[New Orleans, Winter 1907-Early 1908]

The night after his father died, Alastor slept next to Terri for comfort. Although she had contributed to many of his problems, he was adrift in uncertainty with her as the only person available to cling to (and at only 8 years old, he was already self-aware enough to be frustrated about it).

He found that, although she wasn't warm like a human, she was much like a pillow in that she could trap his own body heat without getting too hot. It was kind of nice... But after lying beside her in silence, it registered that she didn't breathe or have a heartbeat, and her button eyes couldn't visibly shut. Curious, Al whispered, "How do I know when you're asleep?"

Terri remained silent for a few moments, as though she'd dozed off, then sprung into action, whispering, "You don't!" and jumper-cabling his sides with a short cackle.

Alastor tensed up, one eye ticking. He could tolerate a lot, but after the recent emotional upheaval, he didn't yet have patience for shenanigans. His father was dead, had tried to take Al down with him, and had not even waited to help his son when he thought they were both in danger of being mauled. He was healing supernaturally rapidly, but the injury was still tender. Terri had proven herself dangerously erratic, so while he was still fond of her, he no longer felt secure. He didn't know where, or with whom, he would live. The child rolled over, facing away from Terri and grumbling quietly, vastly under-representing the amount of stress he was under in typical Alastor form.

Terri was forced to admit it was too soon after a tragedy for playfulness, even for a child so inclined to focus on the positive. "Would you prefer I left for a little while?"

"...No."

"Aren't you still angry?" she asked, surprised that he'd asked her to stay near him, and even more surprised by how easily he received her hand on his shoulder.

"I'm furious," he mumbled, face-down in the pillow. As evidence, a burst of static electricity shocked across the comforter, causing them both to flinch. Her trick had worked exactly as intended, Terri realized- he was using the ability she'd given him to unload anger that was meant for her, to avoid tension. When Terri began to pull him into a hug, Al rolled back over and leaned into it, allowing her to wrap two sets of arms around him. Wonderful.

"You're furious and you don't want me to adopt you, but you'll let me cuddle you like this? Thought you were too old for affection, Spiderling," she teased gently.

"It's complicated."

"You're complicated."

"You're more complicated."

The two complicated idiots dozed off together comfortably like a puppy and a kitten in a slipper.

Sweet as it was, this had not been the definitive 'happily ever after' moment. The little boy hadn't become a naïve sap overnight; neither had she magically transformed into a perfect, unselfish nurturer. They were both still con artists. Alastor didn't want to be disappointed anymore. Terri understood that, and could even identify, but her competitive side still thirsted for victory. As much as she genuinely liked him, she also wanted to conquer him. She'd have to win the defensively cynical little boy's trust, and he'd have to charm her into compliance, again and again.

After the emotional outpouring subsided and Al felt more like himself again, he decided he didn't believe Terri had helped him entirely out of kindness. She'd likely wanted to keep him around for hunting and luring; most people probably weren't as willing to assist as he was. What did this mean? Was he formally indebted to her for his life? Was he her slave? The mystery thickened as they danced around the issue of deciding how to proceed and at last opened discussion. First, the body.

"I may turn him into a pumpkin. I'd really like a nice pumpkin ale, and I'll bet he's already fermented inside," Terri jested. Alastor tried to have standards for himself, and joking about his newly-dead alcoholic father probably should have qualified as 'crossing the line,' but the asshole had tried to kill him, so Al couldn't completely stifle a smirk. It may have helped, too, that there wasn't much of a face left after the close-range gunshot. So. You know. He could have been poking fun at any unlucky man's corpse. (Insert grim laugh track here.) "Or I could use him as fertilizer for the garden," Terri continued. Al was still amused, but gave her a look of mock chastisement. "Well, I know you believe it's wrong to waste meat. I know what I'm having for dinner tonight. Want some?"

He kept laughing, but Alastor finally waved his hands crisscross in front of his face and told her, "Too far."

Terri gave him a blank look. "I wasn't joking that time." Seeing the boy's uneasy expression, she promised, "Oh, don't worry, his soul's already gone. I promise it won't keep him from suffering in Hell!" (Canned laughter.) Eventually, she guessed one of his real concerns. "Ah. Yes, I know, it would probably make you sick. Your livers are so sensitive, you poor fragile things. Buuut, maybe if I just altered a few enzymes…"

"No need!" Alastor chuckled awkwardly. "You can keep your dinner all to yourself. I'll make myself something else."

Terri chirped pleasantly, "Suit yourself. I know you'll give it a try eventually," and dragged the body by a foot into her den to hack up and preserve the meat. Soul or not, proteins were still handy. Alastor's smile never faltered, as a gas lamp flared erratically behind him. Hahahaha. This was fine.

Now- where would he choose to go? Alastor was cautiously optimistic that she entertained different options at all, but while she never openly demanded, Terri was clearly invested in cajoling, coercing, or frightening him into remaining with her. She particularly enjoyed referring to children raised in orphanages as 'canon fodder' for the war.

"What war?"

"There's always a war." He couldn't fight her on that. "I do imagine your kill count would be spectacular. Maybe I shouldn't steal away your country's secret weapon."

"Maybe you shouldn't," Alastor agreed with a stubborn, stiff grin, determined to show he could not be frightened into submission.

Seeing that none of the dark pictures she painted of the future had the desired effect, Terri targeted known sensitive spots- loneliness, security-seeking, and his yearning for respect. "You'd really let that be the end of the story? Hypothetically born into money, only to have your future stripped from you? Alone with no family at all, with literally nothing, sure to be taken advantage of? I'm not a queen anymore, so I can't make you a prince, but I can make you feel like one. I promise."

"Like you did the other day, you mean?" Alastor challenged her, looking more bitter than usual.

Terri tensed up. "Darling, I can't express how much I regret that."

"You'll do it again," Al accused.

"I want to be allies. I want to be friends. I won't lash out or make you label this in a way you're not comfortable with. I've learned my lesson." She held out her hand. "Do you trust me?"

"No," Al said softly, but the corner of a smile returned to his face as Terri successfully called to mind the happy memory of jumping through rabbit holes together.

"We can still work together. Stay with our deal?"

"I never wanted to leave it."

