Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Louisiana. Autumn 1927

The trouble began on the most inconvenient day of Alastor de Rivière’s life. However, Lucifer Morningstar would remember it as one of the best days of his eternal, perfidious life.

It all began with a peeping tom.

It all began with a summoning.

Having spent countless millennia reigning over hell, it wasn’t unusual for the Prince of Darkness to be called to the human realm by the occasional wayward human. Lucifer had made innumerable trips to the world of man to grant many a Faustian deal in exchange for souls. He seldom turned down an audience he deemed worthy enough to grant. After all, Lucifer had all the time in the world to amuse himself at the expense of mankind. It was just that he never expected to be the one being turned down when it came to making a deal. But not even the Devil had the power to see into the future.

So, when Lucifer was summoned while he was in the middle of crafting yet another rubber duck to ease the soul-numbing boredom that had been left in the wake of his amicable divorce from Lilith a century or so earlier, Lucifer heeded the call. At the very least, he expected to ease his boredom. Oh, how woefully unprepared he would be for expectation to be exceeded beyond his wildest, unfettered fancies …

As for Alastor, who could care less about making deals with the Devil, everything had been going swell. Until he’d come home after a long day of negotiations with the executives at his local radio station, taken a nice hot bath and got out of his claw-foot bathtub only to realize that he wasn’t alone in his apartment on Royal Street. Naked as the day he was born, Alastor stood there in his bathroom taking in the wrongness of the feeling. That wrongness set off something primal in Alastor. Something that had him shutting off the lights in the apartment and stalking through the dark like a panther. His movements were easy and soundless, Alastor located the intruder almost instantly. All it took was his favorite carving knife and a well-timed chokehold. Alastor held the shorter man until he lost the strength to struggle. Alastor neglected to put his knife to use just yet—using it only to silently warn the intruder not to make a sound.

Then, with his prey subdued, Alastor struck a match. His intruder, a white man of middling years, took in Alastor’s bare form which nothing short of shock:

“You’re…you’re not Ms. Lacombe!”

“Heavens no! But I do live here, my good man. Ms. Lacombe lives next door.” Alastor grinned despite his displeasure.

“…” The man looked absolutely gob smacked. Then rightfully afraid. “You’re not Ms. Lacombe.” He repeated dumbly. “She’s blonde. Tiny, sweet little thing. Soft. Pretty. You…You’re—

Alastor’s lips curled in disgust as his captive’s wide, bugging eyes took in his lanky body and his small, but obvious breasts. It was no doubt a poor showing for a voyeur who was probably used to stalking prey of the more voluptuous variety. Alastor’s displeasure sharpened. While he couldn’t help this unfortunate aspect of his biology, his dimwitted captive was sorely mistaken on that front.

“You…You’re…” The man gestured awkwardly at him.

“Alastor! A pleasure to be meeting you, my unfortunate fellow! Quite a pleasure!” Alastor concluded in his stead.

“I wasn’t talking about—The intruder’s rambling crumbled as he began to panic in earnest. “Fuck . Fuck !”

“Aha! No thank you!” Alastor’s smile returned in full.

“I wasn’t—I wasn’t talking about fucking you , you freak!”

“Of course not! You’d prefer Ms. Lacombe who’s home you couldn’t even break into properly. Or Mrs. Dequir’s. Or the young Italian girl who just moved in a across the street, hm? Therefore, engaging with me in such a carnal fashion would be simply out of the question for you. After all, you’re quite accustomed to pursuing the fairer sex. Aren’t you, Mr. Franklin? And here I wondered where I’d seen your face before!”

Mr. Franklin turned whiter than a ghost in a snowstorm. “You…! You’ve been following me around?!”  

“Maybe.” Alastor shrugged. “Now, let’s make proper use of this grievous miscalculation of yours. Shall we?”

Alastor blew out the match and knocked Mr. Franklin out cold right there in his living room. It had been a spell since he’d last gone on a proper hunt. After all, it just wouldn’t do to have his dear, uinvited guest go blabbering about what he’d seen. Not while Alastor was still trying to manage a new, burgeoning career in radio.

You see, after years of endless setbacks, his herculean labor had at last borne fruit: he’d finally, finally landed a job as the host of his very own radio broadcast. Well, as much of one WWL would allow him. Granted, it was only a miniscule slot (from seven in the evening to midnight and weekdays only) but Alastor had been so overjoyed that he’d promptly christened it: Chez Riviere . So far, Alastor hadn’t told a soul about it—save for Mr. Arceneaux.

Granted, landing one’s own radio show would be what you could call a stroke of good luck. A godsend, really. But that’s not how Alastor saw it. Or would ever see it. To be frank, for the last thirty-one years of his life, God had had very little to do with Alastor. If he had truly cared, then he wouldn’t have let the powers that be shove his very first broadcast into the ungodly overnight slot.

Alastor had never begged God for a single thing in life and he wasn’t going to start now. Loath as he was to admit it, he was in no position to choose. Even if he could decide on a whim which of the world’s vermin, he’d gladly rid it of.  Like the ruddy-faced man still lying semi-unconscious in his living room. Alastor got dressed quickly, h a few necessary items, then pulled his unfortunate visitor to his feet. With the ease of someone escorting a friend home after one drink too many, Alastor half-dragged the man to Berta, his old but extremely reliable tin Lizzy. He shoved his new friend into the back seat, got behind the wheel, and with a pleased little hum, took off into the oncoming night. As thoughts of what was sure to be a glorious hunt filled Alastor’s mind, somewhere far beyond the Crescent City in the remote wilderness, the aforementioned Prince of Darkness finally manifested in the human world…

What. In. The. Unholy. Fuck.

This was all Lucifer could think as his entire body screamed from a very sudden and very unpleasant burst of pure energy. He blinked slowly as his eyes adjusted to the darkness around him—

Wait.

It was night. True night and not the dismally infernal, crimson tinged skies of hell? And was that…?—yep—that was definitely the moon! The real deal too!: half full and bright as Lucifer had first seen it at the dawning of humanity. It was so incredibly breathtaking that the fallen angel had half a mind to reach out and touch it.

So, he did.

In one great, seamless bound, Lucifer reached into the cosmos to touch it; to refamiliarize himself with it. And Christ it was glorious: imperfectly round (the exact opposite of what the earliest humans used to believe), impossibly cold and pockmarked with the ancient, innumerable kisses given by asteroids eons ago.

“Well, I’ll be damned twice over.” Lucifer grinned.

He glimpsed the fiery glare of the sun as he laid his own reverent kiss upon the moon’s icy surface. He would’ve been all too happy to bask in the heady rush of that unexpected delirium if not for the undeniable and very real tug of the very same tether that had so rudely ripped him right out of hell.

Right. I was summoned wasn’t I? Lucifer thought with a pitiable groan. In an instant, he allowed himself to be snapped back to earth like a rubber band. Back to what was most definitely a bayou and a black-eyed human staring at him in sheer awe and what had to be a healthy dose of fear. The man, Lucifer noted immediately, smelled of stale sweat and hatred so potent that it almost rivaled the sulfur of hell. He was well past his middling years though his hair was as black as his eyes. Lucifer could almost taste the blood of America’s first people flowing through his veins.

Wait. America?

It had been ages since Lucifer had been called to this land. By the look of the man’s clothes and gleaming lights of a city in the distance, the New World had changed a great deal. Ah, but that was beside the point. He’d been summoned by the awfully sweaty fellow before him so he was at least obliged to hear him out. But by god couldn’t the guy have showered first before calling him out of the blue? That stench killed what little rapture Lucifer had gotten from kissing the literal moon.

Although he was the consummate showman, Lucifer didn’t bother affecting the worn-out schtick of the all-powerful sovereign of eternal damnation. Not this night. Instead, the fallen angel could only manage to look as utterly bored as he felt. He didn’t bother with the theatrics of making hellfire blaze forth from the damp earth or making his own crimson eyes burn like coal.

Disillusioned and little else, Lucifer glanced to the human before him.

“Lucifer, king of hell at your service.” He drawled, studying his claws. “What can I do for you?”

“I-It’s really you…?” The black-eyed man stammered in disbelief. He quickly prostrated himself. “Oh dark prince of princes! Greater than any in heaven or earth—

Lucifer sighed. The same old, tired half-hearted flattery. So many millennia had flown by yet these wretched, sniveling mortals couldn’t even come up with decent praises?

“Oh, unholy guarantor of glory unparalleled and everlasting—

“Um, uh thank you. Really. You’re too kind.” Lucifer interrupted with a strained smile. “Why don’t we skip to the part where you tell me why you’ve summoned me? I’m very busy, you know.”

Ok, the last part was kind of lie. So what if he’d been crafting his billionth rubber duck in a futile effort to ease his unending boredom? He still didn’t have the patience for such tired flattery.

“Enough! Tell me why you’ve summoned me! My patience is short, human!” Lucifer snarled, bellowing a bit of smoke and fire for good measure.

The nameless mortal half-shrieked and scampered back, sputtering a string of unintelligible apologies.

“F-Forgive me, prince of princes! I-I merely want you to grant my wish!” The human stammered. “That’s why I’m willing to give you my soul! I want you to grant me what god will not!”

“And that is?” Lucifer raised a brow, already bored by the pathetic display.

“A woman.” The man said, eyes shining in dark. “ My woman. She has always been mine! I know it! But she won’t come to me! Please I beg you! Make her mine until we both die!”

What the fuck?

Lucifer’s eye twitched. An old rage, long dormant inside him ignited straightaway at the vapid request. It dredged up a very unpleasant memory along with it too: Eden. The most beautiful woman—the first human woman—he’d ever set eyes on—falling in love with Lucifer’s dreams of free will rather than him . Lilith who bore him Charlie. Lilith who’d grown tired of being Lucifer’s queen. Lilith who had always supported him and reigned beside him in Hell, but would never love Lucifer the way he’d once loved her. Despite their fall from heaven. Despite everything. Lucifer had always known that, but to be reminded of the truth like this .

Lucifer saw red.

This. Pathetic. Piece. Of. Shit. Expected him to force his unrequited love on some innocent, random mortal woman when Lucifer would sooner pull out his own wings than to force Lilith to do the same for him?! This was why he’d been torn away from his favorite hobby? Why his workshop sat empty and his latest rubber duck still unpainted among piles of so many other of its half-finished brethren? Lucifer’s wrath bled out of him in unholy flashes of fire.

“Let me get this straight.” Lucifer seethed. “You want me to force someone to love you back? And for that you would consign yourself to hell for all eternity?! For your pathetic, one-sided love? When there are literally millions of humans inhabiting the earth?! You want me to force this woman to desire you as much as you desire her?!”

The nameless, rancid human had the gall to look insulted.

“Why wouldn’t you? You’re the goddamned Devil!” He quibbled. “Wasn’t it you who guided me all along? It was you who corrupted me as you corrupt all men! It was you made who me want that woman in the first place! You , my prince! And now you deny it?”

“Of course I do! I didn’t make you do anything! I don’t even know you!” Lucifer spat. “You humans are all the same! You always get yourselves in way over your heads and blame me. Me. The one guy who actually gave a shit about you and granted you free will! And for fucking what?” He sighed and rubbed his throbbing temples. “You know what? Since you’ve gone through all this trouble to summon me let me sweeten the deal for you. How about no?”

The human didn’t get a chance to answer. Drinking up the satisfying terror in his eyes, Lucifer snapped his fingers. The man let out an agonized cry as his flesh began to slough off him in bloody ribbons. Each piece of flesh, viscera, and bone burned away to nothing as it hit the moist earth. It went on and on; the mortal’s cries like sweet music to Lucifer’s ears—while the rest of the world slept unaware. Well, most of it anyway. After all, the Crescent City, which the fallen angel could practically feel thrumming beyond the wilds, seldom slept.

As the last of the wretched human burned away, Lucifer pinched off a bit of his yet unburned flesh. He closed his eyes and read into the last of the man’s fading thoughts. There was the agony of being slowly turn apart, sure, but Lucifer was after more useful information. He found it quite easily in the scrambled visage of a woman in a blue, boyish dress with short, waved hair and smiling lips painted in a Cupid’s bow. Her name came to him too, along with other images, but Lucifer only needed to know what day it was. October 15th, 1927. Her birthday. The twentieth century. The current date. Well, that certainly explained the change from the Elizabethan fashion to what he’d seen in his unfortunate victim’s memories.

Well then. Lucifer consigned the fool’s soul to hell as the last bits of him scattered on the cooling air. It was as easy as tossing a coin into a well. He had no use for such a worthless soul, but that didn’t mean his brethren didn’t. The bastard was going to have a miserable time in hell. Preferably in the Greed Ring where avaricious souls were damned to have their innards precipitated from their bodies with great violence, fed through the putrid bowels of bloodthirsty demonic beasts, and lastly shat right back into their mouths.

How typical.

Lucifer sighed again, feeling something exhausted and ugly curling in his breast. Humanity would never cease to disappoint him, would it? All that free will gifted for nothing…

Oh well! The king of hell stretched, enjoying the satisfying crack of his otherworldly joints; the early autumn wind at his skin. He enjoyed too, the freedom to wander about as he pleased on earth, despite having no particular soul to collect. But with that rush of satisfaction came the inevitable loneliness of being hell’s sovereign. It was a pesky thing. Always aching. Clamoring greedily for something Lucifer couldn’t quite put a name to.

At least the night’s beautiful. Perfect for a stroll! He concluded, feigning contentment as he walked leisurely through what looked like swamp.

He lost track of time as he took in the scenery—a welcome change from Hell. Lucifer could smell the mustiness of rotting vegetation mingling with the earthiness of Cyprus trees growing along the banks of the verdant swamp. Lucifer admired the patient hunger of its alligators lurking beneath its murky waters. Admired the glowing flashes of fireflies flickering about in the darkness ahead.

The fallen angel passed beneath hanging moss; touched its delicate design. Heard the bayou whisper in a vanishing tongue:

“Byenveni a Lalwizyan, vô majesté.” [1]

Lucifer accepted the welcome graciously, despite the jaded thrum of his own ancient heart.

“Mo konten fé lakònésans avèk twa.” [2] He greeted in return, stirring up the fireflies and making the bayou glow with their almost unearthly green light.

As Lucifer walked through the humid autumn night, he heard someone scream:

“Let me go! Oh god let me go!”

Even in the lowlight, Lucifer could easily make out a dark silhouette darting wildly through the foliage. On its was another figure. They were people, Lucifer realized. More humans. More potential sinners to further stink up the already rotten depths of hell. Pushing down his annoyance, Lucifer soldiered on toward them. As he got closer, Lucifer realized that one of the humans had cornered the other. And there was blood. Alot of it. It hung in the air rich and metallic. Lucifer sighed and glanced up at the moon. Judging by its current position in the sky it was well past midnight. He looked at the human ahead of him with nothing short of disenchantment. Earth was a lot like hell when it came to the wee hours of the morning: nothing good ever happened after dark let alone during the day. But despite (or in spite of) the many centuries Lucifer spent reigning over hell, his curiosity outweighed his disappointment with mankind. Even though the fallen angel knew he’d soon be confronted with yet even more undeniable proof that humanity was fated to keep him locked in a perpetual cycle of disillusionment.

Turn back . A voice at the back of head whispered. Leave now before another pathetic human reminds you just how stupid you were to choose them over Heaven.

Lucifer’s fingers itched to snap; to send him back to his beloved workshop. Back to his rubber ducks and his self-imposed solitude.

Or—

I can just stay and hang around for a while. Humans have been disappointing me for thousands of years. What’s one little vacation? Lucifer decided. It’s been fucking centuries for Christ’s sake!

So a vacation it was. In the next breath, Lucifer transported himself closer to the action unfolding before him…

In the meantime, Alastor, still wholly unaware of Lucifer’s preternatural presence, was in heaven . His heart pounded with the immutable pleasure of his hunt. Even if it was now reaching its final act. Mr. Franklin’s desperate, futile cries quenched Alastor’s heart like an oasis to would a dying man’s. Tired of the long chase between them, Alastor reached for one of his smaller knives and threw it. It hit its target—Mr. Franklin’s calf—causing the man to hit the muddy ground. Alastor was on him in instant, pushing his screaming mouth into the mud. While he did so, the newly minted radio host told Mr. Franklin about his new career—not that he’d live to see it flower. But his prey was just too unruly thrashing about like a fish out of water despite having been stabbed a few times.

How rude. Thus far, Alastor had been nothing less than a delightful conversationalist, yet this heathen was displaying such awful manners!

“Oh, come now Mr. Franklin!” Alastor tutted.  “Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt someone when they’re speaking?”

“Let me go!” The man screamed. “I swear I won’t tell a soul—

“Of course you won’t!” Alastor rolled his eyes.

“Oh god above have mercy on me! Please just let me g—

“Aha! Perish the thought!”

Alastor brought down the butt of his carving knife on Mr. Franklin’s head. When that failed to quiet him, Alastor pulled the much smaller throwing knife from his leg and plunged it into the side of Mr. Franklin’s head. The man let out a terrible groan and settled down at last. Alastor was careful to strike him just hard enough. It was far more appealing to stun his prey; to keep them conscious for as long as possible. It sent a shiver of utter delight through Alastor. Elated, the radio host wrenched his throwing knife from the other man’s head and felt a spray of blood on his face, warm, wet, and exquisite .

“Now, as I was saying before,” Alastor went on affecting his well-practiced transatlantic accent, “It’s a pity being stuck in the overnight slot, but it’s nothing I can’t handle! I’ll surely gather more listeners and land the prime morning slot! Just think, my good man, of the places I’ll surely go!”

Now that Mr. Franklin had properly quieted down, Alastor was free to continue their lively, albeit very one-sided conversation. Which he did gladly for the next handful of minutes. That is, until stars suddenly burst in his vision followed by a sharp, searing pain in his face. The blow came so swiftly that Alastor was knocked to the ground. Then Mr. Franklin was suddenly on him . Using his full weight to pin Alastor down, he put his hands around his throat.

“You son of a bitch! I’ll fucking kill you!” Mr. Franklin cried, spittle flying from his bloody mouth.

Somewhere during their struggle, Alastor reached into his pocket and grabbed a switchblade. He promptly stabbed Mr. Franklin in the shoulder. The other man howled like a wounded animal as he finally let go of Alastor. Weakened from blood loss, the man lost his balance and fell to the ground as Alastor rounded on him. In no time, Alastor was straddling him again. He pulled his blade out of Mr. Franklin’s shoulder then struck him hard in the face. Once. Thrice. Alastor made sure to return the favor with interest. He wasn’t the most skilled fighter around, but Mr. Arceneaux had taught him a thing or two when it came to fighting bare knuckled. Like the man himself, his lessons had never failed Alastor.

Mr. Franklin thrashed weakly then began to sob.

“Oh god! Why are you doing this me?” He cried.

“ Why ? Come now, my unfortunate fellow! It should be obvious by now even for a man of your limited intelligence.” Alastor thumbed blood from his grinning mouth. “Didn’t we get to know each other quite a bit on way here? Who was it that went out at dusk every evening to enact his baser urges on the fairer sex—which you presumed to be weaker than even you? It’s just too bad you could only emasculate yourself with each assault. How does it feel to know that none of it ever made you a man, hm?” Alastor’s hazel eyes flashed in the moonlight. “Poor little man. Was it that overbearing mother of yours that pushed you this far? Or was it the woman she forced you to marry? Whichever is the case, it’s of no importance now, is it?”

“D-Don’t…!” Mr. Franklin sobbed harder. “Don’t this…p-please…!”

His wide, panicked eyes pleaded more with his assailant than words ever could. But there wasn’t a drop of pity to be found in Alastor. But alas, all good things eventually came to an end.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure Mr. Franklin! Ta-ta!” Alastor grinned.

He retrieved his carving knife, hacking into Mr. Franklin’s stricken face until it was beyond recognition. Until the whites of bone peaked through the mangled flesh. Nearly delirious from the rush of it all, Alastor collapsed beside his victim and lay there until he was certain that Mr. Franklin was dead. In those blissful, fleeting moments, Alastor wondered if this was the closest thing to happiness someone like him would ever feel. Of course not! Not now that he finally had a career in radio to look forward to!

With the stillness of the night around him and the moon above him, Alastor inevitably pulled himself to his feet and set to the very meticulous task of carefully disposing of the body. It took most of the night to do so. By the time Alastor was done wading through the swampy marshes, the moon had begun to set and the sky was a touch lighter. Exhausted, but quite proud of his work, Alastor went to Berta, which he’d carefully parked out of sight in the woods and prepared to take a much needed (if rather cold) washing up with the stored water and soap he’d packed. His entire body ached in that delicious way only a good hunt could make him ache as he primly proceeded to erase any traces of his having visited this place. It had become second nature by now, really.

Now it was previously mentioned that this was the most inconvenient day of Alastor de Rivere’s life. If it were up to him, it would’ve ended with him finally getting a job in radio but only being able to fill in for the overnight hours. But fate, you see, is no more up to Alastor than it is to anyone else. He simply had no way of knowing that even before the unfortunate Mr. Franklin had taken his last breath, the man’s demise had been witnessed by the Prince of Darkness himself. A very captivated Prince of Darkness.

