Me and Miss Spider

by wantedthehighway

Alastor's relationship with his mother is nothing like what anyone had imagined; Charlie's philosophy is tested by her incredibly trying new client; the troupe tries not to be duped while caught in a face-off between two known con artists; and surprising family secrets come to light in a Hazbin Hotel story with some very special guest stars. (CW: abuse, racist/sexist behavior)

2. Red Riding Hood

[July 1907, New Orleans]

Louisiana was a melting pot set apart from much of the South. Prior to the Louisiana Purchase in 1803, it was so uniquely composed of inter-marrying settlers of different races and ethnicities that the laws were written to allow for freer social and political interactions amongst citizens of different heritages than were permitted to exist in neighboring areas. Free people of color and mixed-race citizens comprised a sizeable portion of the population and endured fewer restrictions regarding property and business ownership, social roles and interactions, and education than they would have elsewhere in the North American South. Women as a group, too, experienced slightly fewer restrictions. This was true of the New Orleans area in particular. Reportedly, a surprising amount of houses on the main drag in New Orleans were actually owned by women, both white and black. While this system was nothing remotely close to a fair one, it leaned in a better direction than the rest of the region and suggested the possibility of progress.

The culture of Louisiana, though, came under threat by the baffled, traditionalist newcomers from the American states. Starting after the Louisiana Purchase, and escalating following the end of the Civil War in 1865 and what had at first appeared to be the promising beginnings of the Reconstruction period, the social norms of the region and the laws governing it gradually restructured to solidify a stringent two-tiered class system dictated by race. The looser social practices and interactions between white, black, and mixed-race citizens deteriorated into the hostile norm of increased white supremacy and segregation that was already firmly entrenched elsewhere. Obviously, there had already been an unjust, racist caste system in place, so it would be much too simplistic to suggest the American influx introduced this to the area. But the Anglo-American newcomers did not help one bit and made matters much, much worse.

Although the cultural shift occurred over decades, in some ways it was still like a shock of cold water that seemed to have happened overnight. The culture that had been familiar to Bert and Camille's grandparents on both sides simply no longer existed. It was a cruel trick, which kept the opportunity to advance from those who deserved it and created an environment of prejudice and constant fear. As the cherry on top of this offense, the change also destroyed the fortunes of those who had briefly managed to climb to the top. Although they had not quite lived it, both Bert and Camille were born close enough to this time period that they had heard stories from their parents and had their own vague childhood memories evidencing the tail end of this era. The end result, particularly for Camille, at first, was the powerful, enraging sense of having been wrongly disinherited.

This strong feeling of injustice influenced some questionable decision making on both of their parts, although, in their defense, it was entirely out of love.

What had made Bert think his wealthy socialite family would tolerate this union, just because it was approached with marginally more tolerance a few generations ago, or that his own status could outweigh prejudice of such a deeply-embedded nature? What had led Camille to believe she could evade the stress that would be inevitable in this relationship, just because her black mother and white father had managed a bit better (though certainly not easily) decades ago? Why had she thought she'd be any more able, with a partner to assist, to run the boarding house business she was meant to inherit from her strong-willed, free immigrant grandmother and mother who had lived through the war in Haiti and the war in the States- true and inspiring embodiments of grit- only to become the victims of economic ruin and prejudice beyond their control? The war had ruined nearly everyone, and at the tail end of their mortgage, when they weren't able to make final payments, the bank was already hovering like a vulture, ready to reclaim the property.

Bert's family had essentially paid him to go away. It was a large severance sum of money, but it was by no means infinite, and he had spent a large amount of it to pay off Camille's house. Of many possible uses of that money, ensuring they had a roof over their heads and possibly rooms to rent was not a bad one. But if long-term tenants were hard enough to find for other reasons, they became harder and harder to keep because of the family drama that gradually increased over time.

Now they both had nothing, and neither would the boy.

This turn of events had been harder on Bert. Camille was the grittier of the two. She had come up on low to average means, and she had already been bracing herself in preparation for things getting worse. Bert, meanwhile, had just been dropped out of a skyrise into a dumpster. In theory, finding work shouldn't have been so difficult. He was a skilled engineer and had been involved with his family's immensely successful business, on the cutting edge of new advances in farm equipment. But his drop in status was embarrassing to him, and he assumed other people were laughing at him even when they weren't, making it difficult to reign in his pride and get along with his coworkers long enough to keep a job.

While Bert often succumbed to despair and drank heavily, Camille seemed to remain the bull-headed, hard-working, yet everlastingly quick-to-laugh, mischievous nymph he had fallen in love with. Her resilience was impressive. After coming to terms with the future of their financial situation and suffering a bout of melancholia for a few months after the birth of her son, she seemed to bounce right back into shape. For a while. A slow, insidious deterioration must have taken place over the course of the next four years that he failed to notice in his boozy haze, but from his perspective it seemed as though overnight all the light had left her eyes. She seemed unable to sleep, even to the point of falling into microsleeps and murmuring nonsense that made it seem she was intermittently dreaming with her eyes open. She would be absent for unexplained periods of time and reappear seeming exhausted. Despite the misfortune her pregnancy had caused, her son was one of the most beloved things in her life. Yet this same woman now barely seemed to have the energy to look at her child, let alone engage.

Reportedly, Al had been the one to find her with her head in the oven. He was told this, but he didn't remember, although he should have been just old enough to, at a little older than 4 years old. So it wasn't an age thing. He just...didn't remember. At 7.5 he didn't question the reason for this and mostly felt grateful for it. Unfortunately, he also barely remembered anything about his mother before her death. Not the bad, but also not the good. That probably made it easier. He'd rather not imagine how he'd feel if he could remember, judging by his father, who had given up hope entirely after the death of his beloved wife.

Ironically, despite allowing himself to be completely crippled by negative emotions and barely fighting back, Bert seemed on high alert for any signs of unhappiness from the boy. Perhaps this was an understandable pattern of hypervigilance to develop after failing to notice your depressed wife's gradual deterioration, culminating in willful carbon monoxide poisoning. Unluckily, his awareness of the reason for this preoccupation was low, and the only way he could express the anxiety was through general irritability and heckling his child any time he looked displeased. 'If you let yourself look sad, the bastards know they've won!' was a favorite.

The double standard might not have bothered Alastor quite as much if Bert at least bothered to pretend there wasn't one. But there was no pretense whatsoever. Al was expected to be perpetually cheerful for Bert, but his father barely cracked a smile once a week. After a point, Alastor stopped regularly trying to get his father to smile or interact and only did the bare minimum that seemed polite. (After all, despite Bert's heckling and policing Alastor's resting facial expressions, he certainly didn't seem to reward it much when Al was in a good mood or attempting to be friendly.) Once in a blue moon, he'd exert a little more effort. Today just happened to be one of those days. It was his parent's anniversary, which meant his father would be even more sour than usual. So to help with Bert's likely hangover, Al turned up that morning with coffee in hand.

"...Where did that come from?" Bert asked.

"Brazil?" his son responded, grinning. When no laugh was earned, he said, "I made it."

What child bothered to learn to make coffee? "Ah. I believe I've finally learned the identity of the magical water elf," Bert noted, referring to the cups of water his son sometimes left out for him, for which it was too embarrassing for Bert to thank him.

Alastor stuck out his tongue playfully and then remarked, "You haven't gone hunting in a while." Bert had taken it up more regularly, considering it a decent way to save on grocery bills. He got some joy out of taxidermy as well, but no new animal pieces had appeared on the shelves in a long time. More importantly, there wasn't much meat left over from last time. But mostly, Al was aiming to trick his father into leaving the house today to avoid or at least ameliorate the doom spiral. "Maybe we could go?"

"Didn't think you were interested in that."

Al shrugged. "Haven't gone yet." He looked out the window. "It's a nice day out. You should go outside."

Bert looked out of the corner of eye and just barely smirked. "Yeah? Maybe I'll... go out to get milk. I may be a while." This was one of Bert's favorite jokes, and as soon as Alastor was old enough to understand it, it would actually get a genuine laugh out of him now and again. Bert was stunned the first time it happened. Maybe the kid didn't really get it? But no. The child was capable of understanding all sorts of complex humor he shouldn't be able to understand or appreciate yet, particularly that sad things and mean things could still be funny. (Other times Al didn't have as much energy for it. 'Wooo, you wish you weren't here. We get it.' But most days he laughed, and today was one of those days.) When he realized both he and the kid thought the joke was amusing, Bert kept telling it. After all, the boy was laughing, so what was the harm?

