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Alastor ought to have stayed in bed when he awoke that morning to the sound of screeching in his own ears. He sat up with a groan, clutching his head and trying to shake the incessant noise away, but it kept on blaring. It was no outside siren that he could silence with a flick of his hand; this was coming from the inside, an infernal buzzing static from his own brain, like an out-of-tune radio.
He sat up in his bed, positioned in the middle of a grassy field, and squinted into the early morning light of his bayou. Even that soft light seared his eyes and made his temples throb. He could, of course, adjust the time of day in the bayou any time he pleased. It was a pocket dimension summoned by his own hand and, therefore, had to bend to his every whim, but he had set the swamp to mirror the outside, meaning it was morning for the rest of Hell as well. Remaining in bed was out of the picture. He’d already attempted to assuage his pounding head by sleeping for the night—something he rarely did on account of the pure vulnerability unconsciousness had on one—and wasn’t about to let a day go to waste as well.
So, it was with a head that felt it had been stuffed with cotton balls soaked in vinegar, that Alastor dragged himself out of bed. He dressed with a snap of his fingers and vanished his bed with a wave of his cane. Checking his pocket watch, he saw that he had overslept.
Drat. He was running late to his appointment.
Alastor thought about shadow traveling to the lower floors but decided against it when his head throbbed painfully at the idea. It was a most irksome inconvenience, but he refused to let his foul mood show as he made his way down the stairs (by foot), pasting his best smile on as he stepped into the lobby. The smell of food wafted to his nose and he allowed himself to be tempted into the kitchen, where the other hotel residents were all gathered around, eating and cooking together.
How quaint, Alastor thought as he approached Husk from behind on silent feet. He and Angel were sat at the breakfast bar while Charlie stood at the stove, flipping pancakes. She sang a cheery little tune to herself as Husk and Angel chatted away, unaware of Alastor looming behind them.
“Makin’ a tasty pancake,” Charlie hummed. “That’s the kinda cake I like to make.”
“-just can’t do the pointy toes, yanno?” Angel was saying as he sipped a mug of coffee. “Call me close-minded but I draw my line there.”
“Okay,” Husk shrugged, spearing a piece of bacon on his fork. “You’re close-minded.”
He opened his mouth to feed himself but Alastor closed his jaws around the bacon with a loud clack of teeth, taking off the top half of the fork in the process. Husk startled in his seat and nearly tipped over in his chair, arms pin-wheeling, while Alastor chewed happily, metal tongs and all.
“Fuckin’ Christ!” Husk yelled, paw flying to his chest as he spun around on his barstool to glare over his shoulder at Alastor. “Quit lurkin’ behind me like a fuckin’ ghoul!”
Alastor tittered with laughter while Angel swatted Husk’s shoulder.
“Hey, give him a break,” Angel said. “He can’t help what he is.”
Husk shot Angel an unimpressed look and rolled his eyes, turning back to his plate, grumbling to himself. Alastor munched away with a hum and some of the static fizzled from his pounding skull. With hope, his ailment could be banished by eating. Perhaps he could hunt for a light snack on his way back to the hotel this afternoon. It had been a while since he’d feasted on live demon flesh, after all.
“Morning, Alastor!” Charlie chirped. Her smile got stuck in place as she turned from the stove, spatula in hand, and got a look at him. She tipped her head to the side, eying him critically. “Are you okay?”
Alastor swallowed his mouthful and instantly straightened up, stretching his smile wider. “But of course, my dear! Why, whatever would make you think the contrary?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie replied, pursing her lips and scratching at her chin. A glob of pancake batter was smeared across her cheekbone, lessening her analytical look. “You just look a little-“
“Eager to get on with my day?” Alastor cut in, perhaps louder than was strictly necessary for the small confines of the kitchen. “Yes indeedy!”
He swiped up his cane and made for the exit, pausing to ruffle Husk’s ears. He chuckled at the growl and swipe of claws he got in response, nimbly side-stepping out of the line of fire. His shoes had nearly carried him to the door when Charlie called out after him.
“Oh, are you going somewhere?”