Sweet unholy mother of the antiChrist—

Lucifer Morningstar’s thoughts ground to a sudden halt. Perhaps it was the rapturous set of those wide shoulders. Or perhaps it was the way the moonlight fell over the other, illuminating the almost delicate shape of him. Even with his back facing Lucifer, the human was cruelly beautiful. Lucifer wanted nothing more than to run his claws through those sumptuous dark curls. To taste every salty drop of the perspiration on all that toffee-colored skin.  As the fallen angel ogled the blood-stained human with nothing less than awe, it occurred to him distantly that his boredom had at last vanished. But something bright and entirely reckless took its place. Something that Lucifer might have dismissed as lust if it weren’t so tender and desperate to absolutely cherish every inch of the mortal in front of him. The Devil’s heart jackhammered in his chest. He felt his face grow warm as his very blood was set aflame.

Beautiful. Lucifer grinned, thoroughly smitten. Please be mine. Please let me be yours.

In the heat of his rather sudden infatuation, all six of Lucifer’s wings unfurled themselves within the thin veil between the world of man and Hell, casting great shadows upon the damp earth. The small part of him that was still conscious kept his power reigned in so that he didn’t startle the human. But when his wings flapped joyously in that in between place, it created a sudden gust of wind that was almost violent. His human shielded himself in the resulting hurricane-like gale which ended as quickly as it had come.

“Funny. Hurricane season appears to be early this year.” His human said, blinking in surprise as he shivered. “Best get this over with quickly. Come along now, Mr. Franklin. The insects and gators aren’t going to feed themselves!”

Damn it! That was close! Get a hold of yourself, Lucifer! Lucifer scolded himself, watching as his human cheerfully dragged the very deceased Mr. Franklin away into the swamp by both legs. Reigning in his power even more, Lucifer floated over to the human’s side completely unseen. Mr. Franklin’s head thumped this way and that as he was dragged, but Lucifer could only focus on the soft hum of his killer’s voice. Those eyes so focused and bright were a shade of hazel more brown than green, Lucifer realized. He could also smell his human perspiring even more judging by the sweat beading on that lovely brow. Lucifer suddenly had an idea.

My! That corpse looks mighty heavy! Here, let me lighten your load a little, sweet thing. The Devil decided. He tapped Mr. Franklin’s corpse and seamlessly reduced a portion of its weight. Just a little so as to not alert his human to his presence too soon.

All Alastor knew in that moment was that Mr. Franklin was suddenly a little less difficult to transport. Oh well. All the better! And if the swamp seemed a bit more resourceful than usual (having a few more hungry gators and well, even more swamp than the radio host recalled) then that was just fine by him. Normally, it would’ve taken Alastor most of the night to dispose of Mr. Franklin. But for some reason, he was able to do it in around half the time it normally took. His blades felt sharper, removing skin, bone, and sinew with frightening ease. Mr. Franklin had come apart under his hands as easily as wet paper. Alastor couldn’t recall disposing of a man this easily. Perhaps it had simply been too long since he’d last indulged in his favorite hobby aside from radio.

Tossing away the last scrap of flesh into the pale, awaiting mouth of a gator, Alastor decided to call it a night and set off back to where he’d parked Berta. He couldn’t have known that the Devil had been beside him the whole time, lending him a hand here and there in between pining like a fool-hearted thing. Alastor found Berta waiting for him right where he’d left her. It would be a long drive back to New Orleans, but he’d finally gotten to blow off some much needed steam. Still flushed with the dark satisfaction from his hunt, Alastor sighed blissfully and pushed back his sweat-drenched hair with a bloody hand. Beside him, Lucifer fell even more in love. With the night stretching on around him and lightening bugs winking about, Alastor declared:

“Well! It’s high time for a bath!”

The Devil went bright gold as he watched his human prepare for the said bath, gathering up a jug of water, soap, and an adorably patterned towel Lucifer presumed was his favorite. His immortal heart racing like a freight train, the fallen angel went into a panic about what he should do next. While he was no stranger to nudity, he couldn’t just watch the most gorgeous creature in all of creation since Lilith strip naked out here in the wilds like it was the garden of Eden—

Then Alastor loosened his bowtie. Unbuttoned his high collar and Lucifer’s brain ceased to function. His breath stalled in his lungs at the first sliver of warm skin revealed there under the moonlight.

Goddamn me all over again . And just like that, Lucifer was truly lost.

While the Devil failed to form a single coherent thought, Alastor started humming Bessie Smith’s Dyin’ Gambler’s Blues . Then he began to sing in a surprisingly smooth voice:

Take the deck of cards

At his side.

Lay a deck or dice

On his chest.

He’s one more good gambler

And he’s gone to rest—

He caught something out of the corner of his eye. A strange flash of light like fire poured through an impossibly red screen. Alastor went quiet straightaway and grabbed his knife. But it was gone as quickly as it had come. Had he imagined it? Had he been followed? No. He’d planned tonight’s hunt, like all the others before quite thoroughly. Or perhaps not. He hadn’t exactly planned on killing a peeping tom tonight...

When the silence stretched on beyond what could be tolerable even for a man like Alastor, he sighed and set aside his bath to search the surrounding area. But his search turned up nothing. Not a single soul. He was still entirely alone. His good mood soured a bit. Something was off. He decided to wash up a bit faster this time sans Bessie Smith. He still had a long drive ahead of him. His beloved Crescent City was waiting for him and so was his hard-won Chez Riviere. Even if it was at an abysmal 7pm sharp.

  With this firmly in mind, Alastor returned to his bath. He’d only managed to unbutton his bloodstained shirt to his chest when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye again: A pair of eyes, comically wide as they were luminescent were fixed on him. They gave him a strange, reptilian-like blink that reminded Alastor of a frog. They belonged to a very strange and very flustered man dressed in white. Even his skin was the same unnaturally shade of white. He was also garishly dressed like the ringmaster of a circus complete with a large, ridiculously wide-brimmed white hat. Alastor had to admit that it was quite the getup: impressively tacky and eye catching in all the wrong ways.

 Not only did his unexpected visitor lack basic fashion sense, but he also appeared to lack a nose entirely. Stranger still were the bright red spots sitting high at the apples of his cheeks. He was also short. Laughably short. He wouldn’t be out of place, Alastor concluded, during Shrove Tuesday down in Vierre Carre.

Alastor blinked.

The stranger gave him another odd, one eye at a time blink in return. His face appeared to glow a faint gold that had to be a trick of the waning moonlight.

“Uh…” The man cleared his throat. “I…you...”

Poetry . Alastor thought dryly.

At some other time, Alastor would’ve found the man’s loss for words charming. But he was in the middle of trying to make himself scarce. Although the radio host’s instinctual reaction was to remain perfectly calm, a scandalized heat crept into his cheeks. He’d never allowed anyone to see him in anything less than a fine suit and tie let alone with his shirt half undone! Being seen in a state of undress twice in one night was a step too far. His mortification aside, Alastor’s mind began to race. When had the man arrived? Surely, he would have detected some sign of him beforehand! He’d been at this hobby of his for far too long to be caught unaware like this.

 “Do you mind?” Alastor finally said, smile tight.  “I’m in the middle of divesting myself for a quick wash up.”

“Oh. Right. My apologies!” The stranger stammered.

He became even more flustered and excused himself. However, he didn’t exactly leave choosing instead to politely look away. That strange, golden glow on his face even seemed to become a touch brighter, spreading up to his ears. It might’ve been endearing if it wasn’t so utterly bizarre. If it wasn’t a trick of the moonlight, then it had to be some clever effect of his atrocious costume.

After a too long and awkward silence, Alastor was about to remind the stranger that he had to actually leave (or die) but the man spoke first:

“So…uh…um…” He began. “Nice night for a…well, whatever you’ve got going on.”

“My good man, are you by chance referring to my bath —which I’m still trying to take?” Alastor glared at the back of the other’s head.

“Well that too. But I’m mostly talking about that interesting little hobby of yours. Cutting a man into that many pieces isn’t exactly the work of an amateur you know.”

He saw me kill Mr. Franklin. Alastor thought . Or he’s bluffing. Time to find out which. He leaned into his well-practiced transatlantic accent and said:

“Quite the sense of humor you’ve got there, sir! Why, it would make for quite the segment on my radio broadcast—

“Mr. Franklin is what? Number six?” The man interrupted, unimpressed. “Six is sort of a lucky number for you, isn’t it?” He smiled again, displaying inhumanely sharp teeth, closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. “I can smell them, you know. The others that came before poor Mr. Franklin. Very picky about these little hunts of yours, aren’t you?”

Alastor’s smile didn’t waver. Even as a bolt of unease went through him. However, he kept it out of his voice as he replied with a jovial:

“It seems you have quite the imagination as well!”

“And that Mrs. Pidou who used to live on Esplanade Avenue?” The man’s grin sharpened. “She was the first. It’s a shame she never made it to a lovely place like this. But the rat poison was a nice touch.”

Alastor’s smile fell a fraction. How could this man possibly know about that? Still, part of Alastor preened at the praise. Being interred in Metairie Cemetery was far more than the late Mrs. Pidou deserved. Evicting her from her mortal coil was the least Alastor could do to repay her for scalding his mama that day in the kitchen of her mansion. He could still remember how his mama had screamed. How it had taken a long time for her arm to heal. If only he could’ve drawn out the old widow’s suffering just as much. But being only nine years old at the time, that had sadly been the limit of Alastor’s cunning…

“My, what an interesting theory! It would make for a riveting novel!” Alastor said, watching the man smile back twice a toothily. “And while I’d be enchanted to hear more. I’m rather pressed for time and would like to make myself presentable before I go.”

The stranger shrugged. “Well, you are covered in blood. And other bits of Mr. Franklin.”

“That imagination of yours is astounding!”

“Who will it be next time, hm? Another rapist? The wife beaters you can’t stand? Or maybe it will be some other low life vile enough to catch your fancy? The possibilities are endless.”

He’s bluffing. Or drunk. Or both. He couldn’t have seen anything. Alastor’s eye twitched. Time to go. Now.

 “My good man, would it behoove you to let me bathe in peace?” He asked politely.

“Bathe? Right, can’t have you walking around all bloody. Even if red’s your color.” The ringmaster teased.

“My! Are you complimenting me?” Alastor raised a brow.

“That depends, little doe. Do you want to be complimented?” The shorter man returned smoothly.

Little doe…

Alastor’s smile itched to turn into a scowl. Of all the unnecessary endearments that could possibly exist, his uninvited guest had settled on that atrocious pet name?

“My vertically challenged fellow, you might want to see a doctor soon if you’re this bad at distinguishing between human beings and cervine creatures of the female variety.” Alastor returned.

“Don’t knock it! It suits you.” The man’s smile softened a touch. “Trust me it does. Maybe one day it will.”

The man was far too confident; too at ease in the presence of a bonafide killer.  Alastor’s eye twitched. He no longer cared whether the man had witnessed him commit a murder or not.  There was something utterly frustrating about the other’s lack of surprise and worst still—fear. Yet some secret part of Alastor found it oddly refreshing as well. If not more than a little inconvenient.

“Lucifer.” The stranger said.

“Pardon?”

“My name, little doe.” He clarified, removing his oversized hat. “It’s been an unexpected pleasure to make your acquaintance, but don’t you think it’s high time we introduced ourselves properly here? Lucifer Morningstar, sole sovereign of perdition.” Then he added with a bow, “at your service. And you are…?”

“…” Alastor stared.

“As much as I’d love to keep calling you little doe, I’d like to know your name too, sweetheart.”

“Are you saying you’re the devil? As in the actual devil?” Alastor looked skeptical. “Assuming that’s the case, shouldn’t you already know my name?”

“Touche. But I’m a bit old fashioned. It’s no fun using magic for this sort of thing.” Lucifer explained.

“Well, that’s very…charitable of you, your high ness.”  Alastor conceded, enjoying the way the insult landed. “Alastor de Riviere. A pleasure to be meeting you, sire. Quite a pleasure.”

“Uh huh.” Lucifer looked put out. “I take it you don’t believe me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far! Although I do suggest you visit the nearest asylum!”

“Says the man who just murdered another man in cold blood! Tell me, just how messed up is that moral compass of yours anyway?” Lucifer’s grin returned in full. “If you must know, I was summoned here. It’s usually for the usual fare: wealth, revenge, etcetera etcetera. But tonight was out of the question.”

“Oh? Are you saying there’s a limit to number of depraved wishes you’re willing to fulfil?” 

“Of course there is! You humans have gotten so much wrong about me already! Yet you all conveniently forget about that time I gifted you all free will. I’m not a complete monster, you know.”

That pulled a genuine laugh out of Alastor, which surprised the radio host. The sound brought something appallingly soft to Lucifer’s smile. Stamping down the strange fluttering in his stomach, Alastor quickly followed up with:

“Then one must assume the person who summoned you did in fact bring out the monster in you?”

This time, Lucifer’s smile fell. “You could say that. The guy wanted me to force a woman to fall in love with him in exchange for his soul. Had to say no on that one. I can understand an obsession or two for power or riches, but not that. Forcing someone to feel what you feel for them kinda goes against my belief in the gift of free will.”

“Pray tell, how did you punish that wayward mortal for his insolence, sire?”

“Well, I…uh…may have incinerated him and dropped his worthless soul straight into hell.”

“And…did you enjoy it?” Alastor asked, oddly intrigued.

Lucifer grinned. “About as much as you enjoyed murdering Mr. Franklin—and five other people to date.”

“Quite the discerning critic, aren’t you, Mr. Morningstar?”

“Takes one to know one, Mr. de Riviere. And please, call me Lucifer.” The shorter man whipped out a sleek cane, topped with apple and leaned against it.

“Well, Lucifer it’s been a real pleasure. I might even be able to forgive you for delaying my bath.” Alastor deftly slipped his switchblade out of his pocket, tired now of this charade. “It’s just that I hadn’t the faintest idea that you’d be so…”

“So what ?” Lucifer urged, much too amused for his liking.

“So…charitable. Thoughtful even. We humans wasted the free will you loved so much yet you still hold it in such high regard. How admirable. We sinners hardly deserve your benevolence…”

“No. You don’t.” Lucifer’s grin widened as he moved closer, drinking up Alastor’s half-hearted praise.

There was an almost knowing look in his eyes, which Alastor realized looked crimson. They seemed to glow with an unearthly light that raised the fine hairs on the back of Alastor’s neck. He suddenly felt rather than heard what Lucifer practically purred next:

“Flattery will get you everywhere, sweet thing.”

In the next breath Lucifer was standing nearly face to face with him with a smile so knowing it downright unsettled Alastor. But the discomfort only lasted a handful of seconds. Which was all it took. Alastor was suddenly on the shorter man slitting his throat. The flesh under his blade gave in an utterly bizarre way—with the stiff crispness of ripe fruit. Yet at the same time, Alastor met resistance not from bone but something comparable to solid steel. With a curse, the radio host dug his blade even deeper into the Lucifer’s throat in a sawing motion. Then, without warning, Alastor felt that velvet smooth voice in his ear again husky, dark, and thrilled:

“Slow down, little doe. Let’s get to know each other a little more first.”

Alastor felt Lucifer’s body go slack in his hold; saw the yawning maw of his throat which he’d opened up like a tin can. Except there was no blood. Well. Not in the sense of blood as Alastor knew it. What seeped onto his hands and already bloodied clothes looked and felt like liquid fire. But it wasn’t scalding. In fact, it felt dangerously close to caress that was obscenely gentle everywhere it touched. That fireless fire seeped into Alastor’s very bones and further still. The sensation was so surreal that he didn’t even notice dawn beginning to break. It was suddenly very bright and explosive. Literally. A bomb went off a few feet away from him.

Then the world exploded into into a yellowish, sour-smelling haze of gunfire, mud, and barbed wire. All around him, explosions and gunfire went off in a never-ending symphony of carnage.

Where was he?

“Don’t you recognize the Somme [3] , Al? You should know it well since you were a radio transmitter during the war. Or so you claim. It certainly helped you land your latest gig, didn’t it?” Came Lucifer’s bemused voice.

Then it was suddenly gone. Alastor blinked his eyes as they struggled to adjust to the dark again. Night. It was still night. He was still hours away from New Orleans. The switchblade was still in his hand. Or rather, he appeared to be about to slit open his own wrist. After all, he could feel the very real whisper of the blade against his racing pulse.

Alastor’s eyes flew wide. What on earth?!

Easy there, Al. Still with me? There, there, little doe. Did I startle you? Lucifer cooed in his head. Then suddenly that voice was outside of Alastor and once again coming from Lucifer’s lips, which were now curled in wolfish amusement.

“Although, in my defense you startled me first, sweetheart.” The shorter man smirked.

The sheer audacity in it made Alastor’s blood boil.

“Aha! Of course I startled you first, my vertically challenged fellow!” Alastor returned tersely. “You almost seemed to imply that it was the other way around!”

“Come on, Bambi. Surely, you’re not denying that it might have actually been the other way around?” Lucifer leaned on his apple-tipped cane, waggling his eyebrows.

Alastor was torn between wanting to laugh again and gutting the bastard like a fish for giving him yet another vile pet name.

“Well, one can’t deny a plausibility that hardly exists in the first place!” Alastor shot back.

“Oho! But sweetheart, you’re talking to me . I don’t deal in plausibility. Only facts.”

“And on what exactly do you base this fallacy?”

“Well, I am the Sin of Pride.” Lucifer puffed out his chest and smiled dashingly.

 For the second time, Alastor laughed. It slipped out before he had the chance to stop it—an ugly, wheezing thing that rang out into air. And Lucifer, the insufferable buffoon, just smiled at him in that disgustingly tender way that made Alastor realize that he was making himself look like a fool. And some absurd part of him liked it and he couldn’t have that—

Wait.

How could Lucifer still be here, standing before him exactly as he had moments before—before what exactly? And hadn’t Alastor slit his throat to the bone? What on earth was going on? Surely, he wasn’t hallucinating? He’s only tried cocaine once out of curiosity but that was more than a decade ago since it was nothing compared to the rush “hunting” brought him—

You’re just a little exhausted . Alastor told himself. You put so much care into finally becoming a legitimate radio host. On top of that you haven’t been sleeping as well as you could…

“You okay there, sweetheart?” Lucifer ventured. “I know you’re exceptionally talented with knives, but you might seriously hurt yourself for real there if you’re not careful.”

Alastor took in the innocuous concern on the shorter man’s face. Against his will, it only amplified the unease he’d felt earlier. His instinct screamed that he was in the presence of something unnatural and perhaps ancient, but his pride screamed even louder: you’re being played! This buffoon is laughing at you!

Trickery. This was trickery plain and simple! So this Lucifer was not only an uninvited guest but also thought himself a talented illusionist as well? Now, Alastor couldn’t have that. He willed down his rattled nerves, pocketing his switchblade with a flick of his wrist. Then he stepped closer to the self-proclaimed king of hell and smiled.

“You know, you’re quite amusing. Even if my specialty lied in depriving others of life—

“Which it does.” Lucifer’s grin was positively serpentine.

“Even if it did—

“Bambi, you’re covered in blood for fuck’s sake—

“I’m many things, Lucifer .” Alastor sneered. “Suicidal is hardly one of them.”

They were so close now that Alastor could see that Lucifer’s pupils had turned to fiery slits. Their noses brushed. Their breaths mingled. He had to get rid of this lunatic, Alastor decided. Immediately. But unbidden, against his better judgement or perhaps due to his exhaustion finally catching up to him he asked:

“If you’re truly the undisputed ruler of hell, then why on earth would you be here wasting my time?”

Lucifer blinked. Then burst out laughing.

“My apologies, Bambi! If you needed further proof that I’m the king of hell then all you had to do was ask! Here. Give me a second.” He reached into his hat and rummaged around in it. “Now where is it? Ah! There it is! Presenting sinner number forty-three hundred million six hundred and sixty-six!” He pulled out a hand full of luminescent dust and sprinkled it at Alastor’s feet with a flourish.

For a moment, nothing happened. Until it did. And oh, how it did! From that shimmering dust rose a cloud black, blazing, and noxiously sulfurous. It was accompanied by an eerie cacophony of agonized screams until it began to take on a singular human shape. Alastor watched, entranced as the flesh and bone appeared from the smoldering ash followed by a pair of wide, desperate eyes. Before Alastor knew it, the unmistakable face of Mr. Franklin was staring back at him. He cried out, tore his hair, and fell at Alastor’s feet grasping at his legs as he pleaded:

“I’m sorry! Oh god I’m sorry! Let me go! I’ll never hurt anyone else! Just let me g—

“Alright. That’s quite enough out of you.” Lucifer snapped his fingers.

Mr. Franklin’s mouth became a horrific maw of garbled, writhing fire, ash, and cries of pure anguish. Of damnation. Alastor realized. Unimaginable and everlasting. He glanced at Lucifer to see him smiling as if to say: Well, what did I tell you? The radio host looked back at Mr. Franklin; at his bulging, pleading eyes, raised his chin haughtily and stated:

“What a very clever little parlor trick! Although, I must say it’s a bit paltry for the supposed king of hell.”

“You can’t be serious!” Lucifer gawked.

“Quite!”

When Alastor showed no signs of being the least bit impressed, Lucifer sighed and snapped his fingers again. Mr. Franklin instantly became sparkling dust in the palm of his hand, which the clever magician shoved right back into his hat before placing that said hat right back onto his blonde head.

“Hmm…” Lucifer circled him, gaze hawkish and hungry. “So I was right after all.”

“About?” Alastor raised an unenthused brow.

“You being the most beautiful thing I’ve seen since my siblings and I crafted the first stars from nothing. Doesn’t hurt that you don’t have sense to be afraid of me either.” Lucifer replied

Oh. Well. That was…Alastor felt strangely flattered—and insulted—all at once.

“You’ll have to forgive me, your highness. You’ll find that I don’t scare all that easily. As they say, fortune favors the bold.”

