Next morning, Leslie saw unread texts from Ginerva, most of them curses. Ginerva. The two of them would have to talk, and not over the phone either. She knocked on the door of Ginerva's room - early, to ensure the best chance of catching her - and she answered in a long fluffy bathrobe. Her beak twisted into an icy scowl, but otherwise she seemed to be in one piece.

"How are you?" Leslie wanted to know.

"Been better," her friend replied, brandishing her phone. "I emailed Charlie about what happened. No response yet."

Leslie's eyes swept the corridor as she asked, "Can you do an unsend/replace? I can't say why, but just please... take me out of the story, that's all I'm asking."

Ginerva looked confused, then laughed coldly. "I'm not changing my fucking story! She's probably read it by now; she'll think I'm a liar if I start retracting shit."

What about me? Leslie thought. What if Alastor hears about my second car crash in two lifetimes? Hotel owners talked, after all. They discussed the running of the place, troublesome guests… Leslie imagined the co-founders gathering for a late-evening powwow, to discuss Kain's punishment. She pictured Alastor mulling over his coffee, already factoring Leslie's near-death experience into future meetings. Negotiations could be taken to the next level. Try to endure, Leslie; pain is temporary. This is no worse than your crash.

And that wasn't to mention the car-related pranks he could spring, now that Leslie's motorphobia was complete. Alastor must have a soundboard full of revving engines, squealing tires and mashing steel. Maybe there was still time. There was a chance Charlie hadn't checked her inbox.

Leslie reached out. "Lemme just-!"

But Ginerva snatched her phone away. "Oh fuck off! I want Kain to catch hell for this! Y'know how bad my legs got chewed up after I bailed?"

"No," Leslie admitted.

Ginerva's scowl deepened. "No, 'cause you stayed in the car for some reason. Like maybe you and Kain have the same fucking fetish for killing yourselves. Is that why you don't want to be involved in my story, huh?"

Leslie's eyebrows shot skywards. "What? You're accusing me? You're the one who invited me on your date in the first place!"

"AND YOU COULD'VE TOLD ME HE WAS THE FUCKING PAIN GUY!" Ginerva exploded, poking Leslie in the chest. She was crying now, sudden, angry tears. "I talked to Angel! You both saw what he was like and you didn't tell me! Just let me get in the fucking car… that's a great prank, sis! Really fucking funny!"

Leslie blinked, confused. Then she remembered Kain at the talent show: his poem about the joy of self-injury, and his bellyflop onto the hardwood floor. The pain guy. Ginny was right. How could she forget such a thing? The twinge of guilt was followed by a flash of righteous, sleep-derived fury at being likened to a masochist freak like Kain.

"Ginny, it… slipped my mind, that's all."

"Bitch, how?"

"I wouldn't throw us knowingly into the jaws of death! I'm not like that!"

"What even are you like?" Ginerva said, still poking at Leslie with one taloned finger. "You don't tell me about your life; you quit work without telling me and leave me on my own. And now you show up at the ass-crack of dawn to beg me to shut up about a fucking accident you could've prevented? You're being real fucking suspicious, Les. Like the opposite of a friend."

Leslie was so shocked, she couldn't move. She stood dumbly, like a totem pole, wrestling the instinct to poke Ginerva back and call her an audacious cow with ugly leggings. Before she could do so, the door shut in her face. As Leslie remained rooted to the spot, struggling to process, she was aware of some fellow guests with their noses hooked around the door frames, eavesdropping on the commotion.

From then on, she supposed, walking away, her friendship with Ginerva was on indefinite hiatus. Suspended. Cancelled.

Fucking fantastic.

o - o - o - o - o

To warm up before her class, and especially to avoid the potential horror of a teaching session with both Ginerva and Kain, Leslie spent the afternoon jogging. This time, she went far beyond her usual route. The exercise was paying off; within forty minutes, she was three miles from the hotel, and staggered to a halt outside of F̶r̶a̶n̶k̶l̶i̶n̶ and Rosie's Emporium. Waiting for her breath to come back, Leslie peered in the window. It was mostly old-timey furniture, with a few items of clothing on dusty mannequins and high-heeled shoes.

