Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled over New Orleans like honey, its warm, golden glow seeming to seep into every aspect of the city, from the wrought-iron balconies to the cobblestones below. 

Although it was still early, the French Quarter was vibrant and alive. Street vendors called out their prices to pedestrians who hurried to and from their daily errands. The hustle and bustle echoed off the stucco walls, blending with laughter and lively conversations. 

A tall man with a whistle on his lips strode through the crowd. He slowed his stride as he neared a street artist who had set up outside an Italian grocery, the easel with several finished pieces leaning up against it. The painter was deeply engrossed in her current project, face scrunched up in concentration.

“Another masterpiece in the works?” The man asked with a knowing smirk.

The artist let out a surprised squeak before she turned to look at the speaker.

“Oh! Hello, Mr. Alastor! You startled me.” She warmly returned his smile.

“Clearly lost in your work,” He mused with a chuckle, then stepped forward and leaned at the waist to take a closer look at her current painting.

“This is gorgeous, Miss Rita. You truly have a gift.” Alastor straightened his posture, hands behind his back. “I don’t understand why you don’t charge more for your work. You could easily make triple the amount you’re asking for. This might be the Depression, dear, but there are still those who would pay for quality work like this.” Alastor tilted his head to the side as he looked at the artist. Although he was still smiling brightly, his tone was serious.

Rita’s cheeks glowed pink as she shook her head.

“I couldn’t do that. I appreciate your advice, but I still have a lot to learn.” She sighed as she smiled wistfully at her easel. “Besides, I want people from all walks of life to enjoy my art.”

Alastor sighed and nodded. “Your humility is just as rich as your paintings.”

From behind them, the grocer propped open his door and called out a polite ‘good morning.’

Alastor returned the greeting before waving goodbye to them both and continued on his way.

Alastor stopped just outside an apothecary shop. He spotted his reflection on the storefront window and took a moment to smooth down his brown hair and adjust his glasses. Satisfied with his reflection, he straightened his back and strode into the store.

The bell above the door announced his arrival, and the pharmacist looked up from his book.

“Good morning, is Mr. Bechet in?” Alastor asked as he marched in proudly.

“He’s in the back.” The old pharmacist answered, hooking his thumb behind him as he returned to his book.

“Splendid!” Alastor nodded and let himself deeper into the shop.

The back storeroom was dimly lit, mingled with the scents of dried roots and exotic spices. Much of the space was taken up by a cluttered worktable and pillars of boxes. The walls of wooden shelves were crowded with dusty glass bottles labeled in both French and Latin.

Alastor turned off the overhead light before striding toward the worktable where he lit a gas lamp. Shadows stretched and twisted through the room as the flame flickered to life.

Silence….

Then the once-potent smell of the depository faded away and was replaced with the thick smell of acrid char and smoke.

The storeroom contents shifted with the shadows. The walls, which were moments ago lined with apothecary supplies, now appeared burnt and clouded in soot. Blackened beams bowed under the weight of time and memory.

The temperature of the room plummeted low enough that Alastor could see his breath. The floorboards shifted behind him. He was no longer alone.

“Good morning, Mr. Bechet.” Alastor bowed dramatically like the showman he portrayed himself as, all smiles and charm.

A shimmer in the shadows. A puff of soot. And there he was: Jean-Louis Bechet.

Former apothecary, part-time necromancer, and now: full-time ghost. He appeared half-translucent, his form flickering with the lamp flame. Mr. Bechet wore a melted cravat and a singed topcoat that smoked faintly at the edges. One eye was gone, burned away in the great fire of 1794, but the other twinkled brightly with mischief.

“You came for a fright or a favor, bébé cerf ?” The ghost asked.

Alastor reached into the chest pocket of his burgundy coat and pulled out a beautifully wrapped bone charm in offering. “I need a whisper from the other side.”

Mr. Bechet excitedly took the charm; he carefully inspected the thick blue and red wrapping. “And what kind of whispers are you looking for?”

Alastor lazily inspected his nails before he rubbed them on his vest. “I need information. About them.” He stood up tall, hands behind his back. His smile sharpened at the corners as his eyes flashed dangerously. “The Jaws of the Black Hunt.”

At that, the lamplight flickered and the smoke twisted thick around them. Mr. Bechet whistled low.

“Now that’s a name I ain’t heard in some time. Nasty folk. Too much ceremony, not enough style.”

Alastor made a noncommittal hum.

“They tried to buy my old ledger once, back in ’71. Wanted the names of dead folk with ‘pure pain’ etched into their bones. Said they needed sorrow-flavored souls for their moon games.”

Alastor leaned in. “Do you know where they’re gathering next?”

The ghost stroked his chin dramatically and scrunched his face in mock concentration. “Mmhmm, I might.”

“But …?” Alastor leaned into the question, his eyebrows raised and smile expectant.

“But I need something first.” The ghost shrugged.

Alastor tilted his head, “I’ve already paid.” He gestured to Mr. Bechet’s translucent hand. “A bone charm for information from the other side.”

“Yes, but the quality of information wasn’t agreed upon.” 

Alastor scoffed, “Quality?”

The two stared each other down in silence.

“I want one more thing, mon bébé cerf . And as friends, I don’t think it’d be a problème .”

“I suppose that depends on exactly what you are asking.” Alastor sighed dramatically.

Mr. Bechet’s grin stretched unnaturally wide. “Let me try to rattle your bones.”

“Really?” Alastor let out a long groan, then reluctantly waved Mr. Bechet to get on with it.

Mr. Bechet twirled on the spot and disappeared. Alastor waited patiently as he wiped away some soot that had dared to settle onto his 3-piece suit. 

The temperature dropped even lower. The sound of a roaring fire rose up around him, drowning his hearing. Shadowy flames licked at his ankles; so cold they burned on contact.

Then Mr. Bechet rose from the flame, his once human form twisted into a hellish parody of himself, he snarled and lunged towards Alastor, stopping just inches from his nose.

“BOO!”

Alastor didn’t even flinch. “You’re slipping, Mr. Bechet.”

The ghost shook with thunderous laughter, reappearing upside-down. “Alright, alright. I’ve had my fun. I’ll tell you what I know.”

Alastor perked up expectantly as the phantom flames dissipated and the ghostly projections started to fade back to normal.

“A moonless night, where the roots run deep,
A cellar hides what shadows keep.
Beneath the ground, where silence warns,
There waits a cult of shadows and horns.

They guard the secrets, old and cursed,
In whispered tongues, the dark rehearsed.
So mind the door where candles burn-
Some truths once found...will not return.” 

The ghost sang the rhyme, clearly still a soul with a flair for the dramatic.

“Thank you, Mr. Bechet.” Alastor nodded solemnly.

The ghost bowed, slowly fading back into the shadows.

“Don’t thank me yet, boy. You’re walkin’ into the jaws of the beast. Just promise me this: if they kill you, leave me your coat. It’s divine.”

The gas light blew out without wind, and the electric light returned. The temperature in the room was back to normal as the smell of char faded.

Alastor let out a sigh as he looked down at his shadow with an exaggerated shrug. The shadow shifted, stretched out while it pointed between Alastor and the back of his wrist.

“Is it?” Alastor answers before he copies his shadow’s movements and checked his own wristwatch.

With a string of curses, he rushed out of the store and toward work.

Alastor ducked into his office, snapping the door shut behind him to muffle the chaos outside. He grabbed the receiver off the rotary phone and quickly dialed.

There was a click, and then:

“Ain’t even had my coffee yet, Boss. What’s on fire?” Came a gruff voice on the other end of the receiver.

Alastor answered quickly.

“I spoke with Mr. Bechet.”

A long pause.

“The ghost?” Asked the voice on the line, who stifled a yawn. 

“The one and only. He said the next ritual’s happening tonight. He gave me the clue: Cellar door under cobblestone, where shadows dance and horns are grown.”

There was a loud snort through the receiver. “Alastor, there ain’t no cellars in New Orleans. Ground’s too damn wet.”

Alastor let out an exasperated growl as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Then it’s not a cellar- it’s something called a cellar or a hidden room. Tunnel. Something old. You know this city’s more graveyard than ground. Get looking. I’ll meet you after the broadcast.”

“You sure it’s tonight ?”

Alastor glanced at his calendar pinned to the office wall. The current date was circled and the words NEW MOON written across it in red ink.

“Moonless,” Alastor nodded to himself. “It’s tonight or never. And if they finish the ritual...”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”

Alastor recited the ghost’s warning in full into the receiver.

There was a pause.

“Thank you, Maverick.” Alastor said, genuinely appreciative of his constant aid. Despite his grumpy attitude, weakness for games of chance, and bad posture, he truly was a loyal friend.

Maverick grumbled some noncommittal insults under his breath. “Just try not to get eaten by some eldritch horror before lunch.”

“No promises.” He chuckled and hung up just as a loud bang echoed from the studio.

The cacophony hit Alastor the second he opened the door. Staff darted around in a frenzy as they screamed and argued with one another.

Alastor took in the studio around him.

It was pure pandemonium. His program manager shouted at the technicians. The musical director argued with the actors. The writers barked orders to the interns, several of whom were having full-blown panic attacks. At the very center of the chaos was the guest star...or, rather, the lack thereof. 

Crooner Benny D’Amour, known for his velvety voice and diva tendencies, had vanished right before his segment. No explanation. No note.

“He probably choked on his own ego,” Alastor muttered, as he stood in the eye of the storm, shoulders straight, jaw tight. His lips twitching in a practiced smile, giving the appearance of a calm he did not feel. His head throbbed from the overlapping shouts:

“He was just here! How the hell do you lose a full-grown man in a sequin suit ?!” screamed Richard, the program manager.

Obviously, the current script was a no-go. So, what could he do instead? There had to be something. Something different, something to leave an impression…

That’s it!

Alastor ducked back into his office, grabbed a book, and sat down in front of his microphone. 

The radio host inhaled sharply, adjusted his bowtie, and counted to five. Big Smile. The smile he gave didn’t reach his eyes, but it stopped people cold.

“Alright, everyone,” he called. “We’re on air in two minutes. I need the arguing to stop, the band warmed up, and the sound technicians prepped.”

Richard, pale and sweaty, tugged at Alastor’s sleeve.

“Prepped for what? We got no backup act, no interview, no nothin’!”

With a dismissive hum, Alastor pulled his arm back and raked his eyes over the room.

His smile grew wider as he spotted her, the only other employee who shared his calm, Niffty .

For years, she has been Alastor’s producer and right-hand. When their eyes met, he teasingly held up the book and winked. After she spotted the cover, she returned the radio host’s smile, twice as sharp. 

Niffty turned to the others; her commanding voice cut effortlessly through the uproar. “Everyone, I need the sweeper ready to go. After that, Alastor will begin his broadcast with today’s scheduled script.” She rushed out of the room towards the script storage. Went straight to the overstuffed bookshelf, chuckled when she found the right novel and rushed back to the studio.

Niffty shoved the book into the arms of one of the actors. “Here. You’ll all have to share.”

She turned her attention towards the sound technicians. “Follow Alastor’s lead. Foley artists at the ready.” 

Richard shook his head at Alastor’s unspoken plan and stared at Niffty in disbelief.

“Ready ?! Ready for what?” Richard continued to panic.

Alastor held up the book. War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. “For a breaking news story.”

Mist clung to the cobblestone streets of the Crescent City, casting the twilight hours into a dreamlike state. The streetlights were barely bright enough to shine through the fog that spilled from alleyways and twisted around Alastor’s feet. The broadcast had gone well. Better than well, however, the repercussions for airing a live ‘fake news broadcast’ took far longer than he expected. 

It was an uncharacteristically quiet night; the distant clang of a streetcar and the faint echo of a saxophone hung in the air like dying breath. Once a blur of jazz and laughter, now the streets were nearly silent, drowned in fear and uncertainty. The city-wide curfew was enough to keep most locked inside. Seeing his beloved city like this put a sour taste in Alastor’s mouth. 

Too many have gone missing or turned up dead. The police had no answers, not even a clear link between the victims. 

Alastor turned onto the shadow-choked stretch of Bourbon Street, where he saw a lone figure leaning against a boarded-up jazz club. The flickering neon sign gave an ominous red glow to the area. Through the pulsing light, Alastor was able to make out more of the figure. It was Maverick, who absentmindedly played with a deck of cards. 

“About time you got here.” He said gruffly.  

“Couldn’t be helped.” Alastor answered as he glanced around the street, “Are you sure this is the place?”

Maverick nodded and jerked his thumb toward the abandoned club. The door was boarded with rotting planks, the paint peeled from the once-stuccoed building like dead skin. 

Alastor stiffened, eyebrows raised.

With a dramatic flair, Maverick fanned out the cards like a magician, then he held up the ace of spades. With a showman’s flair, he flipped the card, and in its place was now a single match. He slid the rest of the cards into his trench coat and struck the match on his shoe. 

A single flame flickered to life to reveal a faint sigil etched into the peeling wall. 

“The Hunt’s mark,” Alastor said quietly as he leaned in to inspect it.

The symbol of The Jaws of the Black Hunt: A stag skull with jagged antlers, tentacles curling from the maw, encircled by a ring of black thorns.

“That’s not all,” Maverick announced triumphantly. Still holding the match, he shifted the two planks at the bottom of the boarded-up door, which created an entrance. The two shuffled inside.

The jazz club’s interior was covered in a thick layer of dust. Spider webs were spun from the walls all the way down to the abandoned tables. A half-collapsed curtain remained on the stage as a last testament to what the club once was. 

“Going off that creepy rhyme you told me, ‘cellar door hides what secrets keep’ was pretty tricky. Not many cellars around, but in the olden days there were some underground cisterns. After some diggin’, I found this.” Maverick moved the match over a trap door near the back of the stage. He indicated to an etching of a candle, scratched into the aged wood.

“So mind the door where candles burn.” Alastor recited; his grin turned predatory.

They lifted the hatch together, its rusted hinges groaning in protest. Below the trap door, there was a narrow spiral staircase descending into the earth like a broken spine. The air that rose from below was thick and wet. 

Alastor led the way, shoes echoed against stone, Maverick followed close behind. The descent was slow; they needed to be careful on the narrow staircase, which was slick with moss and curled precariously. 

By the time they reached the last bend of the stairwell, the stench was nearly unbearable. It was a choking blend of mold, spoiled meat, and the coppery scent of blood. It clung to the back of their throats and made every breath feel like they were drowning in decay.

Alastor reached the cistern, then turned back to check on his partner.

Maverick had stopped two steps from the bottom, eyes blown wide, his hands gripped the rail in fear.

“What is it?” Alastor hissed.

“Off number of steps.” Maverick’s voice was low as he shook his head in disbelief.

“…What ?” Alastor asked incredulously.

“The stairs, it ends on an even number of steps. Thirty-four. That’s bad luck. Steps are supposed to end on an odd number."

“You and your ridiculous superstitions.” Alastor groaned.

“You’ll have to go on without me, Boss.” Maverick still held a death-grip on the old railing.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He said with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

The shadow behind Alastor shifted, stretching out on the wall, then the air rippled just before the shadow pulled itself upright and back towards the staircase. The sentient shade raised its long claw-like hand and shoved Maverick forward.

“Damn it, Nyther!” Maverick cursed as he stumbled down the last two steps.
“I told you not to do that shadow crap behind me!”

But Nyther only beamed back at him impishly, his shoulders shook in silent laughter. 

“Fine! But if I get hexed, I’m haunting you both.” Maverick growled. 

Alastor gave him a withering look, but there was no time for more arguments. Together, they moved deeper into the belly of the underground. The waterline stains along the stone walls marked how high the reservoir once rose- but tonight, under the moonless sky, it had been drained. Intentionally, Alastor thought.

The dark path ahead of them opened into a cathedral of rot, lit by the faint glow of flickering lanterns.  Vaulted ceilings curved above them; a variety of bones hung from rusted wire. Femurs, jawbones, and twisted antlers clacked softly in the unseen air currents, echoing like macabre wind chimes.

As the trio drew closer to the occults’ assembly, they could start to make out the chanting. The voices layered unevenly on top of one another. Speaking in broken time, only it wasn’t exactly speech, there was something wrong with it. Something that wriggled in the space between the words. 

“This isn’t meant for human ears.” Alastor said, only loud enough for his companions to hear. The other two nodded. 

“That’s the sound of some folks who need their teeth introduced to the pavement.” Maverick whispered with a reassuring smirk that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

Alastor’s gaze swept the room. The outer guards stood apart from the inner circle, where they patrolled the perimeter. A smaller group chanted in broken tongues, on their knees before a set of twin pentagrams that overlapped into each other. There were two sacrifices inside each of the glyph-lined circles, although they were still too far away to identify. And there, half-hidden in the flickering dark, was the one who led it all. A towering silhouette crowned with a rotted stag skull; the antlers adorned with trinkets.

Alastor smiled widely, despite the cold sweat on his brow, “Let’s thin the herd.” 

Nyther went first; he detached himself from his master’s feet and slid forward. One cultist turned just as the shadow fell on him. Nyther’s umbral form engulfed them and stifled their scream before it left their throat. He clung to the walls, stretching across surfaces as he silently continued his take-downs. One by one, he found the isolated occultists around the perimeter. 

Alastor stepped out of the shadows in front of a zealot who then charged at him with a jagged dagger. The radio host twirled dramatically to the side, using the end of his coat like a matador’s cape. He ducked low and delivered a swift gut punch; the guard crumpled to the ground. As another cultist rounded the corner, Alastor caught them off guard. He slammed them against the stone wall, then broke their nose with a palm strike to finish the job.

Maverick stayed close behind, his shoulders hunched, ready to strike. He caught one occultist with a punishing jab to the ribs that knocked the wind out of them. Another raised a blade. Maverick ducked, grabbed the man’s wrist, and slammed a right hook into his jaw so hard it echoed off the stone walls. 

Despite the chanting, the sounds of the brawl were still loud enough to alert the rest of the cult to the intruders.

The occult’s sacred night descended into panic.

Maverick pulled two small vials from his coat, cracked them open, and tossed them forward, creating an explosion of colored smoke.

He and Alastor used the cover to charge; their attacks were precise and brutal. Nyther moved around the men like a cloak, the shade disarmed, smothered, and devoured any who got too close.

The trio continued through the screaming zealots, blood and shadows streaked the stone underfoot, until they reached the center of it all.

There was the final assembly of cloaked figures who had been praying around what was obviously the heart of the ritual. Two overlapping pentagrams drawn with dark ichor that shimmered between shades of gold and red under the flickering lights. Each point of the stars was topped with a black candle, and at their centers, a sacrificial victim writhed.

Alastor’s breath caught in his throat.

There, bound to opposite circles in a grotesque Venn diagram, were Ms. Rita and the missing Benny D’Amour.

Ms. Rita, the sweet street artist he’d spoken to just that morning, was bleeding from ritual incisions. More disturbing still were the wings of a Great Egret that had been sewn onto her back. 

Next to her was Benny D’Amour, the arrogant singer who never made it to his radio show, physically altered with ram horns stitched to his forehead, his eyes fluttered in semi-conscious agony.

Alastor's stomach dropped.

“Sales bâtards!” he hissed.

Maverick was already in motion. He tossed down his deck of cards as they erupted into glowing glyphs, which he threw like a Molotov— it exploded in a flash of alchemical fire. Some of the cloaked figures ran shrieking through the cistern. Others, more loyal, surged towards the trio.

Nyther contorted his form to create tendrils that wrapped around several of the attackers’ ankles, effortlessly yanking them into the darkness where they were devoured.

The stag-masked priest appeared unbothered, as if the others had been mere distractions to his true purpose. His voice continued to chant, undeterred.

“Duality, the name she bears, 

The singer draped in midnight airs.
Bride of the Hunt, with soul enshrined, 

To him her fate forever twined.
Bone and bloom, with horn and light, 

She calls the end with voice so bright.
A song to break, a world to bend-

She sings us to the final end.”

Rita and Benny still squirmed within their respective circles, sewn and bloodied. Both were barely alive.

As Alastor moved towards the victims, the masked sorcerer let out a guttural howl. He lifted his arms and the shadows beneath his robes exploded—the darkness turned into tentacles, wriggling with slick ichor.

A thick tendril shot forward that Alastor sidestepped easily, like it was a well-rehearsed dance, his coat flaring dramatically behind him. With a mocking bow, he snatched a ceremonial staff from one of the fallen zealots. He swung hard and batted all the shadowy arms that reached towards him.

Black tendrils snapped and coiled through the cistern like vipers. Too close to risk his vials or glyphs without hitting his comrades, Maverick ducked and weaved through the chaos, his fists doing the talking. Every shadowy appendage that came his way met a brutal boxer’s counter-hook, jab, elbow-blows that sent the dark limbs recoiling.

Nyther slithered low along the slick floor, his presence barely more than a whisper of smoke. As Maverick and Alastor drew the cultist’s attention in a flurry of movement and blows, Nyther slipped just behind the stag-masked figure. He readied his strike from the dark, but the sorcerer, steeped in shadow craft himself, sensed the shift in the air and twisted away at the last moment. Shifting just out of Nyther’s reach.

“You can’t stop her rising,” the occultist snarled. “She was promised. She is coming. The last hunt has already begun.”

Alastor moved through the writhing limbs with unnerving grace. He whipped forward and accompanied the movement with a sudden swing of the staff. There was a resounding crack. The sound was sharp and final as the stag skull shattered on impact. The sorcerer staggered, his bloodied face half-exposed beneath the broken mask, and was momentarily still with shock.

“Who is she ?” Alastor demanded between bared teeth. “What are you monsters planning?”

With a shake of his head, the occultist came back to his senses. His exposed eye burned with hatred as he hissed, voice low and venomous. “You dare to question the will of the Black Hunt?”

Shadow tendrils thrashed harder around him, reacting to his rising fury. One shadowy appendage slammed into Alastor’s chest, sending him flying backward.

“You ungrateful little whelp,” he seethed, pointing a shaking, bloodied hand at Alastor. “Here you are, clawing at the threads of a design you cannot even comprehend!”

Another whipped forward, but Nyther used his own umbral form to slash it away while Maverick rushed to Alastor’s side.

“It's pathetic how you keep this up—fumbling after us.”  His snarl twisted into a mad grin as he staggered backward. With one final, snarling laugh, the cultist stepped into the swirling portal of ink-like shadow. His parting words like thorns dragged across raw flesh:

“You cannot stop the Hunt, boy. You were born from it.”

Then he was gone.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, his body going still with a fury so sharp it trembled in his fingers. The air itself felt tight. Maverick and Nyther both stiffened, silence gripped the trio until a faint, pained whimpering broke the spell. 

“I’ll go after the runners.” Maverick stated as he helped his friend to his feet, then took off for the tunnels.

Alastor turned toward the pentagrams where Ms. Rita and Benny still laid—somehow still breathing.

Nyther stood beside his master, an umbral claw held his shoulder in support. The two shared a solemn nod.

"We can’t save them. But we can stop the pain.”  Alastor’s voice was flat and final as he tried to force his emotions down.

He knelt beside Rita as he took in her sorry state. Just a few hours ago, she’d smiled at him—a soft, shy thing. Now her face was twisted by pain and terror. Her eyes, half-lidded and rimmed with tears, stared through him, glassy and pleading.

Across the circle, Nyther was already at Benny D’Amour’s side, his silhouette coalesced into something still and somber. Silently, he reached forward and ended Benny’s suffering—merciful and quick. There was no pleasure in it, just grim resolve.

Alastor swallowed hard. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a small, pristine bone needle.

"I’m sorry, chère," he whispered. "The thread must be cut, so the pain can end."

He leaned close, brushing a strand of blood-matted hair from her face, then found the pressure point just behind her ear. In one practiced motion the needle sank in, swift and precise.

Rita exhaled one final breath, then the tension in her face eased. Peace, at last.

Alastor sat back on his heels, grief and rage crawling under his skin like worms. His breath trembled.

“They keep taking. Over and over. My city. My mother. Me. ”

Nyther stood behind him, solemnly.

Alastor looked up at the interlocked circles, smudged with blood and pain. 

His body shook with wrath; his voice rose to a crescendo as he made his vow to the night, “This. Stops. Now. I’ll hunt them through hell itself if I have to. I’m not just going to end them. I will erase them.”

There was a sudden shift. 

They both felt it. Nyther slithered around Alastor’s shoulders protectively.

The air turned strange, thick and electric, like a calm before the storm. Every shadow on the wall rippled like disturbed water, and the light in the drained cistern dimmed as if sucked away. A low hum built in the stone beneath their feet, vibrating bone and breath alike. 

Then, without warning, the air split with a soundless shudder. Light poured out from the interlocked center of the two pentagrams. Its brilliance was a blinding, sharp and radiant. It wasn’t heat, but pressure, as if reality had been pierced and light was bleeding through the wound. Then, in that radiant rupture, at the heart of the pentagram’s cruel geometry, she appeared— Unconscious but radiant. Golden hair spread around her like a halo. Pale skin so white it must have never seen the sun. Lips parted like she’d been caught mid-song.

Chapter Text

The ritual chamber still trembled with the aftershocks of magic. Lanterns flickered against the water-stained stone walls.

Alastor stood just outside the circle, his breath caught.

The demoness before him, long golden hair against snow white skin, wasn’t what he expected. He wasn’t sure what exactly he did expect but it was not this.

Maverick returned in a huff. “Got nothin’. Damn bastards vanished. They slipped through their shadows...” He stopped.

“Al?” he said, slowly. “Who the hell is that?”

Alastor didn’t look up. “That's what I'm trying to figure out...”

He stepped closer, glancing between the girl and the smoldering pentagrams on either side of her. The new addition lay unconscious in the center of the grotesque Venn diagram.

“This is what they were calling?” Maverick asked as he stepped closer.

Nyther slithered across the floor like spilled ink, stopping next to the mysterious woman. He studied her with childlike curiosity and something almost akin to reverence.

Alastor finally turned, face grave beneath his usual charm.

“Ms. Rita and Benny D’Amour…” He exhaled slowly, jaw tight. “Nyther and I, we killed them, mercy to end their suffering.”

Alastor shook his head at his own foolishness.

“...I think I might’ve finished the ritual by mistake.”

“You what?!” Maverick barked, spinning on him. “We came here to stop this!”

“It wasn’t intentional! I was trying to save them!” Alastor snapped, gesturing wildly. “The blood, the timing, the energy in the room...it all lined up.”

Nyther’s inky fingers reached out, cautious but fascinated, drawn by more than sight. Something in her presence stirred a need older than thought—a compulsion etched into him by a master long gone. His kind should have forgotten such things, yet he drifted closer, helpless against the pull. She was beautiful, and something in her struck a chord that had once mattered deeply to the one who’d held his leash.

Alastor felt the shift before he understood it. An undercurrent rising from the shadow laced through his soul. Ancient emotions not his own, tugging at him with quiet urgency. He tensed. For a breath, the feeling coiled tight in his chest, raw and unfamiliar.

Then he straightened.

The mask slipped back into place without a crack. Calm, composed, and effortlessly cool he leaned down, studying the woman within the summoning circle as if appraising an artifact in a gallery.

She was pale and hauntingly ethereal, like something dreamt into being rather than born. Her presence stirred something deep, something dangerous, and he felt Nyther pulse with it like a drumbeat beneath his skin. But Alastor dismissed it. Such feelings were useless.

She wore an elegant Regency-style gown that was a charred black color. Still unconscious, the woman shifted ever so slightly, and the lavish gown began to crumble. 

It wasn’t fabric black, not truly, it only looked that way until she moved. Then he saw the truth; it was ash. A burned thing, scorched and delicate, held together by stillness. When she stirred, the illusion failed. Fragile charred lace crumbled away in flakes, and in moments, she would be bare in front of them.

Maverick moved first. He yanked off his long trench coat and tossed it over her.  

“No one needs to see that. Not unless she’s charging admission.” He stated flatly.

The coat settled over her like a shroud, swallowing her ruined gown in folds of dark canvas. Maverick stepped back, satisfied, while the silence that followed hung strangely heavy.

Alastor gave him a look, half amused, half annoyed. But the moment passed.

He gave himself exactly two seconds, no more, to collect whatever dissonant thing had buzzed beneath his ribs. Then he turned back toward the smoking, empty summoning circles, exhaling through his nose with deliberate calm.

Back to more important matters.

“Se la vie , and so we march on.” Alastor leaned into his usual humor like it was a shield. And in its own way, it was.

“Really? That’s all you got?!” Maverick’s gruff shouts echoed off the vaulted ceiling. 

The two started to bicker, their voices rising ever louder. That’s when Nyther felt it. Something had started to stir in the darkness around them, unseen eyes turned in their direction.

Through the back-and-forth, Nyther rose slowly from the floor behind them, arms folding with a theatrical sigh. He signed with crisp, sharp gestures: “We need to go. Take her somewhere safe. Now.”

Maverick grumbled under his breath about the idiocy of bringing a ticking time bomb back to Alastor’s house, but was ultimately ignored. Alastor bent down and, after hesitating for a moment, scooped up the demoness, carrying her in a bridal style. She felt so fragile in his arms, he couldn’t imagine why the Black Hunt was so determined to get their hands on her.

Nyther stepped into a slow spin, shadows unraveling from his limbs and drawing the room’s darkness toward him. Shadows slithering from walls and corners like leaves circling a drain. At his feet, the swirling mass thickened, pulsing with a faint green glow as writhing tendrils emerged from its churning surface. He pulled himself free from the vortex with eerie grace, the tendrils stilling as he lifted the black portal from the ground like a sheet, raising it upright into open air. It widened. Maverick glanced at Alastor, who adjusted the unconscious woman in his arms, careful not to shift her borrowed jacket. With a nod, Maverick entered first, Alastor following close behind. 

Nyther, last to enter, turned his face toward the quiet chamber once more. No expression. No farewell. Then he stepped in after them, and as his heel left the floor, the swirling dark clamped shut behind him, collapsing in a breathless silence, leaving nothing behind but a flicker of green and a room suddenly too still.

The house smelled of worn leather and faded coffee beans that were strong enough to hold their place in the room just as much as the red rayon curtains and brightly polished wood. It was tasteful, intimate. All around it was charmingly masculine, much like its owner. A low fire in the hearth flickered light across the dark lacquered floorboards and the carved wainscoting. Mounted above the fireplace was a collection of antique hunting rifles, clean and well-loved. The nearby shelves overflowed with vinyl records, their spines meticulously labeled in Alastor’s curling script. A mahogany gramophone stood proudly in the corner, mirrored by a cathedral radio in the other side.

Alastor carried the unconscious girl gently across the threshold like she was made from glass. He laid her down on the velvet settee of the sitting room, then brushed one hand across her forehead, moving the blonde locks that had fallen out of place. 

Her scent reached him the moment he brushed her hair aside. It was a warm blend of brown sugar and ripe apples, soft and nostalgic, like autumn clinging to skin. But beneath it, just faintly, was the sharp tang of something scorched. Like the strike of a match, sulfur-slick and metallic. The subtle scent was not strong enough to overwhelm the sweetness, but impossible to ignore. Just a whisper of fire under fruit. 

Alastor slowly pulled his hand back, taking the excuse of their close proximity to study her further. Her skin was like porcelain, pale and flawless, with a perfectly round red blush on either cheek. Her lips parted as she breathed softly, not pink like the norm but a rich ebony. 

She was still unconscious, the borrowed trench coat from Maverick had been tossed hastily over her. It hung unevenly across her body, barely concealing the ruin of her burned dress. One careless movement, if she rolled too far, the coat would drop away from her entirely. The fabric rested over her shoulders like a secret trying not to be seen.

Alastor’s eyes flicked to Nyther.

The shadow met his gaze with something like amusement, an old knowing that didn’t require speech. With a subtle bow of his inky head, Nyther unraveled. His form uncoiled into a thick curtain of shadow, smoke and shape wound together like breath on a cold window.

In a silent glide, Nyther twisted around the woman’s form, wrapping her in a gentle cyclone of darkness. The coat fluttered slightly, then settled. When the shadow receded, slinking back with a faint hiss, the transformation was done.

The trench coat now clung snugly to her frame, perfectly positioned. Nyther had been careful to fasten every button, and the belt at the waist had cinched the coat securely closed.

Alastor quirked a brow, more impressed than surprised.

“Thank you,” he murmured dryly.

Nyther only rippled faintly, smug.

Alastor stood up and strode to the kitchen. It was sleek and modern with cast iron stove, large apron sink, copper pans hung over the center island, and a spice rack packed full was framed by hanging pot plants. 

Alastor took down the coffee tin, measured out the dark grinds into his French press with an ease born of routine.

It took only moments for the heavenly aroma of the freshly brewed coffee to hit his nose.

His coffee-filled bliss broke when he registered that the droning buzz behind him was in fact Maverick, still complaining about their current situation.

“She’s bad luck, I’m tellin’ you. Worse than a broken mirror.” He nagged from the doorway of the kitchen.

"Mav, you’ve said that so many times I could set it to jazz and play it on the air." Alastor replied as he readied two mugs next to the press. "Breathe. Deeply. Maybe unclench something." 

Maverick hovered behind him, arms crossed.

“We don’t even know what she is,” he snapped defensively.

“We also didn’t know what I was when we met and look how well that turned out.” He passed one of the two steaming mugs to Maverick with a smirk.

“You’re a pain in my ass, that’s how it turned out.” He accepted the cup with a curt nod.

The two walked out of the kitchen and back into Alastor’s sitting room. With the settee still taken by their mysterious guest, Alastor sat down in one of his leather wingback chairs. 

Nyther had settled himself at the couch’s edge and seemed transfixed with the girl. The shadow’s form curled gently toward her, protective and oddly tender.

Maverick noticed. “She’s not even awake yet, and she’s already broke Nyther.”

The shadow shot Maverick a pointed look, his hollow eyes lidded in irritation.

Long, shadowy fingers flicked through the air with sharp, fluid movements, his gestures fast: "Leave me out of your bellyaching, I’m busy."

Maverick rounded on the shade. “Oooooh, busy, huh? Busy hoverin’ over Sleeping Beauty from Hell.” He rebutted with a scowl.

Nyther’s fingers snapped into motion again, movements dry as his tone: "Better than pacing a trench into the floorboards like a worried hen. Now stop distracting me. I’m busy."

Maverick scoffed as he turned red in the ears. “Well, maybe if certain shadows weren’t getting infatuated with glowy strangers we don’t know anything about...”

Nyther’s gaze was back on the blonde. He didn’t even look up; his hands simply answered: "Still talking."

Alastor, who had been watching the whole exchange from his seat with drink in hand, burst out laughing. The kind of rich, belly laugh that warmed the room.

“Oh, brilliant, truly. I think he just called you a clucking mother hen, and I...” Alastor had to pause and catch his breath as another wave of laughter hit him, “...I’ve never agreed with him more.”

“Glad somebody’s enjoying this nightmare.” Maverick snorted.

“Every second, my friend.” Alastor raised his mug in a mocking toast.

“Please…” Maverick mumbled as he finally sat in the twin wingback.

Alastor eyed their mysterious guest again, his shadow was turned slightly, shielding the girl more directly with his body, his umbral tail swished and furled protectively. 

“We give her a chance. If she wakes up peaceful, we ask questions. If she wakes up fire-breathing, we deal with it.” He conceded. 

“And if she wakes up somewhere in between?”

Alastor’s grin curled slow and dangerous. “Then I do what I do best, chum: talk pretty and pray she likes the sound of my voice.”

The room settled into near silence, the faint jazz that played from the radio melted in time to the ticking of the grandfather clock.

“This is taking too long.” Maverick complained to his coffee mug.

So much for enjoying some silence.  

“I thought we moved past this and were waiting quietly.”

“I don’t see why we can’t just throw holy water at her and see if she hisses.” 

“My house, my rules.” Alastor retorted and smiled faintly.

The sleeping demoness stirred with a soft breath. Nyther slipped backward into her shadow just before her eyes opened. Golden lashes fluttered as she woke to a ceiling that was not her own. She blinked slowly, ruby eyes taking in the room — the flickering fireplace, the unfamiliar walls, the scent of coffee...This wasn’t the palace. This was somewhere else.

Her gaze landed on the two men...real, living humans... who were mid-bickering.

She watched them like a child discovering a fairy tale.

She sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from her lashes. The men were too caught up in their argument to notice.

“Oh, brilliant. Why don’t I just punch her awake and ask if she’s evil?”

“Hello..?”

Her voice cut through their bickering like a sunbeam after a storm. It was soft, honey-sweet, and laced with pure curiosity.

Alastor and Maverick turned in unison.

Their mysterious guest was awake .

Alastor blinked, caught entirely off guard.

Her ruby-red eyes sparkled with wonder, glowing faintly against porcelain-pale skin. Even in confusion, she radiated joy, like someone waking up in the middle of their favorite dream and realizing it hadn’t ended yet.

“…Are you humans?” she blurted, her words tumbling out with giddy urgency. Her smile stretched wide with unfiltered delight.

Alastor’s showman’s smile snapped effortlessly into place.

“We certainly try our best to be,” He declared as he wiggled a raised eyebrow.

He reached for her hand, took it with care, and bowed at the waist with graceful ease. With all the finesse of a seasoned performer, he brushed her knuckles with the faintest touch of his lips.

“Alastor Valois, at your service, mademoiselle,” he purred. “And the grumpy one scowling behind me is Maverick. Don’t mind the bark, he only bites when he loses at cards.”

Charlie gasped. “Oh my goodness, that was so elegant! Do humans always do that?! That was so fancy!” Her voice climbed a full octave, practically vibrating with glee. “And you’re alive ! Like, really alive, not flaming skulls and contracts and brimstone. An actual heartbeat, breathing, squishy-alive humans!”

Her feet kicked excitedly beneath her, trench coat flapping around her knees. Her cheeks flushed as she beamed up at them.

“I’m Charlotte Morningstar!” she announced brightly, almost bouncing on the cushions. “But please call me Charlie. I only ever get called by my full name when I’m in trouble. And I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong yet.”

“Well, I’ll save it for just such occasions,” Alastor said with a wink, releasing her hand at last.

She squealed softly in delight, twirling a little where she sat, then freezing mid-spin as she sniffed the air.

“Ooooh, your house smells amazing! This is what human homes smell like?!” Charlie took a deep audible inhale. “Like leather and old books and...roasted coffee?” She sniffed again, eyes wide. 

Alastor gestured to his mug. “Care for some? How do you take it?”

“Milk and sugar,” she said, nodding rapidly. “Lots of sugar. Like... an upsetting amount.”

Maverick groaned. “Enough niceties. What are you?”

“Oh nooo,” Charlie whispered dramatically, eyes going wide, “Are we fighting already?”

“Give the chère a moment to breathe.” Alastor scolded.

Maverick snapped, his already short temper flared. “I am letting her breathe. I'm just trying to figure out if she’s exhaling sulfur or sunshine.”

Charlie looked between the two, their chiding remarks going back and forth, her head ping-ponging between speakers.

Not wanting to interrupt their argument, she popped to her feet, determined to take this chance to investigate and dashed straight to the nearest shelf.

“Okay, okay, I’m not touching, just looking.” She announced in an improvised melody. The two men were too involved in their arguing to even notice. 

Charlie twirled in place, her eyes sparkled as they swept over the room, every surface and corner a new marvel. She let out a soft “Oooh!” that stretched into a delighted hum. The bulk of her interest hovered over the vinyl.

She was in a human house. With actual living and breathing humans. Every part of her lit up like it was the best holiday morning in history.

Behind her, voices rose and clashed: Alastor and Maverick, once again at each other’s throats.

“She doesn’t need you breathing down her neck like some grumpy watchdog...”

“I’m watching out for your neck! You forget what we’ve seen crawln’ outta those cult circles?!”

She darted to the window next, hands pressing to the glass as she stared out. “And look! Outside ! Is the sky black? The sky here isn’t red?!”  She let out an even louder gasp.

Her grin stretched from ear to ear as she spun around to look back to the couch she has woken up on. There, on the low table in front of the settee, sat a steaming mug of coffee.

She blinked. That hadn’t been there before.

Looking between the two still-arguing men. Neither of whom had so much as glanced her way. Charlie tilted her head, a puzzled look crossing her face for half a second…before it bloomed into a warm, grateful smile that sparkled like it was made of pure light. 

“Thank you, whoever you are,” she chirped brightly to the air, her voice a musical little melody that seemed to brighten the room a few notches. She gave a cheerful nod to no one in particular, as if the house itself might be listening.

With exaggerated care, she picked up the mug with both hands and took a cautious sip, and immediately winced with a little scrunch of her nose. “Needs more sugar.” she mused aloud.

There was a soft clink .

She looked back down at the table. Where the mug had been, a small crystal bowl of sugar now rested on the table, still gently vibrating from how quickly it had been placed.

Her eyes widened, and her grin could’ve lit the gas lamps outside. “Amazing…” she whispered delightedly. Charlie opened the sugar bowl, and she looked between her mug, the spoon, and the bowl. With a hum, she discarded the spoon to instead pick up the entire sugar bowl and dumped it into her mug.

She tried a sip of her drink again and let out a happy sigh. Humming to herself, she started to sway to her own melody when she spotted movement from the corner of her eye. The shadows had twisted ever so slightly, but she had seen it. The shadow at her feet didn’t lie limp, it breathed . 

Charlie leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. “Hello. Did you bring me coffee?”

Like smoke, the shadows at her feet rose up and began to condense. They formed into something vaguely man-shaped. Long fingers emerged first, followed by a tilted head with softly glowing red eyes; the features were vague but not formless. Then, with a silent ripple, the sentient shadow of Alastor, Nyther, stood before her and gave a dramatic bow.

Charlie gasped, but it wasn’t fear, it was wonder. Her whole face lit up, delighted.

Nyther floated closer to Charlie, the silhouette of his nose just inches from her own. She tilted her head curiously. 

“Can you talk?”

“He signs,” Alastor said, having finally finished bickering with Maverick. He had moved in beside her, close enough to smell her. The brown sugared apples with the subtle, metallic, and burning scent that drifted from her hair. It coiled at the back of his throat, not enough to repulse, but just enough to unsettle. “And right now, he’s saying you’ve made quite the impression.”

Charlie beamed at Nyther before she turned her attention to Alastor. “Are you two finished arguing?”

Alastor straightened instantly, clearing his throat as his smile turned sheepish. “My dear, I assure you, I don’t argue. I engage in... passionate civil discourse.”

Maverick grunted. “Tomatoe, tomato.”

“That’s quite enough out of you,” Alastor replied breezily.

Charlie giggled from behind the rim of her cup. “You’re very good at passionate civil discourse , then.”

Alastor pressed a hand dramatically over his heart, wounded and theatrical. “To think! That I, Alastor Valois, should be seen squabbling like a common brute in front of such refined company. My dear, I am positively mortified.”

He swept into a half-bow before her, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Please forgive my lapse in etiquette. It seems even gentlemen can be goaded when poked by a particularly grumpy stick in the mud.”

Charlie, still giggling, gave a regal little nod. “You are forgiven.”

Alastor gave an appreciative chuckle.

“Darling,” he purred, the words dripped in charm, “would you be so kind as to indulge two confused mortals with a few answers?”

“Of course,” she said sweetly. 

Alastor nodded to Maverick, who, with a grunt, leaned against the chair. Satisfied, Alastor sat down.

Charlie sat on the settee, her back straightened and poised at polite attention. Nyther coiled affectionately around her like a scarf. She then cleared her throat gently, drawing their attention. 

“Before you ask your questions,” she said with a sun-bright smile, “may I ask one first?”

Alastor, still half-leaning against the back of his wingback, straightened and smiled. “But of course, ma chère . Ladies first, always.”

Charlie’s lashes fluttered as she gave him another dazzling smile, but her eyes were determined, sharp as she asked, “Who summoned me?”

There was a beat of silence. Maverick exhaled through his nose like a bull bracing for a charge.

Alastor’s smile faltered...not out of guilt, but complication of the whole situation. He gave a small shrug, elegant and rueful all at once. “Ah. Straight to the point, then. I admire that.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. 

“Sadly, the answer’s not quite as clear as one would hope. We weren’t trying to summon anyone...especially not you.”

Charlie tilted her head, brows pinched in curiosity.

“We were trying to stop a ritual,” Alastor continued, running a hand through his dark curls. “One of the Black Hunt’s blood rites. They’d already started it. The sacrifices...the chant...the whole grotesque ceremony. We broke in and shut it down."

He paused, giving a noncomital hum."

At least…we thought we did.” Alastor admitted with a shrug.

He glanced briefly at Maverick, then Nyther.

“Nyther and I, we finished off the sacrifices. Mercy kills, because there was no saving them. Then, in the heat of the moment, I…may have made a wish. A promise.” Alastor’s lips curled with an ironic smile. “Which apparently was enough to finish what they started. So they began the ritual...”

“And you finished it,” Charlie said softly, her voice full of awe, as though Alastor had just pulled off a magic trick in front of her very eyes.

He gave a sheepish little bow. “Technically.”

Maverick gave a tired sigh and sat down heavily in the armchair opposite. “Alright. You asked your question. Now it’s our turn.”

Charlie nodded eagerly, folding her hands in her lap with practiced grace—but even that small movement carried a bouncing energy, like she could barely sit still. “Of course! I’ll do my best.”

She really did look the picture of innocence. She appeared radiant, curious, and polite enough to make a debutante look sloppy. Maverick squinted at her like she might explode into glitter without warning.

“Why would they want you?” he asked bluntly. “The Black Hunt doesn’t just summon pretty faces. What makes you important to them?”

Charlie hesitated.

Just a flicker, a single moment where her smile dimmed, as though someone had turned down a light behind her eyes. But it returned a second later, her sunshine grin firmly in place.

“I don’t know,” she said brightly, keeping her gaze on Maverick’s face with polite poise. “Truly. I’ve never heard of them. I try to avoid cults when I can...They tend to be rude, clingy, and very dramatic.”

Alastor snorted into his cup.

Charlie gave an exaggerated shrug and took another sip of her overly sweet coffee. “And I’ve certainly never dealt with a human cult before. You’re the first humans I’ve ever met, actually!”

Her eyes drifted toward Alastor, and she practically glowed with joy. “And you’re much more handsome than the stories suggested.”

Alastor placed a hand to his chest with theatrical dismay. “Only handsome? I’ll have to fire my publicist.”

Charlie burst into a giggle, her feet swinging beneath the trench coat, hands tightening around the mug like she was savoring every second of being here.

Maverick grunted something unintelligible and rolled his eyes.

“Besides,” Charlie added a little too cheerily, “my parents never let me leave home. Too dangerous, they said. So, I don’t even know how they found me to summon.” She puffed out a sigh, a wistful cloud over her smile, but it passed quickly. Like a cloud whisked off by sunlight.

Alastor, watching her carefully, caught that flicker again. That moment when something inside her dipped. Something quiet and a little lonely, hidden behind all the sparkle and shine.

He stepped closer, voice gentle. “You didn’t even know this was possible, did you?”

Charlie shook her head, still smiling. “Demons like me… well, we’re not supposed to be summoned.”

Maverick leaned forward. “And what kind of demon are you?”

Charlie gave a theatrical sigh and put a hand to her chest. “The polite kind.”

Alastor burst out laughing, charmed beyond help.

Chapter Text

The room breathed a quiet, lived-in warmth. The cathedral radio played jazz softly, its faint rhythm echoed across the polished wood. Maverick and Alastor sat in the matching leather wingbacks. Maverick sat with his arms crossed and jaw set, while Alastor leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin as he watched Charlie with quiet calculation.

Across from them, Charlie had long since slid off the velvet settee and onto the floor. She sat cross-legged, the bottom of the borrowed trench coat still tied tightly around her, utterly at ease beside the shadowy presence of Nyther. His great tail coiled around her like a softly breathing rug, his lanky torso stretched upward in a half-lounging sprawl. He played with her hair absentmindedly, curling strands around inky claws. Now and then, he took her hands and positioned them with deliberate care. Corrected her fingers, guided her wrists as he demonstrated the shape of a word in sign. Charlie giggled each time she got one wrong, which was often.

Maverick let out a heavy sigh, not as grumpy as before but still gruff. He had been grilling Charlie for the better part of an hour, but her answers had remained the same, consistent and sweetly earnest: no, she didn’t know what The Jaws of the Black Hunt wanted with her or even who they were; yes, she was as confused as they were; no, she didn’t think she had any particular power worth summoning. Not personally.

“My parents, maybe,” she’d said with a sheepish little shrug, flashing an apologetic smile like she was sorry for not being more useful. Her delicate white fingers picked at the edge of her sleeve in small, anxious motions that didn’t quite match her usual buoyant energy. “But me? I’m… decoration, really. A porcelain doll on a high shelf. My parents are always so proud to say I’m their daughter, but nobody ever lets me be anything. If they wanted a demon of importance, they wouldn’t have asked for me.”

She said it gently, almost casually, but the words left a hush behind them. Then she added, “Also, it couldn’t have been a regular summoning circle if it burned my dress to ash. My clothes are flame-proof. It had to be a really powerful summon.”

Alastor had said nothing for a long time after that. His jaw worked once, twice. He was seldom at a loss for words. Maverick had given him a sidelong glance, but wisely said nothing.

Alastor leaned forward, one arm resting on his knee, and stroked his chin, his eyes following Charlie with a quiet intensity.

She, meanwhile, was utterly unfazed by the silence.

Across from him, she was trying to mimic Nyther’s floating gestures with a playful focus, tongue poking out slightly as she concentrated. Her movements were clumsy but full of enthusiastic energy and an exaggerated flourish, but entirely sincere.

“Oh! Wait...was this one ‘hello’ or ‘chicken’?” she asked giggling as she wiggled her fingers in a swirl that resembled neither. “You’re so smooth, Nyther. I feel like I’m learning ballet and interpretive dance at the same time!”

Nyther rippled with faint amusement, and Charlie lit up as though she’d just passed a secret test.

Every motion she made was light and open, a mix of wonder and eagerness. She treated the world around her like a book she’d only just opened and couldn’t wait to read cover to cover. Her eyes sparkled as she looked from shadow to summoner, her feet tapping softly on the floor in a rhythm of excitement she didn’t even seem aware of.

Despite everything: the summoning, the questions, the uncertainty, Charlie still glowed with joy. She was just from being in the same room as humans. Every answer she gave came with a smile, every movement with a bounce, every pause filled with curiosity rather than fear.

She was all light, all sunshine and yet…

Those words of the chant from earlier. Alastor could still hear the tremble in the cult leader. How his voice was a mix of a strange kind of reverence and feral possessiveness.

Duality, the name she bears, 

The singer draped in midnight airs.
Bride of the Hunt, with soul enshrined, 

To him her fate forever twined.
Bone and bloom, with horn and light, 

She calls the end with voice so bright.
A song to break, a world to bend—

She sings us to the final end.

It hadn’t made sense then. Now, staring at her...her heavenly voice...her presence...the fact that Nyther couldn’t tear himself away, it lingered.

She was...too perfect. Like a doll carved from starlight. A gentle whisper of power hung on the air around her. It was faint, but he could feel it.

“A song to break…a world to bend...” Alastor whispered quietly to himself.

“Hmm?” Charlie looked up at him. Her eyes were wide, full of curiosity and sunshine. Her head tilted as she smiled again, that same bright, unburdened smile that made the room feel lighter. “Did you say something?” 

Alastor’s grin spread slowly, wide and practiced. Like a showman's mask, smooth but beneath it, something darker twitched. “Oh, nothing. Just admiring the view.”

His voice dipped low and dangerous. The smile that followed showed nearly all his teeth. The grin reflected just a twinge of what hid beneath the surface. It was predatory. Possessive.

Charlie blinked once, her expression faltering. Not with fear, exactly, but something that danced close to it. A soft, inexplicable shudder passed through her, though her smile didn’t break. She gave a nervous little giggle and shifted in place. Her hands fussing with the belt of the coat still cinched around her waist.

“Gosh,” she said quickly, trying to chase the tension from the room with breathless optimism. “You humans really do know how to look at someone. Is that a thing? Do you all have that… that smolder stare installed at birth?”

Her words bubbled out faster, trying to outrun the strange electricity crawling up her spine. But her grin remained bright, undimmed, even if it was slightly off-center. Her eyes still sparkled with amazement.

She was still enchanted to be standing in the middle of a real human sitting room, with real human people...Even if one of them looked at her like he was trying to solve her like a puzzle…or devour her like dessert.

The questioning had faded into thought. The scent of cooling coffee drifted lazily through the air, mingling with a quiet hum. Charlie, swaying slightly where she sat, humming under her breath. The tune was strange and lilting, like it didn’t quite belong to this world… and maybe never had.

She tapped her fingers against her knees in rhythm, eyes drifting over the room like she couldn’t believe it still existed with her in it.

“We’ll need the original summoning site,” Alastor said at last, voice quiet and deliberate. “The circles, the symbols, any trace of what they used.”

Charlie perked up immediately. “Ooh! I’d recognize my parents’ sigils if they were embedded in it, and most of the Ars Goetia too. But I’d have to see circles and know the summoning chants and all that jazz.”

She grinned like someone volunteering for a treasure hunt, shoulders bouncing in her seat.

Maverick exhaled hard through his nose. “So, we’re not done yet.”

“No,” Alastor replied, his smile bright and theatrical. “We’re just beginning.”

Maverick’s gaze drifted to where Charlie sat on the floor, giggling softly as Nyther patiently guided her hands through a slow rhythm of a sentence. She tried to mimic him, fingers wobbling and slightly out of sync, but her whole face lit up when she got a part of it right.

“She’s not dangerous,” Maverick muttered.

Alastor arched a brow. “That sounded suspiciously like you being reasonable.”

Maverick scowled. “I didn’t say harmless. But fine… she’s not a threat. Not really. I can be… less of an asshole.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Charlie glanced up with a radiant smile. “You two are very dramatic,” she chimed in cheerily, leaning her chin into her hands as she beamed between them like this was the best play she’d ever watched.

Nyther gave a slow blink of amusement beside her, his tail twitching in restrained delight.

Alastor chuckled as he ran a hand through his hair. “Regardless, she’s here now. And until we figure out what they wanted with her, or how to send her back, she stays close.”

Maverick’s eyes narrowed. “Close…how close?”

Alastor grinned. “Someone stays with her at all times. We take shifts, like a very glamorous babysitting service.”

“Fun. More work,” Maverick replied with a roll of his eyes so theatrical it could’ve won awards.

Alastor chuckled again, but a crease formed between his brows.

He was watching her now. The way she laughed freely, the way Nyther moved around her as if tethered by something ancient and invisible. How she sat so comfortably in a room that should have frightened her, in a world that should have felt like a threat.

And yet...those words echoed.

Bride of the Hunt.

Nyther tapped Charlie’s wrist gently, guiding her fingers into one last gesture.

“Safe.”

She scrunched her face in focus, bit her lip in concentration, and then tried the full sentence again. This time she got it. Her fingers wobbled, but the message rang clear:

“We will keep you safe.”

Alastor sipped his coffee. It had gone cold.

But the air around them felt warmer now. Thick with wonder, tension, and something unspoken.

Maverick scratched his jaw, frowning. “You do realize keeping her with us at all times is gonna be a challenge, right? I mean…” He motioned vaguely toward Charlie. “She looks like she stepped out of some devil’s opera. White skin, red eyes, and black lips are not exactly low profile.”

Nyther stiffened instantly at her side, tail curling like a whip. His hands flashed sharp through the air:

“Don’t speak like that about her. She is beautiful.”

Maverick blinked. “I didn’t say she wasn’t pretty, I just said...”

Before the moment could spiral, Alastor lifted a hand and slipped easily into the space between them like stepping onto a stage. His grin was warm, but it held a warning edge.

“Well,” he drawled, voice smooth as silk, “he does have a point, doll. You’re not exactly built for blending in.”

Charlie tilted her head, utterly unbothered, eyes shining with delight. “Oh, that’s not a problem.”

Alastor blinked. “It’s not?”

“Of course not!” she said, hands clasping dramatically in front of her. “You just have to ask .”

She closed her eyes, a tiny puff of breath escaping her lips. Her hands pressed together in front of her like she was about to make a birthday wish.

A faint glow shimmered across her skin: soft, golden, and luminous like dawn peeking through fog. The air around her buzzed with a delicate, musical hum, as if the room itself was holding its breath in wonder.

Slowly, the transformation began.

Her skin shifted from pale ivory to a warm, peachy tone that was gently sun-kissed. The bright red dots on her cheeks softened into a natural rosy blush. Her ruby eyes melted into a vivid shade of ocean-glass blue, sparkling with mischief and joy. Her lips reshaped themselves into the perfect cupid’s bow, sweetly pink and smiling.

Her golden hair remained, but it dimmed ever so slightly. It was no longer blinding, just...charming believable. It was like the glow of a halo dialed down to mortal standards.

She opened her eyes and gave a bashful smile. She tilted her head like a child showing off a macaroni necklace.

“Ta-da!” she said, her voice sing-songy and hopeful as her hands opening in a tiny flourish.

The room went completely still.

Even Maverick, eternally unimpressed and perpetually grumpy, looked momentarily stunned.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s...unnatural.”

Nyther blinked beside her, his smoky form rippling with what could only be shock.

Charlie’s smile faltered. Her hands slowly dropped to her lap, and for a rare moment, her usual spark dimmed. Her shoulders hunched just slightly, eyes searching the floor like it might explain what she'd done wrong.

Alastor, however, let out a low, appreciative whistle, leaning forward with his elbow on the armrest. “Darlin’, if I’d known you could do that, I would’ve flirted harder sooner.”

Charlie flushed instantly, her cheeks now glowing that adorable new peach color. She hugged herself lightly, squeaking out, “Too much?”

“Just enough,” Alastor said softly, with a smile far warmer than his usual theatrics. “You’re stunning.”

She tucked a golden lock behind her ear with both hands at once. She was flustered, beaming, her whole body nearly vibrating with the joy of being seen. Of being liked and of being human enough to be told she was beautiful.

Charlie was quietly inspecting her human form for herself when she let out a squeal of pure delight that bounced off the walls like a rubber ball. “Toes!” she gasped, scooting back on her heels with the wide-eyed reverence of someone discovering treasure. “I have toes ! Look at them—one, two, three, four, five!” She wiggled each one as if performing a tiny solo, her hands framing her feet like they were priceless artifacts. “They move , Alastor! Individually! Like little happy worms!”

Alastor arched an eyebrow, lips twitching into an amused half-smile as he watched her cradle her foot like it was a newborn. “If you get this worked up over toes, I fear what’ll happen when you discover pockets.”

Charlie looked up at him, eyes round and glittering. “Pockets?! ”

Alastor’s chuckle was low and indulgent.

As Charlie giggled, toes still wiggling with uncontainable glee, Maverick’s gaze drifted to the window. “I should head out,” he muttered.

Alastor nodded, sipping the last of his drink.

Nyther gave a two-finger salute from his coiled spot next to Charlie. His expression flickered in his form, showing he was listening.

Maverick turned toward the door, then paused when he heard the soft patter of feet on the hardwood. He looked back.

Charlie stood there, hands clasped primly in front of her. Her head tilted like she was listening to the wind, that gentle, glowing smile still painted across her lips. It was so sincere it could have melted granite.

“Goodnight, Mr. Maverick,” she said, her voice sweet and singsong again, as if every syllable were wrapped in a ribbon. “It was very nice to meet you, even if you didn’t really want to meet me. I really enjoyed our conversation. And thank you for letting me wear your beautiful jacket, so I didn’t have to be completely naked and indecent.”

The room collectively held its breath. 

Maverick stared at her, completely unprepared.

His brow twitched. Just once.

It was almost a flinch. Like her radiant kindness had pierced something inside him that he wasn’t used to showing had soft parts.

He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally just grunted.

It wasn’t rude, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It was the sound of a man who wanted to say something kind in return, or admit he’d been wrong. Or at least acknowledge he’d met someone impossible to forget, but didn’t know how without it sounding like surrender.

So instead, he turned and muttered, “I want my jacket back,” then disappeared into the night. The door creaking shut behind him.

Silence returned, but the room somehow felt brighter than before.

Charlie folded her hands behind her back, rocking slightly on her heels like a child trying not to bounce. “He’s very grumpy, but I like him.”

Alastor placed his empty mug on the coffee table with an audible clink. “Maverick’s an acquired taste. Like licorice.” He paused, lips curling mischievously. “Or arsenic.”

Charlie giggled, the sound was light and tinkling.

Alastor exhaled through his nose and slowly rose to his feet, his smile lazy and gleaming. He moved toward her in smooth, deliberate steps. It was less a walk, more a prowling glide as if she were a particularly rare work of art that he intended to appreciate from all angles.

“Well, now that it’s just the two of us again...” he murmured, charm dripping from every syllable, “I suppose I should offer my sincerest apologies for the accidental kidnapping via eldritch summoning. Terribly impolite of me.”

Charlie giggled again, visibly delighted. “Oh, that’s okay! Honestly, this is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re very polite for a kidnapper!”

He leaned in, fingers gently curling under her chin to lift her face. She blinked up at him, her long lashes fluttering. Her cheeks glowed with delight, and her lips parted in soft surprise.

Alastor’s smile deepened, “Polite, hmm?” he drawled. “Well, my dear, if I'd known all it took to meet you was a catastrophic arcane mishap…I might’ve botched a few rituals sooner.”

Charlie squeaked, actually squeaked. Her hands flailed a little behind her back, as if unsure whether to cover her face or clap with excitement.

They stood like that for a moment, caught in a strange, sparkling stillness, eyes locked. Then Alastor straightened, releasing her chin with a showman’s flourish.

“Would you care for the grand tour, my darling demon-belle? After all, if you’re to be haunting my halls, you ought to know what secrets they keep.”

Charlie bounced on her newly formed toes, “Yes please!”

“Nyther,” Alastor said, and turned with a flourish, “would you be a dear and prepare the guest room for our darling visitor?”

Nyther blinked alert, then straightened like a guard receiving sacred orders. He turned to Charlie and with a hum of shadowy fondness, gave her a gentle nuzzle. His inky cheek brushed against hers.

Charlie giggled, her face lighting up like a sunbeam. “Oh! That tickles! You’re such a sweet little spooky cloud!”

Nyther shimmered with pleasure and promptly melted into a puddle of sleek shadow. Then slid off and up the stairs.

Alastor extended his arm. “Shall we, Miss Charlie?”

Without hesitation, she slipped her arm through his, practically skipping in place. “Lead the way, Mister Tour Guide!”

The house at 13 Rue Coquille was a Craftsman Bungalow, nestled under the reaching boughs of a century-old live oak, its gnarled limbs tangled with Spanish moss. Hunter green shutters peeked out beneath ivy-draped balconies, and the cast-iron railings curled like musical notes, all framed with a picturesque patio that hugs the front of the home. To Charlie, it looked like a painting, and it had invited her in .

Inside, the house was warm and full of Southern charm. The wallpaper was hand-painted and aging gracefully. Decorative accent rugs lay sparingly between the pristine wooden floorboards, framing off the central points in each room. Charlie practically twirled from room to room, pointing out the mundane room decor like each one was a rare treasure.

“It’s…stunning,” she breathed, eyes wide with reverence. 

“Well,” Alastor said with a twinkle, “I had to find something that could match me in style and mystery. Which is a tall order, I'll admit.”

Charlie giggled and whispered to the wallpaper, “You do suit him.”

He led her through the sitting room and into the kitchen, where her eyes bounced from ceiling beams to drawer knobs. Even to the toaster which she swore “probably has stories to tell.”

Down the hallway they went. Each photograph they passed was a new mystery for Charlie to devour with her eyes. The hallways were lined with photographs. Some crisp and formal, others blurred with motion. There were portraits of Alastor at various ages, each one a different kind of handsome: boyish in a pageboy cap, rakish in his twenties, and devilishly grinning in a sleek pinstriped suit. 

“Oh wow! Look at little you!” she gasped, leaning in. “You were adorable! Still are, obviously, but tiny you!

A tall, elegant woman with dark curls and knowing eyes appeared frequently in the frames. Always smiling gently. 

“Wow! Is that your mom? She’s so pretty!”

Alastor merely smiled. And in nearly every third photo, somewhere in the background or corner, there was a smudge — a shadowy blur. Nyther.

She stopped in front of a photo with a blurry black swirl. “Wait. Is that…?”

“Ah, yes,” Alastor said dryly. “Nyther’s not terribly photogenic. Which is criminal, given how expressive he is.”

She laughed. “He’s in more of your pictures than your own face.”

Alastor led her along to the next room.

The moment the door swung open, a warmth rolled out. The scent of aged wood, brass polish, and something faintly electric. It was like stepping into the center of a radio signal frozen in time. The room was rounded, with curved walls that arched overhead like the inside of a phonograph horn. Dark wood panels were inlaid with gold filigree, and the floor was a marquetry mosaic of dancing musical notes and strange symbols Charlie didn’t recognize. Against the opposite wall stood a shrine of instruments: a baby grand piano, polished black and crowned with candles in red glass holders; a clarinet resting in a velvet-lined case, its silver keys dulled by frequent use; a battered upright bass etched with strange sigils along its spine; and from the ceiling all manner of chimes and musical wards. The center wall had been turned into a gallery of microphones, each mounted like a hunting trophy. It was a parade of decades, sizes, and styles, all perfectly preserved.

She gasped. “This is magic.”

Alastor watched her with a knowing smile.

“Do you play everything in here?” she whispered, already inching toward the piano.

“I try to,” he said, following her gaze. “The piano’s the favorite.”

Her fingers brushed the glossy black wood, reverent. “It’s so beautiful. It’s like the kind of piano that would grant wishes.”

“Shall we continue our little tour?” he asked gently.

“Yes!” she beamed, giving the piano a loving farewell pat before skipping lightly back to his side.

“This next one,” he said as they paused before a tall, dark oak door, “is where I keep things a little more… primal.”

Charlie’s eyes went wide, her voice hushed with awe. “Primal? Like wolves and volcanoes and secrets?”

Alastor chuckled low, at the odd grouping. His hand on the knob, eyes gleaming.

Then slowly, reverently, he opened the door.

The air was cold, dry, and carried the unmistakable scent of cedar, gun oil, and dried blood.

The room was tall, with vaulted ceilings and deep hunter green walls. The windows were narrow and cathedral-shaped, the glass stained with faint images of stags, wolves, and birds in flight.

Charlie gasped the second she stepped inside, her hands pressed flat to her cheeks like she couldn’t contain her amazement. “Oh my goodness. This is like stepping into a spooky forest painting- but real! ”

She tiptoed closer with morbid curiosity, but then she turned her head, and it was the back wall that stole her breath.

Mounted on the wall were trophies, but not just typical animal heads. Some were twisted, unnatural: a jackal skull with two sets of jaws, a massive boar tusk, a full alligator skeleton, as well as several bizarre beasts Charlie didn’t recognize.

In the center of the room stood a tall mahogany gun cabinet, doors open to reveal a mix of antique hunting rifles, silver-bladed knives, and one crossbow with an ivory stock. Carved inside were more mysterious symbols.

On the back wall was the grand centerpiece was a set of massive stag antlers, gnarled and spiraling, dark as obsidian. They weren’t from any earthly beast. The air beneath them shimmered faintly, like heat off pavement.

“A good host always keeps his collection in order. You never know what might come crawling back.”

He let her take it in. Let the strange shadows and quiet power of the room settle.

She whispered, voice breathy with wonder, “Is this… real?” 

“Oh yes,” Alastor said softly as he stepping beside her. “It was the first thing I ever hunted alone in the Murkveil.”

Charlie turned to him, blinking like he’d just offered her a particularly interesting bedtime story. “The Murkveil? That sounds so ominous! What is that?”

He didn’t answer...Not directly.

Instead, he smiled and booped her on the nose.

“That is a story for another night. Come, we still have the upstairs to explore.” 

The couple walked up the stairs, and Charlie practically bounced with every step, clinging to the banister as if afraid she might float off with joy.

They reached a landing with a hallway stretching into soft shadows. As they passed a cracked door, Charlie slowed.

Inside, it was impossibly dark. Bone charms dangled from silk threads, and a wall of strange, stitched-together dolls stared with unblinking eyes. Even the room itself seemed sewn together with thick green stitches, as if the magic thread had woven the darkness within. Strange chalk sigils curved along the floor like dancing snakes, and long bone needles jutted from a velvet pin cushion the size of a human heart.

Charlie peeked in with her breath caught in her throat. “It’s like…if nightmares had a sewing kit.”

Alastor gently placed a hand on her back, startling her.

“That room is not off limits , per se,” he said lightly, “but I do strongly recommend you don’t wander in. Especially not alone. It tends to…look back.”

She turned to him, eyes wide.

He smiled, ever charming, but the gleam in his eyes had something older behind it...something cold and amused. “Besides,” he added with a wink, “it tends to ruin the appetite.”

She nodded slowly. “Duly noted.”

Then he touched her elbow gently and guided her out again. “Too much dark for one night,” he said kindly. 

He led her back to the hall to the very next room. 

“And this, my darling, is yours.” With a smile and dramatic flair, he introduced the room.

The guest room was beautiful. Soft peach wallpaper, lace curtains billowing gently in the breeze from the open windows. A brass bedframe, with the mattress covered in crisp white linens with a faint floral pattern. A lace shawl had been artfully laid at the foot of the bed, and in a cut-glass vase on the nightstand sat a fresh bouquet: purple anemones, white hydrangeas, a ring of white lilies.

Charlie gasped, her hand to her chest. “Oh! It’s gorgeous! And these flowers…”

Just then, Nyther appeared silently beside the bed, holding a single white lily. He offered it with both hands and a slow bow, like a knight offering his blade.

Charlie beamed, her eyes misting just slightly. “Thank you, Nyther! It’s so beautiful. You made it look like a dream!”

Nyther preened, puffing with pride as Charlie took the proffered flower before he melted to the floor, curling up like a shadow-cat basking in praise.

Alastor leaned against the doorframe, watching with that ever-present crooked smile, arms crossed.

“Well,” he said, “make yourself at home. I’m just two doors down and between us is the grand bathroom. You’re free to wander, of course, but please…don’t go outside alone.”

Charlie blinked, lips forming a tiny ‘o’. “Is it that dangerous?”

“Not always,” he replied. “But enough to make me want to keep you breathing and un-kidnapped. At least until we figure out what the Black Hunt wants with you.”

She gave a solemn little nod, trying her best to look serious...though her sunshine still peeked through.

Alastor disappeared into his room for a moment and returned with a folded bundle of dark red silk.

“One last thing,” he said more gently, “a loan. Silk pajamas. My best pair, I’ll have you know. They’ll be more comfortable than what you’re in now.”

Charlie accepted the bundle with reverence and lifting it to her face. She inhaled and beamed. “They smell like you.”

He arched a brow. “Hopefully that’s a good thing.”

She giggled, eyes crinkling. “It is.”

They stood there a beat too long. Her arms wrapped around the pajamas like they were a treasure, him watching her with something a little softer than amusement.

“Thank you.” Charlie replied as she placed the silk pajamas on the bed. She gave the lily in her hand one final sniff before she turned the bouquet. She reached out towards the cut-glass vase when Alastor’s hand gently caught her wrist.

“Wait,” he said as he stepped closer. “May I?”

She blinked up at him, curious. “Of course.”

With the kind of care one might use when handling a piece of decorative glass, Alastor took the lily from her hand and tucked it into her hair just above her ear.

His fingers lingered in her hair, then brushed lightly against the curve of her jaw. 

“You wear it better than any vase could,” he murmured.

Charlie blushed, red crept across her face.

“Now,” Alastor continued, still close, he brushed her cheek with his knuckle, “I meant to ask, would you be kind enough to accompany me tomorrow?”

Charlie tilted her head, eyes wide and sparkly. “To where?”

“My work, if you’d like,” he replied with a smile that was all teeth and effortless charm. “Or your other option is being babysat by that delightful sack of bitterness we call Maverick. And let’s be honest… who would choose that, if they could avoid it?”

From the corner of the room, Nyther signed rapidly, fingers moving with sharp and amused energy: “You hang out with him for fun all the time.”

Alastor scoffed with dramatic flair. “Yes, well. I’m a masochist, it doesn’t count.”

Charlie let out a light, golden laugh that practically danced out of her. Her joy radiating out of her like it had been tickled free. “You want me to come with you? To a real human job?!”

“I do.” Alastor tipped his head, playfully conspiratorial. “So, what do you say, doll?”

She lit up, “Oh, I’d love to! That sounds amazing! Do you have one of those desks with all the little drawers? And a nameplate? Do they let you spin in the chairs?!”

She bounced slightly in place, hands fluttering excitedly at her sides like she couldn’t contain all the joy bubbling up inside her.

Alastor smiled, genuine and wide enough that it reached all the way to his eyes.

Something dangerous began to stir in his chest, it was small but undeniably present. This demoness was absolutely adorable, he could watch her like this forever.

Charlie gave a little hop on her toes, arms doing a happy wave like she was celebrating a parade. Then spun herself in a tiny, delighted circle.

And like it was the most natural thing in the world, Alastor moved without thinking. Smooth as breath, he drifted closer. His hands found hers gently. He tilted his head, smiling softly, asking a silent question she didn’t need to answer.

They began to dance without music.

They swayed, two beings pulled into the same gravity, the same rhythm.

He twirled her once. Twice. Her laugh sparkled like champagne bubbles bursting mid-air.

When she came back around, he caught her by the waist and drew her in. Their bodies brushed together, and her breath hitched.

She looked up, lips parted, eyes glowing with warmth and wonder.

His eyes searched hers like they were pages of a story he hadn’t known he needed. A story that made him forget what he was.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to, not in that moment as their bodies swayed gently in time.

Charlie’s hand rested on his shoulder. His arm encircled her waist. Her eyes were wide, innocent, so full of unguarded joy it could break and remake a man in one heartbeat.

And that trust...that bright, and unfiltered gift of her joy was what did it.

Something inside Alastor shifted.

He didn’t notice it at first, it began as just a curling tension in his chest. A faint ache in his ribs, like something waking up . But then his fingers tightened just slightly on her waist. His eyes darkened. His grin, so usually performative and harmless, took on a different shape. Hungrier .

His eldritch nature, always kept locked deep inside himself, began to leak through the cracks.