"What about the radio?" Al asked.

Bert shrugged. "Not as though there's anything to pick up."

The invention had sparked Bert's interest since the first time he learned about it, and at times when he had nothing better to do (read as: unemployed) and could summon the energy, he worked on building the ham radio system on the back deck. Alastor normally sat with him while he did this. It was one of the only things in the recent past he could remember that had made his father smile, and he was curious about it. A few weeks ago, they had finally gotten it up and running. For the most part, when they could get it to pick something up, it was just some dispatch from a ship or a train. Commercial broadcasts weren't yet a norm, and although more and more ham radio enthusiasts were turning up and broadcasting more interesting things, still not very many people had either the patience to build a system or the funds to buy one, or the parts. So Bert was correct that there wasn't much to pick up.

Al retired to the kitchen to regroup for a few minutes and then came back for one last try. He cartoonishly rose slowly from behind the side of the armchair as Bert sipped the coffee. Bert miserably looked out of the corner of his eye at the smile on his son's face, wishing there was some price he could pay to make whatever impending horrible joke was about to happen not happen. "Oh, Jesus."

"Hey, dad. What do you call a flower before it opens?"

Bert's eye ticked slightly. "What?"

"What do you call a flower before it opens?"

Bert braced himself. "A bud."

"I LOVE IT WHEN YOU CALL ME BUD!"

Half sarcastically, half seriously, Bert cried, "For god's sake, get out!" This child either had no social skills at all or was so good at reading people that he knew exactly the right way to annoy them, and Bert couldn't yet tell which it was. He wanted to be entertained just as badly as Al wanted to entertain him, but everything just sucked, and he could barely contain his irritation through the pounding of his head.

"You know," Alastor wheedled. "You could smile occasionally."

"Why should I, when I'm stuck with you?!" The line delivery here was intended to be a lot like 'Maybe I'll go out for milk'- definitely mean humor, but more of a legitimate joke than a barb. But as it passed through the filter of Bert's headache, it came out wrong and very, very hostile.

Alastor was silent. Bert was silent.

Finally, Al raised his eyebrows, harrumphed, and walked angrily back to his room to grab something. From what Bert could tell, the child was determinedly looking up toward the ceiling with only his eyes, without tilting his head back, which was a trick Bert himself had learned as a small child to keep from crying. Ah, crap. He sat back in the armchair, sipped the coffee, then suddenly felt a spike of rage and sent the cup hurtling to the ground with a smash. He heard the back door slam to match the intensity of the teacup's shatter. Ah, crap!

Anyway.

If Bert's heckling was what trained a habit of perpetual smiling into Al, other factors probably perpetuated it. For one, he was desperately afraid of sadness, too, although he didn't have the words to express that yet, even in his own head. He tried to keep the smiles as genuine as possible and was an expert at entertaining himself. He also noticed that other people found his default smiling expression unsettling, which had the unplanned but appreciated side effect of people leaving him the hell alone. Which was usually nice. Usually. It would have been nice to have one friend.

This was why he appreciated the stray cat. It was mangy and sometimes moodier than other times, but it did eat the mice that otherwise might try to nibble on his food. And when the cat was in a friendly mood, the head buts, gentle play-biting, and stints of sitting alongside him while purring were enjoyable. It also gave him something to talk to, for real. Otherwise he talked to himself, which even at the age of 7.5 felt strange and mildly embarrassing.

Currently, Al was sitting alone on the back deck on the humid summer day with the radio system. While it was true that there was barely anything to pick up, whatever voices he could find were better than none, and best of all, he could turn them off whenever he wanted.

Alastor was also using this time to examine something curious he had found in his mother's belongings in attic storage. At some point she had developed the hobby of making the dolls. It was around the same time she had gotten more heavily into the voodoo...and the folklore...and had started hanging up all of the crucifixes, although she had previously been only mildly religious at best. The first two things had at first seemed to be fueled by pure intellectual curiosity and appreciation for art, but the third was clearly bizarre, and it drew attention to the fact that the first two had turned into inexplicable, rabid obsessions. Since Camille had fallen so ill and seemed worried about tragedy lurking around every corner, Alastor's father suspected the dolls were gris-gris meant as protection.

Al knew where to find both the materials she had used to make them and the books she had used to research. He mused that maybe he could make one of her and try to conjure or communicate with her in some way. But in the process of sifting through her boxes and drawers, he found a smaller, locked box in a large trunk. He couldn't explain why a wave of curiosity swept over him, but he leaned into it; he certainly had nothing better to do. This would be a fun little project. A while later, he stumbled upon the key mingled in with some items in a jewelry box. It fit, and he opened the smaller box, which contained a doll that appeared to be a replica of himself. It was larger than the gris-gris, which were intended to be tiny enough to fit in a pocket. Maybe it was supposed to be a gift? She must have made it shortly before she died, when he was just barely older than toddler age, because it looked remarkably like he did now. More curious still was what it was wearing, looped on a string around its neck- yet another key, this one with a button-shaped head. Alastor had a feeling that the key was the most important part of the gift, but he hadn't yet figured out what the key might unlock.

He was trying to solve this mystery when the black cat appeared. He pss-pss'ed at it and held out his fist for head bumps, which the cat delivered, along with a brief bout of play fighting, as Alastor protected his arm from the beating and biting delivered by the animal by covering it as much arm as possible with his sleeve. He petted it, and noticed while doing so that the cat seemed fixated on something very close by, the way it would be on a bird or a mouse. It pounced and began to drag the doll away.

"Hey! No! Bad!" The cat's tail bristled, but it did not look deterred. "My mother made that!" The cat hissed through its closed teeth and continued to drag the doll by the leg, with the apparent goal of hoarding it under the house. Alastor narrowed his eyes. He and the cat were both still for a few moments before the little boy pounced. The cat tried to turn, but the doll slowed it down, and Al managed to yank its tail, causing it to yowl and flee behind a nearby bush. "Well, you forced me to play dirty! Go hunt something that makes sense!" The cat hissed and departed irritably.

The way this day was going was making Al fairly cranky himself. He leaned against the side of the house near the radio with a flat expression. Suddenly, the system began to pop and crackle, despite the fact that it hadn't been able to pick up anything a few minutes earlier. Maybe a train was coming in?

Garbled voices emerged. A male voice narrated: "...radio has told us... behind the moon... cares not for our affairs." Garble, garble. Now a female voice, in French, said, "J'ai peur de sa puissance. Cela peut nous détruire tous." Garble, garble. The little boy continued to listen, fascinated, as out of the ham radio, several years before regular commercial broadcasts, snippets of songs began to play in styles very unlike what he was familiar with. Broken, inconsistent in volume and clarity as if they were just a bit too far away, and intermingled with heavy warping, slowing, static, and the occasional screech, came bits and pieces of what we would recognize as 'Bad Romance,' 'Lone Digger,' 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds,' 'Mister Sandman,' and 'Jeepers Creepers.' Then about half a minute of nothing. Al continued waiting patiently. Would anything else emerge? At least for now, he was completely distracted from how subtly menacing the strange messages were by how miraculously they had appeared and how foreign they sounded.

She, for her part, was satisfied with the intended effect. Her ability to pull data backward and forward in time was limited and flawed (and, as Alastor had just seen, she often couldn't get a good connection), but when she could pull it off, she loved to use music that had not yet been written. She found that it was more attention-grabbing because it was novel, and it sometimes created the false impression that she had written it herself, making her seem all the more impressive to the target.

Finally, a new song began to play, and the connection seemed to have stabilized. Clear as a bell now was a woman's smooth, hypnotizing voice singing in French. We would recognize it as a jazz arrangement of 'Someday My Prince Will Come,' but to Al it was completely novel. The bits of French here and there were strewn in deliberately. She knew it would feel familiar and perhaps even comforting to him because he had heard it as a child, but also that he would understand only pieces of it, increasing the intrigue. The song changed again to a big band arrangement of 'Once Upon a Dream.' Although he couldn't possibly have made the connection himself, she couldn't resist throwing a few of these songs in since she knew he had read those fairy tales so many times.

Al was lying on his back, looking up with a peaceful expression at the upside down image of the radio system above him. Part of him knew he should be extremely unsettled and probably even worried that he was hallucinating, but the music was so beautiful...

