When Leslie reached F̶r̶a̶n̶k̶l̶i̶n̶ and Rosie's Emporium, the metal shutter on the shop exterior was halfway down, and she had to run and knock heavily on the entrance. Luckily, someone inside heard, and the shutter stopped moving, then reversed. Thank God! Leslie thought. That was a close one. She took out her handkerchief: the one she'd kept in a ziploc bag, in either her bra or the inside of her sock, since Hallowe'en night.
Here goes.
Though she entered with a heavier tread than usual, to give the store owner an idea of her whereabouts, the bell ringing over the doorway made Rosie look up regardless.
"Hi," Leslie said, "it's me. You sold me some shoes once."
"Ah yes," Rosie smiled. "Hello there! Sorry about the rolling door - the closer we get to the Extermination, the earlier I like to close! And you needn't clomp, sweetpea. I can see your aura."
"Oh," said Leslie, unsure if this was a joke or not. "My aura?"
"Yes. It is orange and brown," said Rosie, beckoning her closer. "Who is manipulating you?" Leslie felt her fur stand on end, and Rosie sat at her desk chair, comfortable in the stunned silence. "I'm sorry to spook you, poppet," she said, "that's merely what the brown indicates. The orange is good. You're the creative sort, sociable when you have to be, and always chasing that something that makes your heart beat faster… even exchanges like this. But that's why you're here, isn't it? To discuss your power?"
"Uh, y-yes. Yes, I am."
"You have it, then?"
Leslie approached more slowly now, with caution. What if her aura advertised the nervousness she now felt? "Here you go," she said, taking out Alastor's handkerchief and sliding it across the desk.
"Thank you," Rosie said as she took it. She frowned. "What is this?"
"I put it in a bag, so you won't have to touch it."
"Put what in a bag?"
"It's his hankie. But, it's not clean. You probably don't want to… Actually, let me wash it. Give it here, I'll just wash it for you."
Rosie's puzzled frown began to clear. "DNA? His?"
"Afraid so. Please don't touch it."
"Ah! Even better. Thank you so much," said Rosie. Then, in a move that was as decisive as it was demure, she tucked the bag down the front of her dress. Leslie felt the tiniest bit of comfort, knowing that even destructive overlords were not above storing things in their bras. "It's genuine, of course," Rosie stated. "You know I could have you destroyed for the next seventy years if it wasn't."
"Oh, definitely!" Leslie said with false cheer. "Glad we're on the same page."
"Yes! That's the nice thing about Hell, isn't it? We ladies can cut straight through the grease," Rosie said, and took Leslie's hand. "Ah, you're a furry one."
"Yeah," Leslie huffed, "sadly. There's no way to change my body, is there?"
"Not in the way you'd like!" Rosie laughed. "Now then, your reading. One of my powers is seeing the worth or value in things. Very handy for a seller of antiques! Ah yes, you're easy. You keep it here in the muscle," she mused. "I can tell you're a physical person. Dancing. Moving to your lover's needs."
Leslie shivered. "Dancing," she admitted. "Sure. I teach."
"An outlet for negative emotions," Rosie declared, "and yet, you prefer the old routines. Down here, at least. Hell brings out the anxiety in you. Improvisation is dangerous: to bare your soul accidentally? Unthinkable."
This was too much. Leslie took her hand away. "I don't like this," she said. "This isn't a real reading, is it? You just grilled my friends for my personal information."
"Friends? Dear, I don't know your name. I never even touched you before now, not once."
Oh God, that was true, wasn't it? Far from reassuring her, this statement only made the reading more creepy. "Alright," Leslie said, giving back her hand.
"Thank you. Hmmm. Yes, you're very easy," Rosie repeated, her eye sockets jiggling as though reams of information were flying before them. "Oh, the darkness," she whispered, "such terrible darkness. How could anyone be redeemed in a place like this? You hope it could be you. In spite of all this adversity and so little evidence to suggest that your hard work will pay off… you still hope. The extermination will be hard. Even if you survive, not knowing how long you will be stuck here…"
Again, Leslie withdrew her hand. "Ohhh, I hate it."