You could do with some heels, she thought, taking a closer look. Be nice not to crane your neck so much for Alastor and Angel Dust.

Making this the halfway point of her jog, she went inside to try them on. A shopkeeper's bell tinkled at the entrance, which caught the attention of a woman in old world attire at the cashier's desk. Tall, rakish and stylishly dressed, she would have been pretty if not for the awful black sockets of her eyes.

"Can I help you?"

Leslie asked to try the shoes, then realized she did not, in her sweaty workout gear, look the part of someone who wore heels. She half-expected the woman - Rosie, she assumed - to refuse the request, but she didn't. Leslie put them on. Too long for her feet, but they certainly added a few inches.

"Do you know of, like… any shoe repair places?" Leslie asked, planning alterations.

Rosie laughed, got up, and minced from the desk to the shop corner, aiming her dainty parasol in Leslie's direction. "Say again?"

"Do you know-?"

Pink lightning erupted from the tip of the parasol, hitting the shoes. They transfigured, shrink-wrapping to fit her.

"Gaaah!" Leslie staggered back in surprise, but kept her balance. "Jesus."

"Not quite," said Rosie, her empty eyes trained on something just behind Leslie's head.

"Huh. I've heard that joke before," Leslie said, turning her neck to see what Rosie was looking at.

"You know Alastor? He was always claiming my witticisms as his own." Rosie had an unusually plummy sort of voice, with a cut-glass accent comparable to received pronunciation.

Leslie gazed at those blank holes in Rosie's face. "Uh, yeah, we're pals, I guess. How do you know him?"

"Oh, we were fast friends. Even partners at one point," the woman said, twirling the parasol wistfully. "Naturally, he's consumed with running the hotel now. Some of us think his patronizing the place is a terrible idea. Let's say it does redeem a few souls - what a waste that would be! We should have less meat after the extermination!"

"Uh, I don't follow."

"Never mind. If you'd like to buy those shoes, you can have them for 50 hellars."

"Sure, sure." Leslie stuffed a hand into her bra, remembered, smiled sheepishly and dug into her new pockets for the cash. As she held it out, however, Rosie just stood there. "Sorry it's not exact change?" Leslie said, in case that was the problem.

"Don't worry about it."

Rosie took two careful steps forward and reached out, finally taking the money. Hooking the handle of the parasol into her elbow, the woman shuffled the handful of bills. Unlike the dollar, this currency was slightly different shapes and sizes, making it easy enough for someone to discern the differences by touch alone. That's when Leslie understood that Rosie was sight-impaired.

As sad as it was, the fact of demonic blindness raised some questions. Was this just the body she'd been given, a part of the punishment of being damned? It had to be. Demons could heal themselves from just about anything.

"I'll tell Alastor you said hi," Leslie muttered awkwardly, following Rosie back to the desk. She watched the woman's delicate hands fussing with the cash register.

"Please do! I would like that," said Rosie. "He's been terrible about returning calls lately, so, by all means, tell him to stop by!"

"OK. You're not annoyed at him, 'cause the hotel is a bad idea?"

"Well, not myself so much," she clarified, "but I run in certain circles of overlords who think..." She stopped herself with a smile. "Excuse me. I am particularly loquacious today."

"You're an overlord?" Leslie said. "That makes sense. And now I must have offended you, not knowing who you are. Ignorant bitch, party of one, ha ha…"

Rosie's sockets constricted, as though an interesting idea had come to mind. "You know," she said, "for a demon with two working eyes, there's a lot you don't see. I have a proposition for you, sweetpea."

Sweetpea… the thing Leslie's mother used to call her and her sister as children. Then Leslie processed what Rosie actually said. Another deal was being offered. "What kind of proposition?"