"Neither did I."

They were allies again. But where, physically, would he stay? The den alone was not acceptable, even if he were willing to remain that isolated. Mortals couldn't stay there continuously without gradually eroding. Most things from the mortal world deteriorated faster in the Other World than on Earth- although she'd once witnessed a fruit cake last way longer than it had any goddamn right to last. The revelation confused Alastor. Now the flowers made sense, but what about the gifts in her 'trophy room?' Terri showed fleeting hints of deep sadness as she admitted several of those were no longer the originals but carefully constructed duplicates. Alastor asked the next question to help take Terri's mind off the gifts: "If that's true, what will we do about the house?"

"Which house?"

"This one? So I have a place to live?"

Terri had egotistically assumed Alastor's resistance to leaving New Orleans with Bert was entirely out of desire to stay near her, but she was now met with the same amount of resistance when she proposed they go somewhere else together. First he made it sound like a logistics issue- weren't most houses with doors already inhabited? What a question! He thought she couldn't frighten or trick someone into leaving? Then it became clear that he simply didn't want to relocate. After visiting so many new places, none of them appealed to him? "What on Earth is so special about this city? You're not treated well here. Until recently you hadn't even seen much of it." The child insisted stubbornly that he liked it best. Possibly familiarity breeding comfort. After so many dramatic changes, the thought of being dropped in a different state or country was too much. Terri understood that, but it made the game a hell of a lot harder for her to play! He expected her to secure this house- perhaps only tenuously tied to Alastor- and then, as a mysterious single woman in 1907, who could not prove financial security and was not a relative, become his legal conservator?

"You're really going to force me to do this complicated dance?" Suddenly, Terri thought she understood. She tapped her foot irritably. "Is this to make me prove I care?"

"Excuse me?"

"I see. You want to know I'm willing to make up for my mistake." She waved her hand and sighed. "I suppose that's fair."

"That is not what I'm doing," the boy objected, but the side of his mouth ticked up at the half-truth. Alastor really did want to stay in New Orleans, in his own house. However, he had to admit, after the stunt she'd pulled, it would also feel gratifying to see Terri forced to resort to handstands and backflips for his comfort.

At least, to Terri's relief, the deed to the house was still in Camille's name, solidly tying it to Alastor. One less paper trail to worry about. (Most states at the time- even Louisiana- did not formally recognize interracial marriage, so Bert had not inherited the property through marriage; he'd been the conservator. Had the property been in Bert's name, without a will, Alastor could've been completely shafted, not legally considered an heir.) Now, they needed to establish who Terri was and why she was a reasonable choice of conservator. To pass herself off as a relative would be a stretch, since all on either side were estranged or dead. But no matter. If all the boy's relatives were dead, not legally recognized as relatives, or unwilling to claim him, it would be easier to convince a probate court to elect a non-relative.

"Let's check and see if either of your parents had requests. Might give us an idea." It was possible that both were impulsive suicides, but if one had planned, Terri would place her bet on Camille. Lo and behold, Camille Marcelin's will was uncovered, but it indicated only that the preferred guardian in the event of her death was explicitly-named conservator 'Bert Sigfried.' A guardian in the event of his death was left to his discretion. "Well, that didn't help, exactly, but it gives us a nice blank canvas to play with... Especially since this will be investigated, it's better to invent a fake person anyway, Button. No rival paperwork to contest it!"

Al was distracted from Terri's commentary, feeling deeply sorry for his mother, who couldn't even acknowledge Bert as her husband in her will, and who'd had no living relatives or social network left, forcing her to write these defeated-sounding words. "Hey," Terri said, intuiting his thoughts, placing a hand on his shoulder. "She may have worded it so generally for a reason." The unspoken question was: 'Still don't believe she meant to send you my way, hmmn?'

But if they decided to use this as a foundation for their ruse, they should create a character with a connection to Bert, Alastor pointed out. "You'll have to pretend to be my father's new wife or lady friend," he said, smirking wickedly as Terri visibly shuddered at the nauseating idea. "Would it help if I called you 'stepmother?'" he baited her.

"You do want to punish me," Terri accused.

"Perhaaaaaaaaaaaps."

At last, an idea. "Live-in nanny!" Terri exclaimed. "Your father had no money, so he compensated me with room and board!"

"How will we explain why no one else knows you?"

"Who's around to know? Forgive me, I'm not making light, but you two had no social network."

"What's your fake income? You can't prove magic." This new identity was apparently unemployed now, and had been paid with food and rent before.

"You think I can't come up with something? Phht. Look, the state isn't motivated to feed a child in a county home if they don't have to." She considered silently for a few moments. "If I have control of the estate, I'll propose to rent the rooms." They couldn't really, of course- too many noticeable, magical shenanigans. "By the time some nosy rat from the children's bureau comes sniffing for proof of income, I'll have set up another gig. And for now I have..." She wiggled her fingers. "'Savings.'"

"From what?"

"I'll say they're from the business my family dissolved when we went our separate ways." At Al's skeptical expression, she remarked, "Well, at least let me pretend my family left me some scraps."

Al broke eye contact and looked to the side- he wasn't ready to touch this mystery yet. "Where exactly will this money come from, Miss Terri?"

"How would you like to see a trick that's bonkers crazy?"

Alastor knew better than to interrupt when she was trying to show off, but why was she asking about coal? His was one of the few private residences in 1907 that used a natural gas line for cooking. He directed her to a package used for grilling, and, without a word of explanation, she unhinged her jaw and ate the whole bag. Alastor slumped forward in exasperated disbelief as Terri dabbed her mouth. "Give it a bit." She hiccupped, then belched. "Oh, dear. Please excuse me." Terri put a hand on the counter to steady herself. "I didn't think I'd get this sick. I haven't done this trick in a while. Ugh!" She retched, but instead of vomit, falling out of her mouth, bouncing and skittering across the floor, came diamonds. Diamonds. Sizeable ones! Whole damned rocks!

Alastor collapsed back onto a kitchen chair and uttered, "They're fake."

"I promise you, they are not."

Alastor squeezed the bridge of his nose, pressed his face into his palm, and demanded, "Explain that."

'Diamonds come from coal' is a myth, but damned if coal doesn't have a high carbon content. "I heated up a bunch of carbon under pressure and cooled it down quickly."

