, and a fruitless clicking suggests someone is attempting to unlock it from the other side.

Which she can’t, of course: Alastor has sealed all the bolts. The door rattles some more, and then whoever is on the other side whacks it with a thump that reverberates through the hallway and yells, “Whoever the fuck’s in there, you’re gonna pay for this! Ya think ya can take advantage of the extermination to steal my apartment you’ve got another thing coming!”

That voice. Alastor knows that voice. Staticky feedback fills the air as his heart starts to hammer.

Another bang, and he hurries unsteadily to his feet to go open up, calling, “Just a moment!” Then falls to his knees with a painful thud.

On the other side of the door there is silence. Then the voice calls again, softer and more guarded. “…Alastor?”

“I’m here!” Alastor crawls to the door and hastily unlocks all the bolts he can reach, then hauls himself to his feet to see to the rest. The voice on the other side of the door calls, more urgently, “Alastor?!”

The moment he slides back the final bolt, the door springs open, knocking him over again.

Then Mimzy is on top of him. “Oh my stars! It is you! You’re dead? That’s great! Well, ya know what I mean.” Mimzy draws back, looks him over with new, black eyes then hugs him again, aggravating the burns but that doesn’t matter at all just now. Alastor burrows into the embrace, the static fading. Usually, he doesn’t care to be touched but this is Mimzy and it has been so long.

He never dreamed they’d be reunited. Not really. The topic of religion had never much interested him. Mama was so certain, her faith bordering on fanatical, and he hadn’t wanted to disregard her beliefs by committing to the atheism so beloved by some of his acquaintance, but nor had he shared her conviction. It had always seemed so unlikely that anyone could know for sure. When Mimzy had died, the idea that they might see each other again had been barely a whisper of an idea. He’d said goodbye in the mortuary. Out loud. But that was only because there was no one around to laugh. Including, he had been fairly certain, Mimzy herself. And now here she is.

Mimzy breaks their hold first, pulling away and staring at him again. She is undeniably herself though she looks a little different with her black eyes and sharp teeth. Possibly she is shorter, though it is hard to tell, being as they are tangled on the floor. She asks, “So what gives, how come you’re down here?”

“Well, my dear, I’m not sure if you remember this little detail, but I was a serial killer.”
Mimzy slaps his arm playfully. “I mean why now ya big pill! I wasn’t expecting ya for ages what with you being so careful and all.”

“Ah, well. It turns out even the best laid plans can be derailed.”

Mimzy waits, as if hoping for more details. When he doesn’t provide them, she asks, “When’d ya get here?”

Alastor sits up a little straighter but doesn’t dare stand. “Earlier today. Or possibly yesterday? Just before that battle, whatever it was.”

She stares. “Ya dropped down here right before the extermination? Fucking hell, Al, ya could have been killed!”

“That…became apparent, yes.”

“How’d ya make it through? Did the angels just miss ya or something?”

“I managed to avoid them and I found my way here” Alastor lies. He doesn’t want to sully the moment by talking about the woman in the alleyway. He senses she could sully anything.

“How could ya tell this is my place?”

He goes for honesty this time. “I couldn’t.”

“Ha! So ya just wandered in here outta all the places!” Mimzy looks delighted for a moment, but then it slips into confusion as she glances at the door. “But how’d ya even get in? I coulda sworn I locked up.” She shrugs. “Then again, I was in a hurry. Exterminations, ya know?”

“No, dear, I don’t know.”

Mimzy stands and starts the process of locking the door again, using her key as well as the bolts. “Oh, well they have them every year, it’s a real drag.” She tests the locks, then turns and heads for the living room. “C’mon, now it’s finally over ya can stop hiding in my hallway.”

Alastor moves to stand, then hesitates. “Ah. Err, Mimzy?”

Mimzy turns around and takes a moment to register that he is still on the floor. She hurries back. “Shit, you ain't hurt are ya? That angelic steel is real nasty stuff, Alastor.”

Yes, thinks Alastor. He remembers. He fixes his smile and assures her, “Nothing so worrisome. I’m simply…not used to my new feet quite yet.”

Mimzy looks curiously at his feet. “Fuck, sweetie, hooves? That’s gonna be a bore.”

“It is so far.”

Mimzy tugs on his arm. “Well here, lean on me. You’ll get used to ’em soon enough.”

“I hope so.” Lacking any real choice in the matter, Alastor allows her to help him over to the sofa. Once there, he sinks heavily into it. Mimzy studies him more critically now. “I shoulda realised you’d just fallen what with how you’re topless and all.” She frowns. “What’s wrong with your face?”

“You have me at a disadvantage, sweetheart: I haven’t seen my reflection yet.” Nor is he quite ready to, he decides.

“Well I don’t think the burns are a part of your demon form.”

“Oh, that would be the rain.”

“Shit, you got rain and angels?” Mimzy laughs. “You sure picked your moment ta fall!”

“Actually I didn’t. That’s rather the point.”

“I’ll get ya some water.” Mimzy heads for what must be a kitchen, since she reappears quickly with a bowl of water and a few cloths. She sets it down on her coffee table, adding, “Oh, fuck, and your pants must be wet! Take them off, kitten.”

“No, thank you.”

“Alastor, I swear to fuck if you end up with third degree burns or something because you’re too much of a bluenose to get naked in front of someone who’s know you for years…”

“I will not get third degree burns. They’ve dried now anyway.”

“Yeah, and probably fused to your skin!” Mimzy heads for the hallway. “I’ll get ya something to wear instead. I think the guy I had here last night left his underwear behind…”

“I will not wear your lover’s discarded underclothing!” Alastor calls after her. When Mimzy doesn’t reply, he reaches for a cloth and wets it before applying it to his face, and to the speckled burns on his chest. It doesn’t seem as fresh as water back home, metallic smelling and murky as it is, but is soothing all the same.

Mimzy reappears with the offensive item she was looking for in one hand and a blanket bundled under one arm. “Just dump your pants on the floor” she tells him, “I’ll pick them up later when I find my gloves. I got gloves and a hat to protect my skin on rainy days ya see. The rain ain't always as bad this, sometimes it just stings a bit and a good hat’ll keep it off.”

Alastor glares at the underwear she holds out to him. Or at least, he tries to. His eyebrows move and his mouth doesn’t. Odd. “I am not wearing that.”

“Uh huh, then we’re on to plan B. Here.” She thrusts the blanket at him. Seeing his expression she adds, “Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not. I’m also not sitting on your couch naked with only a blanket between myself and all of Hell.”

“Not all of Hell, doll face, just my apartment. Anyway, it’s that or let your bits get burnt.”

“Mimzy!” Alastor blushes.

“What? Ya still got the parts don’t you?” Mimzy plonks the underwear on the coffee table. “I’m gonna get us drinks. Call me when you’re done.”

Left alone, Alastor huffs and folds his arms, then flinches as the burns on his arms brush the burns on his chest. Possibly Mimzy has a point about not adding to the damage. Reluctantly, he peels off the rest of his clothing. He has to admit, it is a relief. Burns mottle his skin everywhere the fabric clung, not serious but painful all the same. He resists the temptation to press a cool cloth to his legs, instead covering himself with the blanket as quickly as he can. It doesn’t feel like enough. The lack of pressure on his burnt skin is welcome but he is far too exposed. He takes some time tucking the blanket neatly under and around himself, swaddling himself from his armpits to his…he will still think of them as feet. It makes him look like an invalid but it is better than the one piece of fabric shielding his nudity hanging loosely. Tucking the blanket around his lower back, his hands freeze as they encounter…surely not. Not a tail! Alastor reaches around himself to explore the fluffy appendage, shudders, and hastily covers it up.

He tenses as Mimzy comes back in. She hands him what looks mercifully like a glass of whiskey. “No prohibition down here” she tells him.

“Ah, so we can finally enjoy a drink without fear of punishment and all it took was us both dying young.” Alastor tilts the glass in a little toast.

“Well when ya put it like that” Mimzy mutters. She grudgingly raises her own glass, then takes a drink. “Puts me outta work though. No call for bootleggers in Hell. I just gotta fall back on dancing for a living.”

“A living?”

“Figure of speech, Al.” She looks at the blanket, her eyebrows raising a little. “You should uncover a bit and put more water on those burns.”

“I’m quite alright.”

Mimzy looks about to argue, but shrugs instead. She sits down on the rickety chair. Alastor rather wishes she would sit next to him on the couch instead. After years apart, a chair in the corner seems far away. But he supposes it has been a while and he is in a state of undress. Or perhaps she just wants to be able to see him without twisting sideways? She is staring at him as though she can’t quite believe he is real.

For a moment, they are quiet, drinking their whiskey and glancing at each other to check they are still there. “What’s his name?” Alastor asks at last, for the sake of making conversation.

“Who?”

“The man whose underwear is on the coffee table.”

“Oh, him. I got no clue. And before you say anything, everyone hooks up the night before an extermination.” 

“I wasn’t going to say anything, cher.”

“You were thinking it. I can tell. And you’re still laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you, Mimzy.”
“You’re smiling.”

“I…don’t seem to be able to stop.”

Mimzy considers this. “Well that’s weird.”

Alastor tries to at least moderate the smile. He presses his fingers to his face while Mimzy sets her glass down and looks around for a moment before locating a pair of dainty glove. “Here, I’ll get your clothes in a tub. Wash ’em in enough actual water and the acid ain't noticeable.”

“Thank you, dear. I’d offer to help but…” Alastor glances at the hooves now protruding from the blanket. Each time he looks at them is a fresh shock.

Mimzy gathers up the clothing beside the couch then bustles out into the hall with them. She swears as she trips over the pile of waistcoat and shirt out there, then swears again, with more feeling. She comes back into the living room. “What the fuck, Alastor?” She is holding up his shirt, staring in horror at the hole and the blood.

“Ah…I, err, I got it from a corpse.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes. “That was real stupid. Stopping out in the extermination for something like that? Ya should have just come here naked.” She examines the remains of the suit some more. “Least it’s your size.”

“I’ll get it mended. I presume there are tailors here?” There seemed to be stores, after all.

And he really needs to keep the suit, he thinks. He has literally nothing else to his name, at least until he figures out how to materialise another one.

“Yeah” Mimzy replies, “Someone’ll know what to do with it.” She shrugs and takes the clothes away.

When she returns, she sits back down and takes up her drink. “Anyway, how’ve you been? Apart from dying, I mean. Still got that show of yours?”

“Yes, right up until the end.”

“Good on ya. I hear the stock market crashed?”

“Yes, I reported it all as it unfolded. So very entertaining! Though I must admit the city lost some of its zest for a while.”

“Sam’s Place still going?”

“Oh, yes.” Alastor doesn’t mention that he rarely went there in his final years. It just wasn’t the same without her.

Perhaps some uncertainty shows in his eyes because Mimzy doesn’t press him for more detail. That or she doesn’t care to hear it. Perhaps she has already grieved her mortal life and moved on. She sits back, lighting a cigarette and wordlessly offering him one. He accepts. Once they’ve lit up, Mimzy brightens and changes the subject with, “So how come you’re a deer?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“It’s just…Ya never seemed very deerish. I would’ve had ya pegged as a kitten.”

“Well I’m glad I’m not that.”

“Or an alligator! Fuck knows ya fed ’em enough.”

Alastor considers this. “That would have been preferable.”

Mimzy shrugs, taking a drag. “At least you’re still skinny, ya lucky bastard. Me, I lost five inches and gained five pounds.”

“You look beautiful, Mimzy, as always.”

“Aw, thanks sweetie.” Mimzy gives him a little smile, then gasps and recoils with a cry of, “Alastor?!”

Alastor jolts up, almost rising – however temporarily – to his feet, assuming one of those angels stuck around and snuck in. But then he follows her gaze. “Oh! Not to worry, cher, that’s just my shadow.”

Mimzy’s eyebrows raise but she relaxes a fraction. She stares as the thing swells and gathers itself in a corner, watching them. Alastor watches it back.

As though sensing his foreboding, the shadow wavers for a moment before slinking closer to his side. It has a counterpart to his cigarette and leers at him before taking a drag and discarding it, leaving him still holding his own. Then it folds into the space beside him, resuming a more natural appearance, for now at least.

“What the fuck, Al? First hooves, then blood, now that thing? Ya got anything else ya wanna tell me?”

This time, Alastor almost tells her about his misadventure in the alley, but then he swallows the sorry tale back. There is no need to trouble Mimzy with it. For all he is new here, he senses she could do nothing to help.

Mimzy waits a moment, then sighs. “Sorry. Ya just caught me by surprise is all. That and I’m tired. I’m tellin’ ya, Al, these exterminations don’t get any easier.” She takes a slug of her whiskey.

“They do seem unpleasant.”

“Yeah, I guess ya saw more than me. I always just wait it out in the basement. This is a shitty apartment building but the shelter we’ve got down there is okay. Beats going to a public one at least.” Mimzy takes another drink, then frowns. “Say, how’d ya even wander in here when ya can’t walk?”

“I, err, I didn’t wander so much as stagger.”

“You were damn lucky, doll face.”

Lucky, Alastor feels, doesn’t seem quite the right word for today. He drains the rest of his drink. Mimzy asks, “Ya needed that, huh?”

“It has been a trying day.” Alastor stubs out the remainder of his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.

“Well it’s over now. Middle of the damn night. I’ll find ya some pillows and shit.”

Alastor wishes he could help but it would be useless to offer given that he doesn’t know where anything is and can’t walk. He can only wait as she fetches him some bedding in the form of a second threadbare blanket and a lumpy pillow. If Hell has an economy, Mimzy appears to be on the bottom rung of it. Well, no matter: Now that he is here, he can take care of her.

It is then that Alastor realises that when mama told him he couldn’t take his money and his fame with him, she was being literal. Ah.

Mimzy seems to notice his unease. “What’s the matter?”

“It occurs to me that I have to start my life – or my existence at least – over from scratch.”

“Oh that. We’ve all been there. Clever fella like you? You’ll find a way.” Mimzy gestures for him to lie down. Alastor does, moving carefully to avoid aggravating the burns or losing the blanket, lifting the hooves onto the other end of the couch. They feel heavy, like having shoes on the furniture.

Mimzy spreads the second blanket over him. “Ya got everything ya need to sleep?”

Actually, he doesn’t. Alastor is still hungry but it would be rude to ask to be fed. As for sleeping, he can’t see how he will manage it with his mind unravelling all the questions he has, not least what he will do now. But Mimzy looks tired. For all she is used to Hell, Alastor realises, that angelic attack was clearly not a mundane thing. So he tells her, “I’m fine. Thank you, Mimzy.” He shifts, trying to get comfortable on her couch, his brief annoyance at its modest size resulting in a crackle of static. Mimzy stares. “Was that you?”

“Was what me?”

“That radio noise.”

“Ah, yes. I do appear to also be part radio.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes. “Well, it was gonna happen some day, I guess.”

Chapter Text

Mimzy wakes way too early considering it’s the morning after an extermination. She wonders for a moment what feels different – good different, rare enough down here – then remembers. Tiptoeing outta bed, she peeks into the living room at Alastor.

He’s huddled up on the couch, sleeping the deep sleep of the recently fallen. In the stuffy heat of the room, he’s kicked the blankets off his chest, exposing those streaky burns. Probably a good idea to get some air to ’em, Mimzy decides, for all he’ll feel self conscious when he wakes.

She goes back to bed, hoping to get more sleep in herself. Fuck knows there’s no sleeping in the shelter. For one thing, there’s nowhere to lie down amid all the crap her neighbours haul down there every year for safekeeping. Not that the angels want that shit: It’s the looters they want it safe from. Mimzy don’t have much she’s attached to, just her jewellery, gramophone, records, some clothes in trunks, a couple of hats and her handbag. But the neighbours! Probably they could fit a homeless person in the space they cram with stuff. But it don’t do to be a bleeding heart down here and the homeless folk in this part of town are best left well alone.

At least this building has a shelter. Before she moved in here, Mimzy had to go to the public shelters where the sheer number of people cramming meant no chance to bring the few possessions she accumulated in those early years. She’d wear a couple of outfits and all her jewels and apart from that just keep hold of the little gun she’d scraped and saved for in case anyone tried to take them. Public shelters were great for that: Mimzy should know. She almost always came out with more than she went in with. Compensation to herself for how when she’d get back to her place to find everything she’d left behind gone, grabbed by the crazy bastards who chance it every year in that sweet spot between everyone taking cover and the angels swooping down. Never mind that her place was a tiny studio affair with her bed doubling as her couch and so close to the kitchen unit she could make herself breakfast in bed without getting up.

Course, pickpocketing was for when she could move at all. Some years, the public shelters were so rammed she was lucky if she was upright by her own steam and not because she was being wedged against the wall by the press of bodies, or under some guy’s armpit. Her first extermination, a few people died in the shelter. Crushed and suffocated. Still, it beats being killed by the angels. At least they came back eventually.

Another year, the crowd was so thick around the entrance, Mimzy had to elbow a gal in the face to get in. When the doors closed, the other woman was still outside. She thinks about that sometimes. But sentimental counts for nothing in Hell.

Great, so now she’s not gonna get back to sleep. Mimzy forces herself up outta bed and, wrapping her dressing gown about herself, goes to the window to see what the damage is.

There are corpses everywhere. Homeless people mostly, from what she can tell, but probably a few unlucky looters in the mix too. That sweet spot can be real hard to time. That was what did for Stan, the fella she was going steady with for while til he went down two exterminations back and left her this place. Well, sort of left her this place. He ain't here anymore is the point.

At the end of the street, Lord Cole’s mine stands idle for once. Mimzy imagines he must have a cushy private shelter. All the overlords do. As for his workers, he lets them down the mine for the extermination. Not to work, just to hide. Everyone says that’s got to be safer than the public shelters: Pitch black down there once the lights are out and full of little half abandoned passageways the angels would never find even if they got down there. And why would they go down there when there are all these sinners on the surface just laid out for them?

Literally sometimes: Mimzy spots a corpse tied to the street’s one lamppost. That unlucky bastard must have pissed off the wrong person. Maybe Lord Cole himself, he ain't above that kinda thing.

No sign of the cannibals yet. Rumour has it their queen or mayor or whatever she calls her creepy self doesn’t get on with Cole and that’s why their street is always one of the last to be cleaned. Or maybe it’s just that all of Hell is this corpse strewn today and there’s only so many cannibals to go round. Fucking gross either way: They get dead bodies outside or they get creeps eating them. Mimzy shudders and steps away from the window, keeping the curtains pointedly closed.

She’ll have to go out there though. Alastor will be hungry when he wakes and she’s got nothing in. Luxuries like fine dining – or, well, regular dining – have taken a back seat to Butcher’s demands for repayment just lately. She never even borrowed much! Just enough to pay the rent. And, well, for some shoes, the gramophone and a few nights out but she’s got to have some fun down here. That and she needed to pay off a fella even worse than Butcher, so needs must. But then he piled on the interest and she’s starting wonder if she’ll ever get free of it.

It'll be her soul he’s after next if she’s not careful.

Time was, Mimzy held out for the angels to kill whoever her current creditor was, but that only happened once when she and Stan helped things along with the old lamppost trick. And actually, that weren’t as fun as she’d hoped. Scumbag though the guy was, she almost untied him when he started begging. Only didn’t because who knew how Stan would react. He might have left Mimzy tied up next to the bastard.

She felt bad after, but she got over it. Same story the first time she’d shot a man back on earth. It gets to you the first time.

Now Stan’s gone and she’s never helped the angels to a freebie since. It’s risky, is the problem. You have to stay outside yourself right before the whole thing starts. You can’t just tie a guy up hours before the extermination, you just know he’ll talk someone into letting him go. Mimzy even did that once, on her way to the shelter for her first extermination: She untied a guy who promised to pay her well. He even kept his word, but looking back now, she realises she could have asked for his soul.

In the end, he gave that to Cole and now he’s down that mine, no time for dancing. Which is a real shame: They had fooled around a bit after that first meeting and he was an alright fella. Way nicer than Stan turned out to be.

Mimzy dresses carefully, in clothes that she’d only wear in the evening back on earth. Skirts are getting longer back up there according to new arrivals but Mimzy wants none of that. There’s got to be some perks to being dead, right? People can dress how they like down here so she goes all out.

She does put a coat on though, for the sake of the pockets. Her handbag is still in the shelter and she needs to be subtle about what she’s carrying this morning. Rooting around among the clothes she discarded last night, she finds the jewellery she’s after inside the brassiere she slipped them into and puts them in her pocket.

She leaves the apartment, locking up behind her as quietly as she can so as not to wake Alastor. The longer he sleeps the better. He’ll be feeling those burns once he’s awake and he’ll be tired for a day or two yet. Falling takes it out of you and on top of that he dragged himself to her place during a rainstorm and an extermination.

Which is bullshit of course. Not the dragging: That part’s real enough, Mimzy can see the grazes. But the picking her apartment to hide in outta all the apartments in the building? And falling conveniently close by her building outta all of Pentagram City? Ain't no way he’s telling the truth about that. Mimzy’s apartment is two floors up and she don’t have Alastor: This is Mimzy’s place in case you’re ever in a jam written on the front door.

Still, Mimzy ain't about to look a gift friend from up top in the mouth. Especially not Alastor. She’s missed him. Not just because he’s a useful guy to have around if anyone’s bothering her, though there is that. She’s missed dancing with him. She’s missed his dry humour, and gossiping with him.

She missed him when Stan hit her, and she knew there was someone back on earth who’d have something to say about that but he was a lifetime away, probably chattering into a microphone while it happened. Not that Mimzy is sure how time down here matches up with time up there. Really, she’s stopped keeping track of things back on earth. She hears things now and then, major events and changes in fashion, but she don’t go looking for news. What’s the point when she’ll never see the place again anyway?

That’s gonna suck for Alastor. He loved New Orleans. The city loved him back, in a way, the place just perfectly suiting him and the people all listening to his show.

How’d he even die this soon? He was so careful! She weren’t expecting him til he was old. Really, Mimzy’s kinda glad he got down here before he became some sad old sap, but she reminds herself she’s got to be careful not to show it.

She hopes it weren’t anything slow or painful. Quick has its downsides, of course, it’s disorientating to be bleeding out on the street one moment and crashing down here the next, but having some warning is bound to suck too in its own way.

The sort of men Alastor was pissing off when Mimzy last knew him could give a guy plenty of warning. After they tied him up of course.

The apartment building looks more like a shithole than usual thanks to the rush for the shelter. The threadbare carpet along a section of walkway is pulled up and crumpled and a bucket of sand Ambrose plonked at the turning to the elevator after enough people complained about fire safety is on its side, sand smeared across the landing.

Mimzy avoids the elevator as usual. Ambrose says he’s fixed it but she don’t want to risk another nine hours stuck in there when it decides to break again. Instead she picks her way across the sand, stilling reluctantly when a voice yells, “Mimzy!”

“Suzie!” Plastering a smile on her face, Mimzy turns.

Suzie advances towards her, spraying sand as her reptilian tail lashes. “Where’s my jewellery?” she demands.

“What jewellery?”

“The jewellery I had in my jewellery box down in the shelter, of course!”

“How’d I know? Anyway, ya should wear it if ya don’t want it stolen, I keep telling ya. Ya can’t trust folks in this building.”

“Like you, you mean? If I search your place and find it…”

“Well go ahead and search! Cept, not right now: I’ve got a friend asleep in there.”

Suzie shakes her head. “Wretched harlot.”

That’s the problem with Suzie: She thinks she’s better than everyone else in Hell. Acts like if she judges them hard enough, she’ll claw her way outta here even though judging is probably what got her down here in the first place. It can’t have been having fun that did for her after all: She was a nun. Mimzy tells her, “Look, I still need to go back to the shelter and get the stuff I took down there. I could help ya look if ya want?”

Suzie stares at her a long moment, her gaze trailing from Mimzy’s ears to her neckline, to her hands and then on to the pockets of her coat. Mimzy manages not to flinch as the gaze sweeps over the pocket containing the items in question. She steels herself to push the bitch away and dive for the elevator if need be. Getting stuck is worth the risk just this once. But Suzie sighs and mutters, “I don’t need your help. I know it was you. And you will pay.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” Mimzy smiles. “Say, maybe you could replace it with something actually pretty?” But Suzie is already heading back down the corridor. Mimzy determinedly does not pat the pocket with the jewellery, just in case the bitch looks back.

She goes downstairs. Down here, people have piled the remnants of their smashed windows out in the hallway, not wanting to take it outside and see the corpses. Ambrose is half heartedly sweeping. He greets her with, “You got my money yet?”

“Give a gal a minute here Ambrose, ya only asked me last night!”

“I didn’t ask: I told. I asked bout a hundred times before that.”

“You know what’d really help? If I could go back down to the shelter and get my stuff.”

“You’ll have your stuff when I have my money.”

“Oh fuck you! I need to sell my stuff to get your money.”

“Then why didn’t you do that last week? Anyway, that crap’s not worth what you owe me.”

“No harm giving it back then is there?”

Ambrose leans his broom against the wall and folds his arms. “You’ll get it back when I get my money” he repeats.

Mimzy stamps a foot. “That ain't fair! How do I know you won’t sell it yourself?”

“I will if I don’t get my money.”

“Why? I thought it ain't worth enough?”

“It’s a start. I can get the rest from selling the other crap in your apartment.”

“Like fuck you will! Ya think you’re my only option?”

“I think I am” says Ambrose and the thing is, the asshole is right. No way could Mimzy afford a place like she has here, crappy enough but with its own shelter, a living room separate from the bedroom and with running water inside, not if Ambrose kicked her out. She can only afford what he charges because he don’t charge for the whole apartment. Stan owned twenty percent, and, once he died and good riddance, Ambrose had scribbled out his name on the contract and wrote in Mimzy’s. Only because she’d shown him a good enough time of course. Nothing is for free down here.

Which twenty percent of the apartment she owns varies. If something breaks, sure as shit that part’s her twenty percent and she’s the one that needs to pay for repairs. Mostly, stuff just stays broken.

Mimzy smiles up at Ambrose and tries, “How about you and me go out for a drink some time in lieu of this month’s rent?”

“Last month’s. You owe me this month’s too.”

Another crappy thing about Hell: Ya never get to the end of rent. “Well, two nights out then, how’s that? Ya know you and me can have fun together when we put our minds to it and it’s been too long.”

“Not long enough more like. I paid for half the drinks last time anyway.”

“Okay so we won’t go out. We could just” Mimzy bats her eyelashes “stay in.”

Ambrose rolls his eyes. “You think you’re the only broad in here to try that this month? There comes a point when I just need my money.”

“Alright already! I’ll go get it.”

“You better, or you’ll be out on the streets. I got other options.”

Mimzy stomps out, resisting the urge to insult the bastard. Best just get back on his good side – or his slightly less shitty side at least – what with Al being here and all. If she can get Ambrose his money today, maybe she’ll be able to convince him to let Alastor into the building’s shelter for next extermination.

Outside, the corpses are all still there. Damn cannibals taking their time like always. But over at the mine the towering equipment is moving again, stiffly, like old men stirring after a nap. Soon the smoke and ash will be pouring out the place like nothing happened.

Mimzy takes the long route to the pawn brokers, going via the nicer parts of town. The town is in Hell, of course, so nice is pushing it a bit, but there are neighbourhoods where the rent is higher and the residents longer established. Places where the overlords house their prized souls and business owners who fancy themselves overlords some day flaunt themselves til the actual overlords put them back down.

Places the corpses are worth robbing.

It’s a coward’s way of looting, waiting til after the angels go, but what else is she supposed to do? Suzie’s jewellery ain't gonna be enough on its own, not for two month’s rent and breakfast. So Mimzy trudges through the streets, stepping round the bodies of homeless people and those who’ve been stripped already, then turning round sharply when she comes to a market place crawling with feasting cannibals and heading a different way.

Finally, she comes to a fancy enough street the cannibals haven’t gotten to yet. More than that, it looks like it was hit bad, one of the walls of an apartment block pulled away, leaving each apartment on display like a dollhouse.

Amid the ruins of the wall, the residents are scattered. A few look peaceful, like maybe they died in their sleep, but Mimzy knows they probably didn’t. She puts that thought out her mind and crouches low over the body of a young woman. “Sorry, doll face, but it ain't like ya need it anymore.” She slips the gal’s necklace off, then prises her rings from cold fingers.

Next she searches a dapper looking fella, finding a wallet full of cash. What were these folk thinking, not being in a shelter? Sure, the public ones are real dives but anything’s better than being double dead, right?

Unless they were in a shelter, or heading for one. Maybe the building had one but with the wall down, it was exposed. It must have been like when a kid lifts a rock and finds bugs. Sudden light and panic. Mimzy shudders and moves on.

She ain't the only one at it. As she stumbles about amid the rubble, she spots other folk helping themselves. That and a man crying. She gives him a wide berth.

She finds a handbag, thankfully ownerless, and empties it of money and an antique looking hand mirror. Then she almost trips over an ornate little box that turns out to only have photos inside. She takes these out and pins them to the ground with a brick. No value in them anyway. At least not for her.

Just as she’s thinking that’ll be enough without dealing with another corpse, she remembers Alastor needs clothes. She heads back towards the dapper man, but when she gets there, he is being patted down by a couple of demons, one of them looking up just long enough to catch her eye and raise a fist studded with a knuckle duster. Mimzy backs off. Clothes are something to worry about later.

She heads for a pawn broker she’s fenced for a little over the years, hammering on the door til he lets her in despite not being open to the general public. “I ain't the general public” she tells him, “Anyway, I got ya some good stuff here.”

He gives her a reasonable price. Mimzy knows enough about jewellery to know what to ask for Suzie’s shit and the necklace and rings from the dead woman. Obviously the cash she holds back anyway. It’s the box and the mirror she ain't sure about. They haggle over them for a bit, enough that Mimzy feels she got at least most of the value but not so much she ain't still in good with the guy. She even persuades him to throw in an old fashioned pair of pants and a tattered jumper, stuff she’s seen here a few times now so it ain't like people are falling over themselves to buy them. Then she heads back to her own neighbourhood, keeping clear of the spreading cannibals as best she can.

Places are opening up now, the storekeepers having had time to clean up the mess. Mimzy ducks into a bakery before she leaves the nicer neighbourhoods behind. No one bakes too near the mine. It wouldn’t work, with the way the ash and shit gets everywhere.

Once she’s back in her apartment building, she stomps over to the crappy office Ambrose keeps on the ground floor, bangs on the door, then glares as the broad he was with skitters out. She greets him with the words, “Here. Buy yourself a nice hot meal and choke on it.”

He counts. “You’re thirty bucks short.”

Mimzy sighs heavily, set the bag from the bakery down, pulls out her earrings out her lobes and drops them in his hand.

“Thata girl” he tells her, his big fist closing round them.

“Fucking creep” Mimzy mutters as she takes up her bag again. Straightening up she asks, “So can I get my stuff out the shelter now?”

“Later. I gotta clean up this dump first.” He takes up the broom he could’ve been using all this time instead of fooling around with that gal.

Damn it. Mimzy wants to kick up a fuss, but reminds herself about good sides and getting Al in the shelter. So she don’t storm down there, she just growls, “I know what I got down there. If I get down there and find anything missing I’ll hold back its value in rent.”

“You keep telling yourself that, bitch.” Ambrose turns his back.

Mimzy trudges, muttering and swearing, back up the stairs and lets herself back into her apartment, then seals all the bolts behind her. “Alastor?” she calls softly, in case he’s still sleeping. He must be, because there’s no reply. But when she gets into the living room, the couch is empty except for one lone blanket. “Alastor?”

There is a clatter and a muttered curse from the bathroom. Mimzy sets everything down and knocks tentatively on the door. “You okay in there, sweetie?”

“Don’t come in.”

Uh huh, so the door must be unlocked then. Mimzy goes inside.

“Mimzy! I said don’t come in!”

“Yeah, yeah. I seen it all before, Al.” Actually there’s nothing to see; His precious modesty is all covered up by the blanket he’s clutching while huddled on the floor. His hands are still blistered and his face is a patchwork burns and less obvious burns. Despite that weird permanent smile, he looks self conscious. Mimzy asks, “Did ya fall?”

Alastor looks about to deny it but then sighs and nods. “It’s these damn hooves.”

“You’ll get used to them” says Mimzy because he has to, right? People do. Ya see people with hooves walking just fine.

She watches as Alastor wraps the blanket tighter around himself and stumbles to his feet. Stumble being the word for it. Once he’s upright, he wobbles for a moment, before tilting sideways and catching himself on the sink. Mimzy reaches to help but he brushes her hand away, clinging to the sink instead. Mimzy glares. “Alastor!”

He lowers his gaze. “I’m sorry” he tells her, “This is something of an adjustment.” He shifts like he’s about to take a step and then thinks better of it.

After being brushed off like that, Mimzy kinda wants to be mad at him but she can’t summon it up. She sighs. “Yeah, I know. Look, sit on the floor again can’t ya? If you pull the sink out the wall it’ll become the twenty percent I own.”

Alastor looks puzzled but lowers himself carefully to sit beside the buckets of water that fill half the room. In one, his suit from last night is submerged in a coil. Mimzy follows his gaze to it and says, “I think it’ll need another soak in fresh water before it won’t sting to wear. But I got ya some clothes. Nothing fancy” she adds quickly in case he’s expecting something that matches or fits properly or something else her budget won’t stretch to.

“Thank you” says Alastor, “I will pay you back.” He frowns and adds, “Once I find a job, I suppose.” He glares down at the hooves and mutters, “For that I’ll need to be able to walk.”

Mimzy nods, the realisation settling heavy in her stomach. She’ll need to take care of him til then and how’s she supposed to do that?

Then she thinks, maybe the same way he’ll have to learn to walk on those hooves: One step at a time. “You should take a bath. Get some water on those burns. I’ll deal with the suit.” She starts tugging on the bucket containing the soaked clothing. When Alastor looks at her questioningly, she explains, “I gotta tip it out in the utility room. There ain't no drain or tap in here apart from the sink and I can’t lift it up there.”

Alastor looks defeated at that and Mimzy realises he usually could, him being a big strong man and all, but of course he can’t do that without being on his feet.

Which means he prepare a bath either. Mimzy abandons the suit and fetches the tub from its hook on the wall, before hefting the water from the smaller buckets into it, half filling it with cold water. “If ya want it warm I’ll have to use the stove.”

“Cold is fine.” Alastor watches as Mimzy resumes dragging the bucket with the clothes out the door, still looking unhappy somehow, despite the smile. Something in the eyes. Mimzy shuts the door so he can uncover himself and figure out how to get into the tub. He’ll probably prefer for that to be his problem. She drags the bucket to the front door, unlatches all the bolts, drags it out and locks up behind her. Can’t be too careful, especially with Butcher wanting paying.

Maybe she oughta go out and do some more looting? Except the good stuff will all be taken by now. Damn Ambrose wanting his precious rent: If it weren’t for him, she could have kept Butcher off her back for another week or two.

Hopefully he’ll be busy grabbing territory or whatever else guys who think they’re tough do the day after Extermination Day. Or maybe he’s dead. But there she is again hoping the exorcists will clear her debt and they never do. Bastards like Butcher always survive.

Reaching her floor’s utility room, Mimzy pauses to catch her breath. The place is filthy. Being a communal space, it’s supposed to be cleaned by everyone so it’s cleaned by no one. Really it’s glorified cupboard with cracked tiles halfway up the wall, stained where prevents piss in it. It contains nothing but a drain, a tap stuck out the wall opposite the door and a stick with a hook on one end for reaching the tiny, ash smeared window above the tap, which no one does cause that would let the ash in. Mimzy shoves the bucket over, stepping sharply out the way of the splash in case the acid ain't diluted enough.

The splash is red from the blood on the suit. Typical really. Alastor shows up and now she’s cleaning up blood. It’s an activity she associates with him almost as much as drinking and dancing.

The suit flops out onto the grimy tiles and, once the water’s drained away, Mimzy pokes the fabric with the stick to squeeze it out a little. Then she runs the tap and rinses it again. Once she’s certain it won’t burn her to touch them, she bundles the clothes back into the bucket and refills it. Then she drags it all back to her place, unlocks the door, hauls it through, locks up behind her.

Listening at the bathroom door, she reassures herself from the gentle splashes and shuffling that Alastor got himself into the tub without knocking himself out or some shit. She fetches the new clothes and knocks. “Alastor? I got something for ya to wear.”

“Thank you, Mimzy.”

“I’ll leave it outside, okay?” As she says it, Mimzy wonders how he’ll get to the door to retrieve them. How’d he lock the door to bathe, come to think of it? Perhaps he didn’t. She tries the door.

That creepy shadow from last night rears up from under it. Mimzy stumbles back. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Mimzy?”

“Alastor, you creepy bastard, you call that thing off right now!”

“What thing?”

“The shadow!” Mimzy waves her hand at it. “Go! Go on, shoo!”

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to call it back, dear. I don’t think it liked you trying to open the door.”

“Hey, I was just checking! If you hadn’t locked it, I coulda put your clothes inside!”

“Outside is fine.”

Mimzy tries clapping her hands. The shadow just grins ominously. She resorts to flicking water from the bucket at it. It startles and streams back under the door like a frightened cat. “There, ya bastard!”

“I felt that.”

“Well call it back next time!”

“Don’t try to walk in on me while I bathe next time.”

“I was just trying to give you your clothes!” Mimzy wipes her hands on her dress. “How’d you even get over here to lock it?”

“I managed.”
“Yeah but how?”

“If you must know, it was the same way I got from the couch to the bathroom.”

Mimzy waits. When Alastor don’t elaborate she kicks the door gently. “Which was?”

“…I crawled.”

Mimzy hates the thought of Alastor having to get around like that. “Ya shouldn’t do that, sweetie. It’ll hurt the burns.”

“I’m fine.”

Mimzy shakes her head. She knows Al. He’ll say he’s fine as long as he’s conscious.

Maybe it’s best to just let him. Sighing, she goes into the kitchen and starts to cook breakfast. Well, to heat it up.

She abandons it and runs back to the bathroom when a crash rings out. “Alastor!” she hammers on the door. Nothing. Mimzy knocks again. “Al?”