Lucifer laughed. “And bold you certainly are. You know, since I failed to impress you with my little slight of hand, what would you say to making a deal with me?” He gently took hold of Alastor’s chin. “You could have anything you want. Just say the word.”

Alastor slapped away his hand. “That won’t be necessary I’m afraid. There’s hardly anything you could offer me that could be considered worth my while.”

Lucifer looked almost heart-broken before once again becoming the ultimate showman, utterly dedicated to his bit. He chuckled, straightened his tacky suit, and then began to take to the air. The next thing Alastor knew was that the man had managed to pull off a fairly impressive feat of levitation complete with six, equally impressive pairs of wings. The sight of them—enormous and white and tinged with an unearthly light that dipped into bright crimson—very nearly stole the breath from Alastor’s lungs. Cane in hand, Lucifer grinned, using the apple-tipped end of it to lift Alastor’s chin again with the same gentleness as before.

Come on. No need to be modest . Anything for the asking is yours. You just say the word! An indulgent voice purred into Alastor’s mind.

Crickets. Alastor remained stubbornly unimpressed. That only served to spur Lucifer on. 

"Alright then." The fallen angel's eyes flashed mischievously. "How about we try this again from the top, Al?"

Before Alastor could employ that devasting wit of his, Lucifer tried again. He even added extra sparkles to his performance.

"Hey, sweet thing. Give me your soul.” Lucifer crooned.

Crickets again. Then, smile downright cruel, Alastor replied:

“Haha! No .”

With that, the radio host pushed aside Lucifer’s cane and walked away to pack up his things. Dawn was starting to break—the real one this time. He still had to get back to New Orleans. He wasn’t about to miss his first broadcast for anything. Not even for a lunatic claiming to be the devil.

If only his eyes hadn’t chosen that precise moment to go hazy and strained. Particularly his left one. Alastor touched his face only to realize that his glasses were suddenly gone. He promptly felt the steel of them being tapped on his cheek.

“Looking for these, Bambi?” Lucifer teased from behind him. “Can’t have you driving home blind as antelope.”

“It’s blind as a bat, you halfwit!” Alastor snapped.

Lucifer shrugged and handed him the glasses. “Close enough.”

Alastor paused. “My glasses were broken… in that scuffle with Mr. Franklin.”

“Let’s just say I fixed them for you. What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.” Lucifer replied, wolfishly waggling his eyebrows.

Alastor rolled his eyes and accepted his miraculously repaired glasses.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Morningstar?”

“That depends. Is it working?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“A pity. I’ll have to try harder then.” Lucifer’s smile was all teeth. “Now come let’s get you home, sweet thing. You’re practically dead on your feet.”

“No I’m not—Alastor stopped short at the feeling of something suddenly grasping his waist. He looked down. Something whip-thin, velveteen, and spade-tipped had curled itself too comfortably there warm as it was insistent. Is that…? The radio host let out an undignified yelp of surprise as it suddenly pulled him closer to Lucifer’s side.

“My tail? Yes. I’ll have you know I don’t show it to just anyone.” Lucifer waggled his brows again.

“My, aren’t I lucky then. Kindly let go.” Alastor bit out.

“You’re tired, sweetheart.”

“I already told you I’m not—

The world suddenly titled as Alastor swayed dangerously on his feet.

“Yes you are .” Lucifer’s grip was steady. “Be good now, sweetheart. There you go. Relax for me. Let’s go home.”

Alastor couldn’t find it in himself to argue. Not when Lucifer’s voice was incredibly soothing and his own feet just as light. He felt as if he were floating. He didn’t even notice he was lying in the back seat of Berta where Mr. Franklin had once lain until he heard the engine sputter to life. When had Lucifer gotten behind the wheel? What was even happening? Why didn’t he want to stop it? Alastor’s thoughts slipped into a cottony mush of something too pleasant to be a dream. Then he was suddenly back on Royal Street with its hazy streetlights and the distant noise of clubs and police sirens. Then he was floating again. Watching his apartment grow closer; heard the clatter of hooves rather than footsteps. Click clack. Click clack. Up the stairs. Past Ms. Lacomb’s residence and Mrs. Dequir’s. Surely, it was illegal to keep a horse in an apartment…

As Alastor drifted between sleep and consciousness, Lucifer was quite content to carry him step by step up to his apartment like a new bride. He made certain to cast a spell to keep the other residents ignorant of their arrival. Even the policeman on his beat hadn’t seen or heard a thing out of the ordinary. It didn’t hurt either that the man was corrupt and conveniently saw or heard very little to start with. Lucifer looked down at the breathtaking man in his arms and smiled as he opened the door to Alastor’s apartment with a snap of his tail.

“We’re home, Al.” Lucifer whispered in Alastor’s ear as he laid him down on a dated sofa.

“What…” Alastor’s eyes opened slowly. More exhausted than homicidally annoyed, he pushed himself up and took in the time from a clock on the wall. It was a minute past 3am. He looked down at his clothes, which very much lacked all traces of blood but still smelled of sweat and the damp wilds.

“Looks like I’m finally going to take that bath now.” Alastor said more to himself than Lucifer. “If you peek, I’ll slit your throat. And I promise you I won’t miss this time, couillon [4] .”

Anything but intimidated, Lucifer’s eyes grew hooded. “Sure. Whatever you say. You know that accent of yours is dangerous.”

Alastor sighed, grabbed a pair of pajamas from his bedroom, and promptly shut himself in the bathroom. He washed up quickly, too muddled to think about everything that had happened—was still happening. A short while later, he trudged to his bed still pink from his bath only to find Lucifer waiting patiently by the window in his bedroom. In the moonlight, his profile was almost ethereal. His tail wagged, reminding Alastor of a puppy as he caught the other’s weary gaze.

“Alright, mister. To bed with you. Come on.” Lucifer entreated, pulling back the covers on his bed invitingly. “Can’t have you falling asleep standing up.”

Alastor climbed into bed, his eyes never leaving the self-proclaimed king of Hell’s. Even for him this was beyond strange. But oddly enough, he didn’t feel the slightest bit of fear. Not knowing what to make of that, Alastor fluffed his pillow and lay down on his side. Watching Lucifer watch him expectantly.

“I’m not in the habit of sharing my bed with strangers. You’d best see your way out by first light. Goodnight.” Alastor said primly.

Lucifer pouted. “Understandable, but you and I are hardly strangers.”

“I don’t share my bed with anyone .”

Damn . Lucifer looked put out but suddenly perked up. In an instant he shifted. Alastor startled when he heard a soft hiss. There, curled up on a pillow beside him was a white snake. Its eyes big and black and its underbelly an unnatural shade of red, the small creature flicked its tongue at Alastor almost smugly.

“Well, I suppose a snake won’t hurt anything.” Lucifer purred in his head.

“Another magic trick? I must admit, you’re quite the performer.” Alastor smiled softly.

“Oh!” Lucifer flushed gold. “Why thank y—

“Do keep your distance or I’ll gut you and make a nice roux out of you. Goodnight.”

“Spoilsport.” Lucifer hissed.

Alastor was out cold. Lucifer watched his eyes flutter minutely behind his eyelids. Admired the way his hair, curled from his bath, tumbled gently over his brow. Even without touching him, the Prince of Darkness knew the shape of him. Every ounce of muscle. Every scar no matter how faded. The ones on Alastor’s hands particularly drew Lucifer’s attention. As did the distressed racing of Alastor’s heart. He was having a nightmare, Lucifer realized. Without moving an inch from his pillow, the Devil slipped into Alastor’s dreams.

An old house shuttered into view. Screams and shouts rent the air. The anxious faces of onlookers swirled about in a sea of brown to the deepest black. They were all crowded there just outside of that grand, faded house listening. Apart from them stood Alastor. He wasn’t hard to miss, his lighter skin making him look white. A woman screamed. Glass shattered. Something smelled like it was burning. It was as if the house was trying to tear itself apart. Somewhere in all of that, a child was crying out, begging for it to stop. Lucifer moved without thinking. He pushed his way through the crowd and took Alastor’s hand.

“I’ve got you.” He said.

In the next heartbeat, the house and the people were gone. Grand halls, wine, and jazz seamlessly took their place. Men moved to and fro, tinkering with radio transmitters and fussing over scripts. The smile that lit up Alastor’s face at that moment couldn’t have been bought with all the money in the world.

“This is…” Alastor began, a touch breathless.

“The one and only Roosevelt Hotel. The beating heart of WWL.” Lucifer said. “This is yours, Al. All yours. You fought for it and I’m going to make damn sure you keep it.”

Gently, he lifted Alastor’s hand to his lips and kissed it, making him laugh in that sweet, genuine way again as he had in the bayou.

“What makes you think I need your assistance?” Alastor returned. “Kindly let go of my hand. It’s rather revolting.”

“Geez, Al. I’m trying to woo you here.” Lucifer feigned disappointment. “It was love at first sight, you know.”

 “How unfortunate!” Alastor’s smile was guarded.

“You’re not going to play nice, are you? Lucky for you, I’m a patient man.”

“Oh? Willing to wait in vain?”

“I’m willing to wait for you .” Lucifer clarified. “For everything you’ll become with all of this at your disposal.” He gestured around the broadcasting room. “I want to see where your dreams take you.”

“And what about my other hobbies?” Alastor raised a brow. “No sane man would promise such niceties to a man like me.”

 “I am no man .” Lucifer’s eyes flashed. “I’ll promise you whatever I want. You just have to let me be with you every step of the way.”

“My quite the romantic!”

“Most men in love are.”

“Aha! But you are not most men—or a man at all. Or so you claim. Why this farce, your highness?”

“There’s no farce, sweetheart. I’m in it for the long haul. You just take your time and fall in love with me. I’m not going anywhere so there’s no rush.”

Lucifer led Alastor to a table with a microphone and urged him to sit. The band struck up a new tune, slow and tender. Like the showman he was, Lucifer took over the broadcast and announced:

“Ladies and gentlemen, good evening! It is our utmost pleasure here at WWL’s to introduce our new, rising star: Alastor de Rivière! Host of Chez Rivière! A new program sure to grab your attention faster than your mama’s home cooking! Come on now! Make one of the finest voices in New Orleans feel at home!”

There was a round of applause. Delighted, Alastor stood and gave a bow.

“Tell us, Bambi!” Lucifer went on, “With the future looking this bright, what will it be tomorrow, my deer?”

With all the confidence of a natural born performer, Alastor took over the microphone and said proudly in that transatlantic accent:

 “My good man what else? Why, Chez Rivière of course!”

Through the continued applause, Lucifer smiled at Alastor and fell impossibly harder. Oh, there would be no escape from this. Alastor, he knew, was surely destined for Hell. It would all end badly. Very badly. Six years from now Alastor would be dead. A corpse lying somewhere faraway from his New Orleans and his beloved radio. But presently, Alastor’s smile soft and wickedly sweet wiped the bleakness of it all from the Devil’s mind.

Back in the real world, Lucifer slithered closer to Alastor. To his relief, Alastor’s racing heart had quieted. While Alastor dreamed of WWL, Lucifer kissed his brow with a flick of his forked tongue.

“Sweet dreams, Al.” He whispered. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

[1] Welcome to Louisiana, your majesty

[2] I’m pleased to meet you

[3] One of the deadliest battle sites of WWI France

[4] Idiot/fool in French Creole. It can be used affectionately or to insult someone.

Chapter Text

Alastor was woken up by two things: Lucifer singing and Mrs. Dequir beating down his front door.

“I’d do anything for you.” Lucifer sang, voice velvet-smooth.  “Ask my brothers and sisters. Ask my Father Upstairs too…”

“Mr. Rivière! Mr. Rivière!” cried Mrs. Dequir. “I really must speak with you!”

“Ask the little froggies on earth. Ask all the little duckies too…"

“Mr. Rivière!”

Goddamn it! Alastor’s eyes snapped open. He bolted upright in bed to the glare of the sun and the smell of food sizzling on the stove in the kitchen. For a few fleeting moments, Alastor took in the spryness of his body and the position of the sun pouring through his curtains. It was late morning. Since when did he sleep that long? And had Ms. Dequir finally lost what was left of her mind? Alastor grabbed a robe and trudged past the kitchen, decidedly empty and dark, and stood poised to open his front door. With a deceptively chipper smile, Alastor opened the door.

“Why hello, Mrs. Dequir! What can help you with—

“Oh thank goodness! Here!”

Something cool and overly fragrant was pushed into his hands. Alastor looked down at it: small bowl of potpourri. He blinked and looked back at Mrs. Dequir’s anxious face. She was dressed lovely as usual and was still very striking for a woman in her fifties.

“I had it blessed by a priest first thing this mornin’!” She explained. “You see, last night I had the strangest dream…”

“A dream?” Alastor’s eye twitched. You woke me up over a goddamn dream—

“Yes! A dream!” Mrs. Dequir went on, khol-rimmed eyes wide. “There was a pale man ridin’ a pale horse standin’ just out there in the street. It was well after midnight.” She gestured to the busy street. “And what a queer little man he was! He was keepin’ watch over your place like you was expectin’ him!”

“My! That is a peculiar dream.” Alastor replied, raising a brow. “You know I don’t accept visitors at such a late hour.”

“But that’s just it, Mr. Rivière!” Mrs. Dequir raised an artfully painted brow. “It was more like you were his guest somehow. Anyhow, I dreamt you walked out to meet that pale man. With every step you took toward him, you left behind a trail of earth that turned into smolderin’ ashes. It stank somethin’ mean. Like somethin’ dead…”

As Mrs.. Dequir prattled on, Alastor thought first of his Ivory soap, which couldn’t have failed him. Mr. Frankly had been a fresh kill after all. Then, inevitably, his thoughts turned to a certain, self-proclaimed king of Hell. Alastor scoffed inwardly. Dream or no dream, Lucifer was on his sufferance. Not the other way around! Speaking of his diminutive, uninvited guest…

“I do hate to have to go so soon, but I have a very busy day ahead of me you see.” Alastor interrupted, then just as Mrs. Dequir started to look put out he added. “But! Might I suggest we visit the French Market together later? I hear they’re selling the loveliest hats—

“Oh, now you know I’d love that, cher!” Mrs. Dequir’s smile almost rivalled the midday sun’s.

Alastor felt relieved. If there was one thing that rivaled Mrs.. Dequir’s misplaced religious fervor it was her love for hats and trinkets being sold for far more than they were worth.

“Very good then! I’ve a prior engagement until then, but see you at three?”

“Oh, you bet you will, cher!”

She looked as if she were about to say more until she spotted her trolley approaching from the next street over. She blew him a kiss and hurried away. Alastor closed the door and sighed. Although he was very glad to be rid of her, there was still the matter of—

“Morning, Al!”

Lucifer suddenly reappeared, decked out in a Soux chef’s uniform complete with a silly moustache. In each black, four-fingered hand he bore plates piled high with food, hot and steaming and—

Alastor’s stomach growled. Loudly. The radio host pointedly ignored it. Including Lucifer’s too keen smile. The self-proclaimed Devil looked at the sweet-smelling vase that Alastor had set aside with amusement.

Alastor followed his gaze and grinned. “Potpourri. A gift from Mrs. Dequir. She had it blessed for me.”

“Did she now?” Lucifer’s eyes flashed with interest and something that looked suspiciously like envy.

“She did. You may be delighted to hear that she dreamt about you.” Alastor said, inviting Lucifer to examine the gift.

The fallen angel hummed as he picked up the vase, gave it an unimpressed sniff, then set it aside and returned his attention to Alastor. The other watched him with an unreadable expression before Lucifer smiled at him again.

“What? Expecting me to burst into flames or something?” He snorted a laugh. “That Mrs. Dequir really ought to get her eyes checked. That potpourri is about as blessed as my chances of getting back into Heaven: not at all. ‘Course that does tend to happen when a drug peddler masquerades as a priest.”

“How do you know that?” Alastor asked before he could think better of it.

“Come on now, Bambi. Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.” Lucifer teased.

“I’m doing no such thing! I’m merely calling your ability to lie into question.”

“How dare you! I’ll have you know that I’m the best liar there ever was!”

“Are you?” Alastor teased back.

“I am!” Lucifer huffed. “They don’t call me the father of lies for nothing!”

Alastor cocked his head, a witty remark on the tip of his tongue before Lucifer hastily cut him off with: “But that aside, I don’t actually lie that often. At least not to those I like.”

“And am I to count myself among those lucky few?” Alastor asked.

“You had better! You think I’d have hung around for this long and made you breakfast if I didn’t like you at least a little?” Lucifer countered.

“You’re just being nice. A rare quality for the Devil I’m sure.”

“Not that rare I assure you.” Lucifer laughed. “Wait. You believe me now?”

“I believe you’re something.” Alastor gave a noncommittal hum.

“Coming from someone as hard to impress as you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Lucifer took Alastor’s hand and guided him to the table he’d set for them both. Alastor was begrudgingly impressed. His little table wasn’t exactly designed to seat two people, but Lucifer had not only made himself right at home, but he’d also somehow managed to double the size of the table without changing the dimensions of his kitchen. Alastor sat down to a steaming plate of grits, eggs, bacon, hotcakes, and coffee. Lucifer poured him a cup of coffee—black and wonderfully bitter—just how he liked it. Alastor prepared to tuck into his breakfast but not before cutting his hazel eyes toward Lucifer. There was something curious in those eyes. Something that was, despite Alastor’s impressive pridefulness, undoubtedly intrigued. And who was Lucifer, pride incarnate, not to relish it?

After all, the fallen angel was all too happy to have his attention. Alastor’s eyes, slightly more green than brown now, were unfairly mesmerizing. Alastor’s deep brown hair, mussed from sleep, curled wildly. Prettily.

“You’re starin’, Mr. Morningstar.” Alastor said and—oh, wasn’t his natural accent far lovelier than the one he put on for his radio show?

“Can you blame me, Al?” Lucifer returned, shamelessly. “I am in the company of beauty itself.”

“Quite the flatterer! Do close your mouth. Less you plan on catching flies in it.”  Alastor’s smile didn’t wane as he looked down at his meal then back at Lucifer. “Should I be wary of any special ingredient in this fine offering?”

“Why? Oh shit! Are you allergic to anything?” Lucifer panicked and reached for his plate. “Because I can totally make you something else! Something better—

Alastor grabbed his wrist. “That won’t be necessary…”

Oh. Lucifer’s anxiousness disappeared as he noted the brief flash of surprise that flickered across that divine face. It was downright adorable. Lucifer sat back down and rested his head in his hands expectantly.

“Go on, Al. Dig in.” He grinned. “It’s not poisoned. I promise.”

“What a shame!”

Alastor feigned disappointment then finally took a bite. He chewed slowly, his eyes sliding shut. Then he took another bite. Then another. Against his will, his lips curled into a smile that was dangerously pleased. That was enough to make Lucifer’s ancient heart soar right out of his chest. As Alastor ate, Lucifer happily tucked into his own hotcakes which he all but bathed in buttermilk syrup. His grin stretched wider as Alastor wrinkled his nose at the saccharin smell of it. Inevitably, mischief crept into Lucifer’s smile.

“Don’t like sweet things, sweet thing?” He ventured.

“You just couldn’t resist, could you?” Alastor rolled his eyes. “But to answer your question I don’t. I never have.”

Lucifer looked as if someone had told him a close friend had died.

“How can you not like sugar, Al? It’s only one of the greatest things in the world!”

“If it helps, I don’t like you either.” Alastor replied.

“Is it because I’m too sweet?” Lucifer waggled his eyebrows in that wolfish way again. “Well, too bad! Cause I can be even sweeter—

“You’re awfully bold for a man who had until first light to be gone.” Alastor dabbed his mouth with a napkin, took another sip of coffee, and fixed Lucifer with a polite, but sharp look. Predictably, it only amused the Devil further.

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart.” Lucifer placed a hand over his heart. “I did say I’d be here when you woke up, didn’t I? By the way, did you sleep well? Of course you did! You had me to watch over you.” He smoothed back his hair, banishing his chef getup as he did so. His smile went soft. “You know, it just isn’t fair for you to be this lovely first thing in the morning. Well, uh, it’s much closer to noon now isn’t it?”

Alastor raised an unimpressed brow. “What do you want from me?”

“What do you want from me?” Lucifer parroted back. “Ah, there’s that look again. You still don’t believe I am who I said I was the other night.”

It was a challenge, Alastor knew. One he accepted without a second thought. But outwardly, he was careful not to appear too eager. Lucifer’s eyes flashed, blood red and reptilian.

“If you’re really the Devil—

“Which I am.” Lucifer added.

“Then you might show me some proof I can actually believe.”

“I pulled a tortured soul out of the depths of hell for you just last night!”

“A parlor trick. As I told you before, Mr. Morningstar.”

“Won’t you call me, Lucifer?”

Alastor froze. Maybe it was because Lucifer suddenly had a nose. Or maybe it was because the person sitting across from him now looked like a man in his late forties. Pinstriped suit and tie. Blonde, coiffed hair artfully peppered with grays. Lucifer’s ever confident smile was still present, though it now brought out the crow’s feet around his eyes.

“You’re…” Alastor couldn’t seem to find the right words.

“Devilishly handsome? I know. I know.” Lucifer grinned. “But goodness, sweetheart! All that staring is making me blush! Let your mouth hang open anymore and you’ll be the one catching flies in it.”

“Well, aren’t you presumptuous!” Alastor took another bite of his breakfast before Lucifer could see the way he flushed.