"You did not!"

"Prove it."

"What are you?!"

"Your fairy godmother. And I'm a good one, too."

"You absolutely are not!" Alastor complained. "You could've done this at any time?"

"No. Only when it was funny."

"You're really going to sell those...impressive fakes?"

"We are!" Terri swayed, ready to play. "It's time for our favorite game!" This was called 'How much will dunces pay for garbage?' They'd approach various antique shop owners and archaeologists around the witch's doors with completely worthless items Terri claimed to have accumulated over time on Earth, as well as from her fabled 'adventures in Hell.' The earthly items were chosen for their obscurity, so they were frequently overpaid for artifacts that were difficult to identify as worthless. For the alien-looking items, they were paid either nothing/very little for the 'obvious nonsense' or overpaid dramatically by someone assigning a wildly incorrect origin to them.

"How is it still the game if they're not fakes?" Alastor challenged.

"I can take them apart at any time," Terri whispered in his ear like a mischievous little girl spreading a rumor in a schoolyard, giggling at the thought of the precious gems crumbling to ash in someone's hands. She made excellent counterfeit, but tricking people into parting with 'real' currency was funnier! Meanwhile, the boy harrumphed disapprovingly. The joy of the other game came from conning supposed experts, not stealing from someone who accurately identified and paid. "Oh, fine. We'll just sell them," Terri accepted, wilting.

"I'll be in the mood to play again when this is settled."

'Ah, yes. This is about Alastor, Terri,' she chastised herself. "This will smooth over, Spiderling. Don't fret. There won't be as many hurdles with no competition."

[X]

When the child and his 'governess' filed a missing person's report, next of kin were notified. After a period of time, while Bert couldn't yet be legally assumed dead, child custody had to be settled. Terri McGyver filed her unchallenged petition for conservatorship. Her excellently-forged documentation went unquestioned, but the probate court remained uncomfortable with this nebulously employed, eccentric Yankee Irishwoman, who'd known the kid less than a year. She always arrived in loud patterned dresses and cartoonishly large sunglasses, describing herself in passing as an 'heiress' despite having recently worked for rent. Apparently some once-successful clothing manufacturing business in Boston went under and she'd been tossed the fewest scraps. 'You're sure?' an interviewer mouthed at Alastor while Terri prattled at his coworker, but the kid shrugged complacently- looked at her fondly, even. Anyway, McGyver was the only interested candidate. Even if not hard-pressed to argue the kid would be better off in an orphanage, Terri was correct- the state didn't want more kids to monitor. Her siren voice alleviated their lingering concerns. It seemed they'd pull this off.

The 'competition' didn't appear. The aggrieved family directed some blame at the child and his late mother for Bert's disappearance (never mind they drove him away). Based on hearsay, they suspected a suicide. He'd turn up in the river or the woods eventually.

Gregory Sigfried, father of the deceased, sat and regarded a pile of unopened letters on his desk, pondering whether it was worth the mental energy to open them. What would it accomplish? He hadn't opened them when it may have mattered. Foolishly, he began ripping envelopes. The correspondence illustrated a clear timeline of mental deterioration, until the letters were barely legible drunken scrawls. Then, Mr. Sigfried was distracted briefly from the cold stabbing of regret in his chest by an odd, entirely random question at the end of a letter. Just...new paragraph:

'Do you know anyone named Terri McGyver?'

Huh? Why would he? Greg couldn't tie the name to anyone in his memory, but it triggered a strange niggling anxiety he tried to ignore.

Greg almost left the last letter unopened. He'd managed his emotions up to this point and didn't care to tempt fate. But he opened it. He was spared the dreadful doom spiral on the first page of the short letter by what caught his eye on the second page. The last words his son had written him- again strangely detached from the rest- were:

'It wants my son.'

Unsettling. Not a sentence you like to read after your own son's mysterious disappearance. But it offered no meaningful information. It couldn't easily be linked to the other letter's question or, honestly, to anything. Probably it was alcohol-induced, paranoid word vomit. Still, that prickly, unexplained dread descended upon Greg's shoulders again.

A few days passed before Mr. Sigfried identified an action that he thought might quell the anxiety- checking on the status of the child. He couldn't explain why, but his whispering subconscious promised it would bring him relief, so he obeyed. Greg sent a representative to confirm whether someone had claimed the child, or at least that he'd arrived safely to the county home safely. Not to worry, his employee relayed- the child was lucky enough that the nanny had taken interest. Mr. Sigfried's baffled squinting indicated he found it unlikely that his son had paid for this service. His employee clarified that the woman had worked for rent, which meant that her petition wasn't the prize that won the county fair, and he'd been asked of Greg's interest. (Which was zero interest. Anyway, the only asset left of the estate was that dud house his fool son spent so much money on. Greg didn't want responsibility for it for the next 10 years. His own family had owned the place once and sold it when he was a child, and he was left with an unpleasant impression of it for some reason.) The probate court was disappointed that Mr. Siegfried wouldn't file a petition himself to replace Terri McGyver.

...

If Bert had written something like 'The McGyver woman wants my son,' Greg could've tipped off law enforcement and walked away. But Bert, who'd regarded Terri as a monster, had reflexively written 'it.' Mr. Sigfried was left to form a suspicion so flimsy he wasn't yet willing to share it. More rationally, he found it odd that Bert was asking who she was so recently. Could Terri really have bonded with the boy so quickly after being hired? Why was Bert asking Greg about her at all?

Mr. Sigfried felt he was missing key information somewhere. Two nights in a row, he woke up in a cold sweat, certain there was something important to do about the child but unable to recall what it was. Eventually, he obeyed his whispering subconscious again, despite the nonsensical nature of the impulse, or that he should be sending someone else to do this for him. (No, no, it insisted, you need to see this.) Greg found himself approaching the New Orleans home, which again triggered profound feelings of dislike, especially viewed under a grey, cloudy sky with winter chill accentuating his nerves. Curtailing a scowl, he rapped the knocker, and after no response, tried the bell, which Terri had altered to whimsically chime 'Shave and a Haircut.' Greg had just enough time to mouth, "What the-?" at the bizarre modification before the door opened.