Both Alastor and Nyther twitched unnaturally, their forms began to elongate in unison. The air thickened. The lights dimmed, not because of power but because of presence . 

He needed her. It was a deep, almost primal need. Something clawed and ancient.

She was irresistible, not just in beauty but in being .

Charlie Morningstar, this beam of golden nonsense, this bubbling voice of sunshine, she was his...His happy accident...His summons...

H̸̛̬̠í̵̦̍͑̚s̵̹͔̗̗̍͠.

Alastor spun her out with a flourish. Their hands barely touching now, just fingertips.

And then he pulled her in, sudden and sharp, to be flush against his chest.

She gasped.

Her hands braced against him, her eyes wide.

He dipped her slowly, his palm supporting the small of her back, her hair cascading toward the floor like a golden waterfall. His face hovered just above hers, their noses nearly touching, her breath feathering against his lips.

His eyes locked on hers.

And they burned.

Red at the edges...They were dark and starving.

“Charlie,” he whispered, as if her name alone could anchor him.

He leaned in—

And then stopped.

The spell broke like a snapped violin string. Awareness slammed into him. His grip loosened. The room seemed to exhale.

He straightened, composed, and gently helped her upright. Adjusted his collar with meticulous care, “Apologies, my dear, I got… caught up in the moment. Dancing is a powerful thing, you know.”

Charlie was dazed. She blinked rapidly, lips parted but not speaking yet. Her cheeks burned red.

Alastor gave a shallow bow. 

“Goodnight, Miss Charlie. Sleep well. And remember: no venturing outside, even if the moon asks nicely.”

Then, he turned on his heel and called out, “Nyther, come along.”

The shadow slithered toward the door reluctantly.

Alastor raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be rude,” he whispered sharply. “Be the gentleman our dear mother raised us to be. Southern charm, not southern sulk.”

Nyther groaned wordlessly, but obeyed. Charlie tried, and failed, to stifle her giggles at his antics.

He turned to her, then leaned in and rubbed his nose gently against hers in an inky, shadowy Eskimo kiss. Then he signed, slowly, deliberately: “Goodnight. Sweet dreams.”

Charlie, still pink but composed, gave a breathy smile. “Wait—wait, let me try!” She stumbled through the shapes with her fingers, awkward but determined. “Is… this right?”

Nyther nodded vigorously as Alastor smirked over his shoulder. “You’re making his entire evening, dear.”

Charlie laughed, bright and pure. “Goodnight, Nyther. Goodnight, Alastor.”

The door closed softly behind them.

And in the hall, Alastor stood motionless for a long, long moment.

One hand on the doorframe.

The other pressed firmly over his chest.

Chapter Text

Upstairs, the bathroom was a haze of steam and warm light that filtered through the window slats, softening the world into sepia and gold. The scent of sandalwood soap mingled with the humid air.

The antique mirror above the basin, its frame carved in twisting thorny vines and faded brass, reflected the man who stood before it.

Alastor.

Shirtless. Bare to the waist.

His tall frame cut a striking silhouette in the golden light- all lean, wiry strength and coiled elegance. The kind of body made for tailored suits and deadly movement. His skin, that smooth caramel-gold, gleamed with a faint sheen of moisture, catching the light the way sugar glistens just before it hardens into candy.

But beneath the polish, there was history.

Scars.

A network of them. Faint silver lines that crisscrossed over his ribs, across his shoulders, down one side of his abdomen. Old wounds that told a story, one of claws, knives, and the things that hide in the dark.

He studied them the way one might examine old sheet music, familiar and faded.

Alastor dragged a hand through his thick, dark hair, still damp from the basin. The water had loosened his curls into something slightly unruly. He exhaled slowly before his eyes flicked to the mirror again.

He didn’t like looking at himself this way.

Not without the suit. Not without the smile.

Then his gaze caught something new. Something that hadn’t been there the night before.

Alastor leaned forward slightly, squinting into the fogged mirror as the steam began to thin. He noticed the faint blur of his own reflection and clicked his tongue in irritation.

Damn steam.

He reached for his glasses, which were perched neatly on the windowsill beside the shaving cup. The delicate gold wire frames caught the light as he slid them into place with a practiced, theatrical flick. The glass magnified his eyes just enough to sharpen the world around him, turn fog to clarity.

And that’s when he saw it.

Just beneath his left collarbone, nestled squarely over the heart, something had been carved into his flesh.

Not inked or even bruised...

Branded.

The design was unnervingly beautiful in his opinion. 

A rainbow, arched in several soft bands- but instead of clouds at its base, there were writhing tentacles, inky and sinuous, curling outward like roots from a cursed tree. Beneath the arch sat a perfectly formed apple, a heart in its core. Wrapped tightly around the bottom of the fruit was a delicate devil’s tail, which looped once, then curled elegantly into a treble clef, etched with musical precision like a composer’s signature. And growing from the top of the rainbow, where the sky might meet heaven, were a pair of deer antlers that displayed both proud and regal. They branched outward in rough, natural symmetry; the kind that whispered of forests older than time.

The brand pulsed once, as if recognizing it was being seen.

Alastor didn’t speak. He simply stared, transfixed by it. This was no ordinary contract seal; it was alive with intent. Intimate.

He reached up slowly and brushed two fingers across the edge of it. The brand was warm and thudded with something akin to a heartbeat, separate from his own. The edges tingled faintly under his touch.

A slow smile curled his mouth, though it lacked its usual cockiness. It was softer, almost reverent.

And then, just like that, he pulled on his shirt over the mysterious brand. Slid on his suspenders, and buttoned his waistcoat. Then, to complete his look, a perfectly tailored chalk stripe jacket draped over his arm. 

It was time to move downstairs. There was breakfast to make. And a demoness he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Downstairs, the kitchen had come alive with sizzling oil and the clatter of cast iron.

Alastor, now fully in his element, sleeves rolled to his elbows, moved like a man conducting an orchestra. A whisk in one hand, a skillet in the other. Bacon sizzled. Eggs were folded into omelets with herbs snipped fresh from the windowsill. The stone-ground grits had soaked overnight and were boiling to perfection. 

The coffee had been brewed and sat ready in their mugs. One cup was black as pitch, steaming softly, bitter and bold with an aroma sharp enough to wake the dead. The other was a concoction of excess, nearly opaque with cream and so laden with sugar it glistened at the rim, a saccharine dessert masquerading as coffee. 

He hummed quietly with a tune from a dusty record he'd spun so many times it had grooves worn into his memory. His mind, however, was not on the food. It kept drifting upstairs to her.

...To Charlie.

A little part of him still didn’t believe she was real.

Alastor turned off the burners and he arranged each plate with a touch more finesse than usual. It wasn’t just breakfast; it was a quiet performance, a small devotion to see her smile. 

He was setting the second plate on the table when he heard the soft pat-pat-pat of bare feet against the wood floors. He turned toward the archway and nearly dropped the damned plate.

Standing in the doorway, bathed in morning light and rubbing her sleepy eyes, was Charlie. Her golden hair was a wild halo of bed-tousled mane, soft and voluminous and refusing to obey gravity. And she was smiling with that soft, unguarded smile one only wears before the world has crept in. She was wearing nothing but the oversized pajama top he’d lent her the night before.

Alastor inhaled sharply.

His charming smile didn’t fade, but his eyes definitely widened.

The hem of the silk shirt brushed mid-thigh, just long enough to be barely decent and far too short for his nerves. Her legs — long, curvy, smooth as porcelain. And those thighs, for the love of God. Soft. Lush. Glowing against the morning sun like sin wrapped in cream.

“Well, good morning, Miss Charlie,” he said, voice smooth with a confidence he didn’t feel. “You, uh… seem to have stolen the spotlight from the sunrise.”

Charlie beamed so brightly the sun might’ve packed up and gone home. Her cheeks pinkened with sleepy delight. “Good morning, Alastor!”

Then...

Fwoosh.

Nyther emerged from the shadows like a curtain parting, his smoky form stretching like a cat in sunlight. With a dramatic flair, he pressed both hands to his chest and signed a flamboyant Good morning!

Charlie gasped, lit up like a child at a magic show, and trotted over on her bare feet, her voice sing-song with happiness. “Nyther! Good morning to you, too!”

The pajama shirt fluttered with every adorable step. Alastor made a strangled sound in his throat and immediately looked anywhere else...the wall, the coffee pot, the ghost of a regret...anything not currently dancing across the kitchen barelegged and beaming. 

It wasn’t gentlemanly to stare. And if there was one thing Alastor Valois prided himself on above all else, even over his charm or power, it was being a gentleman.

He could practically hear his mother’s mellifluous voice in his head:

“You are not some Bourbon Street back-alley hoodlum, Alastor. You treat a lady like a lady, or you don’t deserve her presence.”

He swallowed hard, straightened his collar, and smiled like a man who was absolutely not about to combust.

He could do this. He has faced literal ghosts and worse. He could have a normal conversation with Charlie, regardless of what she was wearing.

“I hope you slept well,” he said, tone easy and syrup-sweet. “Breakfast is ready if you’d like to have some.”

Charlie blinked sleepily, then gasped in joy when the question fully sunk in,  “Hmm? Oh...Yes please!”

He had to smile. The way she said it, like a child seeing a birthday cake, completely unaware of how she looked, how she practically glowed when she smiled like that.

His eyes flicked briefly, traitorously , down her legs again.

No. 

Nope.

Bad idea.

 Focus.

“I, uh...correct me if I’m wrong,” he drawled, trying to re-anchor himself, “but I could’ve sworn that set of pajamas came with pants .”

Charlie looked down, blinking in sleepy confusion. “Oh, yes. They were too long! I kept tripping and flailing and it was like a whole thing , so I just took them off. They’re upstairs. Super safe.”

She looked back up and grinned, utterly unconcerned, pure sunshine in a too-large silk shirt. 

Alastor’s smile twisted slightly at the corners- not from disapproval, but from sheer restraint.

Ever the gentleman, he pulled out her chair.

She plopped into it cheerfully, legs swinging slightly, and his hand lingered just a moment too long on the back of the chair as if it might anchor him to the world. There was no mistaking it now.

She wasn’t just beautiful.

She was dangerous.

Charlie took her first bite of breakfast and practically moaned in delight.

“This is so good!” she gushed.

Alastor smiled behind his coffee cup, watching her with a mixture of pride and helpless fascination. “Why, thank you, mademoiselle . I always say — good food is the most polite way to cast a spell on someone.”

Charlie giggled, chewing happily, then sipped her drink with a cheeky sparkle in her eye. “You are kind of spellbinding,” she teased.

He chuckled softly, snorting at her adorably corny delivery as he finally dug into his own plate. Meanwhile, Nyther had curled around her shoulder like a devoted, sleepy scarf, happily snoozing in the warmth of her joy.

And in that moment, it was hard to tell whether the kitchen was lit by the morning sun—or just by Charlie.

They ate their breakfast together in easy rhythm, their laughter mingling with the scent of coffee and bacon as they traded stories and smiles. Their conversation flowing as easily as the morning light through the window. For a little while, it was just two souls sharing warmth, wonder, and the quiet delight of unexpected company.

Alastor, across the table, couldn’t stop watching her. 

The way the morning sun touched her golden hair, the curve of her smile, the little happy noises she made with every bite of food made it, frankly, criminal how effortlessly she brightened the room.

Charlie wiggled happily in her chair with every bite, humming a little tune she may or may not have made up just for breakfast. A tiny smear of butter clung to the corner of her mouth, utterly forgotten in her euphoric devotion to eggs.

Alastor, ever the gentleman, slid a napkin her way with a smooth flick of his wrist.

She let out an appreciative “Ooooh! Thank you!” and reached for it with a delighted giggle. Their fingers brushed.

There was a pause.

Stillness.

A breath caught in both their lungs.

And then...

A hum.

Not a sound, but a feeling. A deep, resonant vibration beneath the skin, soft and warm, like the pulse of something ancient and half-asleep finally beginning to stir. Their brands glowed faintly in unison. Burning hot but comforting , almost like an echoing purr curling under their ribs.

Charlie blinked, her fingers still wrapped around the napkin, her cheeks pink with surprise.

“…Did you feel that too?” she asked, voice hushed but alight with wonder.

Alastor’s practiced smile faltered, just a hair. His hand moved unconsciously to the spot over his heart, fingers brushing his shirt.

Charlie pulled her hand back gently, then took a steadying breath. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice as soft as sunrise. “I’ve been waiting for it to… wake up.”

Charlie reached for the top button of her borrowed pajama shirt.

And Alastor’s brain immediately stopped issuing useful commands.

She’s stripping. In my kitchen. His thoughts spun like a roulette wheel, landing on panic, then confusion, then… hope? No- panic again. It was definitely panic.

Was this some kind of infernal breakfast custom in Hell? Was he supposed to follow suit? Was he overdressed?

He blinked. His jaw twitched. A single muscle in his cheek betrayed him. The corners of his ever-present smile quivered like a man holding back a sneeze—or a confession.

No. Not here. Not now. Surely she wouldn’t...

Then she loosened the button. Just one. With fingers that moved like poetry and intent.

She is. She absolutely is. God have mercy, she’s taking her shirt off and I’m sitting here like a stunned idiot. Do I follow her lead?

A deep crimson spread up his neck, painting his ears and flushing his face with shame and longing in equal measure. His smile stayed locked in place, a fragile dam behind which chaos screamed.

His eyes, however, were a different story. They were wide and broadcasting his full emotional collapse.

He didn’t move...Couldn’t... His instincts warred violently: lean forward like a scoundrel or bolt upright and fling himself through the nearest window.

She’s not seducing you, his brain barked, clutching the last shreds of dignity. She’s showing the brand. Magical importance. Symbolic meaning. FOCUS, you hormonal opera villain!

But another voice, cooler, silkier, treacherously persuasive: Or maybe she is seducing you. Maybe this is an invitation. Maybe she wants you to look. Wants you to reach out. Wants...

His left hand twitched, then retreated in shame under the iron grip of his right.

Still, his smile endured. His only line of defense. Meanwhile, his insides had burst into a chorus of Ave Maria and someone was definitely pulling fire alarms in his soul.

Charlie parted the shirt just enough to reveal her collarbone and below it, the elegant dip of skin where the light caught and held. Then he saw it.

Etched over her heart, the brand shimmered.

Rose-gold lines curled like living ink, glowing gently, rippling as if lit from within. It didn’t just glow. It breathed .

The same mark. In the same place.

A perfect match.

Alastor stared. Hard . Not at the mark, though he should have. Not at its beauty, or its magic, or what it meant.

But at the soft swell of skin beneath it. The vulnerable curve the brand hovered above. Her chest.

God help me, he thought. Her legs were already a hazard. But this? This is an act of war. A silk-draped scandal. A fully armed threat to the nation of my self-control.

His hands twitched again, aching to reach forward, to trace the brand, to find out if her skin felt as soft as it looked.

Then Charlie looked up at him, her expression glowing with nervous pride. “It’s proof we’re bound. A soul brand. A real one, and really strong too.”

And that broke him.

Not the skin, not the brand, but her eyes.

They were wide, shining warmly with wonder and belief. She looked at him like he was someone good, someone worthy.

It stopped the whole panic spiral in its tracks.

Alastor could slap himself.

You idiot, he scolded inwardly. She’s trusting you. She’s showing you something sacred. And you’re sitting here mentally composing sonnets to her cleavage like some swooning poet.

He blinked. Once, then twice. Trying to reset the machine.

Focus. She’s talking. She’s explaining something important. Magic. Consequences. Your fault. Listen like a grown man, not a romance novel protagonist with a fever.

And still… even as he tried to force his thoughts back into order, his gaze flicked again-just once-to that cursed bit of visible skin.

For scientific purposes.

He hated himself a little.

But not enough to look away.

She raised her hand and gently touched the glowing mark with two fingers, then three, tracing its outline in slow, reverent strokes.

On the third pass, a jolt shimmered through both of them. It was sharp, electric, not painful but deep. Like being struck in the chest by a chime. Alastor inhaled sharply, his expression going still.

Charlie smiled gently. “That’s what it does. The brand, it’s a soul bond. Not just a seal for our agreement. It connects us.”

He leaned in slightly, eyes glittering with curiosity. “Connects us how, precisely?”

She fidgeted with the napkin now resting in her lap, twirling it with wide eyes. “Well! It means we’ll always know if the other’s in danger. Or hurt. We’ll feel it. And sometimes…if the bond gets strong enough…thoughts or feelings can slip through.”

She paused for dramatic effect, cheeks puffing slightly with nervous hesitation. “And if one of us dies…”

Alastor raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“WELL…It’s very, um… hard for the other to survive that.” Charlie winced adorably. “Or so I read! During my lessons growing up. My tutors were very thorough in my education. We had a whole week on contract theory, but I didn’t pay much attention, because, y’know, I wasn’t supposed to use any of it—because I was never supposed to leave.”

She finished that last part in a breathless rush, like the words had tumbled out too fast for her to catch.

There was a lull.

Not heavy, just full.

The air between them shimmered quietly, like something unexpected had just been unwrapped, and neither of them knew what to do with it.

Charlie fidgeted in the silence.

“The design is different for everyone. It’s a representation of our two souls intertwining. It’s very personal,” Charlie explained, her eyes shining with awe like she was describing a constellation etched just for her. She looked down at the glowing brand over her heart, her fingers fluttering near it with gentle reverence. Her face was lit with wonder again, as if the world had handed her a secret too beautiful to keep.

Charlie leaned forward, practically bouncing in her seat with excitement, hands clasped in front of her like she was about to unwrap a gift. “It’s because it’s a representation of our souls!” she beamed, eyes sparkling. “Like, both of ours—together. All mixed up!”

Her fingers danced through the air as if trying to trace the shape of the idea. “Every symbol means something! Some part of you, some part of me, all swirled into this little magical tattoo that’s basically a cosmic friendship bracelet!” She gave a gleeful squeak of delight. “It’s so cool to try and figure out what each bit means. It’s like...like palm reading! But for your soul! And not just you but us.”

Her expression softened for just a second, voice turning sweet and earnest. “It’s really intimate. I mean…it’s not just a spell. It’s a window into everything we are together.”

Then her eyes widened again, glowing with wonder. “How amazing is that?!”

Alastor leaned back, fingers steepled, expression unreadable. “So, let’s see which pieces of the brand design are you.” Alaster stroked his chin in mock concentration. “The rainbow and the apple perhaps?”

Charlie smiled shyly, the kind of bashful, twinkling smile that made everything around her feel warmer. “The rainbow’s obvious. I’m a dreamer. Always chasing them, even when I probably shouldn’t.”

She giggled, pressing her palms together in her lap like she couldn’t keep still. “The apple’s…well, it’s from my family crest. We’re descended from a long line of temptation demons.”

Alastor’s gaze sharpened. “How very Eden of you.”

Charlie flinched, her smile faltered.

It was the smallest thing- a tiny, sharp inhale, the way her eyes went elsewhere for just a heartbeat.

He caught it.

There was a definite twitch in her jaw.

But just as quickly, it was gone. Buried again beneath sugar and sunshine. “Haha, yeah. Eden. You know apples and boring biblical stuff.”

Alastor made no comment, but internally he filed it away. 

There was something hidden there…Something old. He didn’t press it. Not yet.

“And the treble clef?” he asked, to lighten the mood.

Charlie lit up immediately. “That’s my magic!” she chirped. “I sing ! Always have! My mom used to say I was born humming.” She clapped her hands together with a delighted little hop in her seat. “Music’s where everything starts for me. It’s where all the power comes from, like a melody in my blood.”

“Charming and musical,” Alastor mused in a mock swoon. “Be still, my poor heart.”

He laid the back of his hand on his forehead and dramatically turned it to the side. Always the showman.

“You are so dramatic,” Charlie giggled and pointed. “I love it.”

She tilted her head with a curious sparkle in her eyes. “But antlers and the tentacles...those aren’t me. I think they’re you. Which is...weird...Because you’re human, right?”

He gave her that crooked, too-knowing smile.

“Oh, sweetheart. If you think I’m just your average human, then you clearly haven’t been paying attention.”

On cue, Nyther shifted through the air. Then, like a curtain of black ink, he merged with Alastor’s back. His eyes flashed the same eerie green- bright, sharp, and unnatural- as if for a moment, something ancient and shadowed was looking out through him.For a heartbeat, a green glow erupted from his skin, shimmering across the air like disturbed water.

Charlie gasped, a proper delighted gasp, and her hands flew to her mouth.

For a breathless moment, Alastor changed. His form warping and expanding like a shadow caught in firelight. Massive stag antlers branching up and out of his head, gnarled and flickering with spectral light. From his back, long tentacles of shadow writhed and uncoiled like they were tasting the air.

His eyes glowed; something deeper, older, otherworldly.

Charlie's jaw dropped, eyes wide as saucers, glittering with amazement.

And then...

Gone .

The glow vanished. The antlers faded. The room calmed.

Alastor blinked once, twice, and smoothed his vest like it had never happened.

Nyther, grinning in silent pride, immediately slithered over to Charlie and launched himself into her lap, coiling there like a purring cat. With utmost care, he began running his smoky fingers through her hair, braiding with the focus of an artist.

Alastor straightened his collar. “As you can see, my deer , the brand’s choice for me is very spot on.”

Charlie let out a tiny pfft of a laugh. “Deer, huh?”

He gave her a pleased shrug. “Couldn't resist.”

Charlie leaned into Nyther’s careful touch, practically glowing with joy. “I don’t know if I should be afraid of you or ask if I can ride your antlers like a carnival ride.”

Alastor smirked. “Why not both?”

Laughter spilled between them, warm and easy. Charlie watched with delighted awe as Nyther finished his last braid with a graceful flick of smoky fingers, then melted into a languid coil across her thighs, humming in silent contentment. She let out a soft giggle, wiggling slightly beneath his weight.

“So…” she said, voice light and thoughtful. “What is he, exactly? Is Nyther a shadow? A familiar? Part of you? Separate? Or just some dark, cuddly eldritch thing who likes your vibe and now wants to marry my lap?”

Alastor opened his mouth, a polished answer already forming. Then Charlie shifted slightly.

The pajama top slipped forward.

It was an innocent shift in posture. An unintentional movement but devastating all the same.

The pajama top slipped forward with treacherous ease, and all at once, Alastor had a full, unobstructed view of her utterly perfect cleavage.

His mouth went dry, he stopped breathing.

Don’t look. Don’t touch. Don’t...

He was a man of restraint and decorum. He preferred to always be in control.

But temptation had teeth.

He lunged forward- not for her, but for the shirt. He caught the collar in his hands and gently, almost reverently, pulled it back into place.

Charlie blinked up at him, utterly confused, wide-eyed and guileless. Her cheeks pinked adorably, but she didn’t pull away.

His fingers moved slowly, carefully, re-fastening the button at the top.

Their eyes locked. Alastor’s breath stalled as he remained there, looming over her for a moment longer.

She was so beautiful. So adorable and so close.

Too close.

Then, with great effort, he sat back in his chair.

“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat. He willed his mind to calm, to focus on her question.

After a long moment, Alastor looked back at her.

Charlie was beaming at him. Her smile bright enough to banish winter, eyes wide and glowing with that open, guileless curiosity that made her look like a question mark sculpted from sunlight. Her feet kicked gently beneath the table, swinging like a child on a swing who’d just spotted her favorite treat across the room. She sat there expectant but politely silent.

“That conversation,” he said, voice tight with restraint and lingering heat, “veers into territory far too large for breakfast.”

Then he smiled. It was crooked, wicked, playful.

“But I can tell you this: Nyther and I are very much connected.”

Charlie’s grin exploded wider, and she let out a delighted gasp.

“Connected, huh?” she giggled, leaning forward, no less distracting, with her chin propped on her fists. “Connected like emotionally? Psychically?” She wiggled slightly in her seat, the picture of childish glee.

Alastor exhaled a soft laugh, one that curled at the edges with something darker. “Yes and no.”

Her eyes sparkled like they were catching stars. “What does that mean?” she squeaked, voice going up half an octave with excitement.

“It means that the answer is complicated,” Alastor went on, eyes flicking toward the shadow sprawled across her thighs. “We are different and the same at the same time. We’ve just always been this way.”

Her brow furrowed adorably. “Wait...always ?”

Alastor paused, obviously having said more than he meant to.

Charlie’s eyes narrowed slightly, still glowing with mischief behind the genuine wonder. “You said always been that way. Soooo… have you two always been together?”

He hesitated again, then slowly turned to Nyther with a slight tilt of his head- an unspoken invitation.

Nyther responded instantly.

The living shadow uncoiled from her lap with eerie grace and rose to full height before her. His form hovered tall and dark, while he loomed above her.

Charlie blinked, the breath catching in her throat.

Nyther reached forward and took her hand in both of his. His touch was cool, soft, and reverent.

Charlie squeaked.

He turned her palm over, inspecting her fingers like they were made of glass, fragile and perfect. Then, gently, deliberately, he lifted her wrist to his mouth and kissed it. Slowly, he dragged his shadowy lips up further to the inside of her palm, where he kissed her again. It was deliberate, slow, full of weight and meaning. This was not a chaste kiss. It was intimate, lingering and possessive. His lips stayed far too long, but she didn’t pull away.

Charlie’s breath hitched, her cheeks crimson. Then a shiver pulsed down her spine, echoed in her ribs by that low, resonant chime—the tuning-fork vibration of the brand. She gasped, eyes flicking between the two of them.

“How is this possible?” she whispered.

Still holding her hand, Nyther moved it gently to where his heart should be. She felt it again, the hum of the shared soul connection. The echo of the mark.

“The brand?” she whispered breathlessly.

She leaned forward, peering through the shifting form of the shadow. There, just barely, she could see it. It was the same brand, etched into his shadowy chest, like pitch against midnight.

Her hand trembled as she looked up. First to Nyther, then to Alastor, then back again.

“But how? How does he have it?”

Alastor’s smile darkened into a wicked smirk.

“You see, my darling Demon-belle, Nyther is something entirely unique.” His voice curled around her like smoke. “He is not all me…nor all shadow.”

He leaned close.

“He is Nyther.”

Charlie stared at them both, mouth agape, cheeks flushed, eyelashes fluttering.

Then she grinned. Wide, breathless, and adorable.

“So he’s not exactly you and not exactly himself…neither of you…” She clapped her hands together with delight. “He’s neither of you.”

Alastor blinked then groaned, rubbing his hand down his face as Nyther flopped theatrically into her lap.

“Nyther is neither!” she called out triumphantly.

Charlie laughed until she hiccupped, absolutely glowing with pride.

In that soft moment, the bond between them all shimmered quietly—curious, unexpected, inevitable.

For a while, they ate in peace. The room was full of good food, warm light, and warmth between them that neither quite knew how to name yet.

Then Charlie leaned forward, practically bouncing in her seat with curiosity. “So… what do you actually do for work?”

Alastor’s face lit up, eyes glimmering. “Ah, my darling, I am a radio host. A rather well-known one, in fact. My voice is one of the most famous this side of the Mississippi.”

Her eyes widened until they nearly glowed. “Really?! That’s amazing! Like…a real human job?! I can’t wait to see!”

Alastor grinned. Then his eyes drifted down, betraying him. Back to her legs again...Pale...Perfect...Still bare.

Damn.

His entire body tensed.

He hadn’t thought this through. She couldn’t go out like that; it was positively scandalous. And worse still...

The thought of anyone else seeing her like this- his Charlie, his sunshine-summoned demon-belle- was unacceptable.

He stood, adjusting his cuffs with newfound urgency.

“We’ll need to stop by Rosie’s. Immediately. You need clothes.”

Charlie blinked. “Rosie?”

“A friend. She works in fashion, and even better, she pawns in discretion. Trust me.”

He turned to Nyther, who looked up, his head tilted curiously.

Alastor stood and dusted crumbs from his trousers, then fixed his gaze on Charlie’s legs again—sharp mischief dancing in his eyes. “You didn’t think I’d let the rest of New Orleans see you like that, did you?”

Charlie blinked again, innocence in full bloom. “This? Is this… inappropriate?”

Alastor erupted in a low, warm chuckle. “Of course it is!” His grin was fond and amused, like she’d just asked if rainbows taste like jellybeans. “You don’t know that?”

She shrugged with sunny ease. “I don’t make it a habit to dress like this, but in Hell, there are others who wear far more scandalous outfits. It is where succubi come from, after all.”

Alastor paused, jaw tightening just a little at that unexpected explanation.

“Well,” he said finally, slipping into his coat, “that does explain a few things.”

Nyther’s shadow coiled around Charlie’s shoulders like a contented scarf, his fingers still playing with a lock of her golden hair.

Charlie glanced down at the silk shirt, thinking about last night’s rescue mission and looked back up at Alastor with earnest wonder shining in her eyes. “Do you think I should go get Maverick’s coat? I mean… it’s cozy and more appropriate to wear, right? I want to look… right. You know, human.”

Alastor studied her for a long, quiet moment, heart tightening in a way he couldn’t fully explain. The idea of her in another man’s clothes, drinking in another man’s scent... it sank into his chest with unexpected sharpness. Last night it was a necessity, but if she covered his shirt with something from another…it felt like a claim.

Nyther’s smoky form swirled tighter around Charlie, as if to echo Alastor’s unspoken emotions. Their eyes met across the curve of her shoulders, and he knew that they both felt it. He nodded to his shadow, the possessiveness tightening in his chest. It was irrational, he barely knew her, but he couldn’t help the need to mark this moment, to show her she was his responsibility, his treasure. 

He swallowed hard, forcing the possessive feeling back behind courtesy.

“No need to get Maverick’s coat. I… don’t want you wearing another man’s clothing again.”

He pinned a stray curl behind her ear, voice low. “And we’ll take the umbral step to get to Rosie’s. It’ll get us there quickly, and it’s still early enough that others shouldn’t notice.”

Charlie’s face bloomed with delight. “Umbral step? What’s that?”

Alastor let out a breathy laugh. He tilted his head to Nyther again.

The shadow nodded, reluctantly letting go of her hair. He quickly scooped up their plates, dropped them in the sink with a quiet splash, and returned to Charlie’s side. He hovered, waiting. 

Charlie watched Nyther before turning back to Alastor, face beaming. She was blissfully unaware of how thoroughly she was unraveling him with her mere existence.

He stepped closer, gaze locked onto hers, and extended his hand, palm up, “Come here.”

Charlie blinked, the purest delight shining in her eyes. “Are we leaving now?”

“Soon,” he said softly. “But first...”

He took her hand and drew her closer, gently but decisively. He guided her with the same ease as a man leading a waltz. His hand slid to her lower back, the silk of his shirt between them, and before she could blink again- He spun her.

Under his arm, she giggled and twirled, hair glistening in the morning light like spun gold. One step, then two, and she was back, pressed close to his chest again. Their fingers entwined, breathing in perfect rhythm.

Charlie’s eyes were wide, smiling. “You really like dancing, don’t you?”

Alastor’s voice dropped into something low and tender. “Darlin’, I was born for it.”

Around them, the shadows curled, drawn by Nyther’s hum of silent magic. The floor beneath them began to darken, the light thinning like it was being sucked through a straw. The scent of brimstone mixed with sugar and copper. The gaslights above flickered. A shadowy portal opened, swirling and twisting. With a pulse of green light, Nyther pulled his umbral form from the shadowy vortex. He collected the spinning portal of shadows from where it was on the floor and hung it in the open air. The shadowy portal fully opened, swirling and beckoning.

Charlie caught her breath for a heartbeat as the inky doorway yawned.

Alastor’s fingers tightened protectively on hers.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Still holding her, Alastor drew to the right, closer to the open portal. Then, with a dramatic flair, they danced into it- sidestepping through shadows.

The world folded in on itself.

The shadows peeled away like smoke lifting from incense, and Alastor stepped through the umbral step, pulling Charlie gently behind him.

The moment her feet touched down, she gasped in delight. “Oooh! It’s so much brighter than it was last night! Look at that sky!” She spun once, her bare feet landing on the glossy cobblestone with a delighted bounce. “It smells like pastries and... old dreams! We’re really in the human world!”

They stepped out onto a walkway just shy of Chartres Street, where the fog of morning had barely begun to lift from the wrought-iron terraces above. The cobblestone underfoot was glossy, scrubbed so clean it reflected like freshly polished teeth in the early morning light. Elegant Creole mansions lined the block in perfect rows, their balconies overflowing with jasmine, roses, and climbing moonflower. 

“Oh, my stars- those balconies! And the flowers! They’re just… growing? Outside? For everyone?” Charlie squealed with delight.

Alastor smirked as she floated beside him. She sang merrily about beautiful blue skies and fluffy clouds under her breath. The excitable demoness practically buzzing with glee. She kept turning her head to catch sight of more.

White iron gates gleamed under the sun, and not a single shutter was crooked, not a single step chipped. Extravagant storefronts peppered between them.

The sign on the nearest street corner read: Dentelle et des os

Charlie tilted her head. “That looks fancy! I don’t know what it says, but I love it already!”

Alastor said nothing, but he knew. And his smile tightened ever so slightly as they stepped forward.

Everything here was immaculate, nothing else would be acceptable on this street.

It was the kind of place where the silverware never tarnished, the blood never stained, and the neighbors always said hello.

He shifted, subtly stepping in front of Charlie. His coat moving like a shield. His eyes flicked to the drawn curtains overhead, the storefronts just beginning to ready for the day. 

Charlie leaned toward him, her voice low but still glowing with wonder. “Are we close?” 

“Just ahead,” he murmured. “Stay close.”

He didn’t mean it to sound possessive. But it was.

His arm brushed hers. His presence hovered like smoke.

In the short time he’d known her, Charlotte Morningstar had become something precious. She wasn’t just a summons anymore. She was his. Even if he didn’t fully understand what that meant yet.

They reached a corner storefront nestled under the boughs of a blooming magnolia tree, its petals drifting like snow across the clean brick. The store was three stories of French-Creole grandeur with tall, arched windows trimmed in soft gold, dark green shutters flung open like welcoming arms, and ivy curling around every wrought-iron railing like it had been instructed to perform. The glass door bore painted script in gold leaf that shimmered with subtle enchantment:

Rosie’s Emporium
Custom Tailoring, Glamour, And More. Consultations By Appointment.

Charlie gasped like she’d just found the gates of heaven. “OH- look at it! It’s so pretty! The dresses! The sparkles! Is this a real human boutique?!”

The display windows were dressed in every shade of twilight. Displays were layered in chiffon and silk, all in the soft palette of a garden at dusk. Mannequins wore gowns like dreams in silk and whispers, and even elegant men’s suits looking like they stepped out of the silver screen.

Alastor approached the door with deliberate calm and knocked once. Then waited.

And waited.

Nothing. 

Odd.

He knocked again, knuckles against the brass plate.

Still no reply.

He glanced at the drawn shade behind the glass. “That’s strange…”

Charlie, peering through the glass, was still pressed to it like a kid at a candy shop. “Do you think they’ll let me try on everything ? Or is it one of those fancy places with rules like ‘no touching’?”

He knocked a third time, louder now.

Still nothing.

“Nyther,” he said softly, and the shadow peeled itself from his side, ready to slip beneath the door.

But just as the shadow reached for the keyhole...

Click.

The door opened.

Standing in the threshold was a woman who looked like the definition of refinement: Rosie.

She was a vision of Old South elegance: a floor-length satin gown of dusky rose and pearl, a string of antique cameos at her throat, and with a matching feathered cloche hat set at an elegant tilt. Her gloves were wrist-length and white. Her hair, so blonde it gleamed white, was waved into a perfect 1930s coiffure, not a strand out of place. Her lipstick was wine-dark, her eyes lined in soft charcoal. Diamonds winked from her ears and from the serpent-shaped brooch at her collarbone. Rosie’s face bore no age — only experience. Her smile, when it came, was dazzling and slightly too sharp.

She took in Alastor with one cool glance.

Then her eyes slid to Charlie.

Slower.

Wider.

Interested.

“Alastor ,” she said, her voice a melody that could cut glass. “You do know the shop doesn’t open until noon today.”

“I do,” he said, bowing slightly. “And I’m deeply sorry to impose so early. But I find myself in a bit of an... emergency.”

He stepped aside slightly, gesturing toward Charlie but not out of the way. He was still between them, still half-shadowing her with his body, even in the sunlight.

Rosie’s eyes sharpened as they fell fully on Charlie. The girl in the oversized shirt, bare legs, and tousled gold hair, looking like something plucked from a dream and left in the waking world by mistake, face glowing like a sunbeam.

Charlie offered a shy wave and her most radiant grin. “Hi! I’m Charlie! I’m very new here, and your dress is amazing. Like a swan married a diamond!”

Rosie’s smile twitched, amused. “Well. Isn’t she a lovely mess.”

Charlie blushed. “I am? That’s nice of you to say. But I promise I’m very polite, even when messy.”

Rosie’s gaze flicked back to Alastor. She didn’t ask what kind of emergency. She didn’t ask for an explanation. She simply opened the door wider.

“Well,” she said sweetly. “You’d better come in before the Quarter eats you alive.”

Alastor didn’t need telling twice.

He guided Charlie forward with him, her delighted gasp still echoing as the door shut behind them with a click and the street was quiet once more.

Chapter Text

The bell above the door gave a delicate little chime as Alastor stepped in, his arm protectively curved around Charlie’s waist. The morning sun framed them like something out of a stage production. Him in his usual tailored suit and charm, her flushed in nothing but his silk pajama shirt. The hem brushing scandalously high on her thighs.

The shift from the street into Rosie’s Emporium was immediate, like stepping into another world where elegance was a religion and every thread carried a whisper. Every aspect of the boutique was breathtaking.

Plaster molding in scalloped fans, soft gaslight diffused through etched crystal, and mirrors framed in gilded baroque patterns made the room seem twice its size. The air was rich with the scent of violets, powder, and something faintly metallic. Racks of dresses in silk, velvet, and charmeuse framed the room.

Every item was displayed like an elegant work of art, curated perfectly like a museum. 

Charlie’s eyes went wide as saucers. “It’s so pretty! ” she breathed, stepping forward with unabashed delight. “Everything here is like a painting- and I get to touch it?”

She reached toward a rack of silk gowns in pastel shades: pale lilacs, champagne creams, moonlight whites. She brushed a fingertip over fabric as if it were spun from dreams.

“Rosie, I know we’re terribly early and dreadfully forward...” Alastor began.

“Oh, hush, Alastor,” Rosie cut in, her voice smooth as velvet and sharp as glass. “You’ve always been forward. Now you’ve brought a girl to my shop and expect me not to be intrigued?”

Charlie’s cheeks turned rosy, but she stayed perched. Still on the verge of another starry-eyed revelation. 

Alastor grinned, unaffected. “My dear,” he said, waving off the comment with a flourish, “I do apologize for the dreadful breach in etiquette, showing up unannounced. Truly a sin of the highest order. But we’ve got to be on-air by half-past eight, and I find myself in need of a miracle. Or at the very least, a slip and a dress.”

Rosie gave him a look.

Then she glanced at Charlie who was still wrapped in silk, golden-haired, and bright-eyed as she gazed around the boutique like it was a fairy tale ballroom.

“Mmm,” Rosie hummed, stepping closer. “In all our years, not once have I seen you take an interest in any woman. And here you are... walking in with the prettiest little blonde I’ve laid eyes on...wearing your silk top.”

She clicked her tongue with faux indignation. “Your good pair, I might add.” She gestured to the men’s section. “I should know, you bought ‘em here.”

Alastor laughed dryly, brushing off imaginary lint. “You wound me. That’s slander.”

“Mm-mm,” Rosie responded. “It’s facts, sugar.”

He opened his mouth to retort just as Charlie, with bright eyes and barely-held-back squeal of joy, turned and exclaimed, “Would it be alright to look around?” Her smile was shy but radiant, the kind that could thaw the coldest marble.

“You may,” Alastor murmured, voice warm. He released her waist, though his hand lingered a moment too long before falling away.

Charlie flitted deeper into the shop, her bare feet softly padding across the polished tile, excitement glinting in every step.

Out of earshot, Alastor exhaled a slow, satisfied breath, face lit by a private indulgence.

“Well, seeing as you’ve caught me in a scandal,” he said, adjusting his bow-tie. “I was hoping you might provide a temporary ensemble or two for my radiant guest. Just to tide her over until I can arrange a proper appointment.”

He smiled like he wasn’t asking the moon.

“Naturally,” he added, “I wouldn’t dream of trusting anyone else with her wardrobe. Who else could possibly do her justice but you?”

Rosie narrowed one perfectly penciled brow.

“Flattery and short notice? My, my. That’s a dangerous combination.”

He pressed a hand to his heart. “Desperation makes poets of us all.”

Rosie laughed, low and husky. “You’re lucky I like poets. And scandal.”

“You boys make yourselves comfortable, while I help the little doll.” She turned toward the back of the boutique, her heels clicking across the inlaid tile. Charlie’s joyful laughter drifted back to them—a sparkling sound that promised a day full of magic, transformation... and maybe something a little unexpected.

Rosie’s Emporium was a glittering jewel box of the latest fashion, brimming with elegance and Southern charm: silk gowns, tailored suits, and every accessory imaginable lined the walls in soft-lit splendor. Feathered hats perched beside gloves in every color, while canes, cufflinks, and perfume bottles gleamed behind glass. The boutique was equal parts luxury and taste, where both ladies and gentlemen could be dressed like royalty from heel to hatpin.

Charlie turned in slow, reverent circles, hands clasped beneath her chin like she was about to burst from joy. “Ohhh—look at that hat! Is that an ostrich feather?! And those gloves! They’re like… clouds made of silk!”

Her fingers fluttered toward a lavender shawl like a butterfly testing its wings. Her wide eyes drank in the textures and shimmer, giddy with the thrill of it all.

“Is this all real?” she whispered, utterly charmed. “I feel like I stepped into one of those old stories people used to create when the world still believed in magic.”

Every inch of the space was curated to perfection. Art Deco chandeliers sparkled above, their crystals catching the morning sun like frozen champagne.  A gleaming mahogany staircase curled gracefully up to a mezzanine wrapped in wrought iron railing, where more displays beckoned just out of sight. 

Charlie’s eyes drifted to the furnishings. At first glance, they were just period-perfect details: carved chair arms, delicate sconces, mannequin stands.

She trailed her fingers along the edge of the elaborate dressing screen again, her brows pinched together in confusion as her fingertips brushed over a delicate ridge that was not carved wood, but something smoother...calcified...

Bone. 

Was it just her imagination?

Charlie blinked and looked again at the grand establishment.

On closer inspection she noticed it, the small oddities.

The lampshade in the corner was stitched from a skin that was too smooth. The bones framing the dressing screen were real, not imitation. They were polished white and arranged like ribs folding into lace. The curtain rods had knuckled joints. The buttons on one of the capes looked like teeth.

And just like that, the dazzle and elegance of the boutique twisted, ever so slightly, into something else. Still beautiful. But off-key, like a waltz set at a too deep tempo. Eerie and hauntingly beautiful.

Still bright-eyed but slightly more careful now, Charlie turned. Her tone stayed light and polite, but a thoughtful smile danced at the corner of her lips. 

“Excuse me, ma’am,” she said, hands politely folded. “But, uh… do your curtain rods have knuckles? ”

Rosie, already holding a dress in one gloved hand, turned slowly with a polished smile. Her voice dripped charm. “My goodness. Is that what the darling thing looks like to you?”

Charlie nodded, that sunshine grin still in place. “Yes, ma’am. I might be wrong, but I could’ve sworn one of your curtain rods just shook hands with me.”

Rosie pulled another dress from the rack, barely reacting.

“Could’ve sworn, hmm? Well, you’re welcome to think whatever you like, sugar.”

Her tone was velvet-soft, playful, and entirely unbothered.

Charlie didn’t blink. She stepped forward instead, curiosity sparkling, her smile unfading but sharp.

“That’s a very polite way of not answering my question.”

Rosie paused, the barest flicker of amusement ghosting across her features. Her gaze warmed.

“Well now. Does the young lady have a bit of bite to her?”

Charlie tilted her head. “Just a nibble,” she said cheerily. “I’ve learned that if you ask the right way, people tend to tell you more than they mean to.”

That made Rosie laugh, a loud and honest guffaw.

Then, with theatrical flair, she sighed. “Fine. Yes. They’re bones.”

Charlie didn’t flinch- not exactly- but her fingers laced in front of her, and her posture straightened just slightly.

“All human,” Rosie added. “Before you ask.”

Charlie’s smile didn’t falter. “Well… that’s certainly a design choice.”

Rosie barked another delighted laugh. “I do appreciate your honesty and your manners, ” she said, eyes narrowing fondly. “You didn’t shriek, curse, or insult my decorating.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Charlie chirped. “I’m just a guest.”

Rosie stepped closer, her voice dropping to something just a bit silkier.

“And we value that, here. On Rue Dentelle et des os , manners are very important. Keep them, and you’ll find yourself perfectly safe. Forget them, and this place can be known to literally chew you up and spit you out.”

Her smile was radiant. Her teeth, a little too sharp.

Charlie blinked, took the warning for what it was, and gave a respectful nod, “Understood.”

“So, doll, what do you think of my humble establishment, now that you have an eye for all the little details?” Rosie purred, her voice like the rest of her was both beautiful and deadly. 

Charlie turned toward her with a sunshine-bright grin, hands clasped again in front of her. “It’s like walking straight into the pages of a fashion magazine! But one that was edited by a very stylish cryptid!”

Rosie gave her a long once-over, then stepped in to adjust a lock of Charlie’s hair.

“You're polite. But you’re not stupid. I like that.” She nodded, satisfied with how she helped lay Charlie’s hair.

Charlie blinked, her eyes wide with surprise. She hadn’t expected Rosie’s touch to be so gentle, almost affectionate, like a sister straightening a ribbon before a grand entrance.

“You know,” Rosie tilted her head, “most outsiders would’ve screamed or fainted by now. Or at least clutched their pearls.”

Charlie smiled sweetly. “Well, I don’t own any pearls. And screaming tends to attract the wrong kind of attention.”

Rosie barked a laugh. “Oh, darling. You are delightfully unexpected. ” She looked at Charlie, her expression hungry for more. “Very open-minded for one so young. I expect you’ve seen some things in your time?” It was phrased like a question, but Rosie’s knowing look told a different story.

“Well, I was raised in Hell. You get all kinds of neighbors down there. Cannibals are hardly the strangest.”

Rosie paused, one painted nail resting against her chin.

“Hell, huh?” she murmured, her eyes took a darker gleam to them with something unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, her gaze slid toward Alastor, standing by a shelf of gloves. He was locked in a murmured conversation with Nyther. His eyes never left the golden girl in the center of the room.

Beside him, Nyther was just as still, his gaze fixed on Charlie with the quiet intensity of a shadow studying sunlight.

Rosie smirked.

“Well… that explains them,” she said.

Charlie followed her gaze with that wide-eyed curiosity of hers. Then blinked in confusion, her lashes fluttering like startled moths. “Explains what?” 

“The poor dears have been staring at you since you entered the shop. Honestly, I think they're smitten.”

Charlie’s cheeks flushed instantly, a brilliant cherry-red that painted her from collar to ears. She gasped, one hand flying up to her mouth in pure delight and disbelief. “What? No, Alastor’s just a very polite human! And Nyther is… well, Nyther .” The way Charlie sighed out the shadow's name, Rosie had an inkling that the boys were not the only ones becoming smitten.

Rosie arched a brow. “Sweetheart, I’ve known that man since he had knobby knees and a stutter. That is not ‘just polite.’ That’s ‘one more look and I’ll have to excuse myself.’”

Charlie made a soft squeaky sound, equal parts scandalized and flattered. Her hands flapped helplessly near her cheeks as she spun a little on her heel, the oversized shirt fluttering with her movement. “But they haven't known me long! We only just... I mean I barely...”

Rosie gave a slow, amused nod. “He’s a quick judge of people, but he’s rarely surprised.”

Charlie peeked over her shoulder at Alastor and Nyther, completely oblivious to the conversation unfolding behind them. Several times, Alastor appeared to be so distracted while he paced that he nearly collided with one of Rosie’s displays.

Her heart fluttered at the sight, like butterflies had nested in her chest.

Rosie leaned in slightly, her tone teasing and conspiratorial. “You certainly are his type. Utterly charming. Disarmingly entertaining. Radiant.”

Charlie’s whole face lit up like sunrise, even as she covered her cheeks with her hands. “Oh my gosh, Miss Rosie!”

“I’m only stating facts, sugar. He’s been trying not to look at your legs this entire time, and I’m starting to pity the poor boy.”

Charlie gasped again, practically bouncing in place with nervous delight. “You’re terrible!” she chirped, her voice high and delighted.

But Rosie just waved the comment off with a fox-like grin.

“I’ve pulled out a few pieces, something simple and dignified to hold you over until your proper fitting. Which we will schedule before you leave. Can’t have a girl like you walking around town in borrowed pajamas.”

Charlie nodded rapidly, beaming, still very much flushed but too delighted by everything to properly hide it. “Thank you! Really! This place is amazing and... gosh, I’ve never tried on human clothes before!”

“You’re very welcome, my dear,” Rosie said with a gentle pat to Charlie’s shoulder. “Now let’s get you dressed before that man walks face-first into a mannequin.”

Rosie gestured toward a velvet-curtained hallway in the back. With that, the two women disappeared into the boutique’s back chambers- leaving behind a shadowy gentleman who had, in fact, just walked into a mannequin.

Alastor leaned casually against the edge of an elaborate jewelry case, feigning nonchalance. His eyes swept the boutique as if idly admiring the decor but his gaze kept flicking, just a little too often, toward the velvet-curtained hallway at the back.

Nyther, coiled like a semi-transparent serpent around his shoulders, rearranged a table of ties with a flick of shadowed tendrils. First by color, then by pattern.

“She’s been back there a while,” Alastor muttered.

Nyther signed lazily: “You want to check? You’re allowed to care.”

“I’m not worried. Merely… monitoring,” he replied, voice too quick to sound casual.

They stood in companionable silence until Rosie appeared beside him; all silk and sudden presence. Her voice was smooth, low, and slightly amused.

“She’s trying on clothes,” she said, lips curving just so. “She’ll be out soon.”

Alastor straightened, smoothing his expression back into its signature lopsided grin. The one he wore like armor.

“Oh? Excellent. I was hoping she’d find something suitable.”

“Mm-hmm.” Rosie tilted her head. “And how are you doing, sugar? This whole thing’s not like you. I know how much you pride yourself on playing the gentleman.”

“I am a gentleman.”

Rosie blinked once, slow and unimpressed. “Care to explain why she’s just wearing your pajama shirt, Mr. Gentleman?”

His ears pinked, just a shade. “That’s… complicated.”

“Oh, I bet it is.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” he said too fast. “Her original clothing burned away when she arrived. All we had were… borrowed options.”

“A demon walking half-naked through the Quarter?” Rosie deadpanned.

Alastor gave a curt nod. “Precisely.”

Rosie let him flounder a moment, arms folded, amused and razor-eyed. To most, he looked the definition of poised. But Rosie knew him. She saw the faint twitch beneath his lower lid, the way his hand fussed with his lapel, the way he avoided looking at the fitting room curtain.

“You know,” she said slowly, “for someone who usually enters a room like he owns the floorboards, you’re looking mighty unsettled by one sweet girl in bare legs and borrowed silk.”

Alastor said nothing. Nyther trembled on his shoulders, silently snickering.

Rosie’s gaze softened — just barely. “She mentioned demons.”

Alastor’s grin lost its edges, “Did she?”

“She did.” Rosie clarified. Then she paused, before her voice dropped to something sharper. “What exactly are you doing with a demon, Al?”

His mask snapped back into place. “That depends on your definition of with .”

Rosie rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t play coy. You know what I mean.”

He opened his mouth with a glib retort, only to find her attention shifting.

“I’ll admit you’ve got one Hell of a poker face, Al, but we both know that your shadow does not.” She turned her narrowed gaze toward Nyther. “You. What exactly did you two do to land yourselves a demon topside?” Rosie demanded.

Nyther froze mid-motion, visibly startled.

Rosie’s eyes didn’t blink. “You’re fidgeting. That’s your tell. Twitchy fingers, curled cheek, floating jaw... you’ve done something stupid.”

Alastor sighed. “He’s not twitchy. He’s expressive.”

“Don’t sass me. He practically blinks in Morse code.” She stepped closer, silk skirt swishing around her as she moved. “You were chasing something, weren’t you?”

Alastor didn’t respond.

Rosie narrowed her eyes. “Was it the Black Hunt?”

Nyther flinched. Hard.

Alastor exhaled. “It wasn’t intentional.”

Rosie rounded on him. “You idiot.”

“I didn’t mean to finish the ritual!”

“That doesn’t make it better,” she snapped. Her voice was still refined, always poised and proper but now it cut with precision. “You don’t go after the Hunt. Not alone. You know that better than anyone.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Alastor muttered. “Maverick was with me.”

Rosie stared. “Oh, great. The drunk.”

Alastor winced. “It worked.”

“Barely,” she snapped. “You bound her soul.”

“We’re still studying the nature of the bond,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t… deliberate. But yes. The brand is real.”

Rosie’s voice dropped, incredulous. “You let a Black Hunt ritual finish. On you. With a demon.”

Alastor met her eyes, this time without evasion. “She was the goal. The Hunt was after her. And now she’s not in their hands.”

A silence followed. Rosie stared long and hard, searching his face.

“You like her.” She states it, she doesn’t ask because she doesn’t need to.

“Of course. She’s a peach.”

Rosie narrowed her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Alastor hesitated. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But… I feel protective. Maybe even a little possessive.”

He glanced at Nyther, who was now doing a dreamy, slow spin around Alastor’s collar like a content cat.

“And Nyther’s clearly smitten.”

The shadow made a gesture that could only be interpreted as a happy wiggle.

Rosie looked between them, then sighed through her nose. “Come back Saturday. Nine sharp. Before I open. I want her here, and I want her undistracted. I’m going to take a very close look at your little demoness.”

Alastor bowed slightly, a hand to his chest. “As ever, I am in your debt.”

She smiled, “Oh darling,” Rosie purred. “I know.”

And for a moment, the tension cracked just enough to allow a shared, knowing laugh.

The velvet curtain whispered as it pulled back, and Charlie stepped into the soft glow of the boutique’s main room.

Her dress was simple: a tea-length day dress of gentle sage green, ivory buttons marching down the front like cheerful little soldiers, a softly flared skirt swaying around her knees. No shimmer, no fancy beading. But on her, it looked like a dream spun into fabric.

She carried an armful of additional dresses; each neatly folded in a rainbow of pastel hues. “Thank you so much, Miss Rosie!” she exclaimed, cheeks flushed with delight. “These fit best. I—I didn’t expect human clothes to feel this lovely.”

Rosie accepted the bundle with a smile that was both fond and amused. “Well, sugar, with a frame like yours, almost anything would look good.”

Charlie’s smile widened—she even did a little twirl, the dress swinging like petals. “Really? I feel like a living flower!”

Just then, Nyther shimmered into view at her side, rising like smoke until he hovered inches from her face. With deliberate, elegant signs, he conveyed: “You look beautiful.”

Charlie blinked, surprised for a moment, then laughed with delight as she gently touched her forehead to his.

“Hello again, Nyther!” she cooed. “What did he say, Al?” 

Alastor, who’d been pretending to inspect gloves far too seriously, cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “He said…” he began then paused as Nyther repeated the signs deliberately, slowly, drawing the words out with theatrical weight.
Alastor’s voice dropped a little lower.

“You look beautiful.”

Charlie let out the most infectious, sparkling giggle that was as soft and sweet as wind chimes in the breeze. The sound was soft, bright and completely unaware of the emotional wreckage it left in its wake.

Alastor tried not to show how it hit him. Not the flutter in his chest, not the way his fingers twitched, longing to reach out for her. He wouldn’t allow himself to show it. This odd fascination he was developing was only a temporary thing.

Damn it, he’d only just met this woman. There was no way she could come crashing into his life and alter it so intensely…or so quickly. Alastor was always in control. Control of the moment, of his feelings. He was not so easily swayed by a pretty face and lovely voice.

Oh Lord, was it lovely… 

Alastor saw it out of his peripheral vision. The smug and knowing glint in Rosie’s eyes as she watched him.

Her smirk was devastating.

Double damn…

Alastor cleared his throat, “And what do I owe you for these, Rosie?”

Rosie tilted her head, her pale bob haloed by the chandelier light. “We’ll settle up on Saturday, darling. Bring her back at nine sharp; I’ll give her the proper fitting then.”

She pressed a trio of beautifully wrapped boxes toward him. Each was ribbon-tied with a decorative skull in the center of the bow.

Charlie couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down her back but was careful to keep her expression polite. Not wanting to forget Rosie’s earlier warning.

“These will hold her over for now.” The elegant shopkeeper announced.

Alastor nodded, grateful. “You’re a treasure.”

“I know,” she replied smoothly. Then she checked the gold-rimmed watch at her wrist. “Still time to get to the station, if you get a move on.”

At that, Nyther gave a silent flourish, swept up the stack of boxes into a twisting ribbon of shadow, and vanished through the floor. Off to deposit them back at home.

Rosie stepped forward, offering Charlie a delicate wave. “Don’t forget, sugar. Saturday. And bring all that moxie with you.”

Charlie beamed like sunshine incarnate. “Yes, ma’am! Thank you so much for everything!”

Rosie turned to Alastor one last time. “And you- with all these changes, you might want to go visit your mother.”

That one landed like a coin dropped in still water.

Alastor’s smile softened, more thoughtful now. He met Rosie’s gaze with something unspoken between them.

“I know,” he replied simply.

They shared a moment laden with history and unvoiced meaning.

Then Alastor took Charlie gently by the hand, and with a final thank you, stepped outside with her onto the sun-drenched sidewalk.

It was nearly showtime and they had a streetcar to catch.

Chapter Text

The streetcar clattered along Rampart Street, its rusted frame shuddering with every turn of the steel wheels. Morning mist curled low over the cobblestones, as if the city had yet to wake up and was still rubbing sleep from its eyes. Along the sidewalks, the shopkeepers pulled up their shutters, ready to start the day. Everything was sepia and gold and slow moving, like the world was still deciding whether to wake.

Inside the car, the benches were cold and varnished, the brass handles cool to the touch. The scent of brass polish and cigar smoke clung to the wooden seats.

Charlie sat beside Alastor near the back. This gave them plenty of space between them and the other early morning commuters. That way, any conversations they had would be less likely to be eavesdropped on.

Alastor tapped one of his feet lightly in an invisible rhythm. He hid a smile behind his hand as he watched his companion out of the corner of his eye.

Charlie, seated beside him, was silently bursting with excitement. She was practically vibrating with anticipation, her knees bouncing lightly despite herself. Her gloved fingers fiddled with the fabric of her skirt like she was barely holding in a giggle. 

She turned to the window with the breathless wonder of someone seeing a sunrise for the very first time.

“Ohhhh…” she breathed, her voice hushed in awe. She leaned forward, nose nearly touching the fogged glass, her breath leaving whimsical little clouds that disappeared as quickly as they formed. “It’s so much bluer than before! Does it change to every shade of blue?”

Alastor tilted his head, amused. “The sky?”

She nodded rapidly, golden hair bouncing. “It’s huge! It just keeps going! It’s not like that down... well... where I’m from.” She blinked, then added matter-of-factly, “Ours is red and only goes as far as the edge of the ring.”

Before he could respond, she gave a tiny gasp and clutched his sleeve, waving enthusiastically. “And the light! Is that what actual sunlight feels like? It’s so warm! I thought it would be spikier.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “You’re not supposed to look directly at it, darling.”

“Too late.” She was squinting with fascinated glee. “It sparkles, Al. The sun actually sparkles. That’s incredibly rude of it. Who gave it permission to be this pretty?”

A soft laugh escaped him, watching her take in the world with the reverence of someone unwrapping a gift too beautiful to touch.

Charlie pressed both hands to the window now, her eyes darting to every passing building. “That’s a coffee shop! I’ve read about those. People go in and pay to sit and talk and drink! It’s a socialization ritual, right? With pastries sometimes?”

A man in a newsboy cap passed by, unfolding a paper as he walked.

“Look! That man has a newspaper!” she whispered excitedly. “An actual human one! With… with printed things! Words on paper! Do people still do that?”

Alastor’s shoulders shook with barely contained mirth. “We are a strange and primitive people.”

“I love it,” she declared with star-bright sincerity, practically bouncing in her seat. “I love everything. The streetlamps. The ironwork. That one pigeon with the sassy walk- just look at him go!” 

“You’re too cute,” he murmured, voice rich with amusement.

Charlie turned toward him, cheeks glowing with delight, and declared with great sincerity, “This is the best day of my afterlife.”

He leaned just slightly toward her, voice honey-smooth. “Remind me to take you sightseeing on my next day off.” A pause. “I’ll make sure you truly have your best day.”

She held out her pinky expectantly. “Do you pinky promise?”

He looked at her hand, then he slowly extended his own, looping his pinky around hers.

“Darling,” he said, tone dipped in genuine affection, “if I break this promise, may the sun stop shining.”

Charlie grinned brightly before she turned back to the window, nose nearly smushed against it again, eyes dancing from scene to scene like she was trying to memorize every detail of a dream before waking.

Alastor leaned back and tapped his foot again, the smile no longer hidden.

“I’m going to see your job,” she whispered in awe, not to him so much as to the universe itself. “Your human job.” Her voice was tinged with reverence.

Alastor gave a low chuckle, indulgent and amused. “Yes, yes,” he drawled in that velvet-smooth tone, “the most mundane form of sorcery: time slots and scheduled charm.”

Charlie blinked thoughtfully. Her brow furrowed, and her nose scrunched in a way that made her look like a confused kitten. She pressed her palm flat to the cold window as she watched a street vendor below struggle to unfold a tablecloth in the wind.

Then, with the casual brightness of someone asking about the weather, she asked, “Are all human shopkeepers cannibals? Or is it just fashion boutique owners?”

Alastor blinked. “Pardon?”

Charlie turned to him with the kind of wide-eyed innocence that could only come from absolute sincerity. “Rosie’s Emporium,” she said triumphantly. “I saw the bones in the décor. I just figured…” She gave a tiny shrug, like the conclusion was obvious.

A slow grin spread across Alastor’s face, his eyes shining with delighted mischief. “Well, well. Color me impressed.” He leaned into her space, voice lowering like a secret. “You noticed that?”

She gave him a scandalized look that quickly dissolved into a giggle. “It wasn’t subtle,” she chirped, wrinkling her nose again. “I’m just curious if she is the norm or not.”

He laughed, rich and warm. “No, my darling, not all shopkeepers are cannibals. Rosie is...” Alastor paused as he fished around for the right word, “a special case. In fact, everyone living on Rue Dentelle et des os is a cannibal. They are a tight-knit group who are very polite and charming, but they take etiquette very seriously .”

Charlie nodded like she was filing away a useful household tip. “She told me as much,” she said. 

Alastor’s grin widened, the corners of his mouth curling like a stage curtain drawing back before a performance. “I knew it wouldn’t be a problem. You’ve been nothing but polite since you arrived.” His voice dropped, smooth as bourbon. “Lovely company, really.”

He let that linger for a moment, then added, with a sly glint in his hazel-green eyes, “Surprisingly well-mannered for someone from down below.”

Charlie’s face lit up with pure delight at his compliment. She sat up taller, beaming. With great ceremony, she smoothed her tea-dress over her lap, fingers fussing with invisible wrinkles as she batted her lashes at him. “Why, thank you kindly , sir,” she said, her voice twisted with a syrup-sweet joking air. “If you remember correctly—just last night , mind you—I did tell you I’m not like other demons. I’m the polite kind .”

The memory hit him like a punchline, and Alastor guffawed. It was an honest, delighted laugh that cracked through his usually controlled veneer. “You did!” he said, voice bright with amusement. “You absolutely did!”

Charlie’s face scrunched adorably as she tried to maintain a haughty air, but she couldn’t stop giggling, the sound bubbling up like soda fizz. She clasped her hands over her heart dramatically. “I say ‘thank you’ after being cursed at, I wipe my hooves before entering a room, and I’ve never once hexed someone without a very good reason.”

Alastor leaned in, eyes dancing with mischief, and reached out with a sudden burst of affection. “You’re too much ,” he murmured, and with gloved fingers, he squished her cheeks between his hands. He pinched them and bounced them up and down as if she were a doll.

Charlie squealed, her nose crinkling and eyes squinting into delighted crescents. “Alastooorrr,” she whined through smushed lips, flapping her hands at him without real effort.

Alastor heard the unmistakable clearing of a throat. Then he felt the weight of eyes on them. He pulled back just slightly, head tilting subtly as he glanced to the side. A couple of the other early commuters spaced out and certainly not close enough to hear, but they had still turned their heads slightly at the affectionate display. One old man with a newspaper had paused mid-fold. Another woman, sipping tea from a silver thermos, raised a brow with vague amusement.

Alastor let out a quiet breath, then straightened. He released Charlie’s face with a gentle finality, smoothing one glove against his thigh as if that could erase the moment. He adjusted his bowtie; it was unnecessary, but it gave his hands something to do.

He had gotten carried away. 

Charlie was still looking at him, cheeks tinged pink and grinning brightly. She tucked a golden curl behind her ear and tried very hard to pretend her knees hadn’t just gone a little wobbly.

Alastor cleared his throat and turned his gaze back toward the front of the streetcar. “Best not to scandalize the morning crowd,” he murmured, the lilt in his voice returning, but softer now.

Charlie gave a theatrical sigh and leaned back in her seat, eyes still dancing. “You started it.”

He smirked, not denying her statement.

Sitting, hidden in the shared shadow at their feet, was Nyther. He reached out both his umbral claws and rested one on each of their ankles. It was a silent comfort. 

The streetcar’s wheels hissed and groaned under them, steam curling around the steps as it slowed.

Then Alastor’s tone shifted, just a hair more serious.

“You mustn’t mention the residents of Dentelle et des os to anyone,” he said, gaze sliding to the condensation of the window. “Gossip for gossip’s sake can be very rude. And I’d rather not have a pack of aggrieved meat connoisseurs turning up at our door. As of now, I have excellent standing with them and I’d very much like to keep it that way. Starting a war with the bone-gnawers over a slip of the tongue would be… inconvenient.”

Charlie tilted her chin with faux innocence and twinkling eyes. “Would you really go to war over me?”

Alastor gasped theatrically, one hand resting dramatically over his chest like a swooning opera tenor. “A thousand ships would launch in your name,” he intoned with exaggerated solemnity. “Empires would fall. Poets would write entire volumes about the golden-haired demoness who bewitched all of New Orleans.”

She beamed, cheeks pinker. “Helen of Troy would be jealous, huh?”

“Devastated,” he confirmed. His eyebrow raised, pleased that she understood his reference.

She giggled, bright and tinkling like chimes on a summer breeze. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” he said with a shrug, “you’re still sitting next to me.”

Then, quieter, the performance slipping ever so slightly: “If you were asking honestly, I would have to say no. I wouldn’t go to war exactly.”

He leaned back, voice cooling into something careful and frank. “I’d defend you, but not for some romantic notion like Paris, Prince of Troy. It would be because of the brand. You and I are a little too entangled now.”

Charlie’s fingers paused in their fidgeting.

“I was just teasing, Al.” Charlie’s smile faltered. Not dramatically, just a small, quiet dimming, like a party balloon losing the faintest bit of air. She nodded, eyes flicking toward the window, watching the fog-drenched streets drift by. “I wouldn’t want that anyway. Not from you, not from anyone.” 

Her voice was all at once raw with emotion, “I’m not worth it to anyone. I’m… just a showpiece.” Her words were barely above a whisper, but the shadow underneath was easy to hear. Just a flicker of hurt, barely there but real. Her usual effervescence dipped, if only slightly.

Alastor blinked, something in his perfect control giving a subtle lurch. His smile stayed in place, but his gaze softened, tracking her profile with unspoken regret. He may not have known her long, but he did know her joy well enough now to recognize when it flickered.

Beneath their seat, Nyther stirred. A ripple of cool air slipped higher and coiled around Charlie’s leg, his touch subtle and reassuring, as if trying to make her smile again.

Charlie looked down and gave an appreciative smile, leaning forward just enough to press her knees together, as though hugging Nyther back with her whole lower half.

“He’s very cuddly.” She mused fondly.

“He likes you,” Alastor said with quiet finality, “I would think that his display at the breakfast table was proof enough of that.”

Charlie instantly flushed at the memory, then her smile came breaking through, a sunbeam after a rainstorm.

He reached over and tapped her knee gently with two fingers, a spark of mischief returning to his eyes.

“I’m a selfish creature, Charlie,” he said with a smile- sharp, sly, and not entirely unserious. “I have no plans of dying. Not yet. I’ve got far too many schemes left to unfurl… and no desire to find out what it feels like to be ripped apart. Especially not because you forgot your manners with the neighbors.”

She stared at him, the usually trusting glint in her eyes flickered uncertainly.

Then she giggled, high and breathless, and poked his arm with one gloved finger. “You’re very dramatic, you know that?”

“And you’re very distracting,” he replied, lips twitching.

She bounced once on the bench, delighted. “I’m trying my best!”

“Unquestionably succeeding.” He sighed, then looked down at the face hiding in the shadows on the floor. Alastor nodded, “That’s a good point, I appreciate the reminder.”

Charlie’s eyes twinkled expectantly, “What did he say?”

“That we are fast approaching our stop, and now would be a good time to lay out ground rules.” 

She gave a little gasp, immediately sitting straighter. “Ooh! I love rules! Is there a list? Are there diagrams?”

Alastor smirked, amused. “No diagrams, I’m afraid.”

Charlie pouted dramatically, only half pretending. “ Missed opportunity. ”

Alastor turned to face her fully, his dark gaze landing on her with something close to fond severity. “First, you must not tell anyone you're a demon.” His voice, though light, carried an unmistakable edge. “It’s not safe and, more importantly, it’s not their business.”

Charlie nodded.

He brushed invisible lint from his lapel, voice lowering. “Second, don’t tell anyone about Nyther.” His tone shifted, gentler now. “He’s mine. And he is not what they would call ‘normal’ here.”

“Third,” he said, tone sharpening again, “This is my day job: The station, the staff, my radio show, they are simple. Good, mostly. Important, sure. But still ordinary, simple cogs. Cogs that are important to keep the machine running smoothly, but are of little importance after that. None of them are nearly important enough to tangle with my personal affairs.” His voice lowered, almost reverent, “I keep two lives, Charlie. And it is crucial I keep them apart.”

The streetcar lurched as it turned onto Canal Street, its wheels rattling against the rails in a steady rhythm. Outside, New Orleans shimmered in the sharp gold of morning. Laundry lines fluttered between balconies, sunlight bounced off polished shop signs, and the city buzzed with the rhythm of early life playing out gently as a well-worn phonograph.

Charlie tilted her head, hair swaying gently in the slight rocking of the streetcar, and asked, “And what am I, then? A cog? A secret? Where do I fit in your two lives?”

Her question was bright and honest, like her. Curious, not challenging. Sweet in its sincerity. The pure-hearted question of someone who didn’t ask for judgment, only wanted to know how.

He looked at her, really looked at her, and the charm he wore like armor dropped away like dead leaves.

She was so beautiful, it made him ache. The curve of her cheeks, the soft red glow of her blush, the delicate shape of her lips that always seemed curved delicately into a smile. But it was her eyes that undid him. Those bright, impossibly trusting, doe eyes, wide with wonder and expectation.

How had she gotten under his skin so quickly? Less than a day. Mere hours. And yet she was everywhere. In his thoughts, in his rhythm. In the cadence of his voice when he spoke, now shaped unconsciously to please her.

He didn’t know how she did it, but he knew- clear as a signal through static- that she truly mattered to him.

He leaned forward, slowly, and pressed his forehead against hers, his gloved hand coming up to lightly brush a stray hair from her face as he pressed close.

“You, darling?” he said, voice low and real. “You’re the beautiful interruption. A melody that got stuck in my broadcast and now I can’t stop humming it.”

That was it, his honest confession, though he’d said it in his own way. This was the first time he’d offered anyone a piece of truth without asking for something in return.

It wasn’t a flirtation, it was devotion .

And for the first time in a very long while, Alastor felt a little bit terrified because he meant it.

Charlie didn’t pull away, but she didn’t speak either. As if the metaphor had landed somewhere too soft and sacred inside her to touch. Her heart fluttered like a song she wasn’t sure she was allowed to sing back. Love, to her, had always felt like a beautiful kind of cage. Something she longed for but didn’t believe she deserved. And now, with his forehead resting against hers, all she could do was hold the moment like something fragile and borrowed, afraid it might break… or vanish.

The streetcar bell rang ahead, a bright ding-ding that cut through the stillness like a baton signaling the end of a symphony.

Alastor stayed where he was.

He let the moment stretch, just a heartbeat more with his forehead still gently resting against hers. There was a softness in the silence between them now, something warm and terrifyingly real, something he hadn’t invited and now couldn’t bear to part from.

Just one more moment before the mask went back on, the curtain rose, and it was showtime again; where he would need to go back to the way it was before his confession, all showmanship and smiles in order to move forward.

But it was time.

And he was Alastor.

With a breath that almost resembled a sigh, he drew back, slow and smooth. His face shifted back to a composed smirk. 

He straightened the collar of his coat, then stood fluidly, flattening a nonexistent wrinkle in his perfect suit. A flick of the wrist, a slight adjustment to his lapel, and the mask slipped fully into place. Charming, theatrical, in control.

He turned to Charlie and offered his arm with a grin that sparkled like a freshly tuned radio dial. “Shall we go light up the airwaves?” he asked.

Charlie’s face lit up. She took his arm with a bounce in her step, practically glowing, and when the streetcar came to its creaking halt, she didn’t just exit; it was like a showman’s bow at the end of a performance.

She turned to every passenger, every sleepy-eyed commuter, paper-clutching businessman, and umbrella-wielding matron and gave a bright, cheerful goodbye to each individual on her way out. And when she reached the driver, she flung her arms around him in a quick, enthusiastic hug before he had time to register what was happening.