[X]

Of the many prey she stalked near many doors around the world, at this particular moment in time, this child gave Mother the highest hopes for a fun challenge and a big prize.

As a creature that required respect as sustenance, a few variations sufficed. Fear kept her going and was the easiest to come across but the least nutritious. Deference or awe was an improvement, and ideally, she would have liked to have proper worshippers, but it seemed less and less likely as the years went on. (This was offensive to her, because even those despicable cat vermin had their own worshippers once upon a time.) The best, most sustaining food was love. What this meant was that she could play a short game and a long game.

The short game entailed one of two options. She could kill a victim and eat its terrified soul quickly. Alternately, she could blind them to enforce deference or to sustain minimal amounts of affection for as long as possible by emotionally 'blinding' them to the abusiveness of her behavior. This second method would allow her to trap their soul once they were dead and consume it slowly, sometimes hanging onto it for many years in case of dry spells- she called these her 'rations.' Often she ended up with a strange mish mosh of newer rations and very, very old ones because she did not eat them in order but based on how much love they had left to give. (Only when they could provide no more nutrition for her but meager helpings of fear did she at last dispose of them for good.) She had been playing this way for an immeasurable amount of time because any attempt at a sustained, positive relationship of any type with a living human had always ended in abysmal failure.

But that, in theory, would be the long game- keeping a victim alive for long periods of time after earning their actual affection. This provided the best nutritional value, created food security, and included the added bonuses of a hunting buddy and, best of all, actual company. It also created a challenging game with a lot of complexity, which was what she craved, because she felt that she was intellectually deteriorating in this void. If it really were possible to play a long game, Mother thought, she'd be thrilled to find a candidate from this time period. It was one of her favorites. If her ability to pull data from the future wasn't failing her, this was around the time the humans started making things she'd unironically be willing to put up on the fridge.

The piano played itself in the other room as one of Mother's simple duplicate puppets set the table and a second, conscious puppet- powered by a ration called Echo- assisted her in her room. A conscious entity- or at least consciousness above the level of an insect- was needed for this task, which required a second set of eyes. She was trying to mold her corporeal form into this outrageous corset contraption the humans had invented. Mother could cheat by redistributing her body mass, but even at that it seemed complicated to pull it off in a way that looked believable, which really spoke volumes, she had to admit, about the sheer determination of the human women. "Do I look like that Cliffords woman yet?" she wheezed, referring to the popular Gibson Girl model, as the puppet tightened the corset.

Echo was the cowardly adult soul- so old as to be of indeterminable sex or gender- of a previous victim who had bought itself time by agreeing to act as a servant, at the expense of child souls, which would be consumed as rations first. This being its personality, the servile Echo was the most likely to tell Mother what she wanted to hear and generally accept her bullshit in stride. Still, as its only outlet, Echo often asked questions that masqueraded as straightforward, in a serious tone, but bore hints of sass. "You are vying to be this boy's mother, correct?"

"Quit that now."

"Quit what?"

"I don't have to turn around to know you're looking at me like I'm some kind of sordid pervert." Offended, Mother swiftly kicked backward, hitting the puppet in the chest. "Listen, Echo, Mother is every little boy's first love. I need to look beautiful."

It was a challenge at times to suppress the instinct to roll one's eyes when Mother said something like this. But, Echo reminded itself, it had seen Mother's methods lure prey time and time again. Catching prey was another story entirely, but at the luring she was undoubtedly successful. Right now, she was zoning in on the fact that this child seemed particularly susceptible to music, which suited Mother just fine. Music had always been one of her great loves as well.

"How long do you think it'll take him to figure out what the key fits?" Echo asked.

"Honestly, not long at all," Mother said. "Which is why you need to hurry it up." As a woman who had not originally wanted children of her own, it was ironic that she ended up targeting primarily children as prey, but it just made sense. They were easier to entice and manipulate and were more able to love unconditionally, at least for a while. As such, she had learned a lot about them, through observing a large number of test subjects and by using her power to pull data from numerous books that would eventually be written on child development. This child was the result of breeding done right. Exceedingly clever, surpassing most major cognitive milestones of the average 7.5-year-old by a long shot. "He's not only bright, he's very bored. He'll start searching any time now to entertain himself."

"I suppose I see why he's bored. How many times can you read the same set of standard fairy tales over and over again?"

Mother huffed. "That part shouldn't be so boring. They're my scriptures."

"I'm still not sure I understand why you call them that, ma'am. They don't exactly portray you in the most flattering light."

"You know, it's funny, I've noticed other things' scriptures don't portray them in a flattering light either, and yet they still have followers," Mother noted bitterly. This was why she thought it was worthwhile letting the tales persist. It was a plan with very mixed results.

Preoccupied with the presence of the humans' god-worshiping scriptures, she had allowed the word-of mouth legends to go on. This really spoke to her need for attention by any means necessary, Echo thought, since these legends had obviously been initiated by victims who had escaped. Mother's success to failure ratio was quite low- many of them escaped. But no matter, Mother thought. For all the mortals knew, the escapees were few, and her success to failure ratio was extremely high. Because they were largely initiated by escapees, many of the stories caricatured her harshly, often revealing that the original tellers were quite amused by her vanity. That, too, was tolerable. She didn't necessarily demand hero worship the same way other things did; she just wanted dramatic stories about her miracles and heists.

In general, the stories pleased her, mostly because they terrified children into docility. Some alterations bothered her at first, but she soon realized they were blessings in disguise. One pair of humans who spread the stories were lawyers, so they inevitably portrayed her making a lot of well-defined deals and adhering to the rules. How kind of them to lead others to assume she would play fair! Another boon- no one seemed to have quite put together that the fairy godmother character and child-abductor character were one and the same. Fabulous. She still had the element of surprise! Mother quite liked to find individuals she thought would make good breeders, play matchmaker, and offer them unprompted favors- unasked favors so huge and so kind that they seemed like they must be the work of a purely benevolent entity, that the recipients were babbling with gratitude. When she came back for their children later, explaining that this was her payment, they were often too shocked to resist, or felt too much indebted to argue. She would guilt-trip to her heart's content until they obliged. In rare cases, she'd collect by force.

She liked doing this to the mothers best. It wasn't quite as fun to do it with the fathers- part of the joy of this came from proving time and time again that human mothers were not the perfect, self-sacrificing saints they were fabled to be. Sometimes she harassed them all the way through their labours (that kind of pain generally created enough resentment for her to get some leverage!).

She didn't always come back right away. That was part of the fun- had to keep them on their toes! Sometimes (like now, in fact) she came back more than one generation later, after years of meddling- and, when possible, deliberately crossing breeding lines- created something she was exceedingly enthusiastic about.

At a certain point, though, some very unsettling changes began to appear. The tales only grew in popularity, but, culturally, the focus began to shift away from frightening children into behaving and more toward encouraging children to buck unreasonable demands and 'defeat evil.' Even the focus on good manners became less pronounced, to her dismay. The women seemed to be getting a lot less compliant. The men seemed much more observant than they used to be. The adults were taking the children seriously? And the caricatures of her were becoming more and more and more insulting. Wait. No. Stop. What are you doing?

And, of course, there was another pattern she couldn't help but notice: Choose any stock villain, and the only major difference from her was they were now good and dead. She would never have admitted it to anyone, but Mother found this rather threatening. In fact, it made her feel a lot like the predator-prey relationship had flipped, and now, anytime prey appeared, she was scarcely able to have fun playing with her food like she used to, for fear that if she let down her guard, she would become another statistic in fairy tale lore- another dragon slain, witch cooked, pirate devoured by a crocodile.

She suspected these gradual cultural shifts may have had something to do with the fact that prey of all kinds was getting a lot harder to trap, and why more and more of her doors, in all areas of the world, were being closed off. It made her a bit uneasy, but they weren't in that short supply yet, and moreover, at this point in time, she did not rely on doors for her own egress. Her preference was to lure prey into her den, but she was able to leave. (In fact, she'd caught as many as 130 prey in a single outing in Germany once. A pretentious messenger cherub appeared on her doorstep while she was salting the meat to give her a lecture and try to slap her on the wrist for violating the 'Endangered Species Act,' because apparently it was considered 'in poor taste' to kill that many healthy breeders during a plague. She ate him, got a power boost, and mounted the wings above her fireplace.) The doors were necessary for the humans to enter. (Her so-called 'Endangered Species Act'- seriously, what bullshit!- violation was also around the time the keys had been instituted by the heavenly buzzkills. It seemed the intent was to reduce the number of humans who could be easily lured into her doorways by making it so they must actively choose to do so. This was a strange punishment to assign, Mother thought, when no concurrent effort was being made to confine her to the den. The only- very embarrassing- explanation had to be that someone understood she preferred to hunt from inside her home.)