Seconds later, he found himself face-to-face with a nearly perfect replica of his long-dead mother.

Terri thought there was a hint of familiarity to the caller, but didn't immediately realize why. "Can I help you?"

Greg quietly resolved not to have a heart attack. This had to be a stress-triggered hallucination; he should behave as if nothing were amiss. His mouth hung open wordlessly for a second or two longer than intended, but at last he choked out, "I hear you've filed a petition to be conservator of my late son's child."

Terri's sass erupted from her smirking mouth on autopilot. "I believe the word you're searching for is 'grandson.'" But now she also had to maintain composure. Shit on a stick, she'd thought there were no risks to taking this form because she'd hands-down never expected to see another Sigfried! After brief consideration, in a fake-welcoming manner with threatening undertones, she invited, "Would you like to come in?"

Deeply buried memories flooded back to Greg as he stepped numbly from the front porch into the entryway and then her- the kitchen, not 'hers.' It had not been a childhood fantasy! She was sporting no button eyes currently, but how else to explain this appearance, her mannerisms? It all made sense now. Not only why he was instinctively concerned for the child, but all of it. How his son had clearly been lured back to this house as an act of petty revenge! Greg wouldn't have said this out loud if he wasn't confident, but he felt positive. He wasted no time. "I remember you now."

"Hmmn?" Terri asked, playing dumb, as she tapped her fingers rhythmically on a counter in a manner that struck Greg like lightning with its unwelcome familiarity.

"You-" He paused hatefully. "-threatened my mother."

It was no good to do anything else, so Terri also leapt right into it. "I wish I were sorry things ended on such a sour note, but I think I dodged a bullet. You appear to be very unclear on the meaning of 'family,' child."

Greg firmly stared her down. "I'm no longer a child. ...Why do you want the boy? Why are you doing it this way? What could you possibly plan to do with him?"

"It isn't my fault you failed to see the value of what you had."

"What did you do to his parents? What did you do to my son?"

"I only watched the results of what you did from a distance. Then I was there for a child in need, because I knew you wouldn't be." After Greg snorted, she added, "Anyway, as far as the law, and it appears, you, are concerned...you're no more his family than I am," sounding inappropriately gleeful about how the state's laws worked in her favor. "And you've never spent a second of your life caring about him. Why are you starting now?"

"I pity anyone being hunted by you."

"What do you plan to do about it?" Terri taunted. "I'm a being of power. You're a mortal. Counter-filing me doesn't matter. I can influence anyone I please."

Greg had no magic, but he could fight with two other things he had plentifully- a sharp tongue and money. Shock was wearing off and panic setting in, but he willfully pretended it was just a dream, in which he could be as bold as he liked. "Without your magic, you could never do this. Remember that. I have the power that counts amongst humans. You are a sad old woman who lives in a dark hole, who has to bully children and beat them at needlessly complicated games to bolster her self-esteem, because you can only win by targeting those too young to detect that you're a fraud."

"Your child didn't like you or your games either," Terri shot back, ignoring the sting, imagining a delightful canned audience response of 'oooooh' echoing behind her.

"My games aren't fatal."

"I beg to differ."

Greg's face twisted hatefully. "Don't try to cloud this. I know you were behind those deaths somehow!"

Terri held her palms up. "In the end...none of this matters. Nothing can take him from me because he chooses to go with me!" Her voice contained hints of pride. "And we can go anywhere else whenever we want."

Similarly to how Billy had taunted Alastor, Greg told her, "But you'll still have disappointed him, because that would mean you'd surrendered. You'd be giving up and running away, ripping him from his home. You'll look like a loser." He allowed the offending word to sink in before going for the throat. "I'll bet, after his experiences, the child knows well enough not to take sides with any more losers."

Terri simmered with rage. She tried to ignore his points, but they had some merit. As the instinct kicked in, she hated herself for it, because she was leaning straight into his argument, but Terri finally resorted to using brawn over brains. "How close are you to your other grandchildren? So unlucky for you that this monster can leave the closet, isn't it?" she jeered at his expression of horror struck, wordless fury. "You think, after all those years of neglect, you're going to turn up and play the hero? You?" she tittered. "A hero sacrifices someone they love to do the 'right thing.' A villain tramples the 'right thing' underfoot to preserve what they really love." She knew as well as he did that he didn't care about Alastor deep down. This was a quest to seek vengeance for himself and absolve himself of guilt. But preserving the people he actually gave a shit about would trump even that. "I think we both know you're a villain, Greg," Terese finished, teeth bared.

Teeth? No. Needles. Layered like shark teeth.

As Greg recoiled, piercing through the tension came a small but forceful voice from a nearby doorway. "Miss. Terri. Play nice!"

Terri's head whipped around faster than Greg's, her nose twitching slightly, looking like a dog caught chewing an expensive article of clothing. Greg turned to the sound and saw his grandson for the very first time. There was awkward silence, during which Greg distracted himself from complicated feelings with his amazement that the creature seemed to be...tamed? "You take orders from this one?" he asked her.

"She does not take orders from me," Al corrected quickly, again with the sternness of an adult. "She's not my pet." True, Alastor did sometimes think of Terri her as his 'pet monster,' but it was just a corny nickname he used in his head, not something he meant literally.

That said, Alastor had recognized that, while Terri lured prey by posing as a mother figure, once she transitioned into engaging them as a playmate, there seemed to be an inversion. Whether she knew it or not, she elicited parental instincts in some children, with her cute doll-like appearance and cloying displays of emotional helplessness. Alastor saw himself becoming parentified, but since he'd grown wise to this, he used it to his advantage. Scolding Terri in the tone of a disappointed parent was surprisingly effective some of the time. He did so now to discourage foul play aimed at his innocent young cousins.

Greg looked, and felt, oddly intimidated. He was starting to understand the beldam's unusual reaction to this child, and he would note shortly that the childishness of the adult was further highlighted by the strange adultness of the child.

Al grew disgusted with Greg's silence. The man had disregarded his existence for over 8 years and still hadn't directed a single word at Alastor in his presence. Was he just there to gawk? The boy approached and thrust out his hand with a polite but assertive vibe. "I'm Alastor." Nothing. "You must be my grandfather," Al continued pointedly.