“Thank you, sir!” she chirped, utterly sincere. “It was a wonderful ride, and you did a great job!”

The driver blinked, stunned for a moment before tipping his cap with a smile. “Uh… you’re welcome, miss.”

Alastor watched it all with a calm, unreadable smile, letting her radiate in every direction while he played the shadow to her sunlight. Though something behind his eyes sharpened when she threw her arms around someone else. Beside him, Nyther’s form flickered faintly, a ripple of shadow tension betraying what neither of them would ever say aloud: they didn’t like sharing their light, even if they had no right to claim it.

Then he guided her down the steps and onto the street.

The city opened before them.

New Orleans at 8:30 a.m.: dressed in pressed linen and steam. Streetcars and automobiles clanged through the streets, making their way between live oaks strung with Mardi Gras beads left behind by the year’s parades. Smartly dressed individuals buzzed like bees in a hive. Storefronts gleamed with fresh polish and ambition, and the scent of chicory coffee mixed with tobacco smoke and a hint of jasmine from a passing window box.

Charlie inhaled sharply and squeezed his arm. “It’s so much bigger than I thought!” she said, eyes darting to everything—lace balconies, hand-painted signage, a three-piece jazz combo tuning up on the corner. “And prettier! And so many hats! ”

She half-skipped as they moved forward, tugging gently on his arm every few seconds like she might veer off to explore an alley or talk to a particularly opinionated pigeon.

Alastor just let her tug him along as he walked beside her, measured and smooth. His steady steps fell in time with her exuberant footfalls.

And though his mask was back on, somewhere behind the practiced smile, he still felt it. The soft rhythm of that contact of her forehead against his, her question, and its answer. It all still lingered like a soft, distant melody.

And Alastor, ever stubborn, was still humming it.

The broadcasting station towered at the corner of Girod and Baronne. Six stories of buff-colored brick, its sharp Art Deco lines slicing clean against the morning sky. Geometric ornamentation crowned the windows, while sleek vertical ridges gave the facade a sense of motion, like sound climbing upward. At the corner, a bold, rounded marquee jutted over the entrance, its polished metal awning catching the light. Above it, in gleaming, stylized letters:

WELR – The Ember Line Radio.

The floor beneath them gleamed with veined cream marble, polished to a shine so flawless it reflected the lights overhead. Bronze elevator doors, etched with elegant musical notes and abstract soundwaves caught the morning light. It sent glints skittering across the room. Frosted Art Deco chandeliers floated above, casting soft, symmetrical light that danced across mahogany-paneled walls. 

The warble of a live jazz broadcast curled lazily from overhead speakers. The staff in crisp shirts and wide ties moved with purpose. A glass case near the entrance displayed all manner of broadcasting memorabilia.

Alastor and Charlie stepped through the threshold of the grand broadcasting station.

The moment they entered, the atmosphere changed. It became taut and electric, not hostile but sharply attuned, like a stage bracing for its star. The air itself seemed to realign, adjusting posture. Conversations stuttered, footsteps softened, and every staffer in sight straightened subtly, reminded that this was no ordinary workplace. It was a performance.

Alastor moved through the station like a conductor taking his place at the podium. Perfect posture, every step precise, exuding theatrical control and a sharp smile. Gone was the man who had whispered devotions on a streetcar; in his place stood the Radio Demon, a legend cloaked in charm and command. 

They reached the reception desk, which sat proudly atop a black-and-gold inlaid tile mosaic, backed by an oversized station emblem: a stylized microphone ringed in flame-like rays.

There, a sharply dressed woman with wire-rim glasses and lips pursed tight as a telegram wire. 

They waited a moment while the receptionist finished her typing and acknowledged them. In the meantime, Charlie, still clutching his arm, beamed beside him. “Alastor! Alastor, look they have potted plants! With little name tags! This one’s named Fern!” She gushed in delight. Alastor gave her the fondest side-eye before deciding he’d waited long enough at the desk.

“Good morning, Miss Harrow.” Alastor offered a razor-sharp smile. “This is Miss Charlie. She will be my guest today.” he gestured with gallant flair to Charlie.

Miss Harrow blinked. Her fingers froze above the typewriter keys.

“Guests require prior approval,” she said, monotone but firm.

Alastor’s smile didn’t fade but it thinned, honed like a scalpel. “Please,” he offered with a mocking tone.

Miss Harrow’s chin lifted a fraction. “It’s not personal, Mr. Valois. It’s procedure.”

The silence that followed came with weight.

Alastor didn’t move. Didn’t raise his voice but the temperature dropped by several degrees.

“Ah. Then allow me to offer you a choice,” he said gently, every word falling with the precision of piano hammers. “I am scheduled to be on air in exactly thirty minutes.”

He leaned dramatically on the top of the front desk.

“But I will not go a single step farther without my guest. So, you must decide, Miss Harrow, whether WELR’s most popular morning broadcast opens with my voice…”

He leaned more forward, invading her space, his smile glinting like a switchblade in lamplight.

“…or just dead air.” He finished. His eyes narrowed in irritation. 

Miss Harrow paled.

“I don’t think Mr. Burns would be thrilled with the latter, do you ?” Alastor emphasized, still poised. “Issue her the pass,” he said. “I am not asking.”

Miss Harrow swallowed. “Yes, Mr. Valois.”

Carefully, Miss Harrow opened a drawer and withdrew a gold-embossed visitor’s pass and a fountain pen, her movements stiff as clockwork under observation. 

“Name?” she asked, voice low but brittle.

Charlie began brightly, “Charlotte M-”

“Magne,” Alastor interjected, smooth as silk and without looking away from the secretary. “Charlotte Magne.”

Charlie glanced up at him. A flicker of curiosity dancing behind her eyes but she didn’t press. 

The secretary inked the name onto the pass in neat, precise strokes. The letters bloomed across the parchment as if they’d been waiting there all along.

Charlie took the pass with both hands and a sweet declaration of thanks. Her voice bubbled with reverent joy: “It’s so official! ”

Alastor straightened, brushing an invisible fleck from his sleeve. “My guest will be joining me each day for the indefinite future. I do hope this is the last time I’ll have to explain that.”

Miss Harrow nodded once, throat tight. “Understood.”

“Lovely.” He said as he offered her a final, courteous nod, more dismissive than polite, and moved on. Arms still locked together, he guided Charlie toward the elevators, his stride fluid and unhurried. As they passed through the grand lobby, staffers parted like a tide, offering hushed greetings, quick nods, some beaming nervously while others looking firmly at the floor.

“Is it always like that?” Charlie asked.

Alastor’s lips twitched, eyes straight ahead. “Like what, my dear?”

She squeezed his arm, half-skipping beside him. “That thing you did, where you were smiling but everything got all serious and kind of scary.”

He chuckled, a low pleased sound. “Ah, yes. That.”

She grinned up at him, eyes sparkling. “You were very impressive. All controlled and cool as a cucumber.”

He hummed, clearly delighted. “Darling, when one is very good at something, indispensable, even, one needn’t shout.”

Then he glanced down at her with a sly smile as he pushed the elevator button.

They stood for only a few moments in a comfortable silence as they waited for their bronzed ride. The door opened, and they both walked in.

Charlie was already excitedly inspecting the buttons when Alastor pressed the one for the fifth floor and the doors closed. “So,” she chirped, swaying slightly with the motion, “do I get a tour?”

Alastor gave a low hum of regret, brushing an invisible speck from his lapel. “I wish I could, my dear. But I’m due on-air in…” he glanced at his wrist watch with a dramatic flourish, “...less than twenty-three minutes. Another day, I promise. When we arrive earlier.”

Charlie pouted theatrically, then brightened as he turned to face her fully. His hazel green eyes locked on hers, the softest grin curving his lips. “I promise,” he said again, lower this time. Almost sincere enough to sting.

Then, with a little tilt of his head, he held out his pinky.

Charlie blinked, then giggled, curling her own around his with solemn, ceremonial importance. “Sworn in sacred pinky law,” she whispered.

They held the link for a beat longer than needed. Then she glanced down at the visitor’s pass dangling from her collar and tilted her head. “Hey… why’d you tell her my last name was Magne?”

Alastor raised a brow, tilting his head in thought. “Partly because of safety concerns. The Black Hunt is still out there, and it’s best not to advertise too loudly. But mostly because ‘Morningstar’ is a bit of a loaded name here on Earth.” His smile curled at one edge. “Oh, I’m sure it’s as common as ‘Smith’ down below, but up here it screams Lucifer with capital letters and a blinking marquee.”

Charlie froze, the sparkle in her eyes dimmed. “Oh…” she exhaled.

Alastor’s expression twitched, his brow creasing. “What’s wrong?” His voice lost a bit of its rhythm, genuinely concerned.

Charlie bit her lip, her eyes desperately searched the elevator for an excuse.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open.

Standing directly in front of them was a tiny redheaded whirlwind in heels and a pencil skirt. Clipboard in one hand, pen clenched in the other like a dagger, her grin stretched too wide to be safe.

“Good morning, boss!” Niffty chirped. 

She shoved a script toward Alastor without waiting. “We’ve got a problem with the 8:50 segment. I need your voice on deck in three.”

Alastor led Charlie from the elevator and gestured with a flourish to Niffty.

“Charlie,” he said grandly, “this is Niffty. My producer and right hand in all things radio.”

Niffty beamed, standing a proud four feet tall and brimming with energy. “Right hand, left brain, emergency caffeine supplier; pleasure to meet you!”

He turned to her, still smiling. “Niffty, this is Charlie. She’ll be joining us regularly. I trust you two will get along famously.”

Charlie offered a bright “Hi!” that practically sparkled.

Alastor’s tone dipped slightly, more serious. “Charlie is to stay with either myself or you at all times.” He looked between both women, ensuring his meaning was clear.

Niffty caught the glance, her smile tightening with understanding. “Understood, boss.”

Together, the three moved down a sleek, buzzing hallway lined with frosted glass panels and soundproofed doors, the hum of creative chaos growing louder with every step. They swept through one of the studio doors into a wide, humming room filled with people swarming like bees in a hive of engineers, interns, and producers, all moving with brisk, rehearsed precision.

Charlie’s eyes lit up.

Alastor smiled, pride flickering in his eyes. “This,” he said, spreading his arms with a magician’s flourish, “is where the magic happens. These are the brilliant souls behind the curtain.”

He raised his voice. “Everyone...this is Miss Charlie Magne, my personal guest for the foreseeable future. Now say hello.”

A stunned beat, then a chorus of awkward greetings. Eyes widened, whispers stirred, the room was buzzing with the idea of the dreaded Radio Demon having brought a guest.

Alastor allowed the chatter to continue for several long moments before he decided that he’d had enough. He clapped once, sharp and theatrical. “Eyes forward, everyone. We’re still on the clock.” He announced to the studio.

Order snapped back like a rubber band, though the undercurrent of curiosity crackled beneath the surface.

He turned back to Charlie, smoothing a hand along his lapel. “I have to prepare for the show now. Be good and stay close to Niffty during the recording.”

Charlie gave a chipper salute. “Yes, sir! And good luck!”

He paused, visibly charmed. 

“One last thing…” He leaned in, voice dropping to that velvet-wrapped hush. “Would you care to join me for dinner after the broadcast? Then perhaps… we could return to where we first met.”

His meaning wasn’t lost—the summoning circle, the cistern, the strange and sacred start of it all.

Charlie nodded, solemn but smiling. “I’d like that.”

Alastor’s heart beat just a little louder. 

She’d said yes . 

But with the studio buzzing around him and Niffty watching with far too much interest, he tucked the real reaction away. Kept the grin professional.

He tipped an imaginary hat. “Then, my darling- until curtain call.”

He turned and strode off, oozing charm, every inch the legendary host.

But beneath the performer's poise, he still felt it. That soft tune from their shared moment on the streetcar, his realization of his confession still echoing somewhere deep inside.

Chapter Text

The studio lights buzzed low and warm as the WELR broadcast signed off for the evening. Charlie sat on the edge of her chair, a paper script fluttering in her lap as she beamed toward Alastor.

"That was amazing!" she chirped, kicking her heels lightly under the desk as she looked around the quieting chaos. "I had no idea radio was so… so fast and sparkly!"

Alastor chuckled from where he was prepping his broadcast desk for tomorrow. "Sparkly ?" he echoed, one brow lifting in amusement.

"Well, maybe not literally," she amended, hopping off the stool. "But the energy! The yelling! The cue cards! I mean, someone cried in the greenroom because the saxophone solo got cut!" She paused, then looked at him with a teasing grin and narrowed eyes. "You, Mr. Valois , are quite the toughie. The saxophonist wasn’t the only person I saw crying today. Half the staff seem petrified of even looking at you wrong. For someone with such good manners, you can be kind of scary."

Alastor quietly noted the involuntary shiver that passed through him when she called him "Mr. Valois." The way she said it was soft, teasing, and unconsciously reverent. It sent a ripple through his spine that didn’t make a lick of sense. It was absurd how this woman could so easily fluster him.

He smoothed the reaction down like a wrinkle in his sleeve and masked it with a half-laugh.

"What can I say? I'm a captain running a tight ship. My crew will follow my orders or walk the plank."

Charlie giggled and snapped to a mock salute. “Oh Captain, my Captain.”

Her voice turned theatrical and bright. Her pose so exaggeratedly noble he couldn’t help but laugh. The sound was warm, real. It curled out of his chest before he could cage it. She was ridiculous. And magnificent.

They shared that laugh, unspoken threads braiding between them in that quiet pause that lingered just a beat too long.

Then Charlie turned, pointing subtly toward the storm of motion that was Niffty. The tiny secretary darted around the outer office like a hummingbird armed with a clipboard, her energy frantic and precise. She rearranged paperwork, scolded an announcer, refiled a stack of production memos, and rewound a typewriter ribbon; All in a single fluid circuit.

“She’s very interesting,” Charlie murmured, clearly fascinated

Alastor hummed as he followed her gaze. “That little darling has a flair for keeping everything tidy and in order. And I’m not just talking about cleanliness.” He adjusted his cuffs, tone tinged with pride. “Her order and attention to detail is what helps my program run as smoothly as it does.”

As if on cue, a loud crash echoed from the hallway. A terrified intern bolted past the office door like a man fleeing a fire. From down the corridor came Niffty’s high-pitched, gleeful cackle- unsettlingly joyous. The staff scattered like roaches caught in sunlight.

“I also enjoy her level of chaos,” Alastor added casually.

Charlie raised one elegant brow, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Her crazy meshes well with my own,” he clarified, unapologetic.

Charlie shrugged. "Fair enough."

Alastor stood and straightened his coat, giving his lapels a crisp tug. “Now, if I recall,” he said, tone slipping back into smooth mischief, “I promised you a dinner.”

Charlie gave a delighted squeal and twirled in place, her skirt lifting just enough to show off a flash of calf and thigh. It was innocent, exuberant, entirely unaware of its effect. Which was, in its own way, devastating. A passing sound engineer caught a glimpse and promptly walked nose-first into the filing cabinet.

Alastor’s grin twitched. Just for a moment.

A sharp spike of possessiveness flared in his chest, visceral and unwelcome. It coiled hot and ancient in his ribs before he forced it down, caging it with practiced ease. Not now, not here.

From across the office, Niffty’s voice cut the moment like a thrown knife.

“Boss!”

She scampered up and thrust a sealed envelope into Alastor’s hand, standing on tiptoe with the effort. “Mr. Burns wants to see you first thing Friday morning when he’s back from his trip.”

Alastor took the envelope with practiced ease, but his smile tightened, brittle at the edges. “Lovely. My gratitude, Niffty.”

Charlie caught the flicker, barely noticeable but said nothing. Her gaze lingered on his profile as he tucked the envelope neatly into his inner pocket.

Niffty turned her full attention to Charlie, then her face lit up like a flipped switch.

She launched all four feet of herself into a hug with terrifying velocity. “It was wonderful to meet you! You smell nice, and you’re super fun to look at. I love pretty things! Can’t wait to see you again tomorrow!”

Charlie laughed, arms circling the tiny woman in return. “I like you too.”

“Well then,” he said breezily. “Shall we make our exit before someone decides to recruit you full-time?”

Charlie grinned, bouncing once in place. “Do I get a little hat if they do?”

“No, but you’d get a nervous breakdown and mediocre coffee. Come along.”

They strolled down the corridor and to the elevator, Charlie practically skipping. 

At the front desk, Miss Harrow gave her a disapproving glare as she returned her guest badge. Charlie handed it over with both hands and a dazzling smile.

“Thank you ever so much, Miss Harrow! You have the prettiest handwriting I’ve ever seen on a sign-in sheet.”

Miss Harrow blinked, then scowled as she logged the badge.

The doors of WELR swung shut behind them with a hiss of compressed air. Evening had draped New Orleans in gold and lavender, the sky like spilled lilac ink. Canal Street pulsed with life: streetcars clanged, car horns honked in lazy protest, and the smell of chicory coffee tangled with fried shrimp drifting from corner cafés.

Charlie’s heels clicked beside his polished shoes; her fingers looped through the crook of his arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She stared up at everything.

“Oh my goodness! Look at that one! And that one! Is that a soda shop and a tailor in the same building?!”

Alastor let out a low, quiet laugh. It was one of the rare, genuine ones that slipped past his carefully worn charm.

As they walked, Alastor offered a soft, elegant narration. He pointed out historic buildings, odd city legends, and tucked-away details most people never noticed. He spoke like a man sharing secrets, each fact wrapped in quiet pride, all while watching Charlie soak in the world like it was the first page of a story just for her.

Alastor pointed subtly as they passed. “That building there? Once a brothel, then a speakeasy, and now—oddly—a dentist’s office. I find that ironic.”

Charlie giggled. “Full circle! Pain for pleasure, pleasure for pain.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “That’s remarkably astute, Miss Morningstar.”

She gave a half-curtsey and grinned, bouncing once on her toes.

Across the street, Nyther coiled within the shadows cast by the iron-laced balconies, stretching along the brickwork like spilled ink. His form never strayed far from Charlie’s. His edges flickering in rhythm with her laughter, his claw-tips barely brushing the hem of her dress as she walked.

They crossed Baronne, weaving past couples in Sunday-best clothes and a pair of navy-uniformed sailors laughing too loud. Charlie’s attention darted everywhere, and Nyther- hovering like an oil- drifted shadow at her back. He never let her stray more than a breath from his edge.

Alastor continued to narrate as they walked. He would point out sights, explain local facts, and all with his natural showman’s flair, which made the impromptu tour all the better in Charlie’s opinion. 

“Seriously,” she asked, tugging his arm. “How do you know so much about everything?”

“I collect trivia the way some men collect stamps. With tremendous dedication.”

The city shifted as they moved deeper into the Quarter. Buildings leaned in close, like they were eavesdropping. The pavement underfoot turned to old brick, worn smooth by time and rain.

Ahead, jazz floated from the slatted windows of a narrow restaurant. Faint trumpet and upright bass, lazy and low.

Alastor gestured. “Our table awaits.”

Charlie clapped her hands in delight. “A real restaurant! With music and menus and everything!”

He paused, fingers on the door handle. “Have you never...?”

She blinked innocently. “I mean, I’ve seen them.”

Alastor gave her a long look, something soft and sharp beneath his smile. “This one has gumbo that’s nearly as charming as you.”

Charlie beamed so hard she nearly glowed. “I can’t wait!”

He opened the door, and she bounced inside like joy in heels.

Nyther slipped through behind them, silent as shadow and already circling to her side.

The restaurant door creaked open, and a rush of warm, spice-laden air greeted them like an embrace. The scent was unmistakable: rich roux, smoked meats, cayenne, and something faintly sweet, like praline sugar melting on cast iron. Delphine’s Table buzzed with low conversation and candlelight; its small dining room cozy and golden.

A jazz trio played near the back, their music slow and dreamy keeping rhythm like a heartbeat behind the wine and silverware clinking.

The hostess, Clarisse, spotted them the moment they crossed the threshold. Her smile was immediate, but it faltered...just a twitch, when she saw Alastor was not alone.

“Mr. Valois,” she said, stepping forward, her tone equal parts surprised and delighted. 

Her gaze slid sideways to Charlie, taking in the golden hair, the glowing cheeks, the hand looped through Alastor’s arm. The disappointment behind her eyes was barely hidden, like someone trying to smile after dropping a champagne glass.

Charlie, utterly unaware, beamed like sunlight. “Hi there! This place smells like heaven with a hot sauce problem.”

The hostess didn’t respond immediately. She looked back to Alastor, eyebrows lifted, expectant.

He gestured smoothly toward Charlie and clarified, “Table for two.”

“Oh. Of course,” the hostess said, voice suddenly cooler.

Clarisse turned on her heel, leading them between tightly packed tables, her hips swaying with deliberate exaggeration. Alastor only glanced at her once with a dismissive, impersonal eye roll. Then his attention returned to Charlie, whose gaze bounced from table to table like a child in a candy shop.

They were led to a small corner table, close to the stage where the musicians played. The music here wasn’t loud; it whispered. It threaded between words and lingered in candlelight.

Alastor pulled out Charlie’s chair with a slight flourish. “Mademoiselle,” he said, his tone dipped in velvet.

Charlie practically glowed as she sat, adjusting her dress with a delicate wiggle. “Thank you, kind sir,” she said, all pomp and playful formality. “Such a gentleman!”

Alastor sat across from her, napkin flicked over his lap with his usual flair. The moment he settled, their waiter approached. He was an older mustached gentleman wearing a white jacket and a knowing grin.

“Evening, Mr. Valois. Your usual?”

Alastor glanced at Charlie, one brow arched. “Would you like a menu?”

Charlie looked delighted, “Oh, yes!” Then she hesitated. I mean, no... No, we’ll never end up ordering. We’ll just talk and talk and I’ll forget to choose anything and then the waiter will come and I’ll panic and order dessert for dinner.”

Alastor gave a small smile. “Two of the usual,” he told the waiter, “and sweet chicory for her, strong and black for me.”

The waiter nodded and vanished with a swift pivot.

Charlie leaned in on her elbows, bright-eyed. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Often enough. The food’s exceptional, the staff discreet, and the tables don’t eavesdrop.”

She giggled. “That’s a very specific list of priorities.”

He folded his hands together, eyes steady. “And tonight, we need privacy.”

Her smile faltered just slightly, sensing the shift in his tone.

Charlie gave a determined nod, and Alastor exhaled slowly. He watched her for a breath, then began. Her features were scrunched up in forced concentration, looking far too adorable for the dark turn their conversation was about to take.

“I suggest we take our time here, enjoy the atmosphere and company until closing. That will get us closer to curfew. We’ll make our way to the ceremony site with fewer eyes on us.” He clarified.

“Curfew?” Charlie questioned with a tilt of her head.

The candlelight flickered as the first clatter of dishes and glasses rose around them, the low hum of jazz circling like warm syrup. The waiter came with their drinks, a water glass and two glasses of red wine, before he sauntered to another table.

“There’s a city-wide curfew in place,” Alastor said, almost offhand as he took a slow sip from his glass. “Eleven sharp.”

Charlie followed his lead and politely sipped her own. She tilted her head again in interest. Human wine was very different from what she expected; it definitely didn’t have the same hard kick as Bezzlejuice.

He gave a slow, knowing smile. “Once upon a time, my dear, the Crescent City was known for its nightlife. The Big Easy, where the food was rich, the music loud, and the air itself was dancing.”

Alastor paused, staring into his wine glass like it held a secret. “But these days, the music plays softer, and the shadows stretch longer.” He gave a dry smile. “It was a city that never slept. Now it bolts its doors after dark.”

She sat back slowly, the weight of information pressing down. “Because of the disappearances?”

He nodded.

“How many?”

He hesitated, then said quietly, “That question, sadly, does not have a direct answer. It’s more than anyone wants to admit. Dozens missing. Some presumed dead. Others found as such. Others still just… gone. The city’s still pretending it’s normal by daylight. But after sundown, it’s all shadows and speculation.”

Charlie looked down at her hands, visibly shaken. “That’s awful. I don’t understand... how could something like this go unnoticed?”

Alastor’s fingers tapped once against the table. “New Orleans is used to the strange. It takes more than blood and vanishing acts to shake it. But even it has limits.”

Charlie rolled that around in her mind for a long moment. “So it’s not just the Black Hunt, then? There are others out there who are taking and killing?” she concluded.

Alastor’s smile turned dark as he forced back a laugh, his eyes glittered mischievously with a dark secret.

“There are many things here that go bump in the night,” he said, “but it’s the Black Hunt that we will be focusing our attention on.”

He leaned in slightly, tone dropping just enough to make the candlelight between them flicker in intensity.

“The rest?” he said, voice quiet and razor-sharp. “They’re pests, clumsy criminals, echoes of old curses. Dangerous, yes- but next to the Hunt, they’re children playing at monsters. The Black Hunt is not just evil, Charlie. They’re something older. Cruel, in a way that isn’t human. They don’t kill for need or chaos. They kill for tradition, for pleasure, for faith.”

Alastor’s fingers steepled while his expression sharpened.

“The Jaws of the Black Hunt… they’re not just a cult, darling. They’re a disease with manners. They dress their madness in ritual robes and candlelight, but make no mistake—they are hunters, born and bred. They hunt for food and sport, but not animals. They hunt other humans. They toy with them, feasting first on their prey’s fear before their flesh.”

Charlie gasped, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper. “They’re… cannibals? Like Rosie?”

Alastor shook his head. “Nothing like Rosie. Her and everyone living on Rue Dentelle et des Os are very different. They kill and eat only the evil and the rude. Their core belief is to keep the world pure and the innocence of humanity intact. They take the darkness and devour it. It’s hopeful. Done with the utmost respect.”

He stopped and took a long sip of his drink, gaze distant for a beat.

“The Hunt does it for a lust of carnage. They don’t care who they hunt, because they hunt for transformation. They want to become the monsters they worship… or worse, to give themselves over entirely.”

Charlie’s face had gone pale. Her fingers tightened around her napkin as if it might anchor her.

Alastor looked at her with a flash of regret. His words had come too sharp, too fast. He hadn’t meant to frighten her, only to prepare her. But he could see it in her eyes now. The fear was real and raw.

He softened immediately.

“Ah, chère,” he murmured, his voice gentling like silk over rough stone. “I didn’t mean to lay it on quite so heavy. You’ll have to forgive me. I get carried away when I start talkin’ shop.”

He leaned back slightly, offering her the faintest smile, wistful at the corners. “You’ve got the kind of heart that wasn’t built to carry horrors. And that’s a lovely thing, truly. The world’s better for it.”

He reached across the table, running his fingers gently across her knuckles, and added, “I suppose I’ve been chasing shadows for so long I forget how dark they really are.”

Alastor exhaled once, quietly. Then he continued, slower this time. Measured.

“I’ve been tracking the Hunt’s trail for years, trying to outstep them. But something’s changed. All at once, their behavior shifted.”

He steepled his fingers again, eyes narrowing slightly with thought.

“Before, they hunted at random. Left behind chaos and teeth marks. But now... there’s a pattern. A rhythm. Every new moon for the past seven months, they take two people. Perform a blood ritual. Then vanish. Victims left dead in the circle. Always.”

He paused, watching her reaction. Then added, “There’s no connection between the victims. Not their genders, age, or occupation. All of them just… strangers. Snatched from nowhere. Every time, a different corner of the city—cemeteries, alleyways, forgotten rail yards. Always quiet places. Always forgotten.”

He leaned forward again, candlelight catching in his eyes.

“That kind of order ain’t like them, Charlie. It doesn't fit their usual M.O. They’re planning something. Something big.”

“Are the summoning circles always the same?” Charlie asked, her voice steadier now.

“Similar,” Alastor said. “But not identical. Like sheet music transposed into different keys. The tempo shifts, but the melody’s always close.”

She frowned. “And you never caught them in the act?”

“I was always too late. I’d find the aftermath, but never the ritual itself.”

Charlie nodded slowly. “Right. You said that changed last night.”

He met her gaze. “It did. I got there just in time to watch it end.”

She flinched. “The victims…”

“They were already too far gone,” Alastor said, voice tight with restraint. “I gave them mercy. And then I made the wish.”

Charlie blinked at him, stunned. “And I appeared.”

“Yes,” he said. “And the bodies… were gone.”

Charlie went quiet. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin. “That’s never happened before?”

“Not once. They’ve always been left behind. Always.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So we go back to the site. Check it out?”

Alastor’s smile returned, laced with that familiar mischief. “That’s the plan.”

“And what if the bad guys show up?” she asked, trying for lightness but her voice wobbled.

Alastor’s grin deepened. It was charming and sharp and something far more dangerous beneath.

“Then I deal with them.”

The air went still between them. For the first time since they’d met, Charlie felt the weight of what he truly was. Not just charming and clever, but dangerous. His grin didn’t reach his eyes. His shadow at his feet flickered, sharp-edged.

Charlie swallowed. “Right... Good...That’s… comforting.”

He reached for his wine, taking a long, unhurried sip, eyes never leaving hers.

Then he winked.

The tension snapped, and she exhaled a soft laugh, shaking her head.

“You’re impossible.” She said with an eye roll as she picked up her drink.

“I prefer ‘devilishly dependable.’” Alastor clarifies.

They sat in silence for a beat, the jazz curling softly around them like smoke from an old cigarette. The walls were close and warm, lined with faded photographs and crooked frames, the air steeped in spice, old laughter, and secrets too thick to name.

She set her drink down gently. “Alastor… what exactly did you wish for? When you summoned me?”

His expression shifted- barely-but she caught it.

He exhaled, voice lower now. “To stop the Hunt.”

Charlie nodded slowly. “You should know something about summoning magic. No matter the ritual, no matter how messy or improvised. It’s the wish that sticks. That’s the anchor. That’s the part that seals the deal.”

He was quiet for a beat, the candlelight throwing long shadows across his cheekbones.

“I didn’t mean to wish,” he said at last. “Not consciously. It was more a… promise. But I suppose those are the same thing, sometimes.”

Charlie gave him a dazzling grin, it was honest and supportive. “Please try to remember your exact words. The devil is in the details.” 

Alastor raised an eyebrow while Charlie answered with a shrug. He let out a sigh, reluctant to give more information.

His shadow flickered, and Nyther slithered silently up onto the tabletop, now the size of a teacup snake. His eyes blinked like black opals.

Charlie squealed softly. “Oh my goodness- you’re so cute when you’re little!”

Alastor shot her a warning glance. “My darling, remember the rules. Secrecy. And you,” he growled at the shadow, “you dumb ink spill. What are you doing?”

Nyther’s face twisted into a pantomime of sheepish guilt, then smug defiance, then a perfect imitation of Charlie’s own wide-eyed glee. Alastor raised a brow, but Nyther turned instead and slithered under Charlie’s resting palm.

Charlie gasped as the tips of shadow fingers slipped under hers, weaving gently between them. “He’s holding my hand!” she whispered.

Alastor looked offended. “That ridiculous puddle of need. Nyther, hide .”

Charlie leaned forward with her other arm, angling it naturally across the table to block the view. “It’s okay,” she said, whispering like a co-conspirator. “I’ll hide him.”

She looked down and carefully tried to sign something with one hand. “S…A…F…E,” she spelled.

The shiver that passed through the mark let Charlie know exactly how pleased Nyther was.

“Love-sick fool!” Alastor remarked, taking a long sip of his wine.

All at once, his face turned bright red and he started choking.

“You scoundrel! That is completely untrue!” He gasped out between hacking breaths.

Charlie squealed in triumph, “I knew it! I knew you didn’t need sign for him!” She leaned in conspiratorially, unfazed by his coughing fit.

“Is it some kind of mind-link? Does it only work for you?” She began to drill him with questions.

Alastor held up a finger, asking for pause while he still fought for his breath.

Once he could breathe again, he sighed dramatically. “Yes, my dear, Nyther and I don’t need ASL to communicate with each other. But obviously, we both are fluent still. Sometimes signing while I speak is just a habit.” He clarified.

“So? What did he say?” Charlie asked expectantly.

Alastor turned bright red again.

“I dare not repeat that.” He snorted indignantly.

Charlie let out her lighthearted laughter.

“When Nyther first crawled onto the table, before taking my hand, he said something to you.” She stated it with a curt nod. Alastor returned the movement. 

She looked back up at him, beaming. “What did he say?”

Alastor tilted his head slightly. “He said he remembers what I said. My exact words, just before the wish took.”

Charlie leaned in.

He took a breath. “They keep taking. Over and over. My city. My mother. Me.” His voice dropped, almost a growl now. “This. Stops. Now. I’ll hunt them through hell itself if I have to. I’m not just going to end them. I will erase them. ”

The moment he finished, both he and Charlie audibly gasped. A low, burning pulse raced through their wrists. An echo from the soul-brand that bound them. The brands beneath their skin glowed faintly, then dimmed.

Charlie stared, shaken, still trying to smile. “Yup,” she whispered. “That was it.”

She breathed out, centering herself. “Well… luckily, I have wonderful company. And this world is just one big chaotic carnival that I can’t wait to explore, so... I guess I’ll be here a while.” Then she looked at him directly, the smile still there but her eyes serious. “I can’t go home, Alastor. Not until we stop them. Erase them.”

Alastor stared back. Something unreadable flickered in his gaze.

He opened his mouth to speak but the waiter arrived at that exact moment, carrying two steaming bowls of gumbo, the scent like heaven and heat.

Charlie instinctively leaned further over her arm to shield her shadow-held hand. Alastor accepted the food with his usual composure. “Thank you, my good man.”

As the waiter disappeared, Charlie’s voice was light but pointed. “So… what did they take?”

He stilled. Not stiff, but deathly still. Like a predator mid-prowl deciding whether to pounce or wait. His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass, and a slow breath hissed between his teeth. The candlelight bent strangely around his silhouette.

Charlie felt it then. Not saw… felt .

A pressure in the air, like something ancient had turned its eyes toward her. It coiled at the edges of her mind. Thick, suffocating, and endless. Not just darkness, but something deeper. Older. A hunger with no name.

It wanted to devour. And for one heartbeat, Charlie knew, it saw her as prey.

She couldn’t breathe.

There was a pause, long enough to notice. His mouth curved up in a smile that had too many teeth.

Charlie blinked, her sunny energy faltering like a candle in a breeze. Something passed between them. Not quite a chill, but the threat of one.

Then...

His expression reset.

The showman returned in full.

Alastor tilted his head, tone sliding effortlessly into charm. “My dear,” he said warmly, “this food is far too exquisite to spoil with sorrow. And here I am, spoilin’ your supper with ghost stories. What kind of gentleman does that to a belle like you?”

Charlie nodded slowly, the image already slipping from her grasp: like a nightmare you forget on waking but still feel in your bones.

“It does smell amazing,” Charlie breathed, her eyes practically sparkling. Her whole face lit up as she leaned over the bowl, the rich steam curling into her curls and scenting her skin with spice and slow-cooked promise.

She scooped up a generous spoonful of gumbo and promptly let it splash back into the bowl, sending a droplet of broth onto her sleeve.

“Oops! Sorry, let me...” She tried again, more delicately this time. The spoon trembled. Another splash. “Okay, third time’s the...nope.” The spoon clinked softly against the edge, gumbo escaping it like it had a mind of its own.

Across the table, Alastor watched her with narrowing eyes and a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You’re right-handed,” he said, his tone mild but undeniably amused.

Charlie blinked, flustered. “Yes?”

“And you’re holding the spoon in your left.”

She looked down, caught in the act.

“…Yes.”

“You don’t want to let go of the shadow-Romeo.”

Her face turned a lovely shade of rose. “Maybe .”

Alastor sighed theatrically. “Nyther, let go of her hand, you clingy puddle.”

Charlie pouted, her lower lip sticking out in theatrical protest.

With deliberate reluctance, Nyther slithered his ink-slick form free from Charlie’s grip and the majority of his form retreated, rippling like spilled ink into the shadow beneath her chair. However, his tail remained. He snaked it up her wrist, looking like a set of black bracelets.

Alastor raised his brow but decided that it was a fair enough compromise if it allowed Charlie enough mobility to properly eat. “There,” Alastor said, gesturing toward her spoon. “Now try eating like a civilized being.”

Charlie gave him a side-glance of mock severity, then dipped her spoon again. Finally lifting a perfect bite to her lips. Her eyes widened as the gumbo hit her tongue, and she let out a small, delighted moan that bordered on scandalous.

“Okay,” she whispered, reverent. “Worth it.”

Alastor lifted his own spoon with a lazy smile, watching her over the rim. “Told you.”

They ate happily, the earlier shadows set aside as their conversation drifted into lighter fare. Favorite colors, childhood dreams, songs that made them dance when no one watched. Laughter bubbled between bites, easy and warm, while outside the windows, the sky melted from indigo to ink. As the restaurant dimmed for closing, Alastor stood, offered her his arm, and together they stepped into the quiet night, heading toward the boarded-up jazz club just a few streets away.

The streets were quieter now: lamplight pooling in golden puddles on the slick stones, and the air heavy with the scent of rain-washed pavement, magnolia, and distant beignets. Charlie clung to Alastor’s arm with the cheerful enthusiasm of someone on the most thrilling field trip of her life, pointing out gaslights and wrought iron balconies as though discovering them for the very first time.

“Look at that! A cat just walked right across that rooftop like it owned the place... do they own the rooftops here?” she whispered, enchanted.

“Undoubtedly,” Alastor said with a grin. “It’s New Orleans. Cats, ghosts, and jazz musicians all believe they own the city. The rest of us just rent space.”

Charlie stopped mid-step, her breath catching as she looked up. “The stars,” she whispered, eyes wide and shimmering. “They’re real. I’ve never seen them like this before.”

Alastor paused beside her, watching not the sky, but her. The way the starlight caught in her hair, the awe lighting her face. It made his chest tighten unexpectedly. He smiled softly, a little off-guard. “They’re beautiful,” he murmured, though his gaze never left her.

After a beat, Alastor cleared his throat, his smile slipping back into something suave and composed. “Come now, stargazer,” he said lightly, gently pulling her with him by their linked arms. “If we stand still much longer, the night will think we've surrendered.” With a playful flick of his coat and a teasing glance, he guided her back into a brisk, elegant stride, the echo of her wonder still dancing in his eyes. They rounded a quieter corner towards the same shadow-choked stretch of Bourbon Street he’d visited the night before.

The abandoned club sagged behind a barricade of decaying wooden planks, barely clinging to the frame. What was once smooth stucco now flaked away in brittle curls, like the shedding skin of something long dead. Alastor nodded toward a faded symbol scrawled near the doorway. It was jagged and curling, almost hidden beneath grime. “That’s their sigil,” he said quietly. “Be mindful, my dear.” With a smooth motion, he crouched and shifted two loose planks at the bottom of the boarded-up door, clearing just enough space for the two of them to slip inside.

Dust blanketed every surface of the jazz club like time itself had tucked it in for an endless sleep. Cobwebs draped from ceiling to chair legs, silken threads catching what little light filtered through the cracks. On the stage, a once-grand curtain hung half-fallen, a faded velvet ghost of the music that used to echo here.

Charlie’s eyes sparkled as she spun slowly in place. “What is this place?” she whispered, her voice full of awe.

Alastor’s expression softened, almost wistful. “Just another dream lost to the Depression,” he said quietly.

Charlie tilted her head, puzzled. “The depression… like sadness?”

Alastor let out a low breath. “Something like that,” he murmured. “We’ll talk about it another time.”

He stepped toward the stage, striking a match and holding it low near the floorboards. The flame’s glow danced over a crude etching. An image of a candle scratched into the wood near the back. 

“Here we are.” Alastor said as he gestured to it, then crouched. 

Nyther slithered forward, helping Alastor pull up the trap door with a groan of ancient hinges. The darkness below exhaled a foul mixture of stagnant water and death.

The smell rose up like a curse. Thick, putrid, and clinging. It coiled around them the moment Alastor cracked open the trap door, drifting from the dark like a breath from something ancient and unclean.

Charlie gagged, her nose wrinkling in a delicate grimace.

Without a word, Alastor drew the white monogrammed handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it gently to her face.

“I’m sorry, my darling,” he murmured, his voice low and tender. “But the stench only gets worse from here.”

Charlie nodded quickly, eyes watering, and took the cloth gratefully in both hands, holding it over her nose and mouth. Her knuckles brushed his as she did, and though the gesture was brief, something in the contact softened her expression.

Alastor turned back toward the opening, his voice shifting back to practical charm. “Watch your step. The stone’s treacherous.”

With that, he descended, one hand tracing the damp wall for balance, the other firmly clasping Charlie’s hand in his own. His grip was steady as he guided her down.

Charlie followed without hesitation, her trust implicit, one small hand locked in his.

Nyther slithered down behind them like smoke down a drain, close enough that his shadowy fingers hovered protectively at the small of Charlie’s back. He didn’t touch her, but the gesture was clear: should she slip, he’d catch her.

The stairwell was narrow and curved like a funnel, its walls clammy with old moisture. Their footsteps echoed softly, swallowed by the deeper silence below.

Halfway down, Charlie broke the quiet.

“Why don’t we just take that umbral step thing like before?” she asked, her voice muffled behind the cloth.

Alastor’s chuckle drifted back, laced with quiet amusement. “Darling, I’m not the only one who can use that trick. Shadow-walking is never fully private. Best saved for daylight hours or emergencies. You never know who you might bump into in the dark.”

Charlie made a thoughtful noise, then nodded and gripped his hand a little tighter.

And slowly, step by step, they continued down into the dark that waited below, where silence hung like a held breath.

The stairwell ended in a slow echo of footsteps and dripping stone. Alastor’s polished shoes met the slick floor with a wet sound as he stepped into the yawning chamber beneath the jazz club.

The cistern had changed.

Where the floor had been dry the night before, stone etched with blood, chalk, and sigils. Now, it was filled with a pool of black water, eerily still.

Charlie stepped down beside him, her hand tightening around his.

Alastor swore under his breath, eyes sweeping the shadowed surface. “They flooded it,” he muttered. “Damn them. The Black Hunt must’ve come back after we left, let the water in to bury the scene.”

The water shimmered in odd hues, its surface too still, too smooth.

Before he could take another step, Charlie squeezed past him, delicate fingers brushed his coat as she stepped to the edge.

“Charlie!” Alastor’s voice was sharp, frayed with something raw. He lunged forward, seized her arm, and yanked her back so quickly she splashed against him, eyes wide.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, the grip on her arm vice-tight. 

Charlie blinked up at him, surprised but calm. “I’m fine,” she said softly. “I just want to look around. There might be something useful still here.” She said, low as a whisper, her bright eyes looked back at his with a reassuring certainty. 

Alastor hesitated. Then, slowly, with visible reluctance, he let go.

She nodded gratefully, adjusted the handkerchief with one hand, and waded deeper into the cistern. She moved slowly, her free hand trailing the surface, her eyes scanning. Nyther drifted out behind Charlie, his long, liquid form snaking just over the water’s surface. His shadow-arms extended loosely on either side of her, flickering in and out like protective wings.

Alastor stayed where he was, at the lip of the stone. Watching. His eyes stayed fixed on the surface. The water didn’t lap or swirl as it should. It sat like glass, but oily, smeared.

It felt wrong.

A prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck.

Then he saw it, something shifted under the surface. Barely a ripple, but enough to make his blood run cold.

This wasn’t just stagnant water.

It hit him like a whisper from behind his eyes: Murkviel.

He inhaled sharply.

The water wasn’t from any cistern. It was seepage from the Murkviel itself, an ancient liminal pocket where time lost its grip and shadows took on teeth. The space they stood in now wasn’t just under a club—it wasn’t entirely here anymore.

They’d crossed a boundary, unknowingly stepped into a wound in the world. Something below wasn’t just hiding. It belonged here.

“Charlie!” he screamed her name, his voice echoing off the curved ceiling. She turned to face him.

Alastor didn’t think, he just ran. His boots hit the water with a deafening splash, coat flying behind him, arms churning through the black as he charged forward.

“What is it?” she gasped, startled by his sudden reaction just as the water ahead of her rippled and turned.

There was a flash of dark scales beneath the water.

Nyther reacted instantly. His shadowed form lunged forward, claws sharp as talons slicing down into the water. He collided with the threat in a burst of black and silver, slashing and twisting as the creature thrashed just beneath the surface.

The cistern surged around them. The waist-deep water rocked with the violence, forcing Charlie backward. She staggered, nearly falling, but caught her balance with a gasp and turned to run.

“Charlie!” Alastor shouted, running toward her, coat dragging across the waters’ surface behind him. Every step was a fight through the dense, brackish water.

She splashed toward him, her escape made painfully slow as she tried to fight the water.

And then, just as she reached out for his hand...

Another scaled appendage erupted from the water.

It coiled around her waist in one fluid motion and yanked.

Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened in a silent scream.

Then she was gone. Dragged under with a violent splash, the water swallowing her whole.

“CHARLIE!”

Alastor’s scream tore through the chamber as he surged forward, the water churning, Nyther spiraling in behind.

The surface bubbled violently and then went still.

Chapter Text

Charlie had only a second to gasp before the water closed over her head like a coffin lid.

The descent was instant. One second she was upright in waist deep water then the next, she was being violently yanked downward by something immense, wet, and wrong. Her limbs flailed, her lungs shrieked. Everything was dark.

Not mortal-night dark. Not even Hell-dark. This was something older, colder. A different kind of black. The kind that lives under the bed and behind your reflection. The kind that doesn’t need permission to pull you under.

Then she saw it.

It shimmered into view, an impossible silhouette against the eerie glow of bioluminescence. The creature was like nothing she had ever seen before. A nightmare fusion of eel and anglerfish. Its body stretched long and serpentine, covered in glossy black scales that glimmered with a green sickly sheen under its own eerie light. Down its spine ran long, flowing fins, more like barbed tentacles, that twitched and undulated in the water.

One of those spine-fins had coiled tight around her waist and was compressing her ribs. Another slashed into her ankle, its tentacle cut into her Achilles tendon. Her blood bloomed in the water, curling like ink.

The beast pulled her deeper, then there was movement.

Nyther struck like a blade carved from living shadow. In the water, his form twisted. No longer a composed silhouette, but a creature honed for ruin. His antlers surged with his rage, branching wider and sharper, and the flicker of his tufted ears twitched like sparks. His limbs elongated into razors, and his eyes glowed with murderous purpose. This wasn’t combat. This was vengeance.

The thing had dared to harm her.

Nyther didn’t dispatch it, he unmade it. He wrapped a shadow-tail around its middle and dragged it close, raking his claws through its pulsing, translucent body with savage fury. Over and over. A storm of tearing, relentless blows. The creature bucked in silent agony, its lure flaring wildly, but Nyther didn’t relent. In fact, he only seemed to become more violent.

In agony, it released her.

Strong arms wrapped around her the instant the beast let go. Alastor’s coat billowed around them in the water like smoke as he yanked her close. Holding her to his chest as he kicked upward.

Her head spun, the dark pressed against her skull like a migraine.

Just before they broke the surface, Alastor saw it. A second one, flickering into view in his peripheral vision.

Another Drownlight. Smaller, twitchier, but just as deadly.

They exploded out of the water. Charlie hacked and choked, spit ran down her chin. She barely noticed that Alastor hadn’t let go. He held her tightly, protectively, against his chest before roughly dragging her forward in his haste.

They made for the staircase.

Alastor’s free hand dipped into his vest and came out with a bone dagger, which was etched with elegant runes. He could feel the second beast moving, the water trembled.

Behind them, something surged up- fast.

Alastor snapped, “Move!” and gave Charlie a firm push toward the stairs before turning to face the approaching threat, blade at the ready.

“I’m trying!” Charlie cried, struggling through the thick water, her wounds slowed her pace. “It’s too deep!”

“It’s only deep if you believe it is!” he snapped. “Stand up!”

“What?!” she shrieked in confusion.

“Charlie- do it! ”

Her mind reeled, but she trusted him.

She shoved her feet down...

And hit stone.

Just like that, the liminal space shifted. The depth was gone. She stood again in water that barely reached her waist.

“What? What the Hell?” she panted.

“Later,” Alastor grunted, his eyes still trained on the water.

The second beast lunged, tentacle flying out like a whip to snatch them back.

Alastor cursed, grabbed Charlie to his chest again, and dove.

The tentacle missed. He landed in a crouch in waist-high water and slashed upward with the bone dagger. The tentacle recoiled with a shuddering screech, and the water around them went ominously still.

Then its head broke the surface, jaws wide to strike.

Alastor grit his teeth and raised his blade, but Charlie acted first.

She let out a sweet, high-pitched whistle. A note that shimmered through the air like starlight caught in a song and used one soaked hand to cover Alastor’s eyes.

Her other hand pointed at the creature’s face.

Bang.

A violent barrage of fireworks erupted from her fingertips. Sparks blasted into the open maw of the beast, scorching its scaly flesh raw. It howled in agony before it vanished again beneath the water, blind and blistered.

Alastor blinked as Charlie pulled her hand away, a single eyebrow raised. For an instant, her human guise flickered. Red eyes blazing, sharp horns curling from her brow, and the faint outline of a devil’s tail swaying behind her. Just as quickly, the glamour spell reasserted itself, smoothing the monstrous details away before even she seemed to realize they’d shown.

She gave him a soggy grin when she noticed his attention on her.

He shook his head, smirking faintly, and pushed her toward the stairs.

Just before they reached them, Nyther exploded from the water behind them with a splash. He waved both arms in a strange, sharp gesture, frantic and fast.

Alastor's face went pale.

“He says there’s a whole swarm of them,” he muttered, then barked at Charlie, “Go! ”

She pushed forward, trying to run, but the wounds in her side and ankle were slowing her. Alastor glanced back once, cursed, and swept her off her feet again.

“Up we go, my dear,” he said under his breath, bounding up the first steps with her in his arms.

Charlie clung tightly to Alastor’s chest, breath shallow, heart pounding against her ribs. “Now can we use your Umbral Step?” she gasped. “I would say this qualifies as an emergency!”

“No,” Alastor said immediately, voice grim. “Now would be the worst time.”

“What...why?!”

“Not this close to the Murkviel,” he growled. “Believe me, my darling, a Drownlight is one of the less dangerous beasts that crawl out of that place.”

Charlie twisted in his arms, craning her neck to look over his shoulder.

And instantly regretted it.

Below them, twisting and writhing up the staircase, came a swarm of Drownlights. Dozens... maybe more... pulling their slick, eel-like bodies up the stone steps with horrifying speed. Their translucent flesh shimmered with that same sickly green light, their bioluminescent lures pulsing in feverish rhythm. Their elongated spines flexed in impossible angles, barbed fins and fin-like tentacles slapping wetly against the stone.

It was like watching a pile of electric eels learn to walk and enjoying it.

But worse still was the carnage.

Nyther was everywhere and nowhere all at once, a blur of claws, a glint of violent hate. He darted between the beasts, slicing deep, tearing through flesh and luminous lure alike. But for every one he shredded, three more writhed toward him. The stairs slicked over in ichor. Dismembered tentacles thrashed independently on the stone. The air rang with shrieks that were wet, piercing, mindless.

It was a nightmare of movement and blood.

Charlie turned her face away, pressing her forehead into Alastor’s shoulder, stomach turning.

“There’s too many,” she whispered. “They might... Nyther might...”

“He won’t,” Alastor cut her off, squeezing her tighter as he climbed. “We just need to get far enough. Once we’re clear of the liminal space, reality will reassert itself. The connection to the Murkviel will snap, and the bastards will vanish.”

Their boots slapped up the final steps. The air felt thinner here, colder. The magic grew weaker as the boundary approached.

“There!” Alastor lunged the last few paces and threw himself upward through the open trapdoor.

They crashed into the room above.

Nyther burst through after them, his shadow form flickering as he slammed the door shut behind him. Then he threw his entire body over it, oozing like ink across the wood.

They sat frozen.

Alastor’s arms remained wrapped around Charlie, breath shallow against her ear. Nyther’s shadowy form spilled across the trapdoor like a living seal, tendrils braced, body tense.

Then from beneath came the scratching .

Deep and deliberate, it vibrated through the wood, like claws carving warnings. Wet, gurgling slaps echoed off the stone below, as if the creatures had no bones and far too many mouths.

Then the shrieks began.

They were otherworldly, piercing, and wrong. The sounds weren’t screams, they were imitations of screams, gurgling, and warbling through shredded throats. Their cries raw with instinct and madness. The kind of sound that doesn’t echo, it burrows.

Charlie slapped her hands over her ears, heart hammering. It did nothing, the noise coiled around her, snaking inside her skull. Her stomach turned, and she bit down hard on her lip to not lose her dinner.

Alastor pulled her tighter against himself, his chest rising against hers in a steady rhythm. He lowered his head, lips brushing just above her temple, and began to chant.

The words came quick but deliberate, a rhythm of comfort wrapped in strange:

“Thread by thread, we close the seam.
Stitch the soul, protect the dream.
Bend the needle, bind the fray-
Keep the hollowed fear at bay.

Blood to thread, breath to weave,
What is broken, we do not leave.
Three-fold knot: shadow, skin, and light-
Sew her safe and seal the night. ”

His voice wove through the air with uncanny precision, each line drawn taut with purpose. Something in the room shifted in response. Softening, slowing, as though the chant was stitching calm into the air itself. Each syllable landed like the pass of a needle through cloth, like he was sewing reality back together around them. Around her.

The dread gripping Charlie’s spine loosened, uncoiling into stillness. Her breath slowed. She pressed her forehead beneath his chin, where the two fit as though they'd always belonged.

Then, with a soft kiss to the top of her head, his chanting stopped too.

Silence settled over the abandoned club.

Charlie exhaled a long, trembling sigh, the kind that carried the weight of every emotion she’d bottled up that night, now spilling free as the storm gave way to stillness. 

Then Nyther launched himself off the trapdoor.

His elongated, combat-ready form snapped back to normal midair. Fur sleek again, antlers folding smoothly down to their usual elegant sweep, ears pinned flat in sheer, unguarded relief. He hit the ground running, and in a heartbeat, he was on them.

His tail wrapped around both Charlie and Alastor like a loop of living silk scarf. He grabbed Charlie’s shoulders with both hands, eyes wide and frantic.

Then he seized her face and peppered her cheeks, nose, and forehead with a rapid-fire barrage of kisses.

Charlie squealed, a high, delighted noise that burst out of her unguarded. She shrieked with laughter, squirming under Nyther’s affection, her earlier fear melting like frost under sunlight.

“Nyther! Nyther- stop! I’m-I’m alive, okay?!” she giggled between gasps.

He only kissed her harder.

Alastor let out a slow, shaky breath.

He didn’t stop Nyther. He let him pour it all out. Every trembling burst of affection, every desperate kiss. Charlie deserved it. Nyther needed it. And so did he.

For a brief, sacred moment, he allowed himself to feel it too. The raw relief crashed over him like cold air after drowning. That tight ache in his chest: She’s alive.  

That was too close.

He’d only just found her. That infectious smile, the defiant fire in her laugh, the voice that still lingered behind his eyes like a song he couldn’t stop humming. She was more than a companion. She was the key. The puzzle piece that fit, the one who could bring the Hunt down with him.

And he’d nearly lost her.

He needed more power, enough to protect her from what lay ahead. He cleared his throat.

The sound cut clean through the joy in the room.

Nyther froze mid-nuzzle. His head turned toward Alastor, eyes narrowing. He felt it instantly- the shift.

In that heartbeat of silent connection, understanding passed like lightning.

Nyther gave a sharp nod, unwound his tail from the two, and stepped back.

Alastor gently took her hands. “Come now, darling,” he said, his voice softer than the moment before. He helped her rise, slow and steady, as if she were made of glass.

His eyes swept her body: shoulders, hands, ribs, and stopped at her waist. His gaze darkened. The cut there was deep, raw, ringed with bruising. Her ankle wasn’t much better; the skin sliced in a jagged line. Both wounds glistened with dark, venomous fluid.

“That,” he murmured, “will need to be taken care of.”

He turned toward the cracked doorway of the abandoned jazz club and called, “Let’s go, my dear. Nyther, meet us there when you’re done.”

Nyther nodded again. Then his form unraveled. He collapsed into a rippling black puddle that zipped across the floor, vanishing into the cracks like a drop of ink in water.

Charlie blinked after him. “Wait...” she began, but Alastor touched a finger gently to her lips.

“A Drownlight,” he said quietly, “is toxic. Any injury from one needs to be treated within forty-eight hours. And you, sweetling, are going to help me pay a friend a visit for the antidote.” 

He offered his arm with a flourish.

Charlie took it, limping slightly as they stepped out into the soft night. The city air was damp and glittered faintly with the glimmer of distant lights.

“A friend?” she echoed. Then her eyes lit up as the answer struck her. “Maverick?!”

Alastor gave her a fond, sideways smile; one of the rare ones that reached his eyes.

“That’s right. Old sour-puss himself. Say what you will, the man makes a mean concoction that can cure almost anything that ails you. His club’s not far from here.”

Charlie squealed, clapping her hands. “We’re going to Maverick’s club?!”

Alastor smiled, but his gaze had already narrowed.

She was hiding her limp. Her breathing was shallow. Every few steps, she winced. And yet she was trying so very hard not to let him see it.

The silly girl.

Without warning, Alastor bent down and scooped her into his arms again.

Charlie made a surprised sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “What are you doing?!”

“Carrying you. Obviously.” He smirked, eyes half-lidded and playful.

“You know what I mean!” she huffed. “Why?”

“Because,” Alastor said, tone slipping from amused to utterly matter-of-fact, “you’re clearly in a great deal of pain. More importantly, you’re trying to hide that from me.”

He looked down at her, gaze razor sharp.

“I can understand the former, sure enough. But the latter? That’s unacceptable.”

Charlie blinked. “Excuse me? ”

“Don’t hide things from me, Charlotte,” he said, voice low but steady. “It’s just another form of lying. And I loathe liars.”

Her cheeks flushed red instantly. “I... I wasn’t trying to lie...” she stammered, flustered. “I just...”

“I know,” he said gently, interrupting with a softer smile. “But it was still a lie by omission.”

Charlie bit the inside of her cheek, her face still hot. After a moment of stewing, she sighed and laid her head against his chest.

Alastor’s pace didn’t slow.

They walked into the night, the glow of streetlights catching in the fringe of Charlie’s damp hair. The shadow of the Murkviel still lingered behind them but for now, Alastor held her close, and the city lights led the way toward Maverick’s club.

They emerged onto Royal Street, where bright signs huddled like fireflies in the night. Though the curfew had emptied the city’s avenues, around the corner from their abandoned haunt, the heartbeat of New Orleans pulsed strong: laughter, clinking glasses, sultry jazz spilling into the street. One single pocket of life ignited the darkness.

Alastor paused and gently set Charlie on her feet. But his arm remained firmly, carefully around her wounded side he supported her weight, shielding her from prying eyes. Beneath his touch, she felt steady, safe.

The speakeasy’s door flung open, revealing an interior alive with music and warmth. Charlie’s eyes lit up like sparklers. She buzzed softly, then frowned in wonder. Alastor guided her deeper, past a sea of people, each booth glimmering under amber lamplight.

She peered around. “But…the curfew? I didn’t see anyone else on the way, yet this place is packed. How can they...?”

Alastor offered a satisfied smile. “A fair share of New Orleanians refuse to be told what to do. And when you have public support…” his gaze swept across the crowd. “…and widespread corruption…” He nodded toward several uniformed officers enjoying drinks. “…rules become suggestions.”

They passed the stage, where horns blared over a thundering rhythm, and along the polished bar lined with artful boxing memorabilia—framed photos, gloves, trophies, even old betting slips. Charlie gasped beneath a large, sepia-toned portrait: a young Maverick, bloodied and grinning, champion’s belt in hand.

“Maverick was a boxer?” Charlie whispered.

“He was," Alastor replied. “A real contender back in the day. Still packs a punch.” He winked. “But don’t get distracted, we’ve barely reached the best part.”

Curiosity drew her deeper. They approached what looked like restrooms, passed those, and stopped just outside a modest staff only closet. A small plaque bore a carving of the four card suits, and tucked behind it, a playing card peeked out. 

Charlie frowned, intrigued.

Alastor slid open the door. “The best part is in here, my darling.”

They stepped into the cramped space. A floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror covered the back wall. Alastor shut the door and leaned one arm against it, turning to face Charlie. Beneath the warm, muted glow of a single bare bulb, his smirk deepened.

“Do you know what a speakeasy is, my dear?”

Charlie shook her head, eyes wide.

“Prohibition made alcohol illegal. But people still wanted their drinks,” he explained, voice smooth as bourbon. “Speakeasies sold booze in secret. This doesn’t look secret—but remember what I said about support and corruption.” He swept a hand across the mirror. “Prohibition ended three years ago. But the charm of a speakeasy stuck around. Fake shop fronts, hidden passwords, secret doors.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief. “This boxer’s bar?” He tapped the door. “Just the front. A very popular front. But still a front, nonetheless.”

Charlie’s grin mirrored his. He drew a curl of her damp hair between his fingers and planted a quick kiss on it, then leaned in close. His breath fogged the mirror in a small circle. With a practiced finger, he traced his name in perfect, elegant script: Alastor Valois. He turned, glancing at her expectantly.

Charlie giggled, stepped forward, blew on the mirror, and wrote: Charlotte Morningstar, in big looping letters and hearts over the ‘i’.

Alastor wrapped his arm snug around her and quietly said, “Watch this.”

The fog on the mirror thinned and vanished, taking their names with it.

For a moment, all Charlie could see was their reflection: her and Alastor, standing side by side in a cramped, dusty broom closet. The single bulb above them buzzed faintly. The door behind them looked exactly as it had when they entered: plain, narrow, and scuffed. The moment stretched on, heavy with expectation.

She frowned, eyes flicking toward Alastor’s. Who only smiled knowingly.

Then something shifted.

Not a sudden change. More like a whisper beneath the glass. The reflection behind them began to tremble, so subtly at first that she thought it might be her own breath. The outline of the plain closet door rippled faintly, like heat rising off pavement. Its edges softened. Then deepened. Curves began to emerge where before there were only right angles.

Her breath caught.

In the mirror, the simple wooden slab grew tall, imposing. The frame twisted and darkened into polished mahogany, its surface gleaming like lacquer. The door widened, thickened, became regal. Patterns emerged, flourishes of gold inlay forming the suits of a playing deck: spades, hearts, diamonds, and clubs, each etched with an artisan’s touch. They glinted in the warm mirror light, subtle and captivating.

It no longer looked like a door at all. It looked like an invitation.

Charlie turned her head to confirm it wasn’t just an illusion, and gasped.

Reality had caught up to reflection.

Where once had stood a humble utility door, splintered frame and tarnished knob, now towered an ornate portal of impossible craftsmanship. The wood glowed with a soft amber hue. The card-suit carvings shimmered faintly, like the door itself breathed.

She could feel something pulsing behind it.

Alastor’s expression was pure delight, his eyes dancing, grin sharp.

He placed his hand on the elegant handle, fingers curling with care. “Welcome to the real speakeasy,” he said, voice rich with satisfaction.

With that, he swung the door open wide and ushered them both into Maverick’s hidden club.

The door creaked open, and Charlie stepped into a world reborn.

Inside, the true speakeasy stretched out like a grand cathedral to gambling: part casino, part arcane sanctuary. The motif of playing cards dominated every detail: velvet drapes dyed in deep suits of red and black, golden chandeliers shaped like club and diamond symbols, and patterned carpets spinning out in an intricate tessellation of spades.

It was elegant, graceful, and decadent without being gaudy.

But it wasn’t just the opulence that made Charlie’s heart race, it was the mortal-spun magic.

The drinks glowed .

Behind the bar, shelves shimmered with bottles that pulsed like beating hearts. Potions bubbled gently in crystal decanters. Smoky blue vapors curled lazily from narrow vials, and the bartenders moved with precise, practiced grace, mixing ingredients that shimmered and sparked with alchemical reactions. This wasn’t just a bar, it was a brewhouse of wonder.

She practically vibrated with excitement.

“This is…” she began, breathless. “This is amazing.”

Alastor chuckled and guided her forward. “Just like the front—except here, the spirits have a little more spirit, if you catch my meaning.”

The place was bustling. Crowds leaned over roulette wheels and card tables, laughing, swearing, shouting with joy and despair. The scent of perfume mingled with spiced elixirs, and the air thrummed with kinetic magic.

Above the main floor, a band played on a raised stage overlooking a gleaming dancefloor. A full brass section swayed beneath soft golden spotlights. Trumpets wailing with honeyed urgency, upright bass thumping like a heartbeat, piano keys dancing like water under a singer’s velvet voice. The singer crooned into a microphone, her voice warm, smoky, full of stories.

Couples twirled below her in lazy arcs, their shadows long and lovely on the polished marble floor.

Charlie watched them, breath caught halfway between awe and longing.

If her injuries hadn’t hurt quite so much, she would have absolutely dragged Alastor out there. Maybe, if they were both feeling better later… just maybe.

The thought curled through her chest like warmth from a good drink.

Alastor scanned the room, then spotted him.

Maverick, seated at a poker table near the back, was surrounded by a group of groaning and wide-eyed players. Just as they reached him, the ex-champion let out a barking laugh—loud, rough, and victorious. He slapped his cards down with the flair of a showman.

A royal flush.

Gasps and curses rose like a choir around the table.

“Marvelous hand, old chum,” Alastor drawled with that suave lilt of his, his tone all velvet and sly amusement.

Maverick looked up, startled but then grinned. A real grin too, nothing like the dry scowl he’d worn the last time Charlie had seen him. In this realm, with jazz crooning low and cards clattering like rain, he looked decades younger. Radiant.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “Aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes.”

Alastor gave a half-bow. “Ran into a little trouble, accidentally stepped through a liminal tear.”

Maverick’s smile began to drop.

“Found ourselves in the Murkviel,” Alastor went on smoothly. “Dear Charlie was snatched up by a Drownlight.”

Maverick’s eyebrows shot past his hairline. “You what?”

“Came here for one of your fine concoctions,” Alastor said, still calm, “to right ourselves up again.”

“Hellfire,” Maverick muttered, standing. “Yeah. Come on.”

He flagged down a passing waitress and gestured to his winnings, then motioned for Alastor and Charlie to follow him.

They slipped through the crowd and into a private office at the end of a narrow hallway.

The room was equal parts cozy den, magician’s workshop, and championship trophy case. The boxing belt from the photo hung proudly above a dark walnut desk, gleaming under a spotlight. Posters of old fights, black-and-white photos, and illusionist stage ads covered the walls like old wallpaper. The scent of aged whiskey and something faintly metallic lingered in the air.

Along the right-hand wall was what looked like a traditional bar but behind the gleaming bottles of rum and bourbon stood glass globes filled with swirling clouds, enchanted flasks labeled in glowing ink, and an entire rack of alchemical ingredients: dried herbs, powdered stones, glowing seeds, a jar filled with starlight.

Charlie’s eyes grew rounder by the second.

Maverick stepped behind the private bar with the ease of a man who didn’t just work the place, he was the place. He rolled up his sleeves with a grunt, revealing thick forearms dusted in old scars and ink, and began pulling down bottles, jars, and small glass tins. The shift in him was immediate. Less casino kingpin, more backroom alchemist.

“Explain,” he said, gruffly but familiar, already selecting vials from the higher shelves.

Alastor gently turned one of the office chairs toward the bar. He adjusted it with the same care one might use setting a clock to the correct time, then carefully guided Charlie into the seat.

“Easy,” he murmured.

She settled down, wincing slightly, but before she could adjust, Alastor leaned in. Swift but soft, he pressed his forehead to hers. The touch was brief—but brimming with something unspoken. Then he straightened and walked toward the bar, shrugging off his coat and draping it on a nearby stool.

“We went back to the cistern,” he said, settling beside the bar with a hand planted on the edge. “Thought we might find some clues. A thread, a trail. Maybe something left behind about the ritual. Or the Hunt.”

He glanced at Charlie as she watched him from the chair, chin resting on one hand.

“When we got there…” he paused. “Waist-deep in water.”

“Damn cowards,” Maverick muttered as he began combining ingredients with sharp, decisive movements. “Always flooding their own mess. If they can't burn it, they drown it.”

Alastor nodded. “Took us too long to realize it wasn’t just water. Murkviel water. Before I could say anything Charlie was already being dragged under.”

Maverick cursed under his breath as he added a cloudy, shimmer-dusted liquid to the cocktail shaker and began to shake it rhythmically.

“Did you get scratched too?”

Alastor rolled up his sleeve and revealed a small, dark mark on his upper arm. “Here.”

“Hey! ” Charlie sat upright in the chair, indignation flaring in her voice. “What was that all about? Lying by omission? You hate liars, remember?”

Alastor turned his head slowly, expression melting into a smug little smirk. His eyes dropped to half-lidded mischief, a spark of playful menace dancing in them.

“My dear, sweet Charlie,” he said, strolling back toward her with a languid grace. “That’s true. I loathe liars.”

He leaned down into her space again, voice low and conspiratorial.

“Which makes it all the more delightful that I’ve made an art of it.”

Her brow furrowed, lips parting in disbelief. “Wait… what?”

“I lie by omission constantly,” Alastor said with a dazzling grin, like he was confessing to stealing sweets, not secrets. “It’s practically a side hobby. Very exclusive.”

Charlie tilted her head, eyes narrowing with a pouty confusion that made her look unfairly kissable. “But you hate liars.”

Alastor gave a soft and luxurious laugh, the kind that curled around her like silk. He stepped in closer, his voice dropping like honey into a warm drink.

“Oh, darling, I do . Despise them.” He paused, then leaned in until their noses nearly touched. “Which makes my own treachery such a delicious little flaw, don’t you think?”

Before she could sputter a reply, he gave a maddeningly mischievous smiled and gently tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. “Boop .”

“All right,” Maverick interrupted as he held out a well-used silver knife and four tiny vials. “You know the drill.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Alastor said matter-of-factly.

With practiced ease, Alastor took the knife, made a precise slice across his fingertip, and let two vials fill with thick, dark blood.

Maverick turned to Charlie. “Your turn.”

Charlie hesitated, but only for a second. Her nerves twitched behind her eyes, but then she nodded with a sharp breath and held out her hand. She mirrored Alastor’s calm and cut her finger cleanly, filling the remaining vials with trembling resolve.

Maverick gathered the vials and returned to the bar. He poured the prepared magical mixture into two cocktail glasses: one tall, one shallow.

Into the tall glass he poured Charlie’s blood. The mixture hissed and fizzed, turning a deep, vibrant red streaked with flickers of gold light. Tiny pops of magic snapped like firecrackers across the surface.

Into the other glass went Alastor’s blood. The reaction was quieter but far more unsettling. The liquid darkened into a red so deep it bordered black, and a faint green glow radiated upward from the fizzing edge, like swampfire licking glass.

“There you go,” Maverick muttered, satisfied.

He made a mark on the remaining blood vials and tucked them into a polished wooden case behind the bar, locking it with a whispered incantation.

Alastor lifted his glass, his smirk all charm and trouble. “To sunny disasters who crash into your day, flip everything upside down… and make you wonder how the hell you ever liked it quiet.”

Charlie blinked, then laughed, both soft and delighted. “To smooth-talking shadows who pretend they’re not already enjoying the chaos.”

And with that, they drank: grinning, curious, and already in too deep.

The moment the glasses were empty, Alastor gently guided Charlie toward the window behind Maverick’s desk.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Take a look.”

Charlie blinked, then reached for the pull cord. With a light tug, the dark green blinds lifted—and the view stole her breath.

The entire speakeasy unfolded before her like a living postcard: the glowing card-suit chandeliers, the sparkling dancefloor, the swirl of dancers below the stage, the cascade of laughter and cheers from the gambling tables. Magic shimmered in every glass, every breath of smoke. It was like looking down into another world.

Charlie lit up, eyes wide. “Oh, wow!”

She flitted from one side of the wide window to the other, peering down at the tables, the band, the bar. “Do they really enchant every drink? Are those waitresses gliding? Is that...oh! Oh, that guy just vanished! Where’d he go? Did you see that? Can I go back out there later? Do you think they’ll let me try the piano? Can I...?”

Her voice trailed from one question to the next, bouncing with excitement. She wasn’t really expecting answers, just letting the wonder pour out.

Alastor let her go on, a faint smile on his lips. But his eyes were dark.

He stood beside Maverick again, shoulder brushing the edge of the bar, as Maverick refilled his glass with whiskey. Alastor gave him a nod before taking it, eyes locked not on his drink but on the girl at the window.

Charlie’s laughter floated back to them, high and light, as she pointed out details only she seemed to notice, her voice full of awe. It filled the room like birdsong after rain.

Alastor’s gaze softened, the severe lines of his face easing for the briefest moment. Watching her, he looked unguarded, almost tender.

Then Maverick’s voice cut in.

“Not like you,” he muttered, pitched low so she wouldn’t hear. “To let something as small as a Drownlight get the jump on you.”

Alastor didn’t argue. He nodded once, slow and grave.

“I was caught off guard,” he admitted. “It won’t happen again.”

His mouth twisted... Not in humor, but something bitter. Self-directed. 

“She nearly died,” he added softly. “That isn’t something I’ll allow a second time.”

Maverick squinted at him. “So. You’re planning to fix that?”

Alastor’s eyes stayed on Charlie, tracking the way she pressed up against the window, craning her neck to see everything at once.

“I’ll be taking the rest of the week,” he said, voice low and deceptively calm. “Making sure I’m better prepared.”

Maverick snorted faintly. “That your polite way of saying you’re going hunting?”

Alastor’s lips curled, but didn’t quite smile.

“Let’s call it… selective culling.”

Maverick’s eyes hardened. He understood the shape of those words, even if they didn’t say much. He’d heard them before.

“Ah,” he said, voice dry as paper. “Bringing in the choicest cuts.”

Alastor tilted his head minutely. He didn’t confirm or deny it.

“I need you to watch her while I’m gone,” he said instead. “Keep her safe. Keep her close.”

Maverick sighed through his nose, giving him an old, exhausted side-eye. “So you’re asking me to babysit the sunshine demon?”

“You’re a famously charming host.”

“Famously reluctant , these days.” But then he exhaled, accepting it. “Fine. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Alastor’s tone shifted. Still quiet, but sharper than any blade.

“See that you do.”

