For the week and a half leading to Hallowe'en, Leslie heard not a peep out of Decider. As promised, he kept his distance, and on rare occasions when they crossed paths in the hall, it was a stiff nod of the head, nothing more. The distance was appreciated, and it gave her space and time to think.

She wanted to tell him not to change, if it was only to impress her. Leslie thought it was only fair to tell him. How disappointed would he be if, after all the hard work, she couldn't take him back? It was unnecessarily cruel to lead him on, and she wasn't a cruel person.

Charlie would be pleased though, if Decider became a success story for the hotel. Right now, the woman seemed desperate to get someone, anyone, to redeem themselves. The rent dropped. Class attendance was incentivized. Access to the bar became steadily more limited, and rumors spread about some kind of planned quasi-baptism event.

"Dunno how the fuck that's gonna go," Angel remarked. "I feel like doin' religious stuff down here makes ya burst inta fuckin' flames."

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie had no plans for Hallowe'en. Maybe she'd go to the roof that night and watch the city come to life. She certainly expected nothing from Alastor, who'd been absent since their rendezvous by the balcony; but then he turned up on Saturday morning, his hands behind his back, as she was having breakfast.

"New dress?" he asked.

"Not exactly," she said, "but look! It's got pockets!" This did not seem to amaze Alastor, so she shrugged and asked him where the hell he'd been.

"I move in mysterious ways," he said, and winked twice. "Nine."

Leslie frowned. "Huh?"

"PM," he clarified, and then he stretched out a hand to, for some bizarre reason, drop a pile of bacon onto her plate. Alastor left without a word of explanation, so Leslie was confused. He'd never done such a thing before. If anything, he only ever stole her food. A horrifying thought occurred, and she had to call Angel Dust to check on his pet; but Fat Nuggets was safe and unharmed.

"He's prankin' ya," said Angel dryly, "and very fuckin' funny it was too. My sides are in fuckin' stitches. Ohh, the pain."

But Leslie wasn't so sure. The more she thought about it, the more it felt like some kind of sign. And why did Alastor want to meet her so early that night?

Superstition led her to re-shower that evening, brush her teeth twice, and spray herself with a can of air-freshener she stole from Niffty. She even took out the old green babydoll and laid it on her bed, staring at it. The significance would be lost on the likes of Alastor, but maybe he'd tear the thing off her body with his teeth, and that would be exciting.

No, she thought. Don't do this. Don't be so fucking obvious.

At 9PM she entered his office, just a little better-looking than normal, and Alastor leaned against his desk, one slender leg crossed over the other. She loved his legs, and wanted very much to expose his ankles and cover them with kisses. Not many people knew he wore sock suspenders, but oddly enough, he made them work. From outside came the sounds of light drizzle: acid rain again. It was a good night to be indoors.

"Hello, sweetheart," he said.

"Hi, honeybunch," she japed, joining him by the desk. "Is that a foxglove in your lapel?"

"Indeed."

"Hm. Well, I don't speak flower, but it's very striking." She noticed the song playing on the record player. "I know these guys!"

"You do?"

"Yes! Fuck, one of my mom's friends introduced me to them, when I was younger. He was probably hitting on me, thinking back, but great taste in music. Sorry, I'm babbling, I… don't know why I feel so nervous."

He came into her personal space, simultaneously lifting and tilting her head with both hands. Oh nooo, no no no no, she thought for the hundredth time. They nuzzled, mouths slightly open, which gave Leslie a wonderful heady sensation. She tasted the air he'd breathed, inhaling as he exhaled, and felt a little intoxicated.

"I want you," he said, "to dance for me."

"Sure," she said, taking his hands - but he pulled them away, straightening up.

"No, no. I'm going to be over there," he said, indicating the couch on their far left. With the same hand, he lifted the gramophone needle from afar, ending the music. "Your last dance, that fit of hysteria in the reception hall… we were very close to something, and I happened to spoil it. You know what I'm talking about, yes?"

She knew. "OK," she said, "er… if you want me to go all spaced out, it might take a while. Like, potentially hours."

"I don't mind."

"And I'll want my own music," she said, causing Alastor to roll his pretty eyes. "Oh, c'mon! Not everything I listen to is trash. Look, I'll let you pick the playlist." Leslie dragged him to the couch and sat him down, navigating to the music library on her phone. "Here," she instructed, scrolling through, "these guys are grouped by BPM, these are the different genres…"

Alastor raised an eyebrow. "Uhh, darling?" he said, pointing to one list in particular. "Explain, please."

Leslie's stomach dropped, but she pressed on furiously. "This one is disco tunes," she said, "which might be more your style-"

"Ah, but that list had my name on it!"

The sound of rainfall, the grandfather clock, and Leslie's mortified groans. "Noooooo," she said. "Literally anything else."

"It can't be that bad!"