Boxed in, Greg at last shook the boy's hand. He couldn't fully escape looking like an ass. He'd just barrel ahead anyway. "Yes. That's right. Glad to meet you, young man."

Alastor resisted the urge to roll his eyes at what he suspected was a phony performance of politeness. "Glad to meet you, finally. What brings you to visit?"

"I wanted to check in on you. I'm terribly sorry to hear what happened."

"So am I. ...I'm sorry about your son."

"...Thank you. I wanted to make sure you felt...safe in your living situation right now."

"I've been in...worse situations," Al answered cooly. "But thank you for thinking of me." The sarcasm was there, but just subtle enough that no one could easily call it out.

"You say you're satisfied with this arrangement?"

"Is there another option?" Al asked with more underlying sarcasm.

"There could be."

Caught off guard, Alastor squinted at Greg suspiciously before Terri gently guided him away by the shoulders. "I refuse to listen to more of this. Manipulating a child. Shame on you, Gregory." (Greg indignantly grunted, unsure of whether to laugh or cry.) "Don't let him confuse you, Button. He's never thought of you before, has he?"

At her use of the nickname, all traces of amusement vanished. Greg shot Terri an aghast, sickened look, as though she'd called Alastor a slur he wasn't aware of. The creeping dread returned, like thorny vines ready to strangle him. Viewing her disguise, Mr. Sigfried reminded himself, it was too easy to forget he was dealing with an honest-to-god fairy tale beast. An edge of panic crept into his voice as he called to Alastor, "I'd like to talk to you," while Terri ushered the boy into another room.

Terri heard his escalating alarm and turned back around, releasing Alastor's shoulders. The child peeked around the corner, not wanting to miss the show. "Ah, yes. Now I really recognize you," she giggled wickedly, and prepared to properly intimidate the unwanted intruder.

Greg bristled. "I see now how ridiculous you are." This was sincere. "Do you think I'm still afraid of you?" This was forced.

Greg needed one last nudge to be fully convinced that his childhood nightmares had not been nightmares after all. The beldam shrugged and snapped her fingers, undoing the glamour over her button eyes. Greg yelped and stumbled backward into the kitchen table. "Jogged your memory, did it?" she cackled. She grinned widely and pointed to the ribbon around her neck. "I can't wait 'til you see what happens when I take this off!"

The classic velvet choker/green ribbon story was another one Alastor knew Terri enjoyed. The thought of such a fun gag, and delight at his callous relative's cowering, dragged his playful little boy persona back out. He looked up at Terri with hopeful, glinting eyes that begged, or maybe dared, 'Do it, do it!' She'd been joking, but why not? Terri untied her choker, and her head tumbled off like the head of a plastic doll that hadn't been attached securely. "Christ!" Greg gasped and fled to the lawn, where he stood wheezing and trying to regroup, as Al and Terri collapsed into laughter.

Alastor lifted her head from the floor and joked, "I accept you unconditionally, Jenny, darling."

"I knew you would, my love," Terri's head jested back.

A few minutes later, with Terri's head re-secured, the two watched, annoyed but also somewhat impressed, as Greg angrily puffed on a cigarette and refused to budge from the lawn. He was arguing with himself about whether he would run from a monster that should all rights be imaginary. Should be.

"This is your fault," Terri joked. "If I hadn't been trying to make a cute child laugh, I might have been appropriately frightening."

"Story time?" Al asked, demanding clarity. "Will you explain what that was about? That argument seemed very related to you and barely related to me."

Terri fidgeted and sighed before finally admitting, "Funnily enough, they used to own the house."

"What?"

"I've had eyes on this house for a long time. The Sigfried family owned the house before your great grandmother bought it." This was how she'd been introduced to both Bert and Camille's families.

"Why did they sell it?"

"...Child was throwing hissy fits about monsters in the closet."

Alastor bit his lip and strained to keep from laughing, even though he knew it was more appropriate to yell at her.

Terri grinned sheepishly, then immediately reframed, "Your grandfather is a petty little pyromaniac who tried to set fire to my house to get rid of me. (Phht! Imagine!) It's why his parents were forced to sell. I expect, to some extent, this drama is about unresolved business with your father, but it's also a personal vendetta against me." Perhaps, she thought, Mr. Siegfried guessed that she'd matched up Bert and Camille, and blamed her, along with Camille and Alastor, for 'stealing' his son away. "I suppose he believes I'm involved with your father's death."

Al remained revealingly silent, shooting her side eye.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

The side eye continued.

"Child. Hold on!" Terri exclaimed defensively, wagging a finger. "If you recall, I never touched him. And if I had, I would've had the valid excuse that he'd just shot you!"

"Fair enough," Alastor sighed.

"You don't blame me, do you?"

Alastor felt conflicted, but, being unaware of all of the facts, he decided Terri's summary sounded fair. "...No. I don't," he finally conceded. "You're right. He's the one responsible. ...For both of them."

It was incredible how Al always steered straight into her guidance if it made him feel more secure, or less vulnerable to fear or sadness. Bright as he was, he'd imprinted on Terri and viewed their relationship as critical to evading the pit of despair. Now he'd jump through psychological hoops to perceive her as innocent at all costs. And, boy, did the witch ever know it! "I am inclined to agree with you," she told him, and then chuckled darkly, "What should we do about it?"

Yet, while Alastor stewed with visible resentment, he also looked at Greg with traces of curiosity that made Terri uncomfortable. "...You want to go with him," she accused.

Oh. No. "Miss Terri, please," Al said, snapping quickly to attention, "don't rehash last time. I've only gone a few weeks without being shot at."

She tried not to look ashamed at the implication. "No, I'm not going to- It's fine." It was clearly not fine. "I understand," she half-laughed, seeming to veer into that same jarringly different, dark mood Alastor had witnessed during the first hints of the last outburst. "Your family came back for you. It's a miracle," she gasped melodramatically, making a wiggly-fingered 'wooo' gesture. "That's the happy ending you wanted, correct?"

Al remained strategically silent this time, waiting vigilantly for exactly the right opportunity to steer her back to land. He had learned.