He looked at Charlie again.

The way she turned, bright-eyed, trying to map the entire room in a single glance. She was curiosity and wonder all wrapped in flesh and starlight. And she’d nearly been lost to the dark. Because he hadn’t been ready.

“She matters,” he said, the words steady as iron.

Maverick’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re… attached.”

Alastor didn’t answer at first. He watched her like someone studying holy text, fingers idly tracing the rim of his empty glass.

“Attached is too small a word.”

His gaze held something absolute. Something uncompromising.

“She’s my song to sing,” he said softly. “And I’ll keep singing it… until there’s no breath left in me.”

Maverick blinked, taken aback by the honesty in his voice. The truth of it.

He let the silence sit undisturbed for a moment before he asked carefully, “Is that all she is to you? A song?”

Alastor shrugged, an elegant and dismissive little roll of the shoulder. But the faint flush on his cheeks betrayed him. When he spoke again, it was soft enough that Maverick had to strain to hear: “Don’t let anything happen to her.”

It wasn’t a request; it was a promise. Heavy with all the unspoken, shadowed things that might be required to keep it.

Maverick nodded once and watched Alastor drain the last of his drink in one swift, practiced gulp. The glass clacked against the bar as he set it down.

“You going to tell her,” Maverick drawled, one eyebrow lifting, “or should I?”

Alastor inhaled deeply, shoulders shifting like a man settling on armor he wished he didn’t have to wear.

“I’ll do it.”

Maverick just shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll set her up in the Queen of Hearts room. She’ll like that one the most.”

“I thought the same.” Alastor announced airily. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles before turning toward the window.

“Charlie?” he called, voice softer now. “Dearest?”

The intimacy of the nickname snagged her immediately. She turned, eyes locking on his with innocent trust, and he smiled: soft and careful. He extended his arm, and she took it with a cheerful bounce despite her lingering limp.

He led her out of the office, his gait unhurried, voice easy.

“You look like you’re already feeling better,” he observed lightly.

Charlie beamed at him. “I feel great! Though it’s still a little tender if I...” She reached to prod her side.

Alastor’s hand darted out and snatched hers gently but firmly.

“No need for that,” he said, eyebrow arching in mock sternness. “I believe you.”

She giggled and fell silent for a moment, taking in the corridor they walked along. The hall off the main casino floor was lined with doors, each marked with an ornate face card and suit in embossed brass.

Alastor stopped in front of one marked with an elegant Queen of Hearts plaque. With a showman’s flourish, he opened the door wide.

Inside, it was a riot of fanciful design. Heart motifs curled across the wallpaper. The black-and-white checkered floor gleamed like a chessboard, and the thick, carved furniture had the surreal feel of oversized chess pieces.

Charlie gasped and spun in delighted circles.

“It’s like something straight out of Alice in Wonderland!”

Alastor leaned casually against the doorframe, watching her with something too soft for a smile alone.

“I thought you’d like it,” he drawled. “One of Maverick’s guest rooms. He keeps a few on hand for the occasional traveling patron… or someone who’s blacked out.”

Charlie stopped mid-spin, her brows furrowing. “Blacked out? From what?”

“Booze,” he said lightly. “Or magic. The occasional spell gone wrong.” He shrugged. “Anyway, this is where you’ll be staying.”

Her face fell instantly. Color drained from her cheeks.

“Staying?” she echoed, voice cracking. “You mean… I’m not going to be with you?”

Alastor felt it like a punch to his ribs. His chest tightened painfully. He took a breath to steady himself.

“It’s just for a few days,” he said gently, pushing a reassuring smile onto his face. “I’ll pick you up Saturday morning. Don’t forget we have that fitting with Rosie.”

Her lip trembled. “Saturday? That’s… three days.”

He tried to shrug, casual as ever, though it felt forced and brittle.

“It’ll go by in a snap,” he said, demonstrating with his fingers.

Charlie’s eyes went glossy, her smile crumpling. She looked at the floor, stubbornly silent.

Alastor’s practiced nonchalance evaporated the instant he saw her shoulders shake. The idea that the brief separation may actually hurt her hadn’t even occurred to him.

“You’ll be with Maverick,” he offered, voice lower. “You’ll get to see the inner workings of this place. That’ll be fun, won’t it?”

She didn’t answer. Just nodded mutely at her shoes.

There was a terrible, fragile pause. Then...

“I’m sorry,” she whispered finally.

Alastor blinked. “Sorry?”

She nodded, eyes still fixed on the floor. “I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble in the cistern. I promise I’ll be more careful.”

Alastor’s breath caught. He saw the first tear fall and hit the checkered floor like a stone in water.

He crossed the space in a heartbeat, wrapping her in his arms, pressing her head against his chest.

“No,” he murmured fiercely into her hair. “No, my sweet. It’s not like that. You have nothing to apologize for.”

She sniffed against his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, softer this time. “I was supposed to protect you. Instead, I nearly lost you tonight.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, eyes closing as he breathed her in.

“I just… I need more power,” he admitted quietly. “The only way to get it is to go… hunting.”

Charlie’s head tilted back slightly, brow furrowing. “Hunting?”

He nodded against her hair.

“Yes. By… consuming the essence of others, I grow stronger. Physically. Magically.” He sighed, voice low and careful. “To do that, I need to be completely focused. I can’t guard you while I do it. Maverick volunteered to watch you.”

Charlie’s eyes were bright and wet, glimmering with the hurt she tried to swallow.

“I promise,” she whispered hoarsely. “I won’t be a burden.”

Alastor cupped her face in one hand, thumb brushing a tear from her cheek.

“You are no burden,” he said firmly. “You and I may not have known each other long, but you have already become… very precious to me.”

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling. “I don’t like this any more than you do. But it’s necessary.”

She blinked up at him, lashes wet. “Are you… calling out of work?”

He huffed a small laugh, their foreheads still connected. 

“No, my sweet. I’ll keep my day job. Nyther will… continue the hunt on my behalf until I’m off shift. Then I’ll join him.”

Charlie sniffed, voice very small. “Can I meet you at the station? Come back here with you after?”

Alastor let out another quiet, rueful laugh.

“No, darling. There will be plenty of time to be together once I pick you up Saturday.” He smiled down at her, softer now. “In the meantime, enjoy yourself.”

She sighed, bottom lip trembling but sticking out stubbornly. She nodded.

Alastor brushed her cheek once more before pulling back. He gestured toward the dresser, where familiar dress boxes were stacked neatly, a single white lily resting atop them.

“Your dresses,” he said simply.

Charlie’s eyes lit up a fraction. She walked over and picked up the lily with gentle fingers. She smiled, even through the tears.

The familiar weight of Nyther’s shadow dropped onto her shoulders with a quiet, affectionate curl.

“Thank you,” she signed one-handed, the flower still cradled. The shadow buzzed in excitement, nearly vibrating with joy.

They both laughed softly at that, the tension cracking like old ice.

Alastor gestured at the stack of boxes. “My silk pajamas are in there as well,” he added lightly. “But I politely ask you not to wander the halls in them.”

Charlie snorted out a giggle and nodded.

He gave her a deep, practiced bow. Then he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

Nyther nuzzled at her cheek once more before slithering back into Alastor’s shadow.

Alastor stepped back to the door, gave her one last, lingering look.

And with a quiet click, he was gone.

Charlie stood in the heart-themed room, alone. The hush pressed in around her. She felt the tears threaten again, that familiar sense of being a doll set back on the shelf, a feeling she knew too well from home.

But she closed her eyes and forced it down. This was Earth. This was different .

It was just three days.

Besides… she wasn’t alone in an ivory tower. She’d be with Maverick.

She let out a shuddering breath, opening her eyes to look down at her shadow, which waited patiently at her feet.

Plain and old, and looking lonely without Nyther’s eyes glinting back.

Charlie wiped her cheeks, set the lily carefully by the bed, and tried to find the strength to smile.

Chapter Text

Alastor lingered, his fingers resting on the knob, listening.

Her breathing was steady on the other side. Safe.

He would step back into his usual norm. Things would just go back to the way they were 48 hours ago, which was enough. That should have been enough. It always was before.

But now?

Now he couldn’t stop thinking about that sun-bright smile aimed right at him. Those wide, wondering eyes that seemed to see the good in everything. 

He wondered if she would see the good in even the parts of himself he’d kept hidden in the dark. 

He missed her already. 

Pathetic. 

But true.

He turned the knob just enough to test it, thumb brushing the worn brass. He considered stepping back in. Just one more moment, one more word.

He almost turned it again. Almost...

Alastor’s jaw tightened.

“No,” he muttered to himself, voice low, dangerous with its own self-loathing. He shook his head sharply, let his hand fall, and pivoted on a polished heel. He straightened his coat and forced himself away before he lost the nerve to leave at all.

The club was thick with smoke, sound, and laughter.

Jazz coiled from the stage like a living thing, curling around dancers who swayed and stomped in time. Glasses clinked, dice tumbled, laughter turned sour and sharp, arguments bloomed into whispers or the dull thud of fists on flesh.

Alastor stepped in, eyes flicking over the crowd with idle, predatory amusement. Cataloging every secret, every vice.

Maverick stood at the bar, arms crossed over his barrel chest, gruff as ever but wearing the unmistakable pride of a man who owned every inch of this den of delightful ruin. They caught each other’s eye.

Alastor sauntered over, hands behind his back.

“Maverick,” he drawled. “Who do we have tonight?”

Maverick turned a little, indicating a man by the bar.

“The one on the end, that sicko likes carving his initials into people’s faces.” He explained, his lip curled in disgust. “That one at the dance floor? Grabby fucker. Likes them young. Paid off the last girl’s parents to shut up after he nearly killed her.”

Maverick then jerked his head subtly toward the gambling floor.

“That one there. Cheats every game he can, then has his boys break fingers if anyone calls him on it. Proud of it too. He’s a bad kind, outside the casino as well. Extortion, laced drugs, and the more violent crimes too. Of the worst kind.”

Alastor’s smile was all predator: sharp, deliberate, and entirely devoid of kindness. It was the sort of smile that promised nothing good.

He gave a soft, appreciative whistle. “Truly, Maverick. You always did have the best menu in town. Hard to choose.”

Maverick only grunted.

But then their attention sharpened.

The high roller at the big table got up in a huff, slinging his arm around a woman’s shoulders like she was luggage. She didn’t fight, exactly, but her eyes were glassy with dread.

Two thick necked bodyguards fell in step behind them.

Alastor’s smile twisted into something darker still, cruel and knowing. A quiet, razor-edged threat that flickered behind his eyes like a promise of slow, deliberate ruin.

“Well, looks like my choice has been made.” He clapped Maverick on the shoulder. “Thanks for the recommendations, old friend.”

Maverick sighed, the sound low and gravelly, his eyes narrowed into slits against the swirling bar smoke.

“Just be careful,” he muttered, voice gruff. “They’re animals. But you bleed the same as them.”

Alastor tilted his head, smirk sliding easily across his face, polished and irritatingly pleased.

“Worried about me?” he drawled, as though the idea were endlessly entertaining.

Maverick snorted, a sharp exhale that sounded almost like a curse, and looked away deliberately, jaw flexing. He didn’t dignify it with words, but he lifted one big, scarred hand, the knuckles swollen and knotted from too many fights.

Without even meeting Alastor’s gaze, he signed the words with rough, economical precision: “Keep that idiot safe. And you be careful too.”

Nyther was perfectly still at Alastor’s feet, lost in the smoky, dim light, like any other tattered shadow. Then he shifted slightly. The motion was slow, deliberate, a dark ripple of acknowledgment that somehow managed to look both respectful and exasperated.

Alastor’s eyes softened, but just a fraction. Enough for anyone paying close attention to see the truth behind the swagger. But he didn’t let it linger.

He straightened his coat with a flick, offering Maverick a jaunty, two-fingered salute, smirk back in place like armor.

“Goodnight, Mav,” he said lightly, voice dripping easy mockery even as it trembled with real gratitude he’d never say out loud.

Then he turned on his heel, Nyther gliding after him, and followed the four figures into the night, leaving the glow of the club behind for the colder dark beyond.

Outside, the club’s warm noise died like a strangled breath, swallowed whole by the night. Fog rolled thick over the cobblestone road, coiling around ankles like something alive. The gaslights burned pale and sickly, their glow fractured in the mist.

Alastor strolled after them at an easy, unhurried pace. Every step was deliberate, coat shifting like dark water around him, polished shoes silent on wet stone.

Ahead, he heard the boss’s voice, which sounded oily and slurred with drink.

“Aw, c’mon, baby. Don’t start actin’ all high and mighty now.”

She whimpered, voice barely more than a choked breath. “Please. Don’t do this.”

He laughed, low and mean, as his fingers dug hard into her side. “Too late for ‘no’ now, sweetheart. You’re my lucky little charm tonight.”

The two bodyguards chuckled darkly, their silhouettes unmoving and complicit.

That was when Alastor’s voice cut through the fog like a blade drawn slow from its sheath.

“Gentlemen.”

The word dropped into the street with the weight of a promise.

They froze.

Three hard faces turned, squinting into the gloom, suspicion and challenge flashing in their eyes. The woman’s eyes went wide, hope and terror battling in their watery reflection of the gaslight.

“Get rid of this clown,” the boss sneered.

The bodyguards moved to intercept.

Alastor didn’t bother with theatrics. He struck with lightning-fast precision, as he drove his knee into the first man’s lungs, and an elbow cracked hard against the temple of the second. They dropped in groaning heaps, unconscious before they even hit the ground.

The boss’s eyes went wide.

Alastor let out an exaggerated sigh and spread his hands with a mocking flair. “Really? That’s the best help you brought tonight?”

He closed the distance without hurry, shoes silent on the road, his eyes flicking past the trembling boss to the woman behind him.

“Madam,” he said smoothly, voice velvety calm as he dipped his head in a polite bow. “Would you prefer to stay or go?”

“Go...” her voice cracked, “I want to go home. Please...”

He smiled politely in reply, “Then I suggest you go.”

She didn’t hesitate. She wrenched free and ran, heels clacking in frantic rhythm, breath ragged and sharp in the night.

The boss lunged towards her. 

“Where do you think your...” The man started but was cut off when Alastor’s arm shot out like a serpent. Fingers closed around the man’s wrist with unyielding force. The boss howled, eyes bulging as Alastor bent it back at an unnatural angle, the bones giving with a wet, muffled pop.

He didn’t release him. Not yet. He held the man there, pinned and helpless, until the echo of the woman’s fleeing steps vanished into silence. Only then did he let go, watching with cool amusement as the man staggered back, clutching his ruined wrist, snarling like a wounded dog.

Alastor tilted his head like a curious bird, eyes glittering with predatory amusement. Smile curling in wicked satisfaction.

“Now,” he said softly, voice shedding its earlier civility like an old coat. “Let’s talk.”

He took a slow, deliberate step forward.

The boss flinched back against the brick wall, eyes darting left and right.

“What… what do you want?” the man rasped.

Alastor smiled, wide and bright, all white teeth with nothing behind them but gleeful malice. He leaned in, close enough for the fog to bead on their faces. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Let’s review your résumé, hmm? Protection rackets. Beatings. Threats. Rapes. Murder. Selling poison to children and calling it medicine. You’re not trash,” he breathed, voice darkening. “You’re an infestation.”

The boss opened his mouth to spit a curse.

Alastor raised one finger, silencing him instantly.

“Ah-ah,” he tutted with exaggerated patience. “I’m talking now.”

He stepped even closer. Their noses nearly brushed.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Alastor continued, voice dropping to a honeyed invitation. “A little game. You’re a gambling man, aren’t you?”

He gestured expansively to the empty street.

“You get one chance. Impress me. Fight, run, beg, bargain—surprise me. If you can prove you’re anything other than pathetic, I’ll let you crawl away tonight. Scout’s honor.”

The boss swallowed hard, pupils blown wide.

Alastor’s grin twisted, curling inhumanly at the corners. His hazel eyes caught the flickering lamp light and reflected it back like a cat’s.

“But if you fail,” he added softly, “then you’re mine. Body and soul.”

The boss let out a strangled snarl and swung a wild punch.

Alastor didn’t even blink. He sidestepped, hands still in his pockets, and let the fist sail harmlessly by. He chuckled and reached out to slap the back of the man’s head almost fondly.

“Good! That’s the spirit!”

The boss stumbled forward and tried to spin back around.

Alastor moved fluidly, pivoting on his heel and tripping him with a subtle sweep of his leg.

The man crashed to the wet cobblestones with a strangled curse. He scrambled up, gasping, eyes rolling in panic. He charged again, more desperate than angry now.

Alastor met him halfway, twisting sideways with a dancer’s grace and guiding the charge past him, sending the man crashing into the wall with a dull thump.

Alastor was laughing now. Not polite laughter. Real laughter, sharp and cruel and bright as broken glass.

“Come on! Come on! Entertain me!”

The boss staggered back, sweat slicking his face, chest heaving.

Behind them, the two bodyguards lay groaning, slowly regaining consciousness. Nyther rose from the ground like smoke congealing into a nightmare shape.

Silent. Patient. Watching with gleaming, hollow eyes.

Alastor glanced over his shoulder and his smile warped into an even more manic grin.

“It looks like you're goons are beginning to stir. Wonderful!” Alastor's voice was bright and pleasant as a maître d'. 

He closed the distance between himself and his prey in an instant. Alastor’s hand seized the boss by the face and forced his gaze to fall on the bodyguards and Nyther.

“I want you to see this,” he called lightly. “A preview of what’s to come.”

Nyther drifted over the two prone men. His form bulged and twisted, dark as a pit.

With a sound like tearing fabric and grinding bone, he slammed his claws into the ground. The shadows of the bodyguards screamed- high, thin, uncanny wails without sound.

Their physical bodies convulsed. Fingers scrabbled at the stone. Eyes rolled back.

Nyther ripped their shadows away in long, wet strips. Like peeling skin from muscle. The shadows flailed in his grasp like dying animals. They twisted and shrieked in voiceless agony.

The men on the ground howled, blood vessels in their eyes bursting as the light inside them guttered.

Nyther’s body shuddered. His maw split open too wide, black and hungry. He devoured the writhing shadows whole in one obscene gulp. Then he slashed their empty still living bodies open with lazy, precise cuts, dragging out slick ropes of intestines. He lapped at the gore with a mockery of grace.

The alley filled with wet, sucking noises and the sickly-sweet scent of opened guts.

The boss wrenched away from Alastor’s grasp and turned back to face him once more, his skin slick with sweat, eyes huge and glistening in the lamplight. His chest heaved in ragged, gulping gasps like a man trying not to drown on dry land.

He began to shake—full-body tremors he couldn’t control. His knees wobbled, buckled. He dropped, palms scraping the cobblestones as he retched violently. Vomit splattered, steaming in the cold, foul air. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet, choking whimper.

Alastor watched with polite interest, head tilted slightly, that cold, bright grin never fading. He sighed as if disappointed in the man’s performance.

The boss wiped his mouth with a shaking sleeve, gagging again when he caught another look at the bodies behind him: the slashed-open husks, the blood pooling in viscous puddles, the stench of copper and bile heavy in the fog.

He flinched at the wet, smacking sound of Nyther licking gore from his claws. His eyes darted wildly, pupils blown wide, unmoored with animal terror. His lips moved without sound, babbling half-prayers, half-curses, as tears tracked through the grime on his cheeks.

Alastor let out a low, musical hum at the sight, almost approving. He adjusted his coat with unhurried elegance and took one graceful step closer. He looked down at the sobbing man with the same expression one might wear when selecting a good cut of meat at the butcher. His voice, when it came, was light. Almost kind.

“This is not where the fun ends,” Alastor clarified pleasantly, voice dripping warmth that made the words all the crueler. He crouched, meeting the man’s eyes directly, forcing him to see nothing but that fixed, cold amusement.

“After my dear friend here tears your living shadow from you and devours it,” he went on cheerfully, gesturing grandly to Nyther, who loomed behind him in awful silence, “you’ll be left exactly like this. Awake. Aware. But unable to do anything at all.”

He paused, letting the words sink in, watching with open delight as the boss’s breathing hitched and a hoarse sob cracked from his throat.

Alastor leaned in closer, close enough to smell the fear on him, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that somehow managed to be more frightening than any shout.

“Much like sleep paralysis,” he whispered, eyes gleaming, “you’ll be aware of everything I’m doing. And you won’t be able to stop me… as I start to cut you open.”

The boss let out a strangled scream, high and broken, spit and bile dribbling down his chin as he tried to crawl backward. His heels slipped on the wet road, boots skittering uselessly as he failed to gain purchase.

Alastor just watched, smiling with quiet, satisfied delight, as the man finally collapsed in the filth, shaking so badly he could no longer rise.

“Please...please don’t...I’ll pay you anything...” The boss’s voice cracked into a wet, desperate sob, spit shining on his trembling lip.

Alastor tilted his head slowly, expression melting into mock-sympathetic concern, eyes glinting with delighted cruelty. Then he pitched his voice high and syrupy-sweet, perfectly mimicking the boss’s earlier leer.

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart. Don’t act shy now. Too late to say no,” Alastor drawled with biting irony, his smile splitting wider at the whimper it earned.

The boss let out choked, animal-like sobs as his legs gave out completely, dumping him into the grimy, wet cobbles.

Nyther slithered forward then, massive and misshapen in the fog, his form bulging and shifting as his head flattened and widened like a serpent preparing to strike. Blackness seemed to bleed off him in heavy curls, swallowing what little light the gaslamps offered.

Alastor leaned in closer to the cowering man, voice dropping to a low, eager rasp, the words trembling with giddy, sadistic anticipation.

“Don’t look away.”

Nyther reared up, talons stretching long and crooked, before slashing them across the man’s shivering shadow.

A matching gash bloomed instantly across the man’s chest, blood spilling in dark, warm rivulets to the ground.

He screamed, high and panicked, eyes rolling huge in confusion and terror.

Alastor clapped one gloved hand over the man’s mouth, cutting the scream to muffled sobbing. His voice went falsely chiding, like scolding a child.

“Shhhh. Don’t go yelling now. You’ll wake the neighbors.”

The man sobbed into Alastor’s palm, words hitching, breaking. “What... what are you?!”

Alastor’s smile was all white teeth and hungry promise.

“Oh, darling,” he whispered, voice smooth and intimate as silk drawn over a blade. “I’m the answer to a prayer no one dares say out loud.”

He gestured lazily with his free hand, as if inviting Nyther to continue the show.

Nyther’s claws sank into the quivering, limp shadow pinned to the stones. He tore it free in one slow, dreadful motion, like peeling bark from a living tree. The shadow writhed and twisted on the ground, black and slick, shrieking in silent, unholy terror.

The man’s body convulsed. His mouth opened and closed uselessly, eyes glazing over as they tracked nothing at all.

Nyther’s mouth split impossibly wide, lined with too many needle-like, inhuman teeth. He lunged and devoured the screaming shadow in one obscene, gluttonous swallow.

The body twitched once. Then fell limp and silent forever.

For a moment, the alley fell dead quiet.

Alastor let out a long, satisfied sigh, like a man finally enjoying a good cigar after a long day’s work. He wiped a fleck of blood from his sleeve with meticulous precision.

Nyther slithered back toward him, his form shifting and stabilizing until he rose to his full, elegant height beside Alastor, gore dripping lazily from his claws to spatter the stones below.

Alastor glanced at him with open approval, patting his friend’s shadowy shoulder with conspiratorial fondness.

“Still hungry?” he asked in a warm murmur, voice almost affectionate.

Nyther signed something quick, his face expressive in their silent, private exchange.

Alastor snorted, rolling his eyes but smirking all the same.

“Stew, you think? Or jambalaya? I do love the classics.”

Nyther’s form rippled in something that might have been laughter.

“Steaks? Oh, you old romantic. That doesn’t have nearly enough drama.”

Nyther flickered in what passed for a shrug, shadowy form rippling.

Alastor sighed, rolling the first body onto its back.

“Fine, fine, we’ll compromise. Sausages, everyone loves sausages.”

Alastor surveyed the three cooling corpses with a connoisseur’s eye.

“Come on,” he said cheerfully, wiping blood onto his trousers without a care. “Help me with our friends. Let’s get them home before dinner starts to spoil.”

They bent together over the bodies, Alastor talking with Nyther in a low, easy voice about spices, sauces, and the merits of bone marrow as the fog rolled in to swallow them whole.

Charlie was already awake, though by human standards it was still early. She sat at the heart-shaped vanity near an elegant floor lamp, the pale light softening the red lacquered edges into something almost romantic.

Her golden hair spilled over her shoulders like liquid honey as she drew the brush through it. She still paused, just slightly now, every time she caught sight of herself. 

Still not used to it.

She tilted her head, studying her human features. They look real. The thought made her giggle softly. She reached up to touch an ear, half-expecting her fingertips to sink through the glamour, but it held, smooth and perfect.

A sudden thump thump thump of heavy knocking jolted her out of her reverie.

She set the brush down carefully and bounced to her feet, skirts whispering around her calves. When she pulled the door open, her bright smile collided with a scowl.

Maverick stood in the hall, blinking blearily, hair rumpled in a way that suggested he’d only just remembered to put on a shirt before leaving his room. One massive hand curled possessively around a vivid orange coffee mug, steam curling up toward his chin.

His eyes, red-rimmed and unimpressed, narrowed further at the sight of her radiant grin.

“Good morning!” Charlie trilled, unbothered by his lack of enthusiasm.

Before he could protest, she wrapped her arms around his middle and hugged him firmly.

Maverick made a noise halfway between a grunt and a sigh, then rested his coffee hand on her shoulder as if resigned to his fate.

“Of course you’re a morning person,” he muttered into his cup, voice raspy with sleep. “Just my damn luck.”

She rocked on her feet, “You’re not?”

“Phones for you.” He growled instead. 

“Really?!” She released him so abruptly he rocked back a step. Her hands flew to her mouth, eyes going round. “I have a phone call? A human phone call?”

He stared at her, expression suggesting he might actually walk away and just go back to bed.

“Yes.” He took a slow sip of coffee, savoring it as if it were the only thing keeping him from immediate homicide. “A phone call. Come on.”

He turned, shuffling down the hall without waiting to see if she followed.

Charlie trailed after him, nearly skipping in her excitement, her bare feet padding softly on the worn rugs.

Maverick’s office was clearer now. Not just being daylight hours, but without the pain of the Drownlight injury, she could really take in all the details she missed yesterday. Like a cluttered cave of paperwork, old ledgers, and faintly alchemical scents: smoke, metallic sweetness, a memory of roses and decay.

He gestured toward the heavy black telephone sitting on the corner of his desk, the receiver resting on the desk next to the base like a sleeping creature.

Charlie approached it cautiously, hands clasped under her chin.

Maverick eyed her over the rim of his cup, then raised one bushy brow.

“It won’t bite you,” he deadpanned.

She darted a look at him, eyes shining. “How do I do this?”

He sighed, set the mug down, and raised his free hand.

Curling a fist with his thumb and pinky out, he mimed bringing an imaginary phone to his face and mouthing Hello.

Charlie nodded solemnly, copying the gesture, then turned to the real phone. She lifted the receiver as if it were a holy relic, cradling it carefully against her cheek. She took a breath that sounded suspiciously like she might squeal again.

“Hello?” she said brightly, voice warm with wonder.

Charlie held the receiver to her ear with both hands like it was spun from crystal. She tried to keep her breath even, but her heart was thumping wildly in her chest.

From the other end of the crackling line came that familiar, velvet-smooth voice, warm enough to melt butter.

“Good morning, my darling. How did you sleep?”

Charlie squeaked, her whole face lighting up.

“Al! ” she squealed so loudly that Maverick winced from across the room.

She danced in place, bare toes curling into the carpet.

“How are you? Did-you-make-it-home-okay? Whatdidyoueatforbreakfast? How’sNyther ?”

The questions spilled out so fast she could barely breathe between them, the words almost slurred in her excitement.

There was a low, delighted laugh on the other end.

“All right, slow down, my charming little demon-belle,” Alastor drawled, the smile evident in every syllable.

Charlie couldn’t have stopped grinning if she tried. Her face hurt already.

Alastor’s voice turned mock-thoughtful.

“Let’s see... I’m good. Of course I made it home alright. I had blood sausage with scrambled eggs. And he’s doing well; he’s currently hunting in the Murkveil.”

Her eyes went round.

“By himself?! ” she gasped.

“He’s perfectly fine, darling,” he assured her lightly. “Nyther knows that place better than anyone. He could navigate it in his sleep, if shadows even slept.”

She made a skeptical little huff but didn’t argue further.

“Are you at work?” she asked instead.

“I am,” he confirmed. She could practically hear him adjusting his tie with one precise tug. “I’ll be going on air very soon. I would like you to listen, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course! Yes!” she said instantly. Then she blinked, confused, mouth opening and closing once. She bit her lip and leaned forward over Maverick’s desk, voice dropping in a small, conspiratorial whisper. “How... how do I do that?”

On the other end, Alastor’s laugh was warm and genuinely fond.

“No worries, sweetheart,” he drawled. “Maverick will set it up for you.”

Charlie turned her head and beamed at Maverick so brightly it was practically weaponized.

The older man blinked back at her, both eyes somehow failing to focus at the same time, the steam from his coffee mug wafting lazily over his face. He grunted.

Charlie didn’t let it deter her one bit. She turned back to the phone, bouncing a little on her toes.

“Of course, my darling!” she sang into the receiver. A proud grin on her face for reusing one of his many pet names.

For a moment, Charlie thought she heard Alastor’s breath hitch.

“Now, I have to go, but I wanted to talk to you first,” Alastor’s voice softened.

Charlie went still, listening with reverence.

“Remember to be a good girl and stay with Maverick,” he said gently. “The sourpuss will have a lot of errands to run today. Then you can spend the afternoon helping him prep, and maybe even enjoy the club tonight.”

Charlie’s smile was incandescent.

“Sounds good. Bye, Al. Have a great show.”

“Goodbye, Charlie,” he said, voice dipping into something private, tender.

And with that, the line went dead.

Charlie slowly lowered the receiver, holding it against her chest for a second longer as if to soak in the last of his voice.

She looked up at Maverick, eyes shimmering with happy tears she refused to shed.

He just snorted and sipped his coffee.

“Right,” he muttered. “Let’s get this day over with.”

Charlie squealed and bounced in place, hugging the phone to her like a doll.

Charlie beamed so hard she nearly glowed, shifting restlessly like she couldn’t hold all that joy in one body. The happy sway she did made the hem of her dress flutter with each enthusiastic bounce.

She turned her head constantly, taking in every storefront, every streetcar rattling by, every wrought-iron balcony dripping with Spanish moss like it was all new.

Which, for her, it was.

“Look at that, Maverick! That man’s selling hats out of a wagon! Out of a wagon! Do you think he lets you try them on? Oh...what’s that smell? Is that gumbo? It’s so spicy in the air, I can feel it in my nose! Wait, wait, is that a dentist’s office next to a mortuary? How convenient!”

Maverick let out a noise halfway between a grunt and a sigh.

They were walking side by side. Well, more accurately, he was trudging while she all but skipped.

Next to each other, they looked almost comical: Charlie tall and graceful, all long lines and warm smiles, her braid shining like spun gold, while Maverick hunched beside her, thick-shouldered and scarred from old fights, like a grumpy old brawler drafted to play bodyguard for a storybook heroine.

His arms were loaded with brown-paper parcels and cloth bags bulging with herbs, roots, and tinned goods. Another sack dangled from his elbow with suspicious glass clinking, courtesy of his favorite bootlegger.

Charlie had her own smaller stack of bags, though she was balancing them one-handed as she gestured wildly at every new curiosity.

“Honestly,” Maverick grumbled, adjusting his grip with a pained grunt, “you’re worse than a stray cat with a ball of twine.”

She ignored the insult entirely.

“Did you see how the apothecary had all those little drawers? I wanted to open every single one. I think they should let customers sniff everything. It would improve sales!”

“I’m sure,” Maverick muttered, “they’d love you redesigning their entire shop. Jesus.”

“But the bank was so serious! ” she continued, breathlessly delighted. “That poor teller looked like he wanted to die every time you smiled at him. Why was he so scared of you?”

Maverick glared at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Because he’s smart.”

She beamed at him, utterly unbothered.

“You’re not scary. You’re grumpy . Big difference!”

He made a sound that suggested an aneurysm was imminent.

She caught the noise and giggled, looping her arm through his free one.

He stiffened.

“Don’t.” he began, voice low and warning.

She looked at him with those huge, unguarded eyes, all shining innocence.

Maverick clenched his jaw so hard a muscle jumped.

He exhaled.

“Just… watch the bags,” he muttered.

“Of course!” she chirped brightly, hugging his arm even tighter.

They walked on in a sort of uneasy truce.

They passed street vendors hawking pralines and newspapers. Children ran barefoot in the gutter, chasing a battered hoop with a stick. A pair of nuns shuffled by, eyeing the speakeasy bags with suspicion.

Charlie didn’t stop talking the entire time.

She asked what every building used to be, what every weird smell was, why everyone wore hats, if Maverick liked hats (he didn’t), if people really bribed the police (he confirmed it flatly), and if he thought Alastor would look good in a hat (Maverick suggested a burial shroud instead).

He only snapped once, when she nearly got them run over by a delivery truck trying to peer in the window.

“Will you, for the love of God, stand still for ONE SECOND? ”

She froze so dramatically the driver honked twice in appreciation.

She turned to him with those big blue eyes brimming with hurt.

“Don’t… do that.” He groaned.

“Do what?” she sniffed.

“That… face.” Maverick clarified.

Charlie blinked innocently.

He exhaled, defeated.

“Just walk. Please.”

She immediately brightened, grabbing his elbow again.

“Okay!”

By the time they finished lunch, a quick bite at a hole-in-the-wall diner where Maverick ordered coffee strong enough to strip paint while Charlie asked the waitress twenty questions about the pie selection, he looked like a man who’d fought in a war and lost.

It was late afternoon now, and the light slanted golden between the narrow buildings.

They trudged back toward the club, arms laden with bags from their endless errands.

Charlie bounced beside him the whole way.

“Thank you for bringing me,” she said sweetly, hugging her bags to her chest. “This was so fun.”

Maverick didn’t answer right away.

He shifted the weight of the parcels with a grunt, glaring at the sidewalk as if it personally offended him.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice rough. “Sure.”

He didn’t look at her.

But he didn’t shake her off when she slipped her arm through his again.

And he didn’t tell her to shut up when she started humming happily to herself all the way back to the door.

They pushed through the front door of the business, Maverick’s “respectable” street-facing speakeasy.

The cool, dim interior swallowed them up at once, all dark wood paneling and stained-glass lamps casting fractured gold across scuffed floors. The place smelled of old liquor, pipe smoke, and citrus polish.

Maverick exhaled slowly, rolling his neck with a series of low cracks.

“Home sweet fucking home,” he muttered, crossing straight to the long bar counter.

He dropped half the bags there with a muffled thud, bottles and tins rattling.

Charlie watched him, eyes wide and curious, hugging the last of her own parcels to her chest.

For a moment, she just stood there, studying him. Watching how he unpacked, stacked, and checked labels with practiced, economical movements. Then, without a word, she mirrored him—setting her own bags down, peeling them open, sorting the contents by shape and size.

Maverick glanced up, brow lifting under his mop of salt-and-pepper hair. He watched her for a second, eyes narrowing, and then snorted.

“Pretty sharp for an airhead,” he said.

Charlie blinked, then burst into a grin so bright it could’ve lit the whole room. Too brightly for the insult he’d meant it as.

“I do tend to get a little overexcited sometimes,” she admitted cheerfully. “But that doesn’t mean I’m dumb… Just… easily excited. And distracted. And curious.” She ticked each word off on her fingers solemnly.

Maverick made a noise low in his chest, somewhere between a grunt and a laugh, and turned back to unloading.

They worked side by side, the only sounds for a while were the rustle of paper, the clink of glass, and the creak of old floorboards.

Charlie picked up the rhythm quickly—handing him the right bottles before he asked, arranging spices in neat rows on low shelves.

Maverick found himself humming once, caught it, and coughed gruffly to cover it.

The quiet settled in comfortably.

He actually let out a long, satisfied sigh.

And that was, of course, when she broke it.

“Hey Mav?”

“Ughhhh.” He slumped a little, looking at her from under his brows. “What now ?”

She tilted her head, finger tapping her lips thoughtfully.

“It’s pretty funny that your front for a speakeasy is just… another speakeasy.”

He snorted, a quick grunt of laughter before he could stop it. “Yeah, well. Everybody loves booze.”

Charlie brightened even more, which he hadn’t thought possible. She handed him another roll of paper-wrapped herbs before leaning her elbows on the bar.

“Why a magical alchemy casino speakeasy anyway?” she asked, voice full of wonder. “I mean, I get the theming with this topside one. It’s super impressive that you were an award-winning boxer. And the décor’s fun with all the gloves and photos and stuff. But the other one?”

She paused, brow furrowing as she tried to find the right words.

“Casino, magic, alchemy, alcohol, and dancing. It’s a crazy mix.” She rushed to add, earnest. “I mean...a good kind of crazy! But it all seems kind of… hosh posh together?”

Maverick barked out a genuine laugh, dry and gravelly.

“I do appreciate the honesty, kid,” he said, voice softening just a hair. “It’s a bit of a long story.”

Charlie immediately beamed.

She scurried to grab two of the battered old stools from behind the bar. She dragged them forward with a scrape of wood on floor, nearly tripping over her own skirt in her haste.

She perched on hers, eyes huge, expectant. Then she patted the other stool firmly.

Maverick rolled his eyes to the cracked ceiling but let out a low, honest chuckle at her obvious excitement. He gave in with a gusty sigh, planting himself heavily on the other stool.

Charlie immediately leaned in, humming with anticipation.

He raised one brow at her, scowling half-heartedly.

She just bounced a little where she sat.

“Alright,” Maverick grumbled, settling in. “Here it goes.”

Maverick watched Charlie practically buzzing on her stool, fingers drumming the edge of the bar in anticipation.

He let out a long, suffering sigh.

“First,” he said, voice gravelly, “let’s make sure you’re actually useful. I’m running a business here. Two, in fact.”

Charlie blinked and then lit up like a lamp.

“Of course!” she chirped.

He shook his head slowly, but there was less real annoyance in it now than before.

He turned, rummaging under the bar until he came up with a stack of clean cloth napkins and a bin of mismatched but polished silverware.

“Here,” he grunted, slapping the napkins down. He demonstrated quickly, thick fingers surprisingly deft as he folded one with practiced precision, wrapping it neatly around a knife, fork, and spoon into a tidy roll secured with a paper band. “Like this. Napkin roll-up. Don’t fuck it up.”

Charlie gasped in delight.

“You do appetizers here?! And entrees? That’s so fun!”

Maverick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well. Booze isn’t the only thing people want when they’re here all night. Something has to soak it up so they don’t puke on my floors.”

But as he said it, his voice held something like resignation, not real irritation.

Charlie was already mimicking his movements with frantic care, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.

He watched her for a moment, arms folded over his barrel chest.

“...Not bad,” he admitted grudgingly.

They fell into a rhythm.

For a while, the only sounds were the faint clinks of silverware, the rustle of cloth, and the low creak of the bar stool legs against the floor.

“So…” Charlie smiled at him expectantly.

Maverick snorted, she did try and wait before bringing it up again.

“Alright.” He relented, then took a moment to crack his knuckles.

“First off, I was a heavyweight boxer. Not some backroom wanna-be either. Pro . Years back, I was the World Heavyweight Champion.”

Charlie gasped softly.

He shrugged one massive shoulder.

“Didn’t mean to settle here in New Orleans. I’m from Nevada originally. Parents were Russian immigrants. Old country, hard people.”

His voice softened slightly.

“Dad was a traveling magician. Damn good one too. Taught me everything I know about sleight of hand. Hell of a gambler.”

Charlie smiled, hanging on every word.

Maverick’s mouth quirked.

“The irony was... while he was a showman with nothing but stage magic? My mom was an honest-to-God alchemist. Took the old man years to figure it out. His stuff was all illusions. He had no idea when he was lookin’ at the real thing.”

He let out a low laugh, real and fond. Eyes distant for a moment, gaze fixed somewhere over Charlie’s shoulder.

Charlie watched him in wonder, chin propped in her hand.

She let the silence linger a respectful second before gently prompting, “What brought you to New Orleans then?”

Maverick’s expression hardened at once, focusing back on the demon in front of him. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“Something... happened,” he said slowly. “Something bad. I needed a miracle. Came to find the Needlebound.”

Charlie blinked.

“Needlebound?” she echoed.

He nodded, jaw working. “Think of it as a... kind of cult.”

Charlie sat up straight, chewing her lip before asking slowly, almost afraid to offend him, “Like the Jaws of the Black Hunt?”

Maverick let out a genuine snort. “No. The Needlebound are nothing like the Black Hunt. Those psychotic bastards are in a league of crazy and evil all their own. The Needlebound are good folks. True old-world magic. Real traditions.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed.

“Why did you need a miracle?” she asked softly.

Maverick’s face went pale. He didn’t answer right away. He just shook his head once, tight and final.

Charlie set her half-finished napkin roll-up aside and laid her hand over his.

He didn’t move for a second, eyes flicking to her small, warm hand covering his scarred knuckles.

Then he let out a rough cough and cleared his throat.

“Anyway,” he rumbled, voice thick, “I made it here and... never left. There’s something about this place that just sticks with you.”

He said it softer, with an unexpected fondness.

Charlie squeezed his hand once, then let go with a bright smile.

He looked away quickly and grunted, trying to recover his scowl.

“I started this place legit at first. Boxing bar. Real certificates on the wall, trophies. But the longer I stayed, the more I realized just how many folks like... me there were.”

“Like you how ?” Charlie tilted her head.

“Different? Supernaturally inclined? Not sure what the proper word is.” Maverick shrugged, uncomfortable.

Charlie lit up. “Oh! You mean a Mancer! ”

“What?” Maverick blinked at her.

Charlie blushed. “That’s what my tutors always called humans with magical abilities. Mancers.”

He stared at her for a beat.

“Okay,” he said dismissively, with a snort.

He jerked his thumb at the door.

“The city and state sit smack dab on one of the biggest liminal plates in the world. Weird shit accumulates here. Always has, always will.”

Charlie nodded solemnly, as if he were reciting holy scripture.

Maverick’s big hands were already gathering the neat stacks of napkin roll-ups, fingers surprisingly gentle for all their scarring. Carefully, he split the large pile in half. He placed one pile at the end of the bar and scooped the remaining half into one of the unpacked bags. He stood with a grunt, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the memory of old fights.

Charlie stayed perched on her stool for another second, studying him with bright, thoughtful eyes.

He caught the look and scowled automatically.

“What?”

She blinked, then tilted her head, hair brushing her shoulder.

“Well, you said you started as a regular bar… So why the potions and the alchemy stuff? I mean... it’s not exactly standard fare.”

Maverick paused, rolling one shoulder.

He made a face like he didn’t want to answer, but exhaled heavily.

“...Well,” he grumbled, “as much as I love a good drink- being a Mancer or whatever- sometimes I crave more than just regular booze. Potions and alchemical mixes can be a better time. Figured if I liked it… then others like me might too.”

Charlie’s grin stretched from ear to ear at that.

He avoided looking at her, pretending to rearrange the bundles in his arms.

“And there were others like me, a lot of them,” he muttered. “So I made it for them.”

Charlie hopped off her stool in a flurry of skirt and grabbed what she could carry.

They shared a look, and then Maverick jerked his chin toward the back.

“Come on,” he said gruffly. “Let’s get these to the real club.”

Their shoes thudded softly over the worn wood as they walked, bags clinking with glass and paper.

Charlie’s voice piped up almost immediately.

“And all the secrecy?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.

Maverick grunted.

“Those who aren’t Mancers don’t have any idea magic’s even possible. So the idea of them experimenting with magical potions?” He snorted. “Sounds like a really bad idea. Last thing I need is some drunk banker growing gills in the gutter.”

Charlie giggled at the mental image.

“Just like my old man; he had my ma’s true, honest to God, magic right under his nose for years, but he assumed it was just an act so he didn’t question it. He didn’t truly see it cuz he didn’t know what he should be looking for. Same idea holds here in the Crescent City.” Maverick explained. 

At the end of the hallway, they reached the staff-only door Charlie had already recognized from last night.

Plain, narrow, with the small brass plaque carved with the four card suits.

She shifted her grip on the bags, glancing at it with a small, knowing smile.

Maverick set his load down with a grunt.

“Still remember this part?” he asked dryly.

Charlie nodded eagerly.

“That’s the little room with the mirror, ” she said, bouncing a little on her heels. “It’s the secret entrance to the real club.”

Maverick grunted approval and reached for the playing card tucked behind the plaque.

Charlie leaned in closer, eyes shining.

It was the same ornately decorated Joker as before, but this time she noticed the tiny alchemical symbols and runes etched along its edges.

Maverick held it between two fingers and snorted at her expression.

“See those markings? It’s not just for show,” he explained.

Charlie blinked, brows pinched in curiosity.

“The Joker card means something in magic,” he continued, voice rough but patient. “Liminal space. Chaos. The fool who knows the path no one else sees. Old Mancers used to mark hidden doors with it so other magic users would know there was something behind it worth finding.”

Charlie’s eyes widened with understanding.

“So it’s like... a secret signal,” she whispered.

“Exactly.” He flicked the edge of the card. “Most regulars don’t even see this tucked back here. Even if they do, they think it’s decoration.”

Charlie carefully took the card when he offered it, reverent fingers tracing the etched details. She flipped it over and found something scrawled on the back in cramped handwriting.

RULES OF ENTRY:

1. Leave trouble at the door.
2. No debts without collateral.
3. Consent before magic.
4. Common sense mandatory.
5. Club secrets stay secret.

She frowned, mouthing them silently.

“Last time I didn’t even notice all of these,” she admitted.

“They’re there for a reason,” he said. “Follow those and anyone is welcome here.”

She traced the writing with one finger, eyes big with wonder.

“It’s like a temporary soul contract,” she breathed.

Maverick nodded, then took the card back carefully and slid it behind the plaque again. He opened the door and pointed to the oversized gilded mirror.

“It is a contract,” he growled. “You sign your name here to agree to the rules while you’re in my club. Means you don’t break ‘em without consequences. Real consequences.”

Charlie’s face lit up even more, impossibly bright.

“Oh! That’s brilliant! ” she gushed happily at him, hugging her bags.

They stepped into the closet of a room and closed the door behind them.

Maverick shifted his load and leaned toward the mirror. He exhaled deliberately, fogging the glass. With one thick finger, he wrote his name in the condensation: Maverick Udalov

Charlie followed his example and wrote hers as well: Charlotte Morningstar

The mirror pulsed with silvery light, the letters sinking into its surface before vanishing entirely. The door’s reflection shifted just as it had last night.

She turned to him, eyes shining.

Maverick just shook his head.

“Come on,” he said roughly, though his voice was softer than before.

Charlie followed close behind, mind buzzing with all she’d learned, her feet light on the old floorboards as they stepped out into the main club.

Maverick tried to organize his thoughts, a mental checklist of what errands had been run and figuring out what still needed to be finished before opening. That task was only made all the more difficult with Charlie’s constant chattering in his ear.

Maverick finally let out a sound that might have been a groan or a laugh; her positivity was equal parts annoying and enduring. Honestly, he was probably making his own life harder by not just accepting it.

He jerked his chin toward the back bar.

“Put those bags down before you drop ‘em. Then you can gawk all you want.”

She scrambled to obey, carefully setting the parcels on a clean spot.

“Okay! Done!” She clasped her hands and turned back to him, eyes shining.

He gave her a long, flat look.

“Don’t touch anything without asking first,” he warned.

Charlie nodded solemnly, though her eyes already darted to the roulette wheel.

“Can I ask now?”

He sighed.

“Fine. You can ask.”

Her grin threatened to split her face in two.

“Tell me everything,” she breathed.

Maverick shook his head, muttering to himself, but gestured for her to follow him as he headed to oversee the bar staff.

“Come on,” he growled, though there was no real anger in it. “If you’re gonna get in the way all day, you might as well learn how it runs.”

Charlie let out an excited little squeak and hurried after him, feet pattering on the tile, her questions already spilling out like a fast-moving river.

Alastor dragged the corpse into the kitchen without ceremony but with the mild exasperation of a man bringing in groceries that were heavier than expected.

He straightened, selecting his favorite knife from the block with a neat little flourish like a magician presenting a card. He set to work with brisk, almost loving precision. He carved a long line down the chest, easing the skin apart with the tip of the blade.

“Damn fool struggled too much. Made a mess of the ribs…”

He pressed down with the heel of his hand, snapped a bone with an audible crack, and shifted his grip.

Blood spread across the countertop in slow, sticky rivulets.

“Shoulders first,” he narrated lightly. “Excellent for roasts or stews. Leg cuts are much leaner, but braised right? Perfect.”

He twisted and snapped the shoulder free at the joint with a wet crack , humming under his breath. He pushed the blade in with a practiced stroke, parting joints and muscle with obscene ease.

Nyther sulked in the corner, his form rippled darkly.

Alastor glanced at him sideways as he gave a crooked, forced grin.

“Don’t you start,” he said, voice dripping false cheer. He spun the knife between his fingers. “We’ve got work to do. Productive murder. Ethical butchery. Come on, enthusiasm, my dear Nyther!”

Nyther only flattened further into the corner, inky form growing spiked.

Alastor arched a brow and carefully scooped several organs into a jar before returning to his work with the knife. 

“Bones for needles and wards. Organs for pickling and jars. You don’t just kill a man, you use him. Respect. Culture!”

Alastor’s movements were precise and methodical, peeling back skin with the kind of clinical care that might have suited a surgeon. If the patient weren’t long dead.

Nyther’s smoky claws flickered in the gloom. He signed slowly, deliberately, although he didn’t really need to.

Alastor heard him just as clearly in the quiet of his own mind.

That voice was nearly identical to his own, smooth and sardonic, but with an echoey undertone, each syllable crackling faintly like static over an old radio.

As natural as hearing his own thoughts.

Their connection ran deeper than words or signs. Stitched together at the very core of what they were.

Nyther used sign language out of habit, a holdover from years of needing to be seen to be heard by everyone else. 

“You’re pathetic. Talking to a dead body and narrating like she can somehow hear you.”

The words buzzed through his head, dry and biting.

Alastor froze mid-cut.

He lifted his eyes lazily.

“Pardon?”

Nyther repeated it, slower, claws slashing the air with theatrical irritation.

Alastor’s grin twisted at the corners but stayed in place.

“Don’t test me, old friend.” He replied, voice still falsely bright, but underneath there was a distinct chill to the words. “I narrate because it’s art , darling. Theatrics!” He leaned over the corpse and made a grand, sweeping gesture. 

Nyther’s smoky claws flickered deliberately in the gloom.

But Alastor didn’t need to watch.

“You miss her too.”

Alastor let out an indignant bark of laughter.

“Miss her? Really ?” He pressed the knife harder into the joint, sawing with a theatrical flourish. “What exactly is there to miss, hm?”

He began ticking off complaints on blood-slick fingers, voice dripping dry sarcasm.

“Her hundreds of questions. The way she stares at every mundane thing like it’s the Holy Grail. That insufferable smile...”

But the words slowed.

His tone softened without permission.

His eyes unfocused, seeing something far brighter than the blood in front of him.

“Those... big doe eyes,” he admitted quietly. “The way she scrunches her nose in that adorable little way when she’s lost in thought.”

His cheeks warmed, going faintly pink.

“That stupid, bell-like giggle...”

He trailed off entirely.

Nyther’s form rippled, and Alastor didn’t need to see the signs to know his shadow was smirking like a cat in cream.

Alastor sighed, loudly and dramatically.

He threw down the knife with an exaggerated clack and wiped his brow with the back of his wrist.

“Oh, fine ,” he grumbled.

He lifted his eyes to the shadows.

“Yes. I miss her. She’s an absolute peach.”

His voice dropped lower, more sincere.

“And I adore her.”

He leveled a finger at Nyther, though there was no real heat in it.

“Just like you do.”

Nyther’s claws flexed smugly.

Alastor huffed, the grin sliding off his face entirely.

“But that’s exactly why we need to be away from her right now.”

He drew in a slow, steady breath.

His next words were firm. Uncompromising.

“I never want to feel like that again,” he said, lower now, harsher. “Not ever. Watching her get dragged under.”

His hand went to his chest, clutching at his shirt like he could steady the frantic pounding beneath. Nyther shifted, shadows flickering in restless sympathy, but said nothing because he felt it too. 

Alastor let the silence stretch, let it ache.

Then, slowly, he straightened up, picking up the knife once more. And just like that, he put the mask back on.

His mouth curved into a crooked, rakish grin.

He winked at the shadows.

“Well!” he chirped, voice suddenly bright, breezy. “That got entirely too maudlin, didn’t it?” Alastor slapped a hand theatrically over his heart, letting out an exaggerated gasp. He twirled the knife between his fingers like a stage prop.

“Look at us, six criminals tonight alone, three last night. I’d call that excellent productivity.” He leveled the blade at Nyther with mock accusation. “And that’s not even including the Murkveil beasties you heroically dispatched on your little solo hunt.”

Alastor clicked his tongue appreciatively, resuming his careful cuts.

“And imagine, my dear Nyther, in just three short days...no, wait,” he added, voice brightening theatrically, “two days now since tonight is practically over, we’ll be so powerful we’ll need extra ledgers just to keep track.”

He waggled his eyebrows.

“Fresh bone wards. Needles. Protective sigils on every bloody threshold. Especially her room . This is the cost of care.”

Nyther signed slowly, sulky and sullen.

“I could check on her. Slither over there.”

Alastor froze, knife poised above the next cut.

He turned his head with exaggerated slowness and raised one perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Oh sure ,” he drawled. “You’ll just slither over and look. Like you can actually keep your shadowy hands to yourself when you’re around her. You glow like a lovesick lantern.”

Nyther rippled in sulky silence but didn’t deny it.

Alastor’s eyes softened despite himself, though his mouth twisted in frustration.

“Besides,” he added more quietly, voice dipping into something more raw, “what if she sees you? Might get her hopes up.”

He trailed off.

Knife still in his hand, as he shook his head. As if he could will away the way she’d looked at him when they’d said goodbye. The tiny tremble in her lip she’d tried to hide. The too-bright glisten in those big, damnably beautiful eyes.

He swallowed hard.

“Right,” he declared, as he dropped the knife onto the counter with a sharp clack that echoed through the quiet kitchen.

He straightened, pulling on that old, theatrical charm like a cloak.

“Get me my grimoire ,” he ordered, voice like iron. “I want those wards finished tonight. Especially around her room. And call the moppets. I want this place spotless before the blood sets.”

Nyther rippled in frustration but finally slithered away, dark as spilled ink, trailing silent resentment behind him.

Alastor didn’t watch him go.

He wiped his hands slowly on a stained towel, fingers trembling just once before he forced them still.

From the shadowed corners of the kitchen, shapes began to move, the moppets began to emerge one by one. Some no larger than mice, others the size of small dogs. 

Shadows stitched together with shade and bone. Green thread snaked through their seams like veins. They had twisted smiles, some with hollow eyes, others were buttons. Several sprouted tiny horns or tails.

Silent and tireless, they scuttled and shuffled forward, grabbing rags and brushes, attacking the blood with eerie precision.

Alastor watched them for a moment. Then he let out a long breath, set his jaw, and picked up the knife again.

He forced his old, charming grin back into place, eyes glittering with determination.

And he got back to work, willing time to move faster so he could see his Charlie again.

Chapter Text

The old black telephone lay on its side on the polished oak desk in Maverick’s office. Dust motes danced lazily in the light. A half-empty whiskey glass perched dangerously on a stack of ledgers.

Maverick picked the receiver up with one big, scarred hand and grunted as he settled back in his chair.

“Charlie?” Alastor’s voice was eager, just a touch too quick to hide.

Maverick’s eyebrow ticked up.

“Nope. Just me again.” His gruff voice clarified.

There was a pause. The next words came slower, a little disappointed despite the attempt at being smooth. “Ah. Of course.”

Maverick couldn’t help but smirk.

“She’ll be here in a minute. Relax. Just getting decent.”

Another pause. Then, softer, voice tightening. “...Is everything alright? Is she okay?”

Maverick leaned back, boots thudding on the desk edge. “Easy, boss. She’s fine.” 

A breath. The voice on the other end calmed, smoothing itself back into the usual polished act. “Ah. Very good. Thank you.”

Maverick snorted, eyes rolling to the ceiling.

“How’s it going over there?”

Alastor’s voice brightened at once, silky and proud, “Productive. Nine so far.”

“Jesus...” Maverick grimaced.

“Nine who deserved worse than I gave them,” Alastor corrected smoothly. “And Nyther’s been quite successful too—cleaned up several beasties in the Murkveil last night. Oh—and I reinforced all the protective wards on the house. Even added a few new ones. Rather proud of that.”

“That’s good. Real good. But...” Maverick grunted.

“Oh, here it comes.” Alastor sighed heavily.

“I’m serious, Al. Sure, those bastards were human scum, but murder’s still murder. You start dropping too many bodies too quick, the cops are gonna notice. The Black Hunt too. Last thing you need is attention.”

“That’s enough.” Alastor’s voice flattened, losing its earlier warmth.

“Fine. Sorry for caring.” Maverick huffed.

“Don’t start acting like my mother.” Alastor warned flatly.

“Oh please,” Maverick drawled, smirking. “If you don’t watch it, I’ll do you one better and tell your mother what you’ve been up to.”

Silence. 

Then Alastor’s laugh: low, sharp, humorless.

“Oh, you’ll pay for that.” Alastor promised in a singsong mocking tone.

Before Maverick could reply, Charlie all but burst inside, beaming so hard her eyes crinkled at the corners.

“GOOD MORNING!” She sang happily. 

She wore a frosted blue peplum blouse. It had long sleeves with white cuffs and a matching hooped white collar. The top was tucked into a navy skirt that flared neatly around her knees, cinched at the waist with an elegant pastel belt that perfectly matched her dainty two-toned shoes. Her long, golden hair was pulled into a neat ponytail that bounced as she practically skipped in.

Maverick blinked at her.

“...You look like you robbed a department store window.”

Charlie stuck out her tongue playfully, then she held out her hands like she was about to beg for a puppy.

“Phone, please!”

Maverick grumbled but handed over the receiver.

“You’re waaaay too much of a morning person.” He complained.

Charlie took it like a chalice and practically melted into the chair, pressing it to her ear.

“Al? HI! Sorry to make you wait!”

On the other end, there was a pause. Then a very soft, relieved sound.

“Good morning, mon trésor . It was no trouble. Are you in another one of Rosie’s fabulous dresses?”

She smiled so wide her cheeks hurt.

“I wanted to look nice,” she explained breathlessly. “Even if you can’t see me. Felt rude not to.”

He chuckled. The sound was low, rich, and a little strained. “I’m sure you’re stunning. Thank you for the effort.”

She giggled.

“So...how are you? Are you and Nyther okay?”

“We’re well. Nyther’s a bit sulky without your company, but that’s to be expected. We worked on strengthening the defensive spells on the house yesterday. I even improved a few. It took most of the night, but it was well worth it.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Really? That’s amazing!” she gushed before pausing. “But, you must be tired. There’s still time before your broadcast. You might be able to sneak in a catnap. I shouldn’t keep you.”

“Keep me?” Alastor sounded offended. “Charlie. I called specifically to hear about your day. Now tell me. All of it.” He clarified. Even over the phone, she could practically hear him smiling.

She laughed, cheeks going pink.

“Okay, okay, okay—so first I went with Maverick to run errands! We bought booze and some alchemy ingredients—it was fascinating . The shopkeepers were so weird but in a fun way. And then we ate these things called po-boys for lunch? AMAZING.”

Alastor’s laugh was warm. “Po-boys are very good.”

“And Maverick told me his whole story! He used to be a real boxer, Al! The pictures aren’t just for show; he used to actually fight people in a ring! And he came here looking for a miracle or something about a not evil cult…Needle-somethings? He made it sound so cool!”

“Needlebound,” Alastor supplied, a touch amused.

“Yeah! Them! And THEN... oh, THEN... I got to help in the club during working hours! I shadowed a waitress, carried drinks, drank this blue fizzy thing that turned my hair PINK! And danced.”

“Ah, dancing,” Alastor repeated, savoring the word.

Charlie beamed, hugging the phone.

“Like, all night. The music was so fast compared to when you and I danced. I want to do that with you. At the club. Someday. Dance with you again. It’d be so fun.”

She paused. Then softer: “I... really miss you. Both you and Nyther.”

The line went silent.

Even Maverick, sorting through invoices, looked up in surprise at her sudden seriousness.

Charlie’s cheeks went hot. She’d thought the statement was fine, but the silence made her start to panic that maybe she shouldn’t have said it.

“Oh. Sorry. That was probably... too much.”

Alastor’s voice came back, rougher than before. “Charlie.”

She stopped floundering.

“Don’t you ever apologize for wanting me. Do you understand?” He clarified with an intensity that took her breath away.

She blinked, biting her lip, then nodded hard even though he couldn’t see.

“...Okay.” she answered once her voice returned.

He exhaled softly. When he spoke again, the edge was gone, replaced by a teasing lilt. “Good. Because you won’t have time to miss me today.”

“...What?” Charlie frowned.

“Today will be even better. I can guarantee it.” Alastor clarified.

Her eyes lit up.

“Really?! How?” Charlie asked, her voice dripping with wonder.

“Because,” Alastor purred, smug as a cat, “Maverick wants to take you sightseeing. Properly. Like a real tourist. All the big spots.”

Charlie’s mouth fell open.

She twisted around to stare at Maverick, who was now arranging alchemical supplies at the bar.

“Maverick WANTS TO TAKE ME SIGHTSEEING?!” She squealed loud enough that Alastor had to pull the receiver back to arm's length.

Maverick nearly dropped a vial.

He turned around, frowning.

“...What the hell are you talking about?” He asked incredulously.

Charlie blinked at him, confused but excited.

“Alastor says you’re taking me. To all the best tourist spots today.” She clarified with her sun-shiny smile. 

Alastor’s laugh crackled over the line, rich and evil. The sound was loud enough to be heard clear across the room.

“Now be a doll, chère, and pass the phone back to Maverick.” Alastor said to Charlie with an unseen wink.

She handed it over with both hands, beaming.

Maverick snatched it, pressing it to his ear.

“Valios. What the fuck.” He growled into the receiver.

“See?” Alastor drawled. “I told you I’d make you pay.”

Maverick spluttered.

“What? Absolutely...” He began.

“Shut up,” Alastor cut in smoothly. “You’re not ruining this for her. Act happy. Take her out. Show her all the big tourist spots and have fun.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” Maverick growled.

“Stop acting like such a sourpuss. She’s a delight. Stop pretending to hate it. Give my girl a day she’ll remember.”

Maverick shut his eyes. Exhaled.

“...Fine.” He said and then hung up with a grimace.

Charlie was bouncing on her toes in front of him.

“Sightseeing! Ohmygosh Maverick, this is going to be so FUN!”

Maverick groaned and rubbed his temples.

Poor Maverick was exhausted. He’d take another crack at the heavyweight title tomorrow... bare-knuckle, blindfolded, one hand tied behind his back... if it meant he didn’t have to do this again. Herding tourists. God, they were worse than the drunks in the club: glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, asking brilliant questions like “Is that real wrought iron?” as if metal was some mythical discovery. Maverick had lost count of how many times he'd had to shift his considerable bulk to block some gawping idiot from jostling Charlie. Twice he’d rumbled “watch it” in a voice low enough to shake bricks, sending people scattering like pigeons. It was like no one here had ever heard of personal space.

Charlie, of course, didn’t notice at all.

And Charlie... Christ almighty... She wasn’t helping one damn bit. The little menace squealed in delight at everything. Ridiculous girl thought every gas lamp and cracked cobblestone was amazing. She'd dart off to peer at rusted signs like they were ancient runes, while he stomped after her, scowling, throwing death glares at tourists who dared comment on her over-the-top reactions.

And if he was being really, painfully honest? He didn’t even dislike her anymore. Damn cutie had wormed her way in, which was annoying in and of itself. Keeping her in line was like trying to leash a sunbeam: shiny, too bright to look at directly, and impossible to hold onto. 

And he wasn’t about to let anyone push her around or get too close without consequences. He shifted closer to her now, throwing a particularly murderous glare at the gaggle of sweaty out-of-towners pressing in too tight. A vague sense of wrongness clung to him, though he told himself it was probably just his own damned irritation.

They’d already seen plenty today. Jackson Square first, which was alive with street artists grinding chalk into steamboats on the levee, old women telling fortunes in cracked French patois, and buskers squeezing jazz out of battered horns like it owed them money. Charlie had clapped her hands in delight at every new sound and smell, ignoring Maverick’s muttered curses about “two-bit con jobs” and “cheap tourist bait.” There was a tension in the air he couldn’t name, but he decided it was just his bad temper getting the best of him.

The tour then took them on a walk through the French Quarter’s narrow streets, the guide explaining how a devastating fire in 1794 forced the city to rebuild under Spanish rule. Balconies of intricate wrought iron, thick stucco walls, and shaded courtyards all bore Spain’s unmistakable stamp, layered over the old French plan. The Quarter wasn’t purely French at all, but a rich tangle of French, Spanish, and Caribbean influences. A style that came to be known as Creole architecture, born from ashes and blended cultures.

Next on the tour was the Cabildo. He’d trudged behind her like an unwilling chaperone while she marveled at creaking floors and ancient portraits, asking a million questions about Spanish governors and treaties and why all the swords were so damn skinny.

Now they stood in the sticky heat outside the Old Ursuline Convent. The Gothic facade loomed pale and stern against the washed-out sky. Vines clawed at the stone like green fingers. The cracked flagstones beneath their feet radiated heat in shimmering waves. It was nearly sundown, but the Louisiana heat still held.

And the whole time, prickling at the back of his neck, was that feeling. Like someone was watching. Following. Waiting for them to stop moving. And every time he turned to look, there was nothing there at all. Maverick growled to himself, they had wasted the whole damn day on this tour, that was probably why he was feeling so on edge.

Luckily, there were only two more stops left till this dumb tour was done. Here at the Old Ursuline Convent, then St. Louis Cemetery. And from the cemetery, it was only about a 10-minute walk to Royal Street and his club. 

The tour guide, a neat woman in a sweat-stained linen blouse and a floppy straw hat, cleared her throat with all the authority of a schoolteacher trying to hush rowdy children.

“Now,” she intoned dramatically, “the legend of the Casket Girls. In 1748, these young women arrived from France with only what could fit in a casket. Locals whispered that they carried vampires with them or were vampires themselves! The Ursuline nuns insisted they were merely pious girls sent to marry colonists, but the stories stuck once the neighbors started to become mysteriously ill.”

Charlie made a little gasp and latched onto Maverick’s arm.

“One night, when suspicions grew too high, the Ursuline nuns checked the girls’ trunks only to find them all empty. Fearing the worst, the third floor was sealed shut with the girls and their caskets still inside, in hopes of stopping any evil from leaching out. The doors and windows were bolted shut using nails that were blessed by the Pope himself.” 

The tour guide concluded her story with a dramatic wave of her hands.

“Did you hear that?” she whispered, eyes practically glowing. “Vampires in trunks!”

“They were just girls. Misunderstood, maybe, but girls all the same. The dames were married off or ran away, not locked in. Locals then spun ghost stories to scare themselves, and now it's greedy tour guides tryin’ to spook dumb tourists.”

The tour guide shot him a scathing look over her shoulder as if daring him to interrupt again.

Maverick folded his arms tighter and glared right back, his expression saying Try me.

Charlie pouted, crossing her arms and looking petulantly adorable.

“How can you say that? You literally told me New Orleans is crawling with supernatural hotspots.” Charlie tried her best to whisper, but now it just sounded closer to a normal volume. Maverick had to admit she was trying.

“Yeah. Some of the legends are real. But not all. This one's a tourist trap.” Maverick clarified with a scowl, having dropped his voice so the rest of the group wouldn’t hear.

“Actually,” a voice cut in brightly from right beside them, “this one is true.”

They both turned.

Standing only inches away was a lean young man in a gray suit: well-tailored but modest, with neatly pressed trousers and shining boots that suggested he cared about appearances but traveled often.

His olive skin glowed warm in the late light, while black curls fell in charming disarray over his forehead, a stubborn cowlick refusing to be tamed. A rosary was wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet, black beads glinting dully, and a silver St. Michael medallion rested against his collarbone.

But it was his eyes that made Maverick tense: pale gold, bright with intelligence and something unsettlingly knowing, as if he already knew the shape of every secret in the room.

He was beaming.

“Pardon the eavesdropping!” the stranger said brightly. “I couldn’t help myself. I’m a hopeless devotee of all things supernatural.”

Maverick’s eyes narrowed.

“Who the hell are you?”

The man bounced lightly on his heels, unbothered.

“Ah! Sì, naturalmente. My apologies. Matteo Lucien di Angelis. But please, just Teo. It’s much friendlier, don’t you think?”

He dipped them a small, courtly bow, a cane tucked under his arm with the ease of long practice.

“Hi, Teo! I’m Charlie!” she said, voice breathy with excitement. “And this is my good friend Maverick.”

Teo practically lunged to take her hand in both of his, shaking it with elaborate, exaggerated ceremony, his eyes crinkled with delight.

“Charlie! Saints and angels- that is a perfect name for you. Enchanté!” He let her hand go reluctantly, gaze lingering with boyish awe. “Non riesco a credere a quanto sei adorabile!”

Charlie giggled happily, “Aw! Thank you, although I have no idea what you just said at the end there.”

Teo gave Charlie a dramatic wink before he turned to Maverick with unflagging enthusiasm, thrusting out his hand.

“Delighted to meet you too, Mr. Maverick,” he said cheerfully.

Maverick didn’t move. He stood there with arms crossed over his broad chest, a sneer so sour it could curdle milk.

Teo blinked at the unshaken hand, hesitated only a beat, then brightened even more absurdly.

“No handshake? Va bene!” he declared with unbothered cheer, and instead patted Maverick’s shoulder in comradely fashion.

Maverick’s eye twitched.

Ok. Now he really hated this guy. 

Teo’s gaze flicked expectantly past him.

“And what about you? ” he asked, leaning to peer around Maverick at Charlie with an eager grin.

Charlie blinked and glanced at Maverick.

Maverick shot her a flat look.

They both turned deliberately to stare at one another, deadpan.

Maverick rolled his eyes.

Charlie cleared her throat and offered Teo a polite, overly bright smile instead.

“Anyway!” she said quickly, changing the subject. “You really love it here, huh?” she asked, peeking up at him through her lashes.

Teo’s grin only widened.

“Love is too small a word,” he said earnestly. “I’m enchanted with New Orleans. Every crooked street, every jazz note in the air. And now, meeting people like you?”

He leaned in, eyes glowing.

“It’s the best day of my entire life,” he said sincerely.

Charlie flushed, fidgeting.

“Oh, um... that’s really nice,” she said softly, clearly not knowing what to do with the compliment.

Maverick let out a low, unimpressed grunt.

“You lay it on any thicker, kid, you’ll drown us,” he said, arms still crossed like a wall.

Teo didn’t even blink. Instead, he happily turned back to Charlie, his grin impossibly wide.

“You were asking about the nails, sì?” he prompted brightly.

Charlie nodded, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

“The Pope’s blessing on those nails? Absolutely real,” he said, eyes sparkling with boyish pride.

Charlie squeaked, eyes huge.

“Really?” she asked breathlessly.

Teo’s grin broadened to something radiant, his chest puffing slightly with pride.

“The Ursuline sisters were terrified, poor dears,” he said, voice dropping into a dramatic storyteller’s cadence. “They sent a formal plea to Rome in 1752. The Pope at that time, Benedict XIV, blessed the iron. These nails had exorcism prayers older than half the churches here. Those windows?” He gestured grandly with his cane. “Not merely nailed shut. Sealed. Wards designed to bind what was inside.”

Maverick scoffed, arms still crossed over his broad chest.

“Listen to this guy,” he muttered with an incredulous snort.

Charlie clapped her hands in delight.

“That’s incredible!” she said, eyes shining.

“It’s nothing really, I enjoy my trivia.” Teo said in mock humility but the twinkle in his golden eyes betrayed his excitement.

Maverick let out a short, barking laugh.

“And how the hell would you know that?” he demanded.

Teo straightened, planting his cane like a staff, his voice dropping to theatrical seriousness.

“That’s my job ,” he announced, with all the gravity of a papal decree.

Maverick’s frown deepened, the lines in his forehead sharpening.

“Your job?” he repeated flatly.

Teo’s entire face lit up again.

“Yes! Vatican City sent me,” he said cheerfully, practically preening. “I’m here to inspect a few blessed wards.”

Charlie let out a delighted squeal.

“No way! I’ve read all about the Vatican!” she said, eyes huge.

Maverick jerked his head toward her, looking scandalized.

“You don’t know half of basic human knowledge but you know all about the Vatican?” he hissed, leaning in close enough that only she could hear.

Charlie just shrugged, flashing a mischievous little smile.

“Different learning priorities where I’m from,” she said breezily.

Maverick squinted at her, tilting his head slightly.

“I suppose this is where that line ‘know thy enemy’ comes into play,” he muttered darkly.

Charlie giggled at that, her eyes twinkling.

But when she looked back at Teo, she startled slightly at the intensity of his gaze. His golden eyes were fixed on her, unblinking and bright with unmistakable fascination.

It was starting to make her uncomfortable.

“So... the Vatican sent you? Are you a priest? Or a clergyman?” she asked politely, shifting to be slightly behind Maverick’s shoulder.

Teo threw back his head and let out a delighted laugh, like she’d just told the best joke in the world.

“No, mia bella!” he cried, the endearment rolling off his tongue in warm, accented Italian. “I am most certainly not a priest.”

Charlie tilted her head, confused.

Maverick cut in before she could say more, voice low and gruff.

“What’s a non-priest from the Vatican doing on a damn tour?” he demanded, suspicion dripping from every word.

