Chapter 6: Under the Milky Way
For Husk, restocking from the basement could be good or bad. What made it either depended on what led up to his trip downstairs, and on what he found on his return. There'd been a little group of potential clients earlier, the Princess' enthusiastic tour ending at the bar for non-alcoholic beer and soft drinks: Vaggie's contribution to the tour idea. Judging by the glazed eyes and muttered exchanges, no takers in this bunch. Some days he just couldn't deal with Charlie's never-ending optimism. That made retreating to bring up the bar's real selections good.
What made it bad was seeing Alastor at the bar, a half-empty bottle of Aquavit in front of him and two empty bottles to his side.
Wonderful. Just what he wanted to deal with: a drunken Radio Demon.
He settled the crate of bottles and unpacked it, hoping if he ignored Alastor, Alastor would ignore him.
"Husker, my good fellow, mix me up a French 75, won't you?"
No such luck.
"Don't have the fixings for it."
"Now you do."
Bottles, a shaker and a sieve that hadn't been there before appeared in the crate. Husk hissed.
"Why not just make it yourself?" he groused, flipping down a champagne flute from above the bar.
He expected a smart-ass response. He didn't get it. Alastor drained his shot glass, poured another and tossed it back, then poured a third.
"Husker," he said, studying the aquavit label, "why do women make sex so complicated?"
Husk stared, continuing to add ingredients to the shaker. "Why the fuck are you asking me this? Who do I look like, Dear fucking Abbey?"
Alastor canted an eye at him. "Maybe."
"Oh, ha ha." Husk gripped the shaker, wishing it was Alastor's neck, and expertly rocked it back and forth. "Let me guess, ya finally took my advice about getting your wick dipped every so often and you got burned." He strained the shaker with the sieve into the champagne flute and topped it off with champagne. The Radio Demon with a crush. He garnished the flute with a lemon slice and placed the cocktail in front of Alastor.
"I did no such thing," Alastor said with great dignity. He sipped. "Excellent. Keep them coming, Husker, there's a good man."
Husk snorted. "Right, you're just moaning like a thirteen-year-old who got his face slapped after copping his first feel for no particular reason." He'd be pushing his luck if there were others around, but their history gave him some leeway. Same with Niffty. He started on another French 75.
"It's not like that."
"Yeah? Then what's it like?"
"Little blonde piece of fluff," Alastor muttered. He downed his first 75. "Should have been easy. So much potential for entertainment …"
"You're not convincing me I'm wrong." Hadn't pictured the Radio Demon the type to fall for a succubus, though.
"Instead, she's smart. And sharp. And she doesn't hold back against me." Half the second French 75 followed the first.
"Who doesn't?" Angel Dust sauntered into the lobby from the employees-only door, dragging a wheeled trash can behind him. He headed for the bar.
"This is an A-B conversation, Angel, so see your way out." A fourth French 75 joined the third. Husk pulled a bottle of Wild Turkey from under the counter and drank.
"I wouldn't be here if somebody hadn't forgotten to take out the garbage before the tour came through earlier."
Husk flipped him off. "I was catching up on my early mid-late afternoon drinking."
"Looks like you're into your late early-evening drinking, too." Angel hefted up the bar's garbage bag and tied it, then dropped it into the can. "So, Al, who's this broad Husk doesn't want me to hear about?"
"Mind your own business, 'schnookums'," Husk said.
"No, no, let him stay. He might offer some insight." A shot of aquavit chased by half of the third 75. "He's almost a woman himself."
"Hey, watch it, you overgrown Bam-" Husk clamped his hand over Angel's mouth. Alastor, seemingly oblivious, pulled his microphone cane from the air.
"The firm's changing my work hours by the day, and like you said, my side of the deal's a bust. There's no reason for further visits until it's time to complete yours."
The words echoed through the lobby, cool and crisp and polite on the surface, bleeding hurt and frustration and despair underneath. Husk could tell; he'd been on the receiving end of similar speeches many times in his life. His brow furrowed. Was he hearing right? That wasn't a demon's voice, but a real, human woman's. "Hey…"
"…my side of the deal…."
Deal.
Husker smacked his forehead. "Christ jumped-up Jesus in a side car, did you do what I think you did?" The venison made sense now.