The rational part of him knew that there was no way that Lucifer was human. Not even Houdini was that talented. But the more stubborn, and much prouder part of him still demanded some irrefutable form of proof as extraordinary as his circumstances currently were. He nearly jumped when Lucifer rested his broader, slightly calloused hand over his.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s still me. Just thought I’d look the part I’m going to play in this. You don’t mind me looking a bit older, do you?” Lucifer asked. “I’m acquaintance of yours from out west. Montana maybe.” His voice took on a subtle, midwestern cadence. “Owned more land there than I knew what to do with. A couple of oilfields too. So maybe I sold a bit of it to some nice, business savvy folks way down here Louisiana. I’m just here on business. No one will bat an eye. If you’re gonna marry me one day soon, I should look more than a little reputable right?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not the marryin’ sort.”

“For now.”

“Well, aren’t you a glutton for punishment.”

“I can’t help it. You make the torture so exquisite, Bambi.”

Lucifer sat back and studied Alastor as he ate. Never in the world was there a prettier sight. And yet all that prettiness still refused to believe he was the king of Hell. Out of what had to be no less than pride bottomless and deliciously petty.

“Oh ye of so little faith.” The Prince of Darkness said, amused. “But that’s not entirely true, is it? You believe in what you do not fear. And you, sweet thing, fear nothing. No man. But what about things that are higher than men? You’re looking at me like that again, little doe. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

 “Are you always this unwise?” Alastor asked.

“Only for you.” The fallen angel entreated, his forked tongue flickering out as if to taste the other’s breath.

“I’m thinking of you of course, Mr. Morningstar.” Alastor admitted as he neatly finished his breakfast. Drank the last of his coffee. “In fact, I’m thinking of you more and more by the minute.”

“Go on…” Lucifer purred.

“Well, I’d hate to spoil our lovely breakfast. My thoughts aren’t exactly what you’d call…decent.”

“Oh? Even better!” Lucifer’s smile was all teeth now. “Come on, Bambi. You could never spoil anything for me. Tell me what kind of thoughts are running through that lovely head of yours.”

Alastor played coy for a bit longer. He rose from his chair and went to Lucifer’s side. Enjoying the way those eerie eyes drank in the sight of him, Alastor made a show of thinking it over.

“I think of you under me. Under my hands.” Alastor admitted with mock bashfulness.

And oh. Lucifer’s capitulation was immediate. He flushed gold and swallowed audibly. The way his crimson eyes blazed with hunger of a starved beast was too extraordinary; too perfect to put down in words. Bolstered by that hunger for reasons he couldn’t name, Alastor went on:

“I think of holding your heart in my hands. Of how it would feel…” Alastor moved close enough for their noses to touch, making Lucifer’s breath hitch. “I can already feel it. Warm and every bit of pathetic as you. Too pathetic even to know when to stop beatin’…”

“I’d let you take it, sweetheart.” Lucifer’s voice dropped lower—somewhere between a pitiful whine and a growl terrifying enough to curdle blood. “You can take it. Right now. Come and get it. It’s already yours.”

Alastor, relished the fantasy of it for a breath, then changed his mind. “I have so many thoughts of you, Lucifer. Each more unmentionable than the last. But alas,” he drew back, feigning boredom. “I really ought to get ready. I’ve got quite the day ahead of me. Can’t afford to be wastin’ it like this.”

He felt rather than heard the frustrated and rather inhuman growl Lucifer let out as he left him there at the table. A lesser man would have leapt out of his skin, but Alastor was no such man. In fact, where fear ought to have taken root, a heady thrill sprang forth. Fool-hearted and deadly like swimming in a gator-laden river with a fresh, open wound. He was in no hurry to see it end despite the rational part of his mind that screamed that he should’ve put a great deal of distance between himself and Lucifer some time ago.

But to succumb to cowardice in the face of what could be perhaps the most entertaining encounter of his life? Now that just wasn’t in Alastor’s repertoire or his blood. With an unrepentant smile, Alastor laid out his attire for the day: a three-piece suit, bowtie, and a pair of shoes polished to high heaven, chose his finest pair of silk socks and garters, fetched a fresh shirt starched so well that it could stand up on its own, and slipped into the bathroom. As he got ready a memory suddenly floated up from the back of his head like bubbles in a Coca-Cola shaken up until the glass itself was ready to burst:

Caddou Parish a year after the turn of the twentieth century. Pidou Plantation. The scent of boiled cane and soil clung to everything. It was the season when the ground steamed at dawn, when even the moss drooped with heat. From his perch on the banister of the east-facing veranda, five-year old Alastor watched the fields come alive. Hands from the lightest to the deepest black moved rhythmically among rows of sugar cane, wheat, and cotton. The laborers with their backs bent but not broken by the echo of a whip. Some with their skirts tied; sweat thick on their temples. Sun-browned sharecroppers forced to work among them—all trampled equally in the dust of Ms. Pidou’s hawkish gaze. She emerged too often from her place in the shade for anyone to dare to take a rest too soon.

But Alastor’s mother was incapable of being trapped her gaze. Honorae Sonnier was incapable of being trapped by anything.

Honorae Sonnier was the only woman he’d ever seen in fine clothes amid all that toiling. The only woman who read out loud—to no one in particular, perched beneath the magnolia trees with a book in her lap and the sun in her lashes. She smiled when she spoke to the farmhands’ daughters. Braided their hair in fishbone rows, humming songs in a Creole lilt as she twined ribbon through their braids. Alastor had seen her sing an old spiritual to red-headed Adeline, the youngest of the sharecropper girls, who had fallen asleep with her head in her lap like a possum grown fat and lazy from a feast.

But she never touched Alastor. Not even to move a stray curl from his cheek.

He was always watching her from a distance—all dark, rust red curls (never as red as Adeline’s), pale as a bar of milled soap, in silk stockings and little white gloves, dressed to receive suitors before he could even write his name. Other children didn’t play with Alastor very often. Their parents whispered about his strangeness. They didn’t like him either, but they pretended to because he was wealthy--wealthier than even them. Unlike their faded glory, the Pidou name had managed to survive as if to spite them.

His nanny Miss Olympie was the only one who stayed with Alastor. She did not coddle him as nannies were prone to do, but she kept him dressed and upright, and paraded him like a trophy in front of the other house servants. It pleased Miss Olympie beyond words to feel superior to them through him. Sometimes, Alastor thought she looked like a chicken snake black-eyed and covetous. And always at her side was Duchess, a spoiled King Charles Cavalier who was always turned out in silk ribbon or lace.

 Alastor might have let her live out her highly privileged days in relative peace. If only Duchess hadn’t dared to growl at him once. Treated him, like his nanny, with veiled impunity. Really, Duchess should’ve known better. Should’ve rolled over and showed him her soft underbelly like all prey should when faced with a predator that could maul them for sport. But she didn’t. She’d pinned back her ears and growled through her obvious fear and the good common sense that she should’ve had. She even had the nerve to bark at Alastor like she could actually threaten him. Alastor never forgot it.

That same day when Miss Olympie went out on an errand, Alastor gave a young field hand a quarter and told him to help Duchess get to Heaven. He even had an explanation at the ready: the poor creature of severely limited intelligence fell from the balcony and somehow, at the very same time, got crushed beneath a loose concrete slab near the fountain. When Miss Olympie returned and saw the tiny broken body, she screamed until she had a stroke right there in front of the other servants.

She never stood up on two legs again.

Alastor made sure Ms. Pidou didn’t dismiss her.

“I want her to stay,” he said, with all the wide-eyed solemnity a five-year-old could muster.

Miss Olympie lived another full year shriveled and half-mad, tended to by the very servants she’d berated and slapped. They changed her linens too slowly. Salted her food too generously. Whispered curses around her in their old native tongues that Miss Olympie had always despised the same way she hated them. They had always been too dark and grotesque for her liking. Alastor kissed Miss Olympie’s brow each night like the obedient child she’d trained him to be. Until one morning Miss Olympie didn’t wake up. The servants were happy to find with her eyes wide open and her mouth twisted with the echo of final curse.

That day, Alastor found himself wandering. He wasn’t sad. Not exactly. But he felt strange, like the sky was too wide and too blue and pressing on his head. He saw her again—his mother—near the sugar sheds, beneath the tall cypress trees. She had Adeline on her lap sobbing, curled up against her.

“I can’t stand it anymore!” Adeline cried. “Miss Sonnier, they’re going to kill me I just know it! My mama and daddy—they was at each other again. They beat me too all the time! I can’t stand it!”

Alastor crept closer, crouching near the cane rows, unseen. His mother stroked Adeline’s head with a gentleness he had never known. She was singing. Soft and slow. When Adeline calmed down a little, Honorae held her face in both hands.

“You listen to me, baby. Real gentlemen don’t raise a hand to no woman, no matter who she may be. A man don’t hit. A man don’t shame.”

Adeline nodded through her tears.

“A real man,” she continued, “he stands up tall. He smiles. And he makes the whole world feel charmed. Even when he’s real mad. Even when he’s breaking apart inside.”

Alastor was transfixed. It felt like his mother was speaking straight through Adeline and into him—like she saw through the dresses, the bows, the white gloves that pinched at his fingers. He felt something snap loose inside his chest. All the hours he’d spent staring in the mirror, hating the strange little girl staring back. All the fury when he was told to sit quiet, to hold his hands just so, to curtsy.

All the nights he wanted to be tear himself out of his own skin and make himself anew…It was as if Honorae was talking about him. Describing Alastor to himself.

Isn’t that me, mama? He thought.  I can smile too. I can stand up tall. I make people love me.

 His mother looked up and scanned the rows. Alastor ducked just in time. When he peeked again, she was walking away, Adeline’s small hand held tightly in hers. She was taking her. Leaving. No singing for him. No braiding his hair. No hands in his curls. Just the shadow of her perfume trailing after her. And for the first time in his young, strange life, Alastor felt a wanting. Not for toys. Not for sweets. But for her. He sat on the warm dirt long after she disappeared down the road and pressed his palm to his chest. Inside, it felt like dry earth aching for a storm that wouldn’t come.

Alastor shook his head as he returned to the present; to buttoning up his fine waistcoat. Why was he remembering such a thing now when he had the literal devil to get rid of? Yet he wouldn’t—couldn’t rush this particular ritual of his. Alastor dressed like a man preparing for battle.

The crisp white shirt slid over his shoulders. Each button was fastened with defiant care. Suspenders snapped into place. Collar stiff as armor. But it was the sock garters that mattered most—the final, unspoken affirmation. Black silk with silver clasps. Alastor carefully rolled his brightly patterned socks on and secured them in their garters with practiced grace.

Outside the bathroom, Lucifer waited. His imagination was running way too wild to not sneak a peek through the walls at Alastor’s sinfully long legs. Sock garters fitted to his calves too perfectly not to make fallen angels damn themselves thrice over. Except Lucifer didn’t peek. He remained where he was at the table helplessly daydreaming.

Oh the sonnets I could write to just your legs alone, Bambi. Lucifer thought, aching with the heat of a hundred fevers. Even your thighs that your slacks hug so well. Why can’t I hug them too?

Alastor appeared a moment later, dressed with a primness that bordered on cruel. The way that waistcoat hugged him was unlawful.

“If I find you anywhere in this apartment when I return from the studio,” Alastor said, voice like flint and honey, “I will be forced, my diminutive fellow, to deprive you of life.”

Lucifer only relished the not-so-subtle threat with a smile. “That’s a little extreme. You can’t stand doing things the simple way, can you?”

“Loath as I am to admit it, you are hardly simple,” Alastor replied.

Lucifer placed a hand over his chest. “You wound me.”

“Not mortally. Not yet.”

He turned back toward the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks. Lucifer behind him,  barefoot, dangerous.

“I’ll go,” Lucifer said at last, too easily. “On one condition.”

Alastor’s nostrils flared.

Lucifer raised his hand. “Not that. No soul-taking or any of that nonsense. Just this—if nothing harms you today, I’ll go.”

Alastor gave him a look. “You think I’m going to trip and die between here and my evening broadcast?”

Lucifer smiled. “No. But I think the city might get the urge to eat you alive today.” He leaned in, voice low. “And I like you intact.”

“Then you’ve misunderstood the situation,” Alastor said, adjusting his hat with a flick. “If I survive this day, you vanish. If I don’t, I’m dead and you can’t bother me anyway.”

“Then it’s a deal.” Lucifer held out his hand.

Alastor took it with visible disgust. They shook.

And of course—of course—Lucifer caught his wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside of it, warm lips against the faint throb of Alastor’s pulse. Reverent. Sacrilegious. And maybe a little bit heady. Alastor considered stabbing him with the letter opener on the hall table. But he remained perfectly civil and left the letter opener where it was despite the way its very tempting razor’s edge gleamed in the late morning sun.

Alastor put on his hat and opened the front door. He smiled unkindly at Lucifer; at that ridiculously handsome human disguise. The grays in his hair were a clever touch and immensely unfair. Alastor would gouge out one of Lucifer’s adoring, blue eyes before he admitted even that much.

“You had better be gone by midnight.” He looked away before Lucifer sensed the flush creeping up his neck.

Lucifer did not go. He simply duplicated himself flawlessly and left his double behind. Invisible and armed with the unrelenting charms of a born manipulator, Lucifer dispersed himself all about bustling New Orleans like mist…

Alastor caught a trolly a short while later. The St. Charles trolley swayed beneath the sun like a tired songbird, all heat and hum and pressed cotton. Alastor stood near the middle, perfectly poised between a sleeping grandmother with a basket of tomatoes and a man who smelled of deep fish fry and every iota of seasoning that went into it. The air was thick with sweat, perfume, and the city’s colorful grime—but none of it bothered Alastor. In fact, he enjoyed it.

There was something oddly democratic about a streetcar. The working class and the well to do everyone cramped together in the same rattling shell, held up by the same old rail and the same sticky breeze through cracked windows. It was music in motion, every jolt of the track a drumbeat, every clanging bell a trumpet’s note. Even the discomfort had its rhythm.

Alastor tugged his collar straight, smoothed the front of his waistcoat, and let the city rattle around him. As he did so another memory floated up to the surface of his mind. This one from when he’d gained an interest in vodou[1] from watching a mambo perform a blessing in secret in the old slaves’ quarters turned rented shacks on Pidou Plantation for a woman who’d miscarried her baby and badly wanted another.

Alastor had been fascinated by the old native tongue the elder had spoken in. The way she chanted and danced, brushed the distraught woman from head to with a clutch of feathers in one hand and a strange, rattling instrument in the other. The mambo[2] spoke to lwa[3] and through them, the protector of women and children. The vevé[4] she’d drawn on the wooden floor of her hut seemed to come alive, shimmering in a way that had nothing to do with the candles in the hut.

A week or so later Alastor decided to try his hand at vodou himself. When Alastor was seven years old, he made his first attempt to speak to the lwa. Now, to speak with the lwa, you’ve got to be one of their flock. One of their own. But Alastor, who believed solely in himself, took this for granted. So one night, when he’d stolen off with some candles, a rooster and a hen, and some cornmeal to an old shack in the woods, Alastor had been confident that he had everything he needed to make a proper offering to Papa Legba.

There in the shack, Alastor set to work. He let the rooster out of his knapsack first. It was in a foul mood—haha!—crowing as it pecked and scratched at him. Alastor wrestled it to the ground, grabbed his pocketknife, and cut off its head. Then it was the hen’s turn. She was just as feisty as the rooster. Her wide, black eyes cursed Alastor right up to the moment he took off her head too. Next, he tossed the heads aside and prepared the candles. He grabbed the cornmill, poked a hole in the full pouch, and made the vevé for Papa Legba[5] on the dusty floor. As neatly as he could Alastor made a cross, but not like the ones you’d find in any old church. But the rest of the sigil wasn’t as straightforward. Alastor poured all of his concentration into making loops here and curves there. If you must know, it looked a little something like this:

Once the vevé was complete, Alastor stood back and studied his work. It wasn’t perfect but it was a damn good likeness. Then he took his pocketknife and cut out the hearts of the rooster and then hen. He placed their hearts in the center of the vevé and placed the headless bodies on either side of the sigil: the rooster north and the hen to the south. Then he knelt down and clasped his hands together and chanted over and over:

“Papa Legba, I bring you this offering. Accept it and grant my wish.”

Nothing happened.

There was only the distant hooting of owls and the old wooden floorboards occasionally creaking beneath him. Alastor winced as the minutes stretched on. His knees were starting to ache. But he was nothing if not persistent. He tried again:

“Papa Legba, I bring you—

The candles’ flames suddenly flared out, lighting up the room like a second daylight. Their towering flames joined together like hands to create one great tangle of fire that winked out of existence as quickly as it had come. There candles burned on with their much smaller flames—ordinary flames—which now bathed the room in a soft, greenish glow like a thousand lightening bugs set loose. Then came a loud squawking: the rooster and then hen came back to life and beat their wings, breaking up the delicate design of the vevé.

“No!” Alastor cried.

He swatted them away, but the damage was done. The sigil was more than half-erased. Broken. Useless. Then in the next breath it was whole again. The rooster and the hen were still very dead with their heads still missing. But at the center of Papa Legba’s vevé their hearts beat in sync with one another; in time with Alastor’s own startled pulse. They suddenly stopped beating. Then a cacophony of scolding whispers filled the air. Alastor let out a startled yelp of surprise as an unseen hand swatted his backside firmly. Then—

Silence. The vevé was gone, the cornmill scattered everywhere, and the candles extinguished. Where the hearts, bodies, and heads of the chickens had been there was now piles of ash. That was the first and the last Alastor ever heard from the lwa or Papa Legba. That is, until he sought out an old Vodou priestess called Mama Chalou. If his last failed ritual had hurt his pride, then Mama Chalou was determined to obliterate what was left of it.

“They dun fixed you, chile.” Mama Chalou said. “They dun fixed you real good. Cause you been very naughty. Playin’ round with the lwa. They know you. They know you no good.”

“I go to church. I know all the saints by heart.” Alastor stated matter-of-factly. “How am I no good?”

Mama Chalou laughed and shook her head. “You think that makes you good? Goin’ to church and callin’ on the saints? They don’t answer you no more than the lwa. They know you no good too.”

“I say my prayers.”

“You might as well be prayin’ to yo’self!” Mama Chalou’s expression hardened. “You a proud one. Mighty proud. You ought to know that pride is the reason there’s a hell! Ha! You be prayin’ alright!”

“You say I’m bad but you don’t know me. You’re just an old woman makin’ up stories cause you don’t know how to help me.” Alastor returned primly. “Doesn’t that make you prideful too?”

Mama Chalou laughed again. This time the vevé on the floor sparked with a luminescence that made the air come alive. It danced around Alastor like buzzards circling something dead.

“I don’t know you but the lwa do.” Mama Chalou’s dark, wrinkled hand cupped Alastor’s pale cheek.  “They know you. Always have. They know you was born strange. You got the blood of yo mama’s people runnin’ through them veins of yours but none of their roots. Not a feather of they wings[6]. You born with it all, but you empty-handed. You gon leave this world just the same. The lwa know that too. Go back to yo saints and yo prayers. You better off callin’ on the Devil himself. He ‘bout the only one who’d answer you!”

Then she shooed Alastor out and shut the door in his face. Alastor could still remember more than twenty years later, how he’d flushed with indignation as he stood outside her door. How none of the vevé he encountered after that, whether they were made by him or not, ever responded to him again. Whereas others could call on the lwa and Papa Legba and receive their blessings, Alastor received only their silence. Like Mama Chalou they’d all shut the door in his face.

Alastor didn’t dwell on it. It wasn’t really a loss for him. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was going to ask the lwa for anything serious. He knew they wouldn’t punish anyone for him or make him rich. He had no use for wealth since he already had it. And if he needed to punish someone, well he didn’t need the lwa for that either. He would do it himself. Having already seen to Miss Olympie, Miss Pidou, and a dog, already Alastor considered himself a quick study…

The trolley stopped as someone pulled down the lever, jostling the passengers aboard. This alone could’ve been enough to bring Alastor back to the present once more. But the voice shouting out to him took over task:

“Well, I’ll be damned! Alastor?”

His spine stiffened. His gloved fingers curled a little tighter around the handrail. He didn’t have to look. He knew that voice.

Mimzy.

He turned.

There she was, practically hanging off the leather strap above her head with one leg crossed behind the other like the overcrowded car was her stage. Her blonde hair was immaculately bobbed. Her lipstick was a berry red; her laugh too loud. She was trouble dressed in satin, grinning like the whole damn world was her punchline.

Alastor smiled—thin and tight as piano wire. “Mimzy.”

“Alastor! Sugar! Sweetie! Doll Face!” She flung her arms around his neck like they hadn’t seen each other since breakfast. “I knew it was you. I could smell that fancy cologne of yours from a mile off!”

Alastor didn’t hug her back.

“You look good, honey,” she went on, pulling back and giving him an exaggerated once-over. “Better than good. I bet your still breakin’ hearts left and right!”

Alastor adjusted his glasses. “Quit foolin’. You know I’m not one for entanglements of the amorous sort. Still, what a pleasure it is, Mimzy, to see you back in town. Fully breathing.”

Mimzy gave him a sunny little shrug. “You know me, Doll Face. Always a step ahead of the fire. Or under it, depending on the night.”

“You didn’t write.” Alastor said coolly.

“Oh, don’t start.”

“You didn’t write.”

“I was busy! Running from that nutjob you knocked out! What did you want, a postcard from jail? ‘Wish you were here, bring bail money’?”

“I would’ve settled for knowing you weren’t dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “You know I’m hard to kill.”

“I’m aware. Unfortunately.”