Teo’s grin didn’t falter for an instant.

“Sightseeing! Same as you,” he declared cheerfully, twirling his cane once for flourish. “Sure, technically I’m here for work but I fully intend to enjoy myself to the absolute fullest before I get started. Cos'è la vita senza un po' di divertimento?”

He spread his hands as if it were the most obvious truth in the world.

“What is life without a little fun?” He clarifies in English at their confused looks.

Charlie let out a snort of laughter at Teo’s grand pronouncement, then quickly slapped her hands over her mouth, cheeks going pink.

But Teo’s eyes didn’t leave her face for a second.

Charlie shifted, her smile faltering as she noticed his gaze.

“Um... what are you staring at?” she asked politely, but with a nervous edge.

Teo’s golden eyes narrowed slightly, glittering with delighted scrutiny.

“Your glamour,” he breathed, voice dropping to an awed hush.

Charlie went completely still. The color drained from her face.

“My... what?” she whispered, barely audible.

Teo’s eyes went huge, shining like a child seeing Christmas lights for the first time.

“It’s incredible !” he burst out, voice cracking with giddy excitement. “You look like a porcelain doll with your white skin and rosy cheeks!” 

Charlie gave a frightened little gasp and shrank back.

Teo didn’t even seem to notice, too caught up in his own enthusiasm. He practically bounced on his heels, words tumbling over each other in breathless delight.

“May I, per favore , just touch your nose?” he asked, voice going soft with pleading wonder, fingers trembling in the air. “It’s so cute , like a little goat! Do you actually have hooves?” He gasped in absolute wonder, “Tell me you have hooves! ”

He sounded genuinely thrilled, like the idea was the most charming thing he’d ever imagined.

Charlie squeaked in horror, pressing back even further to shield herself behind Maverick.

Maverick moved like a crack of thunder.

He stepped forward in one lethal motion, slamming his arm across Teo’s chest and physically blocking him.

“Back. The fuck. Off! ” Maverick snarled, voice low and deadly, eyes blazing.

Teo jerked back so hard he nearly toppled over his cane. His eyes went comically wide, blinking rapidly in shock. But even then, he couldn’t quite tear them away from Charlie. His expression was worshipful, filled with almost painful longing.

He raised both hands in surrender, voice cracking with breathless apology.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to be rude!” he stammered, words spilling over each other in a rush. “It’s just... Ho letto del it, but I’ve never actually seen one! Bellissima. Truly. You’re exquisite.”

“Keep talking, you creepy little shit,” Maverick growled coldly, “and I’ll break your jaw.”

Teo flinched at the words, his mouth snapping shut. He swallowed hard, his shoulders hunching slightly.

But he still couldn’t help one last, hushed, reverent murmur.

“Mi dispiace. ” he whispered, voice going soft and awed. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Maverick didn’t answer. His jaw flexed once, hard enough to crack stone, and let out a breath like a steam engine.

“That’s it. We’re done,” he growled, voice like gravel. He put a steady, protective hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Screw the rest of this damn tour. Come on, Charlie.”

Charlie blinked at him, shaking slightly.

“But Mav...” she whispered, voice thin, before she stopped and nodded slowly.

They turned to go.

Teo’s cane clicked hurriedly as he scrambled after them, his voice tripping over itself in frantic apology.

“Wait- please! Don’t go like that!” he said, almost breathless. “I’m so sorry. Truly. I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t mean anything by it!”

Maverick looked at Charlie, her lower lip was out and quivering. Her eyes were watery as she kept glancing over at him before looking back down.

Maverick then looked back at Teo, who was still blubbering about apologies. The guy was definitely weird, and it was downright freaky that he could see through Charlie’s glamor spell, but Maverick supposed he wasn’t an immediate threat. He looked back to Charlie, whose eyes had grown twice in size and the water collected at the edges was moments away from spilling over.

Maverick let out a long theatrical sigh that sounded more like a growl.

Damn it all…

Maverick’s grip tightened on Charlie’s wrist as he steered her quickly around and back towards the tour group, who were already trickling out of the courtyard and heading down Chartres.

Charlie stumbled a little but kept pace, clinging to his arm with her wide, pitiful eyes.

“C’mon,” he muttered gruffly. “Let’s finish this damned thing.”

She was quiet for a moment, then the realization hit and the hold she had on Maverick’s arm became an appreciative bear hug.

Teo hustled after them, breathless but undeterred.

“Wait- wait for me! Please- I swear I didn’t mean to scare anyone!”

Maverick pointedly ignored him, face like carved stone as they trailed behind the rest of the group through the sun-bleached streets. Instead, he stood guard over Charlie.

Ahead, the tour guide’s voice lifted above the shuffle of feet and muttered conversation.

“—and next we have the famous St. Louis Cemetery,” she called out cheerfully. “Established in 1789 after the previous cemetery was moved. Please note the Spanish influence in the wall vaults and the unique above-ground tombs—necessary because of the high water table. It’s one of the oldest and most atmospheric cemeteries in the city.”

Charlie shuddered beside Maverick, pressing close to his side like she wanted to crawl inside his coat. An odd feeling was coiling in her belly, cold and tight, was this what fear of discovery felt like? She clutched at his arm harder, fighting to keep her breathing steady.

Finally, they stopped in front of the wrought-iron gates. Inside, the old cemetery sat proudly against the darkening sky. A maze of cracked, above-ground tombs pressed close together like crooked teeth. The air around them, heavy with the smell of lichen and old death, was still warm despite the sun’s disappearance.

The tour guide turned back to the group with a wide, professional smile.

“Thank you all for joining Crescent City Rambles: Historic Walking Tours of New Orleans,” she said brightly. “I hope you enjoyed our little walk-through history. Feel free to explore the cemetery to your heart’s content before heading on your way.”

Maverick exhaled like he’d been holding it in for an hour as the tour group finally began to disperse.

“Finally,” he muttered darkly once they were alone. He turned then, fixing Teo with a lethal glare.

“Tour’s over,” he growled. “Now fuck off.”

Teo flinched, but didn’t back away. Instead, he pressed a hand to his chest in theatrical apology.

“Charlie- signorina, please! Say you forgive me,” he pleaded desperately. “I would never tell anyone what you are. Or what any of you are. I swear it on the Holy See itself.”

Charlie didn’t even turn around.

Teo kept going, breath hitching with emotion, but his tone stayed annoyingly bright, almost pleadingly cheerful.

“You can trust me,” he insisted. “All three of you can. I’m not here to judge or expose anyone. I get what it’s like to hide things!”

Maverick stopped dead.

Teo nearly crashed into his back.

“All three of us?” Maverick asked slowly, his voice turning cold and razor-sharp.

Teo blinked, startled by the attention, but brightened immediately.

“Yes!” he said eagerly. “Isn’t it fascinating? Four supernaturally inclined individuals all on the same little tour! Some people would call it coincidence, but I don’t believe in coincidences. Everything happens for a rea...”

“Shut. Up.”

Maverick’s voice was a low growl.

Teo’s grin faltered like a candle guttering in the wind. Confusion swept over his face.

“You said four?” Maverick demanded, voice tightening.

Teo blinked rapidly, shifting his cane in his grip.

“Yes,” he said more cautiously, but still eager to explain. “You, Charlie, your silent friend, and me. That’s four.”

Maverick felt his stomach drop like a stone through water. His blood turned ice-cold. His head snapped around to glare at Teo, shadows shifting unnaturally around them.

A voice called out, warped and distorted like it was bubbling through tar.

“C̴h̷a̸r̵l̷o̴t̵t̵e̵.”

A shiver shot up Charlie’s spine. She sucked in a breath like she’d been slapped. The feeling of invisible fingers pressed into her temple. It made her knees buckle a little. Dizziness swept through her mind. Her eyes went cloudy and distant, opaque as frosted glass.

Teo’s wide grin died completely, panic blooming in his bright eyes.

“But... but that man was standing so close to you,” he babbled, voice climbing higher with fear. “I thought he was your friend! He kept—he kept hovering behind Charlie whenever you weren’t... like you were taking shifts or something...”

Maverick felt bile rise in his throat.

“Where,” he hissed, voice shaking with fury, “is he now? ”

Teo blinked wide-eyed, his enthusiasm gone like someone had snuffed it out.

“Standing with Charlie,” he said in a hoarse whisper, looking genuinely confused. 

Maverick’s heart thundered in his chest. He turned, eyes locking on Charlie who stood slack and unblinking, her pupils cloudy and unfocused.

There was no one next to her.

But her mouth twitched.

“C̴h̷a̸r̵l̷o̴t̵t̵e̵,” the voice crooned again, low and wrong, from seemingly nowhere.

Teo made a sound between a gasp and a curse as the realization finally hit him. He lurched forward. His voice dropped, crackling with a strange, echoed distortion as he thrust his hand over her shoulder.

His palm struck something, and all at once the air around her rippled like water.

A man materialized, as if tearing through paper: tall, angular, with colorless skin stretched too tight over sharp bones. His eyes were sunken black pits, hair hanging limp and greasy around his face. He grinned with too many teeth. 

The force of the blow had knocked him backward, but Maverick had seen that the bastard had been pressing his fingers into Charlie’s temple.

Maverick didn’t hesitate. He roared and slammed into the bastard, tackling him bodily onto the cracked paving stones.

Teo swung his cane with surprising force, cracking it over the attacker’s shoulder as he tried to rise.

They were too busy to notice Charlie.

She turned, slow and dreamlike, eyes still clouded white.

On her chest, hidden under her dress, the brand she shared with Nyther and Alastor burned .

Without a word, she began walking—silent and unseeing—deeper into the cemetery’s maze of tombs and crumbling walls.

They had the bastard pinned hard against the broken cemetery path, Maverick’s knee grinding into his chest while Teo’s cane pressed sideways against his throat.

The man’s breath rattled wetly in his lungs, teeth bared in a grin that looked too wide, too forced, like his face didn’t quite know how to hold it. His eyes were pits of slick blackness that caught the light in greasy streaks.

Maverick’s voice was low and ragged. “Why are you following us? What the hell do you want?”

The man let out a thick, bubbling chuckle that sounded like swamp gas catching fire.
“Want? ” he rasped, voice cracking with lunatic delight. “The Murkveil will overtake —swallow your world whole. Flesh and spirit as one . Hell and earth combined.”

Teo blinked, knuckles white on his cane, eyes round with a mix of horror and fascinated wonder.

“Murkveil?” he breathed, almost hungrily. “That’s... I’ve never even heard of that. Is that a realm? A being? Wait, wait—are you talking about a portal convergence?”

Maverick ignored Teo entirely. He pressed harder on the man’s chest, his lip curling.
“ Answer me. What does this have to do with us? Why Charlie? Why follow us?”

The man’s eyes rolled wildly, that grin stretching until the corners of his mouth cracked and leaked dark blood.

“It awakens,” he hissed, voice warbling with unholy glee. “The seal cracks. The old paths bleed. The hunt will begin anew. The eternal feast—no boundary between worlds. All prey will run beneath his sky of black teeth.” 

Teo practically vibrated with excitement, eyes wide and shining as he leaned in, ignoring the horror on Maverick’s face entirely.

“Assolutamente incredibile! ” he breathed, voice cracking with giddy wonder. “Did you hear that? ‘Old paths bleed’—that’s pure liminal theory! He’s describing an interplanar breach ritual in poetic code! Oh my God, Maverick, this is real, this is all real! ”

Maverick’s hand curled in the man’s collar. He wanted to hit him, beat the cryptic ranting out of him. But the man only laughed, a wet gurgling noise as his skin darkened and rippled like ink on water.

Maverick swore and tried to hold him down, but the man’s body collapsed in on itself with a grisly slurp. Flesh, bone, and clothing flattened to shadow, then split apart into writhing tendrils that skittered away between the graveyard’s cracks and tomb walls.

He was gone.

Teo scrambled back a step, eyes shining despite the fear, mouth hanging open.

“Madonna mia , did you see that?! A full-body dissolution into planar shadow-state. That’s new ! I mean—I’ve read about partial possessions, but this? Completely unprecedented!”

Maverick spat on the ground, chest heaving. “Shut the fuck up, Teo.” He pushed himself to his feet, voice shaking with rage. “C’mon, Charlie. Let’s go.”

He didn’t even turn—just stuck out an impatient hand behind him to tug her forward like he always did.

“We’re getting out of here.”

Nothing.

His fingers closed on empty air.

Maverick’s heart skipped. He turned, slowly, eyes scanning the cracked path and crooked tombs behind him.

There was no one there.

“Charlie?” he called, voice cracking despite himself.

Teo’s grin flickered out like a blown candle. He whipped his head around, cane raised like a divining rod.

“She was just here.”

Maverick’s pulse thundered in his ears.

“Charlie! ”

He lunged between the crypts, scanning every shadow that seemed to yawn too wide, too deep.

Teo spun on his heel, voice going high and frightened but still infuriatingly earnest.
“Signorina?! Charlie! Please!”

They started moving deeper into the cemetery, boots crunching over broken shells and old bricks, the darkness gathering like breath held too long.

Both men were shouting her name now, voices swallowed by the maze of mausoleums and weeping angel statues.

Maverick thundered down a narrow gravel path, feet skidding on broken shells and slick moss. Teo stumbled after him, cane rattling, gasping for breath.

“Charlie! CHARLIE! ”

No answer.

Maverick grabbed a rusted iron fence and heaved himself around a tight corner only to stop short, swearing.

Dead end.

Just more black-brambled mausoleums leaning inward like they were eavesdropping, angel statues with cracked, eyeless faces staring blankly.

He turned and roared at Teo. “God DAMN IT! She was right here! ”

Teo tripped to a halt, doubled over wheezing, but still talking through it: “I... hah... I think... I think we’ve passed that marker before. The broken angel with no head? I remember the neck stump. Very distinctive.”

Maverick’s eyes blazed. “You think! For fuck’s sake-”

He grabbed a loose corner off a crumbling tombstone and threw it just a centimeter from Teo’s face. The projectile was pelted hard enough that it took the head clean off of another weeping angel statue. 

Teo’s eyes went huge in wonder, then seemed to comprehend how close he was to serious injury, an involuntary shiver racing down his spine. Maverick snarled in frustration, throwing the stone had done nothing to calm his nerves. Instead, he cursed loudly and vulgar enough to make Teo gasp. 

Unable to calm down until they found Charlie, the two men kept moving through the twisted paths, their boots scraping over broken shells and black moss. The headstones seemed to lean , the crypts crowding closer, the vines shuddering in the suddenly cold air even when there was no wind.

Maverick’s teeth ground together as he scanned the shifting darkness.

“Charlie! ” he roared. His voice bounced back off the tombstones in mocking echoes.

But there was no answer.

Teo was right on his heels, cane tapping wildly, breath fogging in frantic puffs. But even now, his eyes darted around with a sort of wild fascination .

“Look at this,” he gasped, gesturing at a leaning, cracked monument. His voice was cracking with nerves but still bright. “Maverick, look! The script here, it’s not anything local. It’s wrong. Like it’s folded into the stone. That shouldn’t even be possible outside ritual carving. This is so... oh... oh my God, see the runes? They’re moving.”

Maverick snarled, “Shut up. Teo. Shut. Up.”

But Teo wasn’t listening. He was beaming through the cold, looking at the warped grave markers.

“It’s beautiful, you know? In a terrifying, someone’s-definitely-going-to-die way. Like it’s actively resisting exorcist binding theory. I’ve only read about this... wow...”

Maverick spun on him so fast Teo actually squeaked, stumbling backward over a cracked stone.

Maverick grabbed him by the front of the coat and hauled him forward until their noses nearly touched.

“IS THIS A GAME TO YOU?!” he roared.

Teo’s grin died instantly. His eyes went huge and owlish.

Maverick’s voice cracked with raw fear and fury. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! You’re acting like you’re happy she’s gone! Like you want this! Were you in on this? Whatever this is?”

Teo’s mouth fell open. He blinked rapidly, his cane rattling against the stones as his hand shook.

“What? No! No! Maverick- I... I’m sorry!”

Maverick shook him, hard enough to make his teeth click.

“She’s out there, alone, in this shit , and you’re gawking like it’s a goddamn museum exhibit!”

Teo’s face fell. His voice went small, earnest, weirdly gentle.

“I’m not—I’m not happy she’s gone. I don’t want anything to happen to her. I like her. She... she seems sweet.” He licked his lips, swallowing hard. His voice cracked in embarrassment. “I just...I have a tendency to get... distracted . Excited. Even at the worst times. It’s... It’s one of the reasons I’m not an official exorcist yet.”

He gave a nervous, apologetic laugh that died halfway out of his throat.

“I’m sorry. I’m really, really trying here. I just- I see all this and it’s wrong but also... it’s fascinating. I can’t help it.”

Maverick’s breathing was ragged. His grip loosened but didn’t fall away completely.

The wind suddenly dropped.

The world felt hollow around them.

Even the bugs had gone silent.

Maverick finally let him go, pushing him back a step. His voice was hoarse. “Get your head on straight, Matteo. We’re not here to take notes. We’re here to get her back.”

Teo nodded shakily, eyes still flicking around at the oozing, shifting tombstones.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. Let’s... let’s find her.”

Maverick turned away, jaw tight, eyes scanning the moving shadows.

 “Good. Then shut up and move.”

And they pushed deeper into the cemetery, the path seeming to twist and shift beneath their boots as if it were alive.

Charlie moved like a sleepwalker through the tomb-crowded cemetery, skirt rustling as she stepped over broken shells and weedy earth. Her eyes were pale and unseeing, blank as fogged glass. Catching no glint of the flickering gas lamps that slowly died out one by one.

She didn’t hear Maverick’s rough shouts behind her. Didn’t hear Teo’s frantic, half-panicked Italian curses. She barely even felt the burn of the brand on her chest.

She stopped at an ancient mausoleum choked in thorny black vines. A name that should not be spoken aloud on the mortal plain danced in shifting rune-like letters:

Zhul’Khaelinoth. 

In the center of the slabs was the sigil of the Jaws of the Black Hunt: A stag skull with jagged antlers, tentacles curling from its yawning maw, all encircled by a ring of black thorns.

A deep, jagged crack split the stag’s jaw. Black ooze seeped like blood as it dripped from it in viscous threads, hissing when it hit the mossy stone.

A voice drifted from the crack in the stone, but it didn’t echo through the cold air as it should have. Instead, it reverberated inside her skull, curling through her thoughts like smoke she couldn’t breathe out.

“Charlotte.” 

They pressed on through the maze, calling Charlie’s name again and again, voices cracking, hearts hammering.

They’d hit yet another dead end.

“God dammit- We’re going in circles!” Maverick’s breath sawed in and out, his patience fraying to tatters. He turned on Teo, voice raw. “Your big brain got any ideas? Or are we just gonna wander until she’s dead?”

Teo was already looking around, eyes darting between the tombstones crowding them. He didn’t even flinch at the insult. His face lit up, not with fear but with a wild, scholarly gleam.

“This isn’t our fault,” he breathed. He raised his cane, fingers tightening around it until the rosary beads bit into his palm. “It’s shifting.”

“No shit.” Maverick snarled.

But Teo wasn’t listening anymore. He planted the cane hard in the ground.

A cold wind slithered through the graves.

The tombstones shuddered and then black sludge oozed from the cracks in their carvings, dripping thickly like blood from a wound. It hit the ground with wet slaps, bubbling and hissing in the moonlight as if protesting his presence.

“Jesus Christ...” Maverick recoiled.

Teo’s eyes snapped open glowing a luminous gold.

He didn’t look afraid at all. He looked enchanted, wonder widening his grin even as the graveyard moaned around them. “Ohhh, would you look at that!”

The cane pulsed, a dull silver light radiating in waves. It twisted and wobbled on its own, straining like something alive.

Teo stepped back, hands raised, breathless. He was delighted.

“Look at it work! It’s responding to the warp—like it knows what’s wrong here.”

“Teo. The fuck is happening?” Maverick glared around them, fists clenched, his voice low and shaking.

“It’s messing with us. That’s why we keep doubling back. It’s not a true liminal pocket or a rift—it’s not stable enough for that.” Teo’s grin didn’t fade, even as black sludge continued to seep and hiss from every grave.

“It’s just... shifting the paths. Warping space, a little at a time. Whoever’s doing it? They’re not trying too hard; the fact that we are able to move forward at all means that they're not trying to force us out. With this kind of power, they clearly could if they wanted to. They’re just teasing.” He flicked his eyes around, pupils blown wide with eerie gold light.

He paused, breath steaming.

“It’s like a cat with a mouse.” Maverick said as he swallowed, heart thudding.

He looked around and saw it too. The way the grave markers seemed to move in the corners of his eyes, twisting, edging closer, then falling still. The vines rippled when there was no wind. The air itself felt like wet wool in his mouth.

“Christ almighty,” he rasped. “We’re the fucking mice.”

The cane pulsed again.

Ahead of them, the blackness shivered, and a faint sparkle flickered through the gloom. Like fireflies in silver and blue, tracing a wavering path forward.

Teo beamed, rivaling Charlie in being brighter than the sun. “There! There! She’s that way!”

Maverick didn’t wait for a second invitation. He lunged forward, grabbing Teo’s arm hard enough to bruise.

“MOVE!” He shouted.

The two men sprinted down the revealed path, hearts hammering as the shadows slithered back to watch them go.

They stumbled at last into the clearing, breath ragged, boots grinding over broken shells and slick moss.

It was deathly silent.

The path behind them had closed in like a throat of thorns, and the air felt swamp-thick and wet, heavy in their lungs. Even the moonlight here was wrong, filtering down in thin, sickly stripes that did little to illuminate the horror waiting for them.

The ancient mausoleum rose before them like a cancer in stone.

Black vines choked its walls, their thorns glinting with oily wetness in the pale light. Crumbling cherub faces watched from the corners—but time had devoured their innocence, leaving snarling, eroded skulls that leered at intruders with empty sockets.

Over the lintel, half-swallowed by moss and creeping decay, the name remained etched in gouged, ancient letters:

Zhul’Khaelinoth.

The shape of the mausoleum was impossible, the edges of it bending every time Maverick and Teo blinked. The doors themselves were wrong—geometry that made their eyes water, impossible angles that shifted. The angles bent and folded in on themselves like paper in water. Corners refused to meet. Surfaces twisted in ways that defied sanity.

In the center was the sigil of the Jaws of the Black Hunt with an enormous crack that split the sigil diagonally.

Black slime oozed out in fat, slow droplets, hitting the ground with wet, ropy splats that steamed in the chill air. The crack breathed; Opening and closing subtly, flexing like a mouth about to speak.

Inside the black fissure, something moved.

Shadowy shapes pressed against the slime from within—long, jointed fingers, coiling limbs, glinting eyes that blinked too many times at once.

And in front of it all stood Charlie.

She was perfectly still. Her usual bright spark was gone, replaced by a hollow, glassy stillness in her eyes as she drifted forward in a trance, reflecting nothing.

She lifted her delicate arm and ever so slowly, fingers spread, palm out, reaching toward the crack that pulsed and oozed before her.

Maverick froze.

“She’s... she’s offering herself.” Teo said as he sucked in a sharp, terrified breath beside him.

Maverick felt his stomach drop to the cold ground. He watched her fingers stretch closer to the gaping crack.

Inside it, the shadows convulsed eagerly. The fissure yawned wider with a wet, tearing sound. Slime poured down in gouts, and something shifted forward.

The darkness seemed to sigh in relief at her touch, curling around her skin like ink in water, greedy and tender all at once. Charlie didn’t flinch; she didn’t even seem to feel it. 

Inside that gaping blackness, something old and monstrous stirred- waiting with a patience born of obsession. It had called her here, had sung to the soft, open places in her mind until there was nothing left but the compulsion to obey.

That same pressure pulsed like a heartbeat: an invisible, crushing force that slammed into them like ocean depths made solid.

Maverick, who’d stood against men twice his size in the ring and sent them to the floor, dropped to his knees. His breath seized. Every muscle in his back trembled as he fought to stay upright. The world tilted.

Teo gasped beside him, cane rattling on the ground.

“Sweet Mother of God... it’s like gravity. Like a whole dimension pressing on us. This is amazing...” He said with breathy excitement.

Maverick wanted to punch him, but he couldn’t even lift his arms. His teeth ground as he fought the unseen presence forcing him down. 

“Get. Up.” He told himself, but his movements were slower, sluggish, like gravity had doubled.

From the crack, black ooze frothed and spilled. Then, from the darkness, shadow-tentacles slithered out, hungry. Wide as a man’s arm, slick with black ooze that clung in ropes and spatters. They glistened like wet obsidian, sinuous and writhing with unnatural purpose. They wrapped around her wrist first, coiling tightly enough to dimple her skin, then began to stroke her.

They slid higher, caressing her forearm with slow, deliberate intimacy. Black ichor oozed over her sleeve, soaking the fabric until it clung wetly to her skin. More tendrils emerged, slithering up her arm with greedy, possessive hunger, flexing and tightening with precision. The shadows curled around her arm in a slow, deliberate, obscene caress. Like the dark itself was savoring every inch of her surrender.

They climbed her arm in slick coils, black slime dripping to the ground below. One slithered under her sleeve, flexing along every small detail of her arm. They twisted around her bicep like a lover’s hands, tracing the shape of her shoulder. One curled around her throat with a sick, gentle promise, squeezing just lightly enough to make her head tilt back, before it receded back to her shoulder.

Inside the crack, a voice bloomed in their minds, oily and hungry .

“My Charlotte.”

It wasn’t made with normal sound. It was inside them.

Maverick’s vision swam with nausea.

Teo’s mouth dropped open. He stammered, voice high with a mix of terror and fascination, eyes shining. “Madonna mia- look at it! It’s sentient and communicating.”

The mausoleum shuddered. The crack yawned wider.

From within, a skeletal arm reached out- white bone slick with shadow and ooze. The fingers were impossibly long, jointed twice in the wrong places. The bones were a shocking white fused with glistening shadows that surrounded them. Each finger ended in sharp talons that were stained red. Black ooze dripped between the joints, sizzling where it landed.

The hand didn’t grab her.

It caressed her face.

Charlie didn’t move except for a shudder. Her blank eyes flickered as she felt it, like fire had etched itself under her skin again, the brand blazing with wordless alarm.

It seared red-hot, fighting the trance. Her lips parted in a faint whimper of pain. Her teeth chattered. Her bones vibrated under her skin.

But the trance held.

The fingers stroked her cheek with tender, deliberate slowness. Claws traced every detail, pressing in like a lover memorizing every line. 

Charlie shuddered and whimpered weakly, her breath hitched, the brand searing even hotter. The mark was now burning so much, she could smell burnt cloth. Tears spilled over her blank eyes. 

The sight of her tears brought Teo back from his fascinated staring, realizing the seriousness of the situation. 

His voice was high with terror. “She’s burning ! Maverick! It’s hurting her!”

Maverick watched, horror clawing at him. The intimacy of it made him sick.

Claws traced her jaw, possessive. It’s thumb dragged across her lower lip, leaving a line of black slime like a kiss.

“ Such warmth. Such softness. Made to be held. Made to be mine.”

Maverick forced himself upright. Every muscle screamed.

“Grab her. NOW.”

They lunged, arms wrapping around her waist.

Charlie didn’t fight them. Couldn’t. But the tentacles tightened , black ooze running in rivulets down her dress. The burning brand was slowly calling her back to her senses, her eyes blinked but still ghostly white. Her mind fought for control.

The skeletal hand flexed, claws gently digging into her cheek, tracing it. Leaving faint lines, though not yet breaking skin.

Maverick roared, raw and desperate. “PULL!”

Teo screamed.

“ONE, TWO, THREE!"

They yanked.

Something gave—a sick, wet pop.

Charlie let out a sound that wasn’t human. A high, ripping scream as her shoulder dislocated. 

Liquid fire ran down the entire length of her arm. It split in two and spread down her clavicle and to her ribs, her entire torso seared so hot she let out a cracked, choked sob. Her teeth rattled in her skull. Her bones vibrated with each agonizing breath as the blaze from her shoulder and her brand combined to burn her alive from within. She saw them again.

Her eyes fluttered, the milky hue bleeding away. The daze cracked. Then her eyes went wide, pupils focusing with terror at the oozing mass that held her from within the wall.

And she fought back .

She kicked and shoved at the tentacles, her voice breaking.

“NO! GET OFF ME! ”

The skeletal hand tried to follow her, claws scraping her lips, her skin, leaving oozing, bleeding lines.

“Mine to cherish. Mine to keep.”

She twisted, kicked, pushed with her good arm.

The brand was alive with furious, impossible heat.

Her sleeve tore at the seam with a hideous rip. The tentacles recoiled, still clutching the rag of fabric.

Charlie fell backward, sobbing, her dislocated arm hanging, useless.

The mausoleum roared.

Not a sound.

A cataclysm.

The earth itself shook. Stones split. Gravemarkers cracked. Black ooze geysered out, shadows coiling and thrashing in violent spirals.

The voice roared in their skulls, vibrating bone and blood.

“Such beautiful fear. I want to taste it. To wrap you in it. To wrap you in me.”

The skeletal hand clawed at the stone, gouging deep furrows, bleeding black sludge. Tentacles melted into black tar and flowed across the cracked stone. It pooled under Maverick, Teo, and Charlie.

Then their own shadows lunged upward, wrapping around their legs, binding them.

Maverick roared in rage, pulling, but he couldn’t move.

Teo yelped.
“IT’S USING OUR OWN SHADOWS... OH SANTA MADRE... THIS IS... NOTEVOLE! BUT ALSO, I’M GONNA PISS MYSELF—”

Charlie tried to get away, sobbing, her brand blazing like molten iron, searing her ribs. The shadows pulled her back towards the crack where the thing had its skeletal claw stretched to reach her. Once she was within reach again, it traced her jawline in gentle circles. Claws cold and wet with black ooze that burned the scratches already left on her face.

“Shhh, ” the voice pulsed, cooing inside her skull. Honey-sweet and hateful all at once. “My Charlotte. My perfect one. Let me hold you. Let me love you. We’ll never be apart.”  

Charlie’s breath hitched on a sob, tears streaming down her terrified face. She felt it pressing against her, possessive and hungry, as if it wanted to crawl inside her skin and never leave.

Around them, the shadows tugged at their captives. Claws twisted from blackness and slashed at Maverick and Teo’s arms and legs, raking deep, seeping cuts into flesh. The darkness quivered with silent, mocking laughter. Clearly playing with them, savoring their fear.

But Charlie’s shadow didn’t slice her at all.

Instead, it anchored her in place, cold and heavy as poured iron. Black, oily tendrils wrapped tight around her ankles in a vice-like hold, rooting her to the ground. It didn’t hurt her, it held her. Possessive and unyielding, refusing to let her go.

“So cute the way you struggle,” it murmured, voice lowering to a lover’s croon. “Though it is useless. You are mine and always were.”

Her stomach heaved.

“No...” she whimpered, voice cracking with fear.

Charlie’s breath hitched. She sucked in air, tried to whistle. It came out weak and trembling, the note broken by terror.

A small sputter of green sparks jumped from her fingers, striking the black umbral bonds. The shadows hissed and recoiled slightly, smoking where they burned, but didn’t let go.

The thing in the crack laughed.

“Oh~ so pretty when your eyes blaze like that. Do it again for me, my love.”

Charlie let out a ragged, sobbing breath, her body trembling so violently she could barely stay upright, tears falling in splattering drops onto the floor.

She couldn’t move. Her own shadow pinned her in place like iron shackles, its dark arms wrapped tight around her shoulders and waist, fingers digging into her skin with impossible strength.

Beside her, it was so much worse.

Maverick and Teo strained and howled as their own shadows writhed beneath them: alive, malicious, mocking. Black tendrils slithered out from under their feet and backs, coiling around limbs, twisting them with agonizing slowness until their joints popped and tendons stretched to the breaking point. Then, just when the pain was too much, the shadows would loosen deliberately. Only to snake back in and do it all over again.

Other tendrils crawled up their chests and throats, pressing, slicing shallowly across their skin with cruel patience, carving thin lines that welled with blood before pulling back to admire their work.

Charlie’s eyes blurred with fresh tears. She sobbed openly now, gasping in ragged, helpless frustration. She wasn’t just afraid for herself; she was forced to watch them suffer, trapped and squirming, unable to even try to help. All she could do was stand there, bound by her own treacherous shadow, and weep as her friends were toyed with like broken dolls.

120 years of friendlessness, of being alone, locked away like some delicate doll on a high shelf. Finally—finally—she’d found freedom. Friends. A real life. And now it was all about to end. She could see it already: watching them ripped apart, piece by piece, by some perverted shadow thing that wanted to savor every second.

No.

She’d had enough. Enough of sitting back. Enough of being quiet. Enough of letting others script her fate like she was some obedient marionette.

Fuck that.

Her terror twisted in her chest, darkening, hardening. The pathetic tears dried on her cheeks, replaced by a heat that burned hot as fury. The brand over her heart didn’t just burn, it pulsed like a tuning fork struck too hard. Vibrating with need, with want. She needed to see him again. Both of them.

“I SAID Ṋ̸́͝O̷̻̹̕!”

The words tore from Charlie’s throat, raw and furious, her usual warm voice sharpened to something unyielding.

Her glamour cracked and fell away like shattered porcelain, revealing the devil beneath. Her once-soft eyes blazed a fierce, unholy red that seemed to burn from within. Fangs slid long and sharp, catching the light with a predator’s gleam, and the tip of a spade-shaped devil’s tail flicking behind her. From her forehead, two elegant crimson horns curled upward, gleaming slick and polished, crowning her in unmistakable, infernal majesty.

She lifted her chin, eyes blazing with tears and defiance, the last of her fear burning away. Her good arm trembled, but she forced it steady, fingers splayed like a conductor calling down lightning.

Then she whistled .

Not a frightened note this time. A command.

A shrill, rising cry that split the night wide open. The sound was so piercing it made the mausoleum’s walls crack and groan, stone splintering under the force of her will.

She leveled her arm at the gaping black crack in the door.

“Get. Away. From me.”

A barrage of fireworks erupted from her fingers—blazing green, red, gold, and pure white—and lit up the night-dark cemetery.

They weren’t just explosions. They were beautiful . Whorls of searing light twisted into flowers of flame, spiraling comets of brilliance that hissed and crackled like angry stars.

The shadows howled in agony, recoiling in greasy black coils that shriveled and split under the assault.

Tentacle-shadows writhed and twisted, their carved symbols searing away, before they snapped with a noise like bones cracking in a vice.

The air filled with the thunder of the fireworks, the hiss of burning ichor, the keening wails of the dying shadows.

The last of the shadow-bonds shriveled in the brilliant, smoking light, the tentacles shrieking as they dissolved into greasy black mist.

The silence that followed was a gut-deep, sucking void—like the entire world was holding its breath, too afraid to make a sound.

The shifting paths froze. The air itself felt less thick , no longer pressing on their chests like wet wool. The twisted geometry of the graveyard stopped warping around them. Even the looming mausoleum seemed to retreat slightly, its impossible angles settling into something that could almost pass for real.

Charlie’s blast had broken it.

For a precious moment, reality reasserted itself—snapping back like a rubber band, free from the thing that had been playing with them, warping space and laughing at their terror.

Maverick felt it, and he didn’t give it a chance to start its game back up.

He lunged forward and scooped Charlie into his arms. She let out a broken cry of pain as her dislocated arm shifted, but he only held her tighter, jaw clenched like iron.

“MOVE! ” he roared.

Teo didn’t need to be told twice. He lurched after them, fumbling for his cane before jamming it awkwardly under his arm, clutching it tight as he sprinted in an unsteady, limping dash.

They pounded down the narrow cemetery path, boots hammering the earth in a frantic, uneven rhythm. Weeds and leaning grave markers blurred past in their headlong flight, shadows twisting and dancing in the guttering, uncertain lamplight.

Behind them, the mausoleum shrieked , a sound like a thousand rusted gates grinding open in rage. Black ooze fountained out in writhing tentacles, slapping the stones, seething and boiling with hatred.

“M̵̞̄̋̏̈́Ï̶͖̲̖̪̰͋̚N̶̻̗̘͛̈̃̆̾Ë̷͕̦͈̥͎́̇!” the voice howled inside their skulls, even as they ran.

Maverick felt it like claws on his spine. He didn’t look back. He wouldn’t.

Teo, scrambling at his side, was sobbing and grinning at the same time.
“Holy... holy shit?! Did you SEE that? She burned the shadow, she severed them. God’s wounds, I knew that theory had legs... I mean, we’re all about to die, but it’s AMAZING...”

“SHUT UP AND RUN!” Maverick bellowed, voice cracking.

They skidded onto the street, boots thumping the cracked pavement. The gas lamps flickered wildly, their light shivering over long, spindly shadows that twisted and followed, lashing and coiling on the walls.

For one breathless, heart-stopping moment, Maverick was sure they hadn’t escaped at all. That the shadows would surge forward and drag them back.

Charlie let out a thin, broken sob, clutching at his shirt with her good hand.

Maverick ran harder. His lungs burned. His thighs screamed. 

Teo panted beside him, breath hitching, cane clacking as he kept pace.
“I think... it’s following-oh God- I think it’s tracking her...”

“Not for long,” Maverick snarled, eyes locking on their one salvation ahead.

The battered black door of his bar.

His speakeasy.

Wards carved into the frame in faded, ancient sigils.

Safety.

He barreled toward it like a charging bull, Charlie limp in his arms, Teo hot on his heels, shadows writhing and screaming behind them.

And he prayed—just this once—that those wards would hold.

They crashed through the heavy door of the speakeasy in a tangle of limbs, hitting the scuffed wooden floor hard enough to knock the wind out of them.

Charlie let out a strangled, pain-choked cry as her dislocated arm jostled. Maverick cursed and shifted her carefully, cradling her like something fragile. Teo hit the floor face-first with a yelp but was already scrambling up on his elbows, gasping.

All three of them sat there panting, filthy, and wide-eyed.

For one precious moment, the length of a heartbeat, it was quiet.

Then the shadows inside the speakeasy moved.

They didn’t just flicker. They crawled. They pooled and slithered up the walls like oil, twisted across the floor like living smoke.

Maverick’s blood ran ice-cold.

“No.” His voice cracked. His heart seized.

Lord, no.

The wards were supposed to hold . They were supposed to keep it out .

The shadows converged together in front of them, twisting and knotting in a tangle of roiling blackness. A sick, suffocating dread coiled in Maverick’s gut.

We’re dead. We’re as good as fucking dead.

The darkness churned, and parted.

A figure stepped through the umbral portal with uncanny grace.

His tall frame cut a striking silhouette, all lean, wiry strength and coiled elegance. The tailored suit clung perfectly to long limbs and squared shoulders. Smooth caramel-gold skin gleamed in the dim light, thick brown hair falling in gentle waves. Glasses flashed white for a moment, hiding his eyes entirely.

Alastor.

Maverick let out a shaking breath and actually laughed, a ragged, exhausted sound.

“Alastor. Jesus... I could kiss you.”

He smirked up at his friend in real relief...

Until the twisting vortex of shadows behind Alastor pulsed.

It rippled like something alive, growing, thickening, darkening until it filled the room. The mass twisted and roared silently, splitting and reforming, jagged claws and antlers sprouting and retracting.

Nyther.

But not the Nyther he knew.

This one was huge . Black as pitch, claws long as spears, antlers that scraped the ceiling beams, eyes glinting like knife-edges in the gloom. The pressure in the room dropped like a stone, the air going ice-cold.

Charlie whimpered brokenly in Maverick’s arms, her good hand clawing at his shirt. Her breaths came in shallow, sobbing gasps.

Alastor’s gaze shifted.

The glare on his glasses disappeared, leaving nothing between Maverick and the look in those bright, deadly eyes.

He took in the limp arm. The blood streaking her cheek in raw, angry lines. The way her dress was torn to rags, smeared in black ooze.

The way she shook in Maverick’s grip.

Alastor’s expression didn’t twist into anger.

It flattened .

Went cold.

Predatory.

Nyther’s hulking form shifted behind him, claws flexing, shadows splitting and knotting. The monstrous silhouette filled the entire back of the speakeasy, pressing against walls that seemed too small to contain it.

Alastor’s voice came out in a low, razor-edged snarl.

“What the fuck happened.”

Maverick actually shivered.

He swallowed hard.

After a beat of silence, he sighed and looked down at Charlie, who gave a whimper and tried to hide her face in his chest.

He cleared his throat, voice dry and cracking.

“Look... I told you both that tour was a bad idea.”

He glanced at Teo, who was shaking so hard he could barely stay upright.

“But I did give your girl a day she’ll remember.”

Chapter Text

“But I did give your girl a day she’ll remember.”

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Alastor didn’t move at first. Behind him, his shadow twisted and writhed like a living nightmare. Nyther’s monstrous silhouette pressed against the walls until the old wood groaned in protest. The room itself seemed to shrink, the lamplight retreating into the corners as if it feared being noticed.

Mavrick swallowed hard and shifted awkwardly, trying to adjust Charlie’s weight where he’d been holding her on the floor. He eased her upright with careful hands, avoiding her bruises, and managed to help her onto her feet. Teo seemed to catch on instantly, sliding a nearby chair over with a scraping sound so Charlie could collapse into it, trembling and pale.

But the moment she lifted her head, the room went colder, Alastor’s gaze hit her and froze.

The human illusion had crumbled completely under strain and terror. She looked unearthly now, her skin too pale, eyes too large and glassy. Her hair lay in perfectly smooth, unnatural waves that caught the light too well.

She blinked at them all with those shimmering, inhuman eyes, wet with fresh tears, too exhausted even to try to hide what she was.

Something flickered across his face, a crack in that perfect smile, raw and ugly. His eyes swept over every bit of evidence of what had been done to her: the scratches, her torn dress, the cuts on her face, her limp arm.

Alastor watched all of it unfold with a measured, cruel patience of a spring trap’s jaws holding just before they snapped shut.

His mouth curved into something that could almost be called a smile. Almost.

It didn’t reach his dark crimson eyes.

“...A day she’ll remember,” he echoed softly. His voice was smooth as silk, but cold. Glacial. Each word sounded polished, honed, like a blade sharpened to a killing edge. “How quaint. Tell me, Maverick, was she meant to remember it for the scenic architecture, or the part where you let some thing carve her like a roast and nearly got her killed?”

Maverick’s throat worked as he swallowed. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Even he felt it, the thing standing before him wasn’t his friend. Not the smug, joking radio host with the showman’s grin. This was a predator. A thing too sharp and patient for the human mold it wore.

Behind Alastor, Nyther’s massive form rippled, twisting with liquid grace. Antlers cracked and grew until they scraped the ceiling beams. Slowly, he peeled himself from Alastor’s back like oil off a blade, gliding forward. Fangs gleamed wetly in the gloom. As Nyther exhaled, the room seemed to frost over, cold seeping up the walls like grasping fingers. Claws clicked on the floor as he surged forward- straight for Charlie. 

Teo yelped, diving between them. He thrust out his cane like a sword, breath ragged. “Stay back!”

Nyther didn’t snarl aloud. He didn’t have to. The shadows around him screamed in silence. His eyes burned like coals, narrowing to slits, while the darkness behind him twisted into serpentine tails. Serrated teeth gleamed as he bared them at Teo.

Teo’s eyes flashed gold, sweat dripping down his temple, breath coming in hard gasps. “I’m not letting you touch her!”

Charlie let out a weak, pained sound. Her good hand flopped toward Teo’s arm, fingers brushing his sleeve. “Teo,” she rasped, voice raw but warm despite the tears. “It’s okay.”

He froze, blinking. His eyes darted from Nyther’s monstrous form to her battered face. “But... he’s...”

She smiled at him. A broken, trembling thing, but it was kind and knowing. “He’s not going to hurt me,” she whispered, reassuring despite the pain.

Teo blinked, stunned. Confusion and wonder fought on his face. He swallowed hard, nodding slowly, and lowered his cane. 

“Hello, you,” Charlie cooed weakly, her voice cracking with exhaustion as she turned her head toward the massive shadow.

Nyther closed the distance in a blur. One instant, he was looming over Teo, teeth bared in silent threat. The next, he was kneeling before her, pressing his umbral forehead to hers so gently it was almost impossible to believe. His claws scraped the floor as he hunched lower. He inhaled deeply, the shadows shivering around them like a living exhale. Then he nuzzled her nose with aching tenderness, pressing close until her hair tangled with his smoky mane.

Charlie closed her eyes, letting out a shuddering breath. She relaxed, just a fraction. Her good hand lifted, trembling, to tangle in his inky ruff. “Missed you,” she whispered.

Teo stared, mouth hanging open. His eyes went wide with wonder, then brightened into sheer delight. He reached out a cautious hand to touch the massive shadow-creature.

Nyther’s tail lashed out like a serpent and smacked his wrist with a wet thwap, leaving a vivid red welt.

Teo yelped and snatched his hand back, only to break into an even wider grin, eyes dancing. “Incredible,” he breathed. He reached out again, and Nyther’s tail swatted him even harder, sending him sprawling onto his ass. Teo only laughed, breathless, eyes shining. “Amazing. Do it again!”

Meanwhile, Maverick and Alastor had not stopped arguing.

Alastor’s head tilted with reptilian slowness. “You had one job,” he murmured, voice husky with murderous delight. “One. Single. Job. Keep her safe. And happy.” He flicked his wrist dismissively, the gesture somehow more dangerous than any weapon. “Show her a charming little tour. How exactly did this happen, old friend ?”

Maverick’s heart hammered in his chest. His hands actually shook. But he squared his shoulders anyway, refusing to cower. “It wasn’t... it wasn’t that simple!” he snapped, though his voice cracked with fear. “A lot happened! That goddamn Hunt found us! That’s not on me!” 

“The Hunt?” Alastor’s brow arched, dangerously polite. “Do elaborate. I’m dying to hear how a quaint little tour turned into a rendezvous with the Jaws of the Black Hunt.”

“I didn’t want to take her on the stupid tour,” Maverick spat, fear boiling over into anger. “This was your idea!”

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “Ah, so you’re blaming me. Interesting strategy, considering you were in charge of my only way to bring down The Hunt, the literal monsters that have made my life a living Hell.”

Maverick flinched, but tried to play it off, swallowing hard. With a grunt of exertion, he forced himself to stand higher so he could glare at Alastor eye to eye. Or as close as he could, being several inches shorter.

“Well, she didn’t die. I call that a win,” he retorted hoarsely. 

Alastor’s eyes gleamed with savage glee. “Your standards are truly inspiring. I’ll have to revise mine. ‘As long as she still has a pulse , job well done’!”

Maverick actually blanched. His fists clenched as he sucked in a shaking breath, jaw working furiously. “You think I wanted her to get hurt? She’s a handful , Valios! She doesn’t listen, she runs off, she’s... she’s too goddamn bright for this place.”

Alastor’s laughter was low and soft. Deadly. “So, it’s her fault. Good to know.”

Maverick snarled, “Fuck you. Don’t you dare twist my words. I tried; I damn near died trying to keep her safe.”

Alastor’s eyes flashed. His mouth curled into something feral. “Then maybe you should have tried harder.”

The room snapped like a drawn wire.

Maverick’s face twisted with rage and grief. “Do you think I don’t fucking know that?!” His voice cracked, raw with horror. “Look at her! She’s been here three days, Alastor. Three! And she’s nearly died twice- under both of our watches. So, let’s stop this high-and-mighty bullshit and just call it like it is. Look at what we let happen!

The words seemed to hang there, ugly and true.

Alastor’s expression flickered. For the briefest moment, his eyes shifted. His jaw tightened. He drew in a slow, deliberate breath. He was ready to retort. Something worse, something final, when a small, hoarse sound interrupted him. 

“...Alastor,” Charlie said, voice weak and ragged. “Stop.”

It was thin, but the word cracked like a whip.

Both men froze.

Charlie shifted painfully in Nyther’s protective grip, eyes wet but fierce. She sucked in a ragged breath. “I can’t... I can’t listen to you fight right now. I can’t.”

Alastor’s gaze snapped to her. His entire body stilled. The monstrous tension bled out of him in an instant. The hard glint in his eyes melted into something raw. His smile gentled, softened, turning into something heartbreakingly tender and private.

He dropped lower, one knee to the floor, gloved hands hovering inches from her as if afraid she might break from touch alone. 

“Ma mélodie,” Alastor whispered like a prayer.

Charlie lifted her head barely. “Don’t be mad,” she breathed. “Please. I’m okay.”

Alastor exhaled slowly. The manic heat drained from him. He closed his eyes, forcing calm into every tense line of his frame. When he opened them again, they had shifted colors and were the familiar warm green-rimmed hazel she’d grown so fond of, steady and warm with worry.

“You are many things, Charlie,” he said softly, voice tight, “but at this moment, you are not okay.”

She gave a halfhearted shrug. “Fine, okay-adjacent.”

He let out a breathy laugh, amazed she could still find a joke even in this state. The ease of it made her giggle too, sweet as honey.

Finally, he dared to touch her. The back of his gloved hand brushed her cheek, while Nyther’s coils tightened protectively around her.

Maverick let out a long breath, the tension easing enough for him to finally breathe again. His voice, usually gruff, was quiet now. “There’s still time before curfew. We can get her downstairs. Talk properly.”

Alastor didn’t look at him, but he nodded slightly.

“What happens at curfew?” Teo piped up, excitement bubbling despite the lingering tension.

“That’s when Mav’s speakeasies open,” Charlie rasped, voice tired but triumphant at showing off her new knowledge of the club’s inner workings. “His staff starts clocking in... about thirty, forty minutes before.”

“That’s amazing!” Teo gasped.

Alastor blinked slowly, as if only now realizing there was an extra guest in the room. He turned his head toward Maverick, brow arched in sardonic question.

Maverick only sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I told you,” he grumbled. “A lot happened. I need a strong drink and some first aid. In that order.”

Maverick’s office felt like a prizefighter’s memory and an alchemist’s den stitched together. The championship belt hung above a dark walnut desk like the relic of hard-won glory that it was, its brass catching the lamplight. The walls were crowded with faded boxing posters, curling black-and-white photos, and flashy old magician adverts. Each scrap of paper a fragment of Maverick’s chaotic history.

The air was thick with the scent of old whiskey and something faintly metallic, like blood dried on ropes.

A broad, cracked leather couch sat in the center of the room, acting as a natural divider between the desk and the bar. On it, Alastor and Nyther flanked Charlie like dark sentinels. Alastor leaned in close, eyes aglow with eerie green light as he worked careful, otherworldly magic on her wounded arm. Nyther’s massive shadowed bulk curled around them protectively, a living barricade of claws and antlers and whispering darkness.

On the far side of the room, the polished bar gleamed with warm lamplight. Respectable bottles of bourbon and rum lined the counter, but stranger stock glimmered behind them: glass spheres alive with roiling storm clouds, rune-marked flasks glowing in ghostly ink, and shelves stacked with uncanny ingredients- bundled herbs, ground minerals sparkling like crushed gems, luminescent seeds, and a sealed jar that pulsed softly with trapped starlight.

Teo was perched on a tall stool at the bar, practically vibrating with curiosity.

Maverick stood behind the counter, hunched and weary, using his own mouth as a mixer with grim efficiency. He sloshed bourbon, rum, and something green and suspicious straight from their bottles, swirling the foul blend in his cheeks before swallowing with a full-body shudder. His face twisted in disgust after every gulp, but he went right back for more, like a man trying to douse a fire burning in his chest.

Maverick turned to look at his reflection behind the bar. His cuts and scrapes were still visible but looked older, like they had had several days to heal. Then he looked down at his shadow. The umbral mass was no longer sentient but still looked off, like it was thinner and cracked at the edges.

Teo’s eyes shone with scholarly delight.

“So those sigils on the globes are for stabilizing weather essence, right? What about the glowing seeds? Are they alchemically transmuted or naturally bioluminescent? And did you really fight in Havana in ’29? Are you really a boxer and a magician? That seems like an odd mix. Do you know any card tricks?—””

Mavrick rolled his eyes, mixed several of the already opened bottles into a glass, and pushed it towards Teo. The man hummed happily, picking up the glass and inspecting it.

“Is this what you just made for yourself? Is this why your cuts look a little better? Does this mean you’re more alchemist than magician? How many kinds of positions can you make?”

Maverick let out a strangled groan, pinching the bridge of his nose so hard it blanched. He reached behind himself blindly for another bottle, uncorked it with his teeth, and swallowed a massive gulp.

“Matteo,” he rasped, voice raw with booze and battered nerves, “for the love of every saint in your Vatican. Shut. Up.”

Teo only bounced on his stool, beaming. “I just have so many questions! This place is incredible...”

Maverick dropped his head to the bar with a dull thud, “Just drink the damned drink.”

Meanwhile, on the couch, the mood was starkly different.

Charlie sat propped against Nyther’s warm, shadowy bulk, her injured arm resting on a velvet pillow. Alastor leaned close, brow furrowed in intense concentration. In his hand, he held a long, thin needle. Not made of metal, but of pure shadow, flickering like dark smoke given form. Tiny green symbols glowed coldly along its length.

With practiced care, he guided it through the air above her arm. The needle didn’t pierce flesh but passed through it like a ghost, leaving behind glowing green stitches suspended in the very air. Each thread of luminous script twisted and knotted, sealing wounds that weren’t merely skin-deep.

With every pass, her pain ebbed. Bone knitted. Muscle aligned. Bruises faded from angry purple to nothing. The ache in her joints melted into a soothing warmth. She could move her fingers again, and a relieved gasp shuddered from her lips.

Alastor’s eyes shone with that same unearthly green, reflecting in the wetness of her tears. They were haunting. Otherworldly. Beautiful .

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice low and careful, like a lullaby spun from shadows.

Charlie’s eyes were wide with awe. She trembled as the magic worked through her.

“How does it work?” she breathed, voice thick with wonder. “Is it stitching reality? Or my soul? Or...”

Nyther lifted one of his clawed fingers and pressed it gently to her lips.

Shhh.

Charlie blinked at him, her question dying mid-breath. She pouted for a moment before breaking into a grin, finding the reprimand impossibly gentle.

She tried again in a hushed, eager voice. “But Nyther...”

With a shake of his umbral head, Nyther’s tail flicked out and tapped her knee lightly, a soft warning that lacked any real resolve.

She giggled, biting her lip to stay quiet, eyes shining with delight.

Alastor didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth curved in a small, knowing smile.

His needle moved with hypnotic grace, weaving shadow and bone like music only he could hear. Each floating stitch glowed briefly before sinking into her skin, the green symbols fading like embers.

When he finished, the needle crumbled in his fingers like spent ash. He let out a slow, ragged breath, eyes dimming back to their normal green-rimmed hazel.

Charlie flexed her fingers experimentally. The pain was nearly gone. She let out a long, relieved sigh and beamed up at him.

“Better?” Alastor asked softly.

She nodded, tears glittering, but her smile was impossibly bright. Alastor rewarded her with a slow, charming grin, his eyes lowering to half-lidded slits, dark and playful all at once. While she was distracted by Alastor, Nyther pressed closer to Charlie’s back and brought his hands up, cradling her face as he tilted her chin. Angling her to keep meeting Alastor’s eyes. Not letting her shift even slightly away. She squeaked, her face heating beneath the cool, shadowy grip, as Nyther gently traced his smallest claws up and down her throat in a barely-there caress. His glowing red eyes never left her, burning with fierce relief. 

Smirk growing, Alastor held her eyes as he brought his thumb deliberately to his mouth, dragging it over his tongue leisurely before pressing it gently to one of the small cuts on her cheek.

As his dampened thumb traced the wound, her torn skin knit itself closed beneath the touch, sealing with a faint glow before smoothing to flawless softness. He repeated the intimate ritual with meticulous care, licking his thumb each time, brushing it across every tiny gash and scrape until not even the faintest blemish remained. Never breaking from the gently forced eye contact.

When he finished, he studied her face with smug satisfaction, the glow in his eyes softening to something warm and unmistakably fond.

Charlie blinked up at both of them, breathing unsteady. Then she swallowed and shut her eyes, Nyther reluctantly releasing his hold upon her jaw but dragging his claws softly—so softly as to not even leave a mark—against her skin as he let her go.

A high, musical hum filled the air as a subtle shimmer rippled across her skin, like heat on pavement, bending the light. Her porcelain complexion softened into a warm, human color. The horns and tail faded away like smoke on the breeze. Her hair lost its uncanny sheen, settling into natural, tousled waves.

She exhaled shakily, blinking her now-human eyes open again, lashes damp with relief.

“There,” she sang out, voice cracking with exhaustion but triumphant. “All fixed.”

Alastor’s eyes didn’t waver. He took in the glamour with visible satisfaction, but something molten and furious still burned beneath his gaze. Not at her, never at her, but at what had forced her to drop it in the first place.

“Does it look okay?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious under the weight of his stare.

He lifted a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his voice low and rough despite the tenderness of the gesture.

“My darling demon-belle,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers, voice dropping to something softer, intimate. “You’re beautiful. With or without your glamour.”

Across the room, Maverick watched the scene from behind the bar, one eyebrow cocked as he took another long drink while Teo chattered cheerfully to him. Both of them had used the battered old first aid kit to patch up their scrapes and cuts, bandages and gauze marked their recent run-in with danger.

“Goddamn,” Maverick muttered, voice thick with booze. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glared at nothing in particular. “I’m gonna need even more whiskey to process that.”

Teo bounced on his stool, practically vibrating with excitement. He looked like he was about to fall off just from the force of trying to hold in his questions.

Maverick groaned, lifting the bottle and drinking even deeper.

Charlie watched them, blinking slowly before humming thoughtfully to herself. She tilted her head at Alastor, eyes wide and innocent.

“Al,” she asked sweetly, “are you going to heal Maverick and Teo, too?”

Alastor’s response was a low, skeptical snort, his hazel-green eyes glinting with unrepentant amusement.

“No,” he drawled. “They’ll be fine with their own more traditional methods. A lesson needs to be learned here.”

Charlie’s mouth fell open in offended disbelief.

“Alastor!” she gasped.

He didn’t give her the chance to scold him. Instead, he leaned in close... far too close... Their noses brushing before he moved to her temple, lips nearly against her ear as his gaze flicked to the bar over her head before settling back on her. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial, mocking whisper just for her.

“More importantly,” he murmured with a wicked smile curving his lips, “who exactly is this random Italian driving Maverick to drink himself to death?”

Charlie flushed at the warmth of his voice against her ear, breath catching at the husky edge of his teasing. She tried not to squeak but failed a little.

“Oh!” she gasped. She bounced once in place, eyes going wide with excitement. “Introductions!”

Charlie practically sparkled with delight as she dragged Alastor by the hand toward the bar, Nyther slithering behind them as he reluctantly unwrapped himself from them. She slowed just before they reached Teo, turning to face her two dark guardians with all the solemn gravity of a ringmaster about to introduce the main act.

She cleared her throat dramatically and lifted a hand, gesturing to her left with a flourish. “Alastor,” she announced, voice lilting and bright as she indicated him with an open palm.

Then she pivoted slightly, sweeping her other arm with just as much theatricality. “And Nyther.”

Nyther’s monstrous form rippled and expanded, his antlers curling like dead branches, red eyes gleaming with patient menace.

Finally, she turned to Teo with an enormous grin, her hands clasping together excitedly.

“This is my new friend , Teo!” she sang triumphantly, bouncing a little on her heels.

She beamed like the sun, clearly thrilled with her performance.

Then she twisted back to Teo, sweeping her arm at her companions with pride. “Teo, this is Alastor and Nyther. They’re my…” She trailed off, blinking.

Her smile faltered a bit as she chewed her lip. Friends felt too small a word. Too normal. What even were they to her? Her brows furrowed, lips pressing together as she tried to figure it out.

Luckily, Alastor was watching her the whole time with that half-lidded, darkly amused gaze of his. The way she stumbled over the words seemed to delight him. He leaned in just slightly, voice rich and playful, saving her with smooth precision.

“Her... entourage, ” he purred, smirking at Teo with a wicked little tilt of his head.

Charlie turned bright pink at that, huffing a flustered little laugh, but couldn’t quite stop the shy, pleased smile that followed. She ducked her head, giggling, brushing her fingers lightly against Alastor’s coat in grateful affection.

Alastor’s own grin softened for a heartbeat, his eyes hooded but warm as he watched her.

It was an unexpectedly tender moment, until Teo chose that exact second to break in with all the subtlety of a brass band.

Sliding his cane under his arm to free both hands, he lunged forward to seize Alastor’s hand in an over-enthusiastic double grip.

“Matteo Lucien di Angelis,” he declared grandly, eyes alight with excitement. “But please, just Teo! It’s truly wonderful to meet friends of my friends!”

“Not friends,” Maverick grumbled from behind the bar without even looking up, voice gravelly with exhausted menace.

Teo laughed brightly, giving Maverick a dismissive wave. “Such a kidder !”

Alastor forced a polite smile—if a razor had a smile, it might look like that. For Charlie’s sake, he allowed Teo to shake his hand, though his eyes lost any warmth, flicking coolly to the easy smile the two of them shared. He drew in a measured breath and rested a hand at the small of Charlie’s back, as much to ground her as to anchor the furious tension coiling inside him.

“So tell me,” Alastor drawled smoothly, the charm practiced but thin as ice, “how exactly did you two meet?”

Charlie lit up again instantly. “Oh! The tour!” she chirped. “We all just happened to sign up for the same one. Total coincidence...” she paused, looking at Teo with a giggle, “...though he doesn’t really believe in coincidences, do you?”

Teo positively glowed. “Yes! Such a fun coincidence,” he agreed, laughing, before clarifying with a conspiratorial wink. “Although you are correct, mio caro . I don’t actually believe in coincidences.”

Alastor’s smile contorted into a grimace at the nickname before his gaze slid sideways to Maverick, eyes glittering dangerously. He raised an eyebrow in exaggerated interest.

“Oh,” he drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. “This tour just keeps getting more and more interesting, doesn’t it?”

Maverick threw up his hands in a dramatic shrug, eyes rolling. “Hey, don’t look at me. I’m just the babysitter.”

Charlie, ever helpful, chirped brightly. “Teo actually came to New Orleans to check the blessed nails at the Ursuline Convent! They were blessed by the Pope, you know!”

Alastor’s sharp glare softened a fraction at the obvious excitement in her voice. He gave her an indulgent smile, eyes warming.

“Ah,” he mused lightly, with an air of dry familiarity. “The legend of the Casket Girls?”

Charlie’s grin turned radiant. “Yes!”

Teo nodded eagerly. “I’m actually from the Vatican!”

That caught Alastor off-guard, his eyebrow arched.

“Really?” he asked, feigning casual interest that couldn’t quite hide his suspicion. “Are you a priest?”

Teo laughed brightly, shaking his head. “No, not a priest—but I do work directly with the Church. But I wanted to go sightseeing and so joined the tour group and got to meet Charlie and Maverick.” He glanced at Charlie fondly. “We got to talking and Sono rimasto subito incantato . I’ve never seen anyone like her before.”

And with that, he reached out and pinched Charlie’s cheek affectionately.

Charlie let out a surprised little squeak, swatting at his wrist half-heartedly before giggling, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling with embarrassed delight.

Alastor’s eye twitched. Hard. His smile froze in place, teeth showing in something that was absolutely not friendly.

Nyther’s ears pinned back, shadows thickening around him like storm clouds. His eyes narrowed to bloody slits, and he let out a silent, low growl that even silently still managed to vibrate through the floorboards.

Alastor didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. When he spoke, it was a low, silken drawl— so soft it was almost kind.

“Tell me,” he said slowly, “are you always this familiar with women you’ve just met? Or is it only when they’re exhausted from nearly dying?”

Teo laughed brightly at Alastor’s biting comment, utterly missing the menace behind it and mistaking it for teasing.

Charlie, sensing the growing tension radiating from Alastor and Nyther, attempted to defuse the situation with a distraction. “So, Teo, how did you see through my glamour?”

Teo straightened as he turned his attention back to Charlie, puffing up with earnest pride as he tapped his temple near those uncanny golden eyes.

“Glamours and illusion spells don’t work on me,” he explained cheerfully, as if delivering good news. “I can vaguely see that they’re there, but I still see straight through them.”

“You see an awful lot for someone who’s only just met her,” he sneered, voice smooth as silk but malicious beneath.

Teo huffed a laugh, his eyes becoming almost distant as he had a sudden air of seriousness about him.

“I’ve seen many strange things in my time,” he said. “The Vatican archives are filled with accounts you wouldn’t believe. Creatures bound in scripture, spirits sealed behind relic glass, angels who spoke in voices like thunder that rattled the bones. I’ve even encountered demons before,” he admitted, carefully, with the faintest shiver of memory. “Things that felt… wrong in the mortal plane. Heavy and strange.”

His golden eyes gleamed as he focused on the room as a whole once more. The strange, serious energy evaporated with a newfound wonder. He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to an almost reverent hush, as if sharing a secret meant only for those who truly wanted to understand.

“But Charlie… She’s exquisite,” he said, nodding toward Charlie with open fascination. “She feels different. And the most fascinating part is that I don’t understand it yet. There’s something... bright or vast about her presence. Like there’s too much soul packed into too small a space. A truly fascinating puzzle.”

His fingers fluttered as he searched for the words, brow furrowed with almost childlike intensity.

“She’s different ,” he added simply, voice dropping with genuine awe, “She doesn’t feel like something that feeds on the world. She feels like something that belongs to it. Or maybe something that’s... missing from it.”

Alastor’s smile went thin and sharp as a blade, eyes glinting with cold amusement.

Then, noticing Alastor’s stare, Teo beamed sunnily as if nothing at all was amiss.

“We started talking on that tour,” he finished brightly while flashing a wide, delighted grin and slung an arm around Charlie’s shoulders in an easy half-hug. “And, well—here we are!”

The effect was instant .

Nyther’s claws scraped deep ruts in the floorboards as he surged forward, jaws parting in a silent snarl that showed every gleaming, shark-like tooth. His red eyes burned like coals in a furnace. The shadows around him writhed like serpents preparing to strike.

Alastor’s arm snapped around Charlie’s waist, yanking her bodily to his side and out of Teo’s reach.

Charlie let out a startled squeak, blushing furiously as her hands clutched at his coat for balance.

“Uh,” Teo said carefully, his cane out to guard against Nyther once more as he blinked owlishly under the weight of Alastor’s smoldering glare and Nyther’s monstrous fury. “Did I... say something wrong?”

Maverick didn’t even look up, downing half a bottle in one go.

“Just... no touching Charlie in front of those two,” he muttered, voice dry as dust. “They’re a tad…” He squinted into the air, searching for a word, “overprotective. ”

Teo raised both hands in mock surrender, shooting Nyther a sheepish grin. “Noted. Very, very noted.”

Charlie’s eyes flashed in embarrassment. “ Alastor !” she scolded, voice high and reproachful.

He only smiled lazily down at her, eyes lidded and glinting with wicked satisfaction. His grip on her waist tightened possessively, pressing her even closer.

“I’m listening, ma chère,” he purred silkily. “But I’m not letting go.”

Silence hung thick for a beat after Teo’s sheepish surrender, the only sound the quiet clink of Maverick setting his bottle down with deliberate care before finally retrieving a glass to use instead.

Alastor didn’t loosen his arm around Charlie’s waist. If anything, his fingers flexed more securely against her hip, claiming her with a dark, quiet possessiveness that made her cheeks burn.

But after a beat, he cleared his throat with exaggerated politeness, giving the group a thin, cold smile.

“So,” he drawled, voice a touch too smooth, “why don’t you all tell me exactly how the Hunt got involved in this charming little field trip of yours?”

Maverick made a disgusted noise in his throat and gestured helplessly.

“There was one of 'em following us,” he spat. “Bastard had a glamour or illusion spell. Made him invisible. We didn’t even know he was there till Professor Holy Eyes here let us know.”

Teo brightened, raising his cane in the air as if volunteering in class.

“I spotted the aura warping around him!” he said proudly. “But by then... he’d already done something to Charlie.”

Alastor’s mocking smile faltered. His head snapped down to look at her, eyes narrowing in sharp worry.

“Done something?” he repeated, voice suddenly low and dangerous.

Charlie shivered, her fingers curling in the fabric of his coat, pressing herself even tighter into his embrace. Her eyes went distant.

“Everything went... dark,” she whispered. “And I felt... something. Calling me.”

Alastor’s jaw tightened. He slowly lifted a hand, brushing his gloved fingers along her arm as if trying to warm her back to the present.

He turned his head sharply to Maverick.

Maverick shook his head, grim. “Her eyes went white. Ghost-like. She just... walked off.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Walked where?”

Maverick scrubbed a hand over his face. “Into the goddamn cemetery. Like she was sleepwalking.”

Charlie shuddered.

“It was... weird. The paths were wrong. Twisting. Changing.” Maverick explained.

Teo perked up.

“Oh! It was incredible!” he gushed. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The paths were shifting . Warping space itself, a little at a time. Not stable enough to be a true rift or liminal pocket. But there was this... skeletal thing with black shadow-tentacles.”

Alastor felt his stomach drop like a stone.

His arm clamped tighter around Charlie without thought, she squeaked in surprise but didn’t resist, pressing her face into his shoulder.

Nyther went rigid. His head swung to Alastor with frantic urgency, claws signing too frantically to read. He shook, antlers scraping the wall, eyes burning like twin hellfires.

Alastor refused to look at his shadow. Instead, he locked eyes with Maverick, voice flat. “Tell me.”

Maverick swallowed. He went pale, then nodded once.

“It was... Zhul’Khaelinoth.”

The name hung in the air like a curse.

Teo gasped, blinking in wonder. “So that’s how you say it? ‘ZHOOL-kay-LIN-oth’.” He repeated the syllables carefully, tasting the shape of them on his tongue. “What language is that?”

Alastor didn’t answer. He shook his head violently, eyes dilated with an old, creeping terror. His smile was all teeth.

“That’s not possible ,” he snarled. “He’s not real. He’s just a false idol that the Hunt worships. Their boogeyman. That’s all.”

Teo looked thoughtful in the worst possible way.

“He seemed real enough to me,” he mused, voice maddeningly calm. “He very clearly spoke . Not with a voice but like an... echoing finality. In my mind.”

Maverick shuddered. He drained his glass, jaw tightening.

“That thing really wanted Charlie,” he said roughly. “And I mean wanted. Those fucking tentacles were practically groping her.”

Charlie gave a strangled little sound and moved to wrap her arms around herself, though Alastor didn’t ease his grip on her enough to allow her to do so. She tightened her grip on him instead, eyes shining with wet horror.

“It... knew me,” she whispered. “It spoke like it had been waiting for me and...” She choked, a sound between a sob and a gag, and slapped her hand over her mouth, shaking.

That did it for Alastor.

“Enough ,” he snapped.

He turned fully, wrapping both arms around her and pulling her flush against him in a crushing hug. She buried her face in his chest and let out a broken little sob.

Nyther’s massive shape closed in around them, shadowy arms curling around them both like a living barricade, claws flexing, teeth bared in a silent threat at the memory alone.

Alastor’s voice dropped to a quiet, dangerous snarl, vibrating in his chest against her cheek.

“That was some kind of trick. An illusion. Zhul’Khaelinoth is not real.”

His tone brooked no argument. It was final.

Maverick nodded grimly, pouring himself another heavy drink.

Teo, utterly oblivious to the crackling tension in the room, opened his mouth to ask another question—

Maverick snapped.

With perfect precision, he whipped the bar rag at Teo’s head. It smacked him hard enough to make him yelp and nearly topple over.

“Enough, genius,” Maverick growled.

Teo blinked, rubbing his head.

Maverick pointed at Charlie, who was still clinging to Alastor like a lifeline.

“Look,” he said more gently. “It wasn’t easy, but we all made it. So how about we celebrate that, huh?”

Alastor didn’t let go of Charlie as Maverick started mixing drinks with brisk, practiced motions.

He slid a glass of rye to Alastor, who accepted it without loosening his hold. He took a slow, deliberate sip, eyes still locked on Charlie as if she might vanish if he looked away.

Maverick turned to Nyther with a grunt and pushed a dark green bottle that seemed to roil with black smoke across the counter.

“For you, big guy.”

Nyther snatched it up with one massive claw, the liquid inside hissing like something alive.

Maverick’s eyes flicked to Charlie, who had finally peeked out from Alastor’s coat with damp lashes. He smirked.

“I’ve got just the thing for you,” he said, voice softening.

He spun bottles with a showman’s flourish, mixing pink liquid, a bright strawberry garnish, a sprig of mint. He slid it in front of her in a tall, frosted glass.

Charlie blinked.

“What’s that?” she asked, voice small but curious.

Maverick puffed up his chest.

“That,” he declared proudly, “is what I call an Edison Hard Lemonade. It’s basically strawberry hard lemonade... until you add ice.”

He grabbed a scoop of clear cubes and dropped them in. Instantly, the drink flared, glowing like a warm lightbulb.

Charlie let out an honest, delighted squeak, clapping her hands.

Alastor’s harsh edges softened at the sight. He watched her with that rare, fond gleam in his eyes before glancing up at Maverick.

Their gazes locked, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Alastor’s mouth curved into a small, appreciative smirk. He nodded once.

Maverick pretended not to smile back but returned the nod anyway.

“Can I have one of those, too?” Teo whooped excitedly, breaking the moment like a crashing cymbal.

Maverick sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t wet yourself.” He got to work.

Alastor nudged Charlie gently with his elbow after she took the first sip of her drink.

“Do you like it?” he asked, voice low, intimate.

Charlie nodded, sipping shyly. She smiled, but it was dimmed, not the blinding beam she’d had before.

Alastor’s heart gave an uncomfortable little twist at that. He glanced at Nyther, who bobbed his antlered head eagerly, red eyes softening.

Alastor cleared his throat, leaning closer to Charlie’s ear.

“I know I said three days,” he murmured quietly, “but with everything that’s happened... would you consider coming home early?”

Charlie’s heart gave an audible flutter at the word home. Her cheeks flamed. She opened her mouth once, twice, three times. No sound emerging.

Alastor chuckled softly, eyes half-lidded as he watched her squirm.

When she finally gave up on words entirely and shut her eyes tight, nodding vigorously instead, he laughed properly.