Angel whistled. "Holy shit, Al, she's got it bad." He leaned on the bar, grinning. "I am officially jealous."
"Jealous of whom?" Niffty jumped onto a barstool. "Angel, you forgot the second floor bathroom, but that's okay. Where's that lady we heard?" She glanced about. "We could still use more of a lady's touch around this place!"
"She ain't here, Nifty, just her voice." Husk sliced more lemon for the fifth French 75.
"Hey, did someone from the tour group come back?" Charlie emerged from the staff room, Vaggie on her heels. "We thought we heard someone new."
"You did, kinda." Angel turned his grin on the newcomers. "Alastor's got a girlfriend, Alastor's got a gi—"
Alastor slammed his hands down on the bar. "She is not my girlfriend. She is business!"
Husk noted the curious glances exchanged among the hotel staff. Alastor's business was deal-making; everyone knew it and never discussed it. Having him openly admit to one was weird; the implication it was sexual was downright bizarre.
" . If you say so…but…" Charlie smiled anxiously. "… maybe she'd like to stay at the Hotel, anyway? I mean, if it's not against your deal-making ethics and all…"
Some days Husk was really tired of Alastor's bullshit. "She can't. She's not a demon."
Everyone looked at him. Husk garnished another French 75.
As expected, when the realization sank in, the shit hit the fan.
Charlie's eyes were huge. "You mean… she's human?"
"WHAT WOMAN WOULD BE DELUSIONAL ENOUGH TO LET HIM TOUCH HER?!"
"Yo, Vaggie, tone it down!" Angel yanked Charlie's girlfriend behind the bar. "Our pal's having a moment of crisis here!"
"Are you really going to Earth?" Niffty asked. "Would you bring back more Cheetos? Not the last ones, they tasted funny, but the originals?"
Up until this point Alastor had maintained the fixed, I'm-deciding-which-one-of-you-to-kill-first smile Husk had witnessed a very few times and survived to tell the tale. Now that expression slipped, replaced by Alastor's standard smile.
"Niffty, darling. You took the Cheetos, not Angel Dust?"
"I did! I'm sorry." Niffty wrung her hands. "I loved them and I hadn't had them in so long and you never said anything after and I thought you were being nice –"
Niffty's mouth formed an O as large as her eye. She pivoted on the bar stool to Husk. He facepalmed. "I'm not drunk enough for this."
"I don't get it." Angel Dust looked from Husk to Niffty. What's the big deal if she took them and not me?"
"Professional secrets, my dear fellow."
"Yeah, well, fuck your professional secrets." Husk grabbed a bottle of Mad Dog 20-20 and gulped. "He always knows what happens around one of his deal-signers. Unless something goes wrong. And something did." Another swig. "We're fucked."
Vaggie's spear was in her hands and lowered at Alastor. "¡Maldito bastardo furtivo!"
"That's enough!"
Charlie stood with arms outstretched, horns arching from the crown of her head; her hair coiled down to the floor.
"Alastor. You said your personal business wouldn't affect the Hotel. I'm holding you to that."
"My dear, I'm already ahead of you. You have nothing to worry about."
"Good. Everyone else..." She took a deep breath. "As Princess of Hell and heir to the throne, I'm ordering you to swear to never talk about Alastor's… deal with this person –"
"And how I manage my deals," Alastor cut in smoothly.
Charlie glanced at Alastor, then nodded sharply "—and how he manages his deals to anyone outside the Hotel." She folded her arms.
"Okay!" Niffty nodded. "I swear."
"Charlie, you can't be… fine. I swear."
"Hey, sure, my lips are sealed." Angel smirked. "I'd like to meet her. Anyone who can get Smiles here to do the mattress mambo has my respect."
"Yeah, yeah, I swear." Husk drank again. "For all the good it'll do."
#
The days until the winter solstice alternately rushed on and dragged by. Davies, Worth and Koseck existed in a twilight world of hectic projects and assignments and rounds of holiday parties, Secret Santa lunches and hours-long meetings that seemingly existed more for sharing bottles of high-end liquor and bull sessions with the attendees. Jemma would have found the chaos more bearable if the majority of the staff didn't treat the entire situation as an open Bacchanalia.