Mimzy grinned and slid her arm around his again like they’d just stepped out of a Charleston together. “Look, I know I left things messy, but you can’t stay mad at me forever, sugar. I’ve turned over a new sequin. Workin’ legit now. Sort of.”

“Oh?”

“I’m singin’over at Le Diable Bleu. Ever heard of it?”

“Isn’t that the one with the water-stained ceiling and the bartender who sells soap as gin?”

“Shut up!” She slapped his arm. “They fixed the ceiling. Mostly. And we’ve got a real crowd now. Packed every night. Piano man who just recovered from sobriety and trumpet section that only sometimes fights each other. You gotta come, Al. I’ll sneak you the good whisky.”

He raised a brow. “I didn’t realize you served real whisky there.”

“We don’t. But I’ll bring a bottle from home.” She winked. “For you? Top shelf.”

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “You’ve got talent, Mimzy. But none of the luck it takes to make it worthwhile. You never have and I doubt you ever will. You know how the venture will end every time yet you’re always ready to claw your way back. And what for?”

Mimzy blinked.

“Wouldn’t it be better to let go of your delusional fantasy of fame and fortune?” Alastor went on, “Try to consider it—at least while you’re still pretty and have all your teeth.”

For once, Mimzy didn’t have a comeback. Not right away. Her grin dimmed just slightly.

Then she shrugged. “You don’t think I ain’t thought of it? Throwin’ in the towel? It’s just that whenever I start thinkin’ about it, I realize that I’d rather kick the bucket first. Listen, sugar. I keep at it ‘cause tryin’s the one thing I ain’t too terrible at…”

Alastor looked at her. Really looked at her—under all that khol, powder, rouge and the dazzling mayhem Mimzy looked older than he remembered. A touch less glamorous. Just a little. But it was enough for someone like Alastor to notice. He was perhaps the only other soul on earth who would.

Mimzy sighed. “I know I messed up last year, Al. I was scared. Not just of that bastard I got you mixed up with. Of you. That night you weren’t like… well how ya normally are. It gave me the heebie-jeebies alright? So sue me!”

Alastor hummed, but didn’t deny it.

“But I’m here now aren’t I?” she said. “And you’re still the closest thing I got to a brother. One whose got a few screws loose upstairs, sure, but still. And ya know I’ll be your wingwoman if you ever need help finding someone swell! Listen I know you’re real particular when it comes to that stuff but look at you Al! A real catch like you swearin’ off a lil’ neckin’ and a lil’ pettin’? Are you kiddin’ me?”

“Mimzy dear, we’re in public.” Alastor scolded her halfheartedly. “And no, I’m not.”

“Figured you’d say that! I still don’t get ya, Al. You’re like Clara Bow[7] ‘cept ya ain’t. Ya got it but ya don’t have it. Know what I mean?”

Alastor tilted his head. “If only I didn’t.”

“C’mon, say you’ll come see me at one of my shows.” She nudged him. “Just once. You owe me some kind of favor.”

He sighed, long and theatrical. “Fine. One show. Preferably later in the month. I’m afraid I have prior engagements to suffer through until then.”

“Ha!” Mimzy clapped, nearly smacking the grocer behind her in the face. “You won’t regret it, doll face. Well—maybe a little. But you’ll look damn good doing it.”

“You’ll never be famous or wealthy, but you’re right about that.” Alastor agreed as he pulled the lever next to his head.

“Watch it, buster! I’m still in my prime!” Mimzy snapped.

Alastor laughed as the trolley hissed to a stop. He tipped his hat to her and stepped down onto the busy sidewalk.

“You better keep your promise!” Mimzy called after him, leaning halfway out of a window. “Cross your heart!”

Alastor turned around and drew a line across his heart.

“And hope to die.” He mouthed.

 “See? That’s my sweetie!” Mimzy cackled and blew him a kiss that lingered on the air like confetti on Shrove Tuesday.

Alastor waved and strolled on.

Mimzy was a terrible friend.

She was also a riot who could out dance him and out drink him on any given day. It didn’t hurt that she was one of the few souls on earth who called him Sweetie. Even when he was up to his elbows in another man’s blood. One had to admit the even most jaded cynic would say that had to count for something.

Lucifer, who’d been keeping a watchful eye on Alastor since he’d left their apartment decided to put their little deal to the test. A moment later, postal worker lost control of his bicycle. It nearly slammed into Alastor’s leg. He successfully avoided the impact only to be sent sprawling backward into the street. A woman selling pralines screamed and yanked him back. Just in time too. Otherwise, Alastor would’ve been flattened by the godless noonday traffic.

About an hour after that a loose steel girder swung from a high-rise construction site, as Alastor browsed through charming shops on Governer’s Street. A man grabbed Alastor and pulled him clear of it.

Then with less than an hour until his late night broadcast was due to begin Alastor was dining at one of his favorite haunts not far from the French Quarter when he started choking out of the blue on a seamlessly harmless bite of his roast beef po boy. He tried and failed to take a breath. His hands flew to his throat. Another patron suddenly materialized just in time to slap him between the shoulders hard enough to rattle his teeth. The food was dislodged from his throat like an embedded nail ripped free. Alastor looked down at what he’d coughed up. It was laughably small. The entire restaurant stared. Beside him, the concerned patron was still patting his back more gently now. If Alastor hadn’t been so mortified, then he would have noticed that the man looked slightly dazed before he slapped a five-dollar bill on the table and left quickly.

Lucifer hummed contentedly through it all, nudging minds here. Bending fate there. No harm today, just as they agreed. And oh, how good he was at obeying. More than proud of himself, the Prince of Darkness divided his consciousness once more. It took the dashing form of Samuel Magne, who confidently made his way to a certain law firm.

The Arceneaux & Dupré law office glowed gold through its long, lace-draped windows as the sun began to set. Looking every bit the charming, Midwestern businessman, Lucifer strolled right in. The receptionist, a steely-eyed woman named Miss Bernadette, blinked once at him before deciding she’d seen worse in this office.

“Do you have an appointment, sir?”

“I do not,” Lucifer said warmly, offering her a card engraved with gilt letters: Samuel Magne, Midland Development Trusts. “But I hear Mr. Arceneaux is one the best lawyers New Orleans can offer. I was referred here by his son, Alastor de Riviere.”

Miss Bernadette’s expression thawed by a degree.

“You’re an acquaintance of Mr. Rivière’s?”

“Let’s just say I’m… interested in his world.”

“Well,” she said, standing, smoothing her skirts. “That boy is Mr. Arceneaux’s world. I’ll see if he has a minute.”

Remi Arceneaux was already standing when Lucifer was shown into office. A man in his fifties, Mr. Arceneaux was a man of easy mirth.

“Mr. Magne,” he said, extending a hand. “Always a pleasure to meet a friend of Alastor’s.”

Lucifer shook it. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”

Arceneaux gestured to a fine leather chair across from his desk—oak, carved, imposing and lovingly maintained. Lucifer sat with the grace of someone who’d been on a thousand thrones.

“So what brings you to the city, Mr. Magne?” Arceneaux asked, folding his hands.

Lucifer leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “I got a number of holdings—property, oil interests, some in Louisiana, some further north. It’s time to trim the hedges, so to speak. I’m looking for a firm with discretion, integrity, and preferably one with an eye toward the long game.”

Arceneaux smiled modestly. “Well, we do aim to play chess here. Not checkers.”

“I hear you’re the sort of man who can hang ‘em out to dry in court,” Lucifer said amusedly, “and still offer ‘em a prayer before supper.”

Arceneaux laughed. “Well, in a profession of snakes I try to be a good man, Just as the Lord willed it.”

Lucifer nodded approvingly. “A rare breed.”

The mood was warm, easy—until Arceneaux glanced at the corner of his desk and gave a pleased little sigh. Lucifer's smile sharpened imperceptibly as his veil of influence settled over the office.

“You probably heard from Bernadette about me spoilin’ Al.” he said, reaching for a small leather folio, “But that boy is my world. I’ve known him since he was about this tall.” He held his hand roughly level with the desk drawer.

Lucifer leaned forward. The photographs were tucked lovingly into vellum sleeves. They were old and well-kept. One in particular caught Lucifer’s attention and quickly became his favorite: Alastor around the age of seven all ears and elbows in a suit slightly too big for his small frame. Yet he was smiling confidently whereas other children and even an adult would have posed stoically.

Lucifer’s eyes softened as he took in the photographs.

“He was quite confident even then.” He murmured.

“Oh, he certainly was.” Arceneaux said fondly. “Sharp as a whip. But kind too when he didn’t think anyone was watching.”

Lucifer’s grew quiet, almost reverent. “He still is.”

There was a pause. Arceneaux watched him carefully now. Not suspiciously, but with the discernment of a man who loved deeply and guarded fiercely.

“You seem to care for my boy quite a bit, Mr. Magne.”

“I do,” Lucifer said simply.

“He’s had many friends,” Arceneaux continued, “but none I’d call close. Not really. I worry sometimes that he doesn’t know how to let anyone stay. It must be that prideful lonesomeness of his—I can’t really say.”

Lucifer nodded, slowly. “I intend to stay.”

Arceneaux leaned forward. “You will be good to Al. I don’t entrust my boy to just anyone.”

Lucifer’s molten gaze held the other’s without blinking. “I swear to you that he’s in good hands. If I ever set a foot wrong—

“You won’t have to worry about that, Mr. Magne. Alastor won’t let you get that far. If you hurt him—

“He’d kill me first. And whatever’s left of me after he’s done—you can deal with.”

A long silence stretched between them. Then Arceneaux smiled. The rest of the conversation returned to oil fields, legal frameworks, inheritance law, and mineral rights in Terrebonne Parish. But there was a new thread of warmth between them—a kind of silent pact.

Lucifer left with a binder of contracts, several firm handshakes, and the images of Alastor as others rarely ever saw him tucked away in his heart like a secret. Upon his departure, Mr. Arceneaux turned on the radio and sat back in his chair. It wouldn’t be long now until Alastor’s evening broadcast began.

The old lawyer waited patiently and proudly for the moment his son’s voice went on air bright, theatrical, clever as ever. In the ensuing quiet Remi Arceneaux smiled, relieved to know that his confident, but mysterious son finally made a friend he could trust. The man that just left his office could be the Devil for all he knew. But if the Devil was anything like Samuel Magne—well. He didn’t have too much to worry about now did he?

Despite the utterly bizarre events of the day, Alastor reported to the studio at the Maison Blanche on Canal Street. The hallway outside the studio smelled like magnolias and tabaco. Alastor adjusted his glasses, humming a Jelly Roll Morton number as he strode past a sign that read: CHEZ RIVIÈRE – LIVE AT SEVEN TO MIDNIGHT. Alastor was sure he’d like the new studio at The Roosevelt where he’d be relocating his broadcast by the end of the year.

A clock on the wall read 6:42 PM. He was early, of course. He was always early. He liked the quiet before the switchboard hummed to life, before the headphones hissed with phantom static. It reminded him of a stage curtain just before the music swelled. Unfortunately, the stillness broke the moment he turned the corner. There was Rudolf Gambin suave ever as in a tailored suit.

Although they were around the same age, Gambin was one of WWL’s star broadcasters. He’d interviewed politicians and celebrities alike, and boxers, hawked advertisements with a flair people couldn’t get enough of and treated most of their mutual colleagues like they were his brothers—with the sole exception of Alastor.

“Evenin’, Gambin,” Alastor smiled.

“Well, well,” Gambin drawled. “The golden boy himself. I see they’ve got you headlining now. Every evening, sharp as supper. Must be exhausting to be this adored.”

Alastor beamed. “Oh, terribly. I weep into the letters from my adoring listeners nightly.”

Gambin gave a dry chuckle, his lips curling in a sneer. “Bit of advice for you, Riviere. Fame comes fast, but it burns faster. Listeners get bored. They’ll want a new clown soon enough.”

Alastor tilted his head with mock curiosity. “Oh, certainly. But isn’t it fortunate that I’m not a clown? Why, I’m practically the master of ceremonies. I simply make the clowns dance.”

Gambin’s smile fell. “Don’t let it go to your head. This town has a way of chewing up boys like you.”

“Oh, I hope so!” Alastor said cheerily. “That’s how you know you’ve been delicious!”

Gambin scoffed, checked his pocket watch for show, then said. “Well, I won’t keep you. Knock ‘em dead while you still can.”

“Of course!” Alastor said, watching him go.

It was like was like watching a startled mouse scurrying down a fraying wire.

Alastor entered the studio, the door swinging shut with a quiet click behind him. The room was dimly lit, save for the amber light glowing over the microphone. The chair creaked as he settled in. His notes were already arranged. A few ad spots. A tall cache of letters from admiring listeners. A local scandal involving a city councilman, three dancers, and a plate of oysters. A few selections of popular music as twice as much for jazz. That pleased Alastor more than words could say. He’d long grown tired of boorish talk about it being degenerate music for a degenerate age.

“Good evening,” he said into the mic as the clock struck seven. “This is Chez Rivière, where the hour is late, the music is hot, and the truth is just shy of libel.”

Alastor winked at no one. But if Gambin was listening—as Alastor was certain he would be soon—then the radio host hoped that this evening’s broadcast rattled him until he was purple with rage. Alastor would have disemboweled him a long time ago if he didn’t enjoy the man’s petty jealousy twice as much. Oh well. All in good time, as they say.  

While Alastor effortlessly reigned over the airwaves, Lucifer divided his consciousness once more and paid a visit to Hell. The Devil descended in silence.

At first.

 The moment Lucifer Morningstar stepped foot in Hell again, the ground trembled—not with fear, but with recognition. The flames curled toward him like desperate lovers. The air grew thick, almost reverent. The lesser demons fell to their knees. He arrived in a storm of fire and blinding starlight radiating out from the tails of his white coat. His crimson eyes burned eerily, feverishly like suns eclipsed. And still—beneath it all—there was a smile. An angel ripped from Paradise in love. An unholy beast preparing for war.

First stop: his very own ancient, gilded palace. Just to adjust his hat and bowtie in a mirror. Then he promptly decided to visit Lilith’s new place. His boots hit the bone-white marbled floors of the palace like music, with a cloven click clack clack. His coat flared red behind him like a curtain at the opera house before a tragedy. Lucifer didn’t bother knocking as he burst into Charlie’s rooms.

“Char-Char!” he sang.

Charlotte Morningstar froze in place. She was dressed in a smart waistcoat over slacks she’d pressed herself—trying very hard to look older and far less joyous than Lucifer recalled. Her blonde hair (now heavily streaked with black) had been pulled back with effort, her black boots freshly polished. A book called The Theory and Practice of Solitude hung at her side like a weapon.

“I told you not to call me that,” Charlie said flatly.

Lucifer ignored her and wrapped her in a crushing hug, wings and all. He squeezed until her ribs popped audibly and she gave a strangled “DAD—”

“Haha! You’ve grown so much! You’re getting taller every time I see you!” Lucifer stepped back, pouting. “But you’re never too old for a hug from your old man!”

“I’m busy, actually—”

“And I’m ecstatic, actually!” He spun in delighted circles, scattering sparks across the floor. “Do you know what the greatest feeling in the world is, Charlie?”

Charlie remained unamused. “I don’t really c—

“I’m sure you’ll understand one day!” Lucifer paused then boiled the very air around him as eyes blazed red and horns sprouted from his head. “But you had better let me meet them first or else!”

“Ok. Sure.”

“Alrighty then!” Just like that Lucifer was back to his regular, awe-inspiring self. “Take care! Daddy will see you soon!”

He kissed her forehead before Charlie could dodge him. She furiously scrubbed away the kiss and scowled after her father as he vanished into golden flame.

“Why can’t I be left alone in peace?” she muttered.

Lucifer reappeared in Lilith’s private garden of her new palace. He found her seated beneath a dead tree that wept molten sap. Lilith was sipping wine from a chalice and playing a game of chess against a truly formidable opponent—herself. Her double was every bit as stunning as his former queen and just as equally driven. Therefore, Lilith was paradoxically winning and losing the game at the same time.

 Lucifer kissed her hand that of her clones before he conjured himself a seat beside them. Lilith didn’t have to look at him to see the giddy look on his face like an excited puppy; the golden flush high on his cheeks. He had always been so very easy to read long before their Fall. Lucifer cleared his throat. Neither woman looked up. It didn’t deter Lucifer in the slightest.

“I thought you should know,” he said lightly, “I’m in love.”

“I know.” Lilith replied.

“You always know.”

“I was married to you at the dawn of mankind. I know you better than Heaven ever thought it did.” A pause. Another victory. Another loss. Then: “What does Charlie think?”

“Oh, you know. Nothing much really. She’s still going through the rebellious stage. She doesn’t want me calling her Char Char anymore.”

“You called her that anyway.”

“I did! And we shared the biggest hug Oh, Lily! Isn’t our daughter still the most precious thing? She’s growing up so fast!”

“Too fast.” Lilith agreed. “She’s going to lead this realm someday soon. Luckily for us it won’t be for at least another century. Now tell me who’s finally moved that jaded little heart of yours. It must be someone…” Lilith frowned when she lost another pawn to herself. “Impossible. Ridiculously impossible.”

Lucifer’s smile was fond and terrible. “His name is Alastor, Lily—and he is. We met by pure chance in the new world—well, they call it America now—in this place called Louisiana. I forgot how to breathe when I first so him. He was so…My god, Lily! If only you could’ve seen him!”

“A human?”

“Yeah.”

“What does he look like?”

“Perfection. Tall as hell and petty too—Oh boy oh boy is he petty!”

Lilith arched a brow. “You have a type, my dear.”

“Well, you know I can’t resist a nice, pretty pair of long legs—

“I’m not just talking about height. I don’t suppose this Alastor is some obedient little lamb. It’s always the rebels for you, isn’t it? Sharp. Eloquent. Doomed?”

“Exactly.” Lucifer grinned wider. “He’s not doomed yet. Not completely.”

He poured himself a glass of wine—Hell’s vintage, black and bitter—and savored it.

“He doesn’t love you yet, does he?” Lilith said.

“He will.”

 “You’re patient.”

“When I want to be.”

Lilith laughed softly, sipping her wine. “Ah. So, this is serious.”

“I know it’s hardly wise for a being like me, but I’m just so…so happy Lily! Really happy for the first time in tens of thousands of years.” Lucifer stood up suddenly, determined. “All of Hell should know. Don’t worry, Lily. I’ll keep it discreet, but I won’t hide this feeling. Not even from all of Heaven.” He laughed brightly and let out a joyous cry. “Time to let off of some steam. Care to join me, my queen?”

Lilith’s clone dispersed as she rose to follow him. “Of course, my king. You always know how to put on a good show. Let’s fetch Charlie before we go. I doubt her stubbornness will outweigh your penchant for spectacle.”

“Splendid idea, Lily! Let’s take Char Char along for the ride!” Lucifer cheered.

Lucifer wasted no time assembling the lords and princes of Hell to the throne room of his palace. The other Sins waited impatiently for their king’s arrival. Mammon bickered with Beelzebub over tribute. Asmodeus filed his nails and arched a brow when Lucifer entered.

“Someone’s got a spring in his tail,” The sin of lust teased. “Should I be concerned?”

Lucifer winked. “Very.”

He conjured a cup of wine and handed it to Asmodeus. The sin raised the glass to his lips and demanded cheekily:

 “I want details.”

“You’ll get them when I’m too drunk to lie.”

They laughed like two devils over a shared grave. An argument erupted just before Lucifer could begin the meeting. Annoyed, the fallen angel tore out a demon lord’s tongue before the wretch could interrupt him any further than he already had. He set Mammon’s hoards of gold ablaze for daring to count his earnings while he was trying to hold a meeting.  

Lucifer shut Wrath’s vicious mouth with just a whisper, making her punch through her own skull in an ecstasy of fury. Sloth he took no issue with. Belgrephor just slept, the dimming candle on her lamb’s head never quite snuffing itself out.

Then Paimon arrived.

The court turned as the air thickened with jubilant rot. Paimon was carried on gilded litter by lessor demons who sang his name in gurgling, ecstatic rounds. His body was grotesque: a single withered torso stretched like a root crowned with three regal, female faces. Each face wore a different rusting diadem; each pair of jeweled eyes blinked slowly, knowingly.

“Your majesty,” Paimon hissed, his three voices speaking in turn, “I humbly request the rights to possess a mortal vessel. One who shall carry my will with elegance. Preferably a man for a woman cannot hope to imitate a son of Adam. I imagine you understand, sire.”

The court held its breath.

Lucifer smiled.

“Oh, darling,” he said sweetly, “you imagine far too much.”

Paimon screamed.

The demon’s flesh was torn from its body. One of Paimon’s faces tried to beg. Another wept. The third vomited gold and bile as Lucifer split him open with a flick of his hand. Flayed him down to nerve and marrow. Lucifer hung the skin across the wall like art.

The crowns—once symbols of arcane knowledge and ancient wealth—melted into slop, bubbling into a puddle of filth that stank of burnt incense, fear, and something ancient gone sour.

Lucifer serenely turned to the court, blood up to his elbows.

“Any other requests?” 

The court of Hell fell silent.

From her place in the balcony, Charlie watched in awe. She hadn’t meant to—but she couldn’t stop. For once, her father looked… terrifying. Impossibly cool. But mostly terrifying. Part of her wanted to clap. Another part of her wanted to throw up. She didn’t know how to feel. Beside her, Lilith leaned over and whispered, “Isn’t it wonderful? You’re father’s finally happy again and in his element.”

Charlie didn’t know how to answer that or if she even wanted to.

“So!” Lucifer clasped his hands together. “Who wants pancakes?”