"Well, you go, and I'm sure I'll be fine. I'll wait for my family to come back. Oh, wait. That will never happen!" It felt, and sounded, almost like something that had been echoing down a long, long corridor for a long, long time, and was only reaching the other side now, reappearing well after she'd convinced herself that it didn't matter. This time, to Alastor's pleasant surprise, Terri seemed to snap herself out of the escalation, shocked at the degree of her own bitterness. She seemed dizzy, dazed. "...I don't know what's gotten into me. Disregard that, Button. I probably only need to eat something." Terri eyed Greg hungrily through the window. "Would you mind terribly?"

Al took her hand comfortingly. "I only want to talk to him. I don't even want to be friends, I'm just...curious... If you could talk to one of your family members again, even the one you liked least, wouldn't you do it, just to see what would come of it? So you wouldn't have to wonder anymore?"

Terri looked at him inscrutably, answering only with a light tapping of her foot. It didn't sound agitated, just uncomfortable.

"I'm only going to talk to him. I'm coming back. Okay? ...If you want me to trust you, you have to trust me, too."

Terri grimaced. "What if he-? Would he try to-?" As she trailed off, Alastor realized she was considering that Greg might try to...abduct him. The irony kicked in hard, and he wheezed with laughter. "That is not funny," Terri snapped.

"It absolutely is!"

"You're an incredibly kidnap-able child. Just look at your face!"

On cue, Alastor concertedly beamed cuteness at her as he reigned in his giggling. She was defeated. Terri pulled him close and pecked him on the forehead. "Please don't be long. It's almost time for dinner. ...What would you like? It's been a while since we had-" she began, anxiously trying to lay bait for his return.

Alastor cut her off, holding up his palm, and promised assertively but caringly, "See you soon."

[X]

The front door swung open and shut, and Greg sighed in relief that it was only the boy.

"Don't mind her," Al told him. "She's such a jokester."

Greg knew this was horseshit. Clearly the child did have some control over the beast, which was incredible but, he admitted, not unbelievable, based on the boy's unusually commanding presence. "Glad to finally be speaking to the adult of the house. You do see you're more mature than she is, don't you? Doesn't that worry you? The combination of 'less mature and more dangerous' is not a risk I find acceptable, myself. What inclines you to stick around trying to corral that overgrown brat?"

Feeling a spike of defensiveness, Al blurted, "There's more to her than that!"

"Oh, there certainly is," Greg replied with a low rumble that clearly illustrated all he knew Terri capable of. He glared over his grandson's shoulder at the witch, who hovered near the window like a puppy whose owner just stepped outside. "Walk around the block?" the man suggested.

Al followed Greg's gaze to Terri in the window. "She's nervous. We'd better stay here." (Mr. Sigfried couldn't tell whether the child did this out of sympathy or fear. Possibly both? The boy had a good poker face.) Al picked up the conversation again. "She says...when you were a child...you tried to burn down her house."

"Her house?!"

As defensive as Al was of Terri, the rational part of him still wanted the whole story. "Did she threaten you?"

Greg decided the situation was too absurd for him to care about sounding crazy. Especially not in front of a mere 8-year-old, who could only benefit from the exchange if he had any sense left in his head. "Has she...proposed the…?" Mr. Sigfried covered his eyes and then whispered, as if that would reduce how nonsensical it sounded, "Buttons. The buttons."

Al didn't understand where this was headed. "Like hers?"

"She hasn't said you can stay with her only if you-" He cringed. "-let her sew the buttons on?"

Al fell silent at the disturbing idea. This explained the visible reaction to Terri's nickname… Greg saw a flicker of emotion cross the child's face, as though something was clicking into place and a breakthrough would occur. Then, to his dismay, it ended, and the child's robotic poker face returned. "No. That's really what she asked of you?"

"Yes." Greg wasn't willing to give up on Al's fleeting betrayal of concern. "You're not dismissing it! You have a reason to believe me, don't you? That's she's done it?"

Alastor thought back to the evening when he'd searched for Terri's eyes and pushed himself hard to think past the excitement and intrigue of the search; the sweet and exhilarating moment when he first viewed her beautiful eyes live; the captivating, if eerie, artistry of her 'trophy room.' His brain was defaulting to pleasant memories, as it often did, but as he brushed them aside, he acknowledged how stupefyingly horrific the eye collection was. He'd assumed, at the time, that the eyes had been prizes from regular hunting expeditions, but this was a more compelling explanation. Al recalled Terri's claim that she'd removed her eyes to secure her soul. Was she then...trapping the souls of her victims? His mental walls reassembled at warp speed. Nope. Turn. It. Off. "I can't prove either way, sir," Alastor replied, "but she hasn't done it with me."

"How long has it been?"

Al counted. "About 7 months."

Nearly a year? "That surprises me... But I wouldn't assume it's a good thing."

"Why do you say that?"

"If she's that determined not to scare you off, she may want you for something specific that's not much more to your benefit than her standard fare. I know she's been on her best behavior, but this woman is a dangerous psychopath. I promise, she has a reason for doing this, and it's not as simple as her being fond of you. She may be, but there will be more. And the 'more' isn't worth it." Al's eyes kept flitting away from meeting his grandfather's. Mr. Sigfried could tell one eye was lazy, but that didn't explain all of it. "Do you like her?"

"I don't dislike her," Al replied carefully. He looked over his shoulder. Terri was no longer watching from the window. He hoped she had calmed down.

Alastor's nonverbal expression of concern for the witch answered Greg's question. "There is a charm to her," he admitted begrudgingly. "Even when you see through the traditionally sweet mothering act. It's that cute quirkiness, the playfulness. It's okay. You can say it," he assured, but the boy's mouth was shut like a steel trap.

Mr. Sigfried sighed and got to the point. "I'm speaking to you like an adult because I see you're unusually bright. You can weigh costs and benefits. She's a gamble that could end either very well or very poorly. She can give you a lot, and you may even get along, but that does not guarantee you will live," he pointed out. "On the other hand, we don't have to get along. I have no expectation of it. We can cordially leave one another alone. But I can broaden your opportunities without the risks you get from dealing with her. This is a much surer, safer thing. You must see that," Greg finished with a note of frustration. "Why resist?"