There were a few reasons why her hunting style leaned so far in the black widow direction. The main one was that she didn't want to waste energy; anything she could do to maintain her gradually declining power level helped. Another reason was that she found the way this world was organized to be mentally taxing. In her home she still had to organize things to accommodate the humans' sensory perception, but she could get a little more loosey-goosey and of course deconstruct the moment they were gone. She also found herself easily overexcited and distracted by the sheer number of things- organic and inorganic alike- in the world outside the den; this would frequently end with her not accomplishing whatever it was she had set out to do, after too many toys captured her attention at once and whatever simple plan she had started with quickly became too complex of a system that crashed around her. (In fact, for this reason, Echo had been tasked with managing paper trackers to organize the details of her mortal dealings and keep her plans moving and focused.)

Another, more embarrassing, reason seemed to grow stronger over time. She wanted to be around people; she wanted their attention. But roaming amongst the humans was just not as fun as it could have been at times because her mind would be occupied by all the people who weren't looking at her and who, more specifically, were looking at each other. Seeing the way the parents and children looked at each other, the way brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, lovers did, made her ache with ravenous hunger but also made her want to... retreat…in...discomfort. This strange, perplexing discomfort that felt hot, compressing, twisting, stabbing-

Thankfully, her unpleasant rumination was interrupted by Echo, who remarked of Mother's dress, "I don't think she would wear this…"

"True, but I can't stand not to dress Camille above her class level. Just look at her. Such a beauty."

Slight embers of envy were reignited in Echo. It drowned them out and clarified, "I think even if she'd been wealthy she wouldn't have worn this."

"That's not important. I'll be stunned if he actually thinks I'm her. He's brighter than that. I just need to be fabulous."

It was based on various things she'd seen the Cliffords girl wear. A forest green dress with an off-the-shoulder bloused top, cinched tightly at the waist over a skirt with an even deeper green diamond pattern. From the dipped shoulders of the blouse, long ribbons wrapped like ballet laces down her arms. Echo had just barely convinced her to dial it back from the full-blown evening gown it had started its life as. It was a bizarre habit that Echo couldn't break her of, that would persist long into the future- all the formal wear and cocktail dresses to meet the children, like she was going on a date. Blegh.

"You're sure he'll come on the same day?" Echo asked.

"You know I am. ...Oh!" Mother suddenly exclaimed while observing the progress in her mind's eye. "He has company!"

[X]

The rock missed his hand but hit the cat hard. It yowled and ran beneath the house. Alastor knew even before he looked up who the only culprit could be, because only one person nearby was this much of a casual jackass- the 8.5-year-old neighborhood bane, Billy.

"Why are you listening to static?"

Al wisely chose not to ask the neighbor boy if he had heard any music and decided to process this mystery later. "Why are you shooting cats? Shoot the mice, not the thing that eats them for you." 'Billy, you dipshit,' he finished mentally. Alastor had the feeling that at least one of the neighbor kid's parents wasn't a whole lot more pleasant than his own father and that torturing the stray cat- and usually Alastor, too-was Billy's outlet, but that didn't make his feelings any more charitable. If the other boy were run down by a trolley, Alastor would frame the local news story on his bedroom wall.

"Guess it figures the crazy voodoo witch's kid is crazy, too. Is that one of the dolls?" The dolls, by now, were infamous.

"I don't know."

"I heard there were child sacrifices."

This was so silly Alastor couldn't even be offended by it. "If she was never caught, I guess she was crazy like a fox, huh?" he joked.

Annoyed that the younger kid seemed to be way smarter than he had any right to be and was having far too easy of a time brushing off the harassment, Billy got himself fired up and proceeded to be as much of grating, offensive creep as possible, performing an over-the-top impression of a bayou witch, complete with a very poor, exaggerated replication of the Haitian accent Camille had picked up from her mother and grandmother. Alastor tolerated this with roughly the same expression Bert had worn while waiting for Alastor's bad jokes to be over with. It wasn't too difficult to tolerate this offensive behavior as long as Billy continued to make himself look like an idiot doing it- Al admitted to himself that he derived a bit of satisfaction from that part.

Until the last bit. Billy saw fit to incorporate into his ridiculous impression that the best way for children to defeat a fairy tale witch was to cook her in the oven.

It was after the fallout of incidents like this that Alastor figured he must remember some things after all...he just couldn't call them back when he wanted to. Instead, they ripped their way out of him like a rabid racoon at their whim. Al sprung up and hurtled himself at Billy so hard they both tumbled off the deck to the ground. Alastor would grow to a pretty impressive height one day, but regrettably, at age 7.5, he was a runt and was overpowered easily by the other older child. Easily enough, in fact, that he worried he might be in for a pretty serious beating, so he reflexively grabbed a stick within arm's reach to use as a weapon. Seeing what was coming, Billy stepped on him, but through the painful distraction Alastor cracked the stick against Billy's head like a baseball bat. It wasn't an exceptionally large or strong stick- not like a club by any means- but it was definitely enough to hurt and leave a mark.

As the other boy scrambled back- teetering a little, with a few lacerations on the cheek and what would likely become a good shiner- Alastor hoped Billy's fear was mostly performative. As gratifying as genuine fear on the neighbor's face would have been, he knew he wouldn't enjoy the consequences. He dropped the stick. This was not a good look. Al raised his hands in front of him in an 'I'm done, let's both walk away' signal.

The intense eye contact between the two children housed a surprisingly mature, dark subtext. Vying for power, sounding disgustingly confident, Billy uttered simply, "I could kill you, and no one would care."

The line did some damage, but for as much rage and anxiety prickled in Alastor's chest over the implicitly racist terroristic threat, the worst feeling was choking down sadness deep in his throat as he mentally held the statement up against the reality of his personal life, specifically, and decided... it might be true. He let the rage crush the other two emotions, and in doing so, forgot to censor himself before responding, "Good to know that's the game we're playing."

It was clear Billy thought he had claimed the final verbal blow prior to that moment, at which point his face temporarily drained white with shock. A lot of it was probably disbelief that the little mutt continued to talk back to him, but a shred of it was rooted in the deadly seriousness of Alastor's tone. Billy looked out of the corner of his eye at Alastor's house and resumed smirking, deciding he'd let the drunk next door finish his job for him. As Alastor finally turned, having nothing else to say to the despicable neighbor brat, Billy jeered, "Have fun tonight!"

Alastor couldn't stand to hesitate on the back porch where Billy could see him, so he slipped in the door and to his room as quietly as possible. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. 'Don't start fights and give the bastards another reason to kick you while you're down.' One of the only remotely reasonable things his father said (although from what Alastor could tell, Bert never followed his own advice). It was guidance he should have followed, but he wasn't able to tolerate that level of disrespect aimed at Camille. He was willing to pay the tax to get even an ounce of justice. Depending on the severity of Billy's parents' reaction, and the domino effect on his father's reaction, the tax would entail Alastor slinking around like a mouse for hiding places for the rest of the day and the better part of the next day. Undignified. Defeated. He sighed.

Then suddenly, a slight smile re-emerged. He realized what the key might be for. There was a supply closet in the cellar they would have liked to use but had never been able to open. Obviously the answer was to break down the door and put a new one in, but try and motivate Bert to do that. If this were the key to that door and he hid in there quietly, he could go undetected for a while because his father wouldn't think to try and open it. Good gift, mom! Ten out of ten! Alastor crept down the stairs, tried the key in the supply closet. Success! As he closed the door behind him, he heard the sound of stomping and door-slamming upstairs, tensed up, and reflexively shut his eyes. Eventually, he realized it wasn't anger signals, just his (probably already drunk) father having no concept of what a noisy clod he was.