After the court dispersed, Lucifer stood on a balcony in his palace, staring into the molten horizon.

Lilith approached behind him. “You always did punish beautifully.”

He didn’t answer at first. Then—

“Alastor’s mine, Lily.”

Lilith stood beside him. “Even if he never says yes?”

Lucifer turned, eyes alight with the same eager pride that had damned them both. “He already owns me, Lily. From the moment he laughed at me and refused to believe I was the ruler of Hell. Lily, he’s got the prettiest laugh. Like nothing I’ve ever heard. He doesn’t laugh much. Not in any way that’s real. But I make him laugh and then it is. I’m screwed, aren’t I?”

“Immeasurably.” Lilith smirked. “So what will you do now?”

He smiled softly. “I’ll adore him. I’ll wait for him. He’s already mine and I’m his. It’s forever, Lily. And ever. And ever—

“And if he never lets you touch him?”

Lucifer’s mouth twitched. “Then I’ll wait another hundred years. But I’ll make him feel it, Lilith. In his skin. In his dreams. I’ll make him tremble when I so much as breathe his name.”

He turned away again. “But someday… someday he will come to me of his own will.”

“And what will you do then?”

Lucifer’s voice dropped to a whisper, cruel and reverent.

“I’ll worship him in every way I’ve denied myself. That’s he’s denied himself—and still he won’t be mine enough.”

Lilith smiled to herself. The Devil in love was Hell’s most feared beast.

Meanwhile, in the world above in a quiet studio in New Orleans, Alastor’s voice danced over the airwaves—clever, composed, electric. He smiled into the microphone, unaware of the fires that burned for him beneath his feet. When he signed off the air at the stroke of midnight hour, he caught the trolley back home. Only to take off his hat and find Lucifer Morningstar right where’d left him.

Lazing guiltlessly on the sofa, Lucifer grinned. “Welcome home! You look stunning.”

Alastor threw a chair. Then a hat stand. Then the radio.

Lucifer dodged all three with alarming grace.

“You violated the terms—!”

“I saved your life. Three times.” Lucifer smirked. “I upheld the bargain.”

“You interfered!”

Lucifer spread his arms. “But you lived. I did what you asked.”

“I will—” Alastor grabbed a heavy glass ashtray— “kill you!”

“You’re adorable when you’re homicidal.” Lucifer beamed.

The ashtray missed.

“You’re not staying here.”

“I am. The universe clearly wants us to live together. It sent a po’ boy to do its bidding. That’s fate, darling.”

Alastor growled and turned toward the nearest cabinet. He rummaged through it like a mad man until he found a small vial. Cross-etched. Old wax seal. Holy water. Forgotten gift from the superstitious Mrs. Dequir. Perfect.

Lucifer’s smirk fell.

“Alastor—wait—”

Alastor threw it.

The vial shattered on Lucifer’s face. Smoke hissed out from it as the Devil dropped to his knees, shrieking. The sound was somewhere between agony and ecstasy. Smoldering Lucifer looked up—hair wild and skin veined like stained glass backlit in gold.

“Ohhh,” Lucifer said breathlessly. “That was delicious, Bambi. Do it again.”

Alastor stared. His eye twitched. Then he turned away, muttering swears.

Lucifer just laid there, sizzling. “This is going to be the start of something beautiful.”

Alastor spent the next hour pretending not to sulk. Lucifer didn’t bother pretending not to notice. Really, Alastor should get to bed already. Should let Lucifer rub his shoulders or at least talk it out. Preferably both.

“Come now, don’t pout,” Lucifer said, sauntering forward. “A bet’s a bet. I won fair and square.”

“I wouldn’t call cheating ‘fair,’” Alastor muttered, removing his gloves with the quiet grace of a man imagining murder.

“I didn’t cheat,” Lucifer flashed him another charming smile. “I simply redefined the terms of winning to include me never leaving.”

“Mm. How uncharacteristically humble of you.”

“I’m learning from the best,” Lucifer purred. “Besides, don’t act like you’re not relieved. Admit it, Bambi—you’d miss me. Who else would cook you breakfast so perfect it’s sacrilege?”

Alastor didn’t answer.

He didn’t smile either. That, more than anything, made Lucifer’s pulse flicker. The radio host smoothed back his hair. Took a breath and released it. Every motion exacting. Measured. As if holding himself in check. As if someone else—something darker—stood just behind his eyes, waiting.

Lucifer leaned casually against the hallway wall, trying not to look as breathless as he felt. “You’re furious with me.”

That earned him a glance.  Lucifer pressed on, unable to help himself.

“Tell me, little doe—what’s the worst part? That you lost? Or that I get to stay?”

Alastor said nothing.

The silence swelled between them. Then Alastor turned around and crossed the hallway. Slowly. Deliberately. Until Lucifer found himself crowded against the wall. He blinked. Oh. Alastor’s hand came up—gloved fingers curling under his chin. The pressure was light. Not threatening. But firm enough to make Lucifer forget his own name. His mouth went dry. His heart—his ancient, desiccated heart—pounded against his ribs like it wanted out.

Alastor leaned in until their lips were just a breath apart. “I’ll keep you,” he said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You’d better be prepared to expect the consequences.”

Lucifer’s head filled with static. He’s touching me—he never touches me—he never—

Alastor’s lips didn’t press into his, not quite. Then Alastor drew back. Smooth as a shadow. Lucifer reached for clarity, but it was already gone. It returned too late when he heard the bedroom door close softly.

“I’ll keep you.” Alastor had said.

All Lucifer could hear was a promise like a dagger wrapped in velvet: You’re mine.

Lucifer stood there, blinking. Pinched himself. Blinked some more. Then slowly, he slumped to the floor with his hand to his chest like a maiden ready to faint.

Holy hell.

Holy fucking Hell.

He was ruined. Absolutely. Irreversibly. And he’d never been happier. Being regulated to sleeping outside in the hall was completely worth it.

A week later Alastor reluctantly discovered that an easy rhythm had developed between he and Lucifer. If someone had told Alastor that not only would he be living with the Devil but that he’d cook, clean, do the laundry all while never ceasing his shameless flirting then Alastor wouldn’t have believed them. But here they were again today sharing another perfect breakfast. Between bites, Alastor looked over the script for his upcoming broadcast.

The doorbell rang.

Alastor opened the door expecting either the milkman or the postman. What he got was a well-dressed woman: a shade darker than creamed coffee with disdain already brimming in her eyes. Honorae Sonnier did not wait to be welcomed. She walked right in. Her appraising gaze swept over the room before they landed on Alastor again.

 “I see the rot has spread.” She said.

Alastor blinked. His thoughts ground to an immediate halt as he watched her. Curious, Lucifer assumed his human disguise and stood beside Alastor.

 “Friend of yours?” He asked.

Alastor didn’t—couldn’t answer. He barely remembered to exhale. Mama?

And just like that, the real trouble began.

[1] Mostly known as voodoo, it was developed in the 18^th and 19^th centuries in Louisiana by enslaved West Africans, merging their religious rituals with those of the local catholic populace of those times. It is an active religion that is greatly misunderstood and often misrepresented.

[2] Female priestess in a vodou ritual

[3] Also written as loa. They are powerful spirits invoked to offer protection, healing, and guidance.

[4] A symbol used in vodou to represent a specific lwa (loa) spirit during a ritual.

[5] A prominent spirit in vodou who holds the keys to the spirit world. He’s associated with crossroads which represent choices to be made and new beginnings in life. He is said to allow humans to communicate with the lwa.

[6] Based on a Sudanese proverb: We desire to bequeath two things to our children; the first one is roots, the other one is wings. It is used here to link African American ancestral practices and vodou together as the two are by all accounts inseparable.

[7] An American actress who rose to stardom in the 1920s and was greatly considered to be one of the earliest sex symbols in film. One of her films “It” (1927) is believed to have launched her into the realm of stardom.

Chapter Text

Alastor stared. His mother stared back.

“The hell you starin’ at me like that for? I ain’t dead yet.” Honorae scoffed.

It was the closest thing to a greeting Alastor had heard in an age. It was that same voice singing sweetly on Pidou Plantation. In his dreams. The same wondrous, untrappable grace standing there—choosing to stand there—in Alastor’s tiny apartment.

He blinked once. Twice. Remembered how to smile—how to speak then said:

 “Well, mama! What an honor! I didn’t know you’d be gracing me with your presence today!”

Honorae’s proud smile dimmed a bit. “What I tell you about callin’ me that?”

“Haha! What should I call you then?”

“Madame Sonnier. Same as everybody else ‘round this city.” Came a voice, cold and deep.

A giant of a man appeared in the doorway with a complexion deeper than mahogany and smartly dressed. So smartly dressed, in fact, that he refused to remove his fine, felt hat from his head. The man fixed Alastor with a steely look.

“You’ll call her Madame Sonnier.” He commanded.

The radio host ignored him, his smile nothing but hospital as he looked at his mother.

“I knew you were fond of strays, mama, but I wasn’t aware you’d gotten a new pet.” Alastor said.

The tall man scowled, but Alastor remained entirely unfazed, dwarfed as he was standing next to him.

“Don’t call me mama,” Honorae said. “Not when you insist on dressing up like somebody’s fool idea of a man.”

“Big Catch.” His mother’s guard said. “That’s what they calls me.”

Again, Alastor paid him no mind. His grin only widened as he continued to look at his mother.

Lucifer was struck dumb by how genuine Alastor’s smile was. Even as he glamoured himself up as Samuel Magne. The transformation too quick and seamless for human eyes. It was high time he introduced himself…

“Well, somebody’s fool idea seems to be working out fabulously swell!” Alastor went on. “I have a regular radio program and a few hundred letters a week from my loyal listeners—”

“Hm. ‘Course they don’t complain. You’re just a voice on the radio. People can’t complain about what they can’t see.” Honorae returned coolly. “But I ain’t them. I can see you clear as day.”

Her sharp gaze roamed over the room again. Over the scuffed wooden floor and secondhand furniture and yellowing wallpaper. Before returning, inevitably, to Alastor once more. She sniffed like it hurt to breath the same air as him then said:

“Livin’ like this with all that money you and Remi got. You playin’ poor or this some kind of penance?”

“Penance? Heavens no, mama! Whatever for?” Alastor chuckled.

“Whatever for?” Honorae repeated.

There was something almost accusatory in her voice. Then she laughed. Warm and airy. The way Alastor often heard her do when he was a child watching her from afar. Honorae walked over to the couch and paused. She looked pointedly at Big Catch. The man pushed past Alastor and pulled a white cloth from his coat, laid it across the faded cushion of the settee. Only then did Honorae sit down. She looked Alastor up and down with the kind of scrutiny that would make even a mad dog shy away. But from what Lucifer could see, Alastor seemed to relish it, unbothered by the strained silence that followed.

It was then that Lucifer, entirely human, stepped forward, with a bemused glint in his blue eyes.

“Samuel Magne,” He said with a touch of Midwestern warmth. “I was initially here on business, but you can say it’s a bit of a holiday now.” He glanced at Alastor. “Alastor here was kind enough to show me around your fine city. I gotta admit I’m more than charmed.”

Honorae glanced at Alastor. “Ki-çé nonm-çala?[1]”

Alastor grinned. “No one important.”

Lucifer held out his hand. Big Catch reached into his coat, but Honorae shooed him away. She offered her hand to be kissed—like any high society white woman would—‘Samuel Magne’ obliged so well that he softened up that hard look in her eyes. Honorae gave that charming Midwestern gentleman a long once-over, hummed, and said:

“Only the Devil would take a shine to somebody like Alastor. You must be lookin’ for trouble, Mr. Magne.”

Hardly offended, Lucifer laughed. “Then I’m happy to have found it, Madame Sonnier. Al’s the sort who could charm even the Devil.”

Honorae smiled without mirth. “Now if only he could charm God the same way. Probably would’ve made my life a hell of a lot easier.”

“No need for such high praise this early in the morning!” Alastor gave a gallant little bow. “How about some coffee, mama?”

Honorae didn’t answer, but when he returned from the kitchen a moment later with a cup, she took it. She didn’t drink it. Lucifer brought a chair from the kitchen and pulled over a small table dusty from disuse. Honorae grimaced. Lucifer happily produced canisters of sugar and cream.

Both Honorae and Alastor grimaced as he poured an excessive amount of sugar into his coffee.

“Good lord! Sweeten that coffee anymore and I’ll get cavities!” Honorae shook her head.

“Oh, I’m just getting started!” Lucifer grinned. “Don’t tell me you’ve got something against sugar too, like Al. Rats! The sugar’s out!”

Lucifer reached into the pocket of his robe. Big Catch immediately drew a pistol. At the same time, Alastor snatched a pin from his mother’s lovely hat and aimed it right at the guard’s throat.

“Easy now.” Lucifer pulled out a packet of sugar and wiggled it. “It’s just sugar. No need to be so jumpy.”

Honorae stood up.

“Alastor!” She said warningly.

“Do excuse my dear guest, mama. He’s got quite the sweet tooth, you see.” Alastor pressed the pin deep enough to draw blood. “Sam, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“Hardly.” Lucifer sing-songed, stirring more sugar into his cup.

Trembling, Big Catch lowered his pistol.

“Sam,” Alastor scolded, mesmerized by the frantic pulse in the man’s neck. Delightfully visible—and perfectly puncturable. Just one good jab would do the trick just fine…

“Ah ah ah! No more sugar.” Alastor’s eyes flashed like Big Catch’s life right before the man’s bugging eyes.

“Don’t be a wet blanket, Al! Let a man have a little sweetness in his life.”

Satisfied, Alastor shot Lucifer a glance just shy of smoldering.

“Drop it.”

Yes sir! You got it, baby! Lucifer’s brain obeyed faster than ever before.

The fallen angel’s heart thundered in his chest as he fought the urge to blush like the smitten fool he already was. Lucifer’s spoon hit the table at the same time Big Catch’s gun hit the floor. Still, Alastor didn’t turn Big Catch loose. He brought his mother’s hat pin up to the man’s ticking cheek. Pressed it there just under his ear.

“Say, my brutish fellow, you must know plenty about fishin’.”

“What—

“You may lack manners, but surely you aren’t hard of hearing too! I’m asking you what you know about fishing! Your misnomer of a nickname suggests you know quite a bit!”

“I-I don’t—Big Catch stammered as blood ran down his neck into his starched collar.

“Oh for heaven’s sake! Sam lend me your ear for a moment, would you?” Alastor looked at Lucifer. “Why do suppose fish never cut school a day in their lives?”

“Don’t know.” Lucifer shrugged.

“Because they might get caught!”

Silence.

Big Catch shook like a leaf. Then ‘Sam’ broke into uproarious laughter, which pleased Alastor immensely. At least someone appreciated his sense of humor. Even if that someone was the Devil.

Still cackling and not willing to be outdone, Lucifer slapped his knee, wiped tears from his eyes and asked:

“Say, Al why are fish easy to weigh?”

Alastor arched a brow, “I don’t suppose you could enlighten me?”

“Because—Lucifer was barely able to hold in his glee. “Because they have their own scales!”

Alastor burst out laughing, shaking his already trembling hostage as he did so. He laughed until his sides ached. Fought not to double over like it was the funniest thing he’d heard in the world. And that was just fine by Lucifer because Alastor had the loveliest laugh in all of Creation.

“Are you trying to kill me?!” Big Catch cried.

“Well, it’s not a bad idea.” Alastor cackled as soon as he caught his breath.

“Alastor!” Honorae warned.

“Oh, alright.” Alastor rolled his eyes. “But might I suggest a word of advice? If you don’t want me to put down your dogs, mama, then I suggest you train them better.” Alastor advised.

He primly withdrew the pin, wiped it off on Big Catch’s coat, then neatly placed it back into his mother’s hat. Big Catch grabbed his throat and stumbled back. Alastor hummed a tune as he sat back down and took another sip of his coffee, savoring the bitter roast. Warily, Honorae sat back down too. She gestured for her bodyguard to wait outside Alastor’s apartment, which the poor fellow was all too happy to do.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Honorae asked, her tone full of steel.

“Who do you think you are, bringing that brute into my humble abode?” Alastor shot back.

“I think you let all that pretendin’ of yours go to your head. That’s what I think.”

Alastor didn’t let on how that remark struck a cord of unease deep within him. Try as he might to change the subject, Honorae refused to let it go.

“Twenty years,” she began. “Twenty years I’ve held this city and now the Italians are eatin’ up my territory. Territory I built from nothin’.”

“Well, not exactly nothing.” Alastor corrected with a cheerful hum.

“It’s all startin’ to go to hell now. And for what?”

Alastor shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea! Do enlighten me!”

Honorae’s gaze hardened. “Just couldn’t lift a damn finger to help, could you? Where were you all this time?

“On the radio, mama. Started out on the graveyard slot on Sundays, but I’ve come a long way!” Alastor replied sunnily in his transatlantic accent. “In fact I’ve done WWL proud enough to turn me loose on Tuesdays and Thursdays from noon to seven sharp! You should tune in!”

“Don’t be clever.”

“Ha hah! I don’t know how to be anything else.”

Honorae’s smile was tight. “You got a mansion on Esplanade sittin’ empty. Properties all around the state. Why are you wastin’ your potential like this?”

“The real question,” Alastor countered, slipping back into his natural voice, “is why a wealthy woman like you is dead set on trying to ruin herself.”

“You’re one to talk about ruin! You’re out there playin’ mister radio host all day long—you’d do well to remember who you’re talkin’ to.” An unkind smile tugged at Honorae’s rouged mouth. “You’ve made yourself up pretty swell, but you ain’t foolin’ nobody but yourself.”

Lucifer forgot his coffee as the temperature in the room plummeted. He practically heard Alastor’s pulse quicken. He could’ve sworn too, that Alastor went a bit pale despite his charming smile.

As if suddenly realizing that he was still there, Alastor gave the Prince of Darkness a look that politely said leave now in about ten to fifteen different dialects of silence.

Lucifer only lifted a brow.

Another look. Sterner. Shadowed, perhaps, with something almost pleading. And oh how delicious that expression would have looked under different circumstances. Preferably of the erotic sort. But sadly, now was not the time for such fantasies. Lucifer took another gloriously sugary sip of coffee, grinning just enough to make Alastor’s eye twitch.

“Pretend all you like, but we both know what you are.” Honorae went on. “What you always will be. And if you think your little radio station would keep you after I tell them—”

Alastor’s breath hitched.

The air suddenly crushed itself into him. The room warped and shifted too quickly for Alastor’s mind to process it. In an instant, he was standing beside Lucifer in another version of the same parlor. The colors were dimmer here, as if someone had drawn the curtains. Honorae was still seated, Alastor still across from her, only now stiff and slightly distant, lips forming replies neither he nor Lucifer could hear.

Lucifer looked pleased with himself, as usual.

“What did you just do?” Alastor hissed. “What did you—what is this?”

“Oh, calm down. I’m just giving us some privacy,” Lucifer said. “I left your body intact and chatting as if nothing’s happened. You’re…shall we say… running on the ghost of your consciousness for the moment. Ego and all.”

Alastor blinked.

Lucifer smiled wider. “However, the true essence of your conscious, your soul—that is to say your heart—is here with me. Safe and sound.”

“You stole my heart?”

“Not yet, sadly.”

“You can’t just do that!”

“Well I can so I did.” Lucifer grinned, proud of his work. “Don’t worry, no one noticed a thing. Especially not your dear mother. She’s speaking to a pretty accurate version of you while the rest of you gets to breathe.”

“Send. Me. Back.” Alastor seethed. “This doesn’t concern you. Let me speak to my mother—all of me. I can’t very well have her threatening me and you eavesdropping like—like some I’m some sordid secret!”

“I’m not eavesdropping,” Lucifer said smoothly. “Well, uh not exactly.”

“Lucifer—

“She makes you afraid. You’re afraid right now.”

“I’m afraid you presume too much—

“Not enough it seems. Don’t give her the power to make you afraid when you, my dear, fear nothing.” Lucifer stepped forward, heat and raw power humming off him though his gaze was gentle. “Let’s make a deal: I stay. Right here. And ignore everything she says. Because there’s nothing she could say—nothing—that would make me think less of you. As an added bonus I’ll even make sure no one outside of you and your mother remembers a word of what you say today.”

Alastor went still. “What do you want in return?”

“Just to be with you as long as I can.”

“That...isn’t what I expected.” The radio host frowned. “You’re the Devil. Aren’t you just trying to make me complacent just to feast on my despair later?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, normally I would but it’s you, Al.” Lucifer said, his gaze nothing short of smitten. “Besides, that game got old a long time ago. And I already told you I was yours. That wasn’t idle talk, you know.”

“But you will eventually feast on my tormented soul after I die and go to hell?”

“Well not exactly—wait! You actually believe I’m the Devil now?”

Alastor rolled his eyes. “Focus, Lucifer. Promise me that you won’t torture me in the world that’s bound to come after this one for men like me.”

“I promise.” Lucifer vowed fiercely. “But I can’t guarantee that Hell will be entirely unpleasant for you.”

“Then we have a deal, but I'm not selling my soul.”

“It’s a deal. No selling of souls required.” The fallen angel agreed. “I just want to be with you, Al.”

Lucifer’s gaze was so sincere that it almost pained Alastor. Almost. Despite the part of him that was still wary, he put out his hand. Lucifer was the Father of Lies. The Prince of Damnation Everlasting. Alastor shouldn’t believe a word that came out of his mouth and yet...