No, no, no… he had no idea what a mess it was. Some songs were harmless electro-swing; some were up-tempo 30's jazz; others still were songs Alastor played during their meetings, which Leslie took pains to recover from VoxTube. There were tunes the two of them had danced to. Tunes to which Leslie wanted to dance. Low, simmering tracks, in the genres of R&B and trapsoul - made for fooling around, but they would bore him silly! Lyrics that described him and the gorgeous tension they shared. Fuck-you lyrics. Words that were hideously wrong, like, oh God, the song about voodoo which was so inaccurate as to be insulting. Lyrics explicitly about being dominated and devoured. Even songs she liked in spite of the message, and if Alastor heard them, of course he'd assume the opposite!

That personal mixtape was never meant for his ears. It was her whole psyche laid bare, without context, and she could feel her face flushing, probably a deep purple, and he was enjoying every second of it. "Young lady," he chuckled softly, "I must insist."

She eyed the door - her only exit. "Nope."

Alastor turned very quickly to what he was best at - deal-making. "Leslie, you know I never pass up a chance to see you embarrassed! Now, you can walk out of here, and by November's end, we'll be done. I can be the bare minimum of involved. I can be the most passive, ungenerous of partners. But," he said, deliberately slow, stroking her face, "if you get over yourself tonight and do as I ask, I will give you everything you've craved, sevenfold."

Well.

There was no arguing with that.

Before she knew it, she'd left him on the smaller couch and moved to a faraway spot on the carpet, kicking off her heels. The lights dimmed, and even the grandfather clock stopped ticking. Her face burned like hellfire. Be professional, she thought, then corrected herself. Be… be something. Let go.

"I just tap the triangle?" he asked, holding her phone.

She nodded, and they began.

The first three songs were a disaster. Leslie could only move with her eyes shut, and still it was self-conscious, graceless, clumsy. Awful, awful, awful. That wasn't how fucking voodoo worked, please Alastor, don't think I think that's how it works. Surely he was judging her dance as usual, modern and sincere as it was. Then it came to her in a memory: hour five of the danceathon. It was a state of exhaustion, Leslie having bled out whatever energy she had for her favorite songs. So she realized: to re-enter that trance, she had some bleeding out to do.

Her next song was quite heavy with its percussion, so she led with that, throwing her weight around. Acquainting herself with the floor, beating with her fists and writhing, like an eel giving birth to itself. God knows what she looked like, but it was pure effort, nothing else. Then it was about tension, and Leslie rolled and pressed with her arms. She was stuck, somehow, in the air, and had to wriggle out, and to hell with keeping her dress skirt in a modest place. The music dipped lower, more inviting, and she became the witch from her teenage years, facing Alastor again. Her arms came out, in small feminine circles from her body. She waved her energy towards him, then summoned his, beckoning it from his body. Only she knew the summoning power of that decade-old dance, but it seemed to be working. His eyes had a light of their own, and his smile ran the gamut, from dominance to reward as something nice sparked in his brain, then back to dominance.

Leslie kept going and going, as she squeezed and mangled every drop of meaning from her own dance. Excising Alastor from her soul, making it cry. It was a muddy, intangible evolution. The tiredness set in. Her heart thudded. Her fur was damp from sweat, yet she powered through. She moved, moved, moved, until her limbs became blades dragging through sand. Resistance. Ease. Leslie kept going.

Now the dance lost its connotation. The witchy seductress was gone; so was the mad dervish from the reception hall. They were all gone. Her movements were repetitive, over and over. Building momentum that would never pay off. She couldn't see. She couldn't feel.

There was no way to tell how long it lasted, and she might have been floating slightly, away from the carpet. Hard to know. She was simply… lost.

And then she felt the blazing warmth of a hand on her shoulder. Before Leslie could recollect, Alastor yanked her back into the real world, back to her feet. The music stopped, and he dropped her phone to the ground.

"That's what I was looking for," he said.

He kissed her full on the mouth, a kiss as deep as they came. Leslie let him, grateful to have sensation back; then she hissed. His teeth cut into the side of her tongue. It was bearable though, and she didn't complain. Tasting blood in her mouth, he kissed with more passion. Leslie swung precariously on the spot, on tiptoes, but his hands cradled the small of her back. A thought swam into her dizzy mind, of Alastor biting out her tongue. She shivered. What did rabbit meat taste like? Gamey, she imagined.

He let her go. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Whatever you want," she said.

"Good answer."

Taking her hand, he led her to the office door and opened it. She was disappointed, expecting to be kicked out. Instead, there was a portal to the outdoors - a bayou at night, which she'd only seen once before. The moon was out, bright and full. It was bizarre to hear acid rain from the nearest window and not see it falling out there.

"Well," he said, "shall we?"

Maybe she was dreaming… but her dreams always turned so sour.

Not this time, though.

They stepped over the threshold.