“Sorry, dear!” Alastor sounds tired and strained. “I just…” His voice drops a little “I tripped as I got out the tub.”

“You want the clothes now? If ya unlock, I’ll just pass them through.” Mimzy waits, hearing a scrambling sound beyond the door. “Alastor?”

“Just one moment, dear.” More scrambling, and then the door is unlocked. Alastor opens it slowly, shuffling awkwardly with it so he can cling to it with one hand. The other hand clutches the blanket to his chest. Once he has the door open, he sags sideways against the wall. Mimzy catches him arm, causing him to flinch, though she ain't sure if that’s the burns or the contact. “Sit down, sweetie” she tells him, guiding him to the floor.

“I apologise. I seem to be a little fatigued.”

“Ya just fell yesterday” Mimzy tells him, “You’ll be completely done in.” She glances around and, seeing that he took half the water with him when he fell out the tub, starts mopping up with a towel. Alastor watches, that unhappy expression sitting weirdly above the smile again. Mimzy adds, “When I first got down here, I slept fifteen hours straight. Once I’d found somewhere to sleep of course.”

“Dare I ask where you found?”

“Some guy took me in. Some of them do that, they swoop in ta help when a lady falls.”

Static fills the room as Alastor frowns disapprovingly above the smile. Mimzy assures him, “It was alright” even though it wasn’t really. She’d known the guy was taking advantage, but she’d told herself at the time that knowing somehow made it better. Like going in with your eyes open somehow improves what you see.

Once they’d been to bed together, he was done with her but at least he let her sleep in before he kicked her out. She kind of hates that she’s grateful for that.

“I’d like to meet this fellow” says Alastor.

Mimzy laughs. “Sweetheart, if ya want to meet every man down here that takes advantage of gals like me you’re gonna have a long list.”

“I suppose I will” replies Alastor. Then his red eyes widen. “They must all be here, mustn’t they?”

“Who?”

“The men I killed!”

“Oh, sure. I even met a few.”

Alastor stares at her in horror and Mimzy figures he must be worried they hurt her, so she adds, “Well you remember that tall, blonde fella ya took out the year before I died?”

Alastor narrows his eyes. “The one you said looked handsome in his missing person poster?”

“Yeah, him! Way less handsome now he’s covered in fur, but he works security for this big shot overlord on the other side of the pentagram. I just keep my distance.”

“Overlord?”

“Uh huh. And you remember George? I know got to him first but you were planning on killing him too, so it still counts. Anyway, me and him did a couple of bank jobs together a while back. He let me in on it in return for me not telling anyone he got murdered by a woman!”

More static. Somehow it sounds puzzled this time. “There are banks down here?”

“With Lord Nicholas around you bet there is. He runs the whole banking system in Hell. Once he was starting to close in on us, I quit while I was ahead. Course George weren’t so smart and now the bastard owns him.” Mimzy drapes the sodden towel over the side of the tub.

“Owns him?”

Mimzy sits down beside him, crossing her legs. “It happens all the time down here. I’ve managed to keep myself out of a contract so far though.” She won’t forever, she knows. That’s something that keeps her awake at night: Eventually, everyone is owned by someone. Sometimes she wonders if it’d just be better to sign a contract now, while she still has her pick, but having a choice of monsters doesn’t stop them being monsters.

Alastor is silent for a long time, mulling this over. Finally he asks, “Is there any risk George will tell this Nicholas about you?”

“Well…I maybe told Lord Nicholas’s boys about George. Kept my soul in return. I had to give all the money back of course.” If she’d have spent any more of it, she really would have had to sign a contract and Nicholas is one of the nastier ones.

“Well done, dear” says Alastor absently. He still looks troubled. Mimzy prods him gently. “Are ya gonna get some clothes on and get off the floor now? I can help ya if ya want.”

Alastor sighs deeply and turns to look out the door. Mimzy figures the short distance between here and the couch must seem a long way to him right now.

And then he disappears into a black mist. Mimzy screams. “Fuck! Alastor! Alastor! Shit! Where’d he go!?”

“Mimzy?”

Mimzy springs up and runs to the living room. Alastor is sat on the couch there, hastily covering himself with the blanket he left there this morning. “Alastor!” She flings her arms around him before she remembers about the burns. Alastor hisses. Mimzy lets him go. “Fuck, sorry.”

“Quite alright, dear.”

“What the hell just happened?”

“I don’t…I’m not sure.”

“One minute you were there, the next you were gone in a puff of smoke or something!”

Alastor cautiously sniffs at a burnt arm. “I don’t seem to smell of smoke.”

“Well it was something black! Black fog or…or…” Mimzy’s eyes fall on the shadow, which is curled in a corner and convulsing like it’s laughing at her. “You!” she marches towards it, clenching her fist. “You did that! You made him disappear!”

“But it did deposit me on the couch, Mimzy, dear, which is where I wanted to go.”

Mimzy ignores him, telling the shadow, “If you ever do that again I’ll…I’ll shine a torch on ya or something!”

The shadow stops laughing and slips under the couch. Alastor says, “I don’t think it liked that idea.”

“Good.”

Alastor looks back towards the bathroom, then down at the couch he’s on. “What a useful trick. I’ll have to practise though. I don’t like that I vanished without the blanket.”

“I don’t like that ya vanished!”

“If I could learn to do it without leaving my clothes behind, it could get around the hooves problem.” Alastor’s ears tilt back as he adds, “Though I would like to walk eventually.”

Mimzy glares at him. “So walk already! No vanishing inta puffs of smoke!”

“It wasn’t smoke, dear.” Alastor sniffs. “Though now you mention it…”

Mimzy registers the smoke too. “Shit, the croissants!” She hurries to the kitchen and rescues them from the oven. They are burnt enough to be crunchy. “Sorry, Al” she tells him, coming back into the living room to present him with what could have been a nice breakfast.

“It’s quite alright” he tells her.

“No, it ain't! I bought these specially for your first full day down here!”

“Isn’t burnt food rather appropriate for one’s first full day in Hell?” Alastor bites into a croissant gamely.

Mimzy sighs. “I’ll go make coffee. I got coffee at least.”

Once they are seated with coffee, picking at the better bits of the croissants, Alastor asks, “What is an overlord? You mentioned it earlier.”

“They’re the folk in charge down here” Mimzy explains. “Well, I guess Lucifer technically is but no one ever sees him.” She sips her coffee and adds, “So the overlords have kinda stepped in. They own people’s souls and put ’em to work keeping things running. Build roads, print newspapers, that kinda shit. We’ve got a banking overlord, a mining one, a few who manufacture stuff folk will buy, you know, clothes, cocaine, guns, that kinda thing.”

Alastor’s eyebrows raise but he says nothing. Mimzy adds, “And honestly, there’s some that don’t do anything useful. They just gain territory and claim souls. You wanna keep outta the way if you ever come across any of them fighting.”

Alastor thinks about this. “They own souls?”

“Yeah. Like I said, it’s normal here.”

“And…what does owning a soul entail?”

Mimzy shrugs. “Once someone’s signed a contract their soul’s owner can usually summon them whenever they like and they gotta do whatever they’re told.”

Alastor sets the remnants of the croissant aside, looking a little paler than he did a moment ago. Mimzy figures he must have just been being polite pretending to enjoy it. In an oddly light tone, he asks, “Are any of them women?”

“Just two. Lord Rosie and Lord Neas. Roise’s a cannibal. Think sharp teeth, black eyes, fucking spooky.” She pauses and adds, “I mean I know my eyes are black but at least I’ve got pupils. Neas, she’s more like a drowned ghost. I’m telling ya, Al, money does not buy beauty down here.”

Alastor seems lost in thought and responds with only a twitch of his ears. Mimzy shrugs and gathers up the empty coffee mugs, goes to dump them in the sink. When she comes back, Alastor says, “I don’t like the idea that all the men I killed are down here.”

“What, in case they come after ya? Sweetie, no one knows you’re here.”

“It’s not that.”

“What then? Would ya prefer them to be in Heaven?”

There is a ripple of static. “I’d prefer for them not to exist. I thought I was doing the world a favour by ridding it of them. Now it seems I simply relocated them.”

“Al.”

“All that time, all that work. Just to send them down here to carry on their depravity!”

“Alastor.”

“I have to find a way to kill them for good! Or everything I did back on earth was just a waste of time!”

“Alastor!”

“What?”

Mimzy points. “Your eyes have kinda turned into radio dials. It’s fucking creepy.”

Alastor blinks hard a few times. “Better?”

Mimzy relaxes. “Yeah, they’re gone.” What the fuck though. Mimzy stares.

Alastor sits quietly for a while, shifting back into looking pensive above the smile. His hand wanders to his neck and back.

Mimzy wonders what to say. That he can kill those fellas all over again? Sure, it’d give him a project, but he’ll need to be able to walk first. And have angelic steel if he wants to do it properly and that’s rare enough. Plus, chances are at least half of them are contracted to an overlord by now and completely out of reach unless Alastor does something really stupid.

Maybe better to just distract him. Mimzy tries to think of something to say when…

“Mimzy! I know you’re in there you dumb broad!” The front door rattles in its frame making Mimzy and Alastor both jump.

Alastor raises an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”

“For fuck’s sake” Mimzy mutters.

Butcher yells again. “You better let me in right the hell now!”

“Fuck.”

“Mimzy?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, sweetie.”

“Mimzy, open up before I come in there and open your guts up!”

“I rather beg to differ” says Alastor. He frowns at the door leading to the hallway. “I could try going out there.”

“And do what? Alastor, ya can’t walk!”

“I can vanish into a puff of smoke as you put it. I could appear behind him and with any luck get a well placed hit in.” His frown deepens as he adds, “Of course, I’d be naked.”

Another bang on the door. This time it groans on its hinges. Mimzy whispers, “Sweetie, you’ve got no weapon.”

“So give me a weapon.”

“I do have a gun.” Mimzy starts to stand then sinks back with a groan. “No I don’t, it’s still in the basement! Ugh, when I get hold of that bastard Ambrose!”

Another crash and the door shudders. Alastor asks, “A knife, perhaps?”

Mimzy hurries to the kitchen and returns with one. Handing it to him, she asks, “Are ya sure you want to do this?”

“No. But I can’t see we have any alternative.” With that Alastor vanishes. Mimzy yelps. Then she tenses as a new voice calls out, “Mimzy, open up already!”

A new voice! There’s more than one of them out there and Alastor went out thinking he was only up against one! Mimzy runs for the door, hoping to distract them or help somehow, when a scream rings out and she stumbles to her knees, covering her mouth with her hand.

Alastor. That had to be Alastor. They got him. Forcing herself up, she tugs back all the bolts and flings open the door and…

And stares. Butcher’s head is on her doorstep. The rest of him is a few feet away, slumped against the far wall and the hallway is full of… “Shit!” Mimzy ducks back behind the door, peeping round it to stare at the shadowy tentacles waving wildly about. They rip through whichever goon Butcher brought with him like the guy’s made of paper.

Goons. Steeling herself to step a little closer, Mimzy counts three more of them. Butcher can’t have been collecting the next instalment. He must have given up on the debt and just come here to kill her. She shivers, then ducks as a spray of blood hits the door.

How is Al doing this? Mimzy stares until spots him amid the mass off tentacles. Two of them are kinda holding him up while the rest tear into the thugs. He’s laughing.

He’s still laughing when all the demons are dead and he crashes to the ground as the tentacles vanish. It’s a ragged, relieved sort of sound, like he’s been waiting to let loose since he got down here. Or maybe a lot longer than that. “Oh that was fun!” he gloats, “I could get used to this! I…Mimzy?”

Mimzy glances at him and away again. "Yeah, Al?"

“Could I have those clothes now please?”

Mimzy nods mutely and goes to get them, throwing them at him and looking quickly away because him being naked is somehow more noticeable now he’s not busy killing people and laughing about it.

The hallway is sticky with blood. She hopes Ambrose don’t charge her for this.

Alastor makes no comment about how threadbare and mismatched the pants and jumper she got from the pawnbroker are.

Mimzy waits until his lower half is covered before she glares at him and snaps, “What the fuck, Alastor, tentacles!? Why didn’t ya tell me ya have tentacles? I thought you were going to die, popping up out here!”

“I didn’t know I had them” says Alastor mildly. He pulls on the jumper. It is several sizes too big and coming unravelled at the elbow. He frowns and rubs his back.

Mimzy softens a little. “Took ya by surprise did they?”

“Something like that.” Alastor yawns suddenly. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m rather tired all of a sudden.”

Mimzy smiles. “I figured ya might be.” She pulls him to his feet and braces herself to steady him when he wobbles. “C’mon. I got a couch with your name on it.”

Chapter Text

Waking, Alastor has a moment of blankness before the awareness that he is in Hell floods back. He sighs and closes his eyes, hoping to recapture that blankness. In his sleepy brain, blankness feels like a sort of junction, as if he could return to it and wake up in New Orleans instead.

Nonsense, of course. And lying awkwardly on the couch is giving him back ache. Or perhaps that is the burns. He sits up.

It is evening. Or at least, that is what he assumes the lack of red right seeping through the curtains means. He must have slept the day away.

A note on the coffee table reads: Gone to work, back later. Alastor is struck by how ordinary it seems. Work in Hell. No fire or brimstone or burning sulphur, just employment. Rent perhaps. Taxes? Who to? He has so many questions that he wants to start writing them down, but Mimzy won’t want to be troubled with questions when she comes home.

Alastor shifts around a little, trying for a position that exposes as few burns as possible to the rough texture of the couch. Then he sighs, leaning back and studying the door to the hallway. If he could walk he could make himself useful while his hostess is gone, perhaps find that utility room and refill those buckets in her bathroom, or clean or…

At the thought of cleaning, Alastor sits bolt upright, stifling a pained gasp. The bodies outside! How could he be so stupid? He just let Mimzy help him to this couch and more or less passed out on it! She must have cleaned up by herself and she won’t have done anything like a good enough job at scrubbing the blood from the floor. If anyone heard anything…

And then he relaxes with a little laugh. So what if anyone heard anything? There may be commerce down here but Alastor is prepared to bet there are no police. The shadow slips from under the couch and grins, as if sharing the joke.

Still, he ought to check. Knowing that police are unlikely and leaving corpses on the doormat are two different things. Alastor stands, wobbles, and manages to stay upright on his unfamiliar feet. Then he takes a step and falls over.

Fine. Crawling it is. Demeaning as it is, it at least gets him from place to place, and no one is watching except his own shadow, separate as that feels. The thing hovers as he makes his way to the front door, looking annoyingly amused at his predicament.

Entering the hallway, he finds his way blocked by a variety of bags and boxes. Most hold clothes and hats but one appears to be full of records and another contains a gramophone. More a flat disc phonograph, really. Hand cranked. Mon Dieu, but Mimzy has gone down in the world.

Navigating around the boxes, Alastor clutches the doorknob, stands awkwardly and attempts to open the door.

It is locked. Apparently Mimzy did consider that he might want to be free to come and go. Not unreasonable since he cannot walk, but Alastor still feels slighted. He is a grown man after all: He should have the option to go outside even if he is slightly impeded and outside is Hell.

Unable to check for spots of blood or stray fingers, he will simply have to hope that Mimzy managed the clean up by herself. Shameful that he let her. He will have to make it up to her once he is back on his feet, figuratively and literally. His list of debts to her seems to be growing by the hour.

He makes his way to the bathroom, considering an attempt to walk there, but deciding against it on the ground that he doesn’t want to fall and squash any of Mimzy’s hats, or break the gramophone, such as it is. Instead, he resorts to crawling again, standing up only once he is in the bathroom doorway, clinging to the frame.

There is a mirror in here. Small and grimy, but functional all the same. He avoided it when he briefly stood in this room earlier. Now seems as good a time as any to correct that cowardice.

The room is not large and he crosses it in three wobbly steps, grabbing the sink to keep himself from falling. Next, he looks down at the sink – and at his sharp clawed fingers – for a long moment before looking at his reflection.

He recoils, and clatters to the floor, landing hard on burnt skin. Cursing, he clambers upright, holding on to the sink once more, and looks again.

Obviously, he knew he has changed. He’s seen the hooves. He’s felt the antlers and the ridiculous ears. But seeing his face is still a shock.

He looks like his father. He always did but it is worse now. His hair is straight. His eyes are nothing like mama’s. They are red. He is barely recognisable. Even aside from looking monstrous, just looking so different feels strange in a way Alastor isn’t sure he could put into words. Just as well really, since no one is here to ask.

If he doesn’t recognise himself, can he still be himself?

He takes a few breaths, firmly pulling himself together. Unwelcome as these changes are, he cannot change them so will simply have to accept them. He supposes it makes sense that the fates would mock him. He is a damned soul after all.

He has sharp teeth. Yellow, unfortunately, but sharp. He can work with that.

He crosses the bathroom on uncertain feet again, then manages to propel himself across the corridor from bathroom doorway to living room doorway without breaking any of Mimzy’s things. From there, crawling is once again a grim necessity. Clambering onto the couch, he decides enough is enough. The sooner he can walk, the sooner he can work out some sort of plan for the rest of his...what, existence? Eternity? Somehow, the idea doesn’t seem as daunting as it should, though whether this is another change he has undergone or due to having lost his life on one plane of existence already and having no wish to do so again, Alastor isn’t certain.

Perhaps it really is eternity. Unless he meets another angel and he has no desire to do that. Well, eternity then. He won’t have an enjoyable one if he remains stuck on Mimzy’s couch, and there is no time like the present to change that.

Within a few hours, Alastor is covered in bruises but has progressed to walking six steps at a time. Wobbly steps, of course, his arms out for balance and his hooves skidding on the hardwood floor when he finally makes his way into the kitchen, but it is something.

Mimzy has no food in. Apparently, those croissants were the full extent of her shopping this week. Sighing, Alastor wobbles his way back to the couch and sits down. More walking on an empty stomach is not an appealing prospect. Back on earth he could simply go out and buy dinner. Buy Mimzy some groceries while he was at it. But here? He is helpless. The awareness of that grates, enough to sap his motivation to walk, despite knowing that is what he needs to master first if he is going to make his way down here.

Can he even do that? Does radio exist on this plane? A quick glance around the room confirms that Mimzy doesn’t have one, which surely she would if the technology existed. Judging by that gramophone, Hell is regrettably behind the times.

Another job then. Just when he thought losing his face and feet was bad enough, it appears he will have to part with his passion. Particularly cruel that just as his body starts to function as a radio, there is no signal to pick up.

Wanting a distraction, Alastor staggers over to the window. The curtains are still drawn. He parts them to look down on the street.

It is much like the most deprived areas of New Orleans, albeit redder. Even in what is undeniably dusk, the sky is a deep, dull red. The buildings are ramshackle, stories piled on top of each other randomly, in a manner that suggests some were added long after the original building went up. Between buildings, alleyways are crammed with makeshift shelters. The whole place seems grimy, and, looking closer, Alastor realises that a fine residue of ashy muck covers more or less everything in sight. Glancing up the street he sees the culprit. Mining equipment, far closer to Mimzy’s home than would be allowed back home.

There is a factory too, or perhaps a smelting facility, looming behind the buildings a street or so over. Between its bulk and the dark red sky, it doesn’t feel like he is looking at the outside world. Are there no stars here?

Turning his attention back to the street, Alastor studies the buildings again, setting aside the haphazard nature of their construction to focus on their function. The seem to mostly consist of housing, interrupted here and there by businesses: A betting shop, a laundrette, a store openly selling drugs, no less than four bars. And a restaurant. Given his hunger, Alastor has no wish to look at it. He closes the curtains again and stumbles back to the couch.

A key scrapes the lock and the front door creaks open. “I’m home!” Mimzy yells. There is the sound of bolts sliding as she locks up behind her. She bustles into the living room, pausing to kick off her heels and hang up a coat that must surely be too warm for Hell. From its pocket, she pulls a paper wrapped bundle and waves it at him. “Heya, doll face, I got ya some dinner.”

Alastor perks up at this. “Thank you, dear.”

“Oh, it ain’t much. Here, I’ll heat it up and get it on a plate for ya.” Mimzy heads into the kitchen and, following some clattering, returns with a plate of oddments.

She is right: It isn’t much. It is in fact reheated scraps and a smattering of bar snacks. Alastor tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. It occurs to him that the permanent smile might serve him well in that regard.

“I know it ain’t a dinner, exactly” says Mimzy, sinking down beside him, “But I only get one free meal at work so I had to split it. Well, give ya a bit of it at least. In my defence, Al, I need the energy. You ain’t been dancing tonight.”

“No. I certainly haven’t been doing that.” Will he ever do that again, he wonders. Walking perhaps. But dancing? On these hooves, it is unimaginable. He stabs at Mimzy’s meagre offering with the fork she provided. Really, everything he has right now she provided and appearing ungrateful would be far from gentlemanly, but neither can he muster up the will to appear pleased.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I swear I’ll get ya an actual full meal tomorrow. Maybe even two if I can find someone to lend me the cash.”

“Are you in some sort of trouble, dear?”

“What? No!” Mimzy gives that laugh she only ever uses when she’s in trouble. “I’m just in the red a little is all. I got it in hand, don’t you worry.”

Alastor sighs. Of course he will worry. What else he can do is another question.

Mimzy adds, “Anyway, ya just killed the guy I owe so until he comes back I’m in the clear. I just need to wait for my actual paycheck and we’ll be eating like royalty.”

Uneasy at this reminder of his dependency, Alastor turns his attention to his meal. He finishes quickly, not because he is in a rush but because there isn’t much of it. Once he’s done, Mimzy dumps the plate in the kitchen and pours them both a whiskey. Alastor sips gratefully and asks, “What happened to the bodies?”

“Oh, out there? Ambrose cleaned them up. My landlord. Bitched about and threatened to send me the bill but I can still charm him when I gotta. He even let me fetch my things out the shelter.”

“Let?”

“Say, did ya see my gramophone? Cost me a week’s wages but it’s good by down here’s standards.”

“It’s lovely” Alastor lies.

“So what have ya been doing here while I was gone?”

“Working out how to walk on these hooves mostly.”

“And?”

Alastor takes a steeling sip of whiskey. “I’m making progress. Just not enough or fast enough.”

“Well ya don’t need ta rush it. You’re down here forever ya know.”

Alastor thinks of the red, starless sky and shudders. Trying to sound casual he adds, “I saw my reflection.”

Mimzy sighs deeply. “Oh yeah? I remember how that feels.” She holds up a hand before Alastor can reassure her, telling him, “Sure I still look human but I don’t look like me, ya know? Or I didn’t. Now I do, even though I ain’t changed. I just got used to me.” She takes a long gulp and adds, “Ya don’t look too bad, ya know. Loads of people look like animals down here and ya ain’t the only one with yellow teeth. Anyway, do ya want to hook up with anyone?”

“Obviously not.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Surely I don’t need to step out with someone to justify looking my best?”

“I guess not, but still. Why bother otherwise?”

“You can’t be on the market for a sweetheart every time you wear nice clothes” Alastor tells her.

“Maybe not but if one comes along a big enough wallet, who am I ta complain?” She laughs, then adds, “So ya still don’t want a sweetheart?”

“Goodness, no.”

“Not even a man?” Mimzy gestures, spilling a few drops of her whiskey. It occurs to Alastor that she may have already had a few drinks wherever it is she works. She tells him, “No one down here would stop ya. I mean, there’s still folk who’ll judge but what can they do? No law against it down here and most of the overlords don’t care who ya go to bed with.” Mimzy considers this for a moment. “Just stay outta Lord Forsaken’s territory if you’re into that. And on Lord Ilbert’s turf ya can do it but not in public. And maybe keep away from Lord Nicholas too.”

It rather sounds to Alastor as though some people would stop him. Theoretically that is. Are there laws here or aren’t there?

Mimzy concludes, “But none of the others mind it from what I’ve heard. I mean, what’s the point of worry about who ya make whoopee with now? So if ya want to get yourself a man…”

“I don’t want to get myself a man. Why on earth would I?”

“...I’d tell ya, sweetie, but it’d ruin your innocence.” Mimzy frowns and adds, “Not that that’s not gonna go anyway. Ya can’t be a virgin in Hell, Alastor.”

“Why not?”

“Cause there’s plenty down here who’ll see it as a challenge.”

“And you’re worried about my virtue, cher?” Alastor teases, then feels a little startled to realise that she actually is. “I’ll hardly broadcast it” he assures her.

“Ya better not.” Mimzy looks unhappy but says no more.

Wishing to change the subject, Alastor says, “I noticed you locked the door.”

“Well I had to. There’s some real bad types down here. It’s sort of the point of the place.”

“Still, there was no need. Surely I’ve proven I can handle matters if anyone broke in.”

“You were asleep, Al.”

“What if there had been a fire?”

“Aw c’mon, what are the chances! There’s only been one major fire the entire time I’ve lived here. Okay, two. Five. And it wouldn’t kill ya. Well, not permanently. Anyway, I only got the one key and I couldn’t leave it unlocked.” Mimzy shifts tucking her feet up on the couch and adds, “Besides, if there was a fire ya could have done that creepy shadow thing.”

“What creepy...Oh, yes.”

“See? Ya don’t need to worry about walking now you’ve figured that out.”

“I thought you didn’t like it?”

“It was a shock is all. But now you’ve used it to take out Butcher I can see the upsides.” Mimzy raises her glass.

Alastor considers his shadow, and then his empty plate, reluctant to suggest the idea that is forming in his mind. Mimzy has provided all she can, after all, and it seems impolite to suggest it is not enough. But it is not enough. He is hungry. Quite possibly, so is she. So he says, “I suppose I could use the ability to get us a little more to eat?”

“Great idea! There’s a place right across the street.”

Alastor nods. “I saw it earlier.” He pauses. He saw it from the outside, he realises, but he has no idea of the internal layout. What if he melts into the shadows and reappears inside a wall?

Mimzy frowns. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m rather going in blind.”

She shrugs. “You’d never seen the hallway before til ya popped out there to kill Butcher.”

“That was different. I knew there was a hallway and I could tell from his voice roughly where he was.” Alastor considers the matter, feeling his ears flick downward in concentration. With some effort, he raises them again. It wouldn’t do to have the damned things betray his emotions.

“Does it really matter?” Mimzy asks, “It ain’t like ya can’t just leave if someone’s there.”

“I’m more concerned with where I might land.” Alastor glances over as the shadow rears up beside him as if sensing the prospect of an outing. Alastor tells it, “Don’t get too excited. I don’t know if we can go yet.”

“Don’t talk to it, Al, it’s fucking creepy.”

“Sorry, cher.” Alastor can’t help but feel this is a little unfair. The shadow has stayed out the way most of this evening, skulking around the corner of the room while he practised walking, watching that homeless man with three eyes bed down for the night outside the laundrette across the street.

Alastor blinks. How does he know there is a homeless man outside the laundrette? There was no one there when he looked out the window earlier. Since then, he’s avoided the window.

But his shadow hasn’t. “Ah” he says, “I think I see how we can do this…”

A few hours later finds Alastor dining on curry; not the creole comfort food he was hoping for but he imagines that people from all over the world must end up in Hell. At least it is a full meal and it tastes delicious, if unfamiliar. Clearly, the chef he just stole from knows their stuff.

Mimzy, meanwhile, has some sort of savoury pastry as seconds to the dinner she had at work, and she is almost bouncing in excitement. “This is great, Alastor, ya were just in and out, just like that!”

Actually, it was not quite so straightforward. Alastor did vanish from the apartment and reappeared in the restaurant’s backrooms without trouble, but he had immediately lost his footing, knocked over a stack of saucepans and had to repeat the vanishing act to avoid being caught. He’d taken the curry right off the stove in the ensuing chaos, and the pastries from a plate beside it. But no one had had a chance to see more than a fleeting outline of him, so regrettable little details like that can be left unmentioned.

He took a bottle of wine as well. Not that Mimzy seems to be without alcohol, but it is the principle of the thing: He wants to repay her kindness with more than mere food. He is certain gift giving means more when the gifts are paid for but it is something.

“All that fussing back in New Orleans about not being a thief and now this! Who knew ya had it in ya!”

“It was different there” Alastor tells her, feeling a little pang at the past tense, and at the awareness of why it was different: He had a reputation to protect back then. A job in radio. He widens his smile and adds, “Besides, once I realised I could send my pal here in ahead of me to see where I could materialise, it was all quite simple.” Alastor nods to the shadow. It is in a corner of the room, curled around an umbral equivalent of his meal. It seems content simply to hold it: While his meal is diminishing as he eats, the shadow’s bowl still looks full.

Mimzy glances at the shadow, then away with a shrug. Apparently, though still not thrilled by it, its key role in this endeavour has earned it her tolerance. She pours more wine, just two, though of course the shadow has the translucent shadow of Alastor’s drink, which it drains before he can lift his glass. He hopes it won’t get him drunk.

Sitting back down, Mimzy muses, “I wonder how come ya got the swell demon powers? All I can do is grow my nails into claws when someone really bugs me. Is it cause you’re more evil than me?”

“Probably” says Alastor, a little too quickly.

“That figures. Me, I think I just missed Heaven by this much.” Mimzy holds up her finger and thumb, a little gap between them. “I mean, it’s not like I ever killed anybody!”

Alastor raises an eyebrow. Mimzy waves a dismissive hand and adds, “Except in self defence and who says that counts?”

“Who indeed?” Alastor sets his bowl aside. “Someone must be making the decision.”

“Well fuck if I know who. If ya ever find out, tell them I’d like a word.” Mimzy swirls her drink in its glass and adds, “Still, I betcha Heaven is real boring and it ain’t too bad down here once ya get used to it.”

Alastor feels his smile slip. It doesn’t go so far as to leave his face, but it shrinks. “I suppose I need to give it time.”

“You’ve got lots of that. And radio will join ya down here eventually.”

“It certainly will if all those fools who say jazz destroys society’s morals turn out to be right.” Alastor laughs, then startles a little as a disembodied laugh track joins in.

Mimzy blinks in surprise, then suddenly brightens. “Say, ya know what you should do? Start a station! Ya wouldn’t even have to be able to walk for that.”

Alastor feels his wretched ears perk up but it is more from surprise than anything. “I’m not sure I…” he begins, and then stops. He had been about to say that simply being a host is not adequate preparation for establishing and running an entire station. But then, he considers, it is not as though he is entirely ignorant about the technical side of things. He has always had an interest there, and since the stock market crash and the resulting cut backs, he has had to roll up his sleeves and fix malfunctioning equipment himself on occasion.

Of course, the entire infrastructure will be absent here. But he summoned up a suit out of nowhere yesterday. Perhaps he could manage a tower? And he is part radio now. Who knows how that could change things.

“’Course” says Mimzy, “You’d have to get an overlord on board unless ya wanted to be real dead real fast.”

“I’m already dead.”

“That don’t mean dying again and again is fun, sweetie. Plus there ain’t much angelic steel down here between exterminations, but an overlord can pay someone to use what there is if they really want to shut ya up for good. So you’d best make sure at least one of them likes what you’re broadcasting. Just try and do it without sellin’ ya soul to them.”

Alastor feels the chain at his neck again. “But of course, dear” he replies, swallowing thickly.

He doesn’t like the idea of needing someone else’s approval to broadcast. Of course, it is not new. Back on earth the station had to apply for a licence courtesy of the damned Radio Act, and keeping it meant treading a careful line on controversial topics. Alastor was never allowed to confess to flouting prohibition, naturally, but after the act passed he had to be especially careful. He could merely hint, mock the premise of the law while acknowledging that it was of course the law and share anecdotes from clubs where drinks were known to be sold without ever confessing to being aware of that. Race was something he was simply never allowed to mention. Likewise sex, though that was more than fine by him. As for the occasional male singer known to wear a dress on stage, they had to be treated as a novelty at best.

But down here? “Surely there are no laws here? No” Alastor grimaces “Radio Act?”

“Not like back on earth there’s not, but ya don’t wanna get on the wrong side of those overlords. No one makes any big changes unless they agree.” Mimzy sips her wine and adds, “But plenty of them would like a radio station where the host talks them up now and then. It could be like corporate sponsorship back on earth.”

Frankly, Alastor hadn’t cared for that either, especially the mindless jingles. Advertisements taking up time that could have been used for jazz? It had been an unwelcome necessity at best. “Surely there’s another way? I’m here forever. A very long time to stoke some cad’s ego.”

“Ask one of the lady overlords then. But just so ya know, Lord Rosie eats people and Lord Neas makes them fight their friends to death if they get on the wrong side of her. Makes this whole show about it. So if ya want a woman sponsor, maybe go with Rosie, okay sweetie?”

“I’d rather not go with anyone.”

“Ya have to. What if ya upset the wrong person? And don’t tell me ya won’t, Al, I’ve heard ya bad mouthing folk ya really shouldn’t on air. And with overlords, just changing things without involving them is the same thing as bad mouthing ’em. They won’t like it and this ain’t like that time ya made fun of that mafia boss on your show. We’re talking people as mean as that guy was but there’s no laws getting in their way.”

“Just unwritten laws preventing me from acting without their approval?”

“Exactly.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“Gee, tell me about it. Anyone would think we’re in Hell.”

“Really, dear, there’s no need for sarcasm.” Alastor frowns. “Did you say this Neas lady makes a show of gladiatorial combat?”

“Huh?”

“She makes people fight to the death and watches?”

“Not just people, people who care about each other. And she’s gotten real good over the centuries at telling who does. So that’s one person ya don’t want to take offence to your show for a start.”

“Hm. It seems the entertainment industry down here has some interesting elements.” Barbaric elements perhaps, but, Alastor considers, rather fascinating all the same. “And the people she forces to fight come back?”

“Sometimes. Unless she’s angry enough to give them angelic steel.”

Angelic steel, it seems, is quite the leveller here. “What about the other overlords?”

“How long ya got? Seriously, Al, just pick one of the bastards, tell them what radio is cause trust me they won’t know, then ask for their protection in return for fawning over them on your show. Sorry, no offence.”

Alastor scowls, the expression fitting around the smile. Really, what Mimzy is proposing is entirely familiar. Familiar and unwelcome. He spent his life balancing his own desires with the need to avoid the ire of those with more power than him, be they the station’s wealthy sponsors or the city’s ruthless mobsters. Of course, he sometimes killed the latter, but only after weeks or even months of groundwork to ensure his victims’ associates wouldn’t be able to identify him. It wasn’t the same as ridding the world of a wife beater or rapist. With mobsters, the power they took with brute force, alongside political corruption, meant he had to be careful, quietly watching them, constantly aware of what they could do if he slipped up. He has no wish to spend his afterlife doing the same, let along heaping praise on anyone just to keep from being silenced. “Thank you, Mimzy. I’ll consider what you’ve said.”

“Damn right ya will. Remember, sweetie, I’m the one that knows what’s what around here.”

She is right of course. She has been here longer and knows what passes for the system down here. If Mimzy says he should be careful, Alastor will be careful.

Just not too careful.

Chapter Text

“What are ya gonna do with your hair?” Mimzy asks one night, a week or so after Alastor showed up.

Alastor raises a hand self consciously to his head. His new hair is sticking out pretty much every which way. It’s got no particular style and it’s longer than it used to be. Mimzy asks, “Did ya grow it after I died?”

“No. The length is just another regrettable new feature.” Alastor frowns, taking the kitchen knife back up again. “Perhaps my curls simply straightened. That would make them longer.” He chops a stick of celery with more force than it really calls for. Mimzy sits on the counter top, lights a cigarette and tells him, “Well I’d keep it long if I were you. You got no ears on the sides of your head now, remember? It’d look kinda funny to draw attention to that.”

“It would make me more animalish, certainly” says Alastor, his ears drooping in a way that’s animalish on its own. He must think so too because he corrects them. He says, “I suppose there must be barbers down here?”

Mimzy blows smoke. “Yep. And none of ’em are fronts or speakeasys what with nothing needing hiding. Ya literally just go in and get a trim mobster-free.”

“I’ll pay one a visit once I can walk reliably.”

So far, that ain’t happened. Funny, cause Alastor’s magic is coming on stronger every day. It didn’t escape Mimzy’s notice, back when he got that unpaid for take out, that he’d gone from leaving his clothes behind after the vanishing act, to taking them with him, just in the space of a day. From there, he’s progressed to disappearing and reappearing all over the apartment, sometimes even landing on his feet.

Staying on his feet is another matter. He’s gotten himself up to eight (mostly) reliable steps and he’s kinda stalled on that. Mimzy would think he’s gotten over reliant on that magic of his except she’s seen him practising how to walk again and again. Every time she gets home from work, that’s what he’s doing: Making his wobbly way around her living room, trying to get himself up to that elusive ninth step.

It’s eating him up that he can’t do it, probably because it means he’s still stuck here and she’s the one earning the money. Honestly, Mimzy ain’t thrilled about that either but it is what it is. He’ll get there. He kinda has to.

Somehow, he’s got it into his head that cooking is the way to make up for it. Right now, he’s leant against her counter chopping vegetables for some feast or other. When he starts to slip sideways, a tentacle shoots out to steady him. Mimzy asks, “Does it feel weird when ya do that?”

“Just...unsettling. Cold.”

“Ya realise ya could use them as legs?”

“I will not look less human than I already do, thank you.”
“Suit yourself. Plenty down here who are worse off, don’t forget.” She draws another smoke and adds, “One of our regulars looks like a grenade.”

A few days later, Alastor, tottering unsteadily around the living room, remarks, “There is one good thing about my demon form.”

Mimzy, flicking through a fashion magazine full of hems that are too long, glances up. “What?”

“I don’t appear to need spectacles any more.” Alastor frowns above the smile and adds, “Except possibly in the one eye. But it’s still an improvement.”

“Well that’s something.” Though honestly Mimzy never minded the spectacles. They made him look kinda sweet. And way more harmless than he was. “Do ya know why it only got fixed up in one?”

“I’m sure I have no idea how any of this works.” Alastor stumbles, vanishes into his shadow in mid air and reappears on the couch beside her.

“Fucking hell, Al! Warn a gal!”

“Sorry, dear.” Alastor stands shakily and starts over, the shadow hovering about.