She had to dodge pinches and strokes in the hallways as well as the parties. She was constantly asked why she wasn't dressed in a cute little Santa's Elf outfit like a number of the firm's women. She'd been outright propositioned by a handful of partners, most of them married, for casual hook-ups or long-term arrangements, sometimes both. Her email account had a folder of invitations to private parties outside company grounds, cheerfully inquiring about her personal kinks: pet play, BDSM, choking, role-play scenarios? Exasperated, she answered the most recent email with a single sentence:
Vanilla is my kink.
Those emails stopped.
Outside work, she composed and mailed off her Christmas card list, bought the obligatory gifts for her parents, went through holiday cookbooks to decide what to make for her own place and word processing pool's cookie exchange. She drove to Eastern Market and Ann Arbor's Kindlefest to pick up a few other presents. She dug out her decorations from under the bed and the top of the linen closet. She spent the nineteenth decorating her home. The apartment-sized artificial tree had pride in place in the living room with the vintage ornaments collected over the years.
She wondered what Alastor would think of her Christmas tree.
Not much. Jemma snorted, adjusting tinsel. Bad enough she felt some sort of physical attraction, worse to cast him as a friend.
At least she knew where that impulse came from. Her family had turned into right-wing nutjobs when she wasn't looking. She had acquaintances at work, not friends, no one to associate with outside the firm. The Thanksgiving meet-up ended on an awkward note, so much so that no one had done anything beyond text shallow hi-how-are-you messages. (Kirsten was the exception; she kept asking if Jemma would come to church with her, ending always with "I'll pray for you.") Becky invited them to a New Year's Eve party she and John were hosting; they all replied with versions of "I'll have to see." No one mentioned a Christmas or New Year's meet-up just for the five of them.
She was lonely. Twice she'd been tempted to invert his last calling card and invite him back. She didn't miss the sex. She missed having someone to talk to, even it was someone whose interest in her was a façade serving his own ends. She didn't; she cut the cards into eighths and tossed them in the trash.
Knock off the pity party, Jemma Lee McIntire. She had tried to make Alastor see her as a fellow traveler, and failed. He didn't want to, and nothing she could do or say would change that. For both their sakes, she hoped whatever had in mind for the solstice worked, or it was going to be a long, miserable year.
Winter solstice, the twenty-first, was a casual day. For Jemma, this meant dress jeans, her best non-office sweater, Mukluks, and her ski jacket instead of the leather coat that cost more than one semester's worth of books. She thought of calling in sick and realized the anticipation would be worse.
No real work happened: she cleaned up three contracts and spent most of the day socializing, or trying to. She turned down an invitation to dinner and drinks with the rest of the word processing pool claiming a previous commitment.
Then she drove home.
She sat in her car for a few minutes before making herself leave it and take the stairs to her apartment.
She checked her mailbox. Nothing. Her hand shook as she unlocked the door.
She slipped inside, turned all the locks, dropped her keys into her purse and her purse on the small stationary table by the door. She headed for the kitchen.
Her apartment vanished.
She was outside, in a forest. The only way she knew it was a forest was the moonlight silvering tree bark in front of her. Shadows cast by that moonlight pooled on the snow covered ground. Wind whistled through branches, stabbed likes knives through her jeans and her useless Leatherette gloves. Her breath misted in the air.
Jemma spun in place. The forest surrounded her from horizon to horizon. No buildings. No roads. No fences, cel towers or signs. No distant hum of a highway or freeway. She looked up. No light pollution; stars covered the sky like spilled glitter. She could see the Milky Way.
"Jemma…'
(Run!) a voice screamed in her mind. (Run before he gets here!)
"Run where?" she cried aloud. She couldn't make out her hand in front of her face.
"Here, Jemma, Jemma, Jemma…"
Alastor's voice, but no Alastor in sight. Jemma took a step forward. Snow crunched underfoot, too loud in her ears.
"There you are, my dear. Remember the terms of our second deal?"
Jemma nodded, numb. How could his voice come from everywhere and nowhere…? Radio Demon.
"You said I should show you what I like, what I find fun. So I am. And what I need from you right now, sweetheart, is for you to run."