Alastor peered over his shoulder at her, his eyelids falling to half-mast. “Afraid so. But worry not, I’ll be back before you know it.”
With that, he strolled over to the front door, whistling to himself and tapping the butt of his cane against the ground. Only once he was outside and the door was between them, did the jaunty tune die on his lips. His shoulders drooped and he sagged beneath the weight of that infernal buzzing. He couldn’t parse through a single thought in his head. He had had similar problems in the past but that had been decades ago! Back when his power was still fresh and he hadn’t understood how to control it. There were no such excuses now.
It matters not, Alastor told himself, straightening up and beginning the walk into the city. I just need to get through this drag of a meeting, then I can deal with this little problem.
Alastor typically enjoyed overlord meetings. It was just about the only time all of the most powerful sinners in Hell were collected conveniently in one place. He took these opportunities not only to hear whatever intel Carmilla had to share with the group, but to inspect his fellow overlords, as he knew they were doing to him. There was so much information to gather in the little things, like what they were wearing, who they would look at around the table, and when they chose to speak up. He enjoyed Rosie’s company, tolerated the others, and loathed one, which weren’t bad odds, all things considered.
However, those were odds on a good day, and Alastor was decidedly not having a good day.
He kept his expression placid as he and Rosie took their seats across from Zeezi. Carmilla stood at the head of her table, Zestial sat adjacent to her while he spoke to her two daughters. Their voices, though soft, grated against the staticky fuzz zapping between his ears, and he growled quietly to himself at the discomfort. Clearly, not quiet enough, for Rosie turned to him, eyebrow raised.
“Alastor? Is everything okay?” she asked.
Alastor’s eyes popped open wide as he grinned at her, hands knitted together on the tabletop to keep from fidgeting. “Everything’s just peachy! Couldn’t be better. Just a little head cold is all.”
Rosie eyed him sceptically. “Is that right? ‘Cause your hair’s lookin’ a little out of sorts.”
She reached up and began patting down his hair, smoothing fly-away strands into place. Alastor allowed the treatment, even going so far as letting Rosie primp up his ears. He froze, however, when he heard a snort from across the table.
“What’s this? Need mommy to fix your hair?”
Rosie pulled her hands back and Alastor was already internally sighing as he turned in his chair to see Vox taking a seat across from him. A smirk was plastered across his flatscreen face, his clawed fingers drumming against the tabletop as he stared at the two of them in amusement. Alastor had rather been hoping his shorter associate would be attending the meeting again. She, despite her loud mouth—or perhaps because of it—was at least entertaining. Hells, he would’ve even taken Valentino, even with his annoying habit of smoking indoors. But no. The stars were aligned to make this day as grating as possible, it would seem.
Rosie just laughed daintily behind her hand. “Oh, Vox. I’d offer to fix yours too, if you had any.”
Alastor’s smiled widened into something genuine at Vox’s answering glare and he nodded along. “Indeed. You could, perhaps, get a nice flat toupee made?”
He and Rosie both giggled to themselves as Vox rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat. He crossed his arms over his chest and clicked his tongue, dressing himself in an air of indifference, though Alastor knew better.
“Whatever,” Vox muttered, tapping something away at his phone before returning it to his pocket and turning to face the head of the table. “This shit better not go overtime again.”
Were Alastor in a better mood, he might have tried needling Vox a little more, if only to get a few more humourous reactions out of him. His exaggerated frown really was so funny. But, for once, he and Vox’s sentiments were in agreement. He dutifully turned to Carmilla as she rose from her seat, even as the buzzing in his head grew louder.
“Good day, my fellow overlords,” Carmilla began. “Glad to see most of us here. Now then, I think it imperative that we discuss this group of upstarts engaging in turf wars on claimed area-“
Alastor scratched at his head as Carmilla’s voice was drowned out by static, muffling in his ears. He gritted his teeth and briefly closed his eyes. Radio waves pulsed in the air about him, tangled together and out of sorts like a box of Sinsmas lights. Perhaps he was just on the wrong station. His magic thrummed through his veins as his eyes transformed to radio dials and he began flicking through channels. His radio waves twisted and bent, trying to fit into the shape of the wavelength Alastor was searching for.