“Could it be how you died?” Mimzy presses, “I mean, were ya shot in the eye or something?” Of course, most folk who go out that way end up with just the one eye down here but there’s no telling.

“No” Alastor replies, but he don’t sound certain. Which suggests all kinds of horrible. Mimzy would ask directly but then she realises, “Well it’s good ya don’t need glasses because where’d they sit?”

“Pardon?”

“Your ears on top of your head now.”

A little frisson of static ripples round the room. Alastor mutters, “Very amusing, I’m sure.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” The ears in question tilt down as Alastor concentrates for the next step. When he makes it with barely a wobble, he beams, the smile seeming real for a moment. “There! Nine steps!” A triumphant little tune rings out. Mimzy claps accordingly. Alastor falls over.

She takes extra shifts at the club, what with having two mouths to feed. She don’t mention it to Alastor, who don’t know her working hours anyway and who will be happier not knowing. At least with it being so soon after Extermination Day there’s plenty of work going. They lost three performers, though there’s only one confirmed. The cannibals don’t go out their way to identify the bodies before they eat them. Probably it’d ruin their appetite. Sometimes Mimzy thinks it’d be a fun way to quit: Just don’t turn up for work after the angels visit and everyone’ll think you’re dead. No reference of course but if, say, you’ve been caught with your hands in the till one too many times it’d be a good get out. Not that she would be. Caught that is.

A a few notes of a cheerful tune greet her when she comes home and kicks off her shoes after a long day. She starts to hang her coat up, then realises it’s all grimy because just her luck she’d be passing the mines right as one of them big machines belches out a load of soot. “Shit.” She drops the coat on the ground. At least it protected her dress. That’s why she always wears a big coat in the heat of Hell for her commute, Lord Fucking Cole. She yells, “I’m home!”

“Welcome back, cher.” Alastor is sprawled out on the couch when she goes into the living room. He moves his feet so she can sit down and asks, “Coffee or tea?”

“I’d kill for a coffee” Mimzy replies, expecting him to get up and make his shaky way into the kitchen. She shrieks when a steaming mug materialises on the coffee table instead. “What the fuck?!”

“It’s from the kitchen” Alastor explains. “I’ve worked out that I can transport things through the shadows if they already exist somewhere and I know where they are, so I made this just now to practise.” Alastor frowns and adds, “I suppose that leaves me the tea.” Another cup appears. Alastor lifts it and sips delicately.

Mimzy cautiously lifts her mug. It sure is hers, one of a matched set inherited from Stan who was surprisingly fussing about shit like that. “Since when can ya do that?”

“Since I arrived, I suppose. There’s also a possibility I could make something appear without those restraints.”

“What restraints? The thing existing in the first place?”

“Indeed.”

Mimzy stares. “You’re telling me ya can just clicks ya fingers and magic something into existence?”

“Possibly, with practice. Actually the suit I arrived in materialised on me from seemingly nowhere, but I haven’t been able to recreate the trick since.”

“Ya said ya got it off a corpse.”

“I wasn’t entirely accustomed to being able to break the laws of nature” Alastor explains, “But since then I’ve grown tentacles and can travel via shadow. It rather puts things in perspective.”

That tracks: If your demon form is gonna be as weird as Al’s seems ta be, ya might as well embrace it. “But ya can’t do it now?” Because damn would that be a useful little trick.

“It was just the once” Alastor confirms. His smile slips a little as he adds, “In hindsight I believe it was the urgency of the situation that pushed my powers to their limit.”

Typical Alastor, finding himself naked and dipped in acid with incoming angels and the power to summon up anything so he creates clothes. “I’d have stayed naked and made a shield” Mimzy tells him.

“It wasn’t exactly voluntary, cher.”

Mimzy shudders inwardly thinking over how things could have gone. At least Alastor is here now, and the burns are healing up pretty well, his fingers less blistered and his skin less raw. Probably it would be healing even better if he weren’t walking around so much but she ain’t about to stop him. It gives him something to do.

Could be there are more lucrative things though. “Ya should practise” she tells him, “I could do with some new pearls.” And a whole lot else, but pearls will do for starters.

“Mai oui.” Alastor sips his tea a while and Mimzy drinks her coffee. It don’t taste any different for being magicked inta the room.

Once he’s finished, Alastor asks, “I take it there’s a real estate market down here?”

Mimzy whistles, “And how! I practically had to sell my soul to get this place.” Alastor starts a little at that so she adds, “Figure of speech, I’m still free as a bird.” Alastor gives her an odd, pained look. Mimzy goes on, “The place is crammed so even a tiny apartment’ll cost ya. Why? You’re not leaving me yet are ya?”

“Actually I was thinking of where I can set up my radio station.” Alastor considers a moment. “Is land that hasn’t been built on any cheaper?”

“Sure, but good luck finding any.”

“There must be some.”

“It’ll still cost ya. What’s your budget?”

Alastor deflates a little.

Mimzy can’t resist adding, “Let’s see. Ya were damned to Hell last week and you’ve been sleeping on my couch ever since. So we’re talking the lower thousands per months?”

Alastor sighs. “I suppose I’ll have to find work and save.”

Mimzy nods and pats him consolingly on the shoulder, noticing their new exaggerated height difference as she does. She brightens as an idea occurs. “If ya want somewhere to set up a station, you could always wait out the year until the next extermination. Plenty of overlords will have a free block or so they can lend ya then. It could be part of the sponsorship.”

“If it’s free because the residents are dead, couldn’t I simply take it?”

“Only if the overlord is dead too. Which ain’t happened the whole time I’ve been down here or pretty much ever.” Mimzy scowls bitterly. “Overlords have good shelters and the angels are just as happy killing the likes of you and me.”

“Surely some enterprising souls try to claim empty buildings before overlords can fill them with fresh sinners?”

“Ha! That’d be a way to get real dead real fast! And I ain’t talking coming-back dead, I’m talking the real deal, and slowly. Overlords are untouchable, sweetie. And ruthless because ya don’t get to rule Hell otherwise.” Mimzy can see Alastor turning all this over so she adds, “Honestly, doll face, your best bet is to go to some overlord whose territory took a hit and pitch your station. They’ll be wanting good publicity after losing souls so hopefully they’ll give you the place the souls used to live.”

Alastor sighs. “I’ll bear it in mind.” He staggers upright and starts walking, arms out for balance. Mimzy tells him, “Well, however ya do it, just get an overlord onside.”

Alastor staggers, then rights himself. He asks, “How long have the overlords ruled down here?”

“Hundreds of years, most of ’em. Half of them talk like their fucking Shakespeare or some shit. Deimos only talks ancient Greek and some poor sap has to translate.”

“Some younger fellows must work their way up the ladder occasionally.”

Mimzy shakes her head. “Ain’t no ladder, sweetie. It’s a heap. And the heavy hitters kill anyone who looks about to climb it.” She watches Alastor stumble about a bit, then adds, “But anyway, right after an extermination is a good time to ask for favours.”

Alastor is counting under his breath. He breaks off to say, “That would mean waiting a year.”

“And? You’ve got forever.” Anyway, it’ll give him time to get mobile again. The more she thinks about it, the more going to the overlords before then seems like a bad idea. Even with Alastor’screepy tentacles and his ability to disappear into the shadows, the overlords will still view not being able to walk as a weakness. And they’re the types who smell weakness the way a shark smells blood.

And walking ain’t Alastor’s only weakness right now. He don’t know how anything works. He doesn’t know anyone down here, or maybe he does but they’re people he killed, which is worse than no one. He blushes if he sees folk kissing for crying out loud! They’ll eat him alive if he goes to them now. Maybe literally if he picks Rosie. “Look, I know I said ya should start a station but I didn’t mean right away! Settle in first. A year will give ya plenty of time for that.”

Alastor ignores this, counting out loud now. “...eight, nine...ten! Hourra!”

“Alastor.”

“Yes, dear, I understand. Settle in.” Alastor starts to topple and his shadow appears to sorta fling him back onta the couch. How that works, Mimzy ain’t exactly sure.

He seems outta breath just over that. Though to be fair, he was probably practising all day. Mimzy sighs. “Maybe wait til ten steps ain’t a big deal before ya go pitching to sponsors is all I’m saying.”

Alastor scowls above the smile but nods, and Mimzy relaxes.

Next day, she comes home ta find Alastor leant against the window frame, staring down into the street. A tentacle is propping him up but it disappears as soon as she comes in and he almost falls, grabbing the frame to steady himself. Mimzy tells him, “Ya could just leave it out, ya know. I’ve seen ya shred guys with it.”

“All the more reason to keep it hidden as much as possible in polite company, wouldn’t you say?”

“I guess.” Mimzy sinks down on the couch with a muttered curse of relief and kicks her shoes off, propping her feet on the coffee table. Alastor disappears, reappears beside her and repeats his trick with the coffee. Sipping it, Mimzy nods to the window. “Maybe ya should take a walk or something.” She pauses and adds, “A very short one.”

“I’m hardly inconspicuous enough for a casual walk” Alastor replies.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. Everyone looks like a freak show down here.”

Static brushes the air and Alastor grits his teeth slightly. He says, “Thank you, dear, but I was referring to the fact I struggle for balance.”

This is true: His whole centre of gravity still seems to be off. Mimzy ain’t sure if that’s just because of the hooves or down ta the whole being taller and having bigger ears part of the whole mess, but either way, he moves like he’s learning ta skate. “No one’s gonna judge. Well maybe Suzie. And Margot across the street is a real bitch. But apart from them…”

“...Apart from them everyone in Hell is perfectly supportive of a man staggering along like a drunk?”

“Lots of them are drunk if it helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Well what do ya care what anyone thinks? Just go out and stretch your legs, and if anyone gives you a hard time, you can come back inside. Just vanish into the shadows or whatever.” Mimzy pauses to glance around and look for the shadow. Spotting it idling in a corner, she glares. The shadow tilts its head at an unnatural angle. She adds, “It’d do you good to get some fresh air.”

Alastor raises an eyebrow pointedly at the sky outside. Lord Cole has the smelting furnaces going full blast today. Mimzy amends, “Okay, freshish air.” She eyes the streaked sky and changes it to, “Air” then notices the residue on the window pane. “Sorta. Anyway, ya don’t need so much oxygen now you’re dead.” Or at least that’s what Cole’s friends in the publishing district would have everyone believe. Personally, Mimzy’s found she breathes more easily when she saves enough for a trip to the nicer parts of town, away from the smoke. She keeps that to herself of course.

“Thank you, Mimzy, but I’m quite content here.”

Content Mimzy’s ass. “Ya didn’t mind going out to steal take out.”

“That was different. The point then was to not be seen.”

“Who cares who sees ya? Like I said, you can…”

“Escape attackers any time I wish, yes. It’s everyone else I’m worried about.”

“How’d ya mean?”

Alastor fidgets and stares about, but he can’t ignore a direct question. Finally he admits, “I don’t want to be an object of pity or derision.”

“So you’re just gonna hide here?”

“I’m going to walk.” Alastor shifts himself from the couch and heads towards the kitchen, maybe thinking he might as well practise on his way ta cooking dinner. Actually Mimzy wishes he wouldn’t always insist on doing that. He’s using up ingredients faster than she can pay for ’em with his fancy recipes. Or maybe that’s just what shopping for two on one wage feels like. As she’s wondering whether to drop a hint or not, Alastor drops with a crash that sends the contents of the draining board flying.

“Shit!” Mimzy hurries into the kitchen to find him sprawled on the floor. “Did ya hurt yourself?”

“I’m fine. Sorry, cher.”

“It’s alright.” Actually it ain’t all: There’s a lot of shards of china down there. Mimzy pulls Alastor to his feet, props him up by the counter and starts brushing it off him. Alastor shifts, apparently trying to shrink for her touch without being obvious about it which makes Mimzy brush him down harder because c’mon! They’re all friends here. “I’m adding china plates ta the list of stuff ya gotta magic for me when you get the knack” she tells him. “Right up there with pearls.”

“Of course. I do apologise.”

“Eh, it weren’t mine to start with.” More shit from Stan. Mimzy ain’t especially attached to anything he owned except twenty percent of the roof over her head. She turns and reaches into a cupboard. “Lucky for you I got some metal plates here somewhere.” Back when she first fell, she weren’t exactly rich enough for china.

Behind her, Alastor says, “I made it to eleven steps if that’s any comfort.”

“Good. I’m happy for ya.” Not as happy as she’d be if he’d done it out the kitchen but still.

Mimzy gets replacement plates from the club the following day, slipped inta her handbag beside the gun and her make up. Feeling generous, she stops by a tailor on the way home and gets a needle and thread too. She gives it to Alastor with the words, “For your suit.”

“Thank you, cher.” Alastor clicks his fingers and her coffee appears, along with the suit, magicked, still folded from the corner of the room. He gets to work sewing.

Mimzy sits back feeling pleased with herself. Alastor never asked for the stuff, of course, but that suit ain’t wearable without some serious repairs and she sure as shit can’t sew.

She was taught as a kid, of course. But there’s a lot a gal can choose to forget.

Once he’s mended the suit as neatly as only he can, Alastor takes a turn about the room, stretching out an arm or a tentacle here and there to stay balanced. Reaching the window, he pauses, leaning against the frame and says, “I don’t understand why it’s so difficult. The magic is coming on well enough.”

“Then where are my pearls?”

Alastor looks a little chastised. “Coming” he replies, “I still have a few tricks to learn.”

“Once you’re done, work on some diamonds, okay?”

“I do really need to focus on walking.”

Mimzy waves this away. “Eleven steps is plenty. We got benches. But a gal’s gotta have diamonds, Al!”

Alastor gives her a knowing smile but before he can reply, there is a loud knock at the door and Ambrose’s voice yells, “Mimzy, rent’s due!”

Mimzy mutters, “Aw, shit, already?”

Alastor asks, “Problem?”

Now would be a real good time for those diamonds. “Never you mind, sweetie.” Mimzy motions for him to stay put – not that he has that much choice lent against the wall like he is – and goes out into the hallway. She pulls the door to the living room closed but not fully shut. That way, Alastor’s hidden but it ain’t obvious she’s hiding anything. She opens the front door for Ambrose and greets him with, “What the fuck? I just paid ya!”

He bends loom close and, like he’s talking to someone stupid, slowly explains, “Here’s how rent works. You pay me monthly, every month. You paid me for last month, last month. This is a new month. Rent’s due.”

“Someone got outta the wrong side of bed! What’s the matter? That skank you’ve been running round with finally had enough of ya?” Distantly, Mimzy is aware that it works out for her if that’s true and pointing it out won’t help her take advantage, but it’s been a hard couple of weeks between overtime and food bills, even if Alastor being down here is great and all.

“Don’t you give me fucking lip!” Ambrose snarls, raising a fist.

Mimzy just glares. He ain’t hit her yet, just bitched and whined and threatened, and anyway, he’s always like this when rent’s due. Like he thinks she’ll magically have the money if he’s mean enough. “Ya done?” she asks.

Another snarl, but he draws back a little. “So where is it?”

“I don’t have it. Give a gal some time here! Ya can’t expect it on the first day.”

“That’s what it says on the contract.”

Mimzy sighs. She don’t want to have to sweet talk him with Alastor in the next room but needs must and all that. Taking Ambrose’s big fist in her hand she draws him into the hallway and tells him, “I was hoping we could” she lets her eyes trail down his body “renegotiate.”

He sighs, somewhere between pissed and resigned. She was right ta do this inside, Mimzy thinks. Ambrose hates letting anyone off in front of other tenants. Says it gives them ideas. Like he ain’t taken favours from half the girls here in lieu of cash.

“It ain’t like you still owe Butcher” he grumbles, “I peeled the bastard off the floor out there. And you owe me the cleaning bill and all. Still don’t know who the fuck you found to do that for you.”

“Who says I didn’t do it?”

Ambrose laughs. Mimzy takes the chance to step closer. She tells him, “You know that mean bastard will be back. So cut a gal a little slack here, okay?”

“No slack. No free ride.” Ambrose plants a hand on her back, pulling her closer. “But I can give you another week to find the money if you play nice for once.” His hand moves lower.

Fuck, he wants it right now? With Alastor in the next room? Poor kitten would be scarred for the rest of his afterlife. Mimzy moves the hand away, giving it a squeeze. “Great! So I’ll swing by your office later? It’ll give me a chance to change inta something more comfortable.”

From the doorway, Alastor’s voice says, “That won’t be necessary, dear.”

Mimzy flinches. “Oh for fuck’s sake! You’re here?!”

Ambrose glares. “Mimzy? Who the fuck is this?”

“This is the fella that killed Butcher.”

“You’re kidding. This guy? I could snap him in half!” Ambrose glares like he’s tempted to do that. Alastor just smiles. Well, he can’t not, Mimzy figures. Actually it looks kinda tired and she realises he must have walked there instead of using his shadow magic. Just as well really: The look on Ambrose’s face wouldn’t be worth being homeless. Ambrose adds, “You were gonna screw this freak then come downstairs to see me?!”

Alastor blushes. Mimzy says, “He’s just a friend.”

“Like you could find one of those.” Ambrose’s glare sharpens. “You’re subletting?”

“What? No! No, Al’s just visiting. Ain’t that right, Al?”

“Quite. Aside from anything else, subletting would require letting. Not coercion.”

Ambrose shrugs. “It’s just business.” Then he laughs, “And, fuck, if you think she’ll keep you around just because you protect her you’re a fucking fool! Mimzy goes through men like dresses, isn’t that right, Mimzy?”

Mimzy forces a laugh that comes out more like a growl. Alastor’s static flares. Ambrose adds, “But coming down to me when you’ve still got this dandy up here? There’s a new low right there.”

“Dandy?” asks Alastor

“He’s from the eighteen hundreds” Mimzy explains.

Alastor hums like that’s kinda interesting and all, then turns back to Ambrose and tells him, “I won’t have Mimzy taken advantage of. So you need to leave.”

“It ain’t so bad” Mimzy tells him. It’s that or pawn her jewellery after all. And it ain’t like Alastor can pay the rent.

Ambrose is laughing. “Or you’ll what?” he asks, “Cause I’m not buying that you did shit to Butcher.” He steps forward menacingly. Mimzy catches his hand. “Hey, how’s about we go down to your office now?” she asks.

Alastor shifts away from the door frame and matches Ambrose step by menacing step. It’s like watching two tomcats squaring up for a fight. Mimzy mutters, “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

It’s eight careful hoof steps from the window to the doorway. Mimzy should know because Alastor’s counted. That gives him three more steps he can confidently make, and he wobbles on the third. But he stays up. Ambrose still roars with laughter. “What the Hell! Mimzy did you pick up a cripple?”

Alastor clears another step to grab Ambrose round the throat. Ambrose’s laughter cuts off suddenly as the claws dig in. “Now, now” Alastor purrs, “Let’s not have that language.” Tentacles spill from his back and the shadows darken. Ambrose twitches in terror.

“Alastor, stop!” Mimzy plants herself between them, slapping Alastor’s hand away from Ambrose’s throat. Alastor topples back, but only on to the tentacles. They prop him up as he says, “Mimzy, step aside.”

“No! And fuck you! You don’t get ta decide who comes in here!”

Alastor waves a hand at Ambrose, who’s still sat on the floor, massaging his throat. “But him?!”

“Yeah, him! I had this handled!” Mimzy points to the living room. “Just wait in there will ya?”

With a big show of reluctance, Alastor vanishes into the shadows. Ambrose yelps.

“Yeah” says Mimzy, “It is fucking creepy when he does that.” She stoops to help Ambrose up, adding, “And I am so sorry! Ya won’t see him here again, sugar, I swear!” Which ain’t even a lie. Ambrose not seeing Al ain’t the same thing as Al not being here.

Ambrose disentangles himself and steps quickly to the door, pausing to give an unconvincing, “I better not.” He glares at the living room door for a moment, then grunts, “You got a week.”

“Sure” says Mimzy. Or sooner, she thinks, in case his fear wears off. “I’ll sort it right out for ya, okay?” But Ambrose is already gone. Mimzy sighs, and runs a hand through her hair, then marches into the living room.

Alastor is sat on the couch looking a little shame faced. Mimzy greets him with, “What the fuck, Alastor! Ya ain’t my bodyguard!”

“Yet apparently you need one.”

“Bullshit do I! I invited him in! I’m the one that offered! Which ya should know since you musta been listening at the door like a creep to come out when ya did!”

More static fills the air. Al don’t deny the listening but he says, “I notice you don’t say you’re the one who actually wanted his company.”

Mimzy sighs again. “It’s complicated, sweetie” she tells him, her voice softening because this ain’t something he’ll ever understand. She hopes. “I need this apartment.”

“Surely not so badly you’d pass your time with a cad like that?”

“Hey! It’s not like I got a lot of choice here!”

“That’s why I was going to kill him!”

“And then what happens to me? He comes back and I’m out on the streets, Alastor!”

From the look on his face, Al hadn’t thought of that, which ain’t like him. Usually he thinks things through and then some. Must be the stress of this shithole getting to him. “I’m sorry, Mimzy. I should have checked.”

“Damn right ya should.”

“But he has no right to treat you that way and now I’m here I can…”

“What? Ya can’t walk, Alastor!”

The static builds to a painful pitch and Mimzy puts her hands over her ears. When it fades, Alastor is still on the couch, arms folded, facing away from her now.

She heads over but sits in the chair, not next to him. “Sorry” she tells him.

“You’ve said nothing that isn’t true.”

“But...hey that was twelve steps just now! So that’s something, right?”

“I can’t stand the thought of you being at the mercy of a man like that.”

“He ain’t so bad.” When Alastor looks doubtful, Mimzy adds, “Really, there’s worse. I mean, ya wanna head over ta the red light district if ya wanna see it. Lord Dion runs the prostitution scene over there and it ain’t pretty. Course he owns those gals. And fellas.”

Alastor looks a little queasy. Mimzy changes the subject with, “How come ya didn’t just use that shadow trick? I mean, I’m glad ya didn’t but it would have been simpler.”

“I wasn’t sure where you were or if he had a weapon.”

“Eh, he never has a weapon. Like I say, he ain’t that bad.”

“You and I seem to be working with very different definitions of not that bad, cher.”

Yeah, and she’s the one who’s been down here long enough to know. But Mimzy don’t point that out. Instead she asks, “And how come ya stuck with walking once ya could see him?”

“Oh, that.” Alastor shifts uncomfortably. “Sometimes it pays to sneaking around and just let them see you.”

“Ya wanted to look all impressive and manly ya mean.”

“It’s the only language degenerates like that understand. And unfortunately I do speak it.” Alastor scowls. “Or I could if I could walk. I suppose I’ll have to keep practising.”

“Nope. The only thing you’ll be practising til it works is magicking me some pearls. I gotta have something to pay the rent, Al.”

Alastor looks suitably chagrined, his smile slipping. “I am sorry if I made things more difficult.”

“I can’t pay the rent with sorry. Ya gotta come up with the goods.”

“I will.”

“And...thanks for looking out for me and all. I know ya were trying to help.” Fuck knows help is a rare thing down here. But not with Alastor. He’s always been a pal.

Alastor gives a little nod, then forces himself to his feet. “One more turn around the room” he tells her, “Then I’ll try for those pearls.” He walks. Thirteen steps this time.

Chapter Text

Alastor has decided to stick with red. Not that he is entirely certain why the suit he conjured up accidentality on arrival was that colour but it is as good a palette as any for Hell. Staring out the window (as he does more often than he would admit) he has found that, while some wear archaic clothing presumably dating from the era they died in, most of the denizens of Hell dress in modern attire, all smart three piece suits and stylish day dresses. But wearing the same thing is not wearing the thing the same way: People are more daring in their fashion choices here. Mimzy, he has noticed, wears evening dresses in the daytime (or what passes for daytime here), and while that might be a necessity of her work, it would appear she is not the only one. Perhaps being dead makes people less inclined to be respectable. Alastor wonders what other unspoken rules of polite society that idea might apply to.

Perhaps polite society is not the term for it.

Sometimes, he catches himself thinking about his new life as though he is planning how to talk about it on his show, considering how he would phrase his thoughts for an audience, what they’d find interesting, what is too personal. He has to remind himself that he no longer has a show and each time he does, it feels like a gut punch. Or perhaps like a dog bite, his new go-to metaphor for sudden, awful pain. He has dreamt of his death, jolting awake several times since his arrival, struggling to escape snarling hounds that pile onto him, hot breathed, sinking their sharp teeth into his arms, his legs, his face, his eye… How had he never realised before how very loathsome dogs are?

Fortunately, he has not screamed and woken Mimzy. He doesn’t scream with nightmares. Possibly that is an ingrained survival skill: His father never did take kindly to being woken.

His father must be down here somewhere, but Alastor hasn’t examined the thought. It lurks behind him, like his shadow.

Was happened to his body, he wonders? He is more or less certain he was shot in those final moments, but whether whoever gave him that mercy made a confession to the authorities is another matter. A body can be well hidden in that bayou. He should know. Perhaps his rescuer/killer simply dragged his remains into the undergrowth and left him – it – there.

And what of the body he had been disposing of when he was so rudely interrupted by his own death? Alastor is fairly certain he has finished burying it but he had been in a hurry that increased to an urgency when he heard the dogs approach. Even if it was well covered, it is entirely possible the wretched beasts dug it up. Perhaps the scent of it is what drew them to him in the first place.

If the authorities were summoned and the body was found, his reputation back on earth is in tatters. Alastor isn’t sure how to feel about that.

But then, feelings were never his forte.

So. Red. It is striking, and he wants to be remembered if he is to build a new reputation from scratch. Yet it also blends a little into Hell’s general background rouge, making him appear at home here, which he intends to be. He has no choice, after all. He may as well embrace it.

He has several suits now of various shades and cuts, all summoned up from nothing and with some difficulty. Mimzy has sold bundles of red fabric to a nearby tailor, salvaged from suits that didn’t quite come out right. But at least the suits he has finally materialised have some style to them, unlike the pearls. “I was picturing something kinda...prettier” says Mimzy when she comes home from work to find he has finally succeeded in creating a necklace of sorts.

Alastor looks down at the string of lumpy, discoloured pearls in his hands. “They do say it’s the thought that counts.”

“Ya couldn’t have thought about it a little harder?” Mimzy takes the string and adds, “There’s no clasp.”

Alastor takes it back and examines it. She is right: Where a clasp should be there is a mere ring of metal with no hook or catch. “I don’t exactly have a lot of experience with clasps” he tells her. After all, he is hardly the sort of ladies’ man to buy a necklace for a steady company girl and place it around her neck as he has seen others do in restaurant. He adds, “Perhaps I’d have more success if I tried to make something I’m more familiar with.” A radio perhaps. He had assumed that would be harder due to its complexity but at least it is a complexity he understands. Jewellery is more Mimzy’s area of expertise. “Couldn’t you make some yourself?”

“What, with magic?” Mimzy takes the pearls back and examines them some more. “Ha! I wish! No, doll face, there ain’t many down here who can magic things up outta nowhere like that.” She drops the pearls on the coffee table and sits down heavily. Tired from work, Alastor realises with a pang of guilt, while here he is contributing nothing but shoddy pearls.

Mimzy adds, “It’s even rarer for someone to be able ta make anything they want. I knew a fella once who could summon up a knife from nothing, but only a knife and only one ata time. It’s not like he could supply an army or make something like this.” She lifts the pearls and jingles them. “He couldn’t even make the handle jewel encrusted when I suggested it. You’re a stand out.”

Alastor is rather cheered by this.

Mimzy adds, “Ya just need to work on it cause, no offence sweetie, but no one’s gonna wear these.” She gestures to the necklace. “But I guess these are still pearls. I still sell ’em.”

Alastor nods, feeling a little relieved that the gift will help with the rent as planned. He clicks his fingers and the mugs of coffee he made in time for her return appear in front of them from the kitchen. That trick is easy now: Displacement is definitely simpler than creation.

Mimzy takes her mug and offers him a nervous smile. “Say...I got you something too.”

Alastor feels his ears rise in interest and he forces them to relax. He really ought to learn to control them. “Oh?”

“Yeah, a kinda...present.” Mimzy sets her mug back down and bustles out into the hallway. She returns carrying...a cane? “I know, ya won’t like the idea” she says, “But hear me out, cause I got two things ta say…”

“I will not use a cane.” Alastor tells her. Then he reminds himself that she must have spent her hard earned money on this and adds, “Thank you all the same.”

“See, I knew you’d say that, but listen, Alastor!”

Alastor hears radio feedback, takes a moment to realise he is the source, and falls quiet. He sips his coffee and tries to look nonchalant. Mimzy draws herself up, more or less brandishing the cane and continues, “Ya fell over in the kitchen yesterday, and…”

“...and it’s a rare occurrence now.” Alastor reached twenty steps days ago. Possibly more since then: He has finally stopped counting.

“If ya fall down in the streets, no one’s gonna care it’s rare” Mimzy warns.

“The same streets you’d like me to take a stroll in?”

“Only cause ya can use magic to escape if ya fall on your ass! Which has gotta be covered in bruises by now anyway.”

Alastor feels himself blush. Actually, he is rather bruised. His knees more so than the part she mentions. Though that has not escaped entirely. As well as that, his humiliating tail is sore and his hands are grazed from breaking uncounted falls. He scowls. Mimzy goes on, “It ain’t the getting away after ya fall I’m worried about, it’s the actual falling. Ya almost hit your head last night and I ain’t got the money for a doctor!”

There are doctors in Hell? Not the thing to focus on, Alastor decides. “I wouldn’t ask you to pay.”

“So I’m supposed ta just let you die on my kitchen floor?”

“As I understand it, I’d come back.”

Mimzy laughs without humour. “That don’t mean it’d be fun. Dying’s a real drag.”

Alastor’s ears flick down in spite of himself. “I remember.”

Mimzy sits down again, propping the cane between them. “Well temporary death ain’t no better. Ya kinda feel it and ya don’t. You’re sort of conscious and not, kinda conscious enough to know you sorta don’t exist for the time being and it just feels all wrong and the pain of whatever caused it is still there but ya ain’t alive to do anything about it. Trust me, sweetie, ya don’t want it.”

Alastor studies her. “Speaking from experience, cher?”

Mimzy bristles. “Folks are just unreasonable down here is all. You’d think being murdered the once would be enough.”

Alastor sits up straighter, indignation surging. “Who are these brutes?”

“Why? So you can pay ’em a visit and fall over at ’em?”

Alastor flinches. Mimzy sighs. “Sorry” she says. She drinks her coffee quietly for a moment, letting Alastor recover his dignity. Such as it is just now, entirely dependent on a woman he should be protecting and sat with a cane propped beside him. After a while, Mimzy adds, “One of ’em was an overlord anyway. Long story.”

“Which one?”

“Does it matter? Besides, at least he didn’t use angelic steel. It was just a warning really.”

Just a warning that she describes in terms of existential horror. But then, Alastor is coming to realise that overlords are ruthless to the point that such horror might seem a mere warning to them.

He, Mimzy said. So that rules out Rosie and Neas.

“...and anyway” Mimzy is saying, “I’m talking about you dying, not me! If ya fall outside and magic away, no big deal. Embarrassing, sure, but what if ya knock yourself out? Then someone could rob you or worse.”

“I have nothing they could steal” says Alastor, stiffly. Putting that bitter thought aside he adds, “Don’t worry, Mimzy: I’m getting steadier on my feet every day…”

“...not by much…”

“...and I’m sure there are stationary jobs I can do while I work out the plan for my radio station.”

“Sure there are, if ya’d go outside already.”

More feedback. Alastor looks away. “I’ll find work soon” he says, “I assure you. I know that I’m a burden just now Mimzy and…”

“No, kitten” Mimzy shifts closer, the movement knocking the cane against his leg. “Ya ain’t a burden.” She puts an arm around him, then adds, “Okay, so ya sort of are but it ain’t like anyone’s chasing me for debts right now! You saw to that. And once you do get work, you can buy me a drink.”

A drink seems meagre recompense for food, shelter, recovery time and advice. “I’m sorry, Mimzy. I will pay my way. I just need a little longer.” Not much longer. He eyes the cane. Mimzy jostles it and replies, “Or ya could use this and get out there sooner. Cause for all your talk about having this handled, ya ain’t been out there yet ’cept for falling and stealing dinner that one time. Ya ain’t just walked down the street. And I don’t want you to if you’re gonna get hurt or attacked.”

Alastor scowls at the cane. “I’m not sure being visibly in need of such aid will make me less of a target.”

“Maybe not but I’m thinking just use it the once. Because remember how I had two things to say? Well one was how you’ve gotta stop falling…”

“I have that under control.”

“Bullshit do ya! Ya could have been scaled yesterday and right after your burns healed!” Mimzy glares, then seems to gather her patience before continuing, “And the second thing is I’ve found a place that can help ya. So ya could just use the cane short term, til they fix ya up.”

“Who could possibly help with this?”

“What? Ya didn’t think you’re the only one with hooves down here did ya? I heard about this place from a tap dancing antelope fella at the club, and he said it helped him a bunch when he first fell. You can take the cane so you don’t fall on the way.”

A tap dancing antelope? What whacky nonsense! But Alastor has to admit to himself that the idea that anyone cursed with hooves in this damned place has worked out how to dance is somewhat reassuring. An establishment catering to hooves though: How demeaning. He is not an animal.

But Mimzy clearly wants him to go and she has more than gone out of her way to support him these last few weeks. He cannot let her do so indefinitely. So he puts on a smile – or, rather, widens the one that was already there. “Very well, sweetheart, I’ll pay them a visit.”

“Good” says Mimzy, “Cause I already booked ya an appointment.”

The following day, Alastor sets foot – or, rather, hoof – into Hell for what feels like the first time since his arrival. After all, as Mimzy said, his actual arrival was during a thankfully extreme event and his little foray into theft at the restaurant was brief and unseen. Now he is standing on the street outside Mimzy’s apartment on a typical busy day, visible to all.

As is the cane, and it does attract a few taunts and sneers from passers by. Alastor ignores them, setting determinately off down the street. The cane does help, keeping him steady as he makes his way past a pawn shop, followed by a bar complete with several loitering drunks who treat him to more jeers. Tempting to get the tentacles out, just to give them a scare, but he hasn’t time for that. His shadow is apparently less concerned about punctuality, and pauses to loom up the wall of the building, causing the drunks to shriek and stumble back inside. Alastor chuckles as he walks on, keeping a careful grip on the cane. He pauses outside a pawnshop to consult the scribbled map Mimzy made him before she left for work. Is this where he is supposed to turn?

A creamy glimmer gets his attention and he blinks in surprise as he recognises the imperfect pearls he made on display in the window. Mimzy had naturally wasted no time: She took the pearls out to sell late last night.

Hell’s currency being entirely unfamiliar to him, Alastor can’t tell whether the price being asked for the necklace is a fair one, or how it might compare to what could be charged for a less ugly offering. Odd to think any profit might be made on something he created from nothing. Alastor feels a little frisson of excitement at the thought of what he could achieve given enough time and practice.

“Alastor!”

Alastor feels the damn ears perk up as he spots Mimzy hurrying towards him through the crowd of shoppers and lurkers, dodging around a sleeping drunk before coming to a stop in front of him. She is quite out of breath, and leans against the pawnshop wall, breathing heavily. Alastor wishes he could offer his arm but even with the cane he is not sure he wouldn’t fall over. He settles for putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. Mimzy gestures back the way she came. “I got Maud to cover for me” she gasps, “I’m coming with ya.”

“There’s really no need.” Alastor isn’t sure he likes the idea of being accompanied to his appointment like a child.

“Hey! I didn’t do all that running for nothing, Alastor!” Mimzy straightens up. “Anyway, it’s an excuse for a day off and fuck knows I could use one.”

Alastor makes no further protest. She is, after all, the one paying. At that thought, he looks at the necklace in the window again, making a sudden connection to the money she gave him this morning. Mimzy follows his gaze. “Oh, yeah” she says, “I didn’t think they were good enough to go in the window, no offence, but maybe some gals don’t need their pearls to match. Low standards I guess.”

“What about your rent?” Alastor asks.

“Oh, that.” Mimzy takes his arm, offering him the support that he should, according to propriety, offer her. She leads him on and Alastor has to hastily adapt his gait to both keep up and stay upright. He resists the urge to hold a hand out for balance and leans a little more on the cane instead. When Mimzy says no more, he repeats, “That?”

“I’ll find more cash somewhere” Mimzy says.

“I could miss this appointment.”

“You could make more pearls.”

Alastor sighs. Much as he would rather practise his magic with a view to summoning up a radio, there is hardly a market for one in a realm with no broadcasting station. “Of course, dear.” Beyond that, he cannot repay her. Perhaps, he thinks, he should view this little outing as an investment, a way to speed up the process of becoming stable enough on his feet to no longer be dependent on her.

“Or money” says Mimzy.

“Pardon?”

“Could ya cut out the middle man and just make me some dough?”

“I doubt that. I don’t know enough about Hell’s money to picture it.”

“You didn’t have a picture of that suit you’re wearing.”

“But I could picture a suit. Envision one, I mean.”

Mimzy considers this, then shrugs. “Maybe envision a dress once you’ve done the pearls. And the diamonds. I ain’t forgotten about the diamonds, Al.”

Really, if he could, Alastor would magic her up an entire wardrobe of outfits and accessories. After all she has done for him, he would be delighted to. But if the trouble he went to for the pearls is anything to go by, he suspects it would be far easier to just get a job, save and pay for such things. Unless he simply needs to learn more about the power he senses now and then at his fingertips. The power the woman in the alleyway sensed.

She has not been in touch. But she could be, anytime. A thought to keep him from going back to sleep once dreams of dogs wake him.

They head down a narrow side street, flanked on either side by a jumble of homes crammed between and on top of each other, then along another street dotted with bars and dance halls, as well as some venues of more questionable purpose. In the window of one, a woman stretches languidly as they pass, the motion lifting her bare breasts. Alastor stumbles and averts his gaze. Mimzy laughs. “You’re gonna have ta get used to it, Al. No one’s shy down here.”

“I’m not shy. I’m simply not interested.”

“Well ya might wanna learn ta hide it better.”