He took a sip of his drink, then pressed his forehead to hers, nose brushing hers in tender affection.

“Then it’s settled,” he whispered. “You’ll come home tonight.”

Teo’s gleeful shriek rang out as he practically bounced on his stool, holding up his glowing Edison Hard Lemonade like it was a trophy. The ice inside pulsed cheerfully, casting warm light over his delighted grin.

Alastor’s head turned slowly, eyes narrowing just enough to betray the murderous thoughts flitting behind them. He sighed, a long dramatic exhalation, then turned his gaze back to Charlie.

She was giggling softly at Teo’s enthusiasm, but the sound died as she met Alastor’s eyes.

He watched her with that dark, unreadable stare for a breath, then leaned back just a fraction, releasing the possessive hold he’d kept around her waist all this time. He stood to his full height with fluid grace, adjusting his coat with meticulous precision.

The sudden loss of his warmth made Charlie blink in surprise, her hand hovering in the air where his had been.

Alastor glanced at her and let a rueful little smile tug at his mouth.

He exhaled again, but this time it was softer, almost fond.

“Finish your drink, ma chère,” he said gently, voice pitched low enough that it felt private even in the crowded room. He lifted one brow, all smooth charm and self-control despite the smoldering glint still lingering in his gaze.

“No need to rush out on my account.”

Charlie’s lips twitched with amusement, her eyes dancing with warmth even as she lifted her glowing drink to her lips.

He glanced side-long at Teo, voice dropping to a mutter only Nyther could just hear: “Though Matteo here is turning into a real pain.”

Nyther rumbled with silent laughter. 

Maverick glanced at the old clock on the wall and scowled. He set down his glass with a thud, straightening up with a grunt.

“Damn. Nearly time to open,” he muttered. He rolled his shoulders with a crack. “Gotta start my rounds.”

He turned to Alastor, jerking his head toward the door.

“Al. Lend me a hand?”

Alastor didn’t hesitate. He tipped his glass back, draining the last of his rye before setting it down with a gentle, deliberate clink .

He gave Maverick a curt nod.

“Of course.”

He turned back to Charlie, his expression softening noticeably. He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, leaning in just enough that the words felt private.

“The club is heavily fortified,” he assured her calmly, voice low and smooth. “And it’s covered in enough protective wards to make any enterprising cultist soil their fine robes.”

He gave her that slight, roguish smirk she’d come to know so well.

“I’ll help Maverick with his rounds. Give you time to finish your special drink.”

Charlie blinked up at him, eyes wide and shining in the glow of her pink Edison Lemonade. She bit her lip, trying not to smile too brightly.

Alastor’s gaze flicked sideways to his living shadow, who was looming behind her like an antlered fortress.

“Nyther will stay here with you,” Alastor added firmly, voice leaving no room for argument.

Nyther didn’t bother responding with words. He simply lowered his smoky head to rest on the top of Charlie’s, red eyes glowing like coals. A low, content ripple as if to say Obviously.

Charlie giggled at the shadow’s antics and, without missing a beat, Teo waved enthusiastically from his stool.

“We’ll hold the fort!” Teo declared cheerfully.

Charlie waved too, just as brightly. “Be safe, you two!”

They turned in unison toward the door, grinning like a pair of overly excited kids.

Maverick eyed them both over his shoulder with weary disgust.

“Great,” he drawled, voice dripping sarcasm. “And now there are two of them.”

Alastor snorted at that, lips quirking in amusement despite himself.

Without another word, the two men left the office side by side, Maverick muttering curses about overly friendly visiting weirdos as they pushed through the door to begin their rounds.

Maverick did indeed need to start work—his staff had begun filing in, exchanging quiet greetings as they stashed coats, checked lists, and started on their prep tasks. The low hum of familiar routine filled the club’s main floor: bottles clinking behind the bar, shuffling cards at the dealers’ stations, whispered instructions about ice buckets and candles.

But truthfully, that wasn’t the only reason Maverick had wanted to leave the office.

He shot a glance at Alastor beside him as they passed the row of polished card tables, making sure they were stocked with chips, decks, and burn cards.

Alastor was absently cutting a deck at one of the stations, hazel-green eyes half-lidded, that crooked smirk ghosting his mouth as if he were miles away in thought.

Or rather, that he was still in the other room, in the arms of a certain blonde.

Maverick cleared his throat, voice low.

“I know you’ve always got this... creepy sixth sense about things,” he began carefully, eyes narrowing a bit, “but how the hell did you know to turn up tonight? Even for you, the timing was too damn perfect.”

Alastor’s fingers paused over the cards for a breath, then continued the cut and shuffle, the corners snapping crisply. He nodded once, slowly, in understanding.

“The morning after Charlie arrived,” he said softly, glancing around to ensure none of the employees were eavesdropping. He needn’t have worried, they’d all been around long enough to know to give Maverick and Alastor space when they were talking.

Still, he dropped his voice even lower, leaning in a fraction.

“I found a brand on me.”

Maverick’s brow furrowed. “A brand?”

Alastor didn’t sigh or roll his eyes, but there was a flick of impatience in the way he smoothed the deck of cards against the table. He kept his gaze on the perfect line of the stack as he spoke, voice calm but clipped.

“It’s over my heart. A mark. Glows when it wants to. Looks like something carved it there on purpose.”

Maverick blinked, leaning in as if trying to see through Alastor’s coat. “Wait... glows? You’re saying it’s magic?”

Alastor gave a humorless little smile, tapping the deck precisely against the table edge.

“That’s the short of it,” he replied coolly. “Charlie says it’s a soul brand. Connects us.”

Maverick whistled low. “Soul brand. Jesus. That sounds... permanent.”

“It is,” Alastor said simply, finally lifting his eyes. They were dark and unamused. “Tonight it burned like fire in my chest. That’s how I knew she was in danger. That’s why I found her.”

Maverick watched him in silence for a long beat, then scrubbed a hand over his jaw.

“Hell,” he muttered. “I don’t even have the words for that.”

Alastor shrugged once, turning away to straighten the green felt on the next table. His fingers were deft, precise.

“Doesn’t need words,” he said quietly. “It exists. That’s enough.”

Maverick scratched at his stubble. He watched Alastor for a second longer, then snorted.

“Speaking of when she first got here,” he grumbled, voice edging toward teasing. “Can I have my trench coat back? The new one doesn’t fit as well.”

Alastor didn’t even glance at him.

“No chance of that, old chum.”

Maverick’s eyes narrowed. “...Why not?”

Alastor’s mouth twitched into something too smug to be innocent.

“Set that coat on fire yesterday.”

Maverick froze in place, jaw going slack.

“You... burned it ?” he repeated incredulously. “What the fuck for?!”

Alastor rolled his eyes in the most dramatic, long-suffering way imaginable, flicking the cards into a perfect spread with a snap of his wrist.

“It was on Charlie’s naked body,” he replied flatly, enunciating every syllable as if talking to an idiot. “There was no way in hell you were ever getting that back.”

Maverick just stared at him, completely dumbfounded.

“You jealous, possessive fucker,” he finally managed, voice cracking with incredulous laughter. “Way to make it weird!”

Alastor blinked, his eyes lidded, the timing of the blinks were off between his two eyes.

“Isn’t this the cherry on top of this shit-sundae of a day?” Maverick groaned, exasperated. “I really liked that coat.”

Alastor didn’t even blink. He shrugged expansively, leaning on the table with lazy grace.

“I’ll buy you another.”

Maverick’s eyes narrowed even further.

“A better one,” he demanded, voice sharpening like a drawn knife.

Alastor’s smirk turned into a real laugh, eyes glinting.

“I promise you that,” he drawled.

Maverick shook his head, still muttering under his breath as they moved to check the next station.

“Jesus . Possessive prick. Burned my fucking coat...”

Alastor just chuckled, flicking the corner of the card table with one long finger, that crooked grin never leaving his face.

Satisfied that everything was in place for opening, Maverick gave the club floor one last sweeping glance. He exhaled through his nose, nodding.

“Alright,” he grunted, tugging at the front of his vest. “Let’s go check on the kids.”

Alastor smirked, brushing a bit of imaginary dust from his sleeve, and followed Maverick back to the office.

When they pushed open the door, they were greeted by utter chaos in the most ridiculous form.

Nyther had stretched himself into a towering, writhing kraken shape, shadow-tentacles waving and curling. Then, in a blink, he snapped into a giant bat , wings flapping dramatically.

Charlie let out a delighted whoop , clapping her hands like a child at the carnival.

“Do it again!” she squealed, eyes glowing with unfiltered joy.

Teo was leaning so far forward on the couch he was in danger of tipping over, equally enthralled.

“INCREDIBLE!” he shouted. “Do the serpent one again!”

Nyther obliged, slithering into a long, sinuous snake shape that filled half the room, hissing silently with gleaming red eyes.

Both of them howled with laughter, half-drunk giggles ringing off the walls. Their matching glowing-pink Edison Lemonade glasses sat empty on the table, the last of their light fading out.

Alastor paused in the doorway, one eyebrow arching toward his hairline at the sight of his dignified shadow reduced to a carnival attraction.

Nyther froze at once, then reluctantly slithered back into his true form.

Blackness peeled away to reveal a towering, lean silhouette with ragged edges like torn paper. His arms were too long, ending in hooked claws. Massive, twisted antlers arched from his narrow head like gnarled, blackened branches. His slitted, glowing red eyes blinked once. Burning with watchful, patient hunger.

Those predatory eyes flicked sheepishly toward Alastor.

Alastor sniffed, adjusting his coat with dry precision.

“Really?”

Nyther’s antlers dipped in a begrudging apology.

Alastor’s mouth twitched despite himself, fighting a smile.

“Try to keep some dignity, will you?”

Charlie followed Nyther’s line of sight and lit up even brighter, waving both hands at him enthusiastically.

“Alastor! Look! We finished our drinks!” she declared proudly, wiggling her empty glass at him.

Alastor’s mouth curved into a crooked, fond smile as he walked in. He tilted his head slightly, voice warm but authoritative.

“Excellent. Then let’s get your things from the guest room, ma chère , and be on our way.”

Charlie immediately nodded, scrambling up off the couch, her skirt fluttering around her knees.

But before she could move two steps, Teo’s head whipped toward them, eyes gleaming with predatory curiosity.

“Guest room?” he repeated, voice rising in pitch. He twisted on the couch to fix Maverick with an accusing glare. “Maverick, you have guest rooms here?!”

Maverick groaned, rubbing his temples as if this conversation had personally aged him a decade.

“ Christ, here we go ...”

Teo practically bounced in place, eyes shining. “I want to stay! This place is so much more fun than my hotel! It has shadow puppets and glowing drinks and...”

Maverick made a face like he’d just bitten a lemon.

“Absolutely fucking not,” he snapped. “Last thing I need is you setting up camp here like some overeager exchange student. Go back to your holy hotel.”

“But Maverick...”

“No!”

Alastor watched the argument devolve with the serene satisfaction of a cat knocking over a vase on purpose. His eyes glittered with glee at the chaos he’d so easily unleashed.

He gave Maverick a little mock salute.

“Always a pleasure, old sport,” he drawled with dry affection. “Do give my regards to your blood pressure.”

Maverick shot him the world’s longest-suffering glare.

“Get. Out.”

Alastor smirked, eyes dancing.

Charlie, ever the diplomat, even with flushed, tipsy cheeks, paused by the door and turned back with a brilliant smile.

“Bye, Maverick! Bye, Teo!” she called sweetly, waving both hands.

“Goodbye, Charlie!” Teo crowed, waving back so enthusiastically he nearly hit himself in the face with his cane.

Maverick just groaned into his hands.

Alastor chuckled, waiting for Charlie to trot up beside him before draping an arm around her shoulders possessively and steering her toward the exit.

The door closed behind them, cutting off Teo’s next breathless plea to Maverick about “...just one night.”

They stepped out into the deserted streets, the hush of curfew making New Orleans feel like a painting left unfinished. Gas lamps flickered, pools of light spilling onto the cracked cobblestones. Spanish moss swayed on ironwork balconies above them, whispering secrets to the night air.

Alastor felt it immediately.

A subtle shift in the edges of the street. The buildings seemed to bend when he wasn’t looking directly at them, angles sliding, walls rippling like dark water. The world twisted in his peripheral vision snapping back to normal the instant he focused on it.

They were being followed.

Charlie’s weight shifted against him and she stumbled, the effect nudging at her senses too. She didn’t seem to understand what she was feeling.

Alastor tightened his arm around her shoulders, steadying her with ease, giving her a slow, teasing smile to cover the tension behind his eyes.

“Are you always this much of a lightweight?” he drawled, voice honey-smooth but edged with real worry. Hoping to distract her from the danger creeping just behind them.

Charlie blinked up at him, her eyes glassy from the drink and adrenaline. She huffed.

“I think it’s just... drinking too fast on an empty stomach.”

Alastor stopped dead, turning toward her with a look of scandalized offense.

“Empty stomach?” He clicked his tongue dramatically. “Unacceptable. Utterly unacceptable. Come along, my darling. I’m making you something before bed.”

They turned a narrow corner into a half-lit alleyway.

For a second, the shifting halted. The glamour faltered at the edge of the light.

Alastor’s mouth curved into a cold smirk. Eye contact, then. That was what kept it going.

He tilted his head slightly.

Nyther rippled up from the ground behind them, silent as thought. At Alastor’s subtle nod, the shadow unfurled like black smoke and doused the gas lamps overhead.

Darkness crashed down.

Charlie squeaked, jumping in surprise, her mouth opening to scream—

Alastor’s gloved hand covered her lips in an instant.

“Shhh, my darling,” he breathed in her ear, voice a dark lullaby, his warm breath making her shudder. “It’s alright. Quiet now.”

She went rigid in his arms, heart pounding like a rabbit’s.

Odd, slithering noises echoed around them. Whispers with no mouths. Shapes danced at the edges of nothing.

Charlie whimpered, trying to turn her head, but Alastor shifted behind her fully, pulling her against his chest. One arm stayed draped protectively over her shoulders while the other slid around her waist, holding her firm.

He pressed his mouth close to her ear and began to murmur softly.

Strange words. Rhythmic, almost hypnotic.

A poem, like the one he’d used to pull her from the Drownlight’s thrall.

Thread by thread, close the seam. Stitch the soul, protect the dream...

His voice was gentle, coaxing, but carried something ancient and eerie beneath it.

Charlie shivered violently, but she clung to his arm, pressing closer.

And then...

The noises stopped.

The darkness thinned.

The twisting, impossible shapes at the alley’s edge stilled.

Nyther’s enormous, antlered shadow uncoiled from the walls like an ink blot dispersing, returning them to the dim, normal street.

For a long breath, Alastor didn’t move. He held her close, face buried in her hair, inhaling deeply. She was trembling but quiet now, eyes wet and shining as she turned her face into his chest.

Finally, Nyther’s form slithered across the brick and raised a hand. He signed sharply.

Charlie blinked, trying to follow the motion in confusion.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, reading the shapes of his claws.

“How many more?” he asked quietly.

Nyther lifted three fingers.

Alastor nodded once.

“And how far?”

Nyther signed again.

Alastor’s eyes flickered with calculation, then satisfaction.

“That should be plenty of time.”

He finally loosened his grip, stepping back just enough to let Charlie breathe. He smoothed a gloved hand down her back, steadying her.

“Come on,” he said gently, voice returning to that velvet drawl. “Let’s get you home.”

They resumed their walk, his pace quickened now. His hand stayed firm at the small of her back, guiding her forward.

Charlie’s voice was small, cracking with fear.

“Is it... the Hunt?”

Alastor sighed, sounding equal parts weary and exasperated.

“It appears so,” he admitted. But his eyes glittered as he glanced down at her. “However, Nyther dispatched the closest one. And we have time to get home before the others catch on. The house is fully fortified, ma chère . You’ll be safe there.”

They reached his house on Rue Coquille at last. The ivy-clad Craftsman bungalow loomed in the night’s gloom, its deep green shutters shut tight and cast-iron lacework throwing jagged shadows across the stoop.

Alastor unlocked the heavy door and gestured with a courtly flourish.

“After you.”

Charlie slipped in, exhaling shakily. She visibly relaxed as the warm, familiar scents washed over her: aged wood, pipe smoke, old leather, faint coffee. The fear from the alley seemed to slide off her like an ill-fitting coat.

Alastor stepped in behind her, locking the door with a decisive click. He checked the protective wards carved discreetly into the lintel, brushing his fingers over them with a satisfied nod before turning back to her.

He watched her with that crooked, predatory smile as he hung up his coat with precise care.

“Nyther,” he murmured.

The shadows under the stairwell rippled, rising and solidifying into that tall, lean form with ragged edges and gleaming red eyes.

“See to her things,” Alastor instructed.

Nyther gave a slow, solemn blink before flowing soundlessly into the darkness.

Alastor turned back, his smile softening at the edges as he offered Charlie his arm with a dramatic bow.

“Come along, my dear. Let’s feed you before you collapse on my carpet.”

The kitchen was warm, old-fashioned, and undeniably his. Copper pots hung from ceiling racks. Glass jars lined the shelves, carefully labeled in Alastor’s elegant script. A battered kettle and a sleek French press sat side by side on the dark wood counter.

Alastor guided her to the small table in the corner and pulled out a chair with an exaggerated flourish.

“Sit,” he ordered with faux severity.

Charlie giggled, settling into the chair and blinking sleepily at the cozy space around her.

Alastor rolled up his sleeves with casual elegance, moving to the counter. He opened the icebox and rummaged for a moment, pulling out neatly wrapped packages.

“Are leftovers acceptable?” he asked lightly over his shoulder.

Charlie blinked and smiled politely. “That’s fine with me.”

He smiled at that, though his eyes didn’t quite match the warmth in his voice.

“Perfect.”

He worked with deft precision, heating a cast-iron pan with a little butter, unwrapping his meticulously prepared portions from the night before. Aromas filled the kitchen—rich, savory, with a faint, metallic tang he all but inhaled with relish.

He plated it carefully, wiping the edge with a cloth like a man serving at a fine restaurant.

“ Bon appétit, ma chère ,” he purred, setting it before her.

Charlie inhaled deeply, eyes bright.

“Alastor, it smells amazing .”

He leaned against the counter, sipping a mug of thick black coffee, watching her intently.

She dug in eagerly, humming with pleasure at the first bite.

She chewed happily at first but slowed, studying her fork with a small frown.

“Something wrong, ma chère?”

“Um… I don’t know,” she said carefully. “There’s something… odd about it.”

Alastor set down his coffee cup with unhurried precision, tilting his head just slightly. His hazel-green eyes glinted with cool amusement.

“Odd?” he echoed, as if genuinely considering it. Then he let one brow lift in mock offense. “Darling,” he drawled smoothly, “I’ll have you know those are very carefully curated leftovers.”

Charlie blinked at him, thrown for a second, then snorted despite herself.

He smirked faintly, fingers drumming lightly on the table, tone turning gentler but no less teasing.

“Leftovers are... revealing, you know.” He lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial. “What a man keeps for later tells you so much about him.”

Her brow creased, lips parting. “Alastor?”

He lifted a gloved finger to silence her, his smile widening just a fraction.

“Eat, ma chère ,” he murmured softly, eyes lidded but sharp. “Please. Indulge me. It’s a small thing to trust me with.”

Charlie’s lips twitched in spite of herself, color rising to her cheeks. She gave him an exasperated little huff but dug back in.

“You’re ridiculous,” she mumbled, giggling as she took another bite.

Alastor watched over the rim of his cup, hazel-green eyes steady and unblinking, mouth curving in a quiet, satisfied smile that didn’t reach the cold gleam beneath.

He took a slow sip of his coffee, saying nothing else. Perfectly content to watch her finish every last bite.

Charlie finished the last bite with a sleepy little hum of satisfaction, setting her fork down with a gentle clink.

Alastor was on her immediately, plucking the plate from in front of her with an indulgent, “Good girl.”

He turned to the sink, smirking at the red flush his praise caused to appear on her cheeks as he washed the dishes with brisk, practiced movements. When he turned back, he dried his hands on a linen cloth and extended one in elegant invitation, palm open.

But he froze halfway when he noticed Nyther already looming at Charlie’s side, one long, clawed hand outstretched toward her.

The two locked eyes in a silent stand-off.

Nyther’s glowing red gaze burned with patient challenge, antlers tipping slightly as if to say, try me.

Alastor’s hazel-green eyes narrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Charlie blinked between them, confused for a moment. Then let out a surprised little laugh.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she giggled, reaching for Nyther’s massive hand. “You’re both ridiculous.”

Nyther’s teeth gleamed in the dark as his grin stretched wide and unnatural, and he helped her up with surprising gentleness.

Alastor huffed, adjusting his cuffs with exaggerated disdain.

“Fine. Lead the lady upstairs, you great ham.”

Nyther’s head tilted in smug triumph before he turned and began to guide Charlie toward the stairwell. Alastor fell in on her other side, one hand resting possessively at the small of her back as they climbed.

When they reached her room, Charlie pushed the door open with cheerful familiarity.

She stopped dead just inside, eyes going wide, then lighting up with delighted surprise.

A new vase sat on her bedside table, simple but lovely. Fresh-cut flowers spilled over the rim in bright, hopeful color.

“Oh!” she gasped, voice going high and sweet. She turned instantly, eyes dancing. “Was this you?” she asked Nyther teasingly.

The massive shadow seemed to swell with pleasure, his jagged, torn-paper edges quivering as his grin spread even wider than before.

Charlie giggled and lifted her hands, fingers moving carefully in simple, earnest signs.

Thank you.

Nyther’s form rippled, the antlers and claws shuddering before his entire mass slithered down into a puddle of blackness on the floor, melting with smug satisfaction.

Alastor rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful.

“Oh for you theatrical beast,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Alastor cleared his throat softly, smoothing the front of his waistcoat.

“Well,” he said with that familiar, suave warmth, “I suppose this is where I say goodnight.”

But as he turned to go, he paused, noticing Charlie standing still by the window.

Her shoulders were tense. One hand was rubbing the arm with the torn sleeve absently, eyes distant.

Alastor’s gaze darkened. His jaw tightened, something ugly twisting in his chest. He forced it down with a slow, careful breath.

“Charlie,” he said quietly.

She jumped at his voice, blinking rapidly, snapping out of whatever trance she’d fallen into.

“Sorry,” she whispered, hugging her arms. “My mind just…”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, studying her carefully.

“Mind wandering somewhere unpleasant?” he asked silkily, though the words were hard-edged.

Charlie shivered, hugging herself tighter.

“I… I thought I heard someone calling my name again,” she admitted, voice cracking.

Alastor stilled completely.

His hazel-green eyes flicked immediately to Nyther’s puddle on the floor. The shadow rippled but didn’t speak—didn’t have to.

They shared a weighted, silent look.

Alastor forced a breath through his nose, composing himself. Then he smiled—smooth, too calm.

“Nerves,” he dismissed lightly, stepping forward until he was close enough to shadow her completely. His voice dropped to a gentle murmur. “Nothing can get into this house without my direct invitation.”

He tapped her nose lightly with one gloved finger, eyes half-lidded and warm.

“And you, my dear,” he added with a teasing tilt to his mouth, “are the only trouble I’ve let in lately.”

Charlie’s musical giggle filled the room again, breaking the tension. She beamed at both of them, the day’s horrors momentarily forgotten.

Alastor’s gaze softened fractionally. He drank in the flush on her cheeks, the flutter of her lashes, the way her breath hitched at his closeness.

He held her eyes for a long moment, possessive satisfaction coiling in his chest as her pulse leapt.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he bent and pressed his lips to her forehead.

He held them there longer than he should have—long enough to feel the warmth of her skin, the tiny shudder that ran through her.

When he finally pulled back, his smile was wide, fond, and too sharp at the edges.

“Goodnight, Charlie,” he purred.

She let out a shaky breath she didn’t seem to realize she’d been holding.

“Goodnight, Al.”

He turned smoothly on his heel and pulled the door closed behind him with a quiet click .

Nyther’s shape rose behind him in the hall, twisting and stretching until it scraped the ceiling, its silhouette impossibly tall and wrong, teeth gleaming wetly in the dark.

Alastor didn’t flinch.

His smile drained away, leaving something lean and cold carved across his face. He turned his head just enough to glance back at Charlie’s door, eyes narrowing, hazel-green catching the dim light with a predatory flash.

“It appears,” he said softly, voice like the scrape of a knife on bone, “our uninvited guests are trying to draw her out .”

He rolled his neck until it cracked, exhaling a sharp, disdainful breath.

“Shall we go remind them,” he continued, voice darkening into something cruelly amused, “why that’s a mistake ?”

Nyther’s grin split impossibly wide, distorting into something monstrous, eager, and full of promise.

The shadows around them thickened, pulsing like a heart.

And together, without another word, they stepped into the dark.

Chapter Text

Charlie blinked slowly awake, eyes adjusting to the soft, early light that filtered through Alastor’s red curtains.

The room was bathed in a gentle glow that transformed the scuffed wood floors golden. She lay still beneath the quilt, breathing in.

She could hear it... music. The familiar crackle of the cathedral radio, its old tubes buzzing valiantly. Somewhere downstairs, a man was scatting in perfect time, voice confident and smooth, playing off the bright brass and piano with an effortless, showman’s ease.

She let the sound pour into her ears, and her heart gave a little skip.

And then there was the smell.

Charlie’s nose twitched. She breathed in slow and deep, savoring the warmth drifting up through the floorboards. Cajun spices. Butter. Bacon sizzling in a pan. Coffee so strong and rich it felt like it could hold a conversation by itself.

Her eyes fluttered closed again as a smile spread across her lips.

This was Alastor’s house.

It was different from Maverick’s place, where she’d stayed for a few uneasy nights. Maverick had been kind in his gruff way, but his house felt like a bunker. Like a place to hide from the world.

Alastor’s home felt lived-in. Safe.

It was a place of polished wood, deep red curtains, and mismatched chairs chosen deliberately. Where the radio was always on, and the fireplace crackled even when it wasn’t cold. Where laughter wasn’t just welcome but expected.

It felt like him in every corner: dramatic, warm, absurdly welcoming.

She belonged here.

She pushed the quilt back and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold under her feet. She let out a delighted little squeak and pressed her toes down harder just to feel it. Seeing toes still felt so funny to her, she was so used to her cloven hooves.

She paused. Thinking about her hooves made her chest tighten a little. A small ache toward home.

Her real home.

She saw it in her mind: vast obsidian floors, gilded sconces that never warmed the halls, cold walls that swallowed sound. Hushed halls where her voice only echoed back at her. Her tower room with its perfect furnishings, its barred windows of duty. A shelf for the pretty doll she was meant to be.

And the weight of a crown no one believed she could, or even should , carry.

She felt that weight press onto her chest like cold iron, and her smile wavered.

“No,” she whispered to herself.

She shook her head, hard, so that her long, wavy, golden hair rippled and spilled in a bright, heavy cascade down her back, falling all the way behind her bottom. She shook the thought away like dust.

This is now. This is here.

Padding over to the wardrobe, she pulled open the creaking door. Inside were the dresses she’d so carefully arranged the night before, her wardrobe reserve until her fitting at Rosie’s shop tomorrow.

She could practically see Alastor there in her mind’s eye: arms folded, watching her with that sharp, sly smile as she spun in front of the mirror, pretending she wasn’t fishing for his opinion. The way he’d tip his hat to Rosie and declare he had exquisite taste when she’d complimented his choices.

Charlie giggled at the thought, covering her mouth with one hand.

Her fingers settled on a soft pink number with tiny pearl buttons.

“Yes,” she whispered to no one in particular. “Today needs pink.”

She slipped out of her borrowed nightwear and into the dress with slow, delighted care. She smoothed the bodice until it sat just right, checking in the old silver-edged mirror. She fussed over the skirt until every pleat fell properly.

Her hair fell in long golden waves over her shoulders and down her back, shining in the morning light. She gathered it gently to one side, smoothing it with both hands as if it were spun silk.

She gave herself a little twirl just to see the skirt move. Then caught her reflection’s gaze and nodded. She tucked one long lock behind her ear, straightened up with a conspiratorial sparkle in her eyes, and turned toward the door.

She paused, hand resting on the old brass knob, listening.

Downstairs, she heard Alastor’s laugh: rich, rolling, perfectly timed with the music’s bounce. Something sizzled in the pan. The jazz continued, alive and bright.

Charlie’s heart felt so full it ached.

She pressed her palm flat to the door, breathing in the smell of butter, spice, and strong coffee.

Home, she thought again.

And this time, she didn’t push it away.

She let the smile spread across her face until it hurt her cheeks, then turned the knob slowly and stepped out into the warm, waiting house.

Charlie paused at the threshold of the kitchen, fingers curling lightly around the doorframe.

The scent nearly knocked her breath away. Butter and hot pepper, sizzling garlic, onions cooked to caramel-sweetness. Coffee so dark and rich it practically cast its own shadow.

She shut her eyes for a moment just to soak it in, chest rising with a soft sigh of happiness.

And then she opened them and saw him.

Alastor was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, tie rakishly loose, hair sleek except for one defiant wave he hadn’t managed to subdue. He had a dish towel tossed over one shoulder like some backwater tavern cook, but the effect was anything but humble.

Because Alastor didn’t cook.

He performed.

He was scatting perfectly in time with the jazz crackling from the cathedral radio in the next room, his voice rich and smooth and flawless, blending with the trumpet and piano like he’d been born in the smoky back rooms of Storyville.

But it wasn’t just his voice.

His feet moved in intricate flourishes across the floor, heel-toe steps that belonged on a stage. He spun lightly on the ball of one foot, his shoes clicking in time, pivoting to the counter with a grand sweep of his arm.

He flipped the contents of the sizzling pan with an exaggerated flick, not even looking at it, instead letting his eyes track to where she stood.

Charlie couldn’t help it.

She laughed: bright, unfiltered, hands pressed to her mouth.

Alastor froze mid-spin, one brow arching, mouth curling into a showman’s smirk.

“Well, well,” he purred, voice like molasses on a hot day. “If it isn’t my darling critic sneaking in for the matinee.”

Charlie dropped her hands, eyes dancing.

“Matinee? It’s barely breakfast,” she teased, twirling a loose strand of hair around her finger. “Though I suppose I did pay for this seat with my very soul.”

He let out a deep, delighted laugh, one hand pressed to his chest in mock shock.

“Ha! Don’t undersell it, my dear. You paid with your eternal company, a far dearer price. I’m obligated to keep you properly entertained.”

She arched an eyebrow, lips twitching.

“Entertained? With all the trouble you’ve put me through in the past few days? You mean scandalized.”

He winked, flicking the pan so the flames licked dramatically along its edge.

“I’d argue there’s no real difference.”

They shared a smile before Alastor turned his attention back to what he was doing before her entrance. Dancing with all the smooth confidence of a man who knew he was good.

He scatted flawlessly along with the bright jazz pouring from the cathedral radio in the next room, hitting every improvised phrase with that velvety baritone that sent a shiver down her spine. The notes bent and bounced with perfect timing, playful and sly.

He spun on one foot, pan in hand, flipped its sizzling contents with practiced grace, and landed perfectly in time with the music’s final beat.

Then he laughed. Low, smooth, and bright enough to make the whole room warmer.

“Careful! You could burn yourself.” She said, concerned but still in awe of his clear talent. 

“Please,” he sniffed, adjusting the pan with perfect control. “I’m practically fireproof from sheer vanity alone.”

Charlie was giggling too hard to answer, her eyes bright as sunlight.

And that was when the shadows under the old wooden table shifted.

They rippled like black ink in water, sliding together, deepening into solid form.

Nyther rose slowly, antlers brushing the underside of the table before he ducked with precise care. His red eyes shone like embers in the dim.

He signed, fingers flicking with fluid grace: “Good morning.”

Charlie’s grin split even wider. She answered by carefully signing, a little slower, mimicking his fluid motions.

“Good morning.”

Nyther’s ears twitched with obvious approval, a low rumble of silent laughter vibrating through the room like a living shadow’s purr.

Alastor’s gaze flicked over, amused, but his smile softened at the edges.

“Ah, look at you two,” he drawled, voice dropping in fond mock-seriousness. “Too adorable. Honestly, I could gobble you both up.”

Charlie stuck her tongue out at him.

Alastor snapped his teeth playfully in answer before returning to the stove.

But Nyther didn’t waste a second.

With Alastor’s hands occupied with cooking, Nyther used the moment to reach out, his long fingers curling around hers. His touch was gentle but hungry, almost shy in its insistence.

Charlie’s breath caught, but her eyes sparkled.

He didn’t wait for permission. He pulled her closer with careful strength and began to dance.

It wasn’t goofy or rough, it was graceful. He moved with the music from the radio, the jazz rhythm guiding him. His tall, antlered silhouette dipped and swayed with surprising finesse, shadowy tail flicking behind him like a metronome.

Charlie couldn’t stop laughing, breathless and beaming as he spun her under his arm.

“Nyther!” she squeaked between giggles. “Warn a girl!”

Nyther only tilted his head with polite innocence, ears flicking once, then spun her again, slower this time, savoring the way her hair fanned out like molten gold behind her.

Alastor glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised high.

“Mm,” he purred, voice like smoke curling under the door. “Should I be jealous?”

Charlie twirled once more under Nyther’s guidance and shot him a bright, challenging grin.

“You? Jealous? The person who looked like he wanted to murder Teo for simply putting his arm on my shoulders?”

Alastor’s smile went razor-sharp, eyes darkened at the memory.

“I may be a tad possessive at times,” he admitted, flicking his wrist to send the pan’s contents sizzling one last time. “But you’re dancing with my shadow, dear. It’s technically still me.”

Nyther snorted silently at that, his tufted ears flattening in mock-offense even as he spun Charlie once more in his shadowy grip.

Charlie let out a bright, unrestrained laugh, so hard she nearly lost her footing. “Whoa... careful!” she said breathlessly, squealing.

Nyther steadied her instantly, one cool, smoky arm winding firmly around her waist, his hollow gaze softening with unmistakable fondness and protectiveness.

She finally settled, chest heaving, eyes sparkling with joy, and glanced between the two of them with a teasing tilt of her head. “You two are extra lively this morning,” she said, grinning.

Alastor barked a rich, low laugh that filled the little kitchen, flicking the stove off with a casual spin of his wrist. “Ah, yes,” he said, eyes twinkling dangerously. “Nyther and I got in a fantastic workout last night before bed.”

Charlie blinked at him, her head canting in innocent curiosity. “Really?” she asked, wide-eyed.

He smirked, wicked and knowing, as he slid the sizzling contents of the pan onto two waiting plates with a grand, showy flourish. “Hunting, darling,” he said smoothly. “The Black Hunt stragglers thought it clever to follow us home. They won’t be trying again.”

Charlie’s nose scrunched as she made a face. “So that’s why you’re in such a good mood,” she said, rolling her eyes fondly.

Alastor grinned, flashing just enough teeth to look feral, his voice deepening to a pleased purr. “Productive evenings,” he said, “do wonders for one’s disposition.”

Nyther, not to be upstaged, dipped her low in a final, dramatic move, his antlers carefully clearing the overhead pans as he lowered her with theatrical precision.

Charlie let out a delighted squeal, her laugh ringing bright as a bell. “Nyther!” she yelped, giggling uncontrollably.

Then, perfectly timed, he swept her upright and guided her into her chair at the table with a courtly flourish, one shadowy hand pressing her gently in place like the most attentive of old-world gentlemen.

Charlie panted with laughter, her cheeks flushed a rosy pink, eyes shining with that same wide-eyed wonder that always made her seem a little too precious for the world. “Show-offs,” she said, though her voice was warm and affectionate.

Alastor stepped in with theatrical timing, setting her plate before her with an equally flamboyant bow, clicking his heels together smartly like some vaudeville master of ceremonies. “And breakfast, mademoiselle ,” he purred, voice thick with honeyed mockery. “Courtesy of your ever-devoted host, and his unreasonably touchy shadow.”

Charlie stuck her tongue out at him again.

He winked and they started eating their breakfast.

They were nearly through with their breakfast when Alastor set his coffee down with an audible clink and folded his hands carefully on the table, hazel-green eyes glinting across the rim of his glasses.

“Now then, my dear,” he said, voice draped in velvet and Southern sugar, “we need to discuss today’s little adventure.”

Charlie perked up immediately, her golden hair catching the morning light like spun honey as she straightened in her chair.

“Ooh, yes!” she said, her grin blooming instantly. “Back to the studio? I’m excited to see Niffty again; and your radio work too, of course.”

Alastor’s mouth twitched with a private little smile, which he quickly masked behind a dainty sniff. He leaned back, cradling his coffee cup in both hands.

“Yes,” he said, voice playfully sly. “It will be an absolute delight to have your sunshine flooding the studio again. But…”

He let the word hang, rolling it in the air like the final note of a song.

Charlie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “But?”

“There’s a meeting at the end of the day,” Alastor said, drawing the syllables out like a sultry waltz. “With the station owner.”

Charlie nodded as she took another bite of her toast. She chewed thoughtfully, then blinked. “Okay, I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Alastor’s grin thinned. A dangerous glint entered his eyes.

“I’d rather you didn’t come,” he said, tone deceptively casual.

Charlie’s fork paused midair.

“…Why not?” she asked slowly, head tilting.

Alastor gave a theatrical sigh and leaned back in his chair with exaggerated patience, tapping his fingers together in a delicate tsk-tsk.

“Because, darling,” he said, voice sugary as poison, “the owner is… eccentric.”

Charlie arched an eyebrow. Her lips twitched. “Eccentric?”

“Oh, very ,” Alastor said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Prone to flights of fancy. Like a big dumb bird, fascinated by anything shiny and pretty.” He leaned in, “And you, darling, are both.”

Charlie rolled her eyes at the comment and shrugged. “That’s fine,” she said brightly. “I’ll just hang out with Niffty and your production staff. Richard told me that they all go for drinks on Fridays most weeks, and said I was welcome to join...”

“You won’t be doing that,” he said flatly, his hand flicked dismissively. 

Charlie blinked, startled.

“...Excuse me?” she asked slowly. 

Alastor smiled in his suave manner; his voice dropped to a low octave. 

“You’ll be waiting for me to finish in my office with Nyther,” he said. “Not going out with the staff.” 

Her brow furrowed, confusion and irritation flickering in her eyes. 

“Why not?” she asked, her voice rising a little. 

Nyther shifted in the shadows nearby, ears flicking uneasily, red eyes darting between them, sensing the shift in the conversation.

Alastor exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing slightly. “Because it’s not safe,” he said, voice dripping with thinly controlled patience. 

Charlie’s eyes sharpened. 

“Not safe? Would the Hunt really attack me in a group? In public?” she asked, voice loaded with biting disbelief. 

Alastor’s mouth twitched at the corner in an annoyed tic.

“They almost got you in a guided tour group . With Mavrick and that ridiculous exorcist Matteo.” Alastor’s smile strained. “So I would say that they’d find a way. They don’t play fair. I’m not risking it.”

Her hands clenched in her lap, and her shoulders lowered. 

“It’s safer if you and Nyther wait for me in my office. Where I know you’ll be protected.” Alastor pressed on, his eyes studied her, taking note of how she looked like a deflated balloon, poor dear must have been really excited to socialize. 

“I understand that it's all for my protection. I understand that the Hunt is dangerous, especially after yesterday.” She shuddered at the memory of it. The feeling of those shadowy tentacles, their slimy need. That skeletal claw and how it called for her. Charlie hugged herself.

Nyther rose from her shadow without a sound. He didn’t sign. Instead, he stepped forward and wrapped himself around her—his long limbs curling behind her back like smoke. His antlers shimmered faintly in the light. One umbral hand settled gently on her shoulder. The other slid across her waist.

Charlie blinked at the sudden contact but leaned into it like instinct. Finding comfort in his arms.

Nyther said nothing. His silence was more comforting than any words.

Alastor stared for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

She patted Nyther’s hand in a silent thank you for his support.

“But I’m so tired of being locked away ‘for my own protection’”, she admitted, her words laced with bitter resentment of more than just the current situation. “Just because I understand it doesn’t mean I have to like it. It’s still annoying. I had enough of that at home. I was hoping here it might be different. That I wouldn’t need to be locked away.”

Charlie turned to Nyther for just a moment, her eyes wet, then turned back to Alastor with renewed fire. His fingers drummed on the table once, twice, like distant thunder. Charlie’s lips quivered as she pressed them together tightly. 

Alastor’s voice dropped to an ominous purr.

“Why did you have to be watched at home?” he asked, voice all dangerous curiosity.

Charlie’s face flushed. She blinked up at him wide-eyed, realizing she’d shared more than she meant to.

Alastor smiled at her expectantly. But instead of an answer, she shoveled the remaining food into her mouth. Taking an exaggeratedly long time to chew and swallow. Her bizarre reaction was cute at first, but as the minutes dragged on, Alastor could feel his impatience rising. 

“Why did you have to be watched at home?” he repeated.

This time, Charlie took a long sip of her over-sweetened coffee instead

He drummed his fingers on the table, trying not to let his eye twitch in irritation. 

“Charlotte, is there a reason you’re not answering me?” Alastor asked, brow raised skeptically.

Charlie swallowed hard, shaking her head once. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said tightly. 

“That’s not an answer,” Alastor said sharply. 

“It’s all you’re getting.” Charlie huffed.

Alastor blinked, taken aback by her abrupt change. 

“You’re usually so eager to share. Why the hostility?” 

Charlie rolled her eyes and looked away.

Alastor’s grin turned predatory, voice dropping to a husky, menacing whisper that sounded entirely too calm.

“ Charlotte ,” he said. “I’ve told you how I feel about liars. And a lie by omission is still a lie.”

Charlie’s mouth fell open, eyes wide with outrage as she met his stare again.

“Oh, don’t you start with me, Mr. Shadowman. You’re nothing but secrets.” she snapped.

Alastor’s brow arched slowly at the name as well as her flash of anger, mouth curling in a shark’s grin that was anything but pleased.

“I am entitled to mine,” he said, low and possessive. “But you, my darling girl… you must be honest with me.”

It wasn’t a request.

Charlie’s brows knit together, and her nose wrinkled.

“Oh, is that how this works now?” she snapped, though her voice had gone breathier. “A nice little double standard.”

“Careful, my dear,” he drawled, the Southern gentility dripping with venom.

Charlie didn’t flinch. She leaned forward, hair sliding over her shoulders like molten gold, eyes blazing.

“Or what?” she challenged. “You’ll glare me into submission? That’s real charming, by the way.”

He moved.

One moment, he was across the table. The next, he was leaning over her , tall frame blocking out the morning sun, predatory and calm.

Charlie blinked slowly, startled by how fast he’d closed the space.

He reached out, thumb and forefinger gentle but firm as he tilted her chin up to meet his gaze.

His hazel-green eyes shifted to red with an intensity that burned.

They stared at each other. 

His thumb grazed the corner of her mouth. He was studying her now, like a map he meant to memorize. Every line, every flicker of emotion.

Her throat bobbed in a swallow.

“I have my reasons for secrets. I called you, remember? It’s my wish that you are here to make true. I bound us.”

Alastor’s grip on her chin was firm, possessive.

She tried to hold his gaze, defiant, but her blush betrayed her.

“You never meant to summon me,” she said, voice trembling. “So that whole argument is null and void.”

They locked eyes.

Silence fell.

A tense, breathless heartbeat passed.

Then Alastor let out a ridiculous, sputtering “PFFFFFT” of held breath before he burst into laughter.

A deep, rich, absolutely undignified peel of joy exploded from his chest. He threw his head back and laughed, startling even Nyther, who was still watching in tense silence from his place behind Charlie, still holding her.

Charlie blinked slowly.

“What?” she demanded.

He only laughed harder, slamming a hand on the table, tears at the corners of his eyes.

“What is so funny?! ”

He tried to speak. Failed. Wheezed.

Finally, he wiped at his eyes from beneath his glasses, struggling for breath.

“I’m sorry—HA!—my darling, you are just too fun to resist.”

She scowled; cheeks pink.

“Fun? I thought we were arguing!”

Alastor gave her a sidelong look, standing and collecting the empty plates.

“It started that way,” he admitted, carrying them to the sink. “But once I saw you getting your feathers ruffled, I couldn’t resist fanning them a little more.”

He glanced over his shoulder with a wicked grin.

“I have to say, your fiery little temper is highly entertaining.”

He turned back to the sink, humming as he scrubbed the dishes.

Charlie stared, taken aback, face shifting from confusion to embarrassment to a renewed fury. She made a frustrated noise and huffed, crossing her arms and looking away with a scowl.

Alastor glanced back again and only laughed more, voice low and warm.

“You’re a delight , my sweet demon-belle.”

She tried very hard not to smile at the nickname.

Tried and failed.

Alastor dried the plates slowly, setting them aside. Then he straightened, wiped his hands, and turned back to her.

He met Nyther’s gaze, who shook his shadowy head in disappointment. Their shifting expressions were the only clue to their silent conversation. 

Alastor sighed and strode forward, closing the distance between them again.

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” he said more softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you this much.”

He stood over her again, bent forward enough to invade her personal space. Charlie flushed. She tried to pull away, but he didn’t let her. He reached out his gloved hand to catch her chin again. His grip was gentle—but firm and immovable. A silent demand to look at him.

“It was just a bit of teasing, not meant to harm you.” 

He leaned in, slow and deliberate.

His gloved fingers brushed her jaw again, Nyther’s body still curled around her back.

“I was trying to get a rise out of you, but it's just because I’m fascinated by you, Charlie.” He admitted. Alastor’s grin twisted as he spoke, it wasn’t teasing, it was hungry.

“Everything about you,” he murmured, “is a contradiction.”

“I like it here, Al. With you, Nyther, and Mav and Teo.” She admitted, looking up into his eyes. “I just wish I didn’t feel so trapped.” 

Alastor tilted his head, the corner of his smile quirking as he thought. 

“You are starting to feel like a doll on a high shelf again?” he reasoned, remembering her statement earlier that week.

She nodded and bit her lower lip.

Alastor’s eyes fixed on her soft pink lip being pulled in and bitten. Using the hand already resting on her cheek, Alastor used his thumb to force her lip from between her teeth.

“Don’t do that,” he cooed. His gaze hovered just over her mouth.

Charlie's breath hitched, and she shivered under the weight of his stare, the intensity of it.

Nyther’s hand at her hip flexed slightly. His touch was firm. Warm. Reverent.

Alastor leaned closer, their noses brushing. 

“Al?” Her eyes fluttered as she asked, “What is happening right now?”

Alastor’s smile softened into something more real. More intimate .

“What do you think is happening?” His voice dropped to a smoky drawl. 

Her breath trembled. His face was inches from hers. 

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t even know what we are .”

His hand cupped her cheek.

“Well,” he said, “we’re bound. Working together. Fighting the Hunt.”

“Partners?” she asked, voice soft.

“Yes. Business partners to be exact.” he clarified with a devilish grin.

Charlie beamed at his answer. “Business partners, it is.”

Alastor’s eyes softened, gaze lingering on her flushed face. His other hand lifted, gently cradling both cheeks now.

For a heartbeat, they just stared into each other’s eyes.

Nyther didn’t move. He held her like she belonged to them both.

The moment held.

It stretched...

Alastor leaned in slow and deliberate then...

PFFFFFFFFFT

A sudden, loud, absurd raspberry exploded against her cheek.

Charlie shrieked with laughter.

Alastor burst into hysterics. Genuine, delighted, ridiculous laughter that echoed through the room like a jazz trumpet.

Nyther blinked, startled, his hold loosening as Charlie flailed.

Alastor blew another raspberry on her neck, then one behind her ear.

She squealed again and again, helpless in a fit of giggles.

Glowing with pride that he was able to raise her spirit again. He stood back up, readjusting his suit, and looked at his wristwatch. Catching on, Nyther whipped away before returning with a jacket for both of them. 

“Off to work we go.” He announced happily as he slipped on his own suit jacket, and Nyther held out Charlie’s to help her into it.

Alastor held out a hand to her. When she took it, he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a slow, theatrical kiss to her knuckles, holding her gaze over them. 

Nyther interrupted to usher them out the door and closed it behind them.

The streetcar rolled down the avenue with a steady clatter and soft screech, its old wheels singing over sun-warmed tracks. It was packed today, every seat taken, windows wide open to let in the jasmine-sweet breeze and the scent of chicory coffee drifting from café doors.

Charlie sat in the farthest back bench, her body angled toward the window, eyes wide with wonder. Her smile: soft, dreamy, radiant. It seemed to pull light through the car and pour it into the space between them.

Alastor sat beside her, humming a tune only he knew. One arm rested lazily across the back of their bench, stretching casually along the rail behind her. His gloved fingers played idly with the soft tip of Charlie’s golden bubble braid.

He didn’t even seem aware he was doing it. His fingers worked as if hypnotized, trailing through silk, looping around the gentle bubbles before letting them bounce back again.

She’d tied each segment with a little pink ribbon. 

She was dazzling in the morning sun.

From beneath the bench, Nyther stirred. He was careful to stay out of sight to all others, a deeper darkness pooling along the floor, but Charlie could feel him like a second heartbeat. Cool and comforting. His hand slid up from her calf to rest against the shadows at her side, and she covered it discreetly with her own. He squeezed her fingers once, slow and warm.

Alastor’s eyes flicked down. He saw it and rolled his eyes at his sentimental shadow. 

“Shameless,” he muttered, lips twitching with fondness.

His eyes lifted again and froze.

The sunlight that poured in the open window made the strands glow like warm honey, and the breeze tugged playfully at the fine baby hairs near her temple.

He was transfixed.

Charlie leaned out a little. Just enough for the wind to toy with her lashes and stir her collar. Her lips were parted in a quiet smile. Her eyes sparkled as she watched outside the trolley with childlike wonder.

And yet...

No questions.

Alastor’s brow furrowed.

How… odd.

On Tuesday morning, she'd practically buzzed through her seat, bouncing with every discovery like a firecracker made of questions.

Now?

She was vibrating with joy, he could feel it. She radiated excitement like sunlight, the kind of joy that made people better just by being near it. But still, not a word. Just that lovely, reverent silence.

Alastor watched her face more closely now, drinking her in. Her lashes fluttered. Her fingers curled against the sill. Her whole body swayed just slightly with the motion of the car, like she was tuned into the hum of the tracks.

His smile slipped a fraction.

He missed it.

The wild questions. The bright little sparks of curiosity she tossed like confetti in every direction.

He pushed the thought aside with a shrug—but it resisted, instead still hovering there along the edge of his mind. Refusing to be dismissed. Like something missing from a favorite song. Alastor shook his head. It was an absurd thought.

He glanced out the window and noticed where they were. They passed Lafayette Square, where last time on Tuesday the lawns had been nearly empty but now, being Friday, they were full of flower stalls and vendors gathered and were prepping for a weekend festival. 

Alastor's grin widened, already turning toward her. Oh, he knew what was coming. He braced for it. Heart skipping in gleeful anticipation of that chirping voice beside him.

Sure enough, he caught it. The gasp.

Not full-voiced. Not loud.

Just a little inhale of wonder, barely audible over the squeal of the rails.

He turned expectantly.

Charlie bounced a little in her seat and let out an excited hum. Her eyes flicked toward the scene, then back to the window, practically vibrating.

But she said nothing.

Alastor blinked, genuinely confused. 

Surely, she’d seen it. And yet she had no questions for him?

Something colder settled behind his ribs.

A lot had happened over the past few days. Too much, perhaps. The near drowning, their separation, whatever she and Maverick had hallucinated in the cemetery…

His fingers stopped toying with her braid.

“Charlie?” he said quietly.

She turned to him at the sound of her name, golden braid fluttering over one shoulder. “Yes?” she chirped. Her smile was radiant.

The kind of smile that made his throat catch and his chest feel too tight.

His worry faltered. Her eyes were wide with wonder, dancing like champagne bubbles, and her cheeks were flushed with happiness. But still no questions.

“Are you alright?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, his voice syrupy but laced with real concern.

“Oh yes,” she said brightly. “I’m fine!”

He stared at her, incredulously. “You’re not still mad at me, are you?” he asked slowly, brow arching. 

Charlie blinked once.

Then that smile grew again, sweet and easy. “Not at all,” she said simply.

Alastor blinked. “You’re quiet today,” he said, trying for lightness. “No commentary on the sidewalk saxophonist, the flower carts, or the window display full of wax mannequins that are somehow waving ?”

She grinned sheepishly, tugging at the edge of her braid. “Oh, I noticed all of it,” she assured. “I’m just… behaving.”

His brow arched. “Behaving?” he echoed, a crooked smirk forming. “Whatever for?”

Charlie straightened up with an exaggerated huff and cleared her throat dramatically. Then, like a theater curtain rising, her entire posture changed. She hunched her shoulders, jutted out her jaw, and dropped her voice a full octave into a perfect, gravelly grumble.

“Flubbin’ Hell , you don’t gotta narrate every gosh-darn lamppost we pass,” she said in a low drawl. “It’s just a squirrel, not the second comin’.”

Alastor blinked. Once. Then again.

Charlie, emboldened by the pause, kept going. Her nose scrunched as she pointed out the window with faux annoyance:

“Yammerin’ like a caffeinated canary ain’t gonna make the trolley roll faster. Sit down, hush up, and act like you’ve been outdoors before.”

A beat of silence.

And then...

Alastor howled . He clutched his chest with one hand, head thrown back, laughter erupting from him like a geyser. His knees knocked together with each breathless wheeze.

Charlie grinned, triumphant, and doubled down:

“Dolls ain’t supposed to wiggle so much,” she went on in Maverick’s unmistakable growl. “You’re gonna rattle your head loose with all that gawkin’. World’s not gonna sprout wings and fly off if you don’t squeal at every flower cart like it’s made o’ gold and candy. Flubbin’ adorable, but still.”

Alastor wheezed and slapped his thigh. “You absolute menace,” he gasped between barks of laughter. “That was uncannily accurate, and far too clean. Maverick would’ve used seven more expletives and threatened someone’s teeth.”

Charlie batted her lashes sweetly. “Well, I’m not allowed to say those words in public, Mr. Valios. I am a lady .” She tilted her head over her shoulder with a theatrical pout and a mockingly sultry smile.

Alastor laughed even harder. His shoulders shook, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Even Nyther, still melded with the shadows at her back, gave a silent puff of a soundless chuckle through Charlie’s hair.

But not everyone was charmed. 

Around them, the other passengers had begun to stare: some frowning, others murmuring. One man, sharp-jawed and miserable, gave an audible, disapproving snort. He muttered under his breath just loud enough for them to hear.

“Do you have to make such a racket? Some of us want to enjoy the quiet.”

Alastor’s laughter stopped like a record scratch.

His head turned slowly, and the smile never left—but it changed. It sharpened, thinned, and tilted at an angle that promised ruin.

“Pardon me, sir,” he said, tone calm and cordial, voice smooth as bone china. “I thought you’d have had enough of the silent treatment at home.”

The man’s eyes bulged.

“Do keep your nose on your own face, sir.” Alastor’s dark grin sharpened at the corners, his eyes crinkled in warning.

The man went rigid, eyes snapping forward, color draining from his face.

Alastor turned back to Charlie.

Just like that, the sharpness melted from his face.

His expression softened into that particular, quiet fondness he reserved for no one but her. He reached out and tucked a golden curl behind her ear with the gentlest of touches.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” he cooed, tucking a curl behind her ear. “He’s just sore because he got caught sleeping with his secretary and his wife threw him out.”

Charlie blinked, confused, her eyes wide. “What?!”

Alastor leaned in with theatrical delight, clearly enjoying himself.

“Caught in the act,” he said, voice low and conspiratorial. “The secretary, ghastly creature. Nose like a hatchet and more makeup than a traveling circus. Only in it for the money, clearly. He, poor fool, wasn’t even interested in her—no, no, it was the thrill of the scandal. The taboo. The... spicy drama of domestic sabotage.”

He sighed wistfully. “But alas. The wife found them. There were threats. Screams. A lamp was broken. Now he’s living in a third-rate motel off Canal, run by a man named Murray who collects nail clippings and speaks only in limericks.”

Charlie stared at him, mouth ajar.

“Wait, how do you know that?!” She demanded, confused, her eyes wide.

Alastor grinned with boyish triumph, eyes glittering.

“Observation, darling. One of life’s most underutilized talents.”

He lifted his gloved hand and ticked off calmly.

“Missing wedding ring,” he said smoothly. “Line still on his finger. Too much starch in the collar. A tragic cry for help from a man laundering alone, and badly. His jacket’s expensive but wrinkled, too fine to wear so carelessly unless he’s trying to convince someone he’s still worth seducing. The way his tie is tied shows that his once-doting wife helped him dress each morning.  And the lipstick on his neck definitely isn’t from a spouse who’s currently furious. Also, the color is gaudy and hideous, which leads me to believe this secretary is no looker. She also chose to be intimate with this ugly fool.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“And the rest of it?”

He shrugged airily, smirking. “Creative license.”

Charlie dissolved into laughter.

Alastor’s grin turned smug and lovestruck all at once. His eyes glittered with delight. He nudged her playfully.

“Honestly,” she giggled, catching her breath, “this game is hilarious.”

Alastor tilted his head, one brow rising with amused curiosity. “Game?”

“Of course!” she beamed. “We’re making up stories about strangers. Clever ones, I might add. All good games need a name.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Do they now?”

Charlie nodded solemnly, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her seriousness. “It’s tradition. You have to name a game to properly christen it.”

Alastor snorted, eyes narrowing in delighted disbelief. “You, of all people, invoking christenings? It’s rather ironic.”

Charlie leaned in close, lips twitching. “That’s what makes it funny.”

He gave a long, theatrical sigh, then tapped his chin in mock consideration. “Very well. How about… ‘I Spy with a Devil’s Eye’?”

Charlie burst into another peal of giggles. “That’s terrible.”

“Terribly perfect,” he agreed, smirking.

She hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe something with… observations. ‘Devil in the Details’ ?”

Alastor grinned wider. “Oh, that’s wicked.” He winked at her. “Alright, my darling, that’s what we’ll call it.”

“Good choice.” She teased sweetly, still grinning. “Okay, it's my turn!”

Charlie bounced once on the cushioned bench, eyes glittering as she scanned the streetcar with purpose.

“Alright,” she said, squinting playfully. “That lady there. Big purple hat. See her?”

Alastor followed her gaze. A stern-looking older woman sat near the middle of the car, knitting something large and lumpy in her lap with the intensity of a surgeon. Her hat, wide and violet, looked like it might take flight at any moment.

“Ah,” Alastor drawled. “The majestic plum hawk. Proceed.”

Charlie cleared her throat with exaggerated dignity.

“That is Mrs. Liliac McPurpletin,” she declared, nose in the air. “Former opera singer turned vigilante babysitter.”

Alastor choked.

“She roams from house to house, caring for neighborhood children by day. But by night? She takes on the evil doers of the city. She carries six skeins of yarn in that monstrous bag and knows how to kill a man with every one of them. That knitting project?” She leaned in, whispering. “Not a sweater. It’s a decoy ferret. For espionage purposes. ”

Alastor clutched his chest and laughed. Deep and full and completely besotted.

“Charlie!” he wheezed. “You marvelous, dangerous creature!”

She preened under the praise, biting her bottom lip to keep from smiling too hard.

“I was going to say she runs an underground bunco ring disguised as a book club,” Charlie added thoughtfully. “But the ferret thing felt more fun.”

Nyther, still melted into the shadows at her back, purred against her spine. A low, affectionate vibration, and gently nuzzled his cheek to her braid.

Alastor noticed and narrowed his eyes slightly… but let it pass.

“You are truly wasted in Hell,” he said with a grin. 

Then in a softer voice, just for her, he added:

“Though, to be perfectly frank, darling… I rather think Heaven fumbled the paperwork. Because there is no way a creature like you belongs down there. Too clever, too lovely… and far too bright for brimstone.”

Charlie’s eyes went wide. She blinked, stunned for half a second—then her cheeks flushed from the collarbone to the tips of her ears. A startled giggle bubbled out of her like a shaken soda.

“Oh my gosh, Alastor,” she said, covering her face with her hands, peeking through her fingers. “You cannot just say stuff like that!”

“I most certainly can,” he said smugly. “And I shall. Repeatedly.”

She groaned into her hands, glowing.

He leaned closer, tilting his head to better admire the hue of her blush. “That color looks absolutely divine on you, sweetheart. Might I suggest blushing more often?”

Charlie shook her head, squeaking.

Nyther, hidden behind her in shadows, purred louder and wrapped his arm a little tighter around her middle, clearly in agreement.

Alastor cleared his throat and smirked with mock-seriousness. “Now then! Before I lose my composure entirely. Next target, if you please.”

Charlie giggled but was undeterred. She pointed to a pair of kids slouched near the back. “Those two run an underground candy ring,” she whispered. “Only deal in licorice coins. Black market’s thriving.”

Alastor cracked a grin. “What’s their downfall?”

“Bubblegum bribes,” she said proudly. “Blew a whole operation because of spearmint.”

The two of them devolved into delighted giggles, curled toward each other like magnets, their heads nearly touching. Nyther’s arm tensed briefly, as if resisting the urge to squeeze her tighter.

They continued like that, back and forth. One ridiculous guess after another, layered with wit and just enough truth to almost sound real.

Passengers came and went. None were safe from analysis.

Then...

The bell rang for their stop.

The streetcar’s brakes hissed as they neared the stop, the familiar bell dinging overhead.

Charlie bounced up from her seat with a little gasp, eyes alight. “Oh! This is our stop!”

She turned to the car full of strangers, gave a brilliant wave with both hands, and called, “Bye, everyone! Hope your breakfast was tasty, your errands go fast, and your work days go well!”

A few startled passengers blinked at her. One man chuckled. A young woman near the aisle smiled despite herself.

“And if any of you are having a rough day,” Charlie added earnestly, pressing her palms together as if in prayer, “I hope someone gives you a compliment. Or a cookie. Or both!”

There were a few soft laughs this time. An old woman actually gave her a thumbs-up.

Then Charlie practically skipped toward the front.

“Thank you again, Mr. Driver!” she called. “Second ride, second hug! You’re officially on my hug list now. No take-backs!”

The driver, gruff and mustachioed, groaned fondly as she gave him a bright squeeze.

“Yep,” he said gruffly. “I figured you’d be back.”

“I brought good vibes again!” she said into his chest.

Alastor had risen silently at the rear of the car. He didn’t move.

He stared ahead. His smile did not waver.

But his jaw tightened.

“Second hug,” he muttered, almost to himself.

From beneath the step, Nyther’s inky silhouette sharpened like a blade. His form coiled hard enough to distort the shadow cast across the floor, antlers flicking in slow, spiny agitation.

Alastor’s fingers flexed once at his side. He did not glare, per se. He simply... existed harder.

As soon as Charlie turned back, face glowing from the affection she’d collected, Alastor stepped forward.

His arm curled snug around her waist, like it had always belonged there. His smile reanimated itself: cheerful, polished, charming as ever.

“Well now,” he said smoothly. “If you keep hugging transit workers like that, I fear I’ll have to start bribing the entire city to stay away.”

Charlie laughed. “You’re being silly again.”

“Perpetually,” he agreed, drawing her closer.

Nyther slithered soundlessly behind them, his shadowy form close enough to her own shadow to ruffle the hem of her coat with his passing, like a protective cloak of darkness.

Together, the three left the streetcar behind, and Alastor’s voice dropped low beside her ear.

“Truly, if I wasn’t so dreadfully fond of you,” he murmured, “you’d be an utter menace.”

Charlie glanced up at him, eyes wide with innocent delight. “You’re fond of me?”

He looked down at her and smiled, wide and soft. “Terribly.”

Nyther’s shadow brushed her arm, a silent claim.

Alastor just kept walking, guiding her toward the radio station doors with the casual authority of a man escorting something precious.

Because to both he and his shadow, she truly was.

The doors of WELR swung open. WELR – The Ember Line Radio.

The marble floor gleamed like still water, reflecting the warm halos of frosted chandeliers above and the gilded brass of elevator doors etched with curling musical notes. Jazz coiled softly through the air from hidden speakers, wrapping the room in lazy saxophone and brass. Near the entrance, a glass case displayed memorabilia that led them to this: the golden radio age: various dials, preserved vinyl, every kind of microphone imaginable, and a crooner’s gloves frozen in time.

Charlie nearly gasped at the sight of it all over again. It was just as dazzling as she remembered.

They approached the reception desk, which stood like a jewel box atop a black-and-gold inlaid tile mosaic. Behind it towered the oversized emblem of the station: a stylized microphone ringed in flame-like rays, glowing faintly in the light.

And sitting beneath it, as prim and pinched as ever, was Miss Harrow.

Her wire-rimmed glasses flashed sharply over her nose as she looked up at them, her mouth already curling into the sour expression of someone who had recently smelled something offensive and was too dignified to complain—yet.

Charlie’s voice chimed like a bell. “Good morning, Miss Harrow!”

Her smile was a beam of sunshine. Utterly wasted.

Miss Harrow didn’t return it.

“Well,” she said, tone arid enough to parch, “how lovely of you to finally show up again. I was beginning to think I was making these daily visitor passes as a bad joke.”

She reached under the counter and produced one, holding it between two fingers like it was something suspiciously sticky.

Charlie took it sweetly, undeterred. “Thank you so much.”

Harrow flicked her wrist in a dismissive shoo, already turning away. Charlie blinked once, visibly processing the rudeness before simply smiling again. Alastor, on the other hand, didn’t blink.

His stare locked on Harrow with glacial focus.

One heartbeat.

Two.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even angry. But it was felt.

Harrow flinched, only slightly, but refused to look back. She sat up straighter and busied herself with the papers in front of her as if nothing had happened.

Alastor gently placed a guiding hand on Charlie’s back and steered her toward the elevator.

“Some people,” he said smoothly, “just aren’t built to withstand sunlight.”

They stepped inside the car when it reached the lobby.

Behind them, Miss Harrow let out a pointed sigh and picked up her tall paper cup of hot coffee with the air of someone deeply overworked and underappreciated.

She didn’t even get it halfway to her mouth.

The cup jolted in her hand and tilted just enough to send the entire thing cascading into her lap.

Her shriek echoed through the polished lobby as hot liquid, dark and bitter, spread rapidly across her cream skirt.

Staff nearby froze. A few turned, startled.

Harrow’s glare scanned the room. But no one was near her.

Not even close.

But under the desk, a long ripple of shadow darted across the floor, slipping between the seams of the marble before shooting forward. Narrowly making it through the elevator doors just as they slid shut.

Charlie glanced back at the commotion, but Alastor caught her chin gently with one gloved finger and tilted her face toward him.

“Nothing that requires your attention, darling,” he said with a fond smile.

Charlie’s eyes sparkled.

“Was that Nyther?” she asked under her breath.

Alastor just smiled wider.

“Who else?”

The elevator dinged softly, and the doors glided open.

Charlie stepped out first, eyes immediately sweeping across the hallway lined with frosted glass panels and soundproofed doors.

They opened into a wide production space trimmed in polished brass and dark wood panels, buzzing softly with activity and static hum. The studio floor was alive.

Microphone booms arced like skeletal wings over rows of desks. Cables curled across the floor like black vines. The “ON AIR” bulb waited to be lit.

And in the center of it all—darting between crew members, straightening sheet music, smacking a clipboard across a lazy intern’s shoulder—was Niffty.

Alastor’s producer was a cyclone in saddle shoes, her pristine blouse buttoned all the way up to the collar, sleeves rolled and pressed within an inch of their life. Her eyes gleamed with manic glee as she whipped the studio into pristine form.

“Fifteen minutes to peak performance, people!” she shouted, voice cheery and shrill as a tea kettle. “That coffee cart better be hot and stationary by 9:00 on the dot—or I’ll glue your trousers to the floor!”

“Good morning, Niffty,” Alastor called smoothly, his voice slicing through the din like a bow across cello strings.

Niffty gasped, spun, and beamed. “Mr. Valios! Bossman! You’re here! Ooh, and you brought our Charlie!”

“ Our Charlie?” Alastor questioned with a raised brow, but was promptly ignored.

Niffty zipped forward in a blink and wrapped Charlie in a wildly enthusiastic hug, lifting her clean off the ground.

“Hi Niffty!” Charlie giggled, hugging her back just as warmly.

Niffty plopped her down and tugged her by the wrist toward a padded stool just beside the main booth. “You’re sittin’ here, Sugarcube! Best view in the house!”

Alastor watched the exchange with a warm, private smile tugging at his lips. He winked at Charlie as he passed, one hand already reaching to adjust his cufflinks.

And then, like a curtain drop, the change came.

He stepped behind the mic and became The Radio Demon.

“Check the ribbon, Jerry. Give me a fresh one, not that hissy garbage you left on yesterday.” He flipped a switch, leaned into the mic, and tested a line: “Ladies and gentlemen of the Crescent City...” He clicked it off again. “Perfect. Niffty, darling, adjust that boom to a six-degree drop. I want breath, not thunder.”

Charlie sat with her chin in her hands, absolutely enthralled.

She could see the glint in his eyes through the booth glass, hear the showman slipping into place like a second skin. His voice curled like smoke through the gold mesh of the microphone, even in rehearsal.

She looked down at her feet, at the shadow splayed wide across the polished floor.

And there—nestled in the murky corner—Nyther peeked back at her from the edges of her own silhouette, tiny deer ears twitching. He waved. A single hand, slow and sweet, fingers splayed in an affectionate greeting.

Charlie giggled aloud, glancing left and right to make sure no one else saw. She waved back just above her knee.

Nyther's shadowy form gave a dramatic little bow, one antler gleaming briefly in the golden overhead light.

The production team prepped for the show, getting everything in perfect order. 

Inside the booth, a red light flicked on.

“Sixty seconds to airtime!” someone called out. “Rolling levels!”

“Ribbon hot! VU meters holding!”

“On cue, Mister Valios.”

Alastor straightened his spine and smoothed his waistcoat with a practiced flourish. His fingers danced across the dials with the elegance of a pianist.

Charlie leaned forward, wide-eyed and grinning. She could feel the electricity in the air, hear the building breath of the broadcast waiting to be born.

Nyther gave her a playful thumbs-up from the shadow at her feet.

“Thirty seconds!”

Alastor tapped the mic once. Cleared his throat. His smile curled like a secret.

Charlie’s breath caught.

And…… showtime.

The show, as Charlie quickly discovered, was an absolute marvel.

Alastor was in his element behind the glass, a one-man symphony of charm, precision, and theatrical flair. His voice dipped and soared, warm one moment, velvet thunder the next. Every intro, every segue, every ad spot was delivered like it was part of a grand, invisible stage performance only he could see.

Charlie sat enthralled from beginning to end. She swayed to the music, giggling at the antics, lighting up at the clever banter. And as the hours passed, she found herself singing along—quietly at first, then with increasing confidence. She had been on Earth long enough now to learn the choruses of the popular jazz tunes spinning through the station’s library. She hummed the melody of “Lazy River” under her breath and mouthed the words to “Pennies from Heaven.”

Every so often, her eyes would flick to Alastor.

And she’d find him already looking at her.

A spark would pass between them—unspoken, electric. A tiny, private exchange just for them. He’d tip an imaginary hat with a grin behind the mic. She’d press her hand to her heart and beam.

The day flew by like a song.

Before either of them realized it, the final commercial faded out and the closing jingle began to play. The staff leaned back in their chairs, exhaling the collective sigh of a job well done.

As the clock struck five, the station began to shift into its end-of-day rhythm.

Technicians began shutting down boards. Paperwork was filed. Jackets shrugged on. Laughter and idle chatter filled the edges of the room.

Charlie stood from her stool and stretched, her hair catching the amber light of the setting sun pouring through the high windows.

Alastor was slipping a few notes and folders into his briefcase when Richard, the production manager, sauntered over and gave Charlie a friendly nudge.

“We’re heading out for drinks,” he said, grinning. “Niffty’s picking the spot, so it’ll be mildly dangerous. You in?”

Charlie smiled brightly at first—but then her gaze lowered to her feet.

Her shadow wavered there quietly. Nyther’s silhouette nestled protectively beneath hers.

She shook her head, her tone warm but wistful. “I’d love to, really. But I can’t tonight.”

“Aww, c’mon,” Richard teased. “You’ve been here all day, you earned a round.”

Alastor looked up, already crossing the room. “Now, now,” he said smoothly, draping his arm across Charlie’s shoulders with gentle possessiveness. “That’s my fault.”

Charlie blinked up at him, her eyes wide.

“I’ve asked Miss Charlie to help me with a bit of research,” he added, squeezing her shoulder lightly. “Radio-related, terribly boring. But she was kind enough to say yes.”

There was a beat of silence.

“We’d love to go next week, though. All together.” Alastor announced smoothly to the surprise of the room.

Charlie squeaked with delight. 

Richard blinked at the sudden brightness, then laughed. “Deal. Next Friday, same time.”

Niffty popped up beside them. “Mr. Valios! Are you all set for the meeting?”

“Yes indeed,” Alastor said, tipping his head with mock solemnity. “I’m heading up now.”

“Good luck,” she chirped, zipping away with a clipboard.

One by one, the rest of the team filtered out, waving and calling goodbyes as they went.

When the last pair of heels clicked down the marble hallway, Alastor turned to Charlie and gave a theatrical sigh.

“I hate to leave you, but duty calls.” He made a dramatic bow, took Charlie’s hand, and gave a chaste kiss on the knuckles.

Charlie smiled sweetly at him.

“Did you really mean that?” She asked as he began to turn away. 

Alastor tilted his head, “Mean what?”

“That we would go with them next week?” She asked, putting her hands behind her back and rocking on her feet.

Alastor smiled and let out a breathy huff of laughter.

“I did, so long as you still wish to go.” He clarified. “I also meant it when I said I had a bit of research for you to do.”

“Really?” Charlie asked brightly, excited at the idea of work.

Alastor nodded and gestured towards his office door, “I have been collecting notes and making files for the Black Hunt’s many victims. If you can find a connection or clue in the new moon ceremonies, we can better understand why they were trying to summon you.” Alastor explained. “It could be a great help towards stopping them.”

Charlie pumped her arms in eager anticipation. “You can count on me, Al! Nyther and I have got this.”