Lucifer wasn’t mocking him. Wasn’t leveraging anything Alastor hadn’t allowed him to. It didn’t feel like pity or even mercy.  Lucifer gladly shook his hand, his smile radiant as it was ridiculously trusting. The burst of sheer, unrelenting power was there and gone in a wink. It seared Alastor down to his bones but was careful. Impossibly gentle.

“See? Told ya, Bambi. Nothing to fear.” That familiar, rakish grin returned in full. “But just so you know if I wanted you undone, my deer, you would thoroughly enjoy it far more than this.”

Alastor sighed. “Then I’ll take your word for it. For now.”

To Lucifer, it was as close as he would come to ‘I trust you’ and that was enough. For now.

“Lovely. Let’s return, then.”

Lucifer clapped once. The very air between collapsed inward again in that bizarre accordion-like way and Alastor rejoined the other half of his consciousness at the table. The chill hit first. Then warmth—a familiar hum in his chest, like slipping on a favorite sweater after a cold rain. Alastor felt whole again. Felt like himself. Honorae was still mid-threat. Just like Lucifer said, she hadn’t noticed a thing.

—And if the good people of New Orleans were to find out you’re not who you claim to be, what then?”

“Excellent question! What then, mama? Surely you can venture a guess?” Alastor countered smoothly.

It was easier to face her now that that pesky anxiousness had stopped kicking around just under his ribs.

“It would be pure folly to threaten the only shred of protection you have left.” Alastor continued. “Della Rousseau died in Caddo Parish. Let’s not pretend you ever cared to mourn her. Rest assured, mama. I took care of everything else after that. Left not even the faintest trace of her.”

“I let you live.” Honorae replied unflinchingly.

“No,” he corrected. “You made sure no one knew I was alive.”

“You were safe—

“I was invisible.”

“Except in any way that matters.” Honorae snapped. “You think those white folks would put you on the air if they knew you were colored? Don’t kid yourself.”

“Haha! They don’t need to know!” Alastor assured her. “That’s the power of passing[2], isn’t it? Freedom through erasure. After all, you had me learn that lesson better than anybody else!”

Honorae’s expression soured a bit. She didn’t take too kindly to him using her logic against her. Especially when it put him in the right. And boy, did Alastor know it. His smile was like the bite of a razor’s edge now.

“Let’s not argue over the details, mama. I’m white and you need me. Those are the facts. Lest you forget that it’s not as easy for you to erase your past as it is for me. Do you think the Sonniers will let you forget that? They want nothing to do with you.”

“Tais toi[3]!” Honoare spat in that old, fading tongue they both knew well.

“C’est impòsib, mama. Mo linm parl plin[4].’’ Alastor politely shot back.

What Honorae told him next couldn’t be repeated in polite company. It even made Lucifer wince. Alastor, however, took every curse and insult in stride.

Silence fell between them. Honorae opened her mouth then closed it. Her jaw clenched. She composed herself and called for Big Catch, who brought in a parcel and placed at Alastor’s feet, eyeing him warily all the while. It was a sizeable basket covered with a blanket. Honorae looked at Alastor expectantly. Alastor decided to humor her and lifted the blanket.

A baby.

Tiny and brown and bundled up. No older than a month at most with reddish curls.

Alastor stared.

“His name’s Eugine. You can call him Genie. His mama died last month under my roof. She had no people. Nowhere to go other than to me. Look after him. It’s not like you can’t afford to. Do that and I…” Honorae chose her next words carefully. “Well don’t go quiet on me now. Tell me what you want in exchange.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

Alastor laughed, sharp and stunned. This was the last thing he had expected from his mother.  

Lucifer’s eyes were just as wide. Alastor could feel his gaze on him heavy with a thousand questions and instant adoration for the tiny bundle of life. The radio host’s mind raced with a hundred ways to play this strange turn of events to his advantage. He was, after all, good at bargaining.

“I’ll provide for him. On one condition.” Alastor said.

“What kind of condition?” Honorae asked warily.

“You act like my mother—as much as discretion will allow. No one has to know but the two of us. I’ll even make those Italian’s repay what they owe you.”

Honorae gave him a look that was just shy of astonished. “As long as discretion remains a chief priority then yes. I suppose I could play along. No one has to know, right?”

Alastor’s fingers brushed Genie’s tiny brow. Goodness, those big dark eyes of his were already trying to charm him to death. Alastor’s smiled.

“No one has to know,” He said. “But you will. And so will I. That’s the price.”

A long pause. Then a tight nod. Alastor rose to his full height and stepped closer to his mother. Hugged her. She went stiff but didn’t pull away. Not right away. Honorae returned his embrace. Awkwardly and with no small amount of disgust. Lucifer watched in curious amusement. As for Alastor, he let himself pretend—for a heartbeat—that his mother wanted to hug him because she meant it. That she’d never needed Della Rosseau and that he was enough. Finally. He was finally able to touch her. Just as he longed to do during his days on Pidou Plantation.

Like all the good things in life, it didn’t last. Honorae pulled away and brushed herself off like she’d touched something positively filthy. Alastor, having gained the upper hand, went on smiling like he’d won the biggest lottery of 1927. Then his mother left his apartment, all too eager to get as far away from him as she could. Alastor pretended not to notice.

Watching Honorae’s car leave Royal Street was hundreds of pairs of angelic eyes. Azrael, the angel of death and protégé to the archangel Michael, thrummed with jubilant fascination. It turned out that the millennia he’d spent as a mindless ophanim[5] shouting “Glory! Glory!” endlessly around God’s throne were not in vain. It had led him to Michael, Heaven’s most powerful seraphim after Lucifer’s fall.

It had led him to Alastor de Rivière.

And since it had taken thousands of upon thousands of years for Azrael to be appointed the angel of death by Michael himself, why shouldn’t Azrael use that to his own advantage? He was doing no real harm, shorting human lives here and lengthening them a little there. So what if he’d ushered souls off to heaven before or a little way past their appointed times? It was riveting. Even more so now that Azrael had begun observing Alastor. It was the oddly captivating human’s twisted moral compass which had drawn Azrael’s attention a decade ago. It was why the Angel of Death had extended the life of Alastor’s mother who, given her life of crime, should’ve perished ten years ago. It was why Azrael spared Genie’s life too instead of letting the infant die in childbirth with his unfortunate mother.

Now it must be made clear that Azrael had tried to stop his meddling. But with such a fine specimen like Alastor walking the earth it was next to impossible. He was an anomaly. A wonder. He was Azrael’s secret to keep from Michael. From all of Heaven—and all of Hell. Especially Hell. Azrael was well aware of Lucifer’s misbegotten presence in the human world; of his unnatural interest in Alastor. For now, Azrael was content to watch things unfold from afar. To keep studying Alastor. To learn him.

Satisfied, Azrael vanished in a fiery haze of angelic flame completely invisible to mortal eyes…

Back in the apartment Genie burst out crying. Alastor winced at the shrill sound, cat-like and ear-splitting. Lucifer shifted back into his usual form and quickly rushed to pick the baby up. He gently rocked Genie in his arms and sang to him. That quieted the infant for a solid minute—anyone, Alastor supposed, would act the same way too if they were suddenly being held by a strange angel older than time itself with no nose and big red spots on his face. Alastor almost laughed as he made a quick call to his mansion on Esplanade Avenue.

His housekeeper Vickie answered the phone. Alastor gave her detailed instructions to prepare the house to receive guests—a “friend” and an infant. Vickie was professional enough to keep the curiosity out of her voice as she obliged. Alastor hung up the phone. As soon as he did, Genie got to screaming again. Lucifer tried and failed to quiet him down, but it was no good. He looked at Alastor with a very loud plea for help without saying a word. Alastor sighed but made no move to take Genie off the king of Hell’s incapable hands.

They left Royal Street that day. In the blink of eye Lucifer made sure no one remembered that neither he nor Alastor had ever taken up residence there.

By the time they arrived to Esplanade Avenue[6], Lucifer looked about ready to cry too. Genie was still crying with all the breath he had in that tiny body. Alastor was impressed. But also mostly annoyed. As soon as Vickie, a tall, lean, and dark-skinned maid, answered the door, Alastor strolled right in with a distraught business tycoon and screaming baby in tow. Before Lucifer really did burst into tears himself, Alastor mercifully took Genie into his arms.

The baby finally stopped crying straightaway as the sun set over New Orleans. It bathed Alastor’s six-bedroom house with its six separate baths in swathes of burnt-orange gold like bolts of bright fabric. Alastor carried Genie up to the nursery that had been prepared for him in delicate hues of white complete with delicately embroidered lace curtains in the French style.

Alastor hated it right away. He’d never truly been fond of the color. He would have Vickie hire someone to remodel the nursery later in a more suitable color. Preferably something in red. Exhausted from all the screaming he’d done, Genie cooed in Alastor’s arms as if to tell him off for it as he fell asleep. The radio host carried Genie to a well, furnished study he hadn’t set eyes on since he first purchased the house years ago. It was well kept thanks to Vickie and better suited to his tastes—all polished mahogany wood and deep burgundy furniture.

“You’re a natural with him.” Lucifer said as he rummaged through a liquor cabinet.

He quickly located some good rye and set to preparing them a round. Alastor sat down in a velvet armchair and carefully maneuvered Genie in his arms to accept his glass of rye. He took a sip. It was strong and wonderful. Lucifer sat in the chair opposite of him; crimson eyes alight with that same tender amusement from before.

He smiled softly. “Charlie used to cry a lot like that too until I held her like the way you’re holding Genie now.” Lucifer said, his gaze adoring as he took in Alastor’s profile, made all the more charming while blanketed in the sunset’s golden hues. “Babies know when they’re safe.”

“You have a child? In Hell?”

“I do! Charlie’s best thing that’s ever happened to me. Besides you of, course.”

“You have a child.” Alastor repeated, eyes narrowed. “Is there somethin’ else I should know?”

It took a moment before Lucifer realized what Alastor was getting at. He sat straighter and set aside his drink.

“I was married but that was ages ago. Lily and I parted—on friendly terms mind you— around the 16^th or 17^th century I think.”

“Lily?”

“Lilith. My current queen consort of hell.”

“And are there…others waiting in the wings then?”

“No. There’s only Lily for now because—Lucifer paused. He grinned inhumanly, all white, gleaming fangs. “What’s that look for, Bambi? I wouldn’t dare take up with you while I was still spoken for! And even if I was, I would file for divorce the moment you said the word.”

“Oh please! I’m not interested in your personal affairs! I was merely curious about how it all worked…” Alastor cleared his throat. Refused to acknowledge the unwarranted rush of relief he felt.

 “But since you’re so unwilling to evict yourself from my presence—

“I believe you agreed to “keep me”.” Lucifer added unhelpfully.

“I expect you to earn your keep.” Alastor glared. “You help me look after Genie—

“Consider it done. Genie won’t want for a thing! I’ll be a good father and so will you.”

Alastor almost spit out his next sip of rye. He quickly recovered himself. Surely, it wasn’t his intention to get that attached to his mother’s cast offs. He looked down at Genie’s sleeping face: small. Soft. Real. He took another sip of his drink. Then another until he emptied the glass. Gave himself over to the pleasant burn of the rye. To the world of sheer entertainment that surely awaited him and smiled at Genie.

Who else could do this if not him? What would Della Rousseau know of the beauty of the Crescent City that never failed to welcome him into her sleepless arms—even as he cut her short a citizen every other week? What would Della Rousseau know of the Devil’s company and an opportunity like this?

Outside, the fading reds and golds of autumn whispered of a ophanim’s interest. Of demons yet to roam the streets bold as the Pontchartrain was wide.

The days marched right on into winter. Alastor carried on with his broadcasts from noon to seven. Chez Rivière was now in greater demand than ever before. Alastor carried on too, with his “hunting”. 

Over the next week or so he’d managed to rattle a few Italian dons into seeing things his way—which they were all too happy to do once one too many of their muscle went missing only to be discreetly returned to them in bits and pieces: an ear here. A couple of fingers there. Enough to send a message and even the scales. Enough to return what Madame Sonnier had lost.

His mother kept her end of their deal. She came around more often but always with Mr. Arceneaux, who all too happy to have his wife back.

A month flew by just like that with his mother learning how to smile at him without a hurling a single bad word his way—not counting the way she cussed him out low as a dog under her breath in their shared Louisiana French.

Genie got chubbier and clingier than a cat on a knit sweater. He certainly loved holding onto Alastor like it was going out of fashion. Lucifer didn’t help one bit by helping to spoil the hell out of him. To the point that by the time they were ready to introduce Genie to Mr. Arceneaux, you had to pry Genie off Alastor just to hold him.

And hold him Mr. Arceneaux did. He took Genie into his arms. Smiled at him big and wide and proud. Honorae watched her husband with genuine amusement.

“Such a handsome boy, Al. Look at him!” Mr. Arceneaux kissed Genie’s chubby cheek. “Lord! He’s just as precious you were when you were a baby.”

Alastor smiled. Honorae looked away. Then Genie hiccupped a low cry. His tiny hands began to flail as he erupted into a shrieking wail.

“Aw, did this old man keep you too long? Alright. Alright. Here let me turn you right back over.” Mr. Arceneaux cooed sheepishly as he handed Genie back to Alastor. “Look at you! Got him spoiled to you real good already!”

“It was love at first sight I’m afraid.” Lucifer said, stepping forward as Sam Magne with effortless charm. “There was an orphanage on Saint Charles struggling to keep its doors open last month. Alastor and I decided to pitch in after we took a tour of it. Of course we found Genie there. One look at Al and next thing you know here we are.”

“I couldn’t very well leave the place without Genie.” Alastor kissed that little brow. Cast a knowing glance at his mother. “Not while knowing that his mother died giving birth to him and he had no other family to speak of.”

It was a lie, of course. Mostly. But one of the best sort: convincing and convenient. Judging by the look of relief on Honorae’s face she also agreed. It pleased Mr. Arceneaux greatly and was exactly the kind of altruism he’d always expected of Alastor.

They got to talking about Alastor’s broadcast and how WWL had given him a bigger studio at The Roosevelt along with a new time slot. Mr. Arceneaux lit up with enough pride to rival the sun. He was damn proud of his boy, he said. Had always been proud of him. Honorae forced herself to nod and agree that Alastor had always “been something special”.

“We’ve got to celebrate what a success Chez Rivière is becoming.” Mr. Arceneaux proposed merrily. “We’ll have a fete at my house. I’ll contact your people at WWL and have them come over too.”

Alastor was more than alright with the idea. He smiled, genuine and rare and looked down at Genie. Those big dark eyes watched him like he’d hung the moon. Lucifer kissed his little head. Winked at Alastor.

“Told you’d get The Roosevelt.” He spoke into Alastor’s mind. “See how easy it is to make people fall in love with you, my deer?”

“Now now! No need to tell me what I’ve known all along.” Alastor answered. “Some might say it was inevitable.”

Lucifer wanted very badly to be closer to him then. To lay a kiss on his brow the way Alastor had for Genie. But alas. There were too many eyes on them, and they had an illusion to maintain. This was what bothered Lucifer about the human world. It sometimes had just as many rules as heaven but managed to complicate them twice as much. In hell, no one would bat an eye if two men kissed. Lucifer sighed and took one of the drinks Vickie brought down.

She smiled at Genie and pointedly ignored the dismissive look Honorae gave her. Alastor knew his mother had it in for the darker-skinned servants, but Vickie could hold her own. She never gave her the time of day.

Mr. Arceneaux raised his own drink high in the air.

“To Chez Rivière!” He said with aplomb.

“To Che Rivière!” Everyone toasted back.

Alastor wasn’t sure if Honorae actually said the words or skipped right ahead to downing her drink in one go.

Mr. Arceneaux’s home was a dream. Grand columns. Popular music lilting through well-lit halls hung in with garlands that cost more than most folks earned in a month. The crème de la crème  of New Orleans, renowned old families of the smartest sets, all gathered there to see the son Mr. Arceneaux cherished just as much as his pursuit of justice.

Alastor played his part down to the almost supernatural shine of his shoes. Handsome with his hair slicked back as much as pomade would allow in a new burgundy suit shipped in from Rome. The new rising star of WWL. Rudolph Gambin stood by the punch bowl, watching the radio star with a spectacular kind of envy that was starting to turn him redder than a creole roux.

Alastor caught his eye and raised a glass in mock salute. Gambin tried to politely ignore him. But Alastor pushed his limits. Pushed into his space with barbed pleasantries. Had them both smile and pose together for the press like a pair of old chums. The moment Gambin caught a break from the cameras he was good and ready to kill him.

“Look here, Rivière!” He snarled. “Don’t think just because the station’s kept you on longer than a few weeks that you stand a chance against me!”

“You really ought to learn how to sing a quieter swan song, old pal.” Alastor grinned. “The writing’s on the wall. A thousand extra listeners certainly says so. And you know the numbers don’t lie.”

“You’re rigging them!” Gambin accused. “You’re using your money and your family’s influence!” He glanced at Mr. Arceneaux and Honorae as they mingled among the other guests. “And what a family you’ve got. Makes me wonder who you really are.”

“My good man! I am myself. Entirely.” Alastor followed his gaze where it lingered on his mother. “You could certainly say I’m more fortunate than most. Mr. Arceneaux is a good man. Too good to be close-minded.”

“Enough to parade his high brown side piece around?” Gambin sneered.

Alastor’s smile stretched wider. He had half a mind to acquaint Gambin’s head with the edge of the table. But instead Alastor remained the picture of civility.

“Ms. Sonnier is my father’s wife and by some extension my mother.” Alastor said. “Surely it isn’t that inconceivable. I’d suggest you remember that, but that would be quite the feat for a man of your limited intelligence. Which seems to keep dropping. Just your listeners.”

“It’s a hardly a drop!”

“And here I thought denial was just a river in Egypt! Haha!”

Alastor straightened the other’s crooked bow tie.

“Come now!” Alastor tutted. “Don’t go spoiling what’s left of your professionalism. After all, it took you a lifetime to build and just one month to start losing!”

Gambin bared his teeth. Started to call Alastor everything but a child of god, but there were too many eyes everywhere. He cursed under his breath before quitting the room, muttering about needing a cigarette.

“Play nice, my deer..”

Came Lucifer’s half-hearted scolding.

“Wouldn’t it be lovely if he caught fire while having a smoke?” Alastor grinned.

“I could make it happen. In fact, I could not only make it happen—I can undo it and make it happen again. As many times as you like. You just say the word, Bambi.”

Lucifer chuckled, a crimson glint in his mischievous eyes. Alastor was very tempted to call what he knew was no bluff. A pity they were out in public. Lucifer’s presence draped itself around Alastor, completely separate from the tycoon standing beside him, tender and teasing.

“Don’t give me any ideas, Sam.” Alastor said.

“Why shouldn’t I? You’re glorious when you’re being naughty.”

“I’ve hardly even begun.” Alastor replied airily.

That earned him a bright laugh from the king of Hell. It was only after Alastor shared in the Devil’s amusement that he realized just how pleasant he found the sound of Lucifer’s laughter.

As the two laughed together, Honorae Sonnier moved through the sea of guests with a sharp, predatory kind of grace. She’d taken advantage of her husband’s blind generosity to invite some of New Orleans’ most notable blue-vein[7] families. Chief among those proud, lighter skinned mesdames were Rebecca Sonnier and the Delacroix matriarchs.

Honorae touched up her coiffed hair that had been refined[8] to high hell. Not silken like theirs. She adjusted her diamond necklace that cost more than all their jewelry combined. After all, she still owned half of New Orleans. Including what Alastor had won back for her. Speaking of Alastor, Honorae didn’t even dream of approaching that that queenly circle of women without something to show for it. Something for them to be envious of for once.

That something was Alastor: tall, uncommonly handsome, and most importantly of all—whiter than the Somniers and Delacroixs could ever dream. And it was for precisely this reason that Honorae could link her arm with the abomination of a child she could hardly stand, put on a radiant smile, and finally push her way into that impregnable circle of blue-veined sovereigns.

Alastor played along. Introduced himself with enough charm to make even God swoon. And Honorae waited. Waited for the right moment to take Rebecca Sonnier down a peg or three. After all, she deserved it for shunning her for being born a shade too dark. That moment came when Alastor took the Sonnier matriarch to a room where they could speak more comfortably while the other ladies socialized. That was the moment Honorae decided to strike.

“Isn’t my Alastor a wonder, mama?” She said.

Rebecca Sonnier took in Alastor’s whiteness as if she’d been slapped. She recovered as much as her fine breeding would allow but was no less astonished.

“How very…striking.” The elder woman concluded primly.

“He white enough for you?” Honorae spat. “You won’t find him polishin’ no silver in one of your summer homes.”

Rebecca Sonnier said nothing. Graciously accepted a flute of wine from a white servant passing by. She took a delicate sip.

“If I actually looked like Alastor here, then you wouldn’t sue me for taking a single letter of your name every other day.” Honorae went on; her composure crumbling in the ensuing, dismissive silence.

Alastor knew that it was time to move along. But his mother didn’t. She kept up her baiting remarks and Rebecca Sonnier went on politely ignoring her and only speaking to Alastor. She complimented him on the success of his radio show which she now claimed to listen to regularly. Then she politely thanked Alastor for keeping her company and bid him goodbye without looking back.

Alastor felt his mother shrink away from him. There was something bitter now in her proud smile. She suddenly looked older. Wearier. But Alastor got the feeling that it wasn’t quite right. It was more like watching a thing finally show the first cracks under the weight it had weathered for far too long. If she were made of glass, Alastor mused, she’d be more veined than a spider’s web on the surface of a shattered mirror.