The screeching heightened, then dropped, before finally petering out as he flicked to a silent station. He blinked his eyes open as the buzzing in his head faded away, leaving blessed silence. He nearly sagged in his chair from the relief, then felt a warm hand on his arm.
“Alastor?” Rosie whispered to him. “Are you sure you’re alright? You looked like you were gone for a second there.”
Alastor huffed out a laugh, regaining some of his usual good cheer as he patted her hand curled around his bicep and replied, “Yes, dear. I’m quite al-“
Lucky bitch.
Alastor froze in his chair as the voice rang through his head. His ears twitched, but he couldn’t tell which direction the voice had come from.
First he lets her touch his hair, now this?
Alastor’s head snapped around to look at Vox, who had the bottom of his monitor perched in one hand, staring across at the two of them. He quickly looked away towards Carmilla when Alastor’s gaze landed on him.
Fuck. Did he see me staring?
Alastor blinked rapidly, trying to spell away whatever it was he was hearing. For though it sounded like Vox, it couldn’t be. Vox’s mouth hadn’t moved since Carmilla had started talking, and his words didn’t sound as though they were coming from across the table. It was as though he were speaking directly into Alastor’s head, his words vibrating inside his skull.
Almost as though his thoughts were being broadcasted.
“Alastor,” Rosie whispered again, squeezing his arm. “You’re acting very strange right now.”
What’re they whispering about? Probably making plans to go eat some poor fucker together. I wonder if he gets off on that…
Alastor whipped around to look at Vox again, but Vox had his eyes on Carmilla’s slideshow, his face neutral. Alastor flicked his eyes back to Rosie, who was staring solely at him, not the man whose words were dropping around them like bombs. No, she couldn’t hear him. And it seemed by the lack of reaction around the table, nobody else could either.
Except Alastor.
Fuck, he thought.
He peeled his eyes away from Vox, back to Rosie and tried laughing the whole thing off. “Aha! Apologies, Rosie, I simply have…a lot on my mind.”
“Alastor? Rosie? Everything alright down there?”
Carmilla’s voice wafted down to them and Alastor looked up to see every head turned in his direction. Carmilla raised an eyebrow, pointer stick in hand, and Alastor waved, gesturing for her to go on.
“Oh, yes. Everything’s fine. Please, do continue,” he said and even threw in a few bats of his eyelashes.
Carmilla looked unimpressed but turned back to the projection regardless. Rosie gave his arm one more squeeze before pulling her hand back, though Alastor was conscious of her eyes flicking back to him occasionally. He was about to relax back in his seat but then Vox’s thoughts barrelled through his head like a freight train.
Fuck, I wish he’d look at me like that.
Alastor wished Vox would shut the fuck up, but it looked like neither of them were getting what they wanted today. He hunkered down in his seat, gripping the stick of his cane and keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the projection. With luck, Vox would tune out during the whole thing. Perhaps he’d just start thinking about business calls he had to make or he’d get a song stuck in his head. Anything to keep the wrought iron gates of his mind welded shut. Then Alastor could slip away at the meeting’s conclusion and have some privacy to sort his little issue out.
But Alastor should’ve known he couldn’t trust Vox to make his life easier. Soon after Carmilla handed the floor to Zestial and he began narrating various methods they could use to take out the upstarts, Vox’s thoughts began to wander.
Where’d Carmilla get this table? I like it. I want one. It’s easily long enough to fit two people lying down. To have sex.
Alastor rolled his eyes. Some men truly only cared about one thing.
Val’s always been into the table sex. Such a slut.
Alastor firmly told himself he was going to forget everything he heard at this meeting.
I wonder if that’s Alastor’s thing too?
Scratch that. He was going to forget this whole miserable day.
Alastor conjured himself a pen and notepad to scribble down on, if only to give his hands something to do. He desperately tried to occupy himself by doodling on the pages, the hum of Zestial’s deep, sonorous voice a welcome distraction. Vox’s thoughts, however, proved to be louder.