"Well, Alastor, bless him, is a very tough man to track. Yes, he frequents that hotel, but when I try to find him, he slips away without fail. I need something of his - a personal effect is good, DNA is better."

"Ew."

"Yes, I know."

"Wait… you're the friend he told me about."

Rosie's cheeks were suddenly tinged pink, but she carried on with her proposal. "If you return here with something of his, I can repay you several times over. I can help you out of whatever binds you're stuck in, and give you the key to unlocking your powers." Rosie smoothed the brim of her hat as she mysteriously promised, "Your potential is quite boundless. I'm no soothsayer, but that much I can already tell."

"Wait," Leslie said, suddenly cautious. "I don't want power. I want to go to Heaven."

"Then you will still need my counsel. Think about it," Rosie said, counting out her change, "and do let me know how the shoes treat you."

o - o - o - o - o

After her class, Leslie sat at the bar in the reception hall and ordered her usual. Listening to the music from nearby speakers, she took the time to consider Rosie's offer. Obviously, Rosie couldn't be trusted - nobody, these days, could be trusted - and yet it was tempting to think Leslie might have demon powers, and discover what they were…

How on earth did she get Alastor's DNA?

Meanwhile, Husk stood by, pouring a tall multi-colored cocktail. He seemed suspicious, constantly looking over his shoulder. Eventually, satisfied with the drink, he stepped back to take a picture. With a loud static fuzz, Alastor appeared, seized the glass and swallowed its contents.

"YOU FUKKEN ASSHOLE!" Husk yelled, throwing his dishrag. "Fifth fukken time! I'm tryna build my portfolio here!"

Alastor only laughed, then snapped his fingers and produced a saxophone. Leslie swiveled around, happy to see him, not to mention curious. No way he could play the sax. But he did, improvising to the background music; his normally hollow cheeks ballooned like a hamster's.

"You can play?" Leslie exclaimed.

His mouth occupied, Alastor couldn't answer.

"Sure can," muttered Husk. "117 years is plenty of time to practice. Well, I guess 118 now."

Leslie turned to Husk. "What, did he just age up?"

"Yeah, hence yesterday's fireworks. Sonuvabitch likes to ignore his birthdays, so Vox makes sure we all remember."

The sax-playing grew more bombastic for the song's chorus, as Alastor, obviously drunk, began to show off. His face flushed red to match the rest of him. He sure looked good for 118, Leslie thought - and if it happened yesterday, he qualified as a Libra, the same as her, but just barely.

"You're telling me this man doesn't celebrate his birthday?" she said to Husk.

"What, entertain a buncha people he don't care about, all tryna hug him?" Husk said, like it was obvious. "Not his thing."

"Huh," said Leslie. She ordered another gin and watched Alastor blasting through the final verse and chorus, his mouth and fingers clumsy but hard at work. Leslie started to get ideas. Perchance his inhibitions were lowered by the alcohol… She could drag him somewhere private, convince him into things and, circumstances permitting, steal his DNA from the spit-valve in his saxophone.

True, it wouldn't be fair. True, it was hardly better than Alastor using Leslie's trauma against her… but fuck it. He was certainly going to take advantage. Why shouldn't she do the same?

Her phone rang. Charlie. She ignored it.

When the song was over, Leslie hopped over to Alastor and winked twice. It took a few times for him to notice, and when he did, he leaned in, so only she could hear him over the music and chattering.

"Silly girl," he said, "I'm the one who winks, not you."

"Oh come on," she cajoled, and echoed his own words back at him: "You might enjoy some of it. Here!"

He declined to finish her drink. "Remember last time," he told her, eyes sparkling. "It is my turn to be demanding."

No mention yet of the car crash; that much was promising. "Alright, birthday boy. We can work something out."

Alastor expelled his sax in a soft, musical rush of air, flexed his claws and vanished. So much for the spit valve, Leslie thought. And so much for avoiding the usual torments of a meeting. She nodded at Husk, crediting herself for getting rid of Alastor - "You're welcome" - and then headed to her room to take preventative painkillers.