When he reopened his eyes, Al noticed an unfamiliar shape on the wall and nearly jumped before realizing it was simply another door. ...It hadn't been there before, had it? ...Well, it must have been. But why a closet in a closet? You know what? Who cared? At this point, the more barriers the better! This one didn't have a keyhole. He still felt a bit hesitant as he opened it, maneuvering slowly in an effort to avoid a loud creak. When it stood open, though, inside was only another door, at the other end of another closet of about the same size. This was flatly absurd, but something else was wrong with it- a light shone underneath the door, when surely there could be nothing but more empty basement on the other side. Did he want to know what was on the other side of the door? Did he want to close the other door behind him? If he did, it would be almost black except for the light on the other side. ...Well, now he'd embarrassed himself. Why be afraid of a dark room when you knew where the door was and you were the only thing in it? He shut the other door behind him and- before he could talk himself out of it for concern over what had turned on a light on the other side- opened the next one.

Yet the light that had so clearly been coming from directly on the other side was not there. It was now shining from beneath the door on the other side of this closet, which was slightly longer, more like a short hallway. Not only should there be no light on the other side, there should by all rights be no more basement- he was pretty sure he had reached an outside wall of the house now. Had he found a secret tunnel? Where did it connect to? Al leaned into the mystery, opened the next door. A third room. Another door. Which opened to a fourth room with a fourth door. Each hallway slightly longer, each door promising a light underneath which was never delivered.

Okay, he thought, heart rate picking up a little. This was where things definitely diverged between 'exciting' and 'scary' depending on what you thought was happening right now. If this was really happening, it was becoming much too strange. Why would even a hidden tunnel have this many doors in the way? Why not just a straight tunnel? But that was probably because it wasn't happening. He had to be dreaming. He couldn't remember falling asleep, but even once you realized you were dreaming, you often couldn't remember when you nodded off, right? If it wasn't real, there was nothing to fear, and he should definitely keep going- if only for the sake of his pride at this point, to prove to himself he wasn't so secretly boring that he just dreamed about doors. He was not boring. There must be something entertaining on the other side, eventually. There would be. He felt a surge of pride when actual light began to shine on him as he opened the fourth door, thinking he had gained some control over the dream- when he realized he was somehow back in the basement.

Al froze, thinking he had left his hiding spot much too early and had stopped being nearly cautious enough about noise after the second door. He was awaiting thudding footsteps as he stewed in outrage over the fact that none of those hallways had curved, and he knew it. He could not have gone in a circle. Because it wasn't happening. He was dreaming, he assured himself. He was for some strange reason dreaming about a mirror-image basement that was slightly neater with a better-functioning lamp but was otherwise identical. He may have thrown in the towel and decided he must secretly be boring after all if he hadn't begun to notice the smell of food wafting down the stairs, or the distant sound of a piano.

[X]

'Good to know that's the game we're playing.' It nearly stopped Mother's heart. Incredible- maybe love at first sight did exist. "Echo…" Her foot was tapping a mile a minute. "I think I might wing it today."

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

"I may see what happens if I just...talk to him."

Thankfully, the sentence, 'You mean be yourself?' did not actually leave Echo's mouth. "You don't want to stay cautious on the first visit, ma'am? I know how much you want to play with this one."

"Did we just watch the same thing?" she whisper-hissed.

"I'm only encouraging you to protect your own happiness, ma'am."

Mother sat at the piano and began letting her fingers craft a melody, absentmindedly.

"What are you doing?"

"Giving him something to follow," she said, sensing his progress through the hallway.

Once they were certain he was downstairs, they waited for a few minutes.

"I'm not sure he's going to come up," Echo said, concerned. "He may just go back."

Mother's victorious look had not receded. She turned around on the piano bench, while the piano continued playing itself behind her. "I regret to say that has happened a few times. But never at this door. This is my favorite door. Want to know why?" Judging by the nature of her grin, Echo was not at all sure it wanted to know why. Mother's mouth became a wiggly line of barely-withheld laughter. "It's the only one located in a basement." Echo was perplexed. What special benefits were posed by a door located in a basement? Surely it must attract the smallest number of children. "What's the fastest way to get a small child to run up the basement stairs?" Mother softly clapped twice as if she were in a cheesy Clapper commercial from the future. Outside in the hall, the warm glow coming from downstairs vanished, suggesting the basement had just been plunged into darkness, with the nearest trace of available light now on their floor. There was a hint more delay than they may have expected, but soon enough, little footsteps were pattering up the stairwell, stopping at the landing as the child presumably calmed down and entered a state of hesitation again.

Mother slapped her knee. "Favorite door! They always run up the stairs! It's incredible!" She paused, button eyes glinting. "You know… When I was young, I used to run for the basement stairs as soon as the candlelight blew out. But now," she said, melodramatically draping a hand over her forehead, "I don't even bother to chase them." She descended into a fit of giggling.

Echo knew it would need to leave for the kitchen soon anyway, before the boy scraped up the courage to say hello, and this was as good an excuse as any to leave. "I'll...leave you here to enjoy yourself, ma'am." Echo could hear Mother's continued sniggering at her own terrible, cliche joke as it departed. The puppet servant wished it still had the ability to roll its eyes.

[X]

Meanwhile, Al darted up the stairs, slowing down when he reached the landing and closing the door quickly but quietly behind him. He meandered slowly through the hallway. The house was still a nearly mirror image of his own with only minor variations, but just enough differences to imply that if he wasn't dreaming, he must be in someone or something else's home, where he absolutely did not belong. He couldn't believe he had actually run up the stairs like an idiot. Should he make himself known? No one in his home played the piano, so he had no idea who he'd find in that room. Should he try to leave through the front door? He looked out one of the windows facing the front of the house, and immediately things got turnt again. Nighttime. Full moon. Sky full of stars you normally couldn't see in the city pollution. Absolutely nothing past the front lawn, as if the house were floating in space.

Al turned around and slid down the wall to the ground, and gently hit the back of his head against the door frame, before doing something he was often known to do- talk to himself. Although at least now he had a face to talk at. "Why are we like this?" he hissed at the doll. "We're bored every other day, we could have just gone on being bored today, too." The doll was silent, obviously. "I'm not clear on why I would dream this." Silence. "I already know I feel stuck here, I don't see why that was necessary," he commented, pointing emphatically out the window at what presumably was psychologically-manufactured symbolism...he hoped. Silence. "I guess it's an adventure." Silence. "We're going to die young." Silence. "Right, I suppose we won't die boring. Point taken." With intermingled anxiety and intrigue, he tip-toed toward the sound of the playing and humming and at last encountered the mysterious player, who seemed as if she didn't hear him for a moment, but soon stopped, turned around, and stood. He quietly gasped. (Mother almost did as well- she was not mentally prepared for the shocking cuteness of the tiny bowtie and little suspenders up close.)

A few feet away from him stood a caramel-skinned, lithe black woman of average height with piled up chocolate curls, an oval face with a few dark freckles dotted across her upper cheeks and bridge of her gently sloping nose, and a slightly gap-toothed smile. It'd be fair to add she had honey-colored eyes if the eyes in questions weren't buttons. "You arrived! Did you find it here easily enough?" Alastor didn't know how to answer the creature. He had no sense of what it was or what it wanted. "What's the matter, mon étoile?" she asked in a voice that seemed too familiar. Although he couldn't actually remember hearing it, he knew immediately that it was his mother's voice because this was clearly...supposed to be his mother's face.

So an imposter. Some children in his situation might be optimistic enough to assume this was the spirit of their dead mother, but as positive as Al had the capacity to be, he was not that far off in the weeds. He asked in a tone that was polite but insistent, "Who are you?"

Mother immediately saw that, as expected, Plan A was not going to work out. She steered smoothly into plan B. "I'm your Other Mother, darling. I've been watching you. I hoped I'd get your attention soon." She trotted in place, light on her feet. "I'm so excited to finally meet you!"

Alastor shot her a cocked-headed, squinty-eyed look of disbelief. She couldn't be trying to say 'fairy godmother' could she? That would be ridiculous. "I don't understand."

"Your Other Mother," the woman said very confidently, as though reminding him that the sky was blue. "It's quite common."

Maybe she was trying to say 'guardian angel,' which somehow struck Alastor as even less likely, if that was possible. But he was not ready to dispute this yet. He had no idea what was going on and didn't want to rock the boat too hard until he could at least guess. He would have apologized for finding himself in her house by accident, but she seemed to have expected him. Why had she expected him? He settled on small talk, introductions. "What's your name?"