As if he hadn’t hidden it all his life. But at least in life it wasn’t so obvious. “I could have hidden it if I’d had a little warning.”

“This is your warning, doll face.” Mimzy shrugs. “Sex is everywhere here.”

That makes sense, Alastor supposes. It is Hell. “All the more reason to found my radio station. No one copulates on air.”

Mimzy laughs again, and pats his arm. She is still going a little too fast for him. Alastor would rather like to rest for a moment – ideally not within sight of the topless woman – but he will not stoop to saying so. Instead he lets the cane take more of his weight. Is it a good job he brought it for all it is humiliating. He simply couldn’t make the journey otherwise.

Perhaps once they are closer he could attempt to use his shadow to reach this place? He senses it is too far to try just now.

But then, it would be bad manners to leave Mimzy alone. Odd that he now has to consider the etiquette implications of magic.

Turning a corner, they come upon a busier road. A few motor cars zip past but Alastor notes that, in an other sign of the outmoded nature of Hell, these are far outnumbered by bicycles and carriages. Carriages drawn by… “Oh yeah” says Mimzy, following his startled gaze, “Sometimes horses are on fire here. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll...try not to.”

Once there is a break in the traffic, the pair of them step out into the road, Alastor relying on the cane for balance as he steps off the kerb. They are almost halfway across when a car rounds a corner at speed, Mimzy yells “Shit!” and they both dive to the tarmac, clutching each other as the vehicle streams past. Alastor isn’t sure who saved who. What he does know is that whoever just ran them down is a cad and he will not stand for it. Struggling upright he reaches around for the cane – thankfully unbroken – and helps Mimzy to her feet. “Who was that?” he asks, rounding on the departing car.

“Lord Cole, sweetie, so don’t you...Oh shit, he’s stopping!” Mimzy stares in undisguised terror as the car skids to a halt a little way down the street. “Fuck, he musta heard ya!”

“Heard me?”

“Heard ya ask who he is like you’re mad at him!”

“I am mad at him.”

“Shh! Shut up Alastor!”

Others in the street have noticed the overlord now, and have started to run. Mimzy glances around as though she’s tempted to do the same.

A chauffeur gets out the car and opens the door to a large demon with flames for hair. Alastor wonders how he manages not to set fire to his pillow at night. Perhaps he is fortunate to only have nightmares to contend with.

The man is wearing an expensive looking tailored suit and carries a cane. Alastor says, “This is what everyone’s so scared of? I’ve half a mind to…” His next words are muffled into Mimzy’s palm as she clamps her hand over his mouth. He tries to protest but she presses harder, all the while muttering a litany of “Shit, shit, shit” and trying to simultaneously hide behind him and tug him away by the jaw. Losing his precarious sense of balance under such treatment, Alastor stumbles, the cane clattering to the ground.

Lord Cole pauses on the sidewalk, then slowly turns, fixing them with a blank black eyed glare. Fleeing sinners are now dropping belonging and pushing one another over in their hurry to get away. A new car enters the street and does a swift if ungainly u-turn. A flaming horse rears in fright as the driver uses the whip to try to force a similar change of direction.

Cole’s gaze sweeps over the scene dispassionately before settling again on Alastor and Mimzy as Alastor pushes himself up. The cane has rolled too far to reach so he simply stands precariously. As Cole continues to stare, Mimzy pokes in the back and hisses, “Bow or something! Say you’re sorry!”

Sorry for not taking kindly to being almost mown down? Alastor scowls.

Cole studies them a moment longer, then turns away. He dismisses his chauffeur with a lazy wave of his hand, and heads into a store. “Not to worry, dear, he’s gone.”

“What? Oh.” Mimzy peeps out from behind Alastor and relaxes at the sight of the overlord free street. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before he comes back! Where’s your cane?”

Alastor gestures to it. Asking for her help retrieving it is more than his bruised ego can cope with just now. Mimzy helps anyway, plucking the cane up and putting it in his hand. Alastor forces himself to acknowledge the act with a nod.

“You keep hold of it, sweetie, I borrowed that from a regular.” Mimzy takes his arm again. “C’mon.” She drags Alastor away, still moving too fast for him. He feels his ears tilt back and rights them. Tired as he is, he has no choice now but to hold Mimzy’s arm on the one side and grip the cane on the other. He still stumbles several times as they reach the far side of the street and head sharply away from the overlord’s car. Mimzy ignores this, pulling him along at a merciless pace until they round a corner and she finally slows. Still, she waits until they are at the end of another side street before she blurts, “That piece of shit!” Then she slaps a hand over her mouth. “Fuck, he didn’t hear me, did he?”

“I doubt he heard you through that wall from this distance any more than he heard me from inside the car. The word paranoid springs to mind, dear.”

“Better paranoid than fucking stupid! What were you thinking, Alastor?!” Mimzy holds up a hand. “And don’t answer because I’m guessing ya weren’t!” She resumes a faster pace, but pauses to let him find his balance. “I told ya these overlords are bad news but did ya listen?”

“I merely expressed an opinion. Hardly a controversial one: I’m sure most would object to being almost run over.”

“Well don’t do that again.”

“Object to being run over?”

“Be opinionated around overlords! Hell, even once you’ve got a show sponsored by one of those bastards you wanna stay clear of bad mouthing the others.”

Alastor considers this, liking this sponsorship idea less. “What if my sponsor wants me to criticise the competition?”

Mimzy shudders. “I don’t know. Try not to let anyone know what ya look like and hope your sponsor is a meaner bastard than the rest of them I guess.”

“Well, mean as they may be, it would appear they are not omniscient. Cole had no idea I was displeased with him.” That or he didn’t care, Alastor realises. He is, after all, not important enough in this new hierarchy for the likes of Cole to avoid running him over.

“Lucky for you” says Mimzy. She looks pensive and adds, “Maybe the radio show ain’t such a good idea. Maybe ya could just join a band or something? Or I could find ya some work at the club. We could use a chef.”

“I believe we have an appointment to get to?”

“Oh, shit!” Mimzy tugs on his arm. “C’mon, or we’ll be late.”

The establishment she takes him to turns out to be called On the Hoof, which Alastor, to mangle a pun, finds a little on the nose. Stepping, as best he can, inside, he sinks gratefully into the nearest chair.

He hates to admit it, even within the privacy of his own skull, but he is utterly exhausted. However many steps he has reached this week, he is certain he just doubled his record and then some, and at a pace set by a disgruntled Mimzy.

They are still late, but Mimzy sees to it that they are seen anyway, sweet talking the demon at the counter while Alastor sits and subtly tries to get his breath back.

“Tired?” an assistant greets, “I was always bushed when I first got down here.” He points to a name badge. “I’m Gethin. How can I help?” He is muscular and bull-like, bulky enough that he takes up an unreasonable amount of space in the small premises. Alastor is suddenly uncomfortably aware that, in Hell, there must be a wider range of sizes than there was on earth. Big men are even bigger here, but no less inclined to violence. More so, most likely. He reminds himself that he has tentacles now.

While he is quietly sizing the man up just in case, Mimzy is giving her name and their apologies for their lateness. Gethin leads the way deeper into the establishment, Alastor following as best he can and Mimzy trailing after them. She clearly wants to take his arm and support him but doesn’t in front of Gethin, which Alastor is grateful for.

With his back turned, Gethin’s bovine tail is on display. Alastor is glad that his own unwanted appendage can at least be hidden. The assistant tells him, “Why don’t you take a seat and we’ll see what we’re dealing with.”

Alastor sits and looks around. The place is not unlike a barber’s shop, but with the focus on the other end of the body. Two seats are already taken: At the far end of the room, a woman who looks every inch the conventional winged, red skinned demon, coos over a pair of shoes, while nearby, a human shaped man with zebra-like stripes and ears reads a paper while an assistant...trims his feet? Alastor looks away.

“If you could rest your feet on this stool, sir” Gethin says, “Let’s take a look...Ah, deer I see? You must have been a gentle soul.”

Mimzy snorts with stifled laughter and chimes in, “Yeah, he was a real sweetheart.” She pats Alastor’s shoulder while he glares. Gethin, focused on his feet, doesn’t notice. He goes on, “Yes, a lot of us who manifest as herbivore types are only guilty of the quieter sins. I take it you’re newly arrived?”

“A few weeks ago” Alastor confirms grudgingly, deciding to let the gentle comment go for now. Best not ruin his chance of assistance with a demonstration to the contrary. If anything, the thought that the man now touching his feet without asking is unlikely to have been directly violent in life is reassuring.

Gethin says, “Oh? And already walking here? Good on you.”

“He’s been walking all round my apartment” says Mimzy, “But it ain’t exactly been graceful.” Catching Alastor’s scowl she adds, “Well it ain’t!”

“It can be hard to get used to completely new feet” Gethin replies, “We can offer specialised footwear, picking, trimming, clipping, diet advice, physiotherapy…”

“We’ll take it” Mimzy tells him, “The full service.”

“Excellent.”As Gethin steps away, presumably to fetch expensive items, Alastor whispers, “And pay for it how, exactly?”

Mimzy shrugs. “I’ll figure something out.”

When Gethin returns, Alastor holds out the money Mimzy gave him last night and asks, “What will this get us?”

“Alastor!” Mimzy chides. To Gethin she adds, “That’s just a down payment. You can start a tab for the rest of it.”

“Ah, I’m afraid we’re strictly cash up front. Otherwise we end up with bills left unpaid.”

“That happens? Some people!” Mimzy widens her eyes. Alastor rolls his. Gethin takes the notes from Alastor’s hands, counts them, and says, “For this, I can talk you through the basics of hoof care and walking, and we have some shoes on sale.”

Alastor nods. It will have to do.

Leaving, in a new pair of brogues, Alastor has to admit to himself that advice Gethin had to give about balance and foot placement was illuminating. The difference may not be visible but he can feel it, and he has exercises to work on later that should help more in time. He comments, “Perhaps I’m an optimist, but this already feels a little easier.”

Mimzy looks sceptically at his feet. “Maybe. I can’t see any difference.”
“I think I could keep going for longer.” He is certainly relying less on the cane, Alastor realises, though he supposes just how much weight he is or isn’t putting on the thing isn’t apparent to Mimzy unless he visibly changes his stance. He hesitates for a moment, then does so, lifting the cane off the ground and twirling it like a fashion accessory while he continues down the street. Mimzy gasps and claps. “Ha! There ya are, doll face! I knew there was still a performer in there somewhere!”

Alastor is tempted to bow, but senses it is best not to push it. He resumes using the cane as a cane, trying his best to look casual about it.

Mimzy chuckles and takes his arm again. “Don’t get too cocky” she warns, “We’ve gotta walk back yet.” As they set off again, she adds, “And the shoes look good and all.”

“Thank you.” The shoes at least make him look a little more human, and Alastor is painfully aware that they – like everything else he has just now – are only in his possession thanks to Mimzy’s generosity, so he says nothing about how demeaning it is that they were the only pair in the sale he could afford. Not long ago he shopped at only the finest shoemakers’ of New Orleans.

Perhaps she can sense his misgivings anyway, because Mimzy says, “I wish you’d let me sweet talk the fella into letting us owe them.”

“He seemed clear about the cash up front rule.”

“Eh, rules can be flexible when ya really want ’em to be.”

“You do realise if we hadn’t paid, I wouldn’t be able to go back?”

“But you’d get more outta the visit after we came all this way and nearly got killed by Lord Fucking Cole.” Mimzy glances around as she says this, as though fearful the overlord might be lurking.

“But I wouldn’t be able to go back” Alastor repeats, “No, dear, I’ll simply return once I’ve found work and need my first…” Alastor shudders, “trim.”

Mimzy pats his arm consolingly. “Ain’t no different to me filing my nails, sweetie.” She moves as if to turn a corner, then pauses. “Hey, what with Cole being about, maybe we oughta take a short cut.”

Alastor tries for patience as he replies, “There’s a shortcut? Might that have been a good thing to mention before we set off?”

“Nope, cause I ain’t a one for dark alleys as a rule. But I do know one that’ll skip the street Cole stopped at in case he’s still there.”

“Dark alleys? It’s broad daylight, sweetheart!”

“Ha! Maybe as light as it ever gets here!” Mimzy gestures to the red hazed sky, then wraps her arms about herself and adds, “And anyway, there ain’t no laws here to stop the creeps and gongoozlers, remember? Light don’t put ’em off either.”

Alastor feels his smile shrink. “I’m here” he tells her, “And I won’t stand for anything happening to you. Lead the way, cher.”

Mimzy smiles but teases, “And what’ll ya do if someone attacks? Wave your cane at them?”

“I’m sure tentacles will do the job.” Alastor trails after her as she leads him beyond the turning.

“Heh, right. Ya know, Alastor, walking’s one thing but if you’d just move around on those things no one would ever dare attack.”

“I feel they should be for special occasions only.” Alastor follows as Mimzy slips into a little gap between tall buildings. It certainly feels twilit here. He adds, “Though it didn’t escape my notice that Lord Cole uses a cane and whatever else you can say about these overlords, they certainly seem able to hold their own.”

“What? Oh, that weren’t a cane, sweetie, that was a staff.”

“Staff?”

“Uh huh. It channels a person’s power or some shit. But only the person it belongs to. I think.”

“You think?”

Mimzy shrugs. “Only overlords have ’em.”

“Only they have the power?”

“I guess. Plus if anyone else ever got one, the overlords would kill them, so none of us regular folk would dare.” She falls quiet for a moment, then adds, “And Lucifer has one so it’s kinda a way for the overlords to say they’re in charge almost as much as he is.”

“I’m surprised he lets them hold any sway over his domain. They are human souls, I think you said?”

“Long time since they were human” Mimzy mutters. She glances back the way they’ve come as a skittering sound issues down the alleyway. Alastor turns too but can see nothing. Still, the sound makes him think, uncomfortably, of the last person he met down a dark alley. An overlord? It doesn’t seem likely. She doesn’t match Mimzy’s description of either of the lady overlords. Besides, it is hard to imagine her as human, even long ago.

The sound fades and Mimzy seems to steel herself then walks on, a little faster now. She says, “Anyway, Lucifer don’t seem to care what happens down here. No one ever sees him. He might be king but it’s the overlords that actually keep the place running day to day.”

“He palms his responsibility off on people who allow the sort of degeneracy this place is rife with?” Some king, thinks Alastor.

Mimzy laughs. “It’s Hell, Al. Did ya expect everyone ta be all refined?”

She makes a good point, but Alastor thinks of her fear in the face of Cole, and of the horrors she hinted at when she told him about Hell’s other makeshift rulers. “I expected a place of punishment if I expected anything” he argues, “Not one of…” He pauses. Opportunity? “It rather seems the worst sinners have the best time down here.”

“Ha! Ya got that right!”

“That’s hardly how it should be.” Then again, thinks Alastor, he is one of the worst sinners, isn’t he? Not that he would ever terrorise those of fairer means. He gets the impression this makes himunlike all the male overlords, going by what Mimzy has said, and what she hasn’t said. But some would classify his hobby as being on par with that sort of evil. Perhaps he should be grateful that the worst of men take charge here. But, thinking of Mimzy’s poverty and her fear, he can’t bring himself to be.

Another skittering noise behind them, unmistakable this time. Mimzy tightens her grip on his arm and walks a little faster, Alastor having to grip the cane once again to keep up. He feels the tentacles prickling at his back.

The alley is long, bypassing, Alastor estimates, several streets by cutting between the crammed buildings. The nominal light coming from the end of it seems a long way off.

And is then cut off, by a skittering someone dropping down in front of them. Alastor glances up, expecting to see a balcony or a ledge, but then he registers the multi-legged, centipede-like build of the sinner. No wonder they hadn’t seen him when they looked back: He was on the wall. His mouth opens in a sneer. “Look who it is.”

“Oh fuck” mutters Mimzy.

“Friends of yours, cher?”

“Fuck no. I got standards.”

The man chuckles. “Standards? That’s rich coming from a thief like you!”

Behind them, Alastor senses rather than sees the man’s cronies lumber up from the shadows. His own shadow rears to face them and, unnervingly, he sees their faces from the umbral eyes now at the back of his head. The men twitch a bit in the face of the shadow but stand their ground.

Mimzy is saying, “It was nearly a year ago! You’re still sore about that?”

“It was my product! I could’ve made something of myself with that amount of horse!”

Alastor blinks. “You stole heroin?” he asks Mimzy.

Mimzy bristles. “I had to! I wouldn’t normally touch that shit but I was in deep with this loan shark and a gal from the club had a fella who knew a fella who could shift it so I though why not!”

“Why not!” the centipede seethes, “Why not! Because it was my product! I never got near anything like that much again! You ruined me!”

“It didn’t take much doing!” Mimzy retorts. She shrinks behind Alastor as the centipede advances, then swears as she sees the other men. Alastor sighs and sets aside the cane. The centipede follows the movement, his lips curling into a cruel smile as he asks, “And what do you think you can do to us, fella? There’s four of us, one of you. So how ’bout you leave this bitch to us? Trust me, it’d be better for you.”

“I’m hardly about to leave a lady to your mercy” Alastor replies.

The centipede laughs. “What are you? Last gent in Hell?”

Mimzy tells him, “Pretty much.”

Alastor continues, “I will, however, give you the same chance: Leave now. It would be better for you.”

All the men laugh this time, and Alastor flinches: They all saw the cane. They don’t fear him.

More fool them.

What follows is something of a blur. A very entertaining blur but a blur all the same. Really it is like the best of nights out, fuzzy and frenzied, albeit with a very different sort of music. A few moments of clarity pierce the mêlé: A sharp pain as one of his tentacles is slashed, a freeing sort of whoosh in response and a brief glimpse of Mimzy fleeing. Alastor frowns: He is seeing her as if from a great height and she seems to be fleeing from him as much as anyone else. That awful thought brings him back to himself and he finds himself rapidly shifting downwards. For a moment he thinks he is falling again as he did when he died, but then reality resolves itself and he realises with a start that he is shrinking, returning to his usual size from what were apparently monstrous proportions. He looks around.

The centipede is dead. Squashed, apparently. Appropriate, but how he grew big enough to do that, Alastor has no idea. There are two other corpses besides, both apparently killed by the tentacles.

The injured tentacle has resulted in a twinge in some part of himself that Alastor can’t quite name, but when he rematerialises the strange appendage to examine it, it has already healed, the shadowy substance it consists of closing over the wound.

There is another mild pain too, and when Alastor puts a hand to the side of his face, he realises there is glass in it. From where? There are no windows around. But when he tilts his head back, he spots one, now smashed, high in the attic of the building beside him. Ah.

“Alastor?” Mimzy is peering round the end of the alley. Alastor hastily collects the cane from the bloodied ground and hurries over, stumbling as he goes and catching himself on the wall of the alley.

Mimzy hesitates, then moves closer to steady him. “You okay, sweetie?”

“Yes. But. Mimzy, what just happened?”

“Well, ya kind of...grew. A lot. Ya filled the whole alley for a moment there.”

Alastor looks back the way they came. “Ah. I thought so.” Like the lost little girl in that book mama once read him, Alastor thinks wildly. Alice in Wonderland. A strange Wonderland this.

He can’t wait to taste it.

“Why didn’t ya tell me you can do that?” Mimzy asks.

“Because I had no idea.” A laugh escapes Alastor, along with a triumphant little tune. “It is a useful trick.”

“And how! But give a girl some warning next time, can’t ya? I had to get out the way.”

“I’m sorry, Mimzy.” Alastor looks her over, relieved that she seems unhurt. “I wasn’t quite myself.”

“Well, a drink will sort that out. C’mon, let’s go home.”

Alastor lets her support him out of the alleyway, too tired after all the walking and shapeshifting to do otherwise. It takes him a moment to realise that she didn’t say my apartment. She said home.

Chapter Text

“Hiya, sweetie.”

“Mimzy, you’ve got to stop calling me at work.”

“Why? I’m at work too. And it’s been a shit day and I wanted to talk, so sue me.”

Alastor glances around for his supervisor and is relieved to find him dealing with some technical malfunction at the other end of the room.“Call someone else.”

There is a huff. “Ya ain’t gonna be a dweeb about telephones like ya are with radios are ya?”

“Certainly not.”

“Ya sure? Because ever since ya got this switchboard job you’ve been acting like a real wurp, Alastor.”

“I’d like to keep my job, dear. Getting it took some persuasion, after all.” Not because he is unqualified: Though very different to radio technology, the telephone switchboard is hardly more complex. And, of course, both roles require excellent communication skills. No, the difficulty was convincing the manager to give him a job despite the man’s objection that the role is woman’s work. (“How’d he figure that?” Mimzy had asked, “Men can talk can’t they? Shutting ’em up is the problem.”)

“Well ya might start learning about all ’em wires and things is all I’m saying” Mimzy tells him now.

“I already know how telephones work, Mimzy. I had one in life, you may recall.” A light appears on the switchboard in front of Alastor and Nancy, seated beside him, connects her headset. Seeing her wince at the tone of the caller, Alastor tells Mimzy, “Hold on a moment, dear. I think we have another cad.” When Nancy gives a small nod and hands her headset gratefully over, Alastor greets the second caller with, “Good afternoon, how’s eternal damnation treating you today?”

“Fuck you, you lousy piece of shit, I’m gonna come over there and I’m gonna ram that fancy voice box down your throat!”

“Mon dieu” Alastor resists the urge to flatten his ears against the volume. He has learnt through hard experience that doing so only causes them to catch painfully against the headset. It is useful training in keeping the damn things under control. “I must say” he tells the caller, “your mood hasn’t improved since yesterday. Really there’s no need for such poor manners. Now, is there anyone I can connect you with?”

“I mean it, you fucking shit, I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

Alastor opens his mouth to reply, then spots another light. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an incoming call.” He hands the headset back to Nancy, who shakes her head and turns away, apparently intent on a cigarette break. Alastor puts the headset down on her desk and takes up his own, asking, “Mimzy are you still there?”

“Yep. The whole show’s been held up, I got nothing better ta do.”

“Well hold the line then. I have another call.”

“Huh! Someone’s popular!”

Actually, he isn’t. No one knows him down here. He used to be recognisable as soon as he opened his mouth. Alastor sighs and connects his headset to the jack beneath the light, greeting the new caller with, “Good afternoon this fine Hellish day! How may I assist?”
A hurried voice rumbles, “You can tell me what you’re wearing.”

Alastor feels himself blush. “I...what?”

“Bet you’re in something skimpy. No one around to see.”

Clearly the fellow has never seen the inside of a telephone exchange. Alastor has never worked in such close quarters with so many people. He opens his mouth to say as much, then realises that the cad Nancy answered is still on the line, doubtless hurling abuse into the void. “Ah” he says, “Hold on, I think I have just the company for you.” Reaching for a cable, he connects the two calls.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mimzy” he says, returning his headset to her jack, “I had to introduce two charming gentlemen to one another.”

“Women’s work, huh?”

“I remain convinced there’s no such thing.” Alastor pauses and adds, “Except child rearing, of course. That’s much better left to those of fairer means.”

“Fuck that, why’d we get stuck with the brats? Anyway, what charming gentleman? Anyone I should meet?”

“Gracious, no. Pray tell why, when there are those dreadful clubs down here, anyone would want to know what I’m wearing?”

Mimzy laughs. “Aw, sweetie, it really is women’s work!”

“He can’t even see me! And with nudity being a commodity down here…”

“Ha! It was always that back on earth. Didn’t ya notice?”

Alastor rights the cane as it threatens to slip from where it’s propped against his chair. “I’m pleased to say I did not.” Spotting his supervisor on the prowl – apt phrasing given that the man is a wolf (not a dog, Alastor often reminds himself, an important distinction) – he adds, “I really have to go.”

“Ah, just look busy, no one’ll notice. Ain’t ya supposed to be on the telephone?”

“I would have thought you’d be all for me keeping this job. It is my main means of making a financial contribution to your household costs.”

“About that. I got an idea to run by ya.”

“Perhaps it could wait until we’re back at the apartment?” For all Mimzy breezily refers to the place as home, Alastor refuses to take such a liberty. He will save, he has decided, and move out as soon as he can. Quite aside from his desire to avoid trespassing on her generosity, her couch is not at all comfortable.

“Shit” says Mimzy, “Did I not tell ya? The whole place is getting fumigated. We’re gonna have to stay out all night, doll face.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, Ambrose said. Which is more than he did the last few times. You’ve really got him scared, sweetie.”

“Good. Then should we go to a hotel?”

“Ain’t any down here” Mimzy tells him, “Ain’t like there’s tourists, we’re all stuck in the same shithole. I figured we could just stay in a bar all night. No closing time in Hell.”

“Interesting” grins Alastor, “Then we’ll have to buy plenty of drinks all night, won’t we? To thank the barkeep for the hospitality.”

“Right? Or it’d be rude.”

Once they’ve arranged a place to meet, Alastor disconnects the call and turns his attention to the next light on the panel, and then the next. As with radio hosting, it is a job that allows no opportunity to let one’s mind drift. That is, if one wishes to do it well. Many of Alastor’s colleagues have a somewhat unhurried approach, for all they are otherwise charming company. Nancy’s cigarette break is but one example. Alastor coughs pointedly as a light appears on her side of the panel. Nancy merely rolls her eyes.

Really, Alastor can see how such a lack of interest in one’s work comes about when one has forever to toil. Hell doesn’t move at the leisurely pace of Louisiana for all it is just as hot, and there are no vacations. No weekends either: Alastor can quit whenever he wants to, the manager informed him when he ran through shift patterns, “and maybe there’ll be work still going once you’ve rested up or maybe I’ll have found someone to replace your ugly ass. You’ll have to find real men’s work then.” His gaze had trailed to the cane and he’d added, “If you can hack it that is.” Alastor had entertained himself that shift with thoughts of all the different types of men’s work he could try out on the man. Dismemberment, for example.

Suffice to say the lack rest has his colleagues exhausted and saving the energy they still have by doing the bare minimum. It explains, Alastor thinks, why overlords are so greedy for souls: Once a person signs a contract, they can be ordered to work hard.

“Probably only a matter of time before the bastard boss tries to get us all to sign soul contracts” says Nancy as she gathers her things at the end of the shift.

Margryte tells her, “I heard he signed his own already when he got the start up loan from Lord Nicholas.”

Nancy nods sombrely. “Always the way.”

“I was surprised not to be asked for my soul when I applied” says Alastor, talking lightly, while a heavy sensation settles in his stomach. “Everywhere else I tried, it was a prerequisite.” Leading, of course, to him not pursuing jobs he might otherwise of sought, being as he is already taken.

Of course, there is no need to trouble Nancy and Margryte with all that.

It is standard practice, it seems, for a contract holder to put a claimed soul to work. To do something, to ask something of them. To use them in some way. Alastor’s – he shudders – mistress has been silent. To this day, he doesn’t even know her name.

Suffice to say, it is unnerving.

“That’ll be because telephones are new” Nancy is telling him, “The overlords don’t want to commit to new shit til it’s proven.”

Hardly new, thinks Alastor. Back on earth they have been around for at least fifty years.

Radio, in its current and best form, is nowhere near so established.

“You’ve got to remember, they’re all terribly old” Margryte adds, “There’s only been a handful of new ones since I fell.”

Alastor coughs discreetly, unsure if this is as comparable to asking a lady’s age as it feels, “And that was…?”

“1350. Plague.”

“Ah, my commiserations.” Alastor is, he realises, a little jealous of anyone who died in their bed, however unpleasantly.

“A long time ago” Margryte shrugs. “But there’s hardly been any new faces since then. Just Cole, Nicholas and Rosie.”

“Oh? I wonder how they managed that?” More to the point, Alastor wonders if being younger will make them more amenable to modern technology. If Mimzy is to be believed, he will need a sponsor.

“Luck and being ruthless bastards” says Nancy.

“I think we’ve seen the last to rise” says Margryte, “There’s no territory left to claim now.”

“Just souls” says Nancy grimly. “They’ll get us all in the end.”

Not too fast though, Alastor realises, and not all at once. The overlords seem to have a comfortable status quo going, each gradually building their empires, none of them wanting to antagonise the others by making too dramatic a move.

Yes, he is starting to see how things work down here. And it is incompatible with radio. Radio is not about stalemates and stagnancy. It is about change and challenge, the holding of powerful men to account and the pushing of boundaries. How is he supposed to find a sponsor to support such revolutionary technology among the sort of men people have revolutions about?

The three of them leave together, then say their goodbyes and disperse into Hell. Alastor is tempted to ask them along on his night on the town with a view to expanding his social life a little, but with Mimzy wanting to run an idea past him, perhaps now is not the time.

He makes his way slowly through Hell’s streets, still attracting the odd sneer from those who realise the cane is more than the fashion accessory he is able to pass it off as most of the time now. Really, he needs it less and less these days, but he is still just shy of being steady enough on his feet to do without it entirely. Should anyone graduate from jeers to violence, though, Alastor knows he can handle it. After long days and weeks of practising he has control of his shadow tentacles down to a fine art at this point. Changing size is harder to practise (“Ya might have scared him but Ambrose will still turf me out if ya shoot through the ceiling” Mimzy had complained after he proposed attempting to grow a modest foot “What if it’s house size or nothing?”) She had had a point, and his one attempt to explore the ability when safely outside had drawn her ire too (“Alastor! Cole’s gonna think you’re here to challenge him or something! You shrink back down this instant!”) Still, he is cautiously optimistic that he could change size again if he really needed to. He’d hardly need to be careful if he was under attack.

Once he is close enough, Alastor uses his shadow to travel the last stretch of the journey. Rematerialising outside the bar, he raises a hand in a contrite wave as a woman yelps and shrinks back. “My apologies, madam.”

She tuts and hurries away. Alastor straightens his suit, fixes his tie and heads inside. The bar Mimzy proposed they meet at is a little place they have frequented a few times before and where she seems to know every other sinner. It is a dive. Just fixing his tie makes Alastor by far the smartest person in the room. There is music, though, from a little band in a far corner. Substandard but at least it’s jazz.

The floor is sticky. Alastor scowls down at it, feeling his face contort around the smile, then looks up to scan the room. Besides the band there is a little bar, around which a few patrons are clustered, several glaring at him. That seems to happen a lot here. Closer, there are tables, at one of which is seated, “Mimzy!”

“Alastor! Doll face! How was work?”

Mimzy was all for him finding work. Understandable given how infuriatingly helpless he was upon arrival, but Alastor suspects she was also hoping that it would distract him from trying to establish his show. For all she suggested the idea, she seemed to quickly foresee dangers in the scheme.

His initial failure to find anywhere that didn’t want him to sign a soul contract had been a visible disappointment to her. He had told her, of course, that he simply didn’t want to sell his soul and she had understood, with a camaraderie that he didn’t want to sully by explaining that he has nothing to sell. No need to trouble her with it, he had decided the day of their reunion. He intends to stick to that.

“Oh, it was fine” he tells her, “As you well know considering you called me half way through. You may as well work there, sweetheart.”

“Ha! Can ya imagine? No, I don’t want nothing to do with all ’em knobs and dials and shit. Give me dancing any day.”

“And how was your performance?”

“Stunning, obviously. Not that my asshole boss appreciated it.” Mimzy scowls, then holds her glass out. “Buy a gal a drink?”

Not trusting the cleanliness of the place, Alastor purchases cheap wine for the sake of its sealed bottle. Not, he supposes, that he can necessarily trust the wine either. There may be no prohibition down here but there are no safety standards either. Still, needs must. He is hardly about to become a teetotaller. It has, after all, been a stressful few months, starting with his forced relocation and encompassing the loss of his career, his social standing and everything else he misses from earth. Nothing like falling of a plane of existence to put all other the other transitions of life in perspective.

Not that he ought to let all that drive him to excessive drink, of course. Or allow it to excuse poor manners. So, while Mimzy describes her employer’s shortcomings in detail over the next several bottles, Alastor makes an effort to follow her complaints. When she runs out of those around the third bottle, he commiserates, “What a shame to have an ungentlemanly landlord and a subpar boss as well.”

“Well there’s plenty of assholes down here.” Mimzy takes a long drink. “I’m not about to be stuck at the club forever though. I’m gonna get my own place some day.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Nothing fancy, just a bar, a little stage, some seating. I could do it, ya know. It’s not like I don’t have forever.”

“I have no doubt you can do it” Alastor assures her. Privately, he reflects on Mimzy’s tendency to lurch from debt to debt and wonders how much of forever could be taken up with that. “Once my radio show is off the ground” he adds, “I’ll be able to help you out.”

Mimzy gives a nervous smile. “Or, there might be some other way ta make a bit of cash…”

“Even if there was” Alastor tells her, “I’d still want my show.”

Mimzy sighs. “How’s that going? Ya decided on an overlord yet?”

Alastor scowls and sips his wine. “I’m still weighing my options.”

“Well whoever ya choose, make sure ya impress them with the pitch. If ya don’t, they could just kill ya, Al.”

“One thing that’s bothering me is the lack of radios. How will people tune in?”

“Don’t worry about that part. Give it a few years and the technology will get down here. We’re just a little behind the times down here is all.”

“I don’t want to wait years.”

“Well, ya might have to.” Mimzy finishes her glass and sets it down.

Alastor tells her, “I can’t be sure the technology will follow when there are no stations to tune in to.”

“How’d it work back on earth anyway? Seems like kinda a chicken and egg thing if the radios have to be ready for the station and the station has to be ready for the radios.”

“Radio came first. Before we had stations, they communicated with other radios point to point.”

“Dweeb to dweeb?”

“I’m not sure how it will work the other way around.”

“You’ll figure it out.” Mimzy thinks for a moment and adds, “Maybe magic some radios up.”

“I’m not sure my power to materialise objects are quite up to supplying all of Hell with radio technology.”

“Or your overlord can help ya out with it all.”

“...My overlord. Yes.”

“Or maybe not because that’s the kinda thing they’d want your soul for.”

Alastor tightens his grip on his glass a little. The glass wobbles and he quickly rights it.

Something over his shoulder catches Mimzy’s eye. “Look at that” she says, “I can’t be doing with the dresses they’ve come up lately. It’s like I died and fashion fell apart! See, all that bias cut? It ain’t forgiving on a curvy gal, ya know.”

Alastor follows her gaze to where several sinners have started to dance to the band’s offering. Nearest to them are a couple of women in modern attire. One is startlingly tiger-like, while the other looks human but for her bat wings. Realising they are a couple, he glances at the establishment’s large windows, which overlook the street. Back on earth, two women couldn’t showcase their affection like this outside of the most intimate of speakeasys.

He wonders if the modern clothing is because they are recently fallen. If so, they seem to be finding their place down here with more success than him.

“And the other gal!” Mimzy adds, “That great big skirt like she’s some Victorian dame.”

“Shoulders are getting wider” Alastor tells her, recalling the conversation of female acquaintances back in New Orleans, “But a few daring women are wearing suits.”

“No! With pants?”

Alastor nods. “I saw a lady in pants walking down Canal Street a week before I died.” He pauses, still unused to talking casually about his own demise. Rallying he adds, “Bravo, I say. It’s about time ladies had the choice. I was going to talk about it on my show…” He trails off again.

Mimzy reaches to give his hand a squeeze, but says, “Well, I don’t think I’ll be putting on some boring suit, no offence, sweetie.” Then she eyes his suit and adds, “Yours is nice though! Way more creative than anything back up top.”

Alastor preens a little. “Red just seemed appropriate.” He sits back in his chair and stifles a yawn with his hand.

Mimzy laughs. “What? Tired out already? Night’s young, Al!”

“The night is dead, dear. The morning is young.” Alastor pauses and adds, “And you died younger than me. By the end of my life, I stayed in two or three nights a week.”

“No way! Ya big pill!”

“In my defence, I was living on a reduced income. I had to take a pay cut during the depression, you see.”

“I’m glad I missed that.”

“It didn’t help that everyone interesting had gotten married by then” Alastor adds, “And insisting on having children they had to stay in and take care of. It was getting hard to find people to go out with of an evening.” Of course, there were always new people to charm. Up and coming musicians and dancers he met through work, even a few fellow hosts, all keen to drink with the Voice of New Orleans. But without Mimzy to act as a useful barrier between himself and the women, they were wont to take things the wrong way. And the men? Well, they were men. Interesting men, many of them. Entertaining company given their professions. But still. By the end, a quiet night in held an appeal for Alastor that it hadn’t in his twenties.

Mimzy squeezes his hand again. “Poor kitten. I’m gonna have to liven ya up, huh?”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“How do ya think? Dancing!”

“Ah.” Alastor pauses. “I’m not sure I…” He glances helplessly at the cane.

“Look, if my antelope pal can do it, you can.”

“...That’s really not a sentiment I expected the afterlife to include.”

Mimzy gently sets the cane aside. “C’mon! You’re walking great now.”

“Walking is one thing. Dancing…”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I’ll fall over.”

“So what? People will just think you’re drunk.”

He is, a little. “I’d rather they didn’t.”

“So tell ’em the truth. Really, sweetie, half the crowd in here are blotto enough they’re not gonna notice.”

This proves true. Alastor falls no less than five times, taking Mimzy with him twice, and no one around them seems to care. Stumbling about seems to be par of the course in this dive. And stumbling about seems to be as close as he can come to dancing. “For now” Mimzy tells him, and he does his best to believe her.

“Thank you, Mimzy” he says as they return to their table. He sits down heavily and reassures himself that the cane is still there.

“No problem, sweetie. Now, seeing as you’re on your way to being on back your feet, I got an idea to run by ya.”

“Ah, yes. You mentioned.”

“So” Mimzy settles more comfortably in her chair, then glances around as though checking for eavesdroppers. Little chance of that with the band in full swing now. “Listen, Alastor, ya know I’ve been wanting a diamond?”

“You may have mentioned it once or twice.” And so far, he has utterly failed to conjure one up.

“Well it ain’t just diamonds that get shit done! There’s plenty of other pretty stones that’d solve all our problems if we could just get our hands it, and I mighta got a lead on one.”

“Oh?”

Mimzy leans forward conspiratorially. “Ya ever heard of the Elswade Emerald?”

Alastor is surprised to realise that he has. “That gem that was on display in New York years back?”