Jemma ran.
She threaded a path through the trees ahead of her. Beneath the snow the ground was uneven, layered with dead branches and leaves, throwing her off-balance. She caught herself on trees to keep steady. The wind increased to howls. Beneath the wind the sounds of the forest's nightlife whispered thinly: the calls of owls and other night-flying birds, the furtive movements of small animals. The moonlight turned intermittent. A glance up revealed clouds scudding across the sky, heavy and dark.
"Oh, no," breathed Jemma. "No, no, no…" She needed that light, weak as it was.
(Don't stop!) the voice in her mind insisted. Jemma ran on.
She didn't know how long she ran. Air burned in her lungs. No longer accustomed to a daily workout, her body protested with each stride. Stinging tears brought on by the bitter wind blurred her vision.
The ground tilted. Jemma stumbled and slid, windmilling her arms in a vain attempt to stay upright. She fell and rolled through the powdery snow, fetching up against a fallen tree trunk. When her blood no longer pounded in her ears, she checked for broken bone and sprains. She couldn't detect any, but her knees and ankles throbbed. Her left hand's glove had a long tear on its ring finger.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are. You can run, but you know you can't hide from me."
Jemma tensed. Slowly she crept upright, leaning on the tree trunk.
(Wait!) said the voice in her mind (Catch your breath.)
"Need to catch your breath? I'll allow it…once."
Jemma strained to hear something that indicated where he was. Nothing. The moon disappeared behind the clouds. Choking back sobs, Jemma started running.
Within a few strides crashing echoed parallel to her. The forest went completely silent.
"Jemma…"
The darkness grew denser, thickened with malevolent energy…an energy she hadn't experienced since that last disastrous night with Alastor.
He's here, she thought. But where?
Again the crashing noise, from the left. Jemma turned.
Silhouetted against the forest on a small rise stood a deer. Its head was oversized for its body, and both body and head gaunt, almost skeletal. Its rack of antlers stretched out unnaturally thin as well.
"Hello, darling. Playtime."
The deer stepped toward her. Jemma stared, unable to move.
He couldn't – he wouldn't – not as an animal–
No. No. No.
Jemma ran, and in her panicky rush, she thought she heard him laughing.
No human could outrun a deer. No deer would trot alongside a human like a dog coursing prey. Yet Jemma consistently remained ten or so yards ahead of Alastor, until Alastor casually bounded up to her. He nipped with his teeth or slashed with his antlers at her ski jacket, pulling away strips or large swathes, then pronked away.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she screamed after he tore away the jacket's side panel. "I'll fucking freeze!"
"Tch. Language." He butted her in the backside.
Jemma flung out her arms to break her fall, but she didn't. Instead her forelegs struck the ground and propelled her forward.
Forelegs?
The forest wasn't a dark, formless mass but composed of individual trees and foliage. The world exploded in scents carried on the wind, of snow and the differing trees and the myriad forest creatures that hunkered down in Alastor's wake. (Alastor. O god his scent -)
"That's better. You make quite a lovely doe."
The playful banter carried an undertone of an emotion she'd never heard from him: Lust.
Jemma ran.
This body didn't hurt, wasn't exhausted, and wasn't encumbered by fear or doubt. It possessed its own instincts which informed its decisions of how to move, when to turn, when to jump. Jemma let those instincts take control.
Time lost meaning. The forest they raced through stretched on, seemingly endless. A two-lane road, startling as a suddenly lit match, bisected the woods. Jemma's doe-body cleared it in a bound, Alastor right behind her.
Jemma slowed to a trot. No, keep running! She tried to pronk, to move in any direction; instead she stood still. Alastor sidled up to her, slid his legs over her side and mounted her.
This wasn't her, not really. A doe's body. She didn't feel the cold as she had before Alastor changed her shape. Her sense of smell remained a deer's. So why the familiar itch between her legs? She was still a deer!
"Perhaps you should make sure."
(DON'T LISTEN TO HIM!) cried out the voice in her mind.
Don't look and it won't hurt. Don't look at it won't hurt. He's playing games with you. Don't look and it won't hurt. Don't –
Jemma looked.