Mother was honestly a bit (pleasantly) surprised. Most children were too greedy or impolite, or too busy being awed or terrified, to bother to ask what she called herself. He had read a lot of fairy tales- could he want to learn her name to gain power over her? No, no. Because he had read so many he must also know that giving their real name to humans was something supernatural entities rarely did. He was actually being polite, she decided.

Alastor was 150% trying to gain power over her. Never hurts to try.

"I go by Terri."

Al looked perplexed. This seemed anticlimactic. "Terri?"

"Terese." As many people living in a foreign country do, she had taken a name to use amongst the humans. It derived from 'hunter.' Or 'harvester.' Or, if you averaged them,'reaper.' She softened it by adding a fake surname. Humans liked surnames- they suggested you came from someplace, which was much more comfortable than admitting that, for all you knew, you one day spawned casually from nothing. "McGyver. Terri McGyver."

Alastor repeated it in his head. Terri McGyver? She literally sounded like something that had just stepped out of an Irish fairy circle, bolstering his suspicions. He'd better just go on being polite. "I...ended up here accidentally. I'm glad I didn't scare you. But, um, why were you expecting me?"

The woman pointed at the poppet in his hand with the key around its neck. "I was told to."

She was suggesting his mother had left him this with the intention of sending him here? You know what- Alastor didn't have the attention to devote to this mystery yet. He'd rather spend his mental energy on not taking his eyes off the fairy(?) creature.

She was staring at him intently as well. "Get in a scuffle?" she asked, pointing to the dirt on his shirt and a bruise slowly darkening on his face.

"Oh." He shrugged sheepishly. "Maybe?"

"Mayyybe?" she imitated him, teasingly. "Not suspicious at all. Do you need any ice?"

"I'm fine."

"Who started it? Did you win?"

Despite the overarching sense of dread and wrongness of this situation, Alastor was pleasantly distracted by this exchange. Specifically because the words 'Who started it?' would probably never have come out of his father's mouth. He appreciated that she was interested and didn't automatically assign him blame.

In context, 'Who started it?' was a tough question. "He provoked me, and I hit him." In context, 'Who won?' was also a tough question. "I guess I won." He didn't care to admit that 'winning' meant he had to hide for the rest of the day.

Although ice had been declined, another woman came out of the kitchen and silently handed Terri some ice in a towel before leaving the room again. Servants? She must be wealthy. That seemed right. The house seemed to mirror Alastor's in most ways aside from the fact that it was in better condition and had a few nicer or altogether different items in it. The piano was one.

Terri handed him the ice and touched his cheek. "Would a kiss make it better?"

Al shot her a look that clearly communicated, 'Aren't I a little old for that?'

Reading his face loud and clear, she asked, "How old are you, sweetie?"

"Almost eight."

"Oh! My mistake." She found it amusing that he thought he was too old for affection, but to be honest, the little cutie was so small up close that she had fleetingly forgotten he wasn't even younger than he was. "I think you may need a better diet, dear. Would you like anything to eat?"

"Oh… Thank you, but don't trouble yourself." Weren't you never supposed to eat fairy food?

Terri sighed and wilted dramatically. "It's not poisoned. Or cursed. I'm not trying to fatten you up. And you won't starve to death because nothing else will satisfy you. Phht. You need to learn how to have fun!" The accusation that he was no fun landed perfectly- the child was clearly miffed. Success!

"I'm plenty fun. I just don't know you."

With a puckered-mouthed smirk, she clicked her heels together and giggled, "But I know you." Terri ushered him toward the dining room. Al didn't resist. He had no idea how dangerous the thing was and didn't know what his options were. In fact, he was starting to have a lot more sympathy for the children in fairy tales, who he had previously judged as painfully naive. Maybe they weren't gullible at all, Alastor realized- maybe they were just playing along until they could figure out what the hell to do. In the dining room, a new red flag stuck out to him. One of the few details in this room that didn't mirror his house's own dining room was the decor over the fireplace. That was where his father displayed the taxidermy, but here there were some ambiguous framed silhouettes, some of them appearing to depict children.

"Have some cornish hen?" Terri asked, uncovering two of the many dishes set on the table. Al looked interested but not as much as she'd have liked. "Ah, well, I thought I'd offer, but I figured that'd be mostly for me. What've you been eating? A lot of poorly-cooked venison and rabbits?"

"I think they're alright."

"Yes, certainly, if they're prepared right. But I doubt your father's much of a chef. Not from what I can smell on my side of the house, anyway. Well. How would you like it?" She snapped her fingers, and several puppets emerged from the kitchen carrying trays. "Venison steak? Meatloaf? Stew?" She sniffed the air. "Mmmn. The slow-cooked one is driving me nuts right now. I think we should have that. ...What about rabbit dumplings? I know it's terrible for you, but it's also amazing buttermilk fried."

The child's eyes grew 100% wider. As if by magic, all concerns were wiped from his mind by the delectable smell wafting toward him.

"I considered making some jambalaya today, but I didn't quite feel like it, so… I'll make it next time. I promise," Terri said. You never cooked their favorite meal the first time- that was a valuable tool with which to lure them back a second time! She pointed at the spread and noted, "You will have to eat some vegetables to have desert."

This rule didn't bother Al one bit. It all looked cooked to perfection and there were plenty of options- perfect roasted mixed vegetables, sauteed brussel sprouts, green bean almondine, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn on the cob, stuffed mushrooms. He looked ready to faint.

"I think you may need to even out your blood sugar, sport," Terri commented, tilting him upright.

"I'm dreaming," Al decided aloud.

"Great news! That means you can eat as much as you want!"

As much as he wanted to resist, he gave in. It had been so long since he had scraped together a standard-sized meal, let alone a feast. This was more a product of his father failing to go out to buy enough food than outright poverty alone, although they certainly seemed on that track. And, of course, it helped that the food was incredible.

"Desert?" Terri asked. Al made a noise that sounded probably defeated but maybe interested, depending upon what it was. He was not a big fan of sugary things, but Terri was already well aware and had prioritized savoriness and spice over sweetness. "Hot chocolate?" she offered, before specifying, "It's extra-dark chocolate, with chili powder and espresso in it. Pumpkin pie or sweet potato pie? I know there's a big controversy, but I'm leaning more toward sweet potato because you don't have to spice the hell out of it to get enough flavor. (There's still plenty of spice, don't worry.) The pumpkin's creamier, though. Have an opinion?"

By the end of all this, he really was ready to faint.

"Wish I could get a date to be that woozy over me," Terri said. "I guess it's true that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach- it's much too difficult to stab through the chest." She immediately regretted the joke- she needed to remember to exert some control over this sense of humor with the children. But the little boy surprised her by coughing and- just as she grew concerned that he was about to choke- successfully swallowing and commencing with uncontrollable giggling. Despite the dark humor, it was just about the sweetest giggle in the world. Huh. That went better than expected! She was pleasantly surprised by how overwhelmingly adorable she found this one to be. It was ideal- she didn't want to have to pretend with one in the long term. This boy was so precious she genuinely wanted to get nearer to him.

In the other room, the piano started playing, although she was nowhere near it, and, already in a daze induced by the impending food coma, Al found himself following her to the couch. He thought, sleepily, that the song may have been one his mother used to sing, from a memory that was only barely accessible, but in fact we might recognize it as 'Deep in the Dark.' He was sitting on the couch next to her and his eyes were getting heavy…

Alastor slowly grasped at consciousness again out of the fog, an indeterminable amount of time later, and promptly entered a panic.

"Awww. Little one," said the stranger's voice as a hand patted his head.

Al bolted up and scrambled to the other side of the couch.

Terri giggled sweetly. "I didn't poison you. You went into a food coma, darling."

Still anxious, suspicious, and now also embarrassed, Al wondered, had he seriously been dead asleep with his head resting on that pillow in her lap?

"I think you were having sweet dreams," Terri commented. "You were smiling. I like your smile. Do you usually knock out like that?"

"...No."

"Thought not. Did you have a good nap? Are you ready for some after dinner entertainment?"

"I need to go. My father...will be offended if I walk out on him for long… It's best to keep him happy." And it was an extremely high priority to get out of there as soon as possible. How on earth had she suckered him into eating enough to pass out on a stranger's couch? This was absolutely witchcraft. It was the only thing he could think of to explain his own out of character behavior.