“That’s the one.”

“I read about the theft in the papers. People thought it was mobsters.”

“Nope. Demons.” Mimzy takes a swig of her drink, “Folk down here pay a lot for stuff from earth.”

“And how, if that’s the stuff.”

“Exactly: It’s worth a load for being from earth and another load for being a great big emerald. And I know where it is Alastor! A fella at the club told me today. Guy called Innocent.”

“Innocent?”

Mimzy waves a hand. “Whole big thing back when he was alive. People called their kids after popes and virtues they could grow inta.”

“And he failed entirely?”

“Not entirely. Guy has good taste at least. Always comes to my show. Says I’m the best dancer this side of the pentagram.”

“Is his information reliable?”

“Of course it is, he’s a fan! He wouldn’t lie ta me. Anyway, he used to work for this organised crime gang. Well kinda organised. Not quite up there with the overlords but they get shit done. They got this casino but the real money comes from the drugs.”

Alastor accommodate this information with the little he already knows of Hell’s politics. “The overlords allow this?”

Mimzy shrugs. “I guess so long as they don’t get too big.”

“Chaos can be useful I suppose.”

“It’s Lord Ilbert whose territory they’re on. I figure they pay him rent or something. Taxes, who the fuck knows.” She sips her drink and adds, “The important thing is, it turns out it’s them who have the emerald, not him. Him we wouldn’t mess with.”

“We?”

“Innocent got real drunk today and let the whole thing slip” Mimzy continues, “There ain’t many who can get anything from earth, that’s why that shit is worth so much, but turns out this gang had the right connections. They’ve got the emerald and who knows what else.”

“Just because they once had it” Alastor cautions, “Doesn’t mean they still do. Surely they stole it to sell it on?”

“Nope. According to Innocent it’s just sat in a safe. Probably his old boss is keeping hold of it as a back up fund in case another gang steal all his product or someone blows up his casino. You know, unavoidable shit like that.” Checking again that none of the drunken dancers are listening in, Mimzy adds, “So I’m thinking with your little shadow trick, we could just go in there and take it!”

Alastor frowns above his smile. “This Innocent doesn’t want to to that himself?” The last thing he needs, just as he’s building a life – for want of a better word – is for Mimzy to anger a man with organised crime contacts.

Mimzy waves a hand dismissively. “He can’t do that creepy shadow trick. You’re the only one, Al. Besides he’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s the other thing my boss was in a sulk about: A fella came in and tried to rob us and straight up shot Innocent! Who weren’t doing nothing wrong, poor guy. Whole show got delayed while we all mopped up and the boss was hung up on how he won’t be paying his tab for months til he reforms.”

“When you said it was a difficult day at work, cher, I’m afraid I didn’t realise quite how bad.”

Mimzy shrugs. “It weren’t the first time someone’s pulled a gun at the club and it won’t be the last. This is why I want my own establishment, Alastor. I could run things without the drama.”

“...Of course you could, dear.”

“And if I had, say, a big emerald all the way from New York” Mimzy’s tone turns wheedling, “I could buy myself a little bar or club, and get out from under Ambrose and move somewhere where the air’s clean. Or cleanish. Somewhere the smog ain’t so thick at least.”

Alastor sighs. “It’s a lovely thought, cher.”

“It ain’t a thought, it’s a plan.” Mimzy fixes him with a stern look, “Ya ain’t gonna be all prudish about a little harmless stealing like ya used to be are ya? ’Cause we’re in Hell, Alastor! It’s time ya grew out of that.”

She has a point. But still Alastor can’t shake a sense that theft is unbecoming of him. It feels low. Petty. A thought, he reminds himself, born of years spent with a comfortable wage. He had no need to resort to theft back when he was a popular radio host. He is nobody now.

Of course, shares none of this with Mimzy. Minus the magic, this plan is exactly the sort of venture she spent her life carrying out. But Mimzy always wore it well. Pettiness always seemed charming when she was doing it. She is refreshingly brazen. Daring. It is hardly her concern that Alastor feels his participation will prove he has gone down in the world. Which of course he has. Literally. “If you want jewels” he tries, “I can make them.”

“Can ya though? Cause they’ve been a mess so far, no offence. Anyway, Al, a forgery’s never worth as much as the real thing. This is the Elswade Emerald from up top! Think what that could fetch in Greed!”

Alastor has barely a passing understanding of the other rings. He has no idea what it could fetch in Greed.

Enough to pay for construction of a radio tower, perhaps?

“How would you get it to Greed?” he asks.

“I know a fella who knows an imp. So that’s four cuts. Bigger cuts for you and me if I swing it right, what with us actually doing the job. But we best do it before Innocent reforms or he’ll want in.2 She sits back with a grin. “So what do ya think? Are ya in?” When Alastor doesn’t answer right away, Mimzy adds, “Look, if you do that appearing out of nowhere thing inside the safe and take it that way, there’s no way they’ll be able to trace it back to us because how’d we get in there? Won’t be any locks picked. They probably won’t even notice it’s gone: I bet they don’t check that often.”

“You don’t think they’ll notice when it’s up for sale? If you have contacts in Greed, I have no doubt a gang does.”

“Well it ain’t going on sale with Stolen by Mimzy Back in Pride on the label! Even if they’ve got guys down there, it won’t come back to us. C’mon, Al! Don’t be a pill.”

“I’m simply aware that the last time I helped you out in your line of work it didn’t end well.”

“What, that thing on the river? That was years ago, move on already!”

“We almost drowned, cher.” It might, Alastor realises, have been a better end for both of them. As it was, he wasn’t down here to help her when she fell, and yet she has still given him a place to sleep, fed him when he had no more than the ruined clothes he arrived at her apartment in, helped him with his humiliating hooves. He owes her so much. “Very well” says Alastor with a sigh. “I’ll help.”

Mimzy bounces in her chair and claps her hands. “Oh, Alastor! Ya won’t regret this!”

Alastor feels his ears flatten of their own accord.

The whole venture is not so straightforward as Mimzy would like. “I don’t get it” she says when he proposes a visit to the casino, “Why’d ya want ta show your face there? It’ll look real suspicious if ya start showing up right before the emerald disappears then never visit again after.”

“Then I will visit again after our little venture” Alastor says, “But I fear I won’t be able to find the safe if I don’t have some idea of the layout of the place. And I can hardly sit here on your couch with my shadow on the other side of town. We can’t be that far apart.”

“So practise” said Mimzy, giving the same advice she has given for diamond making and walking. It worked with walking, in fairness. But Alastor senses that his shadow can only carry him so far and that limit is not extendable. “I’ll need to visit to get an idea of the layout” he insists, “And I’ll need to be in the vicinity when we carry out your plan.”

So here he is, loitering around the back of the casino. It is in what he is coming to recognise as a fairly standard street in Hell, complete with bars, stores selling decidedly harder drugs and unnervingly naked sinners standing in windows of places with entirely different wares.

Standard, at least for this part of Hell. Other places, Mimzy and his new colleagues have informed him, are decidedly more old fashioned. Zestial’s territory has apparently not changed much since the middle ages. Alastor has half a mind to visit, if only to escape all the relentless nudity.

He has found that he doesn’t have to go into the casino itself. Walking casually – or as casually as one can with a cane – around the perimeter and standing about among the drunks and other litter in the surrounding streets is sufficiently close to send his shadow in.

Standing around without it, he has had to dispatch two separate muggers, each presumably trying to steal money they could gamble away. He has watched, unseen, as men in suits emerged from the casino and loaded bags of some mysterious powder into a waiting motorcar. Hours later, a different, more expensive looking motorcar drew up and, with some fanfare, a powerfully built man emerged and was shepherded into the casino by frightened looking staff.

Meanwhile his shadow is inside. It sticks to the shadows already gathered in there, thick under tables and between the bars of light cast by the gaudy neon signs. Through what passes for its eyes, Alastor familiarises himself with the layout of the place, and the location of the safe, in a little room off an office. The safe is large, though not as large as he was expecting for a casino of this size. Not as expensive or as complex looking either. Perhaps these gangsters have grown complacent. Alastor tries to urge his shadow closer. He is sure it could slip inside, through the paper thin space between hinges and bolts, but it withdraws and flows back to him. Strange. Perhaps there is a time limit as to how long they can be apart. This is the longest time it has been away from him after all.

Returning to Mimzy’s apartment, Alastor announces himself ready to proceed when she is. A few meetings with her acquaintance with ties in Greed, and she sets a date and time. Daytime in fact, and he has to persuade Nancy to cover his shift. “I would have thought a casino is busier at night?” he asks Mimzy.

“It’ll be busy night and day on pay day” she replies. When Alastor looks blank she explains, “Most folk get paid on the last day of the month, and trust me, plenty of them will go straight to the nearest casino to lose it all right away. We go late in the afternoon at the end of the month and they’ll be way too busy to check the safe.”

Returning to an alleyway near the casino, Alastor says, “I can’t see the appeal myself.”

“What, of gambling?” Mimzy asks, “It’s all the thrill and the glamour!”

Alastor eyes sleeping drunk. “Yes, the place oozes glamour.”

“It’ll be better inside. Which is where I’ll be because I don’t wanna hang around out here.”

“I thought you said showing our faces inside was a risk?”

“In the lead up, sure. But when the thing’s actually being taken? They’ll know it ain’t me because I’ll be right in front of their security team the whole time.”

“Fair enough.”

“Ya want me to take the cane? You could carry more without it.”

He can stay on his feet better with it, but Alastor supposes he won’t need to for long. If all goes to plan, he’ll simply pop into the safe and pop back out again. He hands the cane over. “I’ll see you here in an hour?” He’ll hardly need that long, but it will look odd if Mimzy’s visit is too short.

“Sure thing. Good luck, doll face.”

Alastor nods, then fades into the shadows. Misjudging the size of the safe, he hits his head as he rematerialises inside it and falls to his knees with a papery crunch.

Damn. That was hardly a silent entry. But, listening hard, Alastor can make out no sound beyond the metal box he is now crouched in. Mimzy must have been right about the casino being busy enough today that everyone is elsewhere.

It is dark, of course. Alastor can just make out his shadow, though that is not through sight so much as sense. He summons a flame, a neat little trick he’s perfected lately. Or, not perfected, since the fame doesn’t materialise. Well, perhaps it wouldn’t be wise anyway, in such a small space. Especially since he is knelt in a pile of banknotes, he realises, feeling around. Feeling vulgar but knowing Mimzy would approve, he fills his pockets with what he can.

His shadow curls around him. Alastor tries to send it under the door to double check for lurking casino workers, but it hovers, apparently reluctant to leave his side. “Really” Alastor whispers crossly, “Of all the times to be clingy.” The shadow just tilts its head.

Ignoring it, Alastor feels around his cramped surroundings, his hands encountering more cash but no emerald. Twisting uncomfortably, he explores the back of the safe. His head swims dizzyingly as he moves. Odd. He shakes himself and refocuses.

The walls of the safe are lined with metal shelves. On this, Alastor’s groping fingers more cash and several guns. Still no emerald. Scowling, he twists again, ignoring another wave of dizziness, to run his hands along the shelves at the front of the safe. Nothing besides more money and guns. He gets dizzier still. He didn’t hit his head that hard, surely?

Just as he is thinking of taking the money and leaving, he tilts forward, suddenly faint, and his hand brushes a section of shelf that feels hollow. Alastor makes an effort to sit back up and focus, setting aside a nauseous lurch as moves. Yes, hollow. Not on top of the shelf, but underneath it. He grapples with it, his hands stinging strangely as he grips the metal. Finally, the base of the shelf comes away to reveal a little compartment, just big enough for… “Ah” Alastor murmurs, reaching inside, “This must be it.” He lifts the cool, heavy object and tests it on his teeth. Definitely stone. And the size of an egg, just as the papers back on earth had described it.

His shadow nods, then twitches, as if keen to leave.

He can’t leave. When Alastor tries to vanish, nothing happens. He tries again. And again. Still nothing.

His grip tightens around the emerald. Is this some sort of curse or magical protection? Just in case, he puts the stone down – Mimzy will just have to do without the wretched thing if it’s stopping him leaving – and tries again. Nothing. He is trapped. Worse, every time he tries to magic himself away, Alastor feels a fresh wave of nauseating dizziness. It feels as though his very strength is being sapped.

Definitely magic, he realises. Magic working against his own. Stealing his own. He tries to vanish yet again, the effort leaving him reeling sideways, faint and sick. He sags against the shelves, then flinches back as the touch of the metal burns.

Not the emerald. It is the safe itself that is curse.

Alastor grits his teeth. Enough of this. He picks up the emerald again, reasoning that if it isn’t to blame for this strange paralysis he might as well take it. Slipping it into an inside pocket he readies his tentacles. Forcing his way out isn’t ideal, but he can see no other option. He can’t just stay here. The damn metal is making his head pound.

A mere flicker of a tentacle emerges, wavers, then vanishes. Alastor steadies himself against the resulting dizziness, careful to touch only the carpet of banknotes and not the floor of the safe itself.

Well, if shadow magic and tentacles aren’t working, he will just have to take on his bigger form. He tries to grow. He can’t. And the effort of trying leaves him panting and gasping, his head throbbing. He realises he is about to faint a moment before his head hits the floor.

Coming round, some indefinite time later, he is first aware that he is still in the wretched safe. Next, he senses his shadow. The thing is hovering nervously over him.

Then he hears voices beyond the safe. Men, a group of them, coming closer, through the office and into the little room containing the safe. Alastor scrambles upright, feels around for one of the guns and raises it. As the door swings open, he fires it. The wretched thing isn’t loaded. He resorts to hitting the nearest man as hard as he can with it. The man shrinks back with a startled curse but another pushes past him and grabs Alastor by his lapels, headbutts him and thrusts him back into the safe.

Alastor reels, crashing back against the wall. He tries to sit up, but falls back against the stinging metal. Distantly, he is aware of one of the men asking, “What the fuck? How’d he get in here?”

“Fuck knows” says another, “Magic or some shit. It won’t work now.”

“Want me to finish him off, boss?”

“Nah, shut the door. He’ll double die in a few days in there without water. Give him some time to regret messing with us.”

Alastor stumbles groggily towards the door, only to feel the rush of air as it slams.

Wonderful. Now what is he supposed to do?

The men apparently move off, their voices and footsteps fading with a crackle of laughter. Once they seem settled in the adjacent room, Alastor turns to his shadow. “Go under the door” he whispers to it.

The shadow startles and shakes its head. Alastor nods his and points. The shadow shrinks back. Alastor tells it, “I know it’s hardly pleasant but you aren’t corporeal! You don’t have to touch the metal!” Just pass very close to it, through the merest slip of space between the safe door and the walls, and the shadow seems to shrink at the prospect. “It’s that or we both die” Alastor tells it. Dehydration, he realises, is a death which, mere hours ago, would have seemed a lot better than the one he had. Now, he’s not so sure. “Look, you’re my shadow and I insist.” The shadow shakes its head.

Somewhere in the distance, an alarm sounds. Closer, one of the men says, “Fire alarm” and another replies, “Go see what the fuck’s going on.” The sound of the alarm rises as the door is opened and shut.

Out of ideas, Alastor tries his tentacles again. The effort makes him shudder and hunch over, trying not to pass out.

The door opens and slams shut again. “Boss, the whole place is on fire! It’s outta control!”

A chair scrapes back sharply. “What the fuck? How?!”

The alarm is briefly louder again as a new person enters. They must be someone unwelcome, judging by the shuffling and the clicking as guns are raised. A new voice demands, “Where is he?”

Mimzy. Alastor struggles to the door, raises a fist to bang on it. Pauses. Isn’t is better if Mimzy doesn’t know he’s here? If she realises he’s trapped, she might get herself killed trying to free him. If she has no reason to stay, she may well talk herself out of the gun filled room. He lowers his fist.

“Who the fuck are you?” a man asks. The boss, if Alastor can tell correctly. He isn’t sure he can. His head is still pounding.

“I ain’t telling ya, and ya can call off your goons. Ya got a burning building out there and these are angelic steel bullets in this gun!” A lie, Alastor is certain. Mimzy has impressed upon him how expensive angelic steel is.

“Angelic steel, huh?” the man is saying, “And how’d a doll like you come by that?”

“Give me Al and I might tell ya.”

Somewhere in the distance, Alastor can hear screaming. The men outside must hear it too. There is more uneasy shuffling and one says, “Boss, the fire! We gotta run.”

“Al?” the man repeats, “That what his name was?”

“Was?” Mimzy’s voice wavers a little.

Alastor’s shadow looks from Alastor to the door and seems to make a decision. Alastor gives it a nod. It nods back and slips under the door, shivering at the uncomfortable sensation of the metal so close to its being. Alastor shivers in turn, horribly aware of the closeness of the magic-sapping curse, both around him and around his shadow. There is a brief relief as the shadow reaches the other side of the door but it quickly drains as it turns and slips itself into the lock.

Beyond the door, the man growls, “If you know he’s here, you know he’s stealing from me. Which makes you nothing but a thieving bitch.”

“Rich coming from a creep like you” snaps Mimzy, “Now tell me where Alastor is!”

The shadow twists in the lock, causing Alastor an aching wave of nausea.

There is a shot in the room beyond, followed by a second man swearing. “She shot me! Boss, the bitch shot me!”

“I got more where that came from! Where’s Alastor?”

“She barely winged you.”

“But I got wings, boss!”

“Boss, I can smell smoke!”

“Just deal with her, will you?”

There is some scuffling, over which Mimzy yells, “Get off me!”

Another nauseating click and the door of the safe opens. Alastor bursts out. Between dizziness and lack of cane, he is hardly an effective opponent, but he at least has the element of surprise, and he uses it to his full advantage, propelling himself through the doorway to the office and straight for the man he judges to be in charge. His shadow flows after him, growing to loom over the lackeys. He hears Mimzy yell, “Finally!” and then he collides with the demon in front of him, knocking his gun from his hand. Unfortunately, his opponent also has a tail, which he uses to pluck the weapon back up, brushing Alastor off and springing to his feet. “Enough already!” he growls, and raises the gun.

Alastor raises his tentacles but they waver and fade.

“Ah, yeah” chuckles the man, “That’s the thing with the spell on that safe. Knocks your powers out. Even just touching it, you’ll need a minute to get your strength back up.” He aims the gun. “But I ain’t about to give you that.”

Alastor raises his hands. Across the room, Mimzy fights harder. She seems to have been disarmed of her gun but brandishes his cane as she yells, “Wait, we can talk about this!”

Just then someone bangs on the door yelling, “Fire, get the fuck out!” One of the goons turns to look at the others and then to the door. He bolts, letting in a plume of smoke and heat as he leaves. The other goons start coughing and panicking, and Mimzy twists from the grip of one to knee another hard between the legs. As he sinks and swears, Alastor’s opponent glances briefly over. Alastor takes the opportunity to finally snatch the gun.

Mimzy runs to his side and tells his opponent, “How’s about we call it quits and leave while we all still can? Come on, Alastor.” She grips Alastor’s arm and hauls him to his feet. He is careful to keep the gun trained on he other demon.

The demon growls. “You won’t get away with this, bitch.”

“Wanna bet?” grins Mimzy, “Oh shoot, I would too ’cept your casino’s on fire.” As she speaks, the smoke thickens. The demon lunges for them but Mimzy side steps sharply and they are lost in the smog. Alastor coughs, stumbles, and tries to right himself.

“You okay, sweetie?”

“I think so.” Actually, he is still terribly dizzy but he isn’t sure whether that is the lingering effects of the magic or the smoke. He suppresses another cough. “I don’t suppose I could have my cane back?”

She presses it into his hand as they stumble out the door and into a smoke clogged hallway. Alastor leans on it gratefully. Mimzy steers him towards a flight of stairs. “This way” she says, but, as they approach, the heat intensifies and the sound of screaming grows. “Shit” mutters Mimzy as they shrink back.

“Your work, cher?”

Mimzy pulls him back the way they came. “I figured we could use a distraction.”

The ceiling above them creaks ominously. Alastor asks, “And death by fire?”

Mimzy peers down one corridor and then another. “Well what kinda place don’t have fire exits?”

“Maybe one in Hell, dear.”

The ceiling creaks again and Mimzy mutters, “Shit.” When it starts to cave in, she yells it. “Shit! Alas…”

And then they are both outside.

“...tor” Mimzy finishes with a whimper. She is clinging to him. The shadow is clinging to both of them. It unravels itself and slithers to Alastor’s side. Alastor eases Mimzy off him and looks around, noting that he still has his cane and that they are back in the alley they started in. 

Most importantly, they are both out. He didn't just vanish into the shadows. On sheer instinct and desperation, he took Mimzy with him. “Hm. I didn’t know I could do that.” He turns to Mimzy. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah” she says weakly. She slinks closer and clings again. He pats her awkwardly on the back. She tells him, “I’d hug your shadow if I could. Even if it is a creepy bastard.” Looking round him at the shadow she asks, “Why didn’t ya do that right away?”

“We were both a little thrown by whatever curse was on that safe” Alastor explains. Truth be told, he still feels a little light headed. No matter.

Mimzy’s eyebrows raise at the mention of magic and she seems about to express some unnecessary concern, but then she is distracted by the screaming from inside the building. “Shit, I kinda feel bad. I didn’t mean for the fire ta get that big.”

“Well, these things happen.”

“Yeah. And hey, I yelled fire first so they hand some warning. A load of folks got out. Probably.” Her expression clouds for a moment, then she seems to make an effort to smile. “Not like they won’t be back anyway.” She stands back and looks at him expectantly. “So have ya got it?”

Alastor takes a moment to realise she is asking about the emerald. “Indeed” he replies, “It’s just… ah.” The pocket he stuffed the emerald into is empty. He feels his smile slip into a nervous tilt. “It, err, it must have fallen out of my pocket in all the commotion.”

“What the fuck, Alastor, the emerald was the whole point!”

“Forgive me if I was a little distracted by the magic draining safe and all the men with guns!”

“Screw the men with guns! Get back in there and get our emerald!”

“Ha! No.”

Mimzy turns to the shadow. It shakes its head firmly. She turns back to Alastor. He tells her. “The ceiling caved in, remember?”

“So? It’s a shadow!”

“The whole place is alight. Light being rather the antithesis of shadow?”

Mimzy throws up her hands in a gesture of frustration, then turns away and kicks a bundle of rags strew across the alley. It grunts and rolls over.

Alastor gives her a moment. He takes a few deep breaths and leans more heavily on the cane, resisting the urge to simply sit on the ground.

“I could’ve had my own business” snaps Mimzy, “My own apartment. Maybe even a whole house.”

“I did take money.” Alastor pulls out the notes. They are, he realises, of a higher denomination than any he has yet seen in Hell. Mimzy takes them with a nod and turns away again.

“I’m sorry, cher.” Alastor waits another minute, then adds, “I did get you out.”

Mimzy’s expression softens. She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “...Yeah, ya did. I knew ya would.” She finally steps back over to him and takes his arm. “C’mon” she says, “Ya look like ya could use a drink.”

Chapter Text

Whiskey don’t perk Alastor up the way Mimzy hoped. When they get home, he’s still tired and groggy from whatever number that magic did on him, and looking so sorry for himself that Mimzy would give him her bed – really she would have – except by the time she thinks it, he’s already folded his lanky frame up on her couch and dozed off. Or he’s close to dozing off. It probably wouldn’t do him any good to be disturbed, is the point, so Mimzy leaves him be and goes to her bedroom.

She lies awake, trying not to think about how magic like the curse on that safe ain’t a common thing. Who’d have expected any of those mobsters to have power like that?

But then, who’d have expected Alastor to arrive down here with all the tricks he’s got. Trust him to be lucky though. Right up to getting shot or however it went, his life back up top was working out just the way he wanted. Probably that’s why he’s so hung up on everything he’s lost, pining so bad she went and suggested he ought to start a radio show. If she’d thought through all the people who might take issue with that, she’d have kept her mouth shut.

A sleep does him good, and they count and split the money over breakfast. Well, over coffee. Mimzy would have shopped except she’s been real busy, between extra shifts and planning casino jobs. Good thing she did though, because there’s plenty here, enough that she can relax for a while. Still she tells, Al, “It ain’t half of what that emerald would be worth ya know.”

“I know, sweetheart. I was rather preoccupied with neither of us being killed.”

“Well it’s rent covered for a while at least. After we’ve had some good times. Fuck knows we could use that what with everything.” Mimzy grins. “Ya know what this means, though, right? You’re taking me shopping, Alastor.”

“Of course. Just name the date.”

“How about right now?”

Alastor hesitates. “Right now?”

“Well, once I’ve got dressed. Wouldn’t be the first time down here I’ve been outside in my nightclothes but it ain’t something I want to make a habit of, ya know?”

Alastor looks faintly scandalised. When Mimzy stands to go wash up, he tells her, “I’m afraid I do have work today.”

Mimzy rolls her eyes. “Ya have work every day. Get someone ta cover.”

“Or we could wait until after my shift.”

Privately, Mimzy considers that they ought to spend the cash before any mobsters that managed to crawl their way out the burning casino come looking. Out loud she says, “Nah. I wanna shop now. Let’s make a day of it.”

Alastor frowns above that endless smile of his but it seems between her letting him sleep here and him dropping the emerald, he knows the gentlemanly thing to do is humour her. “Very well” he sighs, “I’ll telephone Nancy.”

“Ya got her number?” Mimzy smirks. “If it was anyone ’sides you I’d read something inta that.”

“Very amusing, I’m sure. And no, I don’t have a personal number for her. Actually I suspect the telephone company doesn’t pay us mere switchboard operators anything like enough to purchase our own telephones. No, I simply meant that she has the earlier shift today. I’ll call the exchange and try to convince her to cover for me.”

“Gonna dazzle her with the charm, huh?”

“That or offer her a proportional share of my wage.” Alastor stands, leaning cautiously sideways to pick up his cane.

“Fuck that! What about our groceries?”

Alastor pats the pocket now fat with a wad of cash. “I rather think this will cover it, don’t you?”

“Ha! Sweetie, that money’s for having fun with.”

Alastor don’t argue, but he don’t agree either and Mimzy gets the sense Nancy’s getting paid just for doing him a favour. He tells her, “I’ll go to the public telephone down the street. Shall I buy breakfast on the way back?”

“Nah, let’s do brunch.” Mimzy finds herself kinda excited about the prospect of a day out with Alastor. They ain’t done this since she was alive.

While Alastor’s gone, she gets herself dolled up, selecting a dress with a bit of sparkle to it and lifting it over her head.

“What’s the occasion?” asks a voice from her bedroom doorway.

Ah, shit. Mimzy tugs the dress down and glares at Ambrose. “Warn a gal, can’t ya?”

Ambrose just grunts “Rent’s due.”

“Fuck, again?”

“I keep trying to explain how that works but I guess you’re too stupid to understand.”

“Hey! You wanna be careful how ya talk to me! I’ll have ya know Alastor’s in the next room!”

“No he ain’t. I just saw him leave.”

“Well he’ll be back! He can pop up outta nowhere, remember?”

Ambrose looks uneasy for a moment but he just says, “He can’t pop up here if I turf you both out.” He steps closer, planting a big hand on Mimzy’s shoulder. She makes herself not flinch through force of habit.

He has a point is the thing. Only so useful shadow magic could be if they were both homeless. Ambrose adds, “So pay up.”

Mimzy could. She’s got the money after all. But she’s already got her heart set on shopping and it ain’t like she gets to have much fun in this shithole.

Not to mention Butcher will be back eventually. It’s getting to be about time he reformed. Unless he’s ready to lose his reputation by leaving her debt be, he’ll come knocking sooner or later. Ambrose had better get in line. Mimzy offers him a smile. “Sure. Just give me a few days.” A few days is enough for some shopping and dancing, and then Butcher and Ambrose can split what’s left over, right?

Ambrose rolls his eyes, and then his gaze wanders to the pearls on her dressing table. He lumbers over. Mimzy says, “Hey, c’mon! I said I’d get it, didn’t I?”

Ambrose waves the pearls in her face. “This is your collateral.”

“Fuck you, Ambrose!” Mimzy trails after him as he trudges out to the hall, but he just laughs as he slams the door in her face.

Mimzy glares at the door with half a mind to run after him and pay up. She resists, on account of not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

Damn bastard. And damn her, for not locking up as soon as Al left. Possibly she’s gotten a little complacent since he got down here.

Not that Alastor could protect her if they became homeless. From other sinners sure, but from the extermination? Time’s ticking down, months already gone since the last one, and Ambrose is the one with the private shelter. No, she’ll have to pay up. After shopping. Butcher ain’t back yet so he’s just moved to third in line.

By the time Alastor comes home, Mimzy is tying a ribbon around her neck in lieu of her pearls. She calls out, “Alastor? Get in here, sweetie!”

She can hear the hesitation before Alastor before Al enters the bedroom. He has a piece of paper in his hand for some reason and crumples it a little as he glances shyly around her bedroom. Mimzy asks him, “This looks kinda like a choker, right?”

“You look lovely, dear.”

“See, you’d probably say that if I wore jewellery made out of string. Your opinion don’t count, sweetie.”

“And yet you asked for it.” Alastor steps further into the room and watches her fuss with the ribbon for a moment. “I could try to materialise some more pearls if you wish?”

Mimzy thinks of his mangled first attempts. “I don’t think I’m that desperate, no offence. So, is Nancy going to cover?”

“Ah, I’m afraid I couldn’t make the call. Some mindless lowlife has vandalised the public telephone. It’s completely unusable.”

“Well, ya tried.”

“Yes. I hope you don’t mind waiting until after my shift?”

“Fuck that. Just don’t show up!”

“It really is in your best interest that I keep this job, Mimzy.”

“They’ll hire ya back anyway, ya work hard enough. Let’s go enjoy ourselves for once. Here” Mimzy stands and holds out a little bottle of perfume, “Spray this.”

“Pardon?”

“Spray it.” Mimzy watches him set the paper, a poster she realises, down on the bed, then take the bottle in both hands. “No” She steers his hands downwards “Not upwards, spray in my level.”

Alastor hesitantly presses the pump a few times and Mimzy twirls in the mist. “Thanks, doll face. Now let’s go shopping!”

“Actually” Alastor lifts the poster again “If I am to jeopardise my job, I’d quite like to pay this place a visit.”

Mimzy looks the poster over. It’s full of promises of quality accommodation, with a photograph of a little room full of some rickety furniture, all brightly lit like there are big windows just out of shot. No mention of the price. “Real estate? We didn’t steal that much.”

Alastor considers this. “I know you’ve more an idea of the cost of housing down here, but we did take a lot more than I’m paid.”

That ain’t saying much, Mimzy don’t say. Another thing about women’s work. And she don’t want Al to get his hopes up, so as they step out into the street a few minutes later, she tells him, “Look, the place won’t be worth having if ya can afford the deposit outta what we stole.”

Alastor glances around, still not in the habit of discussing a little theft so casually. Mimzy ain’t about to shout about it either, now it turns out them mobsters have magic, but she tells him, “Relax, sweetie, it ain’t like we can’t talk about it at all. I’m not naming names here.”

“I suppose not. And I suppose this apartment might not be suitable. But it’s worth finding out, surely?”

“If the price ain’t on the advertisement, that means it’s stupid expensive” says Mimzy, assuming that apartments work the same way as jewellery like that. “Anyway, ya gotta wonder. If it’s still empty from the extermination it’s got to be a shithole. And if it’s empty more recently, ya gotta ask why. Is the last fella who owned it going to reform and want it back?”

“People must simply move house” says Alastor.

“Not really. Ain’t like there’s anywhere to move to.” Mimzy hooks her hand into his elbow, on the side he ain’t holding the cane. “Anyway, should I be offended? For someone grateful ta be staying in my apartment you’re sure in a hurry to move out.”

“I’m very grateful for your hospitality, Mimzy, but I do need a space for my studio.”

Mimzy sighs. “Oh, that. You ain’t talking about starting your station without an overlord backing you up are ya?”

“Surely an overlord is more likely to back me if I have somewhere to broadcast from?”

“I guess. Fine, we’ll go see the place. But you’re not gonna ba able to afford an apartment with your share, Alastor, I’m telling ya now.”

An hour later, they are standing in the room from the poster. Mimzy is starting to understand why there was so much light in the photograph. “I ain’t no expert” she says, “But shouldn’t there be a roof?”

The fella showing them around tells her, “It’s an airy interior with panoramic city views.”

“The exorcists lifted the ceiling off like a lid, ya mean.”

The sinner scowls but don’t deny it. Mimzy looks around at the bits of furniture and wonders if it belonged to whatever poor sap got blasted out of existence in this room. She shudders.

“I’ll leave you to look around” the sinner says brightly. He steps back as far as the small space will allow, leaning on a wall. It creaks ominously. He hastily straightens up.

Mimzy joins Alastor on the other side of the room. He is craning his head up, examining the torn up beams where the ceiling used to be. He says, “I could save and build a roof.”

“What, while the acid rain burns the floorboards away in the meantime?” Mimzy points to the burn marks spattered across the floor. “There, see?”
Alastor sighs. “It’s not as though I have much choice in the matter. As you say, we only stole so much.”

“Well if you’d kept hold of the emerald…” Mimzy mutters. Catching the salesman glancing their way in sudden interest she snarls, “What?”

“I can only apologise so often before it becomes tiresome” Alastor warns. Mimzy pats him absent-mindedly, her glare still fixed on their guide. He pretends to be real interested in one of the scorch marks on the floor.

“The lack of ceiling might be to my advantage. I will need a tower, after all.”

Mimzy shakes her head. “No way could this building support a tower, Al.” She may not be an expert but she’s seen enough building collapses down here to know when one’s near toppling.

“Perhaps a little magic would help with that.” Catching Mimzy’s expression, Alastor adds, “I know it’s hardly ideal but I need to start somewhere. So long as I can find a way to keep the acid rain off the radio equipment this could work.” Turning to the sinner on the other side of the room, Alastor says, “How much is the deposit?”

The sinner tells them. Ten minutes later, they’re traipsing down the street outside. Mimzy says, “I did warn ya.”

“I was quite prepared to part with my entire share” replies Alastor, “But for even that to not be enough! For a place like that!”

“Welcome to the Hell housing crisis, sweetie.”

“But he wouldn’t even haggle! Really, who does he expect to buy that place at that price?”

“The next person as desperate as you with a little more dough?” Catching sight of Alastor’s expression, Mimzy adds, “Kidding!” though she ain’t really. “Ya were all ready to buy” she points out.

Alastor ignores this. His hand is white knuckled on his cane. Mimzy thinks of his fancy apartment back in New Orleans. He must miss it, way more than she ever missed her little place. Though even that had its perks. The landlord never stole her pearls for one thing. “It wouldn’t have worked out anyway, Al. Ya need somewhere with a shelter. Don’t go gambling on the public ones because if they shut the doors before ya can cram in it’s too late.” She pauses and goes on, “If you’re looking for somewhere to live as well as broadcast that is.”

Alastor doesn’t reply but Mimzy figures it must be both. He can’t sleep on her couch forever. He don’t exactly fit. She adds, “Course, ya could always come to my place when the angels visit but Ambrose is a real bastard about not letting us have guests in the basement. I’m trying to stay on his good side about it but he don’t really have one.”

Alastor’s scowl deepens above a smile that’s pretty much bared teeth just now. Mimzy goes on, “You wanna wait a bit, save up, get somewhere with a shelter of its own. And more space: That place could hardly fit a radio studio.”

“It would have done. Radio equipment isn’t so bulky as all that.”

Mimzy thinks back to the boxy instruments he’s shown her over the years. “Well, if ya say so.” Registering where they’re headed, she adds, “Let’s cross over” and steers him towards the road. Alastor stumbles a little, taken by surprise, but rights himself quick enough. Mimzy comments, “Them shoes are making all the difference, huh?”

“They do help.” As they reach the other side of the street, Alastor turns to see what it is they’re avoiding. Lord Forsaken’s munitions factory looms so they can still see chimneys pumping smoke over the top of the metal gate. The gate itself is topped with spikes and flanked by guards. Seeing them stare, the guards fix their gaze on them with a coldness that makes Mimzy shiver. That’s the thing about Hell: If someone’s got need of ruthless bastards willing to stand around all day with big guns, there’s never any shortage. As they turn a corner, she risks saying, “I hadn’t realised how close it was. Good thing ya didn’t get the place, the smoke would have stunk it out.” That or killed him: They are round the side of the factory compound now and, through the metal grid of a bolted delivery gate, Mimzy can see scrawny, dead eyed workers hefting equipment onto their shoulders and making their way inside, coughing all the while. It ain’t a healthy place to work even as munitions factories go. Can’t be good to live near either. “The exorcists shouldn’t have bothered. Leave it a few years and the roof would have been gone anyway. All it’d take is a big enough explosion.” Not that living up the road from Cole’s mine is any better, she figures, but at least that’s a risk she’s used to. Mimzy pushes the thought aside and takes Alastor’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go spend my half. But first, you’re treating me to a coffee, doll face.”

Coffee turns into cake for her and a savoury pastry for him. The place they choose is way fancier than anything Mimzy could usually afford, and why not? They’ve earned it.

While Mimzy talks through an itinerary of stores she wants to visit and what she wants to buy there. Alastor nods along, helping himself to a pen left behind by the waitress and doodling on a napkin.

“Are ya listening Al?”

“Jewellery first, then dresses?”

“Exactly, because it’d be a real bore carrying the dresses about if we do it the other way round. And ya know, the place I’m thinking of does men’s clothing too. How about you spend your share?”

“Given that I can create clothing by magic now, I don’t see why I should spend any money it.”

“Well if ya want ta practise dress making, we’ve got maybe an hour.” Mimzy considers this and adds, “Not that I’d give up shopping even if you could magic me up a whole wardrobe.”

Alastor glances across the room, then straightens up. “Is that a telephone?” He stands. “Perhaps I still have time to ring Nancy.”

“Ya big pill” teases Mimzy.

Alastor replies, “You’ll be grateful when rent is due.”

“I suppose.” Mimzy thinks of her pearls in Ambrose’s big hand and scowls.

