For several hours, the power was out in Pentagram City - and not because of an apoplectic overlord this time. In fact, both Vox and Valentino fell victim to the implosion, according to 666 News. Vox was photographed crawling from the scene as sparks flew from his busted face; and Valentino was trapped under a sea of rubble in one of the studio dungeons.

Leslie and Angel Dust watched the broadcast on her phone, in her bedroom, the moment power and wifi were restored.

"Good," Angel nodded, choking the phone. "I hope he fuckin' stays buried. Fuckin… fuckin' sick rapist, waste of fuckin' skin." Then he sighed and let the phone rest on his knees. "He won't, though. They'll dig him up, an' he'll find some other place ta film… an' the rest."

"Is it normal for basements to cave in like that?" Leslie wondered, sounding calmer than she felt. "During demolitions? I mean, the building kind of… went sideways."

"Uh, y'know, construction ain't really my area."

"Yeah. Sorry."

"But it is suspicious," Angel conceded, chewing his tongue. "Fuckin'... whoeva decides ta launch a territorial dispute with Val, they're askin' for trouble."

"You don't think it could be Cherri?" Leslie asked.

"Nah, her explosions don't look like that. An' I'd know, 'cause we blew up a club once before - didn't exactly deliva me from the wrath a'Pharoah, y'know?"

Seeing her friend so dejected, Leslie took his hand again; it seemed to help him a little. She wished there was something she could do for Angel. If she had any power… if the swell of anger she felt on his behalf could only manifest, she'd take Valentino and blow his atoms so far apart, they'd never reform.

And Alastor… maybe he would be next.

"Uh, Les?"

She realized she was crushing Angel's fingers and let go. "Shit, sorry! Sorry."

"I'd betta call her," Angel said of Cherri, and rotated his phone, "get her outta Val's way, jus' ta be safe. She can stay… maybe with you or Husk, someone with less of a connection. Then you can stay with me… or… I can stay… How's your collarbone, by the way? Feelin' a'right?"

She nodded, almost impatiently. "Tell me something happy," she said. "You and Husk… how is that going?"

Angel brightened somewhat. "Pretty good," he admitted. "Used ta be, he'd try an' rush inta physical shit, and we jus' wound up in a pity puddle, all the rest of it. Now, it's kinda…" He smiled, motioning with his fingers, "th'other way around. I think Huskie needs time ta settle, y'know? Realize I ain't goin' nowhere, an'... he can't disappoint me. Like ever. He don't know half the good things about him… way he tells stories, way he sings…"

"Husk sings?"

"Fuck yeah, he does!" Angel crossed his arms, gazing fondly at nothing. "Guy makes ya feel wiser an' more fulfilled jus' sittin' next to him. He's lived. He's been so fuckin' much, an' he still is."

He and Leslie exchanged a look, and Leslie found herself telling a story of her own. One rainstormy evening when she was alive, she and Karl experimented with food, throwing leftover pork on a pizza to see what happened.

"Fuck me!" said Karl with his mouth full.

"You don't like it?"

"Nah babe, it's… weirdly good! Goddamn. I'd have this pizza's babies, tee-bee-aitch. You try it."

He was right. "Oh yeah. Must be the rosemary. Also, don't say tbh in real life."

"Irl?" Karl grinned. "I shouldn't say tbh irl?"

"Karl, I swear to God."

"Or my gf will say ttfn, lmao."

"Karl!" He tickled her. "Ahh, no! Stop!"

They transitioned to play-fighting on the kitchen floor, as Karl wound Leslie up even further. "Yeeeah, there you go, babe! Crush me with them thighs!"

"For fuck's sake!" Leslie squeaked, rolled and caught his arms. "Keep tickling me and I'll… pizza will fly, put it that way."

"Don't waste pizza!" he said, horrified, but he gave her space. They lay there on the tile, smiling like idiots. "We're doing OK, aren't we babe?"

"Yeah. Hey, Karl?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we get married, like, just a little bit?" Leslie asked, then pressed on quickly, "I know, broken record. But it's like you said. We've been through some shitty times already and came out OK. We're a good team. Plus, don't you want the tax benefits?"