She rocked on her hands and knees. Her jacket was missing, her shirt sliced to ribbons. She was naked from the waist down. Gaunt deer legs bracketed her hands. A large furred body pressed onto her back, thrust forward .
Jemma screamed.
The forest vanished.
"…Incroyable."
The weight was gone from her. Jemma knelt on her kitchen linoleum, shivering. The linoleum was cold, but not as cold as the forest. A chorus of pain sang through her body. Arms (arms, real arms) gripped her around the middle, brought her to her feet; one still maintaining her, the other set her hands on the kitchen table.
Jemma kept her head lowered, and her eyes closed. She smelled musk of deer and the forest wind, rut and semen and her own blood. Her juices trickled down her thighs.
They had – he had changed her to a doe and then back while he was still –
Alastor canted her hips, positioning him between them. "Fantastique," he breathed in her ear, and shoved himself inside her. Jemma moaned, a broken little sound, and withdrew to a corner of her mind.
I can't I can't I can't –
"Stay with me, chère."" He forced her back to the present, to reality. "No hiding." He licked blood off her fingers. "You agreed."
He was thicker and longer and harder than all their previous sexual encounters. Each thrust, each touch of teeth and claw and tongue conspired to create a wellspring of ecstasy. The darkness that always surrounded Alastor coaxed that ecstasy further, entwined with it, battened on it.
"No…" Jemma's protest was barely a whisper. "I don't w –"
And then with the absolute certainty of her ridiculous, pointless extra sense, she knew.
This was what she'd bargained for, the Demon Lover of her foolish teenage self. This was the requirement to fulfill their contract and right whatever was wrong with the Radio Demon.
The wellspring peaked, and she cried out.
"Alastor!"
Exhaustion swept over her. Before she slipped into unconsciousness, Jemma imagined a kiss on the top of her head and a murmured, "Good girl…"
#
So this is afterglow.
Alastor sat in one of Jemma's kitchen chairs, Jemma perched on his lap, every muscle relaxed and happy. Nothing could worry him at the moment. Charlie's constant optimism made sense now. Other things made sense now, too. It had taken him over one hundred years, but he finally understood the fuss over sex.
Jemma shivered, burrowing into his chest. "Are you cold, dear?" he asked. She nodded. He summoned his jacket and draped it around her.
Save for the occasional whimper or startled motion, she'd been silent since orgasm. At those times he stroked her hair like he would soothe a frightened pet, and she calmed down. He would hate to lose her as he lost some of his victims as a serial killer, watching them retreat into a private world that swallowed them whole.
"You were wonderful, Jemma. Delightful entertainment. Inspirational." He meant that. He mulled over her commentary about the necessity for him to desire her during their hiatus. Much as he hated to admit it, Jemma made a certain amount of sense. But how to progress from there? Sex held the same appeal to him as mortal or demon: almost none.
But there were other lusts.
The hunt, the stalk and the chase, the kill – those had excited him as living man in a way that at times had almost been sexual. If he could tip that blood-lust somehow over to sex, that might do the trick. He came up with an experiment – the night's events – and succeeded.
Perhaps too well. He saw more wounds than he considered unavoidable.
"I'd hate to lose someone with your potential. Won't you say something for me?"
"…s-s-something for m-m-me…"
Alastor laughed. "There's my – "
His eyes narrowed. The stench of Heaven, like an overwhelming perfume, suddenly smothered the room.
"I know you're here, you wretched little vermin," he said. "And I know why. Did you really believe you could protect her from me?"
No answer. He didn't expect one… but the blasted, snooping cherubs didn't leave.
Alastor weighed his options. On one hand he could send this particular Tattling Trio back to the Pearly Gates easily enough; on the other they could be very useful. Jemma needed tending, and some instinct told him using his own powers would shatter her. He didn't want that.
And he had his own cleaning to see to. Angel and Husk would know about his rendezvous with Jemma in with a single whiff. He didn't want to spoil his good mood.
"Obviously, you're a little late for that. But you can still help her." The jacket slipped, displaying enough of Jemma's condition to evoke a sensation of holy dismay.
"Take care of my clever little lawyer," Alastor said with genuine fondness. He stroked her cheek. "She's had a long night."
12