Once Alastor has gone off to make his telephone call, she tilts her head, studying his doodle. Some weird design that looks like megaphones on a pole. Leave it ta Alastor.

He returns having sweet talked this Nancy broad into swapping shifts and the day turns out to be all she hoped. They stop at plenty of nice places and Mimzy spends a sizeable portion of her share on dresses, jewellery, hats and a few other accessories. Money gets a person into places she wouldn’t normally be allowed, and Mimzy enjoys the sense of being watched and whispered about. Not so watched that she don’t get the chance to help herself to a little extra under the counter and why not? Who knows when she’ll have the chance to go back. “And I deserve to have nice things” she tells Alastor as they leave the last place.

“Of course.” Alastor shifts a hat box to hang on its cord from his shoulder so he can carry a bag without crumpling it. Of course he’s volunteered to carry most of her shopping and who is Mimzy to complain? Aside from anything else, saying no would probably hurt his ego, what with how it would sound like she were questioning his ability to do it while leaning on the cane. He is leaning just a little now, probably tired after all the fun they’ve been having. Mostly now, he carries the thing just to be on the safe side, occasionally twirling it like the show off he is.

They can tell when they’re closer to the apartment, because the buildings get grimier, the residue from the mine becoming more and more noticeable. “Home sweet fucking home I guess” says Mimzy, “See this is why if one share were enough to move out, I’d be shopping for a new apartment too. One with fresh air.” She elbows her way into her building. “Maybe not quite as much fresh air as the place we viewed.”

Alastor follows behind, kinda hindered by the boxes and bags. “I’ll admit perhaps it was a foolish notion. But I do need to find somewhere for my studio.”

As they turn a corner, they pass Suzie on her way out. Her lizard eyes trail after them and she says, “Looks like someone’s been out wasting her time. How’d you afford that crap?”

Mimzy retorts, “Not from selling your tacky jewellery if that’s what ya mean.”

Suzie’s tail swishes, but before she can reply, there is a crash from Ambrose’s office, followed by the bastard’s voice, low and threatening, though Mimzy can’t make out what he’s saying. Alastor’s ears twitch. “What in the world…” he begins, and then there is another crash, followed by a different voice, a woman’s. She doesn’t say anything, exactly. She just whimpers.

Suzie rolls her eyes. “Dot” she explains, “You know, the new girl from the fifth floor? She’s brought it on herself. She should learn to just pay up, one way or another.”

Mimzy winces as another whimper reaches them. Poor Dot must not have any pearls. Nothing they can do, she decides. Unless, “I’ll go pay my rent” she says. “It might distract him at least.” And at least not be dangerous with Alastor behind her.

But Alastor says, “No, dear. Leave this to me.”

“Why, what’ll you do?”

The only response is a clatter of falling boxes. Mimzy turns to find all her shopping just dropped on the floor and Alastor vanished. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” She stoops to gather up her things, then pauses. “Shit, where’d he go?”

“How am I supposed to know?” asks Suzie, “That freak just melted into shadow! Honestly, Mimzy, the company you keep!”

“Yeah, yeah!” Mimzy pushes past her and heads for Ambrose’s office, calling out, “Alastor! Hey, I know you’re mad and all but think about this! I don’t want any trouble!”

Behind her, Suzie chuckles. “Oh if he’s gone to fight Ambrose you’ll be out on you ear by sundown! I might just stay to watch.”

Mimzy ignores her, hammering at the office door. “Alastor?”

Behind the door, there is a grunt, a squelch, and then an ear shattering scream. Dot’s scream, and she appears a moment later, barging straight into Mimzy. Mimzy jumps back. “Hey, watch where you’re going!”

Dot stumbles to a halt, trembling, and raises an arm to point back the way she came. “He...he…”

“Shit, what did he do?” Mimzy turns to the now half open door. “Alastor?”

“Yes, Mimzy, dear?”

Mimzy pushes the door all the way open. Then she turns away with a little squeak. Dot whimpers again and runs. Suzie stares into the room over Mimzy’s shoulder and lets out a shriek. “Oh my! Mimzy, this is the final straw! First you steal my jewellery then you invite this barbarian in! As soon as Ambrose is back, I’m asking him to deal with you!”

“Ya won’t need to” Mimzy tells her grimly. Soon as Ambrose is back, she knows she’ll be homeless whatever Suzie has to say about it. And just when she’s spent the money she could have used on a new place if she’d pooled it with Al’s share. Just when she’d bought all those nice things she won’t be able ta keep now! Thinking that makes her angry enough that she turns back around while Suzie scarpers off behind her, yelling, “Damn it, Alastor!”

“Is there a problem, cher?”

“Yeah, there’s a problem! I…” Mimzy gasps as she steps into the office and slips on the blood. Alastor shoots out an arm to steady her. She bats it away and clings to a filing cabinet instead. She stares around for a moment, until her gaze snags on a pile of what’s gotta be intestines. She shudders.

“Mimzy, sweetheart, I’m not sure this is something a lady ought to see.”

Mimzy fixes him with a glare, partly because she’s furious, and partly because he’s a better thing to look at than all the mess, even if he is covered in blood and... licking his fingers? “Alastor, you stop that right now!”

Alastor retracts his finger from his mouth and puts his hands behind his back like. He has the damn nerve to look like he’ trying to look innocent. Mimzy takes a step towards him and jabs him in the chest. “For fuck’s sake, Alastor, that was my landlord!”

“Indeed. It seems none of that hard earned money need be spent on rent.”

“Not til he’s back and throws me out! Damn it, what are we going to do now?!”

Alastor looks around the office. “You know, I hadn’t realised he had all this office space on this floor.”

“Ugh!” Mimzy jabs him again for the hell of it, then starts to pace. “I can’t stay with anyone from work” she says, her mind racing through options, “I tried that before and Kitty said never again” She almost slips a second time and retreats to the desk, gripping the only part of it she can find that ain’t red and sticky. “And Maud got killed a few exterminations back” she adds.

Alastor tilts his head thoughtfully, then gets distracted looking around the room.

Mimzy goes on, “And Helen is a real bitch, Alastor, and none of the fellas who’ll give me the time of day will let me move in with you in tow! And you know now what housing costs down here, I mean what were you thinking?!”

“Did you say the building has a basement too?”

“Alastor!”

“Mimzy?”

“What the fuck are you going on about offices and basements for? Soon as Ambrose is back he’s gonna kick me out!”

“He’ll have to get past me.”

Mimzy laughs without humour. “So you’re what, gonna take over his building by force?!”

“Well is there anything to stop me?” Alastor asks, in a perfectly reasonable tone. Like he’s discussing dinner plans.

And Mimzy realises, “...No.” Because he’s right. Ambrose has controlled so much of her life for so long, she needed Al to say it out loud. Now he has she sees it: What can Ambrose do against Alastor? Al just killed him so fast he didn’t have time to scream.

She slips behind the desk and opens a drawer, finding and extracting her pearls. “Ya know what, Alastor? I could hug ya.”

Alastor seems to brace himself, then holds his arms open. Mimzy hastily adds, “After ya wash up a bit.”

Chapter Text

“After you, dear.”

Mimzy pauses on the threshold of Ambrose’s basement apartment. “Nope. You first in case that creep had anything gross in there.”

“If that’s a concern, why did you come down here?”

“In case the bastard has anything worth taking of course!” Mimzy makes a shooing gesture. “Go on, take a look.”

Alastor steps into Ambrose’s apartment. It turns out to be small, not especially clean and largely undecorated. Nothing looks especially distasteful or especially worth taking. “It seems everything of value is in the office.”

Mimzy trails in behind him and looks around in disgust. “Fucking figures. Probably all in the safe.” She brightens. “Did ya happen to find a key for it?”

“I’m sure it’s about his person somewhere.”

“Uh huh. Well being as his person is in about five pieces right now, I’ll let you look.”

Alastor nods briefly, going to a door to peer into an adjourning room. A bedroom, as sparse as the living area. “Is this spartan décor a Victorian trait, I wonder, or did Ambrose simply lack imagination?”

“Ha! I’m telling you there was no creativity there.” Mimzy brushes past him and enters the bedroom, bracing herself before lifting the mattress to peer underneath it.

“Still” says Alastor, leaning in the doorway, “It is an apartment. And I have been looking for one of those.”

He speaks lightly, a little worried that Mimzy will take offence or be sorry to see him go. But Mimzy says, “Sure!” with a brightness that tells him she has been wanting her couch back. “And you’ll still be in the same building instead of right across town like if ya took that dive without a roof.” She glances up at the ceiling and adds, “Plenty of roof here. Ya might want ta get the building checked because if it caves in you’ll be at the bottom.”

“Noted.”

“I’ll help ya move your stuff down.”

Alastor waits for the realisation. Mimzy adds, “Or I would, if you had stuff.”

“Thank you, cher.” Actually, he does own a few items now but somehow, pointing that out would just draw attention to how few they are. Only a few books and toilettes, in fact, purchased from his meagre wage and the suits he has managed to magic into being. Not enough for two trips up and down the stairs.

At least he has money now too, following their recent misadventure at the casino. Perhaps now Mimzy has had her shopping spree he could have one of his own.

He has space to put things now, he thinks, looking around the apartment. And so many ideas as to what to fill it with.

Mimzy circles the bed to look under the other side of the mattress with a grimace. “Nothing” she announces. She lets it drop with a thud. “You ain’t gonna sleep in this bed are ya?”

“I’ll change the sheets.”

“I’d just burn it.”

“I don’t have another bed.” And he will not, Alastor decides, spend another night on her couch.

“Well, it’s your funeral.”

Alastor wonders if he had one. If whoever shot him simply hid the body, he won’t be declared dead for years. Unless he is found before then of course. Surely someone would look for the Voice of New Orleans?

Was his show handed over to a new host? Who? Not that idiot Garrod he hopes.

“Al? Hey, Alastor are ya even listening ta me?”

“Sorry, dear. I was a little distracted.”

“Well I was just saying you oughta scrape Ambrose up and get that key.”

Cleaning up is refreshingly straightforward. No need to hide what has taken place after all, especially since poor Dot saw it all in any case. As he tosses Ambrose unceremoniously into a rubbish pile around the back of the building, Alastor spots her peeking out from the window of her apartment. Others too. Following his gaze, and apparently keen to look at anything but Ambrose, Mimzy says, “Oh, yeah, word’ll get out quick. Good thing too, what with rent being due. They should know who to pay.”

Being paid rent is a novel concept. Alastor finds he rather likes it. Picking up Ambrose’s heavy set of keys, he wipes them with his handkerchief and hands them over. “Well, dear, would you like to do the honours?”

Mimzy accepts it with a grin and wastes no time in returning to the office to try the keys out on the little safe. Little but full of money as it turns out. “That bastard!” Mimzy complains, “Always asking me for rent when he had all this right here!” She pulls out fistfuls of cash and asks, “How’s about we count it tomorrow and just take this for now? We could eat out to celebrate.”

“Capital idea! Perhaps the place across the street?”

“Nah, I got somewhere way fancier in mind.”

The restaurant she chooses is in a relatively quiet part of town. Hell, Alastor is learning, is a relentlessly noisy place, so stillness here is notable. “Well sure” Mimzy explains, “Everyone around here is on their best behaviour on account of Lord Deimos. We’re on his turf.” Apparently for the benefit of the waiter, she adds, “Great guy. Real gentleman.” Once the waiter has left with their order, she adds in an undertone, “You just got to fawn a bit if anyone asks. Round here is nice to visit but ya wouldn’t wanna live here.”

“Evidently not” says Alastor, staring out the window and registering that what he took to be statues of sinners’ skeletons are in fact sinners’ skeletons.

“He don’t like whistling, too many folk gathered at once, anyone questioning his authority obviously, anyone wearing white, anyone laughing too loud, talking too loud, women wearing corsets, women wearing flowers, flowers, anyone wearing green, chess, bridge, backgammon, ball games, reading or folk looking at him funny. Just stick ta those rules and you’ll be fine.” Louder, as the waiter returns, Mimzy adds, “Because of what a great guy he is! Real merciful.”

“Merciful indeed” Alastor murmurs, watching an apparently homeless woman rock and keen in a doorway across the street. Once the waiter has poured their wine and departed, he adds, “I do hope the food is worth visiting this charming place for.”

“Oh trust me, it will be. Deimos don’t get along with Cole or Forsaken so none of the ingredients have been anywhere near the mine or the factories. Ya’d be amazed how much not being coated in heavy metals improves the taste.”

This turns out to be entirely true. “See?” says Mimzy, “I told ya!”

“It’s as if it came from earth!”

“Maybe some of it did.”

“I was getting accustomed to most of the food down here being not quite up to earth’s standards but I must confess, I hadn’t realised the difference the pollution was making.”

“Well it’s possible to find food that ain’t touched by it. Ya just gotta come here and play nice. Or visit Cannibal Town so some creeps have told me but I never risked it.”

“Interesting.”

“Gross more like.

“Well” Alastor says, raising his glass, “Here’s to fine dining.”

Mimzy clinks her own against it, adding, “And to you being a landlord.” She drinks then adds, “About that, I was wondering if maybe I can be let off paying rent this month? I got big plans for the cash for the casino but I’m gonna need all of it.”

“Really Mimzy, I’m surprised I need to say it: So long as I am in charge of that building, you’ll never pay rent again.”

Mimzy grins, then stands and rounds the table to hug him. “Thanks, Al! You’re always such a pal!”

Behind her, someone coughs loudly at the table behind them. Mimzy hastily steps back. “Right sorry.” She sits back down. “Deimos don’t like people hugging” she explains. Then a look of realisation crosses her face and she glares at the sinner behind them. “Or coughing!” she says. Turning back to Alastor she tells him, “Really, sweetie, you’re such a gentleman! The gals will love having you as their landlord.”

Ungentlemanly as the sentiment may be, Alastor doesn’t intend to let them all off rent. Radio, after all, is hardly profitable down here just yet. He will need another source of income.

Sleeping in an actual bed that night is wonderful. Alastor will never, he promises himself as he drifts off in a blissful sprawl, sleep on a couch again.

In the morning, though, it feels odd to not breakfast with Mimzy so he heads out early to buy them both buns from the nearest bakery. Which is still rather far thanks to the proximity of the mine, obliging him to use the cane a little more than he’d like. Still he is beginning to anticipate a near future in which he doesn’t need the blasted thing. Perhaps, soon, he will even be able to dance.

All the way back, he mentally refurbishes his new office with the equipment he will need to start his station. Still learning about Hell’s economy as he is, he isn’t sure how far his new wealth will stretch. Complicating the matter is his suspicion that radio parts will be hard to come by down here. Did they steal enough to import from earth? It seems unlikely.

There is always his magic. But making all the equipment and infrastructure needed for a functioning station out of nothing seems ambitious. With enough time and practice perhaps, but he wants to start broadcasting soon.

There is scope for extraordinary broadcasts down here. With no rules, written or unwritten, about what can be decently broadcast, the task is almost daunting. No topic is off limits, unless the limit is his own tastes. He need not allocate time for advertisements, there’ll be no need for dire radio plays about sordid romance and it seems unlikely that the powerful of Hell will deign to be interviewed.

Unlikely, according to Mimzy, that they will tolerate his station’s existence, unless he gets one on side. A problem for another day. For now, he lets himself focus on the more interesting question of what to fill all the time that won’t be filled with advertisements and interviews and which might be filled with anything he sees fit. Music, of course, will be paramount. But, it occurs to him, he knows very little of the music scene here in Hell. Certainly jazz seems to be largely unheard of outside of a few little bars.

Well, that’s about to change.

When he knocks on Mimzy’s door, she greets him with, “Okay, so there’s a new plan.” She ushers him in and starts the laborious task of resealing all the bolts.

“Plan?” Alastor queries.

“You remember I said I had plans for that money?” Mimzy seals the final padlock and ushers him into the living room. “I need some more hats for starters. And I was gonna buy that cream dress I tried on after all. And then there’s diamonds! I know it’d be a stretch but…” Mimzy waves that aside, slumping onto her newly free couch while Alastor sets the bag from the bakery down and begins clearing a space on the coffee table, “But that don’t matter now. Things have changed.” She fixes him with a determined smile. “What do you say to pooling both our shares and buying an angelic steel blade?”

Alastor, standing to fetch plates, pauses. “Quoi?”

“Huh?”

“What?”

“That’s what I asked you!”

Alastor sighs. Far too late, he decides, to ask her to learn some French. They are both dead, after all. “What do you need angelic steel for?”

“Well don’t tell me you’ve got some kinda moral objection!”

“No, but you wouldn’t want it if everything was alright. Is there something I should know?”

“Okay, so another dancer from the club, Kitty, sweet girl, she stopped by on her way back from working last night. Ya just missed her. Turns out not all them mobsters were killed. She came over to tell me they’ve shown up around the neighbourhood, asking around. Trying ta retrace Innocent’s final steps, ya know, see if he blabbed?”

Alastor fetches the plates, considering the matter. Distributing the buns he asks, “Do any of your colleagues know about our visit to the casino?”

“Course not! I wouldn’t spread it around, I’m a professional. But, well, it ain’t impossible they’ll find their way to us.”

“If they do, I can simply” Alastor laughs grimly “send them away again.” The static in his voice thickens and the shadows deepen around them.

“Yeah, yeah, but why not make it permanent? Because I’m thinking between them and Butcher probably all set to revive right about now, maybe having that option ain’t a bad idea. It’s not like we can’t afford one. Well, just about.”

“I don’t want to waste money on weapons when I have” Alastor swallows back the word tentacles, still squeamish about mentioning the freakish appendages in polite company “other means.” And other plans as to what to buy with his share. A transmitter for instance.

“What about me! I don’t got fancy powers!”

“You have a gun, surely?” In life, she was never without one.

“Yeah but so do they!”

“You know I’m not going to let anything happen to you, cher.” Alastor hands her her breakfast and sits down in the rickety chair.

Mimzy puts her plate down without glancing at it. “So buy an angelic blade” she says.

“Why not use your own funds? After all, you’re hardly lacking.”

“What, ya think just my half will cover it? It’s gonna take both our shares, Alastor.”

Alastor sighs. Mimzy waits. When his answer isn’t immediate she adds, “Look, I don’t wanna worry ya, but you remember that cursed safe they had?”

“Hard to forget” Alastor replies, forcing his tone to sound carefree.

“Uh huh. Well, thing is, that shit ain’t common. I never would have suggested the job if I knew any of them had power like that.”

Alastor recalls the awful, creeping feeling of the curse. “Let’s hope it’s not transportable either.”

“I’m pretty sure it don’t work like that. Magic takes a lot of doing.” Mimzy studies Alastor for a moment and adds, “For most people.”

Alastor hears a little curiosity in her tone and pointedly doesn’t respond. He sighs again, thinking with a pang of that transmitter.

Mimzy adds, “Power like that is trouble. Not trouble we want coming back time and again. We arm ourselves properly and we don’t gotta worry about that.”

“Insurance you mean? Should they find us and turn out to pose a serious threat​?”

“Exactly! What do ya say?”

“I say I’m never joining you in a caper again.”

Mimzy waves this away. “Oh pfft like you can’t just pop in to any safe or vault that takes your fancy.”

Alastor feels himself scowl around the smile at the memory of being trapped in that infernal box. “I rather think I won’t. I don’t think a career in burglary is quite me.”

“But you’ll help me buy angelic steel?”

“But I’ll help you buy angelic steel.”

“Great! And, well, if Butcher happens to show up, we might as well try it out on him, right?”

“Of course. And I take it you know where to purchase angelic steel?”

“I know a fella who knows a doll. I’ll go see him.” Mimzy stands up, reaching for her handbag. “Could be his sweetheart even has some in. She goes out right after every extermination and it ain’t like most folk can afford it.” She pauses. “So, um. If you’ve got your half now…”

Alastor rises, tightening his grip on his cane as he moves. A useful trick, he has learnt, to keep his emotions from showing in any more obvious way. “Very well, I’ll go and get it.”

“And maybe the cash from the safe too?”

At least rent is due, Alastor thinks. Maybe that will stretch to a radio part or two. But he knows it certainly won’t be enough to get anything smuggled from the human world and he can feel his studio slipping further away.

But this is Mimzy. She isn’t known for her caution and if she thinks the mobsters are enough of a threat to justify such an expensive weapon she is probably right. He will not allow anything to happen to her and he cannot guard her at all times indefinitely. Quite aside from the threat to her safety, that would derail his plans more thoroughly than taking decisive – and expensive – action now. He nods.

“Thanks, Al. And hey, enjoy your first day as a landlord.”

First Alastor has to enjoy – or perhaps endure – his last day as a switchboard operator. He promised Nancy after all, and she joins them later at the impromptu farewell lunch he arranges with Margryte and a few of the other ladies. It’s a shame he can no longer afford to take them to Deimos’s territory but perhaps that’s for the best. They certainly do a lot of talking and laughing.

Returning to the apartment building after that pleasantry, he sets about inspecting it. It seems news of the building’s change of hands has indeed spread but, far from the joy Mimzy predicted, the predominant reaction seems to be an odd mix of incredulity, relief, fear and awe. Alastor isn’t sure the cane allows him to cut a particularly intimidating figure, but he can’t say the reaction is unwelcome, coming from the degenerate wastrels who seem to occupy much of the building. Obviously when it comes to those of fairer means he does his best to put them at ease, widening his smile until he realises that is making things worse.

Fear turns to blank amazement when he starts work on the many repairs the apartments and communal areas require. Alastor spends hours replacing doorknobs, oiling hinges and repairing broken windows among other myriad tasks. Some, he manages to accomplish with magic. Most he does by conventional means. Fortunately he is not without experience: He helped mama with quite a lot of these chores as a child. They could hardly afford a tradesman.

Working his way up the building, he finishes up on the top floor, where among other examples of Ambrose’s negligence, he finds a young sinner with a leaking tap. An easy fix: Just a new washer and some tightening up of pipes.

Malbella, the sinner in question, dithers nervously as he starts work and seems grateful when a friend calls round, giving her a pretext to leave the kitchen. On his knees with his arms among the pipework, Alastor overhears her whisper “He’s fixing the sink” in a tone that implies the sharing an astonishing secret.

The friend tuts. “Oh, honey. He’s gonna want paying for that.”

What an odd thing to say, muses Alastor. Repairs are surely included in the rent?

“I know” Malbella is saying, “But he can’t be as bad as Ambrose.” Her voice fades as she and her companion retreat deeper into the living room. Alastor focuses on the innards of the sink.

Finishing the job, he clambers to his feet and takes up the cane from where it’s lent against a chair. He straightens his suit before sauntering into the living room. “All done” he tells the ladies. Malbella and her friend both rise from the couch looking oddly apprehensive. The friend squeezes Malbella’s shoulder, nods at him and leaves. Alastor adds, “If there are any more problems, we’ll have to look at the pipes further down but really I think it should be fine now.”

“Thank you” says Malbella.

“My pleasure” Alastor replies, then finds himself blushing as Malbella starts to unbutton her blouse. He backs hastily away. “Ah, ha, I see you’re about to get undressed! Well I’ll leave you to it then! Goodbye!”

“But…”

“No, no, I couldn’t possibly intrude.” Alastor retreats from the apartment as hastily as the hooves will allow.

That’s the second tenant to start to disrobe before he left the room. Shocking, but Alastor supposes he can’t expect perfect manners from the denizens of Hell.

Returning to the office, he begins to sort through Ambrose’s personal affects, disposing of most to clear some space. Unsurprisingly, Ambrose’s record keeping was as scrupulous as his maintenance of the building was not. Reading it, Alastor is quickly up to date on whose rent is still due and whose rent is currently stuffed into Mimzy’s handbag.

A knock on the door interrupts his work. Alastor opens it to a man with a desperate, dishevelled sort of air. Alastor raises an eyebrow. “And you are?”

“Scal, sir. Second floor.”

“I see.” Alastor looks the man over, wondering if the squirrel-like twitch is a mannerism or if he is cursed with animal like features in some way too subtle to be immediately spotted. Lucky him, if so. He shows the fellow into the office and takes a seat, indicating that the other sinner do the same. Scal sits cautiously in the second chair, which is clearly less comfortable, probably by design. Alastor asks, “And what can I do for you?”

“Well sir, it’s my rent.” Scal takes a deep breath and launches into numerous excuses as to why he hasn’t paid for his accommodation this month, starting with foolish debts and concluding with, “...and I’m in and out of work just now. The last steady job I had, the boss got killed in the exterminations. There’s no one hiring anyone ’cept muscle and I ain’t enforcer material, I ain’t got the stomach for it, so what’s a man to do?” He fidgets, then looks away, rubbing his nose. “And it ain’t like coke is getting any cheaper” he mutters.

Alastor tries to look entirely unphased, as though illicit drugs are just a part of everyday conversation. They are down here, he supposes.

The sinner adds, “Really, sir, I will get the money. It’s just I’ll need a bit of time. Please.”

But really, this is too pitiful! A grown man, begging! Not that Alastor has never heard that before, of course, but usually there is a lot more blood involved. “Why not try the mine?” he asks.

The sinner twitches. “Please not there! You hear such stories.”

It is an option then, Alastor muses, despite Cole, from what he has heard, staffing the place only with souls he owns. Which implies Scal has one thing left to offer.

Really, Alastor would prefer the rent. Especially with Mimzy commandeering his share of their sordid little profit and the contents of the safe. But Scal is clearly unable to pay and turning him out would gain only the nuisance of having to find a new tenant.

Making a snap decision, Alastor tweaks his smile into something that he hopes is reassuring and asks, “What do you say to a months’ grace on rent and then reducing payments by a third?”

The sinner’s eyes light up briefly, before a cloud of suspicion passes over them. “And what’ll that cost me?”

Alastor grins, trying to look confident. In truth he isn’t entirely sure this will work. But he looks the man straight in the eye as he replies, “Why, I only ask for one little thing…”

Pearls may be hard to conjure up, but it turns out that contracts come naturally.

Hours later, Alastor is still in the office, using his magic because he has to do something with all the power coursing through him. He is humming with it. Magic that stirs and shifts deep inside him, filling his blood, twitching beneath his skin. He can’t quite tell whether the afternoon’s exploits have increased his power or given him greater access to what was already there. Either way, it feels good. That it will doubtless improve his standing down here is simply a bonus.

The only qualm he has is how she might react. Surely, he tells himself, she will approve of the transaction. Surely the more powerful he is, the better it is for her.

Surely he shouldn’t care either way. She gave him no instructions. He has broken no promises. He only signed that damn contract to avoid a second death. It took more than mere arrears to snag his soul.

Might she visit to make her feelings known? But she doesn’t appear. Alastor is left alone to explores his magic.

He uses it to make improvements to his new office. With power like this, he finds he can gift himself that transmitter after all. By the time Mimzy returns, he has moved onto readying the room’s walls and floor for broadcasting. She greets him with, “Looks like someone’s been busy.”

“Mimzy, dear! Do take a seat.” Alastor offers her the more comfortable chair, pulling out from behind the desk to sit more companionably beside to the other. Perhaps it is the distraction she provides from certain worries, or the fact that her using his half did no harm after all, but he finds he is glad to see her.

She looks around. “Well I like the rug but what’s with the wall art? Has fashion changed that much up top?”

“It’s not art, cher.” Alastor sits down beside her and gestures to his handiwork. “You’re looking at latest soundproofing technology! Cork tiles and acoustic panels that will absorb sound and keep the noise of a communal building from interfering with my show. But that’s not all!” Alastor focuses his magic on a bare spot on the desk, building up a new creation wire by antenna until, with astounding ease, a receiver appears between them.

Mimzy somewhat undermines the affect by asking, “What the fuck is that?”

Alastor hears static and replies with forced patience, “It’s a radio receiver. Of the type I’ve shown you dozens of times before?”

“Well, I’ve been dead for years, so sue me!”

This is a fair point. The years since she last saw one have doubtless been eventful for Mimzy and the aesthetic of the technology has changed somewhat. Perhaps a novice can’t tell that the fundamental workings are still very much the same.

Mimzy studies it for a moment, then looks around the room again. “See, sweetie, with magic like that, ya don’t even need money!”

“On that note, how was your little quest? Did you find angelic steel?”

“Sure did.” Mimzy produces a little knife from her handbag. It looks startlingly ordinary. “Good thing too because I’m pretty sure I was followed.” She puts the knife back in her bag. “Pretty sure it was one of Butcher’s goons. My fella’s gal said he’s back, just lying low.”

“How tiresome.”

“It ain’t like him to be all sneaky like this. Either you’ve got him scared or he’s planning something.” Mimzy digs around in her handbag, produces a packet of cigarettes and adds, “Or both I guess. Ya want one, sweetie?”

“Thank you.”

Once they have lit up, Mimzy asks, “So what have you been doing all day apart from making this crap?”

“Fixing this building. Really, Mimzy, what were you all paying Ambrose for?”

“To not be homeless?” Mimzy expels smoke in a long rush. “That and the private shelter.” She inhales and adds, “Oh and I ran into Helen – This bitch from work – and she made out like I’m gonna lose my job if I don’t show soon so I guess I got to. After that, we oughta lie low for a bit. There’s something up out there. People seem scared.”

“Dear, I’ve spent much of today in a windowless office. I can’t lie much lower.”

Mimzy eyes the walls again. “Almost set for your show, huh?” she asks without much enthusiasm.

“Oh there’s still work to be done. Aside from anything else I need to write the script. And decide what to include. Obviously jazz is a must. But what else?”

“Talk in between the music, maybe? Ya did plenty of that on your old show.”

This is true, but Alastor is aware that his reflections on New Orleans were grounded in a deep knowledge of the city. Down here, he fears he can’t speak for an entire segment without revealing his ignorance. He is hardly up to date with the gossip. He doesn’t yet know where the line between titillating gossip and outright scandal is. Is there scandal in Hell? “All in good time. I’m sure I can be a little more creative than sticking to the formula from the living world. I just need to wait for inspiration to hit.” He draws deeply on his cigarette and adds, “Not that anyone can tune in just yet.”

“Right, no radios.” Mimzy fixes him with a stern look. “And no sponsor yet, Al. Ya need ta work on that.”

“I would have thought radios are the thing to focus on. No overlord is going to be interested in a project that can’t reach anyone.”

“Well, you’re in a stronger position at least. Taking over a whole building and all.”

“Yes, I suppose.” What, Alastor wonders can an overlord offer him, now that he has an income and the beginnings of a station?

Protection, Mimzy would say. Which is why he doesn’t ask her the question. He doesn’t want to worry her.

She may be right. But Alastor resents the idea of being beholden to a protection racket. He didn’t lose his life and fall to Hell only to be beholden to a sponsor!

Mimzy glances around. “Don’t suppose you could magic us up an ashtray?”

With the wave of a hand Alastor has an ashtray appear beside the receiver. Mimzy blinks in surprise and lifts it. It is marble, and of the same art deco design as one in Alastor’s apartment back in New Orleans. Alastor wonders what else he could recreate from home. Mimzy says, “Huh. This ain’t bad.” She puts it down and taps her ashes into it, then gestures to the other creations around them. “I didn’t realise how much you’ve improved.”

“Actually I wonder if radio parts are easier than other things. I do have some biological affinity with them.”

“But the ashtray is swell. How come ya can magic all this up but ya can’t make me decent pearls?”

“Well, it could be...”Alastor trails off, unsure how to explain the events of the day.

“What?” Mimzy presses.

If the rumour mill of this building is anything to go by, she will find out in any case. And besides, it is surely nothing to be coy about? This is Hell after all. So Alastor replies, “I made a contract with Scal. It seems to have rather amplified my power and given me greater control over it.”

Mimzy looks puzzled. “The fella from upstairs? You mean a new tenancy agreement?” She frowns and adds, “But...how’d that affect your power?”

Alastor raises an eyebrow and waits. He is a little taken aback when a look of dawning horror appears on Mimzy’s face.

Her chair scrapes back sharply. “Alastor, you better be fucking kidding me!”

“It happens a lot down here, surely?”

“With overlords!” Mimzy steps back, pointing out him. “But you!?”

“Mai oui. Really, dear, it makes a lot of sense.”

“For fuck’s sake, Al! I leave ya alone for one afternoon and you’re buying souls!?”

“Mimzy, I know the practice is a little unsavoury but…”

“Fuck unsavoury! It’s dangerous, Alastor! Anyone who does it and ain’t an overlord is practically asking for the overlords to punish them!”

Alastor’s shadow uncoils, winding its way up the wall. “Really! First these overlords won’t let me broadcast without approval and now I can’t once do what they seem to all the time? I find myself growing rather bored of them.”

Mimzy makes a frustrated sort of noise and stabs her cigarette out viscously ion the side of the receiver.

“Mimzy!” Alastor squeaks, pulling the receiver away from her and rubbing at the burn mark.

“What, you think that’s bad? Wait until you’re down Cole’s mine, or in one of Nicholas’s prisons, or, or on Rosie’s menu or something!” Mimzy eyes the lurking shadow and adds, “And don’t give me your creepy shadows, mister! Don’t forget, I’m the one who knows how things work around here! You might have some fancy tricks but the overlords have got real power, Alastor!”

Real power? Yes, thinks Alastor, if having one contracted soul at one’s command is anything to go by, multiple souls must feel powerful indeed. “Really, Mimzy, I would have thought you’d applaud my success.” He smiles at her, or, rather, alters his smile.

Mimzy continues to stare. Alastor wonders if perhaps she is not as unmoved by the morality of the concept as she claims to be.

Mama would hate him for it.

But then, he will never see mama again.

The shadow shrinks, crawling back into the darkness in the corners of the room. Alastor looks down at the desk, his claws digging into the wood until they leave marks.

Mama always did want him to better himself. Both by improving his standing in society to an extent she was denied, and by constantly striving to be a better person. He always was better at one than the other, and Hell is hardly a place for moral growth. Ambition though? That fits.

“Alastor?” Mimzy takes a step closer, her hand hovering for a moment before falling to her side.

Alastor offers her another smile, before recalling that he can hardly do otherwise. “I’ll be careful” he assures, “Don’t worry, dear.”

Mimzy scowls. “I gotta go to work.” She digs in her handbag and drops the angelic steel knife on the desk with a clatter. “You keep this in case ya paint any more targets on your back while I’m gone. Not that it’ll do much.”

Once she has left, Alastor sits alone for what feels like a long while. He makes a radio, finding he can use his magic to not only bring it into being but to tweak the design for optimal efficiency and style.

It should improve his mood and doesn’t. He stands, takes up the cane, then pauses. Ought he to take the knife with him? Quite possibly. Not because Mimzy was right about his purchase being in any way reckless. Even if it was, nothing worth having is without risk. No, he merely tells himself that the knife was expensive after all, and snatches it up before leaving.

Now that the office is so much more to his liking, the basement apartment feels unwelcoming. But there is still a bed. Alastor goes crossly about his nighttime routine then crawls into it.

He lies awake for some time, the magic flickering and glowing within him. Hard to sleep amid that rush so he can’t. Nothing to do with the little quarrel with Mimzy. Really, he would never allow himself to be so affected by something like that.

And he must sleep eventually because he wakes up. Wakes to a hammering, in fact, and to Mimzy’s voice calling from beyond the front door, “Alastor? Alastor!”

Alastor sighs and considers feigning sleep until she goes away. But the hammering continues and he registers the fear in her voice. Reaching for the angelic blade on the bedside table, he clambers out of bed, then totters, shoeless. He curses, slips his shoes on and reaches for the cane.

“Alastor!”

“One moment, dear!” Alastor goes to open the door. Mimzy tumbles inside. She’s dressed for dancing, apparently having come straight from work without changing. Her makeup is a little smeared. Unlike Mimzy not to correct that. “Finally!” she gasps. Then she envelopes him in a hug. Alastor stiffens, unable to return the gesture if he wanted to. His hands are full of knife and cane and he is suddenly aware that he is in his nightclothes. He uses magic to swap them for a suit and Mimzy startles away from him at the trick. “Mimzy, what’s all this? Has something happened?”

Mimzy just shudders and hugs him again, clinging to the fabric of the suit. Alastor holds the knife carefully away from her body. Noticing that she says, “You got that? Good. Not that it’ll help. Oh, fuck, Alastor…” She buries her head in his chest, giving a little whimper.

“Mimzy?”

She pulls away at last. “Okay, kitten, don’t panic but…” Mimzy takes a deep breath, apparently steeling herself.

“Just tell me what’s the matter, sweetheart. Perhaps I can help?” When Mimzy just winces and shakes her head, Alastor asks, “Did something happen at work?”

“No. Kinda. I just...I found out. Oh, sweetie, someone came in, one of them mobsters, and I thought they wouldn’t come back because they’d already been round but…”

“Deep breaths, dear.”

“Alastor, I heard them talking to my boss. They didn’t see me thank fuck. Oh but if they did…”

“Come now! You weren’t so worried about them a few hours ago.” Alastor raises the knife. “And we have this now don’t we?”

Mimzy stares at the knife and makes a little noise, somewhere between a sob and a desperate giggle. Alastor asks, “What’s changed?”

Mimzy takes a few deep breaths, then goes on in a frightened whisper. “They were asking about the robbery again. Who Innocent mighta talked to. Who on the payroll might pull a stunt like we did. And they said…” Mimzy trails off with another sob. Alastor pats her hesitantly on the shoulder. She wipes her eyes, smearing the Kohl. With a shudder, she finishes, “They said they’re working for Lord Forsaken. That he sponsors the casino. The casino I burnt down, Al!”

Alastor considers this a moment, his grin widening. A laugh track sounds despite his best efforts to contain it, then cuts off when Mimzy jabs him in the ribs.

“This ain’t funny, Alastor!”

“Well it is a little, sweetheart. You had quite a lot to say about how I oughtn’t anger overlords, and now you’re the one who turns out to have stolen from one of them!”

“Hey you were in on the job too!” Mimzy retorts, but then she shudders and repeats, quieter, “You were in on it too and now we’re both gonna die. Fuck, I think I’m gonna pass out.”

“Sit down” Alastor tells her, steering her to a chair. He fetches her a glass of water.

“What good’s water gonna do?” she asks, then drains it. Then she sits, looking stricken, one hand fiddling with the sequins sewn into her dress.