What’s he writing down? Is he seriously taking notes? Should’ve known he’d have the hots for Zestial. Creep-for-creep…Fuck, his fingers are hot.
Alastor curled his fingers around his pen into a fist self-consciously. Could he not even doodle in peace?
Yeah, make a fist. Fist me on this table.
Alastor slammed the pen down on the table, under his palm. Nope. Holding the pen wasn’t safe.
Zestial stopped speaking and, once again, every head turned in his direction. Carmilla was looking genuinely agitated now, her brows drawn together and her red eyes flashing. Zestial merely tipped his head to the side, his top hat miraculously staying in place.
“Ist though so bothered by my plot, Alastor?” he asked, his voice rasping delicately around Alastor’s name.
Alastor threw the pen over his shoulder where is disappeared into a void he conjured without a second thought. It was going to be a real pain trying to find it later. He threaded his fingers together on the tabletop and grinned up at Zestial, trying to put on an unaffected air as he laughed.
“Not at all! In fact, it sounds like a fantastic idea.”
Zestail raised an eyebrow in response. “Be that the case? I am most surprised. I had thought thou would object verily to getting involved in inconsequential squabbles?”
“Oh, well,” Alastor said, curling his wrist dismissively, “I happen to have changed my tune in recent years!”
Vox scoffed and Alastor shot a glare at him. He was tempted to jump onto the table, point, and yell that how dare he do or say anything when he was thinking about table sex and fisting. He withheld, however, sensing that such a course of action would go well for no one, himself included.
“I am most glad to hear it,” Zestial replied, nodding his head. His glowing green eyes leered at Alastor down the length of the table. “I look forward to seeing what thou brings to the table.”
I’ll bring this ass to the table.
Alastor felt his eye twitch but kept his smile in place as he nodded graciously back at Zestial. “Indeed. Can’t have young upstarts thinking they can replace the natural order of things.”
“The natural order of things would have your ass in a retirement home,” Vox sniped and one of the threads tethering Alastor’s temper to his mouth snapped.
“I’m sure you’d like that,” he snapped, “because there are just so many tables in retirement homes, aren’t there?”
Vox dropped his smirk and instead adopted a completely confounded look. The faces around the meeting room were all similarly confused, overlords looking at each other, then at Alastor, then back at each other. Even Rosie blinked owlishly at him. After a few solid seconds of Alastor psychically willing Vox to spontaneously combust, one of Carmilla’s daughters leant over to whisper in the other’s ear, her hushed voice audible in the silence of the room.
“The fuck…?”
Carmilla held out a staying hand and frowned between Alastor and Vox. “Why don’t we refrain from any further interruptions? Zestial, you were saying?”
As Zestial turned back to survey the wider group, Alastor settled back against his seat, biting back a growl. Vox gave him a lingering look that was thankfully one of mostly puzzlement, and not lustfulness, before he, too, glanced away. Small blessings.
Alastor tried to relax as Rosie leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Y’know, you seem a lil’ agitated, dearie.”
You can work that agitation out on me, Alastor.
“Why don’t we go out for some good ol’ hunting after this?” Rosie finished, flashing Alastor an encouraging smile. “It’s been too long, anyway.”
Alastor focussed on Rosie, not the vibrating ball of filth radiating lecherous thoughts on the other side on the table. He returned her smile and patted her hand fondly.
“I would love nothing more. Unfortunately, I have a pressing matter to deal with at home.”
I’d let you press my matter any day.
Alastor didn’t even know what to make of that one but still felt affronted anyway. He decided then, that he wasn’t going to do a thing. Vox could think what he liked, but Alastor wasn’t going to feed into his perverted delusions. No, he was going to sit there and pretend as though Vox didn’t exist, which wasn’t too far off from his usual routine, so he figured it would be easy.
Hoped it would be easy.
Prayed.
Pleaded with the powers that be.
Alastor kept his fingers locked tightly around his hands, his smile growing more strained by the second as Vox’s thoughts continued to wander in increasingly lewd directions.
He’s so pretty, even when he looks high as fuck. How does he do that? I just wanna touch his face. Maybe fuck his mouth. Is that so much to ask?