Alastor smiled fondly at her, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. Then turned on his heel towards the elevator.

Charlie waved at him till the elevator doors closed. Then she turned, grinning and determined, to her shadowy companion. 

“Shall we?” She asked, trying to sign the words. Nyther rippled happily, slowly showing her the correct movements.

Together, they crossed the now-quiet studio to his office. Charlie pushed open the heavy walnut door, and Nyther’s shadow slipped through behind her, a whisper of ink on the floor.

The door shut softly behind them.

Chapter Text

The elevator sighed as it slowed, groaning as if it too felt the weight of what lay ahead.

Alastor adjusted the cuffs of his suit and stepped out into the hushed opulence of WELR’s uppermost floor. Downstairs, the building pulsed with the rhythm of production—tapping typewriters, hissing steam, voices thrown into microphones like spells. But here, the air was thick with cologne and silence. 

The floors below were already excessive: veined marble tiles polished to a mirror’s gleam, bronze elevator doors etched in curling soundwaves, Art Deco chandeliers casting soft halos of light while live jazz warbled overhead like it had nowhere better to be. A shrine to the golden age of broadcasting.

But the top floor was Sterling Burns’s domain. It was more than indulgent, it was delirious .

Here, the soft green carpet whispered beneath one’s shoes. The walls were paneled in lacquered mahogany so deep and dark it looked wet, like it might drink the light right in. Between the carved molding, glinting brass plaques honored phantom broadcasts of decades past, a homage to broadcasting history.

Alastor’s mouth remained smiling, as always, but a flicker of tension curled beneath it. His pace was careful, measured. He didn’t like being summoned, and he especially didn’t like being summoned by Mr. Sterling Burns. He’d walked this hall only a handful of times. Every time, it unsettled him.

Mr. Burns was not a bad man. He was a brilliant businessman, effusive, charming even. But there was something beneath it, something with talons.

Alastor reached the oversized double doors and paused.

He took a shallow breath through his nose, composed his expression into the slightly wider smile he reserved for uncomfortable situations, where charm and quiet were his only allies.

But Alastor wasn’t foolish. He had a good thing. A steady job doing what he loved, at a station whose signal reached from the Gulf to Memphis. His voice had become a familiar companion to thousands. And his paycheck—thick, regular, and above scale—allowed him a comfortable, quiet life in a time when so many were losing homes and hope.

He would not rock the boat. He would play the part. Whatever the game was, he’d smile and stay silent.

He approached the grand double doors.

They towered over him in deep cherrywood, carved with antlers and stylized radio towers. A pair of ornate brass knockers—shaped like open microphone heads—glinted at eye level. He raised a hand to knock, crisp and composed.

Alastor knocked three times.

The response came instantly, booming from behind the polished cherrywood:

“Come in.”

He pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The office was more theater set than workspace, it was a shrine to his own ego—equal parts hunting lodge and broadcasting museum. Mounted heads lined the walls in a grim procession between dozens of framed preserved insects gleaming under glass. Every available shelf displayed artifacts from radio’s earliest days: Bakelite headphones, worn tuning dials, antique signal meters, and signed headshots of long-dead crooners in silver frames.

Suspended from the ceiling by delicate chains were microphones of every kind. Carbon-button bricks, trumpet flares, flat disks, some shaped like inverted tulips, others gleaming like sun-polished bullets. They hung at varying heights like strange metallic fruit. Between the displays hung antique signal meters, signed record sleeves, and a massive oil painting of Sterling Burns himself—shirtless, clad in a hunter’s cloak, gripping a flaming microphone like Prometheus with a torch. The Ember Line logo arched behind him in red-gold glory.

And beneath that absurd monument, the man himself stood waiting.

Sterling Burns was colossal—nearly seven feet tall and broad-chested. His suit was a violent orange-red, almost glossy, like it had been waxed. His auburn hair had been slicked back with something glossy, feathering into a point behind his ears like some stylized plumage. His nose, long and curved, gave his face the silhouette of a hawk’s profile.

And his eyes —beady, close-set, bright—studied Alastor with the twitchy intensity of a bird of prey that had spotted its target.

Alastor resisted the urge to take a step back. Instead, he subtly smoothed the front of his waistcoat.

“Mr. Burns,” he said smoothly, bowing his head just a touch. “Always a pleasure.”

“Mr. Valios,” Burns smirked, stepping forward and pointing to the chair in front of his desk. 

Alastor moved to the guest chair and crossed one leg over the other, hands resting in his lap, every inch the Southern gentleman, despite the clawing feeling that he was being examined.

Burns prowled behind his crescent desk.

“So tell me,” he said, “do you know why I called you here?”

Alastor’s smile thinned as he nodded politely.

“I assume it’s about Monday’s broadcast,” he said lightly.

Burns’s fingers drummed on the desktop. “We paid Benny D’Amour a small fortune to appear on your show. Publicized the hell out of it. And instead of Benny— we got aliens. ”

Alastor held his gaze.

“Benny didn’t show. We waited as long as we could. So with no backup guest, I decided to improvise.”

“Improvise,” Burns repeated, eyes narrowing. “You faked a live invasion?”

“I based it on H.G. Wells’s War of the Worlds . Updated it slightly. Localized the towns, inserted period detail. It filled the segment neatly, and I made sure to announce the fiction during sign-off.”

There was a beat of stillness.

Then Burns let out a sound that started in his chest and exploded through the room—somewhere between a belly laugh and a strangled caw . His whole body shook with it. His slicked hair bounced.

“Ho-ho-ho! You glorious bastard! ” he bellowed. “It was absolutely phenomenal!”

Alastor gave a modest smile. His usual persona—the playful charm, the clever smile—was absent. Around Burns, he dimmed the spotlight. 

Burns gestured behind him.

Two sharply dressed men stood near the glass bar cart—suits grey, ties gleaming. Each held a lowball glass. Each looked amused in the practiced way of men who made decisions for a living.

“Those fine specimens,” Burns said. “They are executives from CBS Radio. All the way from New York and Jersey, big men with even bigger ideas. They just so happened to be visiting to see what The Ember Line is cooking. And by some stroke of luck, they heard your broadcast.

Alastor gave a small nod of greeting. One of them raised a brow. The other lifted his glass.

“They LOVED it. Ate it up like fried dough at Mardi Gras. They’re already talking about recreating it with that young theatre fellow, George Orson Welles.”

“I’m flattered,” Alastor replied with a drawl, dipping his head again.

Burns came around the desk and placed one hand on the back of Alastor’s chair. His other pointed, stabbing the air as if sculpting something out of smoke.

“You have something, Valios. A rare thing. That show was a fever dream, and it worked. It was pure theatre. That’s what radio should be. Which is why I called you up here.”

Alastor raised one brow, ever so subtly.

“I would never touch your morning slot,” Burns continued. “You’re the gold standard. But I want more.”

He turned, arms spreading wide, like a bird spreading its wings before flight. 

“A second show. Once a week. Late-night slot. All yours. Fiction, fantasy, hoaxes. Whatever you like. I’ll give you full creative control.”

Alastor tilted his head, his brow lifted faintly. “You’re serious?”

Burns squinted, and then grinned—mistaking Alastor’s stunned expression for shrewd negotiation.

“I hear you,” Burns grinned. “Twice the work should be twice the pay, too.”

Alastor let the silence stretch, just long enough to make it feel earned.

Then he rose, offered his hand.

“I accept.”

Burns took it, nearly crushing it in his massive grip. Then he clapped once—loud as a rifle crack. “Marvelous! Draw up some pitches, some sample scripts. Bring them in when you’re ready. No deadlines. I don’t believe in suffocating the muse.”

Alastor gave a crisp nod. “Yes, sir. I’ll… I’ll begin immediately.”

“Splendid!” Burns bellowed. “Now off with you. I want your ideas simmering . Go enjoy the weekend, Mr. Valios. Go inspire yourself.”

Alastor stepped backward, giving a courteous nod to the CBS men as he slipped through the double doors, which clicked shut behind him.

He walked ten paces down the hushed corridor, then stopped beside one of the tall windows framed in brass and carved wood. One gloved hand lifted to brace the frame, fingers splayed as if steadying the glass—or himself.

Beyond, the skyline of New Orleans shimmered in the late afternoon haze, all soft gold and lazy blue. The Crescent City sprawled in layered silhouette: cathedral spires, iron-laced balconies, the curling brown ribbon of the Mississippi threading through it all like an old tune half-remembered.

Alastor drew a slow, measured breath through his nose. Held it.

Then let it go.

He wasn’t in trouble. He hadn’t been reprimanded. There was no fury, no consequences, no cost.

Somehow—he’d just gotten a raise.

A promotion, in fact. Applause from the syndicate. Creative control. All of it handed to him in that shrine of dead animals and microphones, under the hungry eyes of a man who dressed like arson and moved like a bird too big for its own cage.

He tilted his head, just slightly.

The smile on his lips remained easy. Elegant. Unbothered.

But behind his eyes, gears clicked.

He adjusted his collar. Smoothed his coat. Straightened the line of his tie with a single flick of his wrist.

And walked on—quiet, polished, unhurried—like a man who had already begun planning the next chapter before the last one had ended.

The tall windows of the office were half-lidded with slatted blinds, letting the fading amber light spill in strips across the polished desk and patterned rug. It was quiet here—still in the way that only late afternoon could be, when the world held its breath between hours.

Charlie sat on the floor in the middle of the room, knees bent beneath her, her skirt pooling like spilled satin in a swirl of pink. Around her were concentric rings of paper: folders pried open, photographs, maps marked with pins and string, pages torn from notebooks, newspaper clippings, and at the center—her own hand-written index cards, one for each victim. 

Each card painstakingly copied from Alastor’s meticulous notes: name, occupation, date of death, small facts gleaned from newspaper clippings or coroner’s reports. The cards looked almost innocent, scattered across the floor like a child’s game.

Nyther hovered behind her, his amorphous shadow-body trailing across the carpet like spilled ink. He was close—always close—and every so often he brushed a bit of hair from her shoulder, or nudged a page into place with a cool, barely-there touch.

Charlie reached for a new card, brow furrowed. “Where were we?”

Nyther gently tapped two fingers against the index card she’d just laid down.

“Right. Colette Marchand,” she murmured. “Laundress and single mother. Killed during the 1st ritual.” She laid the card down in front of her.

She pulled up another index card and read it aloud.

“Maurice Duvall. Loan shark. Terrible man. He died in the 4th ritual.” She wrinkled her nose and put his card on the left.

Nyther flicked a tendril out to help nudge a paper of Alastor’s notes back into her reach, and accidentally brushed against her wrist with a fingertip of cool shadow. Charlie smiled fondly at him.

“Thank you.” She said, looking over the paper again. “Maybe by gender?” She offered with a shrug.

Nyther nodded and got to work dividing the index cards again. Eight men. Six women.

Charlie chewed her bottom lip. “The genders didn’t even match up. So what was it?”

Charlie spread out the pile of index cards again, arranging them at random and tilting her head in concentration. 

“Okay,” she mumbled, adjusting the fan of index cards at her knees. “Let’s go over this again. Maybe I missed something. Or… maybe everything.”

He watched her hands as she rearranged the cards again: names, occupations, dates, photographs. Each one a quiet tragedy.

“None of them knew each other. Different jobs. Different lives. Rich, poor, young, old…” She pressed her thumb against one card in particular and sighed. “There has to be something.”

Nyther floated up slightly and swept one tendril of shadow beneath a paper she hadn’t noticed had flipped over. He nudged it into place for her without a word.

“Thanks, sweetie,” Charlie said absently, tapping her lip with a pencil. “Alright. Let’s try again.”

They arranged the victims alphabetically. Then by age. Then by occupation. Nothing. There was no pattern to them.

Nyther gave a small shrug and began softly pushing cards into loose lines. He always stayed close enough to touch her. And every now and then, his tufted deer ears flicked at some quiet sound only he could hear.

Charlie sat back on her heels, rubbing her temples. “This is going nowhere.”

Nyther tapped one finger lightly on a card. Then another. He started to sign again, forming fluid shapes in the air.

Charlie looked up at him, eyes tired but gentle. “I… I’m sorry, hon,” she admitted with a sheepish wince. “I still can’t keep up when you sign fast like that.”

Nyther blinked. His shadowed ears drooped slightly in apology, and then—without a trace of frustration—he raised his hands again, slower this time, fingerspelling each letter carefully: “S...U...M...M...O...N...I...N...G…”

“Summoning?” Charlie guessed.

He nodded and traced a simple circle in the air.

“Summoning circle?” Another nod. He pressed more weight into it this time, as if to emphasize.

Charlie skimmed back through the reports. “All it says is there were two overlapping pentagrams. Every time. But none of the documents say anything about what kind of sigils were used… or the orientation. That’s weird, right?”

She glanced around the office again as if the answers were hiding behind the furniture. “So… all dying on a new moon, all inside these weird circles… that’s the only connection we have?”

Nyther gave a soft shrug, then fingerspelled again—slow and patient.

Charlie read along, smiling. “You’re right. A lead is still a lead.”

Then she paused, thinking.

“Wait… are there any photos? Of the actual circles?”

Nyther shook his head no.

Charlie tilted her head, biting her bottom lip in concentration. “Do you remember what they looked like?”

He made a so-so gesture.

“Well,” she said, reaching behind her, “lucky for us, I come prepared.”

She pulled a blank index card from her sleeve and offered it along with a pencil stub. “Please?”

Nyther took it delicately. He drew with care—two circles like a Venn diagram. In the right circle, he added a pentagram, tip pointed upward. In the left, another—but this one pointed down.

Charlie’s eyes widened. “Two opposing stars… One summoning up. One summoning down?”

Nyther nodded, handing it back.

“Do you remember any sigils or runes? Anything drawn around them?”

His mouth pressed into a regretful line. He shook his head.

“Worth a shot,” Charlie murmured.

She returned her attention to the pile of reports, flipping through Alastor’s neat columns and comparing them to the police records. A frown creased her brow.

“Nyther?” she asked, voice turning cautious. “The police files only mention ten victims. But Alastor told me there were fourteen.”

Nyther’s expression changed. He picked up a blue crayon—one of several from a tin Charlie had been using—and circled a location on the map. Then, with a shadowed hand, he pointed toward two of the flashcards.

Charlie leaned forward. “Maurice Duvall and Elas King. Found in the mausoleum at Lafayette Cemetery.”

Nyther nodded. He circled another spot.

Charlie checked again. “Vivienne Moreau and Marianne Duplantier. Abandoned brothel. Storyville.”

Another nod. Nyther circled three more sites quickly, then—switching to a red crayon—placed two X’s across separate marks on the map. He tapped two other cards.

Charlie’s voice softened. “So… the police only found five of the locations. But the others—they never discovered the last four victims.”

Nyther confirmed with a slow, solemn nod.

She swallowed. “Have you been to all of them?”

Nyther paused. Then he lifted his hands, slowly fingerspelling with care: “In secret. Hoping to stop the Hunt. But always too late.”

Charlie stared at the map.

Then, her fingers tapped a spot on Bourbon Street marked with a crimson X. “This one… this was the cistern, wasn’t it?”

Nyther didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was with a small, tight nod. His eyes darkened—not with shadow, but memory.

Charlie reshuffled the victim cards again, but no matter how many times she rearranged them, the connection between them remained maddeningly out of reach.

She let out an irritated groan and, with a dramatic flop backwards, she let her body sink into the sea of documents around her. Her skirt puffed up around her legs like a pink puddle, scattering notes and clippings as she landed flat on her back.

Nyther, with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, drifted down to join her. He laid himself beside her carefully, close enough that their shoulders brushed. 

He looked at her with a soft smile. 

Charlie stared up at the ceiling, her chest rising with another quiet breath. “What I really need is to go out and see one. The summoning circles, I mean. We keep going over secondhand notes. Maybe seeing them in person would help.”

Nyther stiffened, only slightly—but it was enough for Charlie to catch it.

She snorted. “Yeah, I remember . Last time we tried, I got dragged under by that big slimy fish-thing made of nightmares.”

She shivered at the memory of it. Nyther scowled theatrically and shifted to lay closer , his presence wrapping around her like a protective shawl.

He reached out and formed the same hand gesture they’d made days ago. His hands moved slowly, deliberately. “ We will keep you safe .”

Charlie turned to him, her features softening. Without hesitation this time, she mirrored the gesture back perfectly—hands confident and graceful. “ We will keep you safe.”

Nyther’s whole form rippled with delight. Then, in a shameless burst of drama, he clutched his chest, let his head fall back, and flung one hand to his forehead like a fainting heroine in an old silent film.

Charlie burst into laughter—sweet and bright like wind chimes in summer. “You goose ,” she giggled, and gave him a playful nudge.

He let the theatrical pose melt and rolled to his side to face her, propping his chin on one hand. His other hand stayed near hers on the rug, close but not quite touching.

Silence fell for a moment. A soft, easy one.

Then, Charlie broke it.

“I’ve got the alphabet down, you know,” Charlie said quietly, the light flickering golden across her cheekbones. “Mostly. When you fingerspell like earlier? I can keep up now.”

Beside her, Nyther shimmered with delight, unable to help the soft flick of his tufted ears or the way his form pulsed slightly, like he couldn’t quite contain the happiness inside him.

“I’m going to get better,” she added, turning her head, their faces now inches apart. “I’ve been practicing on my own. And Mav’s been helping me too, while I was away.”

At that, Nyther rippled again, joy humming off him in waves—quiet and wordless, but deeply felt.

“You’re always talking,” she murmured. “Even without sound. And I’m tired of missing it.”

Her fingers fidgeted in her lap, then stilled.

“I want to be able to talk to you. Not through someone else. Not through guessing. Really talk . Really understand .”

Nyther shifted then.

Charlie’s eyes widened as he rose above her. His movements graceful, fluid. Not a man but a shadow given shape, driven by something both reverent and urgent. His umbral form shifted beneath him, his long flowing limbs coalescing, shaping into legs, and he shifted until he was straddling her gently. His knees braced on either side of her hips, the edges of his form trailing like loose smoke.

Charlie froze. She was still lying back, half-draped in skirt and scattered notes, and Nyther hovered just above—caging her in, but not to trap her. To worship her.

His arms braced on either side of her head, his antlers twisted and grew above him. The shared mark on their chests glowed faintly, pulse matching hers, like a metronome setting a harmony.

Charlie’s voice faltered. “W-w-what are you—?”

She then made a strangled sound of embarrassment and slapped a hand over her face.

Nyther tilted his head, amused. The smile twisted into a mischievous grin. Gently, he reached down and pried her hand away from her face, careful and slow.

His gaze locked onto hers.

The look in his eyes was not teasing. It was devotion, but there was something else burning underneath it. A deeper need. It made her cheeks burn hot, her breath stutter in her throat. Her heart thundered so loudly she was sure he could feel it through her ribs.

Still caging her, Nyther brought her hand to his cheek and leaned into her palm like a man starved for warmth. He nuzzled there for a breathless moment. His gaze intense, hungry.

She gasped softly, her breath hitched as he pressed a kiss to her fingertips—each one a deliberate vow, soft and reverent. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He turned her hand in his and kissed her palm. Let his lips linger there like it meant everything—because it did.

Charlie’s breath hitched, a tiny gasp escaping her lips. Her eyes went wide. Her blush bloomed hard and fast across her cheeks and up to her ears.

But Nyther wasn’t finished.

His glowing eyes opened again, locking with hers—unblinking, intense. He guided her hand downward, gently, firmly, pressing it flat against his chest—over the glowing brand they shared.

The moment her palm made contact, something clicked .

A pulse—deep and electric—rushed between them like music struck from a tuning fork. Charlie gasped aloud as the sensation ran through her bones up her spine. Her fingers flexed involuntarily against the heat of it.

He lowered himself, chest to hers now, but not crushing—just close. His brand pulsed again where her reached out and softly touched hers through the thin fabric of her blouse. Their noses touched. Her breath was warm. His glowing eyes stayed fixed on hers with unwavering devotion. His breath was cool against her lips, even though he didn’t breathe like humans did. He hesitated. Gave her time to turn, to stop, to look away.

But she didn’t.

His head lowered agonizingly slowly. He was in no rush. The air around them felt charged. He was offering everything he had ever been.

Charlie stared up at him, lips parted, her chest rising quickly with breath she couldn’t seem to catch. Her heart was hammering.

And then— finally —Nyther kissed her.

His mouth met hers with impossible tenderness. It was slow and deep. A taste of shadow.

His whole being leaned into it—like he didn’t just want to feel her lips, but her existence . His umbral form rippled, the mark they shared pulsing just beneath his skin, as if echoing her heartbeat.

Nyther pulled back, slowly, giving Charlie a moment to catch her breath before he leaned back in.

Nyther kissed her again, deeper this time, not rushed—just more of him. More truth. More devotion .

And she melted into it.

Her other hand slipped up to his shoulder, clinging to the strange, beautiful texture of him. Their bodies curved into one another, soft and real and right .

The elevator groaned softly as it descended, its brass sconces casting long, honey-colored reflections against the mirrored walls. Alastor stood silent, his hand pressed over the left side of his chest.

There it was again.

That pulsing.

Not burning. Not warning. Not like it did when she was in danger in the graveyard. No—this was different.

The sensation spread warmly through his ribs. A low, rich thrum—like a heartbeat that didn’t quite belong to him. Not painful. Pleasant , even. Almost…

Intimate.

His fingers drifted lightly along the edge of the brand beneath his shirt. The sigil had warmed gently, humming against his skin. It wasn’t glowing, not like it sometimes did when Charlie’s emotions flared bright and loud through the bond. But he could feel her. Somewhere beneath it all.

He let out a quiet breath, his brow creasing just slightly in thought.

Charlie had said the brand reflected emotion.

He chuckled to himself, eyes dropping. “Hmph. Maybe I’m just finally coming down from everything. Survived the boss. Got a new show and a raise.” His hand lingered on his chest. “It’s been… a good day.”

His thumb rubbed the spot absently.

Charlie’s smile flashed in his mind—bright as morning, full of that effortless joy she never seemed to run out of. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. The way her nose scrunched when she was concentrating. That infuriating, wonderful softness.

His lips twitched upward, almost against his will.

The elevator chimed.

Alastor straightened the lapels of his coat, brushed an imaginary speck from his cuff, and stepped out into the hall.

He walked with his usual precision—footsteps sure, cane swinging lightly in time—but something was different.

The closer he got to his office, the stronger the feeling became.

The hum of the brand wasn’t fading. It was growing. Slowly, steadily, like a magnet winding tighter and tighter around some invisible pull.

His pulse was picking up. He could feel it in his fingertips. In his throat. In his temples.

The hunger he always carried—a constant low fire in his belly—was sharpening into something more dangerous. Not physical hunger. Not entirely.

It was her .

He needed to see her.

His hand curled tighter around the handle of his cane.

He rounded the corner, his perfectly polished shoes clicking a little too fast now, too sharp. He passed by two sound technicians without seeing them. The hallway stretched ahead, golden light of sunset pooled on the floor. At the far end, the heavy wood-and-glass door to his office waited.

Just beyond it— Charlie .

He stopped, just short of reaching it.

His fingers hovered near the brass handle.

And for a long, breathless second, Alastor simply… stood there.

His head bowed slightly. Breathing steady, but shallow. Chest warm. The brand pulsing like a second heart.

Everything was too quiet. Too still.

He hadn’t touched the door yet.

He was afraid of what he might see on the other side—and more afraid of what he might feel .

His other hand went to the brand again.

This time… he ached .

Alastor stepped through the office door, the weight of the elevator ride still clinging to his coat sleeves. His hand lingered just above his heart, where the brand beneath his shirt had finally quieted.

Unsettling in a way pleasure often is when it arrives uninvited.

He swept the room with his gaze.

Charlie was on the floor, nearly swallowed by a sea of papers and chaos. Flashcards, folders, maps, notes—all orbiting her in loose, disordered rings like she was the sun at the center of a very anxious galaxy.

Her bubble braid had come a little undone, and she had the look of someone who’d just realized they were still holding the matchbook and not sure what to do next.

“Hi!” she chirped, far too brightly.

Alastor smiled back, slowly. “You seem… chipper.”

Nyther floated nearby, all dreamy ease and loose ribbon-like gestures. His posture—if such a thing could be applied to a shadow—was softer than usual. Relaxed in a dreamlike state. His glowing eyes fixed on her with near-reverence as he handed her another card. Not the usual playful fumble or exaggerated flourish—just quiet, careful affection. As if the card might burn her fingers, and he would rather carry the heat.

Charlie mumbled a “thanks” and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her blush bloomed deeper.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed slightly as he watched his shadow drift lazily around Charlie.

He let his gaze drift over the room again. The mess, the scattering of cards, the way Charlie kept trying to organize and re-organize, only to knock things loose again.

Something wasn’t right.

Nyther straightened as if he felt the weight of the gaze.

Their eyes met.

Nyther gave him a mischievous smirk. Just enough curl to his lips to say I know something you don’t. Nyther leaned closer to Charlie again, his tendrils tracing a faint line across her hair as if smoothing it. His eyes gleamed—affectionate and possessive.

Alastor’s fists tightened at his sides.

Charlie, pink as a peach, remained oblivious to the silent game of glances happening above her head.

Nyther’s eyes flicked back to Alastor’s. Another grin. Even smaller this time, just enough to taunt.

Alastor’s smile never wavered, but his next step forward was precise. Deliberate.

Charlie scrambled upright with a stack of notes that was far too large for her arms. She almost tripped over a rug corner. “How was your meeting?” she asked in a too-high voice, like someone throwing a conversational smoke bomb.

Alastor caught the papers before they spilled, his hand brushing hers, barely, but long enough to notice the flush that followed.

His own skin prickled. The brand flickered faintly again beneath his shirt.

“It went remarkably well,” he said, smoothing the papers into a neat stack and handing them back. “Better than I hoped, even.”

Charlie’s face lit up with genuine joy. “That’s wonderful, Al!”

He smiled with an approving hum. He watched her intently, taking in every detail he could. 

Alastor tilted his head, eyes tracing the chaos across the floor with muted amusement. Charlie flopped backward with a little huff, arms flung out into the sea of flashcards, newspaper clippings, and string-tangled maps. Her braid fanned like a golden ribbon across the patterned rug.

“How goes the investigation?” he asked, stepping around a collapsed stack of papers and crouching beside her.

Charlie groaned dramatically. “Not well. You were right—they seem totally random. No patterns, no links. I’ve checked age, gender, job, class—nothing. It’s like someone pulled names from a hat.”

Alastor settled beside her on the floor, brushing off his slacks. He plucked one of the index cards from the scatter and turned it over in his hands. Her handwriting was bubbly, childlike. Spirals in the O’s. Hearts over the i’s. 

“...Charlie,” he said slowly. “Where did you get these supplies?”

She paused, blinking. “What supplies?”

He raised both brows and held up one card. “The colored chalk, the wax crayons. This one’s written in violet ink.”

Charlie tilted her head, as though only just noticing. “Oh! Nyther brought them.”

Alastor turned slowly to his shadow, who hovered guilelessly above her, the picture of innocent affection.

“You brought her… children’s art supplies?”

Nyther nodded proudly. 

“They help me think,” she explained, sheepish but earnest.

Alastor stared at her for a beat longer, then shook his head faintly and chuckled. “Of course they do.”

He looked back at the card he was holding, little rainbows and hearts drawn in the margins, surrounding grim facts like date of death and manner of execution.

It was so adorably inappropriate it made him chuckle. “You’re something else.”

“I prefer the term visually expressive .” she said primly, peeking up at him from the floor.

He smirked, then leaned over her slightly, teasingly tucking the card behind her ear.

“Does there need to be a connection?” Alastor asked, lying back beside her, hands behind his head. “What if the Hunt picked them at random?”

Charlie shook her head immediately.

She pouted, lips pushed out, arms crossed loosely over her chest. “Rituals don’t work like that, you don’t just toss some blood around and shout magic words. They need rules. A recipe with very, very, very specific ingredients.” Charlie said firmly. 

“Why these people?” And I’m here, so… the recipe worked. Which means the ingredients…” she gestured wearily to the cards, “were exactly what they needed. So why these people?”

“And yet,” Alastor said smoothly, his voice softening, “it did. ” He reached out, brushing his knuckles gently across her cheek. “And what a wonderful, happy accident that was. One that brought you into my life.”

She blinked at him, lips parting slightly. A faint, scandalized blush bloomed on her cheeks.

“Alastor,” she whispered, the scandal melting into guilt. “Fourteen people were murdered in cold blood to get me here.”

“And I’m simply trying to look on the bright side,” he teased lightly. “Don’t take that from me.”

She rolled her eyes, but hugged the cards to her chest. Her fingers fidgeted along the edges of the paper as if they were sacred things. “It’s awful. I’m the reason they’re dead, and I still don’t understand why. I’m not special, Al. I’m not anything .”

Alastor’s expression darkened—not with anger, but something sharper. Focused. He leaned in, one hand braced on the floor beside her, close enough to feel her warmth. His voice, when it came, was velvet—but edged in iron. “ Don’t say that.”

“But—”

“No,” he interrupted, calm but unwavering. “You are special, Charlie. Maybe not for whatever arcane formula they used to summon you, but for reasons far more important than any spell.”

Her eyes darted to his, startled.

“You,” he said, tapping the back of one of her cards, “are the only person I’ve ever met who color-coded victims of ritual homicide and drew glittering rainbows on their bios.”

That softened the tension in her face. Nyther coiled himself around her shoulders in a shadowy hug.

“You care, for one. About these victims. About people in general. You come at things sideways—unexpectedly—and somehow it works. You force us all to see things in a way we hadn’t before. You make this place brighter. You make me brighter.”

Charlie stared at him, mouth slightly parted.

“I don’t know why they wanted you,” Alastor said. “But I know why I do.”

Her breath caught.

And for a moment, his hand lingered at her jaw, thumb brushing beneath her chin like he might tilt her face upward.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose and leaned back, reaching for a loose stack of files. “Still,” he said lightly, voice drifting back into charm. “There’s no denying the mystery.”

Charlie bit her lip again. “But I wonder...”

Alastor leaned in, conspiratorially. “Wonder what?”

“If it isn’t the people themselves,” she mused aloud. “But the places. The ritual circles.”

She pondered, staring off thoughtfully for a moment before announcing, “I need to see one.”

Alastor stiffened. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s important,” she said.

Nyther floated closer to them. His eyes flicked to Alastor with matching concern.

“You nearly died last time you looked,” Alastor said tightly.

Charlie pressed forward. “That was before I knew what I was doing. I’ll be more careful. If I can see the geometry of the summoning marks up close, I might find the pattern.”

Alastor said nothing at first, watching her carefully.

Charlie looked at him, determined. “I read your notes and the police reports at least a dozen times tonight. I have a better understanding of what I’m up against now.” 

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

Charlie blinked. “Yes, I do.”

“No,” he said softly. “You know what you want. Not who you’re dealing with.”

She furrowed her brow, clutching a stack of her illustrated cards like they were a shield. “I know they killed fourteen people to get me here. That’s enough.”

Alastor let out a small breath of laughter—dry and humorless.

Charlie stilled.

“They’ve killed more than fourteen, Charlie.” His voice had gone cold. Not cruel, but precise. Flattened like a blade against stone. “Far more.”

He let the weight of that word settle before continuing. “They’ve been here since the beginning, Charlie. Long before the city had its name. Long before these buildings, before borders. Always hiding in plain sight.”

She looked up at him slowly.

“You know them as killers,” he said quietly. “But the Hunt doesn’t simply kill.”

The warmth in the office began to drain, as if the very air was backing away from his words.

“They pick someone. Random. The kindest schoolteacher. The quiet tailor. A child walking home with a candy stick. It doesn’t matter.”

His voice dropped. “Then they poison them.”

Charlie blinked. “Poison?”

“Through the shadow,” Alastor said. “Black ooze. Sentient. Wrong. It slips inside, coils into the silhouette of them—until the body twitches off-rhythm and the mind begins to rot. Madness follows. Hallucinations. Blood-hunger. Twitching hands that no longer feel like yours. And then the body strengthens.”

She shivered.

“It mutates,” Alastor continued. “They become faster. Stronger. They are the same on the outside, but their shadow and their mind have warped them into something else. Something not quite human anymore. The Hunt likes it that way.”

His smile never faltered—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“They don’t kill immediately. No, that would be dull. They chase them first. Watch them unravel. Tear them through the Quarter, through the sewers, the rooftops. Let them run. Let them scream. It’s a game, Charlie. The better the target, the better the Hunt.”

He met her eyes. “And then they take the shadow. Peel it off their corpses. Offer it like a gift.”

Her pupils dilated. Her arms curled around herself. “ Zhui'Khaelinoth ,” she whispered.

Alastor froze.

His voice, when it came, was hollow. “He’s not real.”

Charlie looked up. “He felt real.”

“You were likely exposed to shadow poison. Hallucinated it.” He said it too quickly. Too precisely.

She stared at him, disbelief flickering behind her lashes. There was more he wasn’t saying.

Nyther moved in silently, wrapping her up with ethereal arms. His lips brushed her temple—featherlight. Protective. Possessive. The brand between them pulsed.

Alastor’s eyes darkened.

Then, with theatrical charm, he clapped his hands once. “Enough of that.”

He stood, smoothly pulling Charlie to her feet beside him.

“I believe it’s time for dinner.”

His arms slid around her waist and pulled her close—flush against him. She gasped softly, surprised.

“Oh- Okay, just let me grab my flashcards.”

Nyther was already there. He presented them to her with a dreamy, lidded expression, curling around her like a silken scarf. His eyes flicked toward Alastor with quiet amusement. He leaned in—purposefully, temptingly close.

Alastor’s jaw tensed.

Nyther smirked. A dare in shadowed form. He leaned in just a hair further—

Alastor yanked Charlie to his side with practiced ease.

“Time to go,” he announced with a forced smile. “While the night is still young.”

They reached the door.

“Oh,” Alastor added, voice sugary sweet. “Nyther, you stay here and clean up. Join us when it’s spotless.”

The smile that passed between them was pure violence.

Nyther gave a theatrical bow.

Alastor shut the door behind them.

Chapter Text

The air was soft and thick, wrapped in the scent of magnolia, roasted chicory, and something older beneath the surface—like memory steeped in moss. New Orleans breathed slow and sultry under the setting sun.

A quiet restaurant near the edge of the Quarter stood nestled above a sleepy street. Its wrought-iron balcony overlooked the rooftops like a stage’s lip, draped in vines and humming with life. From inside, the distant clink of china and low strains of jazz barely reached the table where Alastor and Charlie sat—set apart, above it all on the balcony.

It wasn’t just romantic. It was private.

Which made it perfect for a moment like this.

Charlie leaned forward slightly, chin resting on her hands, her gaze drawn westward. The sky was a watercolor of fire and lavender, streaks of gold bleeding into violet as the sun sank behind the crooked silhouettes of chimneys. Her lips parted, breath caught in some private awe.

Alastor didn’t look. Not at the sky.

He watched her instead—watched the light dance in her eyes, warm and glassy, like it had come all this way just to be reflected there. The wonder in her expression made his chest ache in a way that was becoming far too familiar. He wanted to reach across the table, take her hand, maybe even lean in and—

No. No, absolutely not. He straightened slightly, his smile fixed and indulgent as he took a slow sip of his rye whiskey.

Charlie beamed at him from across the small white-linen table, her hands folded under her chin, her eyes alight.

“Well?” she prompted, already smiling. “How’d it go?”

Alastor leaned back with theatrical grace, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his other hand cradling a glass of whiskey. “Darling, if I’d known how thoroughly I’d impress him, I would’ve demanded a crown along with the raise.”

Charlie laughed, bright and delighted. “So it went well?”

“Better than well,” he said, smug as a cat in the sunshine. “A raise. A new show. And enough creative freedom to hang myself with, artistically speaking.”

“That’s fantastic! I’m so proud of you, Al!” Charlie beamed at him, the kind of beaming that was all teeth and crinkled eyes and absolutely no restraint—pure, unfiltered sunshine flung straight at him. There was no artifice in it, no polite social grace—just the warm, unshakable certainty that she meant every word.

That stopped him—just a breath, a blink.

It was unfair, really, how beautiful she was in that instant. Unimaginably so. It hit him harder than he expected, bright and disarming, and for a beat too long he forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t the first time someone had said those words to him. He had friends and family. But somehow, when she said it, it rang deeper, brighter. Like she wasn’t just acknowledging what he’d done, but believing in who he was. No angle. No performance. Just truth, laid bare with that irrepressible, golden light in her eyes.

His usual smirk softened into something far less rehearsed. Not vulnerable, exactly—but open, in a way he rarely allowed.

“Careful, chère,” he said. “Talk like that, and I might just start taking myself seriously.”

Charlie tilted her head, her golden braid catching the lamplight. “I think you already do.”

Alastor gave a short, pleased hum and swirled his drink. “Only when someone sweet and stunning is watching.”

“I do enjoy watching you,” she admitted, then blinked owlishly. Her face turned bright red at her declaration. While Alastor’s smile widened, raising a brow.

She stuttered and added, “I mean—listen! I enjoy listening to your show.”

He chuckled, delighted. “Freudian slip, ma belle?”

Charlie sighed, she’d been caught in what she said and may as well stop fighting it. She smiled sweetly at him, the brightness of which made his heart flutter without permission.

“Freudian nothing, ” she conceded. “You’re very watchable.”

Alastor couldn’t stop the bark of laughter that escaped him. He grinned like the devil himself. “Why, thank you.”

Charlie smiled and leaned forward, eyes bright. “So tell me—what brought it on? I knew you had a meeting tonight, but you didn’t say why.”

“Ah, yes.” Alastor tapped a finger against his glass. “Well. I may have, on Monday, caused a tiny bit of chaos on live radio.”

Charlie’s brows lifted. “What kind of chaos?”

“The fictional, apocalyptic kind.”

“Oh, that kind,” she said, as if it were a perfectly reasonable answer.

“The guest I was meant to interview,” he said, voice dropping into something silkier, heavier, “never arrived. Crooner. Big ego. Glittered like a disco ball and sang like velvet. Benny D’Amour.”

“I remember,” Charlie said, her tone sobering as she indicated to her index cards that sat proudly on the edge of the table. “He was one of the victims.”

“Yes,” Alastor murmured. “At the time, I didn’t know that. I only knew he’d vanished. So… I improvised. Read War of the Worlds as if it were breaking news. Had the city halfway to rioting before the hour was out.”

Her eyes widened. “Alastor! That’s—!” she paused, visibly torn between horror and delight. “Terrible. And brilliant. ”

He grinned. “My boss thought so too.”

“And… he’s the one who gives you the creeps, right?”

Alastor’s smile cooled.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Sterling Burns. A man with a hawk’s profile and too many teeth in his grin. He speaks like he’s holding back a punchline the rest of us won’t survive.”

Charlie frowned thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound like a normal man.”

“I’ve been wondering if he is one,” Alastor said, more to himself than to her. “There’s something about him... like a painting pretending to be a person. Too polished. Too... collected.”

Charlie gave a polite shiver. “Maybe he’s not pretending.”

Alastor met her gaze, sharp and intrigued. “You think he’s supernatural?”

“I think,” she said softly, “that if you feel like you’re being curated... it’s because you are.”

A long pause stretched between them. Somewhere below, the rattle of a passing streetcar filtered through the silence.

Then a waiter arrived, carrying two porcelain dishes balanced expertly on a silver tray.

“For monsieur, the cochon de lait stew,” the waiter said, placing the bowl with a flourish. “And the "Old Sober" for mademoiselle. Bon appétit.”

“Merci, mon ami,” Alastor said with a charming nod.

Charlie offered a sweetly sincere, “Thank you very much,” along with a smile so dazzling it made the man nearly trip over his own shoes as he bowed and left.

They both watched him go—Alastor with narrowed eyes and a smile that had turned a touch too sharp at the edges.

He wasn’t glaring, not exactly. That would be obvious. That would be vulgar . But there was a tightening in his jaw, the way one elegant finger tapped once against the tablecloth in a rhythmic staccato. A heat simmered behind his eyes, one he didn’t quite dare name.

Charlie didn’t belong to him. He knew that. She was sunshine incarnate, meant to be shared, admired by all.

But still. That smile was his. The way she lit up like that— his . And watching it handed freely to some stranger with loose shoes and a flushed face stirred something sharp in his chest. Not rage, not even jealousy in the conventional sense… more like the eerie certainty that if he wanted , he could snuff the man’s existence from memory like chalk off a slate.

And yet—he didn’t move. He merely folded his hands together and exhaled slowly, letting the possessive thrum in his ribs subside.

She turned back to him, oblivious to the little storm.

“He was nice,” Charlie said, unfolding her napkin. “Though it’s strange there aren’t more people here. This place is so beautiful.”

His eyes lingered on her a second too long—hungry, protective, and maybe just a little afraid of how badly he wanted to keep her smile all to himself.

“Indeed,” he murmured. “Charming little place, isn’t it? The man who served us is the owner, actually. Monsieur Lemaire. He runs it with his family. All the staff? Immediate relatives.”

Charlie lit up. “That’s so sweet!”

Then, in one graceful, ridiculous motion, she leaned over her bowl and slurped a noodle with cartoonish drama. The broth popped against her chin. She giggled behind her hand, eyes dancing, unbothered by decorum.

Alastor chuckled, smoothing a hand down the front of his wine-colored vest. “It is, isn’t it? Quaint. Rich ambiance. Excellent privacy.”

She raised a playful brow. “And suspiciously empty.”

He stirred his stew with deliberate slowness, voice casual as if recounting the weather. “Used to be a front for a local gang.”

Charlie blinked. “Seriously? This place?”

“Oh yes,” he said, his grin curling at the edges like smoke. “A tidy little crime family ran the joint. The old man—sweet, but spineless—let them move in without so much as a whimper.”

Her smile faltered. “That’s awful.”

“Mmm,” he mused, lifting his glass and letting the whiskey catch the light. “But they’re not in the picture anymore. I imagine this little bistro will thrive again quite soon.”

She tilted her head, thoughtfully chewing. “Well, I guess that’s a silver lining.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dipped in amused mischief. “Assuming, of course, the health inspector isn’t too rattled by what’s left of them in the crawlspace. Two of them were arranged like bookends.”

Charlie choked on a noodle.

She stared at him. “That’s… not funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he said, sipping his drink without breaking eye contact.

She set her spoon down. “Alastor. How would you know that?”

His smile curved—but it no longer reached his eyes. He swirled his whiskey and let out a sigh like a man savoring an inside joke.

“Charlie, I make it my business to know as many of the dark happenings in this city as I can. New Orleans is my home. And as I’m sure you’ve noticed, darkness tends to set up shop here.”

She stared at him.

“I like to be informed,” he said. “I like to protect what I can. The Black Hunt is far from the only thing that stalks these streets. This city—this strange, haunted, beautiful city—it’s a magnet. For spirits. For monsters. For miracles. I just try to keep my eyes open.”

Charlie exhaled slowly, then nodded. “That... makes sense. Thank you for telling me.” She added after a beat, “Mavrick said something similar once. That this city attracts what doesn’t belong anywhere else. That it holds secrets like a ghost holds breath.”

Her voice trailed off as her eyes went distant—lost in thought.

Alastor watched her. Really watched her.

His usual grin faded, but the intensity in his gaze only sharpened. The city hummed around them, soft and alive—somewhere far away. But in this moment, Alastor could only see her. The curl of her lip as she thought. The distant shimmer in her eyes. The way her soul looked like it didn’t quite belong to the world, and never had.

Charlie must have felt it—that weight of attention pressing gently against her skin. She turned her head and blinked, flustered under the sudden intimacy of it.

She offered a sheepish smile, then fumbled for her spoon in a desperate bid for normalcy. But her fingers missed the handle, and it slipped from her grasp, clattering to the floor.

“Oh! Shoot—” she began, leaning down.

Alastor was already there.

He rose smoothly from his seat and knelt before her like the gentleman he only sometimes pretended to be. But this time, it wasn’t performative.

This time, it was personal.

The shared mark throbbed in time with his heartbeat, tethering him to her.

He retrieved the spoon with one hand. The other reached up without asking.

A drop of broth glistened on her lower lip.

He brushed it away with the pad of his thumb.

Then—without taking his eyes off her—he brought that thumb to his mouth and licked it clean.

His pupils dilated, golden eyes glowing beneath the gaslight’s flicker.

But it wasn’t the broth he tasted.

And they both knew it.

Between them, the brand flared—alive, wanting.

Charlie’s breath hitched.

“Al…?” she whispered, barely audible.

He said nothing.

Not yet.

The shared brand thrummed, demanding more.

He stayed there, kneeling before her as though the world above no longer existed. His free hand—slow, reverent—rose to cradle her cheek. Her skin was warm. 

The brand stirred in answer to his touch, the rhythm quickening. He leaned in, close enough to feel the tremble in her breath, the scent of rose and something older on her skin.

Alastor’s voice dropped, smooth as aged whiskey. “You don’t belong to this world either.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

The brand beat harder, matching the wild cadence of the moment.

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathed in deeply and exhaled like it hurt.

His hands slid into her hair, fingers tightening, not cruel but claiming, as if he were holding her together, or himself. She shivered under the touch, lips parting with a quiet, involuntary sound—half gasp, half plea.

And that sound undid him.

Alastor felt something inside him snap.

He surged forward— their lips a breath apart—

CRACK!

A sharp noise from the street below—something metallic clattering against stone, followed by the slam of a distant door.

Charlie flinched.

Alastor froze.

The spell broke.

He stayed there for one last heartbeat, drinking her in. One final, ragged inhale as if trying to memorize her scent.

Then—with visible reluctance—he pulled away.

He stood, brushing his gloves clean as if the gesture could chase off what had almost happened.

The moment between them… cracked but not broken, shimmered in the silence.

Charlie picked up her glass with both hands, pretending her fingers weren’t shaking. Alastor resumed his seat and lifted his spoon again with all the flair of a man trying very hard to act normal.

For a while, they ate quietly.

Awkwardly.

Neither spoke of what had almost been.

And then—

A chill licked the edges of the balcony as the shadows thickened beside them.

From beneath Alastor’s chair, the darkness stirred—then stretched, sinuous and deer-shaped, with smoke-slick antlers curling toward the sky.

Nyther emerged with a flourish.

Charlie’s face lit up like sunrise. “Nyther!”

The living shadow moved to her side, brushing a hand along her shoulder, gentle as dusk. His touch lingered—longer than it should have.

Alastor watched, a sharpness in his grin. “Touchy tonight, aren’t we?”

Charlie cut him a look—half-lidded, brows raised in dry amusement. “Really?” she asked, voice sweet but edged with soft mockery.

Alastor tilted his head with a crooked smirk, spreading his hands as if to say guilty as charged. “I do recognize the irony,” he drawled.

Nyther, for his part, made no apology. With deliberate flair, he stepped forward and signed something slow and sweeping, like poetry being etched into the air.

Charlie blinked, her lips parting. “Wait—what does that mean?”

Alastor glanced at Nyther, then sighed. “You’re really going for it tonight, aren’t you?”

He turned to Charlie, voice softer now—still playful, but with a thread of something vulnerable beneath it.

“He said,” Alastor began, “ If I had been born anything but a shadow, I would have asked to be a man just to be worthy of your smile. ”

The words hung there.

Charlie froze, her eyes widening like saucers. “Oh…”

A slow, red flush bloomed up her cheeks. She fidgeted with her napkin, trying to cover her face and failing, before letting out a breathless sigh, “That’s… really sweet.”

Nyther beamed, pride flickering in the gleam of his antlers. He stepped closer, head tipping down toward her, his touch brushing near her jaw—almost reverent.

Too close.

Alastor sat up sharply. “ Ahem . Nyther.”

The shadow paused.

Alastor’s smile was still in place, but it had stiffened. “We’re not exactly alone here, remember? Shadow and secrets. And I’m emphasizing the secret part.”

Nyther slowly turned his head—full of attitude—and signed something quickly, just to Alastor.

Alastor’s brow twitched. “I heard that.”

Charlie laughed again, cheerful and unaware.

Then, with a final flick of his ears and a movement that could only be described as huffy, he dissolved back into the ground, melting into the tile like smoke drawn into a drain.

Alastor sat back with a sigh, swirling his whiskey. For a moment, he said nothing.

The city murmured below them. Jazz drifted faintly from a passing car radio. The stars were beginning to blink into view.

And Alastor just… watched her.

That light in Charlie—the one that Nyther chased like a moth—Alastor felt it too. And not just felt it. Needed it.

Felt the gravitational pull she had. Like something was curling its fingers into his ribs and drawing him slowly, relentlessly closer.

Something had shifted in the shadow’s affections.

And Alastor could feel it.

Inside himself.

As if some part of him—some darker, older hunger—was looking at Charlie now not with curiosity…

…but with longing.

And the worst part?

He didn’t want to resist.

Sitting here now, watching her beam beneath the fading light…

It was suddenly very hard to remember a time when he hadn’t wanted her sitting across from him like this.

They didn’t speak much during dinner.

Not out of discomfort—but from that breathless silence that clings after something nearly happens and doesn’t. 

Once their plates were cleared and the meal paid for, Alastor stood and held his hand out to Charlie.

“This way, chère,” he said, tilting his head to the side, his grin giving him an almost lopsided look. “Our evening’s entertainment awaits.”

Charlie accepted his hand, her skirt swayed as she was pulled up to stand, with a smile as thanks. She scooped up her cards in her other hand and replied, “You make it sound like we’re headed to a show.”

He cast her a sidelong glance, hazel green eyes glinting mischievously. “Oh, but we are. A most exclusive engagement—two victims, one half-sunken riverboat, and a leading lady with eyes like sunrise. I daresay the tickets are impossible to come by.”

She snorted, amused at his antics. “And which of us is the leading lady?”

“Why, you, of course,” he purred. “Though I wouldn’t mind top billing if the critics insist.”

The trio stepped out of the bistro and into the cobblestone street that shone slick with Louisiana humidity, beneath the August stars. 

Alastor walked with his hands behind his back, polished shoes tapping rhythmically on the paved stones. The smile on his lips tonight was the dangerous sort—cool, confident, just shy of predatory. Charlie walked beside him, rifling gently through her neatly stacked cards, her brow knit in thoughtful focus. Nyther slipped along behind them in long, soundless strides, his antlers brushing against the low-hanging moss. Every so often, his shadowed fingers brushed lightly against Charlie’s arm, steering her away from a root or uneven stone before she could stumble. She glanced back at him with a small, warm smile, and his ears twitched in pleased acknowledgement.

“So,” Charlie said, fanning the index cards with her thumb, “you said we’re going to the fifth ritual site?”

“That’s correct, my dear, the boys in blue never did find this sight or connect it to the other killings, so we won’t need to worry about any guards.” Alastor replied with a nod, the movement lazy and theatrical. “And the Black Hunt prefers to erase its footprints—by flame, by flood, or by burying the ground itself in shadows.”

Charlie wrinkled her nose. “Like the cistern?”

“Precisely,” he confirmed cheerfully.

Charlie nodded while she flipped through her index cards again. “So I was wondering…”  she frowned, and looked up at him through her thick lashes, “why aren’t they connecting this to the Black Hunt?”

At that, Alastor let out a sharp laugh—short and bitter.

“Oh, mon trésor, they’d have to believe the Black Hunt exists first.”

“They don’t?” she asked, shocked.

He gave a little shrug, lips still curled into something too sharp to be a smile. “The Hunt is both elusive and influential. The public? They don’t even know the name—just whispered warnings, believed to be no more than an urban legend. And the higher-ups? The ones who do know better? Let’s just say they’re bought off by favors or bound by fear.”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Usually both.”

Alastor tilted his head. “You have been paying attention.” He booped her nose.

She beamed at the compliment. 

“Well,” she said, “lucky for us, there are still some who try to push back.”

Nyther slithered closer to her side, rising just enough to slip a hand against her back—a soft, protective touch, subtle but present. Charlie leaned into the gesture and glanced at Alastor.

The nightlife fell away behind them in layers—first the clink of glassware and jazz from open doorways, then the laughter, then even the rattle of the streetcars. What lingered was softer: the whisper of the Mississippi somewhere unseen, the chirp of crickets in the dark, the faint perfume of wisteria tangled with the older, swamp-heavy scent of peat and brackish water.

They left the cobblestone street for a narrow side path that snaked into the cypress gloom. The air here was thicker, the light from the Quarter no more than a faint glow behind them. 

Alastor slowed, eyes cutting toward the black ribbon of water beyond. Then, he stopped. “This is the place,” he said simply.

Charlie blinked, looking from him to the shadowy stretch of levee. “Here?”

“Here,” he confirmed, with the air of a man revealing the punchline of a private joke.

He climbed up onto the levee in one graceful motion, then turned to offer his hand down to her. Before she could take it, Nyther’s inky arms rose behind her, and she found herself lifted—weightless for a breath—before being set gently on the levee beside him.

Alastor tipped his head toward his shadow with a courtly, “If you please.”

Nyther flowed down the bank in a silent spill of darkness, spreading across the river’s surface until it shimmered faintly under the moonlight, a black mirror that seemed to breathe.

Alastor reached into his breast pocket and produced a sleek fountain pen, then plucked a broad green leaf from a low-hanging branch of the nearest tree. Kneeling, he began to scratch precise symbols and a tight transmutation circle into its surface, the nib gliding like a dancer’s foot.

Satisfied, he straightened and looked down toward Nyther. “Ready?”

The shadow peeled himself up from the water, floating just above its skin, carrying with him an improbable assortment of objects—scraps of wood, riverweed, and odd metallic glints that caught the moonlight.

Alastor placed the inscribed leaf atop the floating pile, then reached into his coat again, this time producing a slender bone needle.

He threaded it through the air as though it were cloth, his motions swift and deliberate. With each pass, the heap beneath him shuddered and shifted into shadows. Then they began to take shape until it was almost fluid—pieces binding together in seams of faint, glowing stitches. The air hummed faintly with each pull of the thread. In less than a minute, a small black rowboat bobbed in the water below, stitched together like some dreamer’s sketch brought to life, every seam glowing faintly with green thread before fading to darkness.

Alastor twirled the needle once in his fingers before tucking it away, beaming up at Charlie triumphantly. “Your vessel awaits, ma belle.” Alastor tipped his head toward the dark water. “And she is a beauty if I do say so myself.”

“She?” Charlie echoed, amusement in her tone.

“Everything worth admiring is a ‘she,’” he replied with a wink.

She laughed, bright and delighted.

The stitched little craft swayed gently in the moonlit water as Alastor stepped lightly down the levee and into the boat, his polished shoes somehow making no sound against the boards. With a flourish, he turned and offered Charlie his hand.

Nyther’s silhouette lingered at her back, antlers like inked crescents against the starlight. One long, smoky arm curved around her waist—not pushing, merely guiding—as if to make certain she stepped where he wanted her. She gave him a quick, grateful glance before taking Alastor’s hand and settling onto the forward bench.

The boat slipped away from the levee without so much as a splash, Nyther’s shadowy form sliding over the water’s skin like an undertow, keeping pace beside them.

The river was wide here, slow-moving and dark as oil. Starlight rippled across its surface, so bright and unbroken that for a moment it felt as though they were adrift between two skies—one above, one below—sailing through a mirrored universe.

Charlie’s gaze darted between them, her breath catching softly. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“Mm,” Alastor hummed from where he sat opposite her, oars dipping lazily into the water. “The Mississippi has a way of dressing herself up when she wants to be admired. The trick is remembering she’ll just as soon drag you under as carry you along.”

The further they traveled, the more the world narrowed. The grand sweep of the river began to twist and hem itself in with overhanging cypress and willow. Curtains of moss swayed in the night breeze, some long enough to graze the boat as they passed beneath. The air thickened with the scent of damp wood, riverweed, and the faint sweetness of something in bloom deep in the bayou.

Alastor looked to Charlie.

“Before we go any further,” he murmured, “you ought to know what we’re getting into.”

Charlie, ever curious, tilted her head and folded her hands primly in her lap. “I’m listening.”

“The Black Hunt…” he began, “worships an eldritch beast, not from this world. It's not human, not even demon, but something far older. Something that slipped through the cracks of creation. A thing from a place between dreams and reality.”

Charlie’s face paled slightly, though her expression stayed calm. Her mind flew back to the skeletal claw from the graveyard, with its oozing tentacles and the way that shadows twisted and warped. She shuddered before looking back to Alastor and nodding for him to go on.

“I’ve never seen proof it’s anything more than their insane bedtime story…” His smile curved, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “…but I’ve learned not to underestimate what faith can twist a person into.”

Her brows knit gently, but she didn’t interrupt.

“Belief is a dangerous kind of magic, chère. They pour it into their rituals until the very air warps. They pour their magic into a place until it twists—reality’s corners fold in on themselves. Places become… wrong.” He let the pause linger just long enough for the oars’ slow drip to fill it. “Anywhere they stay too long… anyone they keep too close… it’s like something seeps in. Like rot under the skin. The longer they linger, the more the place—or the person—changes. Warped. Tainted by their Murkveil.”

Her lips parted in quiet, disturbed awe.

“So,” He angled the oars again, guiding them deeper into the narrowing black. “When we reach the riverboat, you’ll do what you came to do—make your notes, admire the view—but keep your hands to yourself. The Hunt’s touch lingers. And this isn’t the kind of magic you want to take home with you.”

She met his gaze across the boat. “And then we leave?”

His grin sharpened—still charming, but edged now with something that felt like a promise. “Yes, ma belle, that’s the plan.”

The shadow-stitched rowboat slipped over black water that shimmered with the reflection of a thousand August stars, so clear and sharp it was as though they were adrift in the night sky itself. Each pull of Alastor’s oars sent ripples skimming across those constellations, breaking and mending them again in slow, deliberate strokes.

The further they went, the thicker the air became. Cicadas shrilled from the trees, their chorus rising and falling like the hum of unseen wires. The smell of river mud and wet moss deepened. Somewhere in the distance, an alligator’s grunt broke the night.

The Mississippi here had grown quiet, narrowed, and its voice hushed to the low whisper of water curling against cypress roots. The banks leaned close, draped in veils of Spanish moss that swayed with unseen currents of air. Every shadow between those trees seemed to watch, to lean in, to listen.

And then the bayou’s breath changed.

She emerged from the darkness like a mask at the edge of a torchlit parade—half-beauty, half-grimace. The riverboat leaned heavily to one side, one flank drowned in the black water, the other straining toward the shore as though caught mid-dance and frozen there forever.

Even in ruin, her Mardi Gras finery clung stubbornly to her bones. Flaking panels of purple, green, and gold clung to the hull in faded ribbons, their colors dulled by years of storms but still catching slivers of moonlight. The balconies bore delicate wrought-iron curls painted once in emerald, now blooming with rust. Along her railings, strings of carnival beads hung in sad, tangled knots—some half-submerged, others caught in the teeth of ivy. Masks, their paint cracked and peeling, peered from shadowed alcoves, their hollow eyes reflecting pinpricks of starlight.

Above it all, the paddlewheel sat half-buried in the water, its great spokes thick with moss, barnacles, and the pale skeletons of lilies. Somewhere deep within the hull, timbers groaned under the slow crush of decay, the sound carrying across the water like a warning sigh.

Alastor’s hazel-green eyes glinted as he watched the vessel loom closer, his smile thin and unreadable. Charlie leaned on the railing, peering out over the water with wide, curious eyes. “It’s… eerie,” she murmured, “but beautiful. Like the whole world’s holding its breath.” 

“It’s the bayou’s way of making an entrance. She likes to be noticed before she swallows you whole.” His voice slid into something quieter, almost indulgent. 

Charlie leaned forward, breath caught. The reflection of the steamboat shimmered below them, doubled and inverted, so that it felt as though they were approaching her in two worlds at once—the one above and the one beneath.

Somewhere on those slanted decks, under the shadow of carnival masks and drowned bunting, two people had died. The air itself seemed to hold the memory of it—a stillness too deep to be natural, like the water was listening.

Nyther’s shadow rose along the prow of their little boat, antlers tilting toward the steamboat, his tufted ears flicking in restless unease. He reached a hand toward Charlie, his touch light but insistent, as if urging her to stay close.

The stitched craft glided on, silent but for the faint hiss of the oars and the creak of the old queen ahead—watching them come, patient as the bayou, and twice as hungry.

Up close, the half-sunken steamboat was even more magnificent—and more unsettling—than she’d appeared from the water. The Mardi Gras colors clung stubbornly to her bones, but now Charlie could see the blackened scars marring that painted finery. Long tongues of soot stretched along her hull and balconies, curling over flaking green and purple like bruises.

“They tried to burn her,” Charlie murmured, brows knitting.

Alastor’s hazel-green eyes flicked to the marks, his grin slow and knowing. “The Hunt always hides their tracks, my dear—by water, by fire, or by shadows.”

He eased the rowboat against the riverboat’s slanted hull, the stitched seams along its shadow-forged boards still pulsing faintly in the dark. Reaching past Charlie, he caught the mooring rope in one hand and looped it neatly around a section of twisted railing, tying it off with the practiced ease of a man who made every movement look deliberate. The knot drew snug with a quiet creak of rope and wood. In one fluid motion, Alastor turned back to her and scooped Charlie into his arms as though she weighed nothing, her skirt brushing against his tailored sleeve as she squeaked at the sudden shift.

Nyther drifted forward, his form swirling upward like smoke until—suddenly—he merged into Alastor’s back. For a heartbeat, Alastor’s body thrummed with something otherworldly. His hazel-green eyes flashed a sharp, unnatural emerald, the color too vivid for anything human. Light rippled from his skin like moonlit water, shimmering and alive.

Charlie’s arms tightened around his neck, seeking balance as their shared brand pulsed against her skin, a rhythm that hummed deep in her chest.

Then he shifted.

It was like watching a shadow catch fire. His form warped and expanded, spectral stag antlers branching upward, flickering with a ghostly green light. From his back, long tendrils of shadow writhed into the air, their movements sinuous and curious, tasting the air as though it carried flavor. Two of them lashed out, wrapping around the riverboat’s railing with a sound like silk tearing, and with effortless grace, he hauled them onto the slanted deck.

The sideways world of the half-sunken boat greeted them like the stage set for a fever dream. The wall had become their new floor, slick with a mix of humidity, river water, and old varnish, while the ceiling and floor loomed sideways to either side, impossible in their new orientation. Burn marks climbed every visible surface, curling black against ornate wallpaper and gilded trim.

Alastor’s voice was casual, but there was steel under the words. “When Nyther and I first came here, the Hunt had just gone. The fire was still burning.” His grin sharpened. “We… encouraged it to stop.”

Inside, the darkness was absolute—thick as cloth and swallowing sound. Charlie lifted a hand, palm upward, and let a sweet, lilting melody spill from her lips. A small flame shimmered into being above her skin, warm and bright. She sang three more soft notes, twisting her hand around the fire before giving a gentle pop with her lips.

At that sound, a thin, translucent bubble unfurled around the flame, sealing it in a floating orb of light. It drifted upward, casting a gentle glow that lit the ruined grandeur around them without heat.

They moved deeper, his shadow-tentacles steadying their way through the skewed corridors until the space widened and opened into what must have once been the dining hall.

Even sideways, it was breathtaking. Gilded mirrors still clung to the walls, fractured but reflecting splinters of firelight. Great swathes of velvet curtain, faded to wine-dark, hung in heavy folds along the tilted windows. The chandeliers now jutted from the side wall, crystal pendants tinkling faintly with the boat’s subtle sway.

But it was the floor—or what had been the floor—that stopped her breath.

Two overlapping pentagrams sprawled across the surface, drawn in a dark ichor that shifted under the orb’s light—black one moment, then rippling into deep red and molten gold, as if something within it were alive. The strange Venn diagram of symbols seemed to pulse faintly in time with the water’s slow lapping outside.

Alastor lowered her gently to her feet.

Charlie barely noticed the motion before she was moving forward, skirts whispering against calves in her haste. She knelt near the marks, her eyes wide, the bubble-light trembling faintly in her hands. “Incredible…” she breathed, wonder and dread tangled in her voice.

Behind her, Alastor’s smile lingered—watchful, unreadable, and just a little too sharp as he stood guard. 

Charlie stared intently at the overlapping pentagrams, her bubble-light casting long, wavering shadows over the warped dining hall. One pentagram pointed upward, the other downward, their lines tangled in a precise, deliberate geometry. Dark stains clung to the grooves—thick in places, almost dried to lacquer—and she didn’t need to guess what they were. Old blood. Enough to speak of violence, but not enough to speak of mercy.

Her eyes roamed the symbols crowding the lines. Some were sharp and angular, others looping with strange elegance. Languages layered over each other—Latin interlaced with Hebrew, fragments of Greek curling into sigils she recognized from older, stranger alphabets. She tilted her head, lips moving as she traced them with her gaze.

“I can only make out some,” she murmured, fingers ghosting over the upturned pentagram. “Excess… too much… phagos —‘devourer.’”

Alastor watched her intently, arms loosely folded, the glow from her conjured light skimming the edges of his hazel-green eyes. The smile he wore was slower than usual, more deliberate. “Chère, you never fail to impress me.”

Her head turned, surprise and pleasure brightening her expression. “Thank you,” she said softly. “My dad always wanted to make sure I was well educated. He had my tutors teach me Hebrew, Latin, Greek, and Ge’ez.”

“Oh, is that all?” Alastor said with mock boredom, as he raised a single brow and pretended to be far more interested in his nails.

Charlie shook her head with a smile and looked back to the ichor-drawn circles.

She moved to the downward-pointing pentagram, tracing the runes near its outer ring. “This one… restraint, moderation… balance?”

But her brow furrowed when her gaze fell on the symbol at the center, where the two pentagrams overlapped. It was like nothing she had seen before—yet pieces of it were familiar. The shape of an apple, notched with a devil’s forked tail that curled into the shape of a musical note. The seed was a heart, small and perfect, ringed by six delicate wings like a seraphim’s. Between the wings was a rainbow topped with a crowned halo floated, its edges jagged and regal.

“That’s…” she began, but the words trailed off.

She reached into her skirt’s pocket, meaning to pull out her flashcards, but her pen slipped and scattered them across the slanted wall-floor with a faint flutter.

Before she could scramble after them, Alastor stooped in one graceful motion, plucking up the pen and the nearest cards. His other hand came to rest on her shoulder—light but steady, the warmth of his touch grounding her.

“Easy, my darling demon-belle,” he murmured, voice a velvet thread in the hush. “Do what you need.”

She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Right… thank you.” She took back the pen and cards with a grateful smile and returned to carefully copying the scene—the angles, the words, the strange central sigil.

That was when Alastor stilled.

It was not a movement so much as a tightening, a subtle shift in the air around him, as though something unseen had stepped into the room. Nyther peeled himself from Alastor’s back, rising into his full height, antlers brushing the tilted ceiling. The two locked eyes in a wordless exchange. Nyther gave a short nod before gliding away, his form melting into the darkness between broken doorframes.

Alastor stepped closer to Charlie. His hazel-green eyes flared briefly, unnaturally, to a deep, predatory red as they swept the room. Every detail of their surroundings sharpened in his gaze—the long shadows, the smell of damp ash, the faint creak of the half-sunken hull.

From the far side of the tilted dining hall came a sound—low and wet, like something dragging itself out of a swamp. The shadows there deepened unnaturally, their edges fraying as though the wood itself were rotting into darkness.

Then it stepped through.

It was vaguely frog-shaped, if frogs were ever meant to grow the size of draft horses, with slick, mottled flesh that glistened like oil under Charlie’s conjured flame. Its limbs were wrong—too long, jointed backwards, ending in pale hands with fingers that curled into points like fishhooks. Gills flared along its throat, opening and closing with a wet hiss. Its mouth split impossibly wide, filled with layered teeth that spiraled inward like a conch shell, glistening with threads of viscous saliva. Eyes—too many eyes—bulged along its skull, each one milky and ringed with red.

It fixed on Nyther and gave a sound that was part croak, part scream, before launching itself forward in a horrible, twitching lurch.

Charlie shrieked, stumbling back at the sight of it.

Alastor’s smile never faltered. “Well… it seems our time is up,” he said lightly, as though remarking on the end of an evening’s performance. He turned to her, ignoring the monster’s scraping advance. “Do you have everything you need, chère?”

“What?” she stared at him in disbelief.

He tilted his head, repeating in the same calm, honeyed tone, “Have you got everything you needed?”

“Y-Yes!” she managed, still staring past him at the abomination.

“Splendid.”

In one smooth motion, he scooped her up into his arms, her skirts billowing as though they were dancing.

The first blow came from Nyther.

The shadow hurled himself into the creature’s chest with the force of a battering ram, antlers splintering slick flesh, driving the thing backward in a spray of brackish slime. The frog-beast—if such a word could hold it—screeched, its spiral teeth gnashing.

Alastor, holding Charlie in his arms as though they were gliding across a ballroom, simply stepped and spun out of the monster’s reach, every dodge a flourish, his polished shoes whispering over the tilted boards.

It lunged again, the warped joints of its legs snapping forward with terrible speed. Nyther was there, intercepting, his form boiling upward in a storm of black smoke. Then, like ink poured into water, he streamed into Alastor’s back.

The change was instant.

Six long, shadow-forged tentacles unfurled from Alastor’s shoulders and spine, writhing like the limbs of some abyssal beast. They lashed toward the frog-thing—hooking, constricting, tearing. A clawed strike from the creature met a tentacle and was rewarded with the sickening snap of bone as Alastor ripped the limb away, tossing it aside like an unworthy prop.

Charlie clutched at his lapel, the movement more instinct than thought, as the fight closed in too near for her comfort. The monster lunged, maw splitting wide to reveal its spiral of teeth—

Charlie hurled the flame-orb straight down its throat.

A bright pop left her lips, and in that instant, the protective bubble shattered, releasing the fire in a rush of heat and light. The creature’s scream warped into a roar as it staggered, flames overflowing from its gills and mouth, licking up its mottled skin.

Alastor’s grin went feral.

It wasn’t merely joy—it was rapture. The fight sang in his blood, and the knowledge that it was her flame setting their enemy ablaze only sharpened the thrill into something dangerously close to ecstasy. His tentacles seized the burning beast, wrapping it in a black embrace before wrenching outward, tearing it apart in great steaming chunks.

Charlie turned her face away, eyes squeezing shut. The sound of tearing sinew and cracking bone was too much.

Alastor paused. Slowly, the manic glint in his hazel-green eyes cooled. He shifted her in his arms, holding her against his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head as though she were something fragile enough to break.

“We’ll go now,” he murmured, voice softer than the shadows curling around them.

They stepped through the darkened corridors of the ruined steamboat, past scorched walls and the smoldering ruin of the beast. Charlie’s voice was quiet when it came.
“Are there… more of those?”

“Most likely not,” he replied easily. “The drownlights travel in packs, but this?” His grin returned, smaller, wicked in the corners. “This was a solitary hunter—a Virelot. They haunt places the Murkveil has kissed too long.”

They emerged at last onto the slick deck, the slant of the ruined railing giving a crooked view of the stars on the water. Charlie’s face was pale in the glow.

Alastor tried for charm, tilting his head toward her, voice light. “Well, ma belle, I’d say that was an evening to remember. Dinner, a moonlight boat ride, and a dance with death— a top-tier date in my humble opinion.”

She managed only a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Worry flickered behind his own. Without comment, he guided her back into the shadow-stitched rowboat.

Alastor cradled Charlie close, one arm secure beneath her knees, the other braced around her back, his hold careful as if she were spun from sugar glass. One shadowy tentacle snaked toward the riverboat’s side, curling around the rope that tethered their stitched craft. With an easy tug, the rowboat drifted free. Another tentacle uncoiled beneath them, lowering them with slow, deliberate grace until the soles of his shoes met the boat’s shadow-sewn planks. The glowing seams pulsed faintly in the dark, reflecting in his hazel-green eyes as he kept her steady in his arms.

Once the rowboat rocked steady beneath them, Alastor bent slightly, lowering Charlie into her seat as though placing her in some delicate display case. His hands lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary—one at her back, the other steadying her arm—before he straightened with a flicker of that ever-present smile. Only then did he take his own place across from her, shadows still curling faintly at his shoulders.

 Nyther peeled his form from Alastor in a slow, deliberate unravel, immediately circling to fuss over her, checking her for even the smallest scratch.

Alastor shrugged off his jacket, draping it over her shoulders, the faint heat of him still clinging to the fabric.

“Thank you,” she said softly, leaning back into Nyther’s protective arms. The shadow held her as if he could shield her from the memory as well as the cold.

The boat pushed away from the half-sunken riverboat, and they began the journey back. No one spoke. The only sound was the whisper of the oars and the slow, steady breathing of three individuals who had seen too much.

Charlie sat in the shadow-stitched rowboat, knees drawn in slightly, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the black ribbon of river. The quiet between them was heavy, the only sound the soft creak of wood and the whisper of water against the hull.

Then—out of the dark—a tiny light drifted across her line of sight.

She blinked, startled, following its lazy arc through the humid night air. As she stared, another light came to rest on her hand, its abdomen pulsing with a golden glow. She lifted it closer, cradling it as though it were spun from glass.

“What…?” she whispered.

“That,” Alastor said from the oars, his voice warm with a faint, private smile, “is called a lightning bug.”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed, her expression the same wonderstruck innocence that had made his heart skip the first time he saw it. The effect was no less devastating now.

“Lightning bug?” she repeated, tasting the words like something sweet.

He nodded, lifting his chin toward the shore behind them. Beyond the swaying cypress, a cloud of lights shimmered and flickered—a slow-drifting constellation hovering just above the reeds, each pulse like the blink of a sleepy star.

Charlie gasped, her awe so pure it stole the breath from the moment.

Alastor watched her for a heartbeat, then let the oars rest. “Do you want a closer look?”

Her gaze flicked to him, lips curving into something softer, brighter. “Can we?”

“Of course,” he replied without hesitation.

For just a moment, she hesitated, eyes dipping. “Is it… safe?”

His chuckle was low and amused. “Relatively,” he said, then turned his head toward the antlered silhouette at the bow. “Nyther—be a dear and clear the way of any gators, snakes, or eldritch beasties, won’t you?”