Alastor takes a seat beside her. “Forsaken, you say? The chap with the factory?”

Mimzy nods. “Alastor, I am so sorry, kitten. If I’d known it was his casino I’d never have planned the job! But I had no idea, I swear! I mean, Forsaken’s whole thing is weapons.” She eyes the knife Alastor set down to pour the water. “Which means that little thing ain’t gonna cut it!”

“I thought the casino was in Ilbert’s territory?”

“It is! I don’t understand it! But that don’t matter because he’ll still kill us.” Mimzy buries her face in her hands.

Alastor takes the knife up again, twisting it casually as he thinks. “You know, I did see quite an important seeming fellow arrive at the casino in a motorcar when I was familiarising myself with the place.”

“Oh now ya tell me!”

“Do you think Forsaken could be trying to undermine Ilbert in some way by sponsoring a gang destabilising his territory?”

There is a tense pause, before Mimzy bursts out, “Well I do now! For fuck’s sake, Alastor, what are we gonna do?” Before Alastor can answer she adds, “We’ll have to sell our souls to Cole. I mean, we live in his territory, he might see us as his property anyway, right? And it can’t be that bad down ’em mines. I heard he even let his workers dig shelters to protect from the explosions. In their time off but still. And not all the shafts are flooded, and how deep can it be really? As long as it’s above our heads, right?”

“Mimzy, dear, what in the world are you talking about?”

“Well who else can protect us from Forsaken?”

“There is really no need for anything so desperate.”

“There ain’t more desperate than this! We’ve got an overlord after us, Alastor!” Mimzy stands and heads for the door. “I’m going to pack a case. We gotta scram, whether we go to Cole or as far away as we can get.”

Alastor takes up the cane and follows but tells her, “I will not be forced from this building.”

“The building’s a shithole it ain’t worth your life!”

“Where could we run instead, hm? As I understand it we’re trapped in the Pride Ring.”

“So we’ll go to Cole! Or one of the other bastards! I’m serious, Alastor, we need protection! Forsaken don’t mess about! If he catches you you’ll be dead.” With a shudder Mimzy adds, “If you’re lucky.” She leaves and Alastor hears her march up the stairs to the ground floor.

Well, he can hardly let her flee alone. He slips into shadows and re-emerges at the top of the stairs. Mimzy, reaching them just as he does, shrieks and tilts back, and he has to grab her hand before she can fall.

“For fuck’s sake, Alastor! Warn a gal!”

“Sorry, dear.”

“So you’re coming with me?”

“I’d rather neither of us went anywhere.”

“Well we gotta go somewhere before they come for us! They saw our faces, don’t forget! And…” At that moment, a crash reverberates through building. Mimzy screams. Alastor engulfs them both in his shadow and lets it carry them back to the office as the intruders burst through the front door and rush past.

“For fuck’s sake, Alastor!” Mimzy whispers, “Not here!”

“As I’ve said, I won’t be run out of the building.” To gain a little influence down here just to be forced back down to nothing again? Unacceptable.

“Screw the building!”

Alastor waves a hand towards the door. “If their information is correct, they’ll be heading for your apartment, which you’re not in.” And a good thing too, Alastor is aware, if the crashes and bangs from above are anything to go by. He tightens his grip on his cane.

“Oh so we’re just hanging around here til they search the rest of the building?! Alastor, we have to get out of here now!”

A new noise sounds beyond the door. Apparently, someone else is arriving, someone whose footfalls reverberate through the hallway. More footsteps scramble down the stairs to meet whoever this is and there is a murmur of voices. Mimzy grabs Alastor’s hand, the one that’s still gripping the knife. “Alastor, use your magic again! Take us literally anywhere!”

And then the door to the office bangs open. Mimzy yelps, then sags in apparent relief. “Oh thank fuck! It’s only Butcher!” To the sinner in the door she adds, “I thought you were someone actually dangerous ya creep!”

In answer, Butcher smirks. Then he turns to someone out of sight and says, “See? I told you she was here.”

There is a grunt. Then a large fist appears from beyond the door frame to place a wad of cash into Butcher’s hands. Butcher gives a little half bow, says, “Pleasure doing business with you, sir” and retreats. A new figure looms into view.

It looks human but not quite. Of course, no one is human down here and Alastor has seen enough demons by now to know they look like a menagerie of creatures and objects, but this is different. This demon carries it differently somehow.

Just as when he glimpsed the overlord outside the casino, Alastor notes the powerful build. Up close he can see that Forsaken’s skin appears flecked with metal in a way that stretches and distorts it. Spikes that might be flint or might be bone protrude from the shoulders, the joints of the arms. The arms are disproportionately muscular and the head comparatively small. The face is gaunt and skull like. The whole looming presence in draped in a military uniform.

“Oh fuck” mutters Mimzy, moving to hide behind Alastor.

Alastor steps forward, or rather, tries to. Mimzy is still clinging to him and he stumbles before righting himself with the cane. Refusing to let that embarrassment sabotage him he smiles up at the newcomer. “Ah, Forsaken I presume? Alastor, pleasure to be meeting you.”

Mimzy jabs him in the back. “Alastor, you gotta look at the floor! They don’t like eye contact!”

“That would be bears, dear” replies Alastor before smoothing out his smile and returning his gaze to the overlord. “As proprietor of this building, I’m afraid I must insist you leave.”

There is a sliding, clinking metallic sound and it takes him a moment to realise that Forsaken is laughing. “You’re telling me to leave? A scrap of a thing like you? You’re not fit to lick my boots, boy.”

Alastor determinedly doesn’t let his ears flatten or his smile shrink. “Really, now, this won’t do. First you bring all these toughs here to disturb my tenants and now you insult me in my studio? I’m giving you one last chance. Leave now and it needn’t come to violence.”

More metallic laughter. “You’re funny, little deer. I used to make merry sport hunting things like you.” Forsaken lumbers forward.

Perhaps, Alastor thinks, he should carry Mimzy somewhere safe via the shadows and return to defend what little he has. But it seems a little late for that. “Get under the desk, dear.”

“What? No, no way, Alastor, you can’t fight him!”

Forsaken chuckles. “She’s right about that” he says and reaches into his coat to pull out a collection of weapons.

Wait, a collection? Alastor blinks and realises the man has grown, towering all the more over them and spouting more arms, the better for carrying all those blades.

Blades and a pair of guns. Alastor tightens his grip on the knife.

Mimzy whimpers. “We’re sorry, okay? We’ll pay you back!”

Another scrape of a chuckle. Forsaken tilts his head to examine Mimzy. “Don’t worry” he says, “There’ll be time for you next.” He raises the weapons. Alastor counts eight.

Mimzy tries, “You can take anything! Or, or just give us a little time, we’ll give back everything we took and then some!”

The weapons lower. Somewhere off in the building Alastor can hear the man’s goons rampaging. Tenants flock to the hallway, then scream and retreat.

“I never would have touched the casino if I knew it was yours!” adds Mimzy. Apparently she is under the impression that Forsaken has paused to consider her plea. Alastor knows better: The man is simply enjoying her fear. His hands twitch angrily against the knife and the cane. “Really dear, I don’t think our visitor is inclined to mercy. Stand back and leave this to me.”

Mimzy clings to his suit. “Al this ain’t like toughs in an alley! He’s an overlord!”

Alastor widens his grin. “A real challenge at last!”

Forsaken laughs loudly now, a sound like churning cogs. He grows again, his skull brushing the ceiling and his shoulders hunching forward as the protrusions there morph into mean looking hooks.

Alastor’s shadow grows too, unseen behind him. It leers hungrily. Alastor says, “Really, Mimzy, I must insist you take cover.” He unfurls his tentacles, using one to gently push her away. This, it seems, is all the encouragement she needs. She scrambles under the desk.

“We really doing this, boy?” Forsaken aims one of the guns.

“Ah ah ah.” Alastor uses the shadow to snatch the other gun and Forsaken spins around, noticing it for the first time. “I will not have gun play in my building. Now, shall we be gentlemen and take this outside? I’ll hate to further disturb my tenant’s sleep.”

Forsaken snarls, swinging around and jabbing at him with a long, curved blade. Alastor whacks at it with his cane. “Apparently not” he mutters, then wraps a tentacle around the hand wielding the blade, and all the other hands. Forsaken twists and writhes, trying to angle his blades to draw blood but each arm is pinned. With a roar he shrinks without warning, slipping from Alastor’s grip and emerging from beneath the tentacles at a run. He barrels into Alastor, knocking the cane from his grip and sending him sprawling to the floor. Before Alastor can rise, his opponent is on top of him, pinning him down. Even at this smaller size, the strength in the man is extraordinary. Forsaken rumbles, “You’ll pay for that you scrawny bastard!” He drops a pair of weapons to wrap his hands around Alastor’s neck, using enough pressure that his vision immediately swims. Alastor tries to swing his tentacles down but he can’t breathe and all he manages is a startled flailing. The shadow fumbles with the gun it stole but it seems as affected by the lack of oxygen as Alastor and the weapon falls to the floor. Alastor resorts to clawing at the overlord’s hands as the office grows rapidly darker around him. Then a loud crack sounds and Forsaken staggers back.

Alastor draws a pained breath and blinks away the haze in his vision. Above him, Forsaken is rubbing the back of his head and rounding on Mimzy, who is gripping the now bloodied ashtray. "Shit, shit, shit!" she yelps.

Realising he has dropped the knife, Alastor scrambles for it, then gives up and dives unarmed at Forsaken. It at least draws his attention from Mimzy. Forsaken swings around and grabs him, slamming him onto the desk. Alastor lets himself grow at last, doubling, tripling his height, higher. Forsaken loses his grip and takes a step back, staring for a moment before growing to match Alastor’s new height. Mimzy presses herself against the wall, the only space left for her, and begins inching around the perimeter of the office towards the door. Forsaken laughs again. “You got a little power, boy? Pity. You could have built yourself a life down here if you hadn’t been fool enough to mess with me.” He swings a dagger at Alastor who ducks out of the way and finds the knife. He picks it up, clasping it like a little needle against his palm.

Figures appear in the doorway at that moment, a collection of men who stare from Alastor to Forsaken. Forsaken greets them with, “Don’t just stand there, get the woman!”

The men rush forward as Mimzy mutters, “Shit” and starts to inch the other way. Alastor swings a tentacle, knocking the advancing men to the ground, then impales them with another. The few who dodged him retreat out of sight. Forsaken roars. “That does it! I was going to let you beg for the chance to be in my service but now​? I’ll skin you alive and make the woman watch!” He lunges and Alastor meets the attack, tangling the man’s muscular arms with his tentacles once again and pushing him backwards into the wall.

The wall gives under the bulk of the overlord and they are suddenly in the corridor. The goons who retreated here scatter and Alastor’s shadow rears up in front of the shredded office wall before any can think to go in there. They make for the door instead, fleeing into the night until Forsaken roars, “Get back here!”

Perhaps they are chained, because the men return, some with every appearance of reluctance. Lacking further orders, they run at Alastor but the tentacles make quick work of them. Forsaken is another matter. The overlord is strong and the tentacles seem unable to pierce his skin. It is all Alastor can do to keep his many arms from levering the many weapons. Forsaken snarls, shoving Alastor into one wall, and then another, growing once again to fill the hallway and loom over him. The building creeks around them. Tenants fleeing down the stairs scream and rush back the way they came. Mimzy, peering from what is left of the office doorway steps back with a yelp as a chunk of plaster falls.

“Enough!” Forsaken struggles free of one of the tentacles and brings a dagger down on another, causing it to retract with a burst of pain. “By the time I’m finished, you’re going to wish you were dead, you little scumbag!”

He raises the gun, and Alastor shoots out a tentacle, knocking his arm back and forcing him to fire wide. Forsaken swears and Alastor grows to match his new height, forcing them both through the front of the building.

While the internal walls are mostly cheap plywood, the exterior is brick and the crash leaves them both a little stunned. Recovering a second before Forsaken, Alastor grabs the man’s gun and fires, only to yelp and drop it as it glows read hot instead of shooting.

Forsaken laughs, picking himself up. “It only answers to me” he says, reaching for the weapon. Alastor flings it away and pushes him back, finally succeeding in slicing into the skin of Forsaken’s arm in the process. Forsaken howls and knocks Alastor back, raising a hooked blade and bringing it down. Alastor shrinks rapidly to avoid it, melting into the shadows and reappearing behind Forsaken as he stares at the dent the blade made in the ground.

Alastor stumbles back, checking that he still has the angelic knife. He does – good – though it seems a small thing with Forsaken still at full size.

All around them, sinners are waking up, turning on their lights, staring out their windows and shrinking back. Forsaken lashes out, plucking a beelike woman from her window, pulling off her wings off and snapping her neck before tossing her to the ground. Then he turns and grins at the sight of Alastor still his normal size beneath him, raises a foot as if to crush him, and Alastor slips into the shadows again, reappearing a little way away and growing fast.

But not fast enough. Forsaken grabs him before he reaches full height and flings him up into the air, swinging on to the rooftop of a nearby building. Stunned into shrinking, Alastor picks himself up, raises the knife, then freezes at the sight of Forsaken looming over him, tall enough to peer over the very building.

The overlord chuckles, raising a hand. Alastor disappears as the hand comes down, re-emerging on the other side of the street and growing again, still gripping the little knife. As Forsaken swings to meet him, he lashes at the man with his tentacles but they still don’t draw blood. Unlike Forsaken’s blades, which take a chunk out of one tentacle and gouge a cut in another, sending pain shooting through the shadowy appendages. Brushing them off and advancing, Forsaken raises the curved blade again and Alastor resorts to using the tentacles to slash at his eyes. Of course, that doesn’t work: Eyes are surprisingly hard to pierce and Alastor still doesn’t land a real hit. But Forsaken stops, batting and cutting at the tentacles as they impede his vision. Alastor flinches as the blades bite at him, then darts forward, putting all his weight behind the angelic knife.

Tentacles may have their limits, but angelic steel slices through the thick skin with startling ease, sinking so deeply that Alastor almost overbalances. Forsaken howls and staggers back, and Alastor presses the blade mercilessly on, until the hilt meets flesh. The knife isn’t big enough to sever the overlord’s huge throat, but the cut bleeds freely when Alastor pulls it out. Forsaken stumbles, taking a corner off a building. Then he shrinks back to the size he was when he arrived which looks to Alastor very much as though he disappears. Alastor shrinks too, reverting to his usual stature – and dropping the knife in the process. As he joins Forsaken on the ground, the overlord cuffs him round the face, sending him sprawling. He pushes himself up, only to find a gun trained on him. “I’m impressed” Forsaken tells him, pressing a hand to the seeping wound in his neck, “It’s been centuries since I had a fight like that. I’ve a mind to celebrate. Maybe I’ll invite your lady friend to join m…” He gasps as the shadow appears and swings the gun as it moves. Alastor jumps up, sidesteps the swinging weapon and stabs him in the neck. Smaller as the overlord now is, he does manage to hit the main artery, unleashing a spray of blood. Forsaken gurgles and drops. Alastor stands over him, watching with interest as he gasps, then gasps again, then falls back.

And then a wave of power hits Alastor like a flood. For a horrible moment, he thinks the overlord has some final defence mechanism but no: This isn’t power attacking him. This is power becoming part of him.

Souls. All the souls that gave the overlord power, Alastor realises, now at his command. The power of it fills him. He is amazed he doesn’t glow with it.

It is almost too much.

He hears music and realises it is coming from him. A triumphant burst of jazz overlaid with static as the magic within him swells and roars and how is he supposed to contain it all?

Around him, sinners are hurrying out of crumbling buildings, some pausing to stare in mingled horror and fascination at the fallen overlord. Alastor notices his own building is looking a little worse for wear, and after all his repair work too. Not to worry: A little magic is all it will take. And he has a lot of magic now. If only he could control it all. But where to begin? Mastering what he started out with was hard enough.

He tries simply waiting for the sensation of brimming, teeming, crushing magic to settle down. It doesn’t.

“Alastor?” Mimzy appears in the doorway of the apartment building, clutching her gun in one hand and his cane in the other.

“It’s alright, dear!” Alastor waves a hand to show he is in one piece. “It’s quite safe now.” Though he isn’t certain it is: It feels as though the magic might burst out of him at any moment.

Mimzy hurries across the street, flinging her arms around him, hitting him with the cane in the process. The magic twitches defensively and it is all Alastor can do to stop it rearing up at her.

“Thank fuck!” Mimzy gasps, and then she steps back and jabs him in the chest. “What the fuck were you thinking? I thought he’d kill you, Alastor!”

So did he, Alastor thinks, a few times. “Don’t worry, Mimzy. I had the situation completely under control.”

Unlike the magic now racing through him. It’s so strong it’s almost hard to breathe.

“My ass did ya! Are ya hurt?”

“No.” Though Alastor is aware of his tentacles, tucked safely away now, smarting in pain. Aside from that he is sore and bruised and…

and brimming with power. It itches. It burns.

“Are ya sure? Here, I got your cane.” Mimzy hands the cane over. Alastor takes it. The cane leaps in his hand as the power flows into it. Alastor gasps and tries to drop it but the thing won’t fall. It twists as the magic pours into it until it is quite a new thing entirely. Then it clatters to the ground. Alastor stoops and retrieves it instinctively.

“What the fuck?” asks Mimzy, “What was that?”

“I have no idea.” But Alastor relaxes, finding that the magic is no longer pulling at him. Whatever it was, he feels much better now.

It is the cane, he realises, now humming with power. He raises it to study the new shape and colour, the delightful microphone that now tops it. Just as with his shadow, he senses a connection to it. His shadow, it seems, agrees: It circles the cane with a proprietary grin.

Beside him, Mimzy takes a sharp step back. “Fuck, fuck, Alastor, that’s a staff!”

“It is?” Alastor studies it a little longer, then twirls it experimentally. Mimzy leaps back, almost tripping over Forsaken’s corpse. She screams. When Alastor steadies her, she brushes him off and stumbles away from him, staring first at him and then at Forsaken. “Fuck” she finally breathes. She takes a step closer. “Is he really dead?”

“Definitely dead” Alastor confirms. A pity. It strikes him that it might have been entertaining to make the final moments last longer.

“Are ya sure? Maybe poke him with your staff!”

“Quite sure.”

“Oh my stars, Alastor. You killed an overlord.”

“Yes, it would seem I did.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll think of something.” Alastor smiles wider, offering her his arm, “But first, I could use a drink.”

Chapter Text

“A hidden gem, I hope?” Alastor asks, “We are celebrating after all.”

“This is Hell, Alastor” Mimzy replies, “There’s no hidden gems.” She waves a hand at the grimy steps leading down to the basement bar she led him to. “Just hidden shitholes and less hidden shitholes.”

She waited out her first extermination under this bar. Back then, she was just a month or too into eternal damnation and, not knowing what to expect, she got caught out when the bell sounded. Lucky for her this place is sunk under the level of the sidewalk and has a cellar even below that. Multiple storeys underground: It ain’t that uncommon. Hell’s overpopulation problem has sinners building down as well as up. “Look it’s dark in there, I hardly ever visit and you never have.” Mimzy glances around and adds, “Plus we’re a long way from the apartment and it looks like no one’s followed us.” Maybe they didn’t dare what with the staff. In a whisper she adds, “It’s best we lie low in case Forsaken had any allies.” Or in case any other overlords take it into their heads to attack an ordinary sinner who suddenly has a lot of souls.

Except Al ain’t an ordinary sinner now, is he? Like she didn’t already know that, Mimzy gets a reminder when they walk down the uneven steps and into the bar. The dive is crowded like it always is for some fucking reason and when they walk in, dozens of eyes turn to them. Then the gazes trail to the staff and stay there.

Great, thinks Mimzy, she didn’t think of that, of how no matter where they go they’re going to stand out with that damn thing.

And could she think of it? It ain’t like she’s used to running around with an overlord!

Wait, an overlord? Is that what Al is now?

Well he has the staff don’t he?

And the souls. Shit, and the territory! Shit. Mimzy forces an uncertain smile at the room in general. She ain’t sure she feels like she’s about to step onta a red carpet or a gallows. Alastor walks over to the bar and everyone scrambles away from him, pressing themselves against the grimy walls or ducking under the mismatched tables. A few edge round Mimzy, headed for the door. Alastor glances at them and says, “Oh please! Don’t leave on our account.”

So everyone edges back, trying to keep their distance without leaving the tiny, sweat-stinking space. Like they think Alastor just gave them an order.

Yeah, thinks Mimzy, overlord sounds about right. “Alastor? Make mine a triple whiskey. I need a strong one.”

Whiskey don’t help it feel real. “I can’t believe it” says Mimzy some time around the third glass.

“You’ve mentioned.” Alastor scowls above the smile, looking around the dingy bar. Things settled a little when the regulars here realised Alastor only wanted a drink. Everyone relaxed a little. Conversation returned, quiet at first, but a little while ago some bastard with more guts than the rest of the creeps in here ran out the door. When Alastor didn’t stop him, everyone relaxed a little more, and now there’s enough of a buzz of chatter around the room that the two of them will be able to talk unheard. Good, thinks Mimzy. They’re gonna need to.

But Alastor asks, “How about we go elsewhere, cher? There’s no room to dance in here.”

“This ain’t no time for dancing, Alastor! You gotta come up with a plan and fast!” When Alastor simply looks nonplussed, Mimzy presses a hand to her head, thinking hard. She lowers her hand and her voice to say, “The way I see it, there’s still a way to back out and avoid being one of the fast set.”

“Is that something I ought to avoid? I rather enjoyed being part of the party scene in New Orleans.”

“Well this ain’t New Orleans and being an overlord is not about partying, Alastor!” Well, thinks Mimzy, not completely. Fuck knows those bastards live the high life.

Not that they’ll let Alastor join in. It’s been the same faces in that damn club for centuries. They don’t let just anyone join.

Then she thinks, well. Al will have heard that before.

Alastor is watching her, and he has the nerve to look amused. For a moment, Mimzy kinda wants to slap the smile off his face and it must show because he relents. “Very well, Mimzy, how do you think I should proceed?”

“Find that sponsor and fast. Give them Forsaken’s souls in return for them protecting you from the other bastards who’ll want to kill you before you kill any more of them.”

Alastor’s smile widens at that. He sits back, letting his gaze wander as he thinks it over. “It’s not really my style to back away and avoid the limelight. No dear” He looks her way and the damn smile is still so wide “I think I’ll keep the souls. They seem to be the favoured currency down here, after all.”

Mimzy stares at him. “I know you got lucky once but…”

“...But now I have a great deal more power. It won’t be luck next time.”

Next time? Next time? Mimzy opens her mouth, then shuts it again. Ordinarily, she would argue. Yell at him. What’s he even thinking of, next time?

Thing is, this ain’t ordinarily. Ordinary went down with Forsaken.

An overlord, dead! Mimzy ain’t never heard of one of those bastards dying. Well, in whispered stories, maybe. But that was years back, centuries, and the one doing it, well they were always another overlord. Alastor is just Alastor. Alastor who is now sipping his whiskey and smiling at her like he’s done a thousand times before.

Alastor who has a staff now. Who everyone in here was scared of when he walked in.

Alastor who who just killed an overlord. No, it still don’t seem real.

Maybe this could be good for them. Maybe Alastor really could fend off the others when they come looking to take advantage of Forsaken’s death. Maybe he can hold down the bastard’s territory. Keep all those souls.

Really be an overlord himself. Would that be a good thing? For all the idea makes Mimzy shiver, she knows being one has to be better than not being one.

And being good friends with one? Well that could have its advantages too. “You really wanna do this?”

“I’m confident I can use this opportunity to our advantage.”

“It ain’t your confidence I’m doubting.” Mimzy takes a long drink, glances around and then says, “Okay. Well, if you’re gonna do this, you realise there won’t be any hiding? The other overlords will be coming for you.”

Alastor smiles that annoying smile he tries when he trying to act innocent. “Will they?”

“Yeah they fucking will!” Mimzy hisses because it wouldn’t do ta yell and draw attention. Leaning closer she adds, “This ain’t a joke! Look, I know you’re new down here, sweetie, but you got to learn fast that these bastards are trouble.”

Alastor shrugs prettily. “Forsaken wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Your bruises say different!”

“And yet I’m still here.”

“Well you’re gonna have to think about how you’re gonna keep it that way!”

“When the others come, do you mean? But how will they know where to find me?”

Mimzy waves a hand at the room in general. “Well, we can’t stay in this shithole forever.”

Alastor laughs. “I mean, dear, that very few people saw anything much of the fight. And any witnesses from outside our building won’t be able to put a name to my face. Alas, I’ve hardly the acclaim down here that I had in the living world.”

Mimzy takes a deep drink. “What, ya think you can fight the overlords without them seeing your face? They’ll find out who you are sooner or later Al.” She nods to the staff. “And that thing’s a damn give away.”

Alastor examines it. “Yes, it is rather.” He seems to concentrate on it for a moment. Mimzy yelps when it seems to shiver and vanish.

Alastor seems a little surprised too. His eyes widen and his ears perk up. He focuses again, and the staff reappears. Then again and it’s hidden. “There. Is that better?”

Mimzy relaxes a little. “It’’s something. But you’ll still be kinda noticeable doin’ battle to defend your territory.”

“My what now?”

Mimzy drains her glass, then lowers her voice still further. “Your territory, Alastor! Forsaken had land. All the poor saps he has living there will know there’s a new hand at the other end of the chain. Chains feel different, I’ve heard, when shit like this goes down.”

Alastor’s ears flick downward for just a moment, but he corrects them and reasserts the easy smile.

After that they drink some more, then trek back to the apartment building. The street’s still in chaos. Folk are out early, and not just the poor saps who have to be work. Sinners are spilling out of their apartments carrying belongings like they think the buildings are about to cave in. Which they might, Mimzy thinks, eyeing the damage. A crowd is gathered round Forsaken’s body, which ain’t no surprise. A dead overlord? Everyone’ll want to see. Trying to hold them back are a group of Forsaken’s men, the few Al didn’t get with those tentacles of his plus some new fellas, who must have felt the chain change however it does and came to investigate. Not outta grief, obviously. Who’d grieve that bastard? Least of all his souls. A few of them are taking the chance to kick the dead overlord or at least not stopping anyone else from doing it. But it seems like they won’t let anyone drag him away til they hear what their new master wants doing with the body.

Must be messed up, Mimzy thinks, to be owned by someone and not even know who. No wonder they all look nervous. And these ain’t men who handle nervous well.

Apparently they didn’t all agree that their new owner would want his kill protected because there’s a crowd of them lurking around the steps leading up to the apartment building as well. Just waiting. Once Alastor arrives they all seem to be able to tell he’s the one they’re waiting for. There is a general stirring as they turn to him, some looking scared, some studying him appraisingly. Mimzy pauses at the sight and Alastor asks in a murmur, “What’s all this?”

“They’ll be waiting for your orders, sweetie.” Mimzy glances down the street and sees another group, far off but headed their way. Armed and uniformed men, the ones who usually stand guard outside the mine to stop anyone getting in. Or out. “Shit, Cole’s sent his cronies. You gotta send your new buddies away, Al, and fast before anyone see ya doing it.” Thank fuck the staff is still hidden. “I’ll distraction the crowd.” Mimzy pats his arm, then breaks away and hurries towards the sinners clustered around the corpse, pushing her way through.

Forsaken is still dead. It’s only when she sees him that Mimzy realises she didn’t quite believe he would be. She lets out a screech, causing several sinners around her to wince and shrink back. “Oh shit!” she yells, “Is that who I think it is?” She grabs the nearest sinner and clings in a show of excitement. When man swears and brushes her off she lets herself stumble back into another, grabbing his arm. “Holy crap! Someone wanna tell me what the fuck happened?”

“What’s it to you, lady?” asks one of the demons standing guard. Beside him, the others are all staring back the way she came, their attention on their new master. A few of the crowd look about to follow their gaze, so Mimzy squeals loudly, drawing their attention her way. “Well it’s Forsaken ain’t it?” she demands.

“Yeah, and?”

“Well did somebody call the publishing district?”

“Shit” says someone, “That’s a point. Could be worth a bundle.”

“Only for the first tip off” Mimzy tells him, “They only pay the first caller.”

The crowd stir at that. Some break away and run towards the public telephone. Some notice Cole’s men headed down the street and run any which way.

Forsaken’s men have seen them too. They shift nervously. A few glance around them like they’re just realising there’s no order stopping them from just running. The rest glancing between the approaching guards and Alastor, who has sidled up to the goons by the steps and is having a quiet word.

Quiet won’t be noticed now, between the sight of Cole’s guards and the rush for the phone. Mimzy hopes. Just just to be sure, she gasps and says, “Wait a damn minute, just think how much Lord Rosie will pay for the body! Overlord meat! It’s gotta be a delicacy, right?”

“Wait” says Forsaken’s man, “We don’t know what the new boss…”

Mimzy elbows him hard before he can give any clue who that is. “Save it for someone who cares! I’m getting that corpse to Cannibal Town if it kills me!”

“It might” says someone in the shrinking crowd behind her.

“Screw her getting it!” says another, “I got me a bicycle, I’ll sling it on that!”

“The fuck you will! It’s mine!” Someone grabs one of Forsaken’s arms and starts dragging, til another grabs his legs. A few of his ex goons try to grab him back but most just stare from the scramble for body parts to Alastor and back. Before anyone can notice who it is they’re staring at Mimzy shouts, “Ha! Sure, you have fun carrying the stiff! Me, I’m just gonna run tell Rosie where he is! She’s got carts!”

“Hell yeah!” says a man beside her, “I got a mind to tell her myself! Bet I can out run you, bitch!”

“Are you crazy?” his wife asks, “You’ll get us eaten!”

“No, Louisa, I’ll get us paid!”

The sinner woman waves a hand at the dead overlord. “You think Lord Rosie will believe he’s down? You’ll get us eaten!”

“Maybe I’ll get you eaten and me paid! Cheaper than a divorce.”

“Oh fuck you, Barry!”

As the couple start to yell, one of the goons from the steps pushes through the crowd. He tells the others, “The new boss says…”

“Hey Louisa!” Mimzy yells to drown him out, “You want my advice, get to Rosie first and throw Barry in to sweeten the deal! I hear she likes husbands!” That gets a few laughs, as the goons next to her flinch and move away to talk in whispers further off. Finally they leave, stepping over Forsaken as they go. Lucky for Alastor Cole’s men arrive about the same time so everyone puts the retreat down to them not him. Hopefully. As they gather round the corpse forming a new crowd and dispersing the old one, Mimzy hurries back to Alastor, grabbing his hand before he can say anything and pulling him inside. A few of the neighbours are gathered in the hallway and, spotting a few she saw outside last night, Mimzy tells them, “You know how fast the rent will rise if ya talk!” But how can they not talk? Half of them belong to Cole.

Only, as the dawn drags into the day, Cole’s men head back to the mine. No one knocks on doors with questions, like Mimzy was expecting. “Perhaps he’s just glad to see the competition gone?” asks Alastor, as Mimzy watches the surprisingly normal street from the window.

Forsaken’s body is gone now. Fuck knows who took it.

“Or maybe he’s focusing on getting hold of your territory” Mimzy replies, “Ya might wanna get over there, Al.”

“Of course.” Alastor stands. “Can’t have my new enterprise stolen from under me. Especially when I’m thinking of changing the location of my intended studio.”

“Uh huh.” Mimzy keeps her gaze on the street. “Wait, what?”

“My radio studio. The office here is all well and good but now that I have land elsewhere, I can set up somewhere more suitable for broadcasting.”

Mimzy supposes that him pissing off the overlords with radio is the least of their worries right now. But still, “How about ya focus on keeping that land? And the souls: Your power won’t last long if Cole kills them all.”

Maybe Alastor takes this warning seriously, because after he says his goodbyes, Mimzy doesn’t see him for a few days.

Cole doesn’t attack in that time thank fuck. Though he’s out more than usual, his motor car parading up and down the streets all around the neighbourhood. Visiting other overlords, some say, trying to reassure them he had nothing to do with Forsaken’s death. Inspecting the borders of his territory, say others. Others say he’s trying to gather an alliance, to take the Munitions District without the other overlords challenging him over it. It’s up for grabs, after all. No one in Forsaken’s territory even knows who their new soul owner is, according to everyone brave enough to go and ask. Well, say others, they’ll have been sworn to secrecy. The ones still left, say others. Lord Dion has attacked the place, didn’t you hear?

And some say: No way is Forsaken dead. Overlords don’t just die. The folk who say they saw the body are just making it up. And if they’re not careful, Forsaken will come put a stop to the rumours.

Mimzy does her best to quiet the gossip inside the building, since it’s where most of the eye witnesses live. Mostly, the neighbours are in a hurry to not get involved. A few threats and they promise they didn’t see nothing. A few even pay her, to reassure her of their loyalty. But still, they whisper together in the hallways, and shut up when they hear her coming.

She wants to go find Al. No way is he being as careful as he should be. But where’d she start? He could be anywhere in the whole Munitions District and if she lets slip to anyone how much she knows she could be dead.

And he could be dead. If Dion hasn’t already killed him.

And then comes a new whisper: Forsaken must be dead because his territory is changing. Towers have gone up. Two in fact: A radio tower and another looming structure, a sort of pole topped with bullhorns.

“It’s a public address system” Alastor explains when he finally reappears, looking chipper as ever. “Of the kind used at sporting events you may recall? I must say I was never much of a fan of ball games.” He takes a seat on her couch. “My sport was always of the blood variety.” A laugh track plays. “But as a means to project my show to all the poor souls down here who don’t have radio this system does have its merits.” He pauses, frowning above the smile. “Why do you ask? Do I take it you’ve visited my new territory?”

“I didn’t need to visit: It’s in the papers.” Mimzy sits down beside him and passes over the newspaper she picked up this morning.

Alastor studies the front page. A photograph of the weird horn topped pole takes up half the space. Mimzy adds, “I wanted to get over there. You up and left! Everyone’s been talking and someone said Lord Dion attacked the place! And I was telling myself that’s just another dumb rumour, half for sure ain’t true, but I didn’t know what half that was in, Alastor!”

“I’m sorry, Mimzy. I did call the public telephone a few times but no one in Hell seems prepared to just go and fetch the person the caller is asking for. One man hung up on me and another propositioned me! And I regret to say I believe another urinated on the receiver.”

“Gee, it’s a shame ya can’t, I dunno, travel by shadow in an instant!”

“Well, I’ve been rather too busy for an actual visit. It is true that Lord Dion has been bothering my contracted souls.”

“That’s in there too.” Mimzy takes the paper from him and turns a page. Down here there’s no rules about the type of photographs the papers can publish. It’s gory, and Alastor’s static hisses and flickers when he sees what Dion left of the sinners he attacked. Mimzy asks, “But he ain’t gone after you personally?”

“No. I’m still incognito for now."

“Maybe, but there’s a description.” Mimzy flicks through a few pages of speculation to point at a paragraph beside an artist’s rendering of Alastor’s larger form.

Alastor tilts his head. “Hardly accurate” he concludes, “I suppose the tentacles obscured my face from eye witnesses.”

“They’re still eye witnesses, Alastor, and the overlords will still be asking around. Offering rewards. You think they’ll want folk thinking they’re killable? And here you are with no plan, going off for days, not calling me and building radio towers!”

“A radio tower is a plan” says Alastor. He don’t elaborate on how the fuck it is. But he comes back the next day cradling a radio in his arms. “It’s an Atwater-Kent Model 84! Absolutely top of the range.”

Mimzy stares at the thing. “Don’t tell me ya got those new factories of yours making radios instead of guns, Alastor, ya big dweeb.”

“And why not? Radios are so much more entertaining than guns. But I made this one myself. It took me a few attempts to get it right. I tried making each part separately at one point but...Well, here it is!”

“Well done, doll face” Mimzy says obligingly. It’s only when he asks where she wants it and starts to show her how it works that she realises he made it for her. She hopes he don’t think this lets him off making her those pearls. Once he’s finished his explanation she says, “Really, sweetie, it’s the bee’s knees.”

“And how! Really, Mimzy, sound quality has improved so much since you last heard a broadcast. And you see the design, the gothic arch? People call them tombstones!” He laughs, the laugh track joining in. Mimzy don’t see what’s so funny.

She has to hand it to him, though, the damn thing’s pretty. Very him too, with the antler carvings either side of the speaker. But she asks, “What am I supposed to listen to on it? You don’t got a show yet.”

“That’s about to change, my dear.”

“Why? Because you’ve been writing scripts instead of finding a way ta not get murdered?”

“You’ll see” Alastor replies. He checks his watch. “Just tune in at...Oh, shall we say midnight?”

“Sorry, sweetie, I’ll be at work then.”

“Oh?” Alastor looks crestfallen despite the smile. And no wonder. His first show down here? It’s a big deal. “Is there any way you could rearrange?”

“Not unless I wanna be fired.” We don’t all got territories full of factories, Mimzy don’t add. For one thing, it don’t look like he’s spent any of that money. He’s still in the same old suit. For another, she trusts Alastor will take care of her once things have settled. He’s always been a pal like that. She won’t ask. Yet.

Anyway, there’s a difference between taking care and taking control. Mimzy likes her independence. Even back in the living world she worked all the years of her life instead of marrying just any old rich sap.

Alastor was her retirement plan. Maybe it’s a good thing she went before he did.

Turns out, being at work ain’t a problem. Alastor has gifted the club with a set. Not in the show-up-at-the-door-with-it way though. Not like a normal person. Mimzy supposes he ain’t that anymore if he ever was.

Walking in she finds it in pride of place above the bar. Her boss, a couple of dancers, Helen and Kitty, and two of the regulars, Joe and Bill, are all staring at it.

“What’s with the radio?” she asks, trying to be casual. Best not draw attention to how her radio dweeb pal is real powerful just as Forsaken dies.

The boss drags his eyes from the thing to glance her way. “Damn thing just appeared outta nowhere” he complains.

Helen, lent across the bar, stops smoking long enough to say, “So let’s get rid of it. I don’t want that thing competing with singing.”

“Competing how?” asks Joe, “There’ no station down here.”