"Is he keeping you happy?" Terri asked, and was met with uncomfortable silence. She gave him a look that on one hand seemed caring and concerned and on the other hand seemed strangely invasive, like she was staring directly into his mind. "Before you came here, you were hiding from something." Alastor tried not to let the shame show on his face. "Don't be embarrassed," she said. "It's smart to choose your battles. ...Why do you think you stumbled upon me today? You want someone to help you, right? Protection?"

"I can look out for myself," the little boy blurted, sounding offended.

"I believe you. You do quite well. Still...I know you hate hearing this," she said, judging by the last time she'd pointed it out, "but...you're just so very small. I don't like considering what could happen if your luck runs out." She played a few broken chords and something happened. He could feel the notes as she began informing him in a soft, soothing, musical voice that the sweet smile on his face made him look like easy prey, and until he was old enough to defend, perhaps he should let her be his friend.

If there was any one reasonable-sounding tip Alastor had absorbed from fairy tales, it was that if someone randomly started singing at you, either they were spellcasting or they were crazy. Probably both. So he began finding excuses to interrupt her. "If you're not a predator yourself," Al challenged her, deciding to call her on it, "why do you have those right where my father keeps the taxidermy?" He pointed at the mysterious framed silhouettes above the fireplace.

Terri seamlessly pivoted. "Sweetie, I meant I'm not a threat to you. Not that I pose no threat at all. How useful of a fairy godmother could I be if I couldn't mince your enemies like onions?" she asked, with a wrinkle of her nose that suggested she would be winking, insidiously yet playfully, if she had human eyes.

"Oh?" said the boy. He tried to project skepticism, but she could see his adorable little ears pricking up with intrigue, with hope that this could be legitimate. Human ears did it, too. You just needed to possess the visual acuity to notice, and she did. Bingo.

"Of course. Those are what I hunted for or with my children…" That hypnotic voice returned. "My eyes see far and wide, wherever your enemies try to hide, and I assure you that they never blink. My nose is keen and wise. You'll never fall for a villain's lies because I promise that I'll know the stink. What sharp teeth I have- the better to shred and to carve and to stab at the ogres who beat you, and dragons who cheat you, and ignorant villagers who mock and mistreat you. Baby, I don't think you get me- I'd protect you if you'd let me, but if you won't let me get near, then it's useless I fear." Making a rhyme about the slaughter of enemies sound like a comforting lullaby was a hard sell, but somehow she was pulling it off.

"And there will be sirens, eventually. Worse. Still," she warned him, dramatically. "But! No siren can out-sing me," she promised. "I'll send them right back into the watery grave they try to put you in. Don't worry at all." The boy looked more interested than before but not necessarily more convinced. "I can see you still think of me as a predator who will prey on you, not for you," she acknowledged.

Well, thought Alastor, she was the one who kept comparing herself to a wild animal. Why should he expect to be able to tame her? Even if he managed to, he had to account for the fact that she could snap at a moment's notice. His family's own dog had done so because the poor old mutt simply got too old and confused. He still had the scar on his leg where it bit him before his father had to put it down. "And what if you turn on me?"

"Don't give me a reason to," she shot back playfully. "In every fairy tale you've ever read, haven't entities like myself typically rewarded good children and punished bad ones?"

Alastor could think of a few exceptions to that rule. But that wasn't what he chose to call out. "But they were written by humans," he said. "After years and years of being told different ways. That's the same reason Mama didn't feel sure about the Bible."

Terri shrugged. He didn't trust the accuracy of stories that had made it through too many rounds of telephone. Sure. Fair is fair. "All right, point made. You know what I know is a fact, though? Plenty of predators make excellent mothers. Lions. Tigers. Bears (oh my). Wolves. Even some spiders- very self-sacrificing critters, you know… I have such a lonely heart and such a big, blank space, so let me share a part-"

There was a crash from the windowsill as a potted plant fell. Terri stopped her playing and singing as she whipped around in surprise, looking for the goddamned cat. Meanwhile, Alastor shook the fuzziness out of his head. Now that he had snapped out of the trance, he could react to the degree with which he was enticed by the music with the proper amount of awe. The music, and the voice. She did not have the most technically excellent voice in the world, but it was affecting. Compelling. There had already been a number of things that merited wonder and awe, so Terri actually found herself a surprised that he honed in on something so specific, like-

"Your voice," the little boy uttered.

"Excuse me?"

Transfixed, almost aggressively, Alastor said, "I want it."

After the initial bewilderment wore off, Terri easily understood why he was enthralled by this superpower. Surely he would love to have more influence over those around him, who currently had far too easy of a time backing him into a corner whenever they wanted to. "Haha, well now. This seems a little bit backwards, buuuuttttt…" She had left the piano to cross the room and pinch his cheek. "...if I get a charming little prince out of it, I'm game!" She dismissed his inability to understand the joke and kept going. "You want to be able to do it, too, is that right?"

"How does it work?"

"You only need to think about the reaction you want. No particular trick to it. Listen, Button, why don't you try it and see how you like it?"

"For?" Alastor asked.

"For fun," Terri responded with a sparkling smile.

Al fought the urge to roll his eyes and specified, "In exchange for?"

"Free sample. But, if you want more, you'll have to come back," she sing-songed, booping him on the nose for effect, resulting in the child wrinkling his nose in distaste and backing away quickly. "Ah. Pardon me," she said, taking a step back. "It's quite alright. I don't like to be touched either. Seems I need to remember my manners." She mimed a nose boop instead.

Then she grinned widely and thrust out her hand. She was not normally a fan of rigid deals. Too high-risk for her. But humans liked the comfort of a deal, and making the child feel comfortable at this stage was key, or he would never return. Dangling the carrot of a prize to win if he did was also critical. At Alastor's look of consternation, she said, "Let's shake on it. I let you take it for a spin. If you want more, come back."

"Why do you want me to come back?"

"I want to spend time with you. I told you I've been waiting." She did. The child was every bit as bright as she had expected, given the parents. (Bert, she understood, had been a pretty brilliant engineer before frying most of his brain cells. And Camille had been a witty jokester and riddle-solver.) He needed to loosen up, but that wouldn't take much effort. She could feel the same aura of chaos prickling around him as she had felt from his mother, simmering just under the surface. More investigation was warranted to see if this one might be good for a long game, but it felt promising.

"Why are you so…?" Even with a vocabulary that exceeded that of most 7.5-year-olds by a mile, he struggled to find the right word. 'Honest' or 'straightforward' wasn't right...she almost certainly wasn't those.

Terri figured it out. "Why aren't I sugar-coating as much as you would expect?"

Alastor nodded.

"You're...unique in the way you approach things. And I'm responding to that. But. I appreciate it, Button." She smiled, warmly, and the warmth was not entirely faked. "Quite a bit."

She accompanied him to the basement landing and he mentioned, "Your basement light's out, ma'am."

With a sheepish smile, she snapped her fingers and the light returned. "I may have been impatient." As annoying as that was, Al was a very unique character, so to him it was somehow charming. She was funny and wiley.

Terri offered him a covered dish of leftovers. "How am I supposed to explain these?" he asked.

She shrugged. "You'll devise something. Please don't waste it. I worked hard on it."

Al remembered his manners. "Thank you. ...It's delicious."

"I'm so glad. ...Why are you hesitating?"

Al was afraid of sounding crazy (which was hilarious after some thought), so he didn't mention the long hallway with the doors.

"Would you like me to walk you home?"

It was one thing to be in that darkness knowing he was the only one there, but with this creepy stranger? No thanks. "I'll be okay. Thank you for offering."

She still politely walked to the bottom of the stairs with him and opened the door, revealing a slightly less harsh hallway. The doors weren't in the way, the full length of it seemed shorter, and it now seemed to be twinkling with something like stars. "I'll see you soon, little one," she said before sending him off.

Terri smiled after him. As cautiously quiet as he had tried to be, she had picked up a wealth of information from his nonverbals and the emotions she could smell with her very sensitive nose. He was so interesting.

But soon she heard a clatter upstairs and she darkened. Was that rotten vermin in her house? Scowling, she marched up the stairs threateningly. "Hey! Can't you keep your fuzzy ass out of things for once?" She saw the tip of a black tail disappear again over her window ledge. Terri groaned. "You see that you benefit from me, right? You come in and out of my doors all the time, going on grand international hunting adventures. You have about 20 human families feeding and petting you," she added, as a hint of envy snuck into her voice. "Why pick fights with me over these children?"