Karl gave a mouth shrug. "Tax benefits sound pretty sweet," he said, then sighed. "I'm thinking about it."

"Really?"

"Well, before I say yes," he declared, scooping her up, "we gotta practice the threshold carry thing."

Leslie put on fancy airs and graces. "Am I light as a feather?"

"You're 150lbs of muscle, Lellybean. This is a workout," Karl said. They passed from the kitchen to the den without much trouble, and then into the next hallway. "While we're at it," he said, "we should practice the honeymoon as well."

"What about the pizza?" Leslie said between smooches.

"Eh. It'll keep. Wasn't that great anyway."

As Leslie finished her story, she saw Angel's expression, and realized she'd never discussed these things with him before. Not like this. "Anyway," she said, "that was a nice cozy day… before the truth came out, y'know, down here. You think you know someone..."

Angel was quiet for a second. "Hey Les," he said, "did Bambi put that nonsense in your head, that ya asked for it?"

"No," she replied sourly. "I told him to do what he did."

"An' if he made the deal with your sista instead'a you, an' she had the same story…"

Acid spurted up her throat. Even the thought of Amelia with Alastor's clawed hand on her shoulder made Leslie sick. She leaned forward. "No," she admitted, "I'd never… But she's smarter than me. I'm just…"

"A'right, let's not panic again," he said, rubbing her back, and Leslie heard an oinking sound: Angel's message tone. It almost made her laugh. "That's Cherri," he said. "I gotta go get her. Text me, OK? We'll figure out where you'll sleep."

And then he had to go.

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie later told Angel that she had insomnia, and planned to spend the night in the library. It was a half-truth.

For two hours she lay still and agonized over her first weeks at the hotel, back when her biggest problems were finding a pursuit; keeping her head down until she was redeemed; having a shitty restaurateur boss; and suppressing her crush on Alastor… and god damn it, she should have done a better fucking job! She should have left him well alone!

If you believe in the power of redemption, he'd said - to excuse his history of sadism! - you can't confine people to their past actions. And Leslie had accepted that! What an idiot! She wanted to fucking strangle herself for letting bygones be bygones. Alastor never deserved the benefit of the doubt. He never deserved her forgiveness.

As always, the anger was followed by guilt. What had Angel said? Alastor only appreciated things about her that benefited him. Well, Leslie was just the same, just as… selective. She could ignore almost everything about Alastor, if only he'd fucking touch her. It was despicable. She was despicable.

And it was time to go see him again.

When she entered his office, he sat on his couch beside the record player, almost obscured by a cloud of cigarette smoke. It reminded her of the dust cloud from before, and she knew by now, Alastor smoked to celebrate something. A recent victory.

"You didn't."

"Consider the debt repaid," he said. "He survives, of course, but if he doesn't take this for a warning… Well!" Alastor blew a trio of smoke rings and smiled at her through the center gap.

She shook her head. Dull surprise became resignation. "How did you even…? It's so fucking off-brand for you."

This he chose not to answer. The smile remained, but softened at the edges. Did you miss me? it said. Leslie remembered how ashy his mouth would taste, and it made her swallow. When Alastor beckoned, she visualized a tiny version of herself, taking the handle of the door in Leslie's Brain and walking out. Then she got on all fours and crawled towards him. She crawled further than he expected, and knelt before him, fussing with his belt.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She shrugged. Wasn't it obvious? He took her by the shoulders, said something about the freedom of outdoors. Behind her, a door creaking open, and the warm breath of the bayou.

"No, no no," she said. "Let me… It was one of my conditions. I've wanted to, since we agreed to all this."

He sighed and disappeared the cigarette. "It can't wait?"

Leslie shook her head, sneaking kisses against his waist. Don't think about last time. Don't think about last time.

"Darling, it's obvious what your game is. We'll have more fun if I attend to you," he said, holding her chin. "It won't be so bad." It was chilling, how he could say such awful things in that seductive way of his, and it still held a tiny bit of power. Leslie wished she could do the same. Maybe if she willed it hard enough… maybe…

Alastor's head tilted almost curiously, and he dragged his thumb along her lip, then guided it into her mouth. She let him. It was fine. It was all fine.

"How I would carve up those shoulders," he said.