Nyther gave a short nod before gliding forward, his inky form spilling over the water toward the bank. The reeds whispered as he passed, his shape sifting through the undergrowth like a living shadow.

Alastor dipped the oars again, guiding them toward the bayou’s edge until the soft earth kissed the prow. Rising, he stepped onto the shore, the moonlight brushing the fine line of his suit. With a courtly flourish, he extended his hand down to her.

Charlie’s gaze dropped to the soft, swampy ground. With a small, decisive motion, she slipped off her shoes and set them neatly in the boat before taking his offered hand. The reeds sighed under her bare feet as she stepped down, cool water licking her toes.

Then she laughed—a bright, bubbling sound that seemed to belong in this place of flickering stars and humid night—and spun straight into the heart of the lightning bug cloud, still clutching his hand. The glow caught in her hair, tangled in the curve of her smile, and when she tugged him forward, Alastor followed without hesitation, his polished shoes darkening in the damp grass.

They wove through the swarm, golden motes drifting and swirling like bits of caught firelight. She pulled him into another turn, her joy burning so fiercely it felt alive. The bond between them flared— more . The brand sang in his blood, the pull of her like gravity, like hunger. More.

Her wide, luminous eyes lifted to his, the same look that had undone him before, only deeper now—an unguarded trust that made the night itself seem to pause. More.

Without a word, he swung her, their bodies sliding effortlessly into the rhythm of a swing dance, quicker, sharper than any they’d shared before. His hand pressed against the small of her back, guiding each spin, each daring step. The lightning bugs spun with them, a living galaxy drifting in their wake.

Her laughter rang through the bayou, bright and unrestrained. His followed, lower, richer, like a harmony twined with hers. Together they turned and dipped and stepped through the reeds, the pulse of the brand thrumming in time with the music neither could hear but both could feel—an unspoken melody written in heartbeat, breath, and the heat between them.

They spun once more, laughter spilling into the night like champagne from an overfilled glass, lightning bugs scattering and drifting back in their wake. Charlie’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes still alight, and Alastor’s grin curved like the crescent moon overhead.

Neither noticed the reeds at the far edge of the bayou parting ever so slightly.

In the shadowed fringe where the glow of the fireflies could not reach, a figure stood watching. A man—broad-shouldered, straight-backed— his perfect stillness at odds with the restless dark. The moon brushed across his profile for the briefest moment: the sharp line of his jaw, the faint mark of three identical scars parallel on his temple, eyes locked unblinking on the pair.

He didn’t speak, didn’t signal—only observed. Then, with a quiet shift of weight, he stepped back into the waiting black of the bayou. The reeds closed behind him, erasing all trace that he had been there at all, leaving only the low hum of night and the drifting glow of a hundred fireflies.

Chapter Text

Alastor glanced at his wristwatch, the gold bezel twinkled in the morning light. The hands struck their places for nine o’clock sharp. He knocked with three deliberate raps before the door swung open.

“Right on time,” Rosie purred, her gaze flicking over them with a smile that was as lovely as it was edged. “Come in before the kettle decides you’re not worth the trouble.”

Charlie’s eyes went wide the moment they crossed the threshold. The boutique was just as breathtaking as she remembered: a space where beauty draped itself over every surface, and elegance seemed to hum in the air.

They moved through the grand showroom, past sweeping racks of fine fabrics that cascaded in perfect color gradients. Gowns seemed to glow under the soft gaslight, their folds catching and releasing the light like ripples on water. The variety of inventory was as startling as before. It appeared as if every hat, glove, cane, outfit, or accessory imaginable could be found in the showroom. 

But the contents weren’t the only wonder in Rosie’s boutique. The polished floor gleamed enough to catch reflections, stretching the room into something dreamlike. The boutique was grandly elegant. But here and there, the delicate accents and decor revealed themselves to be human bones which were incorporated seamlessly into the design. The walls were dressed in deep garnet wallpaper, its swirling pattern just soft enough to disguise the faint, raised outlines of pressed bone beneath. The macabre sat hand-in-hand with elegance, exactly like Rosie herself.

Rosie’s heels clicked in time as she led them toward a curtained arch at the far end of the showroom. Beyond, the space shifted into a smaller, more intimate sitting room—a cocoon of red velvet and low, golden light. Plush chairs and a settee framed a decorative ivory table where porcelain cups sat waiting beside a tiered tray of pastries. Sunlight poured down from high windows. Its warm glow caught and reflected off the silverware, making each piece glimmer invitingly.

Alastor, ever the gentleman, pulled out a chair for Rosie with an exaggerated flourish. She accepted wordlessly with the grace of someone who’d never been offered anything less. Nyther, who had been hanging affectionately on Charlie’s shadow, pulled himself up. His elongated hands curled around the back of the next chair, drawing it out for her in a smooth, courtly motion. She accepted with a soft smile, and he slid the chair in for her with a perfect, unhurried ease — the kind of attention that suggested he had all the time in the world for her. Once he was sure Charlie was comfortable, he settled himself down and wrapped his umbral form around her shoulders like a shadowy boa. 

Alastor, not to be outdone by his own shadow, stepped away from Rosie’s seat and sauntered the short distance to Charlie. He leaned in with theatrical concentration, brow furrowed like a man trying to solve an especially difficult puzzle, and nudged her chair forward an imperceptible fraction.

Charlie giggled at his antics.

Nyther’s red eyes narrowed. A smoky tail unfurled from his form and gave Alastor’s hand a sharp, dismissive swat.

“Ohhh, protective, are we?” Alastor murmured, voice equal parts smooth and dark.

Nyther signed one sharp, unflattering word.

Alastor’s smile went wolfish. “Now, now, old sport, no need for name-calling in front of the lady. You’ll frighten her into thinking I’m the jealous type.”

Nyther cocked his head, slowly signing: “You are.”

Alastor gave a low chuckle. “Only with good reason.” He leaned in close to Charlie, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial purr and winked theatrically at her, “Which you, my charming demon-belle, most certainly are.”

Nyther’s tufted ears dipped forward in a slow, menacing tilt. His antlers started to crack and extend, the unspoken She likes me better practically radiating from him.

Alastor leaned one elbow on the back of Charlie’s chair, his smirk was toothy and mocking. “I should remind you that without me, you’d be a smudge on the floor. And without you, I’d still be me. With all of her attention.”

Nyther used a crude hand gesture that one didn’t need ASL to understand, and made an exaggerated gesture of pulling Charlie even closer into his dark mantle, as if physically claiming her.

By this point, Charlie was laughing so hard she’d given herself a case of the hiccups. 

Rosie chuckled and poured coffee into one of the three teacups, the steam curling in the golden light. “Boys, play nicely. I’m trying to keep this a civilized morning.”

“Apologies, my dear Rosie.” Alastor said as he slid gracefully into his own chair and smoothed his lapels. Nyther nodded in apology before draping himself comfortably along Charlie’s shoulders again. Rosie’s sharp eyes took in the picture — the warmth in Charlie’s expression, the ease with which Alastor watched her.

Rosie poured tea for herself and Charlie, and without looking up, she asked, “Cream and sugar?” — her tone making it clear she already knew the answer.

“Yes, please,” Charlie sang, her voice breaking slightly with a hic! in the middle. She winced and covered her mouth, cheeks coloring.

Rosie added a generous pour of cream, then removed the lid from the cut-crystal sugar bowl. “One cube or two?” she asked, tongs poised.

“Twelve,” Charlie said without hesitation, tucking a stray lock of hair neatly behind her ear only for another hic! to escape right after.

Rosie froze. One perfectly arched brow climbed toward her hairline. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to Alastor, who was biting the inside of his cheek in a valiant struggle not to laugh. Charlie, meanwhile, sat there politely, entirely oblivious to the absurdity.

“Twelve…” Rosie repeated flatly, as though making sure she’d heard correctly.

Charlie scrunched her nose in thought, lips pursed, before flashing a sunbeam of a smile.

“Actually… thirteen, please,” she said, with a syrupy determination that was impossible to argue with.

That broke Alastor. His shoulders shook with silent laughter, a low chuckle slipping free despite his best efforts.

Rosie gave an incredulous bark of laughter and began plunking cubes into the cup one by one, counting under her breath with exaggerated disbelief: “Seven… eight… nine…” 

When Rosie finally slid the cup across the table, she shook her head. “You are just too adorable,” she cooed, though the sparkle in her eyes suggested she was already deciding if this was naïveté or quiet rebellion.

Charlie accepted the cup with a warm smile and a gracious, “Thank you,” hic! as though thirteen lumps of sugar were the most natural thing in the world.

Before she could take a sip, another hiccup popped out. Alastor tilted his head, his smile sly. “Oh, dear, we can’t have that ruining your tea. Hold still, my dear, I know just the cure.”

He reached across the table, fingers lightly curling around the body of her teacup to cradle it and lifting it to her mouth. “Here. Drink slowly. Small sips. Breathe between each one. Trust me, I’m a professional.”

Charlie wrapped her fingers delicately around his wrists and obediently took a sip, swallowed, and… hic!

Nyther rolled his eyes — which, given his lack of pupils, was somehow still expressive — and signed: “That never works.” He produced a ribbon of shadow that coiled into a perfectly shaped paper fan and began fanning her dramatically, as if the sudden breeze might chase the hiccups away.

Alastor clicked his tongue as he set her teacup aside. “Tch. Clearly, we require more drastic measures.” He leaned forward, gaze gleaming with mischief. “Boo.”

She laughed — hic! — and swatted his arm. “That is not helping!”

Nyther, ever competitive, signed: “I can do better.” He then produced a towering, antlered silhouette on the wall beside her. It loomed ominously like a waking nightmare. Then, with a slow, exaggerated motion, the shadow-monster mimed eating the pastries from the table.

Charlie dissolved into helpless giggles, hiccups rattling between each breath.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Rosie said, though her lips curved in amusement as she sipped her tea. “I’ll have to start charging extra for the entertainment.”

Alastor, undeterred, leaned in close to Charlie’s ear, his voice dropping to a purr. “Perhaps, my dear, the cure is simply distraction.”

Nyther, catching on instantly, curled tighter around her and signed: “Agreed.”

Charlie was caught between the two of them. One wrapping her in warm shadow and the other breathing into her ear. Her cheeks warmed at their proximity and her breath caught in her throat when she gave one final hiccup and blinked in surprise. “Oh! They’re gone!”

Alastor smirked. “You see? Professional.”

Nyther signed: “Team effort.”

Charlie beamed at both of them. “You’re ridiculous. Both of you.”

Rosie set her cup down with a light clink. She settled back in her seat, still smirking, before leaning forward on her elbows. “And how have you been enjoying your time with us humble mortals so far, Charlie?

“Oh, it’s absolutely wonderful!” Charlie said, her whole face lighting up. “The air smells like food here, and humans are just…just.. amazing! People say ‘good morning’ to strangers even when they don’t mean it, the streetcars are full of every kind of person you can imagine—oh!—and I got to visit all the big tourist spots, and I get to listen to Al on the radio every single day—”

She tumbled on, each thought spilling into the next, her voice bubbling with the delight of someone exploring a brand-new world. She shared whatever was on her mind with such exuberance that it was difficult not to be completely taken into the magic of the moment with her. She had that rare gift: to make the mundane feel miraculous.

Alastor found himself watching her, smiling — not with the showman’s polish he so often wore, but with that unguarded, softer, honest, indulgent smile that had been showing up more and more that week. He hadn’t noticed how long he’d been staring when he felt the weight of someone’s eyes. He glanced up to see Rosie smirking at him over the rim of her teacup, sharp and knowing amusement glittering in her gaze.

Alastor’s smile thinned back into something practiced, and he cleared his throat, taking a tactical retreat behind a long sip of coffee. 

Rosie let it go without comment. For now. “So, after a week in my gowns,” she said, turning her attention back to Charlie, “what do you think?”

“They are beautiful,” Charlie said earnestly. “I love them.”

Rosie’s smile warmed. “And no alterations needed?”

Charlie hesitated, glancing down at her lap.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” Rosie coaxed, her tone sweet but edged with truth. “I’m happiest when a client tells me exactly what they need. My craft is a point of pride.”

“It’s not alterations,” Charlie admitted. “More… repairs. On a few of the outfits.”

Rosie blinked, a spark of confusion in her expression.

Alastor looked toward Nyther. “If you would?”

The shadow slipped away from Charlie’s shoulders, twisting into the air before vanishing altogether.

“And why,” Rosie said slowly, glancing at Alastor before her gaze returned to Charlie, “would my dresses need repairing?”

Charlie’s eyes dropped. Alastor took another sip of coffee, his expression unreadable.

Rosie’s voice sharpened—not unkind, but deliberate. “Was it because of the Hunt?”

Alastor didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as twitch. Charlie, however, looked up, astonished. “You know about the Hunt?!”

Rosie laughed, low and short. “Of course I do. I know all about them.” Her smile thinned, her gaze taking on the stillness of something that watches from the dark.

“They think themselves hunters,” she murmured, eyes lowering to her tea, “but every hunter can be starved… or led into a snare. Packs can be scattered, throats opened, meat salted and hung for the crows. And sometimes…” Her gaze rose, locking with Alastor’s like a hook through flesh. “…the hunt ends when something bigger decides you’re worth the trouble of killing.”

She sipped her tea like she’d said nothing at all, porcelain clicking faintly against her teeth. Alastor’s smile sharpened and twitched on the edges. He held her gaze, his chin raised in a subtle stance of defiance, the air between them taut and weighted.

Charlie glanced between them, sensing only that she’d missed something important.

Before Charlie could question it, Rosie tilted her head toward the table. “Have you tried the pastry?”

Charlie’s smile wavered. “I… haven’t yet.”

“What’s wrong?” Rosie asked, her voice all honey but her eyes glinting like cut glass—testing.

Charlie faltered, fingers twisting together as a faint blush crept into her cheeks. “Oh, nothing! I’ve just been having such a lovely time enjoying humanity without, you know… ingesting any of it.” She gave a nervous little laugh, then rushed on, “N-not that there’s anything wrong with that! To each their own, of course! I’m just not….personally…um—”

Alastor’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, his eyes glittering at her flustered scramble.

Rosie’s smile curved in something sharper. “It’s fine, dear. We don’t eat just anyone. Only those who’ve earned it. Those who’ve sinned.”

Charlie’s eyes went wide. “You only eat sinners?”

The older woman’s tone shifted, thoughtful now. “You’ll find most of the residents on Rue Dentelle et des os are particular about such things.” Rosie sipped her tea, unhurried. “Devour the already damned to protect those who can’t protect themselves. Keeps the streets cleaner. And the soul sharper.”

Her gaze slid to Alastor. They shared a knowing smile of a private joke. 

Charlie blinked, processing. “So you’re not really cannibals who eat the rude. You’re actually Sin-eaters?”

Rosie lifted one elegant shoulder in a careless shrug. “More or less the same thing, dear.”

Nyther emerged from the deeper shadows of the shop, his antlered silhouette gliding toward them with slow, deliberate steps. In his long, inky hands, he carried two gowns. Or what was left of them.

Even before he reached the table, Rosie’s smile had begun to falter.

Rosie didn’t speak at first. She took the gowns from Nyther with an almost ceremonial care. Then, without warning, she swept one elegant arm across the table, clearing it of cups, plates, and silverware in a single decisive motion. Alastor caught the teapot before it could shatter; Nyther’s shape swelled and warped, his shadow-stature blooming into something vast, antlered, and tentacled. Glossy black limbs uncoiled and darted forward, each one catching a tumbling saucer or pastry stand with eerie precision. The rescued pieces were placed in perfect order on the buffet against the wall.

Nyther then folded himself back into his usual form, slipping silently to Charlie’s side. 

Rosie spread the dresses across the bare table. Her palms smoothed them flat with slow, deliberate strokes. She studied each wound with a morbid fascination, as if the cloth itself whispered its last moments to her.

The first gown slid into view, and she drew in a sharp, quiet breath. The tea-length day dress was ruined, its ivory buttons gone. The gentle sage green fabric was now marred by a savage slash that cut clean across the waist, as though something had tried to spill its wearer open. The wound gaped, the edges frayed and darkened, as if the fabric itself remembered the violence.

The next was worse. 

The frosted blue peplum blouse with its long sleeves, white cuffs, and a matching hooped white collar had taken her three weeks to perfect. Now, its left sleeve was entirely gone. The ragged seam was shredded with long, vicious claw marks, the fabric puckered around the rents. A strange, tar-like black stain had seeped into the fibers near the shoulder, collar, and waist. The sheen oily and wrong, as though it was still trying to sink deeper into the threads.

Rosie straightened slowly, her voice chilled to something haunting and deliberate.
“You let her wear my work into the jaws of this?”

Alastor’s answering smile was infuriatingly polite, the sort that dripped with both manners and mockery. “I assure you, dear Rosie, the state of the gowns was merely an unfortunate side effect of keeping the wearer safe.”

“That’s not the point.” Her eyes narrowed. “A gentleman doesn’t put a lady in the path of claws, curses, or whatever left that—” she flicked two fingers toward the black-stained gown.

Charlie sat straighter, cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t his fault, I—”

Rosie lifted a hand out towards her, a silent command to stop. “Darling, you’re lovely and I adore you already, but don’t defend him when he’s being reckless.”

Alastor’s head tilted, voice silken with exaggerated civility. “Oh, come now, Rosie. ‘Reckless’ suggests I didn’t have control of the situation. I take less-than-ideal circumstances and make them work out for the best. Some might call it… daring opportunism.”

“And some might call it negligence,” Rosie retorted, her hands on her hips.

Alastor’s smirk curled sharper, his tone feather-light. “Negligence? My dear, I assure you, Charlie is being well looked after.” He lifted his cup in a mock-toast, unbothered. Nyther’s shadowy form leaned protectively against Charlie’s shoulder, nuzzling at her neck like a velvet whisper of agreement.

“Besides,” Alastor went on, flicking his wrist as though batting the thought aside, “she’s a literal demon from Hell. Hardly fragile porcelain. I daresay she can handle herself just fine.”

Rosie huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose in theatrical exasperation. Then she leveled her gaze at Alastor, cool and unwavering. “My point is, why should she have to?” Rosie didn’t look away from Alastor. “You may not have meant to, but you have treated her innocence like armor. That is not our way. The Needlebound do not cut what they cannot mend, and you are slicing at this girl’s thread. Unraveling her into the unbound shadows.”

That stopped him. His mask slipped enough to show a flash of fear in his eyes, his smile looking more forced than usual.

“If you keep dragging her into the teeth of danger, then perhaps I should finish what was started the day we met,” Rosie said, her voice laced with a finality that left no room for argument. In that moment, the air seemed to bend toward her, as if the very room acknowledged the authority she carried. Every word dripped with the certainty of someone who believed herself judge, jury, and executioner—and had the strength to make good on it.

He recovered quickly, voice still smooth but lighter, teasing—almost. “Now, Rosie, you know some situations are less than ideal. I don’t intend to put her in danger but—”

His laugh cut sharp and sudden, too bright, too quick, like glass breaking under pressure. He leaned back in his chair, all lazy poise, but his eyes were aflame—hungry, glittering, unblinking.

“—but I must say, I do love how certain you sound.” His smile stretched wider, not warm but what looked near feral, his teeth flashing like he meant to use them. “To finish what was started? Oh, my dear, you make it sound so simple and neat. One clean stroke and it’s over.”

He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, voice soft as a caress but steeped in venom. “You should know by now, there is nothing simple about me.”

For a moment, the room felt tighter, the shadows behind him shifting as if restless. Then he chuckled again, light and airy, as if it were all a joke only he found funny.

Alastor’s laugh still lingered in the air, sharp and unsettling, when Charlie suddenly broke in, her voice too bright with conviction in her attempt to break the tension.

“We have to bring down the Hunt! That is the wish I’m here to grant.”

Rosie’s head snapped toward her, the weight of her authority shifting in an instant. “What?”

Charlie sat up straighter, chin lifting as determination burned in her, hoping to defend Alastor’s character. “It’s part of our soul bond. I can’t go home until the Hunt is destroyed.”

She unbuttoned the front of her blouse.  She tugged the fabric aside to bare just enough of her chest. The curve of her cleavage caught the light, smooth and beautiful, a glimpse of something delicate and wholly feminine. Between the gentle swell of her breasts, over her heart was the faintly glowing brand. The sigil pulsed dimly, a living ember etched into flesh, both haunting and beautiful.

Alastor was pointedly looking away, his cheeks and ears ablaze. Nyther stared transfixed at the mark. His red eyes danced with a dark and possessive fascination. Rosie’s eyes fixed on the mark, her lips pressed into a tight line.

Her voice dropped, cold and precise. “Threadbound…” The word was spoken with reverence, but also with warning. Her hand ghosted over the ruined cloth before her. “So fate stitched her to our war, has it?”

Rosie’s gaze slid back to Alastor, sharp and knowing. And Alastor—usually the very portrait of composure with a perfect, practiced smile was a mess. His ears flushed scarlet, his collar tugged a shade too tight against his throat. He fought valiantly not to glance back, but his eyes betrayed him with the smallest, traitorous flick toward the pale slip of Charlie’s chest before snapping guiltily away again.

The great radio host, the mysterious and suave man, looked like a schoolboy caught between a hymnbook and a scandalous magazine. His grin wavered, the silk of it fraying into something tight and nervous, as though every ounce of his energy was going into not staring.

Rosie exhaled through her nose, her anger cooling just enough to let out an incredulous chuckle. “Oh, Alastor…” she murmured, shaking her head. “For all your sharp teeth and shadows, one glimpse of her and you’re undone.”

Nyther, of course, had no such scruples. His burning eyes lingered shamelessly on the brand, his serpentine hold curling protectively tighter around Charlie’s shoulders as though daring anyone—even Alastor—to contest his claim.

At the shift in mood within the room, Charlie quickly buttoned her blouse again, fingers fumbling a little. She gave a small, nervous laugh as if to dismiss the heaviness, though she shivered when Nyther’s velvet-dark muzzle brushed against her neck in a strangely tender nuzzle.

Rosie’s gaze lingered a moment longer before she turned her attention back to Alastor. “Tell me, dear,” she said lightly, but with an edge, “did you follow my advice from the last time we spoke?”

Alastor’s eyes cut to hers, his smile returning like a mask hastily reapplied. But he hesitated just a beat too long, and that hesitation was answer enough.

“I thought not,” Rosie said, the words crisp as she exhaled a theatrical sigh. She gestured toward the ruined gowns. “Originally, I confess, I felt a touch of guilt for making the call. But now? My conscience is as spotless as freshly bleached linen.”

That landed. For the first time in the exchange, Alastor looked caught off guard—smile thinning as his brow twitched faintly.

Charlie blinked, caught between them. “What call? What are you talking about?”

Rosie turned back to her, all warmth again. “I simply rang for someone to keep Alastor out from underfoot while I take your measurements and see you properly fitted. Someone dependable.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, his smile sharpening into something dangerous. “You didn’t…” he growled low.

Rosie met his glare with a languid tilt of her head, her eyes half-lidded in unimpressed calm. “I did. And you’d do well to show a little more respect to the man to whom you owe your very life.”

That hit its mark. Alastor stiffened, his usual charm strained.

Rosie glanced toward the clock on the wall. The second hand ticked forward with a faint click. “Nearly half past nine. He’ll be here any moment.”

As if summoned, the curtain at the edge of the room shifted and a man stepped through.

He was older, but handsome in a way that carried both history and vitality. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed neatly back, his short beard, just past stubble, was trimmed to perfection, outlining the sharp line of his jaw. His suit was a rich burgundy, tailored so flawlessly. It’s seams left visible in a bold decoration across the suit.

But it was his scars that drew the eye: three pale, parallel lines carved cleanly across his temple. They stood out starkly white against his tan, sun-kissed skin. These were not the careless marks of an accident, but something chosen, ritualistic, and still whispering of their purpose.

He smiled the moment he spotted them, a brightness that lifted the air, and crossed the room in a stride that was both graceful and assured.

“Rosie!” He announced happily as he opened his arms wide.

“Bastien, it’s so wonderful to see you.” Rosie said. She wasted no time rushing to him. She laughed as he pulled her into a strong hug that lifted her nearly off the floor.

Once Rosie stepped away after being placed back on her feet, Alastor—composed as ever—offered a hand in cool, measured politeness.

It was his first mistake.

Bastien glanced down at the extended hand and let out a low chuckle.
 “Ah, the hand trick again? You know better than that, boy.”

Before Alastor could retreat, Bastien seized the hand like an anchor and yanked, dragging him into a bear hug so crushing, it made the embrace with Rosie look like a polite handshake.

Alastor grunted, eyes flicking skyward with all the long-suffering of a man who had endured this before. His smile held, but just barely—piano-wire tight.

“Ah, yes. How delightful,” he drawled, voice muffled into the older man’s shoulder. “Nothing says proper greeting quite like testing whether my spine still bends the wrong way.”

Rosie and Charlie each stifled their laughter—one more successfully than the other—their shoulders shaking.

At last Bastien let go, leaving Alastor to straighten his lapels with exaggerated care, like a stage actor recovering from a pratfall. “Always a pleasure,” he sighed, the words soaked in sarcasm, though his eyes betrayed the faintest spark of reluctant fondness.

Nyther rippled with joy. He rushed forward to meet the man, his shadow-claws fluttered furiously in excited signs. The man laughed, deep and genuine, and answered in perfect sign language, his own movements smooth and practiced.

Only once the greetings had quieted did he turn his attention to Charlie. His brown eyes locked onto her with an intensity that made her breath catch. They didn’t simply look at her; they read her, as though she were a page already underlined, with notes written in the margin.

Bowing low, he reached out and brought her knuckles up into a chaste kiss. “Enchantée, mademoiselle. I am Bastien Lafayette.”

Charlie smiled sweetly, “It’s wonderful to meet you Mr. Lafayette. My name is Charlie.”

Behind her, Alastor’s smile remained fixed, but the edges had sharpened like a razor. His eyes narrowed, the faintest flash of possessive irritation flickering in their depth. Nyther, who had been so happy only moments ago, now rippled with a silent growl.

Rosie, ever perceptive, let out a theatrical sigh through her nose, amused despite herself. It was comical how Alastor could face off with literal eldritch horrors without flinching but was unraveling like a spool of yarn at the sight of another man kissing his belle’s hand. “The boys have catching up to do.” Rosie said brightly, herding Charlie toward the doorway, “Come, darling, let’s see you measured and fitted properly.”

The curtain had barely swayed shut before Bastien’s palm came down warm and solid onto Alastor’s shoulder.

“She’s quite the beauty,” he said.

Alastor froze. Nyther bristled, antlers sharpening, his head snapping toward Bastien with something close to a snarl.

Alastor’s grin twitched at the corners, his eyes narrowed. “She,” his voice smooth but edged, “is none of your concern.”

Bastien chuckled, utterly unbothered, and slung an arm around his shoulders as though they were conspirators. “Come now, I don’t mean it like that. You know your mother is the only lady for me.”

Alastor made a noise halfway between a grunt and a gag, rolling his eyes and resisting the urge to peel the man’s arm off.

But Bastien didn’t let go. His smile gentled, his tone lowering into something almost confessional. “I mean it, Al. When you find your special someone—your sewmate—you can just tell.” 

“Sewmate?” Alastor repeated with lidded eyes, his tone dripping in mockery.

Bastien chucked to himself.

“A Heartknot.” He clarified with a single shoulder shrug. “You see it in a man’s eyes when he’s looking at her.” He winked. “And I know this Charlie is yours. I saw it plain as day in the bayou. Dancing with her by the glow of the lightning bugs?” His blissful tone dropped away with a dramatic sigh. His tone and expression turned darker, the humor was gone. “I never knew you were such a romantic.”

Alastor’s stomach dropped. His grin held, but the color drained from his face.

The air in the room shifted, heavy and taut, pressing in like a held breath.

Bastien’s hand lingered on his shoulder, its warmth turned to iron. His voice, though still even, lost all trace of levity. “You were forbidden to look into the Hunt on your own.”

“Maître…?” Alastor asked tentatively, his mind racing with ways to better spin this situation. A defense to the mess that he now found himself in. 

Bastien’s gaze didn’t waver, it intensified.

The room seemed to contract around them. Alastor’s grin held, but its edges were taut. Nyther uncoiled at Alastor’s feet, antlers rising tall as his form stretched and darkened. He loomed behind Alastor, shadow-claws flexing in a silent warning. His presence a silent snarl of defiance, prepared to shield his master if needed but unwilling to move against their once teacher.

Bastien finally released his shoulder, though the ghost of that iron grip lingered like a burn. His knowing eyes studied Alastor with an intensity that felt searing.

Outside the sitting room, the sounds of footsteps echoed faintly, the squeal of hangers being pulled across a clothing rack, and the soft murmur of Charlie’s laughter drifted in. The sound was bright and unaware of the ever-looming tension.

“There are consequences for one’s actions, Alastor.”

Charlie stood on the center platform in front of the three enormous mirrors, the gown hugging her like a second skin. Midnight silk spilled down from her hips in a smooth, liquid fall, the fabric catching light every time she shifted. The cut was low in the front, her back was completely exposed, the dip of the fabric settled beautifully at the cinched waist, before fanning out in a soft pool at her feet. A few glittering beadwork accents dusted the fabric at the edges.

Rosie was circling Charlie, pins between her teeth, fussing with the line of the skirt. She tugged at a seam, smoothed her hand down Charlie’s side, then stepped back to admire her work with a happy sigh.

“Look at you,” Rosie said warmly, pulling the pins free. “Just look at you. I swear, darling, I haven’t been able to stop designing since you walked out of here on Tuesday. The moment you left, I started sketching — the ideas wouldn’t quit. I’ve already finished six gowns.”

Rosie carefully collected Charlie’s hair and arranged it onto her shoulder.

“I have to admit that you’ve become my muse.”

Charlie’s smile bloomed, shy and sweet. “Thank you.

Rosie hummed softly and met Charlie’s eyes in the mirror’s reflection. “What do you think?”

Charlie flushed, her eyes flicking to her reflection. “I love it. I just… I don’t think I’ll ever have an occasion to wear something this fancy.”

Rosie waved a dismissive hand, as though the thought were too silly to entertain. “Nonsense, dear. Alastor has black-tie events all the time. Radio galas, sponsor dinners, that dreadful social club he refuses to quit. You’ll wear this at one of those.” She winked and gave a saucy sway of her shoulders. “Call it a work-date.”

Charlie’s blush deepened instantly. “A… date?”

Rosie smirked at her reflection in the mirror. “Mm-hm. And judging by that little blush, you’d like that very much.” Rosie teased sweetly, unclasping the dress and peeling the silk down in one smooth motion. She folded it neatly and set it atop the ever-growing yes pile beside the settee. “Now then—”

She plucked a peasant tunic of royal blue silk off a nearby rack and slipped it over Charlie’s head, already reaching for the ties in back. “Lift your arms. That’s it. Oh, look at that waist,” she said, cinching the fabric tight until it shaped neatly to Charlie’s frame. “Honestly, darling, if I had your proportions, I’d never let anyone look away from me.”

Charlie laughed, trying not to squirm. “You make me sound like some kind of model.”

“Darling, I would pay you to model for me anytime.” Rosie said, tugging one last cord before stepping back. “Hmm… It’s nice enough, but it's not an immediate ‘yes’. Let’s try another.”

She whisked the tunic off again and reached for something deeper, richer — a gown the color of red wine. A Blondell dress.

Charlie caught her breath the moment Rosie unveiled it. The red was bold, commanding, impossible to look away from.

“Ohh…” she whispered.

Rosie chuckled. “Exactly. One of my favorites, too.”

She eased the gown over Charlie, smoothing the straps over her shoulders and adjusting the fit with a tug at the hips. No pins this time. No fiddling. The gown settled perfectly, like it had been waiting for her all along. It hugged her through the bodice and waist, then sculpted her hips with a deliberate, precise elegance before blooming into a soft flare at the knee — the flutter hem catching just enough air to sway elegantly with the slightest movement. It was graceful, fluid, and unmistakably made to be admired in motion.

Charlie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her hands floated to her waist, then drifted down the line of the gown as though to confirm it was real. “It’s… it’s gorgeous.”

Rosie, still crouched slightly at her side, stood and gave an emphatic nod. “I know.”

Charlie turned toward her in the mirror, a little dazed. “I love it.”

Rosie beamed. “Perfect. Because I made it in four different colors.”

Before Charlie could respond, Rosie was already moving, a blur of heels and fabric. One by one, she yanked down the color variations with dramatic flourishes and laid all four onto the growing mountain of approved dresses.

Charlie broke into a fit of bright laughter, the sound echoing through the mirrors like bells.

“I’m brilliant,” Rosie praised herself, smugly brushing her hands together as though she’d just solved an unsolvable problem. “Alastor will adore this one.”

Charlie’s face went pink again. “Rosie—”

Rosie leaned one elbow on the rack, her lips curving into a knowing smirk. “Oh, sweetheart. You can’t fool me. Tell me—what exactly is going on between you and that man?”

Charlie’s blush deepened, but she shook her head quickly. “Nothing. We’re just… business partners. That’s all.”

Rosie blinked, visibly confused at the reply. “Business partners?” she repeated, her tone laced with disbelief.

She moved behind Charlie, unclasping the Blondell dress and sliding it down with expert hands, folding it carefully before draping it over the rack. “Let’s try something else,” she said softly, almost absently, as though her mind were whirring.

From a hanger, Rosie lifted a gown in white silk — a Madeleine Vionnet bias-cut dress, all liquid lines and elegance, the fabric draping with the weightless ease of water poured over a sculpture. She guided it over Charlie’s head, tugged the silk into place, and stepped back.

The cut plunged low enough at the neckline that the faint glow of Charlie’s brand was visible — etched faintly like firelight on her skin.

Rosie’s eyes softened instantly with understanding. “Ah,” she murmured. “So that’s what you meant.”

Charlie’s hand instinctively rose to cover the mark. Her lashes fluttered downward, her voice small. “It’s part of our bond. We are connected until the wish is granted.” Charlie’s fingers hovered over the brand, her eyes searching it as if the answers were hidden in its intricate design. “I am here to fulfill his summons, not to be…anything more.”

Rosie tilted her head, then reached out and gently brushed Charlie’s hand aside so the mark was bare again. “Maybe,” she said gently, “but that doesn’t change how you feel.”

Charlie swallowed, looking away.

Rosie stepped back and nodded toward the settee, her tone warm and coaxing now. “Come, darling, sit. I’m as good at listening as I am at sewing — better, when it comes to matters of the heart.”

She sat down first, arranging her skirts, then patted the velvet cushion beside her. After a moment’s hesitation, Charlie joined her, perching delicately like a child summoned for a secret.

“Now,” Rosie said, folding one leg over the other and turning fully toward her. “Be honest with yourself. Forget the contract, forget the bond. Tell me — what is it you really feel about him?”

Charlie stared down at her hands. Her fingers twisted together nervously, then she drew in a small, steadying breath. “He’s… charming,” she began, voice soft. “And handsome. And funny.”

Rosie’s smile twitched knowingly. “Mmm. Yes, but you’re listing the things anyone could see. What about what you see?”

Charlie’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to go on. “He makes me feel…” She faltered, her eyes searching the room as though for the right words. “Safe. And seen. Like I matter. Not just because of the bond, not because he has to. But because he wants to.”

Her voice wavered, her brand glowing faintly brighter at the admission. “But most of all… I love that with him I’m always laughing. Or dancing.”

Rosie tilted her head, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Dancing, hm? That says a lot.”

Charlie glanced at her, caught off guard. “It does?”

“Oh, darling,” Rosie said, leaning closer, her voice velvet-smooth. “Dancing isn’t about steps. It’s about trust. It’s about letting someone lead without feeling controlled. About moving together until you’re not thinking anymore — you’re just… being.”

Charlie’s lips parted in a small breath, her thoughts spilling into the silence. “When we dance, I forget everything else. It’s just us. I don’t feel awkward, or wrong, or… other. I feel like I belong.”

Rosie reached out, taking Charlie’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Then you’ve already answered your own question, darling doll. You don’t just like him. You’re already halfway gone.”

Charlie blinked, heart fluttering at the truth of it.

Rosie smiled, gentle but sly.

Charlie’s gaze lingered on the glowing brand over her heart, then slipped away again. “But… I haven’t known him that long, really,” she murmured. “It might just be… a silly crush. Something superficial.”

Rosie gave a soft laugh, low and warm, and squeezed her hand again. “Oh, darling. Time means nothing. It’s the moments that matter, not the minutes. You could spend years with a man and feel nothing. Or one night, and it can change your whole thread.”

Charlie frowned slightly. “But he’s polite to everyone. Charming to everyone. Maybe I’m just reading too much into it.”

Rosie leaned back against the settee, shaking her head. “No, no. That’s where you’re wrong.” Her eyes softened, glowing with certainty. “He’s polite with everyone. He’s charming with everyone. But with you?” She leaned forward, tapping a finger against Charlie’s knee for emphasis. “With you, he’s softer. He’s genuine. You can hear it in his voice. See it in the way he looks at you.”

Charlie blinked at her, caught between disbelief and hope.

Rosie’s smile tilted into something fond, almost nostalgic. “I’ve known him since he was a boy — barely a teenager with more teeth than sense. He’s fooled many since then, but not me. And certainly not now. Believe me, doll, I can tell when his mask is on.” She held Charlie’s gaze steady. “And when he’s with you? It slips.”

Charlie looked down, her long golden hair slid forward, covering her face like a curtain. Rosie chuckled softly, not needing to see her face to know that Charlie was thinking.

She reached over to pat Charlie’s head affectionately. “You’ve undone him more than you realize.” A beat passed, then Rosie added slyly, “And don’t look so terrified of it. A girl deserves to know the effect she has.”

Charlie’s blush deepened, but she didn’t argue.

Rosie slipped her hand out and gathered Charlie’s golden hair, sweeping it over one shoulder for better access. The strands gleamed in the light, fine as spun sunlight. “Darling, you shouldn’t be embarrassed.”

She divided the hair into neat sections and began to braid, her voice warm and steady as her hands worked. “Feelings like this are wonderful. A true gift. It would be a shame to waste them. These are the moments to cherish — the stolen glances, the warm embraces, the dances…”

Charlie smiled sweetly, looking up at Rosie through her long lashes. Her thoughts miles away at the memory of him holding her tight, his lips on hers. Charlie sighs dreamily,  “The feeling of melting into a kiss—”

At that word, she tensed beneath Rosie’s hands. Her eyes flicked away, down to her lap, avoiding the mirror.

Rosie froze mid-braid, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “Oh-ho.” Her grin spread slow and sharp. “What was that little flinch, hmm?”

Charlie waved a hand quickly, flustered. “Nothing, it’s nothing—”

“Ohhh no,” Rosie leaned forward, her grin sharpening. “I know that look. Out with it.”

Charlie twisted in her seat, searching for escape. “It wasn’t even him, so it doesn’t matter—”

Rosie’s brows shot up, her whole face lighting. “Wasn’t him? Oh-ho-ho! Then who, pray tell?”

Charlie froze, realizing too late what she’d said, her eyes blown wide, lips pressed tight.

“Oh no, darling,” Rosie purred, leaning in with predatory delight. “You don’t get to dangle that in front of me and not explain.”

Charlie groaned, covering her face with both hands. “Rosie—!”

Rosie practically bounced on the settee, delighted. “Don’t you dare hide from me, doll. Who kissed you? When? Where? Tell me everything!”

Charlie lowered her hands just enough to peek out miserably. “…It was Nyther.”

For a beat, Rosie just blinked.

Then she burst out laughing — loud, rich, unrestrained laughter that filled the fitting room and echoed against the mirrors. She slapped her knee, doubled over, tears welling at the corners of her eyes.

“Oh, this is priceless!” she wheezed. “The shadow kissed you before the man did? Oh, darling, I couldn’t have written that better myself!”

Charlie pouted, flustered. “It wasn’t funny!”

“Not funny to you, perhaps,” Rosie chuckled, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “But for me? It’s the best gossip I’ve had all year.” She leaned back, grinning wickedly. “So tell me, was it good?”

Charlie buried her face in her hands again with a groan.

Rosie smiled slyly. “Well? Don’t leave me hanging.”

Charlie was quiet for a long moment before her voice slipped out, muffled. “It was amazing.” She peeked out, blushing furiously. “Better than amazing but… also confusing.”

Rosie arched a brow, intrigued. “Confusing?”

Charlie bit her lip, staring down at her knees. “Are Nyther and Al the same person or different? I mean… I share a brand with both of them. They can talk to each other with this weird mind-link thingy, but they still act so different. They even argue with each other. So if I kiss one… am I kissing both? Do I have to pick just one?”

The questions tumbled out in a rush before she groaned and pressed her palms to her face again. “Ugh, this is too much.”

Rosie’s teasing smile softened into something warmer. She reached out and rubbed Charlie’s back in slow, soothing circles, humming thoughtfully. “Oh, doll…” she said, her tone half amusement, half sympathy. “You’ve gotten yourself into a very particular sort of tangle.”

Rosie gathered up the gowns from the yes pile, folding them with practiced swiftness before laying them carefully across her arms. “Alright, darling, that’s enough fashion confessions for one morning. Let’s get you back into your own clothes before the boys get suspicious.”

Charlie nodded, stepping down from the platform as Rosie helped her slip out of the white bias-cut dress. She stood in her camisole and stockings for a moment, the air cooler now without the silks clinging to her. Rosie passed her the pale yellow blouse with its bishop sleeves, then smoothed the fabric across her shoulders once Charlie slid it on.

“The boys should be done talking by now,” Rosie said with a little sigh, as though expecting trouble.

Charlie tugged her blouse straight, then stepped into her knee-length black skirt. She hesitated before asking, “Rosie… Mr. Lafayette...Who is he? If it’s not rude to ask.”

Rosie chuckled, moving to fasten the last button at Charlie’s collar. “It’s alright, hun. Bastien is a dear friend. Has been for decades.”

Charlie nodded, bending to slip into her T-strap shoes. “And… is he a friend of Al’s too?”

Rosie straightened, a smirk tugging at her lips as she looked over her shoulder at Charlie. “Worried about your beau?”

Charlie went pink again, but she nodded.

Rosie smiled at her and answered. “He’s Alastor’s teacher.”

“Teacher?” Charlie repeated, startled.

Rosie’s eyes twinkled. “Bastien Lafayette is a Stitchbinder.” She announced triumphantly.

She ushered Charlie out of the fitting room, guiding her back into the boutique’s main room. She set the armful of gowns on the glass counter with precise care, as if laying out sacred relics.

“Rosie… what’s a Stitchbinder? I’ve never heard of that before.”

Rosie’s lips curved, clearly charmed. “Mm, good girl. Always asking questions.”

Rosie strode ahead with the casual authority of a queen in her court. Charlie followed, adjusting the hem of her skirt with shy fingers.

Then, turning to Charlie, Rosie answered. “They’re like a kind of shaman for the Needlebound. The strongest practitioners of our magic. They don’t just stitch fabric, darling — they stitch lives. Souls, ghosts, spells. A Stitchbinder can mend rips left in people by curses, poisons, or grief. They can weave protections into garments that last for generations. And when they must…” She leaned in, eyes glinting with wicked delight. “…they can unravel their enemies just as neatly as they stitch their friends whole.”

Charlie’s eyes widened, floored.

Rosie chuckled and plucked a cloche hat from its stand, setting it on Charlie’s head before tilting it to the side. “The Needlebound, darling, believe the world itself is a great cloth. And if you know where to cut, where to bind, where to mend—you can remake almost anything.” She tapped Charlie’s nose. “A life, a curse, even destiny itself.”

Charlie’s lips parted in awe. “Needlebound… Maverick mentioned them once. He said they were a good cult. That they grant miracles.”

Rosie’s smile widened, her eyes dancing with a private joke. “It’s true. We are good. And we can indeed create miracles.”

She removed the cloche with a shake of her head, exchanged it for a wide-brimmed hat, and adjusted it with a practiced eye—only to cluck her tongue and replace it again. She circled Charlie like a sculptor examining her finest marble, selecting hat after hat from nearby stands and boxes. A velvet pillbox was tried and dismissed with a frown. A feathered tilt-hat earned a thoughtful hum before it, too, was gently set aside.

Charlie let her fuss, patient and amused, until Rosie finally placed a pale lace sunhat atop her golden braid. Charlie turned slowly at Rosie’s command and asked,  “Rosie… is that the same as sin-eating?”

Rosie froze for a moment, then broke into a slow, indulgent smile, as though the question delighted her. “Not exactly.” She pulled a fascinator from its hatbox and snapped the lid shut. “There is a branch of Needlebound belief that considers sin-eating part of the process—an extension of our duty to preserve the innocent threads.”

She dropped the chosen hats on the counter next to the dresses, then led Charlie toward a tall cabinet filled with delicate gloves, opening a drawer and drawing out a pair stitched with tiny seed pearls. 

As she slipped one onto Charlie’s hand, she explained, “The idea is simple, darling: sins are like a bad stitch pulled through fine fabric. One wrong thread, and it begins to pucker—snagging the weave, warping the shape. If left untouched, the flaw spreads. A single weakness unraveling all that’s clean and carefully made. Tearing through the innocent threads until nothing is left but a tangle.” She smoothed the glove over Charlie’s wrist, her tone softening. “To protect what’s still whole, some of us take those disgusting snaged strands into ourselves. We cut them away from the others, neatly and quietly, so the cloth around them stays untangled. It is not done lightly. And when we consume…” She glanced up, smiling faintly. “…we use every piece of what we take in. Nothing wasted.”

Her hand swept in a graceful arc toward the boutique around them, the polished bones woven seamlessly into the design. “Hence the décor, my love. An honest reminder of what we preserve, and what it costs.”

Charlie’s eyes widened, her gaze flicking around the room with new understanding.

Rosie chuckled, pulling off the testing glove and patting her cheek. “Not all Needlebound are cannibals, mind you. But those who dwell here, on Rue Dentelle et des os?” She spread her hands, her smile sharp and unapologetic. “Yes. We are.”

Rosie hummed contentedly to herself, moving from drawer to drawer, pulling out earrings, belts, a satin wrap—all laid before Charlie with excitement only barely concealed beneath her usual poise.

Charlie didn’t speak at first. She watched Rosie with soft eyes, as her wandering mind was elsewhere—with the two who shared her brand.

She cleared her throat gently, voice careful, curious. “Rosie… how did Mr. Lafayette meet Alastor?”

The shop owner’s eyes softened with fondness at the sight. “You have such an inquisitive mind,” she teased, testing a pair of satin gloves against Charlie’s hand.  “No wonder Alastor enjoys your company so.”

Charlie pressed her lips together, eyes wide half in awe, half unsettled, but still leaning forward like a child begging for another story.

Rosie’s steps slowed. She set down the approved gloves she carried and moved to a shelf of shoes, running her fingertips across leather and beadwork as though the textures might anchor her.

“Bastien found him,” she said at last, her voice lower, gentler. She plucked a pair of black satin heels, examined the clasp, and offered them to Charlie without looking up. “He was storming a Black Hunt compound when he came across Alastor and his mother, prisoners of the Huntsmen. He saved them both and brought them back here, to Rue Dentelle et des os.”

Rosie sighed sadly at the recollection and passed a pair of ruby red Mary Janes to Charlie before continuing.

“The Hunt and the Needlebound have warred for centuries, so granting sanctuary was a given.”

Charlie held the shoes with trembling fingers, her heart clenching at the thought.

“His mother…” Rosie’s lips curved into something almost reverent. “Ms. Valios was remarkable. Strong enough to resist the Hunt’s toxins and mutated shadows. Her body was scarred, but her spirit was iron. But Alastor…” Rosie selected a pair of pearl-heeled pumps and lined them neatly on the counter, her eyes dark with memory. “…he was just a child. Too young. Too soft. And the Hunt—” she exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “They twisted him on an almost molecular level. Poisoned his shadow. Warped him so deeply I wasn’t sure he’d ever be whole.”

The blonde pressed her hand over her brand, eyes bright with unshed tears.

Rosie selected several polished oxfords and a pair of strappy pumps, lining them neatly for Charlie to try later. “Honestly,” she admitted, “none of us thought he’d last as long as he did. I’ve never seen anyone survive the horrors they put him through. We believed he would succumb to the darkness, sooner or later.” She glanced back at Charlie with a faint, bittersweet smile. “But he didn’t.”

Charlie stood rooted to the spot, throat tight, trying to take it all in. Her eyes followed Rosie as she glided from one display to the next, plucking treasures from each. Her tone softened further as she moved to the coats, smoothing the fabric between her fingers. “Bastien… he refused to let the boy be lost. He took Al under his wing. Taught him how to survive the poison, how to harness the very warping that should have killed him. Trained him. Stitched him back together, piece by fragile piece. He taught him to weave Needlebound mysticism through the Hunt’s corrosive shadowcraft, to make something livable out of something monstrous.”

She turned back to Charlie, several coats and shawls draped over her arm like a stole. Her smile was faint, but there was pride threaded through it. “What came out of that is something entirely new. Not Hunt. Not Needlebound. Something greater than both.”

Rosie leaned close, her painted lips curving into something sharp and fond. “Your beau, Alastor, carries a magic that is his alone. Something that should not exist, and yet does. A miracle stitched together by survival, blood, and a teacher who refused to let him unravel.”

Charlie stood silent, breath caught in her chest, as Rosie swept past her to lay the accessories down.

The boutique was still silent, having not yet been opened to the public. The only sounds were the soft clack of keys on Rosie’s register and the scratch of her pen as she tallied Charlie’s finds. The hush felt fragile, like the pause between notes of a song.

It broke at last when the curtain to the back room stirred and parted.

Bastien emerged first, humming some old, nameless tune, his broad hand landing with an easy clap on Alastor’s shoulder. The younger man rolled his eyes at the contact but did not shrug it off, his smile restrained, touched faintly with strain. Rosie, still fussing with the register, glanced up and let out a silken laugh. “There they are,” she declared, an elegant smile curving across her lips as she began ringing up the mountain of gowns, shoes, and accessories.

Alastor’s gaze swept the room — and lit the instant it landed on Charlie. His smile softened, eyes brightening in a way that dissolved the faint tension in his posture. He started to stride forward but Nyther moved quicker.

The shadow peeled away from Alastor and slithered across the polished floor. In a heartbeat, he was at Charlie’s side, coiling protectively around her shoes before rising up her arm like a living shawl.

Charlie shrieked happily as Nyther nuzzled her neck affectionately.

Alastor stepped forward, eyeing his shadow before smiling kindling to Charlie, his voice warm. “How did it go?” His eyes followed Charlie’s shy, glowing smile — and then caught on the teetering mountain of dresses and accessories piled onto Rosie’s counter. He raised one brow, lips twitching. “…Foolish question.”

Charlie laughed softly, tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear.

Bastien came up beside him, tilting his head to better admire the pile. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he leaned down to Alastor. “My boy, you should know by now — Rosie is never subtle. It’s go big or go home with this one.”

Rosie gasped in mock offense, hand pressed to her chest. “Excuse me, Mister Lafayette, are you accusing me of indulgence? This is restraint.” She gestured to the pile with a flourish. “You should see the things I didn’t let her take home.”

Bastien barked a laugh, patting Alastor’s shoulder again, nearly jostling him. “That’s restraint?”

Alastor gave a dramatic sigh, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “I shudder to think.” He turned back to Charlie and winked. “At least one of us seems to have enjoyed themselves.”

Charlie lit up instantly, hugging one of the wrapped boxes to her chest. “I definitely did,” she beamed. “It was so much fun—and Rosie’s work is just so beautiful.”

From beside her, Nyther rose higher, his form blooming like a shadow stretching to full height. He signed slowly, deliberately, with broad, swooping gestures. His smoke fingers moved fluidly through the air, his glowing red eyes never leaving her.

Charlie tried to follow, brow furrowing as she worked to catch the meaning. “Wait—‘lovely’…‘frame’…what was that last part?”

Alastor was watching and narrowing his eyes. He started translating, his voice strained but steady, “The clothes are lovely, but they’re just the frame. You’re the masterpiece that makes them worth looking at.”

Charlie blinked and, for a moment, was stunned before a laugh escaped as she flushed, her face a bright crimson.

Alastor cleared his throat and tried to continue "'And if I—'" He broke off, jaw tightening, feeling a faint blush creep up his neck. "Nope, that's enough of that." He waved his hand dismissively at his shadow. 

Nyther looked at Alastor expectantly, but the latter just shook his head.. 

"I'm not saying that." He said, his grin straining at the corners. "It's far too mushy."

Nyther made a scathing face. 

Charlie tilted her head in curiosity, "What is it?" 

Bastien leaned in with a sly grin. "'If I had a heart that beat like yours, then every time you smiled, it would be a complete mess. Thankfully, I don't - so I can just admire you without dying.'" 

Alastor groaned, dragging his hand down his face. 

Charlie giggled uncontrollably, watching Nyther bow again, his smoky fingers flourishing while he enjoyed her laughter. 

Rosie finally took pity, snapping her register drawer shut with definitive emphasis. “Alright, enough of that— I need to finish with you all and then open for the day. She announces kindly but with faux sternness. "Anything else before I finish ringing this up?"

"Yes," Alastor said at once, seizing the distraction. "A trench coat."

Rosie arched her brow. "For you? Darling, what happened to your last one?"

"Not mine," he corrected evenly, "Maverick's. I owe him a new one."

Charlie blinked. “The one I borrowed? I hung it in the closet of your spare room.”

Alastor gave a small shrug. “Yes. But it has since been incinerated.”

“What?!” Charlie’s voice pitched in confusion, eyes wide. “When?! Why?!”

“On Wednesday. I have my reasons.” Alastor dismissed, already turning the subject toward Rosie. “Do you have one close enough to his cut and weight?”

Rosie pondered for a moment before she swept toward a rack near the back wall. Within moments, she returned with a burgundy trench coat. “This will do,” she said firmly, pressing it into his hands.

He inspected it, then gave a single nod. “Perfect.”

The mountain of gowns, accessories, shoes, and now the coat was gathered. Alastor settled the account with a neat stack of bills, sliding them across the counter with impeccable precision.

Charlie dipped in a small curtsey as she smiled warmly. “Thank you so much, Rosie.”

“Truly,” Alastor echoed, though his words were clipped, his gratitude genuine in his eyes.

Rosie’s expression softened, her hands folding gracefully before her. “You are both welcome. Always.”

Charlie turned her wide, doe-like eyes up at Alastor, lashes catching the light as she beamed at him. Her smile bloomed bright and sweet, so big it made the corners of her eyes crinkle slightly. “And thank you too, Al,” she said softly, her eyes shining with quiet sincerity. “I appreciate you.”

The words struck deeper than they should have.

Alastor’s smile faltered—just slightly. A sharp ache bloomed in his chest, unexpected and uninvited.

“You’re welcome, my dear,” he murmured, voice low, barely more than a breath.

Bastien stepped forward, his grin as warm as his tone, “It was wonderful to meet you, Charlie."

Charlie returned his smile and chirped a reply, “It was wonderful to meet you, too. I hope we will see each other again."

“We most certainly will.” He bent down and brushed a courtly kiss across her knuckles. “And very soon, I believe.” 

Charlie blinked, flustered by the gesture, as Alastor’s smile thinned and Nyther’s form writhed darkly at her side.

Bastien laughed outright, then released her hand and held his palms up in mock apology.

Alastor muttered something sharp under his breath, but turned instead to Nyther. “Create an umbral step.”

His shadow flared, obedient, spreading outward until the floor itself shimmered with an inky portal.

Together, Alastor, Charlie, and Nyther gathered up the bags and boxes, the little mountain of Rosie's indulgence. They turned toward the dark shimmer.

“Alastor,” Bastien called after them.

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Remember what we discussed.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Something passed in the look they shared — weighty, unsaid, sealed in Bastien’s steady eyes and Alastor’s faintly strained smile.

There was a pulse of Nyther’s magic shimmering through the space. He dropped to the floor and spun himself into a circle. As he spun, the shadows from the room stretched and pulled toward him, stirred and unraveled, spinning into a slow, coiling vortex. Overhead, the gaslights fluttered nervously. Sweetness and sulfur mingled in the air, touched with the tang of copper. Nyther surged upward from the rift, his form assembling mid-rise. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled the spinning portal from the ground and hung it in the air like a lantern, its spiral yawning open in invitation.

Then Alastor tipped his head in the barest nod, turned back, and stepped with Charlie and Nyther into shadow.

Chapter Text

⚠️ WARNING ⚠️

Reader discretion advised, this chapter refers to topics/themes of kidnapping, rape, and torture. 

The late morning sun filled the room with a golden glow, the soft warm peach color of the wallpaper stood bright and cheery as the lace curtains gently blew in the wind from the open windows. The brass-framed bed was completely covered in the many spoils of Charlie’s visit to Rosie’s Emporium. 

Charlie was in the room’s center, pulling her new dresses from the pile and, while holding the hanger, was displaying them in front of herself.

Alastor, seated nearby and attempting to organize her shoes into something resembling sanity, hummed low in approval. “Another wonderful gown. Red really is your color.” He winked dramatically to emphasize his point.

Charlie let out a delighted giggle at his comment, twirling gracefully with her new gown before placing it in the closet. Alastor shared a fond look of agreement with his shadow.  

The process would then repeat as she grabbed another dress from the pile to show off to Nyther and Alastor.

Alastor, kneeling beside a small row of shoes he’d already sorted by heel height, didn’t even look up before replying smoothly, "Darling, I'm not quite sure if you are aware, but humans have only two feet?" he drawled. “Rosie does realize you only have two feet, correct?” Alastor turned a shiny black pair of Mary Janes over in his palm and raised an eyebrow.

“I know. I think she may have gone a bit overboard, but it’s hard to say no when Rosie gets going.” Charlie says as she twirled around with a navy blue Blondell dress.

"No truer statement has ever been said," teased Alastor, placing the Mary Janes next to their twin. "She is a force to be reckoned with."

Nyther, crouched over one of many new hatboxes, looked deep in thought. With his antlers tilted just beneath the molding, he had arranged the collection of headwear across the bed with careful precision. He plucked up a gray cloche hat, spun it once on a claw, then tested it by dropping it gently onto Charlie’s head as she walked past him. 

She paused mid-step, beaming. “You like it?” She teased, giving a sultry pose over her shoulder.

Nyther gave her an approving nod, then gently took the hat back and placed it in its proper box. His claw trailed softly down her arm as she passed him once more. It was the lightest touch, just a whisper, but it made her shiver pleasantly all the same. The brand pulsed, softly and deep in her ribs. Alastor’s posture stiffened while Nyther rippled happily. 

Connected, they all felt it.

Charlie took a calming breath through her nose and went back to her task. She held another dress to herself. 

“Beautiful,” Alastor said from the floor.

Charlie rewarded him with a bright grin. “I think so too! The cut of this one is so pretty.” 

Alastor pointed at her with the heel of the shoe he was holding. “The dress is very lovely, but not what I was referring to.”

Charlie spluttered for a moment before snorting out a laugh. “Very funny, Mr. Valios. Now, be honest with me,” Charlie grabbed a second dress and indicated towards the closet. “Should I organize them by color, or by skirt length, oooor my favorite, alphabetically by dress style and name?” Charlie wiggled her shoulders expectantly, her grin wide and her eyebrows rising and falling in the rhythm of her playful wiggle.

“Alphabetically by dress style and name?” He repeated in amused disbelief. “Do you even know the names of all the dress types?”

“I do!” Charlie announced triumphantly as she pulled out a folded paper from inside her blouse. “I asked Rosie and made notes!”

There was a beat of silence before Alastor let out a roar of laughter, absolutely delighted by her antics.

He took several moments to compose himself while Charlie swayed happily and Nyther’s umbral form still shook with silent laughter.

“Why not a hybrid of three? With a full spreadsheet?” Alastor said, catching his breath. 

“I know you’re teasing me…but you're right.” She shrugged with a hum before venturing back into the closet. 

Alastor fell back into his hysterics. 

With a smile and a plan, Charlie went back to organizing the closet.

Charlie had nearly organized the entire dress pile. Nyther had finished sorting her hats and gloves, placing them into her closet with special instructions and care. 

Alastor finished her shoes and was now happily leaning against the door frame, watching Charlie try to make a place for them. The cutie had taken his joke to heart and made an organization spreadsheet. She taped it to the closet door and was double-checking it, her nose scrunched in concentration. Even with her careful planning, finding the best way to fit her overflowing wardrobe was an effort. 

“Oh no…” she whispered. “I’m... running out of room.”

Alastor moved beside her and peered inside with a hum. “Mm. Yes, I can see the problem.” He tapped his chin dramatically. “Clearly, we’ll need to construct a second house.”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Ha ha. Very funny.”

“Or,” he added, his lips curled into something warm and wicked, “perhaps you’d accept a little magical assistance.”

She blinked up at him, puzzled. “What kind of assistance?”

“I could... enchant it,” he said smoothly. “Expand the space. Just a touch, mind you. A small fold in the dimensions, bend the corners. You wouldn’t notice a thing, aside from suddenly having the best walk-in closet in creation.”

Charlie’s jaw dropped. “Wait… really?”

Alastor inclined his head, eyes lidded. “It would be my pleasure.”

She looked back at the closet, chewing the inside of her cheek.

Alastor chuckled under his breath and, with a quirk in his smile, started to roll up his sleeves.

 “No, thank you. But thank you anyway.” Charlie said matter-of-factly.

Alastor blinked, genuinely surprised by her answer. “No?”

“I like this,” she said with a soft, earnest grin. “The organizing, it’s sort of comforting? I get to make the chaos and then fix it. It’s like a clear-cut kind of problem that I solve with just hard work and a plan… You know?”

Alastor tilted his head, watching her carefully. That smile she wore was bright and honest. She didn’t belong in the world of darkness and ritual that was his life. Not where the shadows whispered and threats loomed. And yet here she was, organizing her closet like it was the greatest joy in the world.

She was precious. Strange and wonderful.

“You are,” he chuckled, voice low and fond, “hopelessly adorable.”

Charlie flushed, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Is that a good thing?”

“It’s a dangerous thing,” Alastor said, eyes twinkling. He used his knuckle to lightly brush her cheek. “But yes, mon doux coeur. Quite good.”

Her eyes fluttered shut for half a second at the contact, like it sent a spark up her spine.

Alastor sighed as the feeling moved through him, his eyes open enough to see Nyther’s reaction was almost the same. A ripple passed through him, and once it passed, the shadow’s red eyes opened and locked onto Charlie, a deep hunger glowing inside them. A strange ache gripped his chest. Seeing that kind of deep need in his shadow’s eyes was a confirmation of his own feelings that he was not ready to acknowledge. No, he would ignore it… If he could.

Alastor turned away, striding back to the doorway of the guest room.

“I’ll keep the spell ready, should you change your mind,” he said over his shoulder. “Perhaps you will after our next trip to Rosie’s?”

Charlie blinked. “Next trip?”

“Of course,” Alastor said it like the most obvious thing in the world. His showman’s smile was on full display, like he wasn’t deliberately fighting a dusting of blush that showed up uninvited.  “You don’t think this is it, do you?”

She looked around at the closet already full. Hats were proudly displayed on their rack, a full shoe shelf sat beside it, piles of organized gloves, and ribbons neatly waiting to be put away. “But I already have so much…”

He turned to face her fully, the afternoon light caught the edges of his smile and the glint in his glasses. He held her gaze, the intensity of it made her breath catch

“You do,” he agreed softly. “And still, it's not enough.”

She blinked again, caught off-guard by the tone, there was no teasing air in it.

"My dear, I absolutely plan on spoiling you rotten."

He stepped closer again, slowly. No longer the showman, just the man underneath. And when he spoke next, his voice carried familiar music. The same rhythm she’d heard once on a streetcar. Soft and reverent, when the world outside had shimmered in the morning gold of Charlie’s first morning in New Orleans.

“You’re the beautiful interruption, remember?” he murmured. He gently pressed his forehead to hers. “The melody that slipped into my broadcast. And now…” his voice faltered.

There was another pulse of the brand when he touched her, resonating in their bones.

A collective shiver moved through them. His breath was shallow. The closeness was too much. Too warm. Too tempting.

Something dark stirred inside him. A pull. A hunger: ravenous and aching.

He couldn’t let himself be the one to darken her.

Charlie stared up at him through her thick lashes. She raised a hand and gently cradled his cheek, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw.

He shuddered at the touch.

His blush deepened, the brand throbbed painfully now, as his head began to spin.

Charlie…

If he gave in right now…if he kissed her, then he might not be able to stop.

And she’d disappear inside him, like everything else. Devour her completely.

He was dangerous. A monster who would devour her light. He knew it.

With great care, Alastor took her hand from his cheek. His grip was firm but tender.

He raised her knuckles to his lips and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against them.

A promise? An apology?

Then he let her go.

Across the room, Nyther’s darkened figure loomed, his umbral form twisting with anger at his shadowy edges.

But when Alastor stepped back, clearing his throat and forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, Nyther’s expression twisted.

Red eyes narrowed in an expression of cold disappointment, the shadows around him twitched like a struck cord.

“Coward.”

Alastor heard his shadow’s silent voice in his mind, nearly identical to his own.

Charlie’s eyes went wide, startled by the shift. Confused, her lips parted slightly, her brows drew together. Her entire face showing the sudden sting of rejection she felt but didn’t understand.

Nyther surged forward.

Not toward Alastor, but to her.

He slid around her shoulders, his umbral form wrapping like a shawl, drawing close without hesitation. He leaned in, his face at her neck, and nuzzled gently just beneath her ear.

She gasped from the cool contact of shadow on skin

Nyther’s form pulsed, purring silently and affectionately.

A breathy laugh escaped her, small at first while she tried to process her emotions.

Nyther, determined to make up for his master, nuzzled faster, rippling along dramatically until her laugh became more certain. Steadied into something warm and real

It broke the tension, but not for everyone.

Alastor stood several paces away, back toward the bed, half-turned but not moving.

He stared at the two.

Scoffing under his breath at the way his shadow comforted her so easily, so honestly. The way Charlie let him. The comfort she clearly felt at his shadow’s touch…and perhaps his own?

He didn’t move to interrupt, didn’t speak, but something inside him twisted like a coil wound too tight.

The smile on his face never slipped.

But it changed at the corners.

Alastor’s hand twitched once at his side. His teeth stayed bared in a smile that was just a touch too wide. A fraction too still.

Charlie’s hand drifted gently across Nyther’s head, her fingers stroked from his forehead down to the shadow-soft tufts of his ears, slow and gentle. He shivered under the attention, purring with a soundless vibration that radiated through his whole form. Clearly delighted.

She smiled at him sweetly, but then glanced past the antlers to where Alastor stood, still smiling but rigid. It wasn’t the easy and mischievous grin she loved. It was tight, practiced, and far too still.

Charlie’s usual smile faltered into a small, puzzled pout, her brows snitched together.

“What exactly is Nyther to you?” Her voice soft and curious.

Alastor didn’t look at her right away. Instead, he adjusted his cuffs, smoothed an invisible crease on his sleeve. A slow breath moved through his nose, quiet and even, then turned. His smirk was perfectly placed, his showman’s mask was back.

“It’s as I’ve said before, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice light, nonchalant. “Nyther is something entirely unique.”

He stepped forward a pace, and his shadow didn’t flinch.

“He is not all me,” he continued, tilting his head just slightly. “Nor all shadow.”

Nyther shifted like smoke, his shadowy form unfurling from Charlie’s shoulders. What had draped her like a living shawl twisted and stretched, dark tendrils knitting together into something vaguely human: broad shoulders, long limbs, a suggestion of a torso, but still with his crown of antlers and tufted ears fluid at the edges. He leaned in, head resting gently on her shoulder, arms sliding around her waist in a slow, possessive coil.

“I’d call him a companion, but he doesn't always behave,” he said with a mocking grin, flashing his teeth. 

Nyther’s arms tightened subtly around Charlie’s waist, in a possessive hold. His glowing eyes narrowed slightly.

Alastor’s eye twitched as he spoke, “A bit of a menace, really. Takes liberties he hasn’t earned.”

Charlie chewed her lip, deep in thought. Alastor couldn’t help smirking at the adorable concentration look on Charlie.

“I’ve just heard so much this week,” she murmured, scratching absentmindedly behind Nyther’s antler. “Trying to keep it all straight in my head.”

Alastor tilts his head, “Of course. We all know how much you appreciate organization.”

“Ha… right…” She says slightly awkwardly, light, but slightly off-beat.

Alastor sits on the bed and pats next to him. Charlie looked at him, blinking owlishly, hesitant.

Her hesitation struck harder than it should have.

Alastor’s smile remained fixed in place, his showman’s mask careful and polite. But inside his stomach knotted uncomfortably.

Damn.

His rejection, no matter how tender he’d intended it, had left a bruise. He could see it in her eyes. The confusion and sting of it. He couldn’t have her drifting away. He needed her light, her trust, her.

And more than anything, he couldn’t let her think his hesitation meant she was unwanted.

He leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee with easy confidence. Casually brushing invisible dust from his vest, his posture easy, voice smooth as bourbon.

“Well now,” he said lightly, “I do believe I’ve been quite the accommodating host this week, haven’t I? All questions answered, secrets explained, both human and otherwise.”

Charlie blinked at the sudden shift, caught off guard. “You have,” she admitted slowly.

“And I’ll keep doing so,” he added, with a little tilt of his head, “so long as the questions keep coming and the company stays so delightfully curious. Especially if it earns me more of those pretty little smiles.”

That got one. It was small but genuine.

He softened, sincerity bleeding into his tone.

“You have questions?” his voice dipped, barely a murmur. But there were no theatrics in it. His voice was tender and honest, “Then ask them, ma chère. There’ll be no riddles, just answers.”

Her shoulders eased slightly. Her small smile grew at the edges. Her eyes looked brighter than before.

It was working.

Alastor straightened with his usual theatrical flourish, brushing a hand invitingly across the bedspread. A single brow arched with practiced flair, along with his smirk.

Charlie tilted her head, amused. She returned his smile, which was steadily growing. However, she still didn’t move to sit.

Alastor sighed theatrically, shaking his head.

“Besides,” he added, grinning again, “if I let you stew too long with unanswered questions, you might start organizing me alphabetically.”

Charlie laughed softly. “You’d be under ‘A,’ for ‘Aggravating.’” She specified in a mock matter-of-fact tone.

“Aggravatingly handsome, I hope?” He asked, his brows wiggling playfully.

“Hmm… the jury’s out.” She answered, her smile was as bright as usual.

He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his delight.

Then, more gently this time, he patted the spot beside him again.

The third time was the charm. 

Charlie sat, hands in her lap, perfectly poised while Nyther held her in an embrace for support, building her confidence. 

As she did, Alastor gave his shadow a sidelong, weighted glance.

Nyther, watching silently still wrapped around her, gave a small nod of acknowledgment and melted off her shoulders like steam, dissolving soundlessly into the room’s shadows. Though a single claw lingered behind just long enough to lovingly stroke Charlie’s leg. She smiled down at it before he disappeared fully.

Alastor then gave Charlie one of his winning smiles as he took her in, his eyes caught on her hair. Loose strands spilled from the plait like golden ribbons. Once pulled into a neat braid, it was now wildly tousled from her closet-organization adventure. 

He leaned in closer, brushing a rogue strand back behind her ear. “May I?”

Charlie took a moment to process the question, then reached up to pull the hairband free as she turned her back to him. Her hair fell in a golden cascade. Thick, wavy, and shining in the afternoon light.

Alastor’s breath hitched, but he tried to hide it behind a cough.

From the wall, Nyther re-emerged briefly, wordlessly offering a hairbrush with a graceful toss. Alastor caught it mid-air and tipped his head in thanks. Nyther disappeared once again into the shadows.

With deliberate care, he began slowly combing through her hair.

“Ask away,” he said, voice tender and clear. 

Charlie smiled at the gentleness in his tone. 

“I know you said that the answer is complicated,” She smiles sweetly while she recounts the information. “You two are different and the same at the same time. And you said that you’ve just always been this way.” Alastor hummed politely to show he was listening while Charlie took a moment to find the right words.

“I’ve been thinking more about what you said. About the Black Hunt,” she began. “That they have a way of poisoning people through their shadows.”

“You heard right,” Alastor said. His tone didn’t shift, but the air in the room seemed to.

“They poison,” he continued, “but not with your usual arsenic or belladonna. No, no… Their toxins are craftier than that. They were designed to preserve the body, unravel the mind, and set the shadow free.”

Charlie’s brows knit together, uncertain she’d heard him right. “Set the shadow free?”

Alastor nodded, fingers gently working through a knot. “At first, the victims just get sick, but only in the mind. A little delirium, paranoia. Hearing things whispering that aren’t there. But the madness… it creeps in agonizingly slow, like mold in the walls. Meanwhile, their physical bodies grow stronger. Heightened reflexes, physical strength intensifies, you get the idea.”

He leaned in just a touch, his fingers drifting idly through her golden strands, as though recounting a macabre bedtime story. 

A glint of twisted humor shimmered in his eyes. “All the while their shadows start acting strange, like they’ve got minds of their own.”

Charlie felt something cold bloom at the base of her spine. The words itched behind her ears, like something crawling.

Alastor continued, still calm, still smiling, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. His hazel green eyes were strained.

“Eventually,” he said, “those shadows don’t just act like they’ve got minds of their own. They do, becoming fully sentient. With a bloodlust too strong to contain.”

He said it so hollowly, devoid of fear or bitterness. He explained it like it was just a natural part of life. 

His fingers stilled for a moment in her hair. “They devour the poor soul who originally cast it.”

Charlie’s mind drifted back to the graveyard…To the mausoleum that breathed…To the squelch of something hungry sliding free from the crack in the wall…To Teo’s scream…Maverick desperately trying to reach her…To their shadows twisting and the tendrils that grew from it to attack them…

Her body went cold.

But most of all, she remembered her shadow. The way she felt it peel away from her to try and drag her back to the thing in the crack. She remembered the slick, oily touch. The brand on her chest burning through her skin, the helplessness. The voice that claimed to know her and possess her.