"I expect you think this one will be different?" the cat, Pluto, chuckled from outside the window. "He's unusual, I'll give you that. But not that unusual."

"I don't expect anything. I'm cautiously optimistic because being positive is a virtue." She disappeared from the window and reappeared behind the cat outside, causing it to skitter aside. "I need to keep my spirits up somehow. There seems to be shockingly little variation amongst these human children. You'd hope one or two would be creative thinkers, but these creatures fail at everything, even producing a normal bell curve."

Pluto was very amused by her characterization of accepting her deranged processes as 'creative thinking.' "They don't all behave alike because they're a boring species. The common thread is you."

Terri had been waiting very patiently for the opportunity to snatch his tail. Mercilessly, doublehanded, she spun him in a circle and hammer-threw him into the air, launching the yowling animal into one of the small rips between worlds like something out of a Loony Toon. She cackled victoriously, but somehow, within seconds, a tail brushed against her legs. "What the-"

Though his fur was very bristled, Pluto picked up where he left off as though nothing had happened. "I know you think his personality lends itself more to this than usual, but he's going to be more of a challenge than you think. He's very unwilling to engage with anything that might suggest that he's losing mental stability, or that might lead to it… Which means he'll be fleeing from you within days, even if he does believe you're real," the cat snickered. "That aside, I find he's pretty reserved in general… and that's coming from a cat."

"Please. He's a little boy, he's not that sophisticated. He has no one. If he's desperate enough, he'll reach out for anything that responds."

"Then why do you think he threw all those doors up?" Pluto asked smugly.

"He was creating more barriers between himself and his father."

"He was creating more barriers between himself and anyone new. If it makes you feel any better, for once it's not about you specifically. He'd shut out anybody. You wanted a challenge? You've got one."

[X]

Alastor wondered if he should test the voice at all. If it really did work, he didn't want to tempt himself into going back for more. As amusing as Terri struck him in retrospect, she was also undoubtedly sinister. (He simultaneously appreciated and shuddered at the fact that she knew instinctively to lure him with promises of glorious vengeance. Or was it instinctive? Clearly she possessed enough information to suggest she had been watching him- he just didn't know how.) But Alastor was also a naturally adventurous soul with few opportunities for good entertainment. Even if he refused to return for more later and had to tolerate the disappointment, he had to give the voice a whirl, at least once.

His first use of the siren power was very benign- he successfully cajoled his father into leaving the house to take him hunting. 'Well, that backfired,' Echo silently thought as Terri fumed. Despite being significantly annoyed, Terri reminded Echo and herself, "He does still have to come back."

"Should we give him the opportunity to get more creative?"

Terri considered. "Sure, I can agree on that. That is something I want to gauge anyway." She would go on to be very grateful for Echo's suggestion, because Alastor's second use of the siren voice was spectacular, a work of art- at least where Terri was concerned.

It was the same day. As Alastor and his father returned from their trip, they ran across Billy and his father. After the incident a few days ago, when no fallout resulted, Alastor decided Billy must not have ratted him out due to embarrassment over being bested by a younger kid. Small victories! But the two boys still had matching bruises. The two fathers quickly did the math. As Bert realized exactly what his son had- the fact that the neighbor kid hadn't complained must have meant his own son won- he struggled not to look entertained and failed. Billy's dad was not amused and, confirming Alastor's earlier suspicions, actually took it out on Billy first, smacking the boy over the head and demanding to know why he hadn't said anything. Next, the two men entered a shouting match, which the neighbor laser-focused on how Bert could not possibly model good behavior for a child. As they fought, the boys wandered off. Billy would not be ignored. He threw a horseshoe from the game he and his father had been playing at Alastor, who dodged it. It landed on the trolley tracks- they lived on the main drag, so it passed right by their house.

"We'll see who wins this round," Billy said, nodding his head over his shoulder at the two men in the distance. "No matter what, I think you lose later."

Al had a few thoughts. One was a very emotional thought, despite having been securely corralled by impulse control and good sense- Billy needed to die. The other thoughts were about Terri. He knew it was possible for her to see him. She had also alluded to having a high kill count. Could Alastor possibly deter her by showing himself to be just as ruthless as she was? He supposed he couldn't outdo her, but he could show her he'd put up a more strenuous fight than the average child target.

Could he really do it, though? Alastor had no desire to actively hurt anyone who didn't deserve it, even if he did enjoy some good old schadenfreude. But Billy… he thought back to the way the neighbor boy had talked about his mother, had made those threats, was willing to beat on a much smaller child, and was cruel to the cat. Billy, Alastor told himself, was the kind of person who might grow up to do...bad things...if he didn't prevent it from happening.

Yes. This was understandable. Alastor was the good guy here.

As he heard the trolley approaching, Alastor looked Billy dead in the eye, at the horseshoe, back at Billy, and said in the compelling siren voice, "Go get it."

"What?" Billy seemed to fight it at first, but whatever Terri had provided Alastor with was strong stuff.

"Go get it."

After a moment or two, Billy seemed not to even faintly question the wisdom of this. The timing was perfect. The crack and the spat were so satisfying. Alastor found himself feeling grateful that the trolley car was red. Yes, yes. That was probably better for the witnesses' morale. He certainly didn't want to upset anyone else. After all, Alastor was, in general, a very sweet and considerate little boy.

[X]

Terri watched the murder in in awe as Echo clapped its hands over its mouth next to her. "Oh. My. GOD." Even through its horror, Echo noted that Terri rarely invoked the name of a 'god' unless extraordinarily surprised.

Terri felt like an absolute fool-a feeling she wouldn't normally have acknowledged-for ever questioning whether this child would cut it. Look at the glint in his eye. That smile. The still sereness of him while watching such a horrific scene, with the exception of a pleased- pleased!- little twitchtwitchtwitch of his precious nose as he struggled not to laugh! That child. That. Child. She must have THAT CHILD!

"Echo… I need that child."

Echo's attention was finally pulled away from the image cast by the scrying device by the look on Terri's face, which was even more terrifying than the expression on Alastor's. "...Ma'am?" The boss often went on melodramatic vision quests, but she seemed particularly gung-ho about this venture.

"This one is different, Echo! I knew the breeding would work eventually!"

"Ma'am, please don't get too invested too quickly." Echo could almost hear the laugh track in the background. What a useless thing to say.

Ignoring Echo entirely, Terri ranted, passionately, "I need its ridiculous little suspenders and its tiny bowtie. I need its eyes. I need its nose. I need its evil, evil smirk and its nefarious giggle. I need its faint little freckles. (He has freckles. Did you know he had freckles? You can see them if you look really close.)" Her eye would have ticked if it could have. "I need its whole insidious face, Echo, or I will die."

"Ma'am, I only worry for your health. I applaud your enthusiasm, but don't disappoint yourself. You were too quick to label a few others as 'different' as well, and I remember how it hurt you."

Regrettably, Echo had a point. The thought of one day replacing those warm honey brown eyes with simple black buttons was extraordinarily grim to Terri. But then she had another thought that filled her with relief. "I won't have to do it this time, Echo. I won't have to forcibly trap him. I'm positive."

"What makes you so certain, ma'am?"

"That child may be a prodigy. And there's a drawback to being that smart. People that smart...well, they can invent viable-sounding explanations or rationales for anything, to the point that they can convince themselves of things that are patently false. You see how he did that, right?" she asked, pointing. "How he convinced himself killing that boy was the 'right' thing to do? You can't convince me that wasn't what just ran through his head. ...And he so dislikes negativity…" One of the few things Terri regularly told the children that wasn't a lie was her assertion that 'she knew them.' She studied up, watched them closely, learned their body language, until she could infer many of their thought patterns with ease, the way she had done just now.

"Where are you heading with this?" Echo asked.

"I don't have to blind someone who's willing to blind himself. All I have to do is spin a few justifications here and there that nudge him in the right direction, and encourage him to focus on the positive, and he'll do the rest himself." Terri was so eager for someone else to at last see her the way she saw herself, her mouth actually watered. "My little one," she declared, already confident enough to assert ownership, "will think I'm perfect... FOREVER."

[X]

Note: Just want to quickly confirm I'm aware that it is completely unacceptable that Mother is practicing soft-core eugenics. It makes sense from a lore perspective, and I honestly think it's probably in character, but I don't condone it.