But the real fracture came from Elizabeth Delacroix. She arrived leaning imperially on a cane and assisted by a lady’s maid, a lovely dark-skinned girl with eyes like a summer moon. Alastor welcomed her warmly and helped her into an upholstered chair. If Rebecca Sonnier had been a queen then Elizabeth Delacroix was an empress. Her ill health didn’t detract from the beauty of her waved hair and dark eyes.

Then she saw Honorae and all that refined grace shriveled up like she had one foot in the grave already. The Delacroix matriarch put a gloved hand on her heart and shook her head in disbelief.

“How can you not be ashamed to show your face?” She asked. “When you murdered my son?”

Honorae went still. Then livid.

“King’s blood ain’t on my hands and you damned well know it!” She shot back. “All these years and you still blame everyone except yourself!”

“You took my boy from me!” Madame Delacroix roared back. “You vile, black bitch! You wanted my King to follow you right into hell and when he wouldn’t do that you wanted him dead! It was you!”

Madame Delacroix suddenly faltered and slumped back into her chair. Her servant was immediately at her side. Honorae was stunned into silence. Lucifer appeared with a small retinue that included a physician. Upon seeing the Delacroix matriarch unconscious, he immediately rushed to her aid. Lucifer glanced at Alastor. Alastor ushered his mother out of the room. Later, Lucifer assured Alastor:

“Just a bit of chest pain. But I have it on good authority that Madame Delacroix will recover with a bit of rest. I’ll send someone to take her home later.”

Alastor hardly heard him. He looked at his mother, who was still too quiet, then at Lucifer again.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” Lucifer’s voice spoke gently into the radio host’s mind, soothing Alastor’s fraying nerves.

But it could do nothing for Honorae’s. She went out for a cigarette without looking back. It stung, but Alastor’s smile gave nothing away.

As the midnight hour drew near, the guests gathered for a final round of toasts. Mr. Arceneaux was a little tipsy and happier than Alastor had ever seen him as he said to a cameraman:

“Would you hurry and get over here! I want a picture with my boy!”

He threw an arm around Alastor’s shoulder. The radio host’s smile mirrored Mr. Arceneaux’s as he stood beside the man who’d never done anything less than adore him. Mr. Arceneaux called Honorae over yelling:

“Darlin’! Darlin’! Hurry up!”

Honorae could hardly refuse with so many white eyes on her. She smiled and obliged. It would be a nice picture for the papers.

Mr. Arceneaux hugged his wife and son close. As the press gathered, Alastor turned to his mother.

“I’m not the only invisible one you know.” He whispered.

“We’re not the same.” Honorae replied tightly. “You were born lucky.”

“I was born to you.”

She said nothing. Turned her head as a chorus of cameras shuttered and snapped.

Alastor would discover later that the photo hardly captured his mother’s face. She was just a blur among a sea of smiling faces. It was to be the only picture Alastor would ever take with Honorae Sonnier.

Somewhere, behind them that night, Alastor heard some guests gossiping:

“…and Mr. Arceneaux and his son are very high-minded to invite negroes here. Especially the high-yellow ones.”

“Gorgeous, really. Almost European-looking!”

“But they’re still colored, aren’t they? Blue vein or not. Makes no difference in the end.”

“They’re the lucky ones! Still negroes but better than the dark ones.”  

Their idle talk lingered on the air like stale perfume. Afterwards, Alastor made sure Mr. Arceneaux, who was falling off his feet after one too many rounds of punch, retired to bed. Alastor stayed with him just long enough to make sure he actually got there.

“I’m so very, very proud of you, Al.” Mr. Arceneaux slurred happily. “You know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Alastor smiled back.

With that, the old lawyer was out like a light. Alastor kissed his brow just as he’d always done for him when he was young. Took in the prominent grays in his once coal black hair.

Then he left to look for his mother. But Honorae must have slipped away among the departing guests. His hunch turned out to be correct. Among the servants milling about as they cleaned up, Alastor caught the haughty expression of a maid as she came from the direction of the back door.

“Did you see where Mrs. Sonnier went?” He asked just to watch the smile fall from her pale face.

“She went out the back, sir.” She said, her head lowered.

“As in?”

“Through the servant’s exit, sir.”

Of course she did. Honorae could marry his father in Paris in high style but couldn’t even leave out through the front gates of her own home. Alastor rushed through the servant’s exit and out onto the lawn. There, Alastor finally spotted his mother walking toward the back gates.

She walked with her head held high but wrapped her arms around herself as she went. Wondering if her coat was too thin for the autumn chill, Alastor lingered there. Watched Honorae get into an awaiting car—one of the newer ones she’d bought for herself. Alastor didn’t leave until he saw its headlights vanish into the night. He lingered still, even after he could no longer see the shine of the car’s fresh paint under the electric street lights. He smoked a cigarette. Then another. By his third one, Lucifer was standing beside him.

“Let’s get you home.” He said.

They went back to his place on Esplanade Avenue. Alastor checked on Genie in the nursery. He was sleeping soundly; his little chest rising and falling. Alastor thought of reaching into the cradle to hold Genie again. To contemplate what made that little face worthy of Honorae Sonnier’s care. Instead, he washed up and went to bed.

Alastor couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t that he hadn’t grown used to sleeping in his own house. It was just that tonight it seemed to be pressing in on him. His eyes traced the patterns on the high ceiling; his hands folded neatly over his stomach.

All Alastor could see was his mother dripping in diamonds yet slipping out through the back door of her husband’s house. Her house.

There was soft knock at his door, then a hesitant: “Alastor?”

Alastor didn’t answer, but Lucifer opened the door anyway. There stood his Midwestern tycoon, barefoot in his duck-themed pajamas . His eyes were filled with unspoken concern as he stepped in quietly and closed the door behind him.

“…May I?” Lucifer asked.

Alastor turned his gaze back to the ceiling.

“Yes.” He answered.

“Wait! Really?!” Lucifer lit up—then tripped spectacularly over the rug.

“Dammit—” he hissed, catching himself. “Right. Um. I’ll just—”

He vanished into a sparkling puff of smoke. Alastor heard him hiss again, softer this time, as a familiar white snake slithered up the foot of the bed. It settled on a pillow at the far side of it where it coiled gleefully.

Alastor glanced flatly at Lucifer.

“T’olé vini?[9]” He said.

Lucifer stared, wondering if his hearing had suddenly gone bad. “Pardon?”

“I’m saying you can be yourself.”

Lucifer’s eyes grew wide.

Poof! He reappeared beside Alastor in his usual form, cheeks flushed gold. “Right. Of course. Sorry. I just—habit.”

He mimicked Alastor’s pose, folding his hands over his stomach and straining at the ceiling and trying very hard not to vibrate with joy. But his heart was hammering so loudly that he was sure Alastor could hear it.  He was in Alastor’s bed. Alastor had invited him. Accepted him. And he was close—if you didn’t count the mile of space between them.  Neither of them spoke, but Lucifer could practically hear the thoughts turning in his newly-minted bedmate’s head. Then—

“It’s a cold night. Mama’s coat was too thin.” Alastor said.

Lucifer turned his head. There wasn’t a trace of anger or bitterness in his voice. It was casual, as though Alastor was only mentioning the weather. But the fallen angel knew better. Could trace the faintest note of disappointment in the radio host’s voice too.

“I never thought I’d speak to a Sonnier or Delacroix ‘till tonight.” Alastor went on.  “They both took me for white, but thought mama was too dark. Passing…” He laughed low. “Is it really worth it?”

Lucifer knew it wasn’t a question he was meant to answer. Not that he could. He’d had tens of thousands of years to watch humans savage one another to death over the most trivial of things. Hinging the success or failure of someone’s life based on their complexion was just one more thread in that depressing tapestry.

Alastor sighed. “What does it matter?”

Silence settled between them again. Then Alastor shifted. The mattress dipped. Lucifer’s eyes widened when he felt the unmissable heat of Alastor’s body pressing just shy of his back. His breath caught.

Low and amused came a whispered:  

“Why are you shy now? Didn’t you follow me home the very night we met?”

Lucifer groaned, flustered beyond words. “That was different, Al. You were bleeding and exhausted. And I was concerned.”

“You almost watched me bathe in the middle of a swamp. Leerin’ like the peepin’ Tom I’d just gotten rid of.”

“I was not—! I turned around that time! I was a complete gentleman!”

Alastor chuckled, soft and fond. Then, slowly, deliberately, he wrapped his arms around Lucifer’s middle.

Lucifer froze.

There wasn’t anything to it. But it felt like being chosen. Like being trusted. It made the Prince of Darkness hold his breath and shudder. Lucifer closed his eyes, aching with so much tenderness and longing for the man beside him that it nearly broke him. Couldn’t Alastor show a fallen angel a bit of mercy?

Lucifer flushed gold all over. “Al—

“Aren’t you supposed to be the king of Hell?” Alastor’s breath brushed Lucifer’s gold-tinged ear, low amused, and unmistakably critical. “Doesn’t it behoove you? To be under the thrall of a mere human? Surely it isn’t this easy.” The radio host nuzzled into Lucifer’s neck. That earned him a surprised little squeak. “No need to be modest. Why not simply take whatever it is that you really want from me? You certainly have the power. You don’t have to play nice.”

Lucifer snapped himself out of the utter daze he was falling into. No use in hiding it. He thought and sighed.

“You got me; Al.” He admitted. “The thought has crossed my mind more than once. But where’s the fun in that? I want you to be mine. Willingly. It’s too easy to do otherwise. Too easy to ruin this. I don’t want that.”

Alastor blinked. He hadn’t expected a response like that. Hadn’t expected it to be so earnest and straightforward. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or even more suspicious of the fallen angel than he was already.

“Then what…do you want?” Alastor asked.

Before he could say anything more, Lucifer moved. A heartbeat later he was the one holding Alastor. Feeling his back pressed flush against Lucifer and the fallen archangel’s arms snug around his waist, it was Alastor’s turn to feel flustered.

“You, my deer.” Lucifer answered at last. “You or nothing.”

He could hardly believe that he was holding Alastor like this. That he was being allowed to. Alastor didn’t say anything. That was just fine by Lucifer who felt as though he was in a heaven far better than the one he’d been cast out of. Well, mostly. He could still feel the restless turn of Alastor’s thoughts. So Lucifer searched for something—anything—to say.

“…Did you know frogs have more lives than cats?” Lucifer blurted.

“That’s…not how it goes.” Alastor said.

“Well, it should! Cats may have nine lives, but frogs croak all the time and hop off like nothing ever happened.”

Alastor didn’t laugh, but oh Lucifer knew he wanted to. Felt his belly go a little taught. Felt those shoulders shake just slightly. Undeterred, Lucifer switched tactics. He mentioned Alastor’s upcoming broadcast and how New Orleans wouldn’t stand for a cranky radio host no matter how much they loved his voice. No dice. So, Lucifer did what had always come naturally to him. He began to sing:

~Alastor de Rivière I’d do anything for you,

Oh oh oh Heaven knows it’s true.

I’ve never seen a soul half as bold,

Unwilling to do whatever he’s told.

But you’ve got me in your corner, Bambi,

Just say the word and oh!

It’ll be you, me, and eternity~

The words hung between them, warm and ridiculous. Alastor’s lips twitched, a small, incredulous laugh escaping him. Brief, but precious beyond measure. Lucifer wanted to inch up a bit more and press his face into Alastor’s curls. Kiss the line of that lovely, lovely neck. But he didn’t.

Alastor went quiet after that. Stayed awake until he couldn’t. But Lucifer could and did long after. He didn’t need to sleep like humans did. Not really. And even if he did what good would it do him? What in creation could compare to the thrum of Alastor’s heart?

By morning Alastor would probably wake up and toss him out the window face first—but oh, what a triumph this was! If Lucifer didn’t tell somebody about it right away he was going to burst! He decided right then and there to pay another visit to Hell.

A perfect replica of himself bloomed into being. Lucifer squealed giddily, winked at his double, then vanished.

Lilith’s singing echoed throughout every crevice of Hell. Lucifer followed the wondrous lilt of it to the center of Pentagram City. Everyone from hell born nobility to the lowliest sinners of the Pride Ring had gathered there to witness a rather gruesome spectacle.

Lucifer chuckled darkly. There she was at the center of it all—his queen consort. Lilith looked every bit the sovereign. She also looked regally bored. Even with the demon lord writhing on the ground at her feet. The unfortunate victim clawed at his own flesh as every note of Lilith’s voice hooked its unforgiving barbs deeper the marrow of the demon’s being.

“Mom seriously?” Charlie grimaced from her front row seat. “Don’t you think this is a bit um…much? You can’t just sing someone to pieces.”

“Lessons are meant to be learned, dear.” Lilith replied without missing a note. “Disrespect toward a member of this family is a death wish. Or, in this case, a very educational near-death experience.”

The demon lord screamed, raking his claws across his chest.

And then—

“My darlings!”

Lucifer appeared like a sunbeam. Quite literally. Everyone had to look away with the exception of Lilith of Charlie. Well, Charlie had to squint her eyes just a little.

Lilith’s song stopped cold. Charlie sat up, startled. “Dad?! What—

But Lucifer was already sweeping them both into a hug so fierce that even Lilith, unflappable as she was, gave a startled laugh. “I missed you! Oh, you won’t believe what just happened!”

Lilith’s smile widened with genuine interest. “You’re literally glowing. Come now! Don’t keep us in suspense!”

“Just a moment. Let’s take this conversation somewhere a little more private.” Lucifer glanced at the demon Lilith had been torturing. “Well, I guess you’re invited too my friend, seeing as you’ve pissed off my queen.” He snapped his fingers, ignoring the demon’s desperate pleas.

Poof! They suddenly reappeared in Lucifer’s dining hall. Charlie rolled her eyes at the mountains of confections piled high on every golden dish. Lilith seated herself at the same time as Charlie; one hand still fisted tightly in her victim’s hair.

“Well?” Lilith urged.

Lucifer straightened up and took a deep breath. Then, bursting with dramatic reverence, he said only one name:

“Alastor—my silver-tongued, impossible Alastor—invited me to bed!”

“Dad!” Charlie looked scandalized.

“To cuddle with him!” Lucifer finished, ecstatic. “By the way it’s totally our bed now.”

Charlie squinted at him in disbelief.

“Oh, my dear little star,” Lucifer sang, twirling with arms outstretched. “I know I used to think of sinners as the absolute worst and I still do. Kind of. But that was the old me! This human…He’a different. He’s brilliant, he’s infuriating, and so very clever—and oh, when he smiles— Lucifer clutched at his chest, spinning back toward Lilith with a grin. “I swear I forget that I don’t need to breathe or remember how to.”

Lilith chuckled low, tightening her already brutal grip and making the demon lord whimper pitifully. “Then congratulations are in certainly in order. I was beginning to worry that you’d lost your touch since the Fall.”

“Hardly!” Lucifer laughed, wings puffed up like a peacock’s.

“Mom, can’t you let Lord Ocolai go?” Charlie’s asked.

“No.” Lilith took a sip a wine.

 Charlie groaned and recoiled when she heard the demon’s scalp rip. She shot her father a nervous glance. “And dad! No human is so special that you should be getting that close to them! What if something happens—

“Your father will be fine, Charlotte.” Lilith said. “And besides maybe what he finds special in this human is the same as what you see in your current suitor.”

Her eyes slid to Charlie in pointed amusement.

“Mom don’t.”

“Oh, I will.” With a flick of her wrist, a painting appeared, floating gracefully in the air. It displayed Charlie smiling awkwardly as she stood beside the slightly too arrogant Seviathan von Eldritch.

“Mom! Seriously?!” Charlie tried to grab it, but Lucifer snatched it first, his grin widening as he studied it.

“Stunning work as always, Lily!” Lucifer said. “The von Eldritchs are newcomers to the noble courts of Hell. No complaints here! If Leviathan makes my little star happy, then I’m happy.”

“I am happy! And it’s Seviathan!” Charlie shot back. “We… like each other…enough!”

Lilith raised a doubtful brow. “Enough. Such high praise.”

“Can we please just drop it already?” Charlie crossed her arms with a huff.

Lucifer chuckled and handed the portrait back to Lilith, who promptly made it vanish. Then with conspiratorial excitement, Lucifer hovered over Lilith’s shoulder.

“Say Lily?” He began, “When the time is right, would you like to meet my Alastor? In the human world?”

“I’d love nothing more.” Lilith sang softly, finally wiping Lord Ocolai from existence. “He must be absolutely fascinating to enchant you this much.”

“Perfect!” Lucifer beamed, spinning in delight. “You’ll adore him, Lily! I know it!”

Charlie sighed, sinking back in her chair. There was no doubting it now. She had been born to unfettered maniacs.

Meanwhile above hell and farther still above the human world, Azrael floated through Heaven’s immense halls whose every arch and column seemed to be carved from pure radiance.

Azrael hovered there, a quiet anomaly among the gathered angels. An orbiting sphere of molten gold and white flame, wrapped in rings of fire that spun at slow, deliberate intervals. Eyes, dozens of them, lined his rings, wide and unblinking and watching in all directions at once. Azrael had made them smaller for today’s meeting, less… unsettling. No one looked at him for long. He preferred it that way. Especially now, when the memory of his meddling with Alastor’s fate still simmered hot in the back of his mind. Azrael listened to the same speculations about the ongoings of Hell and the infallible laws of Heaven. None of his heavenly peers were watching close enough to see what he was doing. What threads he was pulling.

At the center of the chamber, the archangel Michael materialized.

All six of the seraphim’s wings filled the room. Two covered his face, two stretched outward in command, and the last pair draped downward like a robe that touched the ground. When he spoke, the sound was like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“Lucifer’s influence has grown bolder on Earth,” a lesser angel reported cautiously. “Archangel, we fear that in time—

“Do not speak that name,” Michael said, sharply. The light around his form flared like a second sun. “Nor the names of the Fallen One’s consort and their hell born daughter. Their feeble mechanizations are nothing to the glory of heaven. They will one day perish by our hand. Until then they will not be given breath unless absolutely necessary.”

The room fell silent.

Michael’s attention shifted, all-consuming, to him. “Azrael,” the archangel commanded. “Come forward.”

Azrael tilted slightly, his rings tightening into a slow rotation as he floated to the center of the circle.

“You will now serve as the chief of all guardian angels,” Michael said. “Your precision and patience have not gone unnoticed. Heaven requires someone who understands the weight of mortal lives—someone who does not squander their finite threads. That someone is you.”

For a moment, every one of Azrael’s countless eyes flared in unison. It was not shock he felt—it was something far warmer. Sharper. Something like delight—delight he didn’t dare to show in front of Michael.

“I am but an instrument of god.” Azrael said soft and resonant like an echo from the bottom of a deep well. “And I will continue to serve his will by your command, archangel.”

Later, as Azrael hovered alone above mirror-like pools of water, he felt Emily’s presence. Still a fledging seraphim with wings too large for her, Emily looked at him. Azrael could feel her curiosity overflowing .

“Um… Azrael?” Emily began, “Can I ask you something?”

He rotated slightly, several eyes focusing on her. “You may ask, little one.”

“How… how did you learn to do that thing with human lives? The way you, um… stretch them or shorten them?”

Azrael’s rings slowed. He considered her, all bright feathers and innocence. Too young to understand. Then, answered softly, “It’s a secret.”

Emily’s breath caught. “But… we’re not supposed to—

“Shhh.” His voice was like wind over the turning of a page. “As I said this is a secret, little seraph. A secret you will keep, won’t you?”

Emily blinked. “I—of course! I mean… I won’t tell anyone but…well what about Sera?”

“No one must know. Not even Sera.” Azrael said with a curl of amusement hidden deep in his tone. “If anyone knew, they would… misunderstand. But you are clever enough to keep it, aren’t you?”

Emily nodded eagerly. “Yes! I won’t tell a soul!”

“Good. I shall be counting on you from now on, Emily.”

Azrael turned his gaze to the horizon of endless rainbow; the faintest flicker of a smile curling beneath all those eyes. Azrael thought of New Orleans. Of the one human who intrigued him like no other.

As Emily chattered away beside him Azrael felt himself becoming lighter. Ascending to heights higher than seraphims of Michael’s caliber or even Sera’s. Could this be what The Morningstar and the First Woman once felt too? What unmade Eden and created their kingdom in hell?

With Emily’s little hand clinging to one of his rings, Azrael let himself soar into heaven’s boundless skies. Countless millennia ago, he had been but a mindless thing with no other conscious thought but to sing “Glory! Glory!” around the throne of The Almighty. But when Azrael sang it now it wasn’t for God to whom all of Heaven bowed, but to a human. To that miraculous anomaly that was Alastor de Rivière…

[1] Who is that man?

[2] The act of concealing one’s racial identity. Passing for white is rooted in slavery. Many lighter-skinned enslaved people passed for white in order to escape enslavement. After slavery was ended in the U.S. passing was practiced by an untold number of African Americans in the 20^th century in order to escape racial bigotry. It was and is to this day, a subject of much controversy.

[3] Shut up!

[4] It’s impossible, mama. I love talking.

[5] Also called a throne, or galgalim. Celestial beings described in the book of Ezekiel. They are not always thought to be angels.

[6] A historic street in New Orleans. It once functioned as a sort of “millionaire’s row” for the Louisiana Creole section of the city.

[7] Refers to a color-caste system within black communities wherein lighter-skinned African Americans saw their fairer complexions as superior to those of darker-skinned African Americans. Members of the Blue Vein Society often occupied positions of privilege.

[8] A chemical process through which naturally, curly, kinky, or textured hair was straightened with lye. It was first invented by Garrett A. Morgan by accident around 1909.

[9] Are you coming?