Rosie laughed. "Don't worry, dear, everyone does this. Let me tell you your powers!"
"I don't want you to. You're looking at all my secrets."
"Nonsense. Your hand, please." Rosie snatched it back. "Now then. This dance of yours… already, you've found a way to turn it to your advantage. You give it meaning, make it… persuasive almost. You want to be taken seriously, not to be hurt, and you are trying very hard to beguile a certain someone."
Beguile? Leslie screwed her face up. "That's not…"
"Being as low-powered as you are," Rosie interrupted, "it would take a while for this persuasion to work. But I feel you have willed it many, many times. How often, you and this person?"
Leslie and Alastor? She had no idea. Twenty or so times they'd danced together. If you included the times Alastor watched her dancing, that number was even higher. The DVDs, the self-injuring pole dance… Come to think of it, Alastor had come out of nowhere to watch her that day. And he could identify her by movement alone when she performed with the troupe on a DVD. Could this be why? Some power she never realized she had?
"Your students," Rosie asked, "I'd guess they are well-behaved. More than one would expect."
"They're getting better," Leslie said, "but it's…" She fell silent.
"And there is another power," said Rosie, "less developed, but growing roots. People talk to you comfortably. You have a softness, a dependence, that makes these damned sinners let down their guard. Beware this power; it may get you in hot water with those who value their discretion."
"Right," Leslie said, simply.
Then both of Rosie's hands closed around hers. "What is this?" Rosie murmured, something like apprehension in her voice. "You have… This is ancient stuff... and you tried to hide it from me."
"What?"
"Someone is taking your blood," she said, "in relatively small volumes. Someone is healing you repeatedly."
"Uh…" said Leslie.
Rosie lifted her head. "My dear, please tell me this is being done without consent. I know that sounds worse than the alternative, but…" She trailed off, and her jaw clenched. "This must be the manipulation I see in your aura. Your friend… he talked you into this?"
The room around them grew steadily darker; shadows stirred from every cranny, nook and crevice. They moved up on one side of the desk and down the other side, tipping unsteadily. Leslie stepped back. This shadow theater was making her seasick.
"I'd like to go now," she said.
A series of horrible scratches carved their way into the walls, with the sound of fingernails against wood. Leslie watched in horror as Rosie rose up, and her eye sockets grew larger, grew blacker than black velvet. Her pointed teeth became needly.
"What is your name, sweetpea," asked Rosie with barely-contained smiling anger, "and where might I find you and your friend? I only want to talk, and understand, of course! Let him explain to me what is going on."
"You have the handkerchief; that's all I'm giving you!" Leslie turned and sprinted for the door. This door opened towards her, so she wrenched it open and fell through, chased by the fingers of manifold penumbrae. The bell tinkled. At last, grounded by the cobblestone path outside! Leslie was in a heap, but she knew the danger was right behind her. A loud, high-pitched screech from inside the building made her jump. Getting up, she ran like a rabbit from the farmer's gun, and didn't stop until she fell, exhausted, onto the steps of the Happy Hotel.
o - o - o - o - o
The terror of visiting Rosie followed Leslie through a dance class and dinner, and even as she climbed the stairs to her room, passing Baxter in the hallway. So he's still at the hotel, she thought, that's interesting. She collapsed on her bed - and heard a faint rustling from under the pillow.
The source of the rustling was a folded piece of paper with the letter P on the outside. Confused, she opened it nonetheless, and the handwriting was immediately recognizable, as was the scent of cologne spritz. Alastor.
My pet, my prey, my Persephone, the letter began, and Leslie felt warmth in her cheeks. It was the memory of being called Persephone the first time; that had been a good meeting, the bites notwithstanding.
I never thanked you for your letter, about the record which was sent to space. Very interesting.
That letter never left her bedroom. Alastor must have stolen it when he took the DVDs.