Greg was talking sense, but his offer wasn't flattering to Alastor. It didn't equal an apology for years of callous snubbery. And while Mr. Sigfried could provide security, Alastor also desired respect. He knew Greg didn't respect him, or respected him very little, but Alastor held out hope that Terri held him in high regard...when she was clear-headed, anyway. That was where Greg's point about risk factored in. Alastor didn't want to remember that moment when he saw the storage closet was just a closet, that feeling of being abandoned by the one person for whom he let down his guard. It cracked his brain like an ice cube, paralyzed him with anxiety. But Terri was clear-headed most of the time, he reassured himself. In any case… "You're not doing it for me. You're only doing it to spite her," Al finished his thought train aloud.

Greg shot back unapologetically, "The woman threatened my mother. Yes, I want to spite her."

"Did she really?" Al knew he had to ask, even though he would rather not know.

"She demanded I find replacements for myself and my family. So I wouldn't shut up until my parents sold to the first person who made an offer on the house. And then, years later, somehow your father ended up right back there...with Caroline Marcelin's granddaughter." He shot Alastor a meaningful look, which the boy couldn't quite interpret. He cocked his head at Greg, who added, "Does that seem...too coincidental to you?"

"I don't know what you're suggesting."

"...I don't know what I'm suggesting either, exactly," Greg admitted. "I just think it seems insidious. That's what I mean about her having a plan for you. She seems to wait a long time to spring into action. It appears Caroline Marcelin's family was perfectly safe for a long time in that house, until…"

No. Alastor had considered the same once, but it was now too painful to believe that Terri was nothing but a greedy, psychopathic cheat who deliberately drove his birth parents into early graves to obtain him as her property. Irrational anger flared up at Greg for daring to challenge his rosy self-delusion, for trying to warp and misdirect who created the conditions that enabled Bert and Camille's doom spirals. He laughed derisively, "You want to claim she killed my parents?"

"That Thing does not love you!" Greg barked in frustration.

"Neither do you!" Al snapped back.

After an extended silence, Greg acknowledged tensely, "I understand your skepticism." As his grandson took a deep inhale to quell his nearly-boiling-over outrage, Greg did something regrettable. True, there were no genuine caring feelings here, but- at minimum- warning the child was the right thing to do. "Look," he insisted, producing Bert's letters from a pocket inside his blazer. He'd brought them to question whether Terri (then presumed to be a normal woman) understood Bert's queries, but now they served a new purpose. "He believed it. Your father feared she was plowing through them to get to you!"

Greg handed the two 'incriminating' letters to Alastor, whose face betrayed hints of sorrow as he perused them. His main takeaways were different. First of all, his ailing father had attempted to correspond, and his grandfather had, he correctly suspected, never bothered to look until now. It sickened him. Second, to protect his happiness, Alastor twisted the narrative, assuming the best of Terri and Bert and the worst of Greg. His father had been mistaken about Terri's intentions, but the sincerity of his false belief meant he was being caring in trying to force Alastor to leave the house. He had cared, and he had only been so violent because he was desperately ill. He had become desperately ill in part because his own father had treated him like he was worthless. Alastor's anger flared again. His face remained stoic, but he realized, suddenly, exactly how much he resented and hated Greg Sigfried- how much he'd like to see the man suffer.

His grandfather interrupted his thoughts with the aggravating news: "I'm contesting her petition. When they see what I have to offer, I don't think you'll be given a choice. It's clearly in your best interest. As far as anyone knows, I can offer you a lot more than she can. Pull strings, pay extra to get you into a decent boarding school somewhere. Get you out of that house- it's in terrible condition and I'm sure they don't believe she can pay to renovate it. I don't see a point in paying to renovate it. Much better to see if we can sell it for the land, don't you think?" As conservator, he would have the legal right to do it.

Alastor glared with heated intensity, picturing the house- the only asset Al's mother had had left to give, which must have meant a lot to her- crumbling to rubble on the ground. Piercing in jarring flashes through this image, like badly cut film, a vision of her limp arm hanging out the oven door. The first time it had really come back to him. His heart pounded. An ocean of blood hammered in his ears.

"So if you still want to flee with that monstrosity, go on and pack your bags. Just remember that I offered you a way out. I don't need to. This is very considerate of me."

Rage. Rage. RAGE.

Through sheer force of will, Alastor managed not to sink his teeth into Greg's leg like a feral animal and instead repeated back to him dryly: "You believe a child may be murdered by a monster, and you say it's considerate of you to help?" Then, without another word, Alastor spun on one heel and left his grandfather on the lawn, teeth grinding as he re-entered the house.

[X]

After leaving the window, ashamed to be noticed hovering so needily, Terri had retreated to the couch to sew but lost focus. Greg and the probate court had hit on all of Terri's insecurities in such rapid and forceful succession that her philosophy of 'turning it off' was overridden. Her corporeal body slowly went numb but her hands continued working mindlessly. The needle pierced the thread faster, faster, faster, with the same pace and sharpness as her thoughts.

Stab. 'You own nothing.' Stab. 'Scrounging like a dog for scraps, all these years.' Stab. 'Nothing to offer without magic.' Stab. 'Unfit. Couldn't keep a goldfish alive.' Stab. That man at the court who thought she hadn't noticed him mouthing 'You sure?' Stab. 'Almost always lose...' Greg's voice took over: '...games against children...to bolster her self esteem...fraud...LOSER.' Stabstabstabstabstab.

Terri mentally experimented with various ways to challenge Greg using wits alone, without relying on any magic, just to prove who was boss. In these circumstances, absent powers, something as weak as the American legal system easily barreled through them all. 'The problem isn't that you're not clever enough,' Terri tried to reassure herself. 'It's that you haven't found the right piece of information. You just need to keep looking.' But she felt demeaned, defeated.

Suddenly, his voice again, echoing distantly at first in her state of mild dissociation and then reaching her clearly like a gorgeous birdsong. "See? I came back. ...Miss Terri?"

At the sound, Terri stood and quickly realized, as the project hung at her side, that she'd sewn into her dress. She tried laughing it off and then, awkwardly, ignoring it, but Al quieted at the sight. It was meant to be a cute 'Welcome Home' needlepoint, but all structure petered into an aimless zigzag, off the platform and onto the dress fabric. Al knew he was catching a glimpse of Terri's concerning, underlying...whatever it was. Terri, meanwhile, was relieved she hadn't sewn into her leg, as she sometimes did when agitated and distracted. If he was making that expression now, he'd have completely flown off the handle at the alternative.