Was it so much to ask that Vox have a modicum of decency? Apparently so.
Keeping his poker face was becoming increasingly difficult with every pulse of Vox’s radio waves. How he could sit there with a straight face while thinking such depraved things was beyond Alastor. He longed to reach across the table with his tentacles and rip the antennae right from Vox’s TV head to cease the intolerable tirade on his brain. Perhaps then he could listen to Zestial wax poetry about urban turf wars in peace.
Instead, he was treated to a play-by-play of an erotic fantasy with all the craft of a D-level porno in which Alastor, playing the part of Vox’s secretary, seduced him with him his coquettish wiles. There was some talk of Vox having a, “packed schedule,” and, “packing Alastor. With his cock.” When the series of wanton moans and cries of pleasure started, Alastor was glad for the first time that this was an audio-only show. His teeth grinded together as Vox’s internal version of his voice spewed nonsense into his head.
“Oh, Vox. You’re so sexy and cool. I was totally just being a dick that time I called you an unfunny ignoramus.”
Alastor stood by what he’d said, now more than ever. He was gripping his own hands so tightly his claws were digging into the skin just above his knuckles. Any tighter and he’d be drawing blood.
“Vox, won’t you fuck me right here on this table?”
Alastor’s hands twitched, his claws slicing clean through his skin. Rosie, whose keen nose was attuned to even the smallest drop of blood, immediately noticed. She glanced down and drew in a sharp breath even as Alastor attempted to curl his bloody hands up into his sleeves.
“Alastor!” she gasped under her breath. “What’s gotten into you? I think you’ve got more than just a head cold. You’re actin’ absolutely batty!”
“It’s nothing,” Alastor hissed between his teeth, quickly pulling his hands under the table to conjure up some bandages. A moment later he returned his joined hands to the table, a gauze the same hue as the black of his forearms wrapped around his bleeding skin. “Just a little spasm.”
He’s being so twitchy today. It’s weird. Got something on his mind maybe? Oh, shit, is it me? He was expecting Velvette or Val so seeing me’s tripping him up?
He sounded far too excited by the prospect and Alastor couldn’t resist shooting a glare in his direction while Rosie fussed over his hands. Vox’s eyes widened a fraction as their gazes met and he quickly diverted his attention down to his phone.
Fuck. That was weird. It’s almost like he can hear me. Hey, Alastor? Can you hear me over there?
I hear you, you imbecile, Alastor thought but got no response from Vox, as he’d expected. This appeared to be entirely a one-way broadcast.
If you can hear me, Vox continued, blink if you think I’m sexy.
Alastor kept his eyes resolutely open, glaring down at his claws drumming against the tabletop.
Don’t blink if you think I’m sexy.
Alastor blinked at lightning speed, as though he were trying to take flight with his eyelashes alone.
“Oh, got something in your eye, dear?” Rosie whispered, peering at him closely.
Alastor tried to give her a reassuring smile but his jaw was clenched so hard he thought his teeth might shatter. He could feel his anger and embarrassment swirling into his shadow, which writhed and bristled beneath the table like a hissing cat. Alastor’s vision wavered back and forth between his own and the vantage point of his shadow, poised and pointed at Vox’s ankles. It would be so easy to strike out. Vox wouldn’t know what hit him until he’d try to stand and realise he had no feet. Let him throw someone on a table for a sporadic round of coitus then!
He barely held back, his grip on his self-control loose but not entirely slack.
Deep breaths, he told himself. This will all be over soo-
Like an anvil dropping on his head, Vox’s thoughts blared in his mind.
I’d like to get something in his eye. Like my cum-
Alastor’s grip went slack and his shadow exploded out into a bomb of inky tendrils. They did not, in fact, take Vox out at the ankles. Such a move would have required finesse and precision, both of which Alastor was lacking in his maddened state. So, he lashed out wildly, his power erupting from him in a single, pulsing blow that radiated up the walls, shattering the windows and the overhead lights in a shower of tinkling glass. The room was bathed in darkness and one of Carmilla’s daughters let out a startled shriek.