On another note, he continued, these past months have been extremely rewarding, and I think we can agree, you've grown more resilient as a result. Not all of us can wield considerable power. Resilience is next best. For myself, our agreement has been a tremendous game, an increasing challenge to keep you involved, and has given me a wonderful palette of new tastes.
For these reasons, I feel we should extend our arrangement.
Leslie gulped.
Think on it seriously, and think how you have me in perpetual torment with that lovely throat of yours. Think less of the pain of certain acts in the bayou, and more of the pleasure you received, and still stand to receive in return. You drive a hard bargain, but we shall iron out the details later.
Please let go of the letter now, unless you want to be burned.
H.
H for Hades. Leslie clutched her forehead, overwhelmed. He was asking to renew the contract. More months of biting and scratching - perhaps worse. More months of making her life a living-
The corner of the page caught fire, and Leslie squeaked and dropped it. As it landed, she tried to stamp it out, but to no avail. In seconds, there were only ashes.
Renew the contract.
No. There was no way she could stand another day of enduring the kinds of injuries he wanted to inflict.
But he wouldn't take no for an answer. Alastor had another fortnight to twist her arm, and being the seductive bastard he was, he might actually succeed. Then there was Rosie… he was sure to find out about that little situation. Either he'd offer Leslie protection from the Eyeless Horror in return for eating Leslie, or more likely, he'd punish her for giving Rosie the DNA she needed to find him.
And why did Rosie want to find Alastor? Were they just former business partners? Old rivals? Old flames? Why hadn't Leslie considered this before?
Leslie had no idea how to play this. This was terrible. She was now connected to not one, but two demons who destroyed their enemies for much less. Two dealmakers. Two wrathful spirits. She was a dead woman.
For ten minutes, Leslie tried tearfully to pack a bag and figure out where she was going to live from now on. She didn't want to be on the streets when there were angels floating around, looking for sinners to smite, but there seemed to be no other choice. No friends to stay with. No other way to distance herself from Alastor.
Then she had an idea: one of those twice-a-year sudden lightning strikes of inspiration. Baxter. Leslie jogged down the hallway, then downstairs to check for Baxter, then up to the third floor where, of course, he was just turning into his laboratory.
"BAX!" she yelled. "HEY!"
He paused, hand on the doorknob, and peered through milk-bottle glasses. "Hello," he said uncertainly. "Long time, no speaky."
"Yes," she said breathlessly - there was no time. "Listen, I need your help, OK? I… Jesus… sorry, long jog."
"Take your time."
"First of all," she said, "I know."
Now Baxter raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Do you know how many people have tried to threaten me with "I know", dot dot dot, your dirty little secret, whatever? I need more than that, Flopsy."
The truth was, Leslie didn't know, but she suspected. "I know about you helping to bring down Porn Studios," she said, then took a deep breath. Baxter looked suddenly pale. It was quite novel to be able to threaten someone with their secrets, she realized, and even more so to intimidate a demon with her superior height.
"How...?" he said, gills flaring.
"You're the only person I know Alastor knows who can partially destroy a building," Leslie explained, "like the accidental lab explosion. And maybe you snuck around Porn Studios to plant… whatever it was you needed to plant. Be a shame if Valentino heard about it."
Baxter raised his hands defensively. "Alright, alright! Look, what do you want from me?"
Leslie almost smiled; it actually worked. She peered past him, into the laboratory with its many tubes and vials and other scientific equipment. There was obvious demarcation on the wall, where the brick had been replaced, but otherwise the room was ship-shape.
"This is going to sound fucking weird," she said, "but I want you to make me sick."
"Huh?"
"Do you have any viral cultures, something that'd make me bedridden for two weeks? At least two. Specifically me. I'm not going to infect anyone else, just me. If people ask how it happened, a wild rat bit me in the face. You won't get in trouble, I promise."
Baxter took a long time to process this. Eventually he frowned and retreated into the room, shaking his head. "You're fucking crazy."
Leslie followed him in. "But you can do it?"
"Of course," he said, flinging open a drawer of spotty-looking petri-dishes and giving her a wink. "I'm a fucking scientist."