Leslie removed the thumb. "OK," she said, "scratch me if you want, but just… let me do this. You know I can't hurt you, right?" Leslie's hands shook as she went on undressing him. "I can't. I wouldn't."

It took a moment for Alastor to contemplate, and his eyes drifted far away, like he was remembering something. Finally, mercifully, Leslie heard the office door swing shut. Thank God!

"I believe you," he said, without the static.

His fingers scuttled over her back as she came up to kiss him, and tasted the ash, sparking memories from months ago. It was nice for now. When he broke away, Alastor produced and drank from the same blue tincture bottle she'd seen last time. Leslie presumed it was one of two things: demon-Viagra, or some kind of Don't-Rip-Leslie-To-Pieces juice, and she didn't want to know which. She winced when his nails dug into her shoulders, drawing blood; but it excited him, and that was an electrifying feeling. Her blood did this, her pained flesh made him come alive in her hand. She had to believe it, sinful as it was, because it would get her through this.

There was little foreplay, and Alastor wasn't so different from old boyfriends; after some sloppy, ingratiating motions of her lips and tongue, he called her a witch and began steering her head like it was his idea in the first place. His posture changed, and she felt his legs bracing slightly. Good. His hand on her shoulder continued to grip, hard, and still she shut out the pain, until her skin really broke. A noise rang in her throat, high-pitched. Alastor leaned forward with impossible flexibility to drink her blood.

It wasn't so bad. It was better than before. He was allowing this, and responding so wonderfully. Leslie actually enjoyed herself, pulled out all her tricks - lapping at different speeds, twisting her head - and thought about how dangerous and smoky and truly gorgeous he was, thought it so loud that the whole hotel could have heard it, making it make a difference. Still, he clawed and drank, and the tension in him was palpable, winding up to something drastic. Briefly, she considered easing off, keeping him on the edge, just to give him a taste of the frustration he'd put her through… Then her very soul petrified as Alastor worked his teeth against her shoulder. He said something. Barely-intelligible French. Something about oil.

He wouldn't bite her. Not when she had him like this. Surely he wouldn't.

Leslie whimpered, sped up and braced for the worst, and thank fuck, it never happened: Alastor only groaned and gave up. For maybe three seconds he was caught up in myriad sensations, raking her spine with his claws. He came quite forcefully, into the back of her throat, which was an uncomfortable spot to catch it. Leslie focused on his collapse, his sighs, that residual pulse against her lips, his mouth against the bloody scratches across her skin.

So much for indifference.

Everything was alright. She felt accomplishment, relief… she felt irritation in her gullet, and had to break her mouth-seal in order to cough furiously.

"What's the matter?"

"I don't—aaack!" she spluttered. What began as an unpleasant peppery taste was now pure needle-pricking pain, like she'd snorted a line of wasabi. She fell away, blind and choking uncontrollably. "Christ! Auuugh…!"

"Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry."

"Why didn't you warn me? Oh my God… See a fucking doctor!" Leslie tried to ignore his laughter as she crouched on the rug. "Now I know why my insides were stinging after you fucked me."

"After I what?" he clarified, seeming to like the implication - but she refused to repeat herself. If that poisonous wretch wanted cursing, he could do it himself.

Leslie felt another flush of guilt as Alastor, now decent, pulled her onto the couch beside him. In silence, his hands rested on her torn back and healed the damage they'd wrought; his still-flushed neck was a warm alcove to bury her face in and recover. She shouldn't feel any comfort from him, but she did.

"Such a vulnerable creature you are," Alastor said, "so suited to being prey. No-one suffers like you, my dear - and it's noble to suffer! Do you understand?" He ran her ears through one hand, and used the other to play with her tail. "I'm lucky to experience the fight your body puts up… that dancing in your blood! I'm lucky to taste your fear, break you and then remake you when we're done."

"What poetry," Leslie muttered. He laughed. He was in an excellent mood today. "Al, can I ask you something and you'll tell me the honest truth?"

"That depends."

She solemnly pressed her nose into his hair. "Here's my question," she asked, and the answer would decide whether or not she saw Rosie, "when did you know you wanted to eat me?"

Leslie heard the grin in his voice. "The day I saw you crying by the front desk," he said.