“What in the-?” came Carmilla’s steely voice at the same time Zestial said, “What be this?”
“Oh, my,” Rosie piped up at his side, not sounding all that concerned.
The only light left in the room was the brightness emanating from Vox’s screen. That blue light, turned in Alastor’s direction, bathed his face, making him visible. What Vox saw, Alastor had no clue. He was fairly certain his eyes had bled to black and his antlers were branching (he thought he might’ve inadvertently taken Rosie’s hat clean off her head). Whatever expression was stitched across his features, it had Vox’s pupils shrinking to pinpoints and his mouth pressing into a straight, fearful line.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Why’s he still hot like this? What the fuck?
“Oh, dear!” Alastor shouted in faux dismay. “An unprecedented emergency! We’ll have to evacuate the building. Quick, everyone! To the nearest exit, just like the fire safety plan says.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. Amidst the scraping of chairs and the shouted curses in the dark, Alastor melted into a shadow and threw himself out the shattered window, leaving the other overlords, Rosie, and most importantly, Vox and his horny mind, behind.
It was some time before Alastor rematerialized, face-down in the lawn outside the hotel. He’d been swimming in a confusing circle through the city for what felt like hours, his head a swirling, soupy mess. His usual directional skills had failed him as soon as he’d switched to his shadow form, that staticky fuzz back in his brain. But eventually he made it home, though it took him a while to find the energy to peel himself off the scrubby grass and up onto his feet so he could stagger inside.
He dragged his leaden feet through the front door and across the floor of the lobby, grumbling static issuing from the back of his throat. It was like coming home hungover after a night of drunken shenanigans. He hadn’t had such a night in quite a while and found he didn’t miss this particular part of the night life.
Charlie caught sight of him from the parlour and waved her hand excitedly.
“Alastor! You’re back!” she said, jumping to her feet. “How was your day?”
“Just dandy,” Alastor replied, mustering a wobbly smile. Charlie tipped her head to the side and gave him an odd look but he didn’t have the energy to dispel her confusion and only asked, “Where’s our resident spider at the moment?”
“Angel?” Charlie blinked. “Up in his room?”
“Splendid!” Alastor chirped and made his way up the stairs before Charlie could question him further.
He found Angel’s door, thumping music audible through the walls, and rapped his knuckles sharply against the wood. The music paused and after a moment the door swung in to reveal Angel, wrapped up in a fluffy pink robe, his hair pulled by a plush headband and white cream smeared neatly over his face. He blinked at Alastor in surprise, one eyebrow rising towards his hairline.
“Uhh, hey?”
“I need drugs,” Alastor said bluntly.
Now both of Angel’s eyebrows were crawling into his hair. To his credit though, he simply leaned against the doorframe, crossed both sets of arms over his chest and asked, “What kind?”
“The kind that will knock me out cold for the foreseeable future,” Alastor replied evenly. His skin still rippled with the aftereffects of having been tuned into someone else’s frequencies. He shuddered as he recalled the crude noises that had flowed freely from Vox’s demented mind. “I’ve had a rather trying day and need to sleep the whole thing off.”
Angel picked up his pet hellpig from the floor and stroked the little creature between the ears while he nodded his head and eyed Alastor thoughtfully. After a minute’s deliberation, which Alastor spent locking eyes with the tiny pig, his reflection mirrored back at him in those dark, depthless orbs, Angel shrugged. He retreated into his room, though he kept the door open, his voice floating over to Alastor.
“Got just the thing for ya, but be careful.” He returned and placed a small plastic bag containing a few white pills into Alastor’s waiting palm. “This shit’s the strong stuff. Got it from a dealer who gets his supply right outta Sloth.”
Alastor held the baggie up to his eyes and rumbled, “The strong stuff’s exactly what I’m looking for.”
Alastor crushed a couple of the pills into a glass of whiskey, downed the whole thing, then promptly passed out for fifty-six hours. His sleep was blessedly dreamless, sans radio static and a voice whispering licentious thoughts into his ear. If he went forever without hearing the word harder or table again, it would be too soon.