“Well that must have changed” says Kitty. To Mimzy she adds, “The bar I live above got one too. And the dance hall across the street.

Joe nods. “Bar near me got one just appear like this. Fucking creepy.”

“Heh” manages Mimzy, “Fancy that.” She’s sure Helen’s staring at her like she can tell she knows more than she’s letting on, but the bitch don’t say anything. Beside her, Kitty asks, “Could it be connected to those new towers over in the Munitions District?”

There is a collective stir, the Munitions District being big news right now. “Oh shit” says the boss, “Is that what they are?”

Bill asks, “Wait, radios need towers? Since when? I figured they just had tiny people inside.”

Joe shakes his head. “You from the stone age or just stupid?”

“Both. I mean, hey!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Helen tells them. “Boss, throw it out, we don’t want to get involved in the Munitions District right now!”

The boss reaches hesitantly towards the radio and lifts it carefully. Then he pauses. “I dunno” he says, “Feel that?” He holds it out to Joe, whose fox ears flatten. “Magic. If someone this powerful sent this, I don’t wanna piss them off throwing it out.”

Sensing a chance to listen to Al’s broadcast after all, Mimzy pipes up, “Well how’s about we take it down to the dressing room? At least it won’t improve Helen’s singing that way.”

“Fuck you” Helen mutters.

“Yeah, that works.” The boss puts the thing in Mimzy’s arms.

She don’t got a dressing room of her own in this dump. That’s for the dames at the top of the bill and she ain’t that. Underappreciated is what she is, so she’s gotta share with Kitty and the other lowly dames while Helen gets to lord it over them with her own space.

But it’s got its perks, sharing. Always someone to do up a dress or check her make up and not being the main event on stage means more time to trade gossip and smokes down here.

She puts the radio on a shelf in the corner, clearing make up kits out the way to make room. All the girls wonder about it, all of them giving it worried glances or gossiping openly. Most of them have seen at least one other set. In bars, in restaurants, in dance halls, anywhere where lots of folk will hear. No one saw them arrive.

While they change outfits between musical numbers one of the girls, Josie, says, “There’s this big antenna thing in the Munitions District.”

Great, thinks Mimzy. See this is what she was worried about. Right after Forsaken died, his killer could have been anyone so far as everyone who weren’t there was knew. Now everyone and wife and his bit on the side knows it’s someone who’s real keen on radios. Sure, Alastor says he has a plan but has he really? Or has he just been getting this damn broadcast ready?

“So it’s the radio district now?” asks Gertie, spraying herself with perfume at the dresser beside Mimzy. Mimzy opens a lipstick and starts applying before anyone can ask her opinion.

“If it is” says Annie, eyeing the radio, “I don’t want nothing to do with that thing.”

“Too fucking right” says Josie, “I say we burn it.”
“Bad idea” says Kitty, “You want whoever took Forsaken down to come after us?”

“Well we don’t want to be caught up in a fight between the overlords do we? Those things appeared in all their territories you can bet they don’t like that!”

Annie shrinks from the thing, wrapping her shawl tighter around her. She asks, “What if it takes ours souls while we’re listening to it?”

“For fuck’s sake!” snaps Josie, “How could a radio do that?”

“Well they can’t have my soul” says Gertie, “I’m taken.” She picks up a blusher and jabs at her face. Mimzy realises she’s been pasting the lipstick on a little thick. She stands to kiss the mirror.

“Same here” Josie is saying, “They want me they’ll have to take it up with Lord Nicholas.”

Mimzy adds a little blusher to her cheeks, then checks the clock. Five past midnight. Casually, she asks, “Anyone think ta turn it on?”

They look at her like she’s suggested they take a stroll through Cannibal Town. “Are you crazy?” Annie asks.

“What? I like music! And if ya don’t want to piss off whoever’s broadcasting, ya might want to listen in.” She sets the brush down, stands up and pushes past them. Josie puts out a hand like she’s got a mind to pull her back but, lucky for her, she backs off. Reaching for the set, Mimzy turns the dial the way Al showed her.

Sound shifts into focus. Screaming.

“Shit” mutters Mimzy. She tweaks the dial, trying to tune the damn thing, searching for Alastor’s voice or the jazz he normally plays.

But there’s no other stations. And no jazz. No music. Just screaming.

Mimzy flinches and switches the damn thing off.

It still plays.

The girls stare at each other in horror. Annie slaps her hand over her mouth. Josie pokes Mimzy hard. “See what you’ve done?”

Mimzy ignores her. Shit, she thinks, what if it’s Alastor screaming?

No. Alastor could never make that noise.

And then a voice over the airwaves: “No more! No more, please!”

It ain’t Alastor. Thank God and fuck and whoever else is listening.

“Shit” says Kitty, “Is that…?”

“No” says Mimzy, “It ain’t him.”

“No, really, I’m sure that’s…” she trails off like she ain’t sure she’s allowed to say whatever it is. Mimzy ignores her and wrestles with the dial again. The screams are getting to her and now she knows Al ain’t dying, she’d like to not listen to whoever is. Behind her, Annie starts crying and Gertie runs out the room.

And still the screaming goes on.

It goes on all night. There’s no ignoring it. No just getting on with their show. No one dances. They all stand and listen, flinching and covering their ears.Gertie comes back at some point and tells it ain’t just coming from the radio. The horns on top of that tower are doing their job, pushing the sound out all over Hell. The boss and Joe and everyone are all out in the street listening.

Well Mimzy don’t want to go out there and stand outside like it’s the world’s creepiest firework display. She stays put, huddled with the others while the screaming goes on and on.

Finally, it dwindles to whimpers and then one last, guttural shriek. Then Alastor’s voice says, “And that’s all for this show’s debut! Thank you for joining me for this historic occasion! And thanks of course to our guest star, Lord Dion of the red light district!” Applause plays and then Alastor adds, “I’m told he’s the oldest of Hell’s overlords. Ah, excuse me, was.” That damn laugh track again. “Well, dear listeners, this is your host, the Radio Demon, signing off….for now.” Wicked laughter follows, and then the sound finally cuts out.

The silence is loud.

Chapter Text

When Alastor appears at her front door in the morning, bringing bagels like everything’s normal, Mimzy takes a sharp step back. He must think that’s an invitation, because in he comes. Mimzy hurries to the other end of the hallway. “Don’t come near me, Alastor!”

Alastor pauses, bagels still in hand. “Is something wrong, dear?”

“Yeah something’s wrong! In your sick head!”

Alastor has the damn nerve to look pleased. “You heard my broadcast then?”

“All of Hell heard it!”

“Well, yes, but it’s nice that you tuned in.”

“Not for me it weren’t!” Seeing that the door is open behind him, Mimzy makes an impatient gesture for him to move out the way, then darts past him and slams it. No point the whole building hearing. She reaches for the bolts, then pauses. Leaving them unlocked she swings around and demands, “What the fuck, Alastor?”

Alastor quirks an eyebrow, then heads into the living room, forcing her to trail after him if she wants an answer. Mimzy ain’t sure she does but she follows just the same.

Alastor sets the bagels down on the coffee table and says, “Dear, you already knew my mind works a little differently from most men.”

“I know you’re a messed up creep, ya mean.” Mimzy sighs. “Yeah, I guess I did.” But it’s one thing to know it and other thing to hear it.

Alastor sits down with an easy smile. When Mimzy don’t join him he finally looks a little uncertain. He tries, “I brought bagels.”

“Bagels don’t make up for me having to listen to what you did to Dion.”

“You can’t possibly care what happens to the likes of him.”

“Course I don’t care about that gongoozler!” Mimzy bristles at the insinuation. Dion was a monster, even as overlords go. The things he did to his souls… “No one’s about to cry over him” she says. Except Annie did, didn’t she? Her and a few of the other dancers. Thing is, Dion didn’t sound like the monster he was when he was begging. Mimzy shivers. “But I didn’t want to hear it! Why didn’t ya make it so folk could switch off?”

“Because then everyone would.”

“Oh, ya think?! Maybe stick with jazz next time!”

Alastor just widens his sharp toothed grin. Mimzy glares. Alastor tells her, “Really, dear, I know the broadcast wasn’t be best suited to those of fairer means but I do need to make an impression if my show is going to take off. Besides, surely the ladies of Hell will be glad to know Dion is gone?”

Mimzy sighs again, stepping a little closer. “You ain’t wrong there.” She picks up the bag of bagels despite herself. “How’d ya even do it? Get to him I mean.”

“I’ve some experience gaining access to high level mobsters and these overlords have become a little complacent. Throw in some shadow magic and it wasn’t difficult.”

Mimzy considers this. “You ain’t stopping with him then.”

Alastor spreads his hands. Probably the gesture is supposed to show how open and reasonable he’s being but it just draws attention to his sharp claws. “As I said, I need to make an impression. By the time I reveal myself, I want to be feared.”

“You’re sure on the right track for that” Mimzy mutters. Still, least he’s got a plant now. Leave it to Alastor to somehow include radios in this.

He’s watching her carefully. Mimzy shifts under his stare. He asks, “You know I’d never hurt you, surely?”

“I know that ya big pill! I just…” Mimzy trails off. She wants to say she might be no saint but that don’t mean she enjoyed the show. But what’s the point of saying that? Alastor would just think she’s being squeamish. Maybe she is. “I just don’t think I’m gonna be a regular listener, no offence.”

Things change fast after that. Suddenly there’s radios everywhere. Not just from what used to be the Munitions District and which some folk are calling the Radio District unironically now. Plenty of radios pour outta there these days but plenty more are smuggled from the living world or made in other parts of Hell. Stores open up specially til the overlords shut them down. And burn them down. Even then, the radios don’t go away. They move into the back alleys, traded away from prying eyes like half the merchandise in Hell. Alastor ain’t the only person who worked in radio to ever die and suddenly everyone else who did has a reason to use that knowledge.

“Ya don’t mind?” Mimzy asks Alastor when he comes round for dinner. They’re staying in a lot just now.

“Why would I? It’s got the overlords distracted.” Alastor tastes the gumbo he’s got on the stove. The great thing about having Alastor round to dinner is don’t expect her to cook.

Another great thing is the flowers he handed her when he arrived. Actual flowers, like the ones that grow in the living world. Not just anyone can afford those. Mimzy has them in a vase on the coffee table, shoved up against the window so the folk in the building opposite can see. She’d have preferred pearls but it’s something. It’s a start.

Getting plates out the cupboard – the cheap metal plates, hopefully Al will get the hint – she says, “Well now more people can tune in, perhaps ya could give them some music to listen to.”

“Really, Mimzy, if you were to discover a new style of dancing to be to your tastes, I’d be nothing but supportive.”

“That ain’t the same, Al, and you know it.”

More towers go up. Not just on Dion’s old turf or what used to be the Munitions District. Everywhere. Lord Ilbert has the one on his territory pulled down as soon as it’s built. Neas has everyone who pissed her off that week chained up against her tower, along with a dozen or so of Dion’s ex-souls. Then she has it doused in strong smelling chemicals and set alight. Hours it takes to burn down, and the surrounding area stinks with it.

Deimos puts his tower to what in his sick brain is probably good use, hanging the rotting corpses of rule breakers off it. Cole has a few sinners caught laughing about the broadcast thrown off the top of the one that appears by the mine, kinda inconspicuous amid the looming equipment already there.

Most of the others just watch and wait. Hoping, Mimzy supposes, that the mysterious Radio Demon will show up. Some put guards around the base. Joke’s on them, Mimzy supposes, Alastor can just emerge from the shadows right on top of the things if he wanted and vanish just as fast.

Maybe he really can pull this off. It’s been weeks and he ain’t dead yet.

Part of her wants to see just how far he can go. However far that is, he better take her along for the ride.

Another part of her thinks, this is stupid. No one challenges the overlords and gets away with it. But the thing is, it’s too late for thoughts like that. There’s no going back now. And, so far, Alastor has the upper hand in this fight. Especially when all those radios come on at once one evening for another round of screaming.

Mimzy’s in a real nice bar when it happens, having a drink with Joe from the club. He’s one of those fellas a gal can pass the time of day with when there ain’t no one better to buy the drinks, and it ain’t like Alastor can take her out dancing just now.

Thankfully, the screams don’t drag on so long this time. But still, everyone in the place pause with their drinks halfway to their mouth until the shrieks cut off and Alastor’s voice announces, “That was Lord Neas, dear listeners. Forgive tonight’s shortened programme, but I’m not one to draw out the death of those of fairer means.”

“Fair my ass” says someone at the other end of the room, “Nothing fair about the games she played.”

“Yeah” says a barmaid, “Good on the radio freak.” When that gets few stares she adds, “What? He’s taking out the trash.”

“For now” someone mutters darkly, and another tells her, “Don’t let the overlords hear you saying that.”

She shrugs. “Maybe there won’t be overlords much longer.”

Mimzy says nothing, just downs her drink so as not to look Joe in the eye. Last thing she wants is to talk about the Radio Demon when she’s blotto. No way can she trust Joe. If she slips up and uses Al’s real name it’s all over.

No one knows him is the thing. He’s just a voice over the airwaves. Or at least he is so far as anyone important is concerned. Mimzy catches a few of the neighbours giving her knowing looks. Just a few: Most stayed the fuck away from the fight with Forsaken. Even she didn’t see the whole thing. Anyway, the ones that have figured it out won’t talk. Sure, the overlords have offered rewards for any information about the Radio Demon but that don’t mean folk feel like they can go speak to the bastards without getting real dead. If not by them then by Alastor.

Anyway, it ain’t like the overlords come round asking. Probably they assume whoever the voice belongs to wouldn’t pass the time of day with people like Mimzy and her neighbours. Sucks to know someone’s after you, Mimzy should know, it’s happened to her a few times. She figures if you’re a big, powerful bastard and someone’s after ya it must be kinda comforting to tell yourself they’re a big powerful bastard too. That that’s what it takes to have you running scared.

And maybe Alastor is a big powerful bastard these days. Maybe he always was. But he sends her a beautiful dress with glass and amber beads to make up for being too busy, and too much of a walking target just now, to take her out, so Mimzy doesn’t think about it too hard. She wears it out dancing with Joe but the place he takes her to shuts early when more gunfire than usual starts up outside. They’re in Ilbert’s territory and it turns out he’s got it into his head that whoever’s behind the broadcasts must be one of the other overlords, and that the only one sneaking enough is Rosie. He sent his men into her territory earlier that day and now her people are storming his streets to get back at him. Ilbert’s guards are the ones with the guns. Cannibals don’t really go in for weapons.

“I coulda ended up on the menu, Alastor!” Mimzy tells him the next morning.

“Sorry, dear, but I can’t be expected to predict how each individual in Hell will react to my broadcasts.”

“Well maybe ya should when they’ve got their own private armies!”

“You are alright? This Joe fellow kept you safe?”

“I kept him safe” Mimzy corrects, “Got him back here for a good time.”

“Spare me the details, please.”

“What? You’ll get plenty of offers once folk know who you are ya know.”

Alastor eyes widen. “I will?”

“Sure. Ya killed three of the bastards! It’s kinda a big turn on.”

Alastor looks as though he’s seriously reconsidering this whole thing. Mimzy laughs and says, “Ah, c’mon! Once you’ve got your pick of Hell we’re sure to find some nice gal who takes your fancy.”

“I don’t believe I have a fancy.”

“You got forever, sweetie. There’s gotta be someone out there for ya.”

Alastor looks doubtful but only says, “I hope Joe can spare you tomorrow evening because I’d like to take you out. I’m getting tired of only leaving the building for business matters.”

“What happened to lying low?”

“I will be: We’ll travel by shadow and we’re staying in my territory.”

It’s damn weird to hear him talk about his territory, but who’s Mimzy to turn down free drinks? Dinner too, it turns out, in the VIP section of what used to be one of Dion’s strip clubs.

Now it’s a real nice restaurant. On the long stage, a singer performs for the few folk brave enough to come here so soon after the change of hands. Her clothes are decidedly on. “It turns out one of the ladies was a very talented chef in life” Alastor explains, “And Lucia up there can sing as well as, as she put it, her other talents.” He frowns briefly above the smile. “So when I insisted they change the business model of this place, it all worked out rather nicely.”

“Nice ain’t the word for how it used to be” Mimzy says, twisting in her chair to examine the place. New décor has been hastily applied, a lot of it radio themed. She wonders if Alastor asked for that or if the gals here just figured it’d be a good idea when they heard what a radio host did to their old boss.

“How it used to be doesn’t bear thinking about” Alastor agrees, wrinkling his nose at the thought. “Really, Mimzy, I have no interest in the day to day minutia of governance but did find it necessary to alter some contracts to keep the worst souls in my possession from acting on their base desires.”

Contracts: There’s another word that sounds strange, coming from him. Mimzy sips her fancy champagne.

Chains just happen down here, is the thing, and it’s better to be on one end of it than the other. She asks, “And I’m guessing none of these souls can rat ya out?”

“Naturally” says Alastor, “All of my new employees are quite unable to reveal my identity.” The shadows deepen as he adds, “No matter who asks them and how.”

“Sweetie, you of all people can’t exactly judge anyone for torturing sinners. I’m just sayin’.”

“There is a world of difference” Alastor retorts, and Mimzy figures he’s got a point.

Just this last week a few of the overlords started picking his souls off and trying to get them to name their new master. Like most of them even know his name. Lord Deimos has been the worst for it, according to the papers. You’d think a fella smart enough to last as long as he has would be smart enough to realise Al’s souls genuinely can’t squeal. Maybe he just likes it. It’s too bad for the poor souls caught between a bastard like Alastor and a bastard like him. And just as they were getting free of a bastard like Forsaken or Dion or a bloodthirsty freak like Neas. But Mimzy says, “I ain’t no expert here but it seems to me like if you’ve got folk on chains it don’t do ta get attached.”

“You’re probably right. But I am contractually obliged to protect them.”

“Since when?”

“Since I revised the contracts.”

“For fuck’s sake, Alastor!”

“Quoi? Mama raised me better than to take and not give.” Alastor sips his champagne and adds, “Besides, if Deimos kills many more, it will impact the power the contracts give me. I can’t have that.”

Turns out he means it, because a week or so later the radio booms: “Welcome one and all to another special broadcast! Brought to you my me, the Radio Demon! And staring alongside me tonight, please welcome, Lord Deimos, dear listeners!” and an applause clip plays.

Mimzy could swear she didn’t even turn the damn thing on.

“Now” says Alastor, “I’m told in Deimos’ territory, raised voices are strictly forbidden. Let us see if manages to stick to his own rules shall we?”

Mimzy doesn’t wait around to hear more. Not that there’s any escape from hearing. But at least outside the screams are a little distant, spilling from the speakers on the towers. It’s better than sitting alone next to the radio and listening.

Course, there are sick freaks who do that. For everyone else, it ain’t something a person should listen to alone.

Everything stops for the broadcasts. Out in the streets, slumped drunks sit up all alert and conversations quieten down. Motor cars pull over and folk spill out of apartments.

Three broadcasts in and it feels almost like an occasion. Like she should’ve dressed up or something.

Some folk are drinking. Mostly so’s they don’t notice the screams but some to celebrate another overlord getting what’s been coming to them a long time. Fucking stupid. What if Cole catches them enjoying themselves over this? Mimzy steers well clear.

Other sinners are just standing around, all serious. Not outta grief – no one’s about to do that for Deimos – but because they figure it’s just one overlord being replaced by another. Mimzy figures maybe they’re the ones paying attention. But that’s just the way it works down here. And if it’s her pal doing the replacing, she ain’t complaining.

She heads for the club, walking slow so as to get let the broadcast stop before she gets there. It don’t work. Damn radio’s still going when she gets inside, so Mimzy grits her teeth, pushes through the crowd of dancers and customers gathered round it and pulls Joe outside. Drags him into a little alleyway round the back that she and the girls use for times like this.

Well okay, not exactly like this.

“You crazy bitch” mutters Joe as she unbuttons her coat and pulls him closer, “Don’t tell me this shit turns you on.”

“Just shut up and lets make some whoopee” Mimzy snaps, “I need a distraction from the damn screams.”

Later she tells Alastor, “Some music would’ve been nice.”

Alastor just laughs. Coming to see him so soon after the show, Mimzy had been relieved there weren’t any blood. She asks, “Have ya gone off jazz or something? Has music changed since I’ve been dead?”

“Au contraire. Jazz is still king.”

These days, it feels more like the Radio Demon is king. Sinners trade rumours about what he looks like, many of them wildly – and reassuringly – inaccurate. Folk take bets on who’ll be next. Least, they do until Cole starts executing anyone he catches doing that.

It gets safer to just not talk about the Radio Demon. Radios disappear from bar tops and shelves. But no one dares throw them away.

You’d think by now the other overlords would know not to mess with Al or his growing number of souls but it ain’t like these bastards lack confidence. Kinda like someone else Mimzy knows. It ain’t long before Nicholas and few other assholes attack the Radio Demon’s territories. Mimzy reads about it at the news stand, skipping quickly past a few gory pages of the sinners they slaughtered.

None of them Alastor, thank fuck. She don’t need to look at the pictures to know he’s safe: She saw him at breakfast.

Anyway, if the bastards had caught him she wouldn’t have to hear it at the news stand. They’d parade him through the streets.

“Damn stupid” says a fella looking over his own copy a few feet away, “Does he think the freak will let him get away with that?”

His pal elbows him in the ribs and he shuts up. The seller who carts the paper from the Publishing District turns to Mimzy and snaps, “Hey lady! You gonna buy that or what? I ain’t running a library.”

“Fuck you” she replies, and stuffs the paper back into the stand. Getting back to the apartment building, she heads down to Alastor’s apartment to tell him, “That bastard Nicholas will be wanting to draw you out. Get you to retaliate so he can be waiting.”

Alastor sips his coffee unconcernedly. “I’m well aware. Don’t worry, dear. I have no interest in giving him a show. Yet.”

News of more attacks fill the newspapers over the next week. Alastor’s new souls, not wanting to wait around to be massacred, flow out of his territories and into the rest of Hell. When he don’t stop them, more follow. “Why would I stop them?” Alastor asks, “They’re safer intermingled with the rest of Hell’s population. No one will know who they’re bound to.”

“Sure but don’t it leave your territory kinda empty?”

But empty ain’t a thing in Hell. Space up for grabs is too tempting to resist and soon desperate souls move in. Makes sense, Mimzy figures: If you’re homeless long enough the risk of being massacred by Nicholas starts ta look pretty small. And it ain’t like everywhere else is much safer. Ilbert is angry enough about Alastor’s broadcasts that he’s slaughtered a few streets of his own territory just to relieve the stress. Word has it Cole is keeping up the executions too. Just down in the dark where he can take his time. And with all the overlords focused on finding Al the gangs are still acting up something awful. So everywhere’s going to shit anyway and Alastor’s territory don’t stay empty for long.

“Don’t tell me you got the hots for the guy” says Joe, when he sees her glancing at a headline while they walk through the Publishing District to a bar.

Mimzy turns to him. “How’d ya mean?”

Joe gestures to the newspapers stacked beside a stall. “All the dames love the freak!”

“We don’t even know what he looks like” says Mimzy. No way, she figures, would a lowlife like Joe be the one to uncover the Radio Demon’s identity. Especially when she hasn’t introduced them, just to be sure. Ain’t even anything in that: Alastor has never been interested in spending time with the fellas she dates.

Joe tells her, “No but all the broads at the club are on about moving to his territory just because he keeps the men on his chain from chasing the cat if she’s playing hard to get. Apparently he’s put it in all his contracts just because one of Dion’s bitches whined about it. Since when did women get so prissy?”

“Gee I don’t know, Joe, since when did men get ta be so dumb they can’t take a hint?”

Joe shrugs defensively. “I don’t mean when a fella don’t take no for an answer. But there’s no and there’s no, you know? Maybe it’s time the Radio freak learned he’s in Hell. There’s no gentlemen down here.”

But there is one and he takes her shopping a few days later. That means walking store to store, a rare break for him these days from travelling solely by shadow. Least he has the sense to keep his mouth shut in front of the store assistants in case that fancy voice gives him away. It ain’t a great time to have a Transatlantic accent down here.

They hit up the jewellery stores, and she gets those pearls. Diamonds too, and a new hat. Joe don’t like it. When he comes round that night he wants to know who’s been buying her all this shit, first the flowers, then the dress, now this.

“It’s first time I’ve been dumped for cheating without the fun part” she tells Alastor later, “I mean, that bastard! Didn’t even give me time to explain.”

Alastor, sat on her couch, sips his whiskey and raises and eyebrow. “Dare I suggest he wasn’t worth your time?”

Mimzy waves this away. “They never are.” Really, she thinks, now Alastor has all the money he could want and no reason not to spend it on her, why’d she need other men? Well, apart from that one thing.

But one thing Alastor can do is, “Take me out, sweetie? I could use a spin around the dance floor.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tonight. I have plans.”

Mimzy doesn’t ask because she don’t want to know.

Course, she finds out anyway. While she’s cooking dinner – all by herself, thanks, Al – the radio crackles into life and Alastor’s voice announces, “Welcome one and all to a very special broadcast staring Lord Nicholas himself!”

“Damn it, Al! I was about ta eat!” Mimzy turns the stove off and drops a wooden spoon in the sink.

“Now” Alastor continues as she heads out into the living room and pulls on her coat, “They say a rich man can’t pass through the eye of a needle, but can a needle pass through the eye of a rich man? Listen and find out!”

Mimzy heads out of the apartment before she hears more. Outside the streets are crowded like they always are for a broadcast. Like always there’s people buying drinks, people standing around in groups trying to make conversation despite the distant screams, and people sitting grim faced, waiting it out, wining at distant shrieks.

People rushing around too. Hurrying past her. Mimzy figures they must be sickos searching for a radio to listen in on and is just considering selling them hers, but then she turns a corner and sees the crowd around the bank. “What the fuck?” she asks.

“Didn’t you hear?” a passing sinner asks, “The Radio Demon had Lord Nicholas, the whole damn banking system’s about to go down!” He rushes on, piling into the press of bodies around the front door. Some folk are finding their way in through the windows, Mimzy realises and, as she watches, a birdlike demon flies up to the first floor in his rush to empty his account.

Well, that’s too bad for them, she thinks, perching on the curb to watch. Her, she never had enough to meet the minimum needed for an account at Lord Nicholas’s bank. Okay, sometimes she did, but only after she’d robbed a bank or two. Suspicious wouldn’t have been the half of it if she’d opened one then.

Anyway, saving was never much fun. Nicholas would’ve had her soul if she went inta the red. Mimzy might not be the best with money but she ain’t stupid.

He probably owns half the people in this crowd.

Well, not any more.

Anyway, what are they all trying to get inside for? With Nicholas making his radio debut, there’s no way his staff are still in there.

...Which means it don’t matter that she don’t have an account, does it? “Oh shit!” yells Mimzy, jumping up. Running towards the crowd she plucks her gun from her handbag. “Outta my way!” she yells as she joins the crush.

“Outta all your shows down here so far” she tells Alastor the next morning, “That’s gotta be my favourite.”

Alastor is sat at his table, mug of coffee in hand, looking a little sleepy and not at all like he spent all night torturing someone to death. His smile widens. “You listened to it all?”

“Nope. Ya want me to listen to the whole thing, ya play music. No, I mean, Alastor, do ya have any idea how much money that bastard had in his safes?”

“If you’d listened to my show” says Alastor sourly, “You’d know I do. He offered me all of it near the end.”

“Well ya can’t have the cash from our local branch ’cause I got there first.” Mimzy sits down opposite him and pulls a plate of toast towards her.

Alastor blinks at her over the top of his mug. “You did?”

“Well, me and some other folk but they’d never have found the damn thing without me! Insider knowledge, sweetie. I ran a few bank jobs when I first got down here, remember?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Every bank in this shithole has secret tunnels and bunkers and shit to hide the safes. Ya got to know where to look.” Mimzy butters her toast and adds, “Course, the gun helped.” Okay, so she wouldn’t have got to the tunnels without shooting a sinner or two but how’s that her fault? It ain’t like she didn’t ask them to get out the way. Anyway it was an every gal for herself type situation.

Every gal for herself is how the overlords have always done things. Sure, they got alliances here and there but it’s always tense and as likely to break apart as hold. They sell shit to each other. They flex and taunt from a safe distance. They keep outta each other’s way. These aren’t bastards who play nice with others. If they were, maybe it would’ve been different. But it ain’t and if Cole ever was working on an alliance against the Radio Demon like the rumours had it, it don’t happen. Instead, the Mining Overlord steps up production, working the poor souls on his chains to death, then working them some more. None of the ore he smelts and refines gets sent to the Munitions District now. It just piles up, while he clears a section of housing at the end of the street for a few new factories.

“Word is he’s planning on making his own weapons” Mimzy warns Alastor.

“I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

“Cole’s different, Al. You live in his territory! What if you run into the bastard when you ain’t prepared?”

“Ah.” Alastor looks a little uncomfortable. “About that…”

Turns out, he’s been building his own place. With magic apparently, but Mimzy ain’t completely convinced none of it was just him and a tool box. And it’s a relief. Kinda. Least this way, she tells herself, if something goes wrong on his way to the top, it won’t happen in her building.

His new place is on the edge of the city, in the middle of a damn swamp shrouded in magic that make her skin prickle. “I’d have figured you’d want a fancy townhouse” she comments as she looks around it. The place is pretty creepy. Way more than the swanky apartment he had back in New Orleans. She supposes down here he don’t need to hide so much.

“There doesn’t seem to be any” says Alastor, pouring them some drinks. “Most sinners live in rather basic accommodation.”

Ain’t that the truth. Down here there’s shitty apartments and less shitty apartments and the mansions the overlords live in. “You killed a bunch of overlords, sweetie. That’s a lot of prime real estate up for grabs.”

“Oh, Forsaken’s palace was set alight the day after I killed him.” Alastor replies. He takes a seat, sliding a glass towards her, and adds, “Besides, now I’ve started broadcasting, moving into any of the other newly vacant palaces wouldn’t be the best way to remain incognito, now would it?”

“I guess.” Mimzy’s gaze trails from the hunting trophies to the view from the window. “Do ya really need a swamp?”

“I could hardly be without a bayou for eternity.”

“Uh huh. Speak for yaself, Alastor.” There’s plenty Mimzy misses from earth and the swamp ain’t one of them. “Well how about build a townhouse too? Or a real stylish apartment like ya used to have? This just seems so outta the way.”

“Ah, that reminds me.” Alastor goes over to a cabinet and returns with a parcel. “I bought you a little something to thank you for your hospitality these last few months.”

Now he’s talkin’. Mimzy grins and takes the parcel, opening to find… A telephone. She ain’t quite sure it makes up for all the extra shifts she worked when he first arrived or the shit he’s pulled just lately. Sure, it’s paying off and all but if she could age, she’d have grey hairs. Still she says, “Aw, sweetie. Ya shouldn’t have.”

“I’ll make arrangements for it to be properly installed. And this way, you won’t need to come all the way out here on foot. Just call when you want to visit and I’ll collect you.”

Collect in a motor car, Mimzy wonders, or will he be moving her about by magic? She ain’t sure how she feels about that. Sure, it’s a way to get around when he’s with her, but being magicked here to join him feels kinda different. Like she’s a chess piece or a bit of furniture to be plucked up and put down.

And what about when she’s in a jam? Could be there’ll be times she won’t be able to make a phone call then sit around and wait. Not from her own doing of course, but this is Hell and folk are unreasonable. “I can’t just show up?”

“But of course you can just show up!” Alastor tells her, “I simply mean for this to help us keep in touch.”

“Well sure we’ll keep in touch! Ya think I’m gonna let you forget about little old me?”

Little old her gets a shock a few days later, when the radio comes on and Alastor’s voice announces, “Salutations, and welcome to show! Guest starring for your entertainment tonight, all the way from the Mining District, it’s…” There is a drum roll, like it ain’t obvious who he’s got “Lord Cole!”

Mimzy runs to the window. At the end of the street, the mine equipment ain’t moving. She can’t see any smoke for once.

Out she goes again, to where the screams are at least further away from the sounds of the sinners milling the streets. Except this time, screaming is being brought to the streets. Folk are carrying their radios to windows or street corners so the gathering crowds can listen in and cheer. It’s more crowded than it usually is for these broadcasts and Mimzy realises that’s on account of the souls from the mines coming up to the surface. Most of them just blinking and stumbling, getting in the way. But some ain’t so broken. Maybe they weren’t down there long enough for that. They’re laughing and filling the bars, One catches her eye and asks, “Can you believe this shit?”

“No” Mimzy lies, “But buy me a drink and could be it’ll start to sink in.”

He does, and she only thinks to wonder how when the glass is in her hand: Cole might have a palace but it’s gotta be a pretty empty one by now.

While they drink up, someone starts up a tune on a trumpet and people dance in the streets. Celebrations run on until Hell’s dingy version of dawn, when Mimzy takes the fella back to her place.

It’s weird to think of Alastor holding the chain of anyone she’s slept with. Once the guy’s slipped away in the morning, Mimzy decides she’ll keep her distance from his souls from now on.

Unless he ends up killing every last overlord. It’s possible, right?

Alastor inspects the mines the next day, decides they are “Dreadfully uninspiring”, his words, and closes them down. Mostly, the workers leave, shambling off into the network of surrounding streets and outta sight. No orders on where to go now, apparently. No jobs either. Some come back after a while and, when no one tells them not to, set up their own little mining operations. It’s what they know, after all, and it ain’t like them mines aren’t the place to be come extermination day.

Gangs move in too. No Cole to keep them away and some fellas are too stupid not to test how far the Radio Demon will let them push. It don’t help that he’s still keeping his face out the papers. Killing all the assholes that are suddenly shooting each other on Mimzy’s commute would be a fast way to let everyone know who he is.

“Well you gotta do something!” Mimzy tells him when he visits, “I don’t want a turf war on my doorstep, Alastor!”

Alastor, stood at her window, scowls above his smile as he watches a group of armed men driving slowly down the street in an open top car. “Unfortunately, dear, it seems to be the way of things. The same thing happened in the other territories I gained and I found the trick is to deal with their leaders.”

Mimzy sighs, coming over to join him. “Well how long will that take?”

“A week or so perhaps.”

“Screw that! I don’t wanna be dodging bullets for weeks.”

“Mimzy! I have no intention of you doing so.”

“How ya gonna stop it if ya ain’t dealing with the gangs?”

Alastor shrugs lightly. “That’s what I came to discuss. You see, I can’t move the violence from your doorstep. But I can move your doorstep.”

It takes a moment for this to sink in. Mimzy feels herself smiling slowly. “Alastor, do you mean…?”

“There’s a rather nice nightclub in Nicholas’ old territory. Since it’s empty and you’ve had your heart set on your own little place…”

Mimzy ain’t sure she wants to clap or clutch at him. She kinda does both, a fidgety little movement that Alastor jerks away from. “Alastor! Alastor, you absolute sweetheart I could kiss ya!”

“Please don’t.” Alastor gently moves her hand from his arm. He studies her face for a moment.

“Can I see it? Will ya take me over there?”

“I already have, cher.”

And then Mimzy realises their surroundings have changed. This ain’t her apartment any more, it’s a larger, sleeker place.

Sleeker but not more stylish, she notes, stepping away from Alastor and looking around. But that can change. All the place needs is a make over, apart from that it’s perfect. Ritzy with its big windows, a mahogany bar, a stage just big enough for a little band. It’s got a sleepy sorta glamour, like it’s waiting to be woken up.

Fuck knows who it used to belong to. Mimzy don’t need ta know. It’s hers now. “Alastor, doll face, this is…” She trails off, not able ta find the words. Sure, when Alastor started climbing like he has been, this kinda gift crossed her mind. She ain’t stupid and she ain’t no saint. She looked out for him and he owes her. If he’d have forgotten that, she’d have reminded him.

But this is Alastor and he pays his debts. And looks out for his friends.

“Do you like it?” he asks, watching from the bar. He’s got that smile like always but Mimzy figures he means it. He always did enjoy being the gentleman.

“Like it? Sweetie, this is great!” A though crosses her mind and Mimzy laughs. “Just think what the gals at work will say! I’ll have ta offer them jobs of course. Well, the ones I like. That bitch Helen will be so fucking jealous.” She heads back to the bar and squeezes Alastor into a hug. This time, he lets her. “Thanks, Al.”

“It’s the least I could do. I really don’t know how I would have managed without you when I arrived down here, sweetheart.”

Mimzy pats him. “Me neither.” She holds him a little tighter at the thought.

It takes a while to really think of the place as hers. Over the next few days she’s worried some asshole will turn up to claim it. No one does.

There’s an apartment upstairs. Running water. Electricity! It don’t take her long to move in. She ain’t got much stuff to move. The place looks all the bigger with her stuff not filling half of it.

She don’t look too closely when she throws out the stuff that was already there. Well, not all of it. Whoever he was, the previous occupant had expensive tastes, and a lucrative little sideline in various things to be smoked and snorted. Mimzy can’t identify all of it but she figures folk will still buy.

Aside from that, she leaves the upstairs alone. Downstairs is what she needs to glam up first if she’s gonna open anytime soon. Between her and Kitty and a few other gals, the place is soon looking just how she’d pictured it, when she dreamed of having her own place all these years. Velvet chairs replace the heavier furniture, a few classy bits of art are carefully arranged and deep blue and gold wallpaper gleams around the bar.

She puts the radio goes in a little in an alcove by the bar. Nice and obvious so anyone thinking to attack the place knows who it is they’re dealing with. Once that’s done and Kitty and the others have gone home, Mimzy sits down and pours herself a glass of rye.

Then radio flickers into life and she thinks, great, more screams. Just as she was having a celebratory drink here.

But Alastor don’t announce an overlord this time. “Salutations, dear listeners. Welcome to the show. Tonight, we have a change of pace. I know, you’ve all been enjoying my guest stars but an old friend of mine has been wanting some jazz and who am I to ignore a lady’s request?” A tune starts up, faintly at first. Mimzy sits up straighter, recognising it from late nights in speakeasys back when they were alive and young. Over the first few notes, Alastor says, “Mimzy dear, this one’s for you.”