"Are you alright?"

"No worries. Silly me. I wasn't paying any attention because I was...thinking. I'm glad you're back so soon!" (From the look of it, Al thought, she must have 'not been paying any attention' for a solid 5 minutes, at least.) Terri cut the hanging needlepoint loose as unceremoniously as if she were trimming a garden weed. "I'll get to making dinner."

"What were you thinking about?" Al pressed, unwilling to let this odd display go. Terri's most effective entrapment maneuver was, ironically, the only one she didn't enact deliberately. Take a child with two parents dead by their own hand and introduce the threat of a third parental figure self-destructing due to deteriorating mental health, and that child will develop a white knight complex like the world has never seen. Alastor's protective instincts were activated.

"It's not important." Terri patted his head appreciatively, then asked, "How did your conversation go?" and listened to his summary as she prepared dinner. "This may be one of the pettiest people I've ever heard of," she validated (ironic canned laughter) as Al fumed over the way Greg had twisted things, they way he transparently wanted to use Alastor like a crude bludgeoning tool to exact personal revenge, and how he now tactlessly tried to bribe Alastor with the same opportunities he'd stripped from Al's whole family. Once he'd worked himself into a very un-Alastor-like frenzy, Terese interrupted him by stuffing a biscuit into his mouth, earning a hum of contentment. He took the cue to wind down. They enjoyed their food together as usual, but near the end, she fell silent again.

"What are you thinking?" Al asked.

Terri tapped her fingers on the table and sighed, "The only thing letting me keep you is magic."

Odd framing. He'd assumed she took great pride in the power she retained, even while lamenting how much she'd lost. "Using magic to convince other people to let me stay wouldn't matter if I weren't choosing to go with you."

"Respectfully, may I ask if that's the only reason why you're choosing to go with me? If I were a lonely old woman down the street with no money and no magic, you wouldn't pay me any mind, I think." She didn't break eye contact, so her insecure fishing attempt could masquerade as an assertive accusation.

Well then. Alastor was surprised by this second, surprisingly non-toxic, display of vulnerability in such a short period of time. "If I only wanted someone who could give me things, I'd have been happy to go with him." Al saw that Terri looked like she wasn't buying it. "It's true. When you're not being destructive," he teased, "you're fun."

"Hmmn." Terri raised her eyebrows, took a bite of food, and chewed thoughtfully before declaring, "I believe you'll grow up to be quite the con man." Her tone was equal parts accusatory, teasing, and proud. Did she really still think he was lying, or did she just want to lighten the mood? Hard to say.

Although she'd returned to banter again, Al was uneasy to have witnessed her so down without making the usual effort to conceal it. Luckily, he knew a sure way to brighten her up. "Would you like to play a game, Miss Terri?"

For the last few tumultuous weeks, Alastor had felt like he was getting dragged along like a leashed pet, but had kept his simmering outrage contained. Watching Greg and Terri fight over him like a trophy started dredging it to the surface. But seeing Terri looking hurt, Al made a firm decision- he would stay with her. If nothing else...she wanted him. Rabidly, obsessively, but still. He'd never felt wanted before...

Not only would he stay with Terri, Alastor would stay in his own goddamn house. The self-absorbed old-timer would not force him out! Another spark of vengeful rage lit in his heart. The Sigfried family had infected Bert and Camille with misery when they may otherwise have been healthy; Alastor would deliver justice. And dumping gasoline on the flame? All of that deeply buried rage at Terri McGyver had to be directed at something...

The side of Terri's mouth pricked up in an interested grin as Alastor said, "I want to keep playing as a team," and began to lay out the bare bones of the idea that formed to quell his rage. A fun idea, in addition to being a demonstration of dominance. Something to bring a smile back to his face as well as hers.

Terri couldn't contain her enthusiasm. She pinched his cheek, causing Alastor to respond with a fake smile of extreme tolerance, as she gushed, "Spiderling, that is delightful!"

They polished the plan together over tea.

[X]

Terri was relieved that she'd been absolutely correct- earlier, she hadn't honed in on the critical piece of information that would make the machine work. Once Alastor told her about the letters, she knew exactly where to look. Terri kept her mind's eye ever watchful over Greg's activity after their encounter and, as she'd anticipated, caught him giving his best effort at very carefully altering the last letter to replace 'it' with 'she.' 'She wants my son,' sounded much more menacing, and any inklings of guilt Greg may otherwise have felt about falsifying documents were erased because he knew it now more accurately reflected the truth.

Did it now? Terri's laugh rumbled low in her throat. She'd offer her own hot take.

When Greg attempted to meet with members of the police force and probate court to express his concerns, he discovered only after presenting the documents that the language had again been mysteriously altered- this time to 'She'll watch my son.' This created the impression that Bert, albeit not in a formal will, had expressed a clear preference for a caretaker. And who could wonder why? Because this, combined with context from the other content of the letters, led Greg's guests to the same conclusion as Alastor's- how invested could this man possibly be in the child's well-being? The representatives dismissed themselves.

This humiliation alone would have been enough, but Greg noticed a tiny cherry on top. An ever so subtle alteration to the script in the final letter. The 'o' in 'son' now had two loops over the top, a nonverbal indicator of sarcasm or insincerity. The witch was communicating that she refused to recognize Bert as Alastor's rightful parent. The only thing more infuriating than her repeated efforts to deceive and sabotage his family was how goddamn smug the b**** was about it!

("But how do you know he'll come back?" Alastor had asked Terri earlier.

"Trust me, he will," she had said with a smirk, knowing her unique ability to enrage was one superpower without limits.)

Bowled over by this disrespect, Mr. Sigfried's reasonable fear was overshadowed by outrage. Late that evening, he found himself back at that awful house, engaged in a screaming match on the porch disturbing enough to draw the neighbors' attention. How was a highly respected member of society like himself lowering himself to this sort of banality? He felt only half cognizant and in control; everything seemed blurred, his normal self-control in tatters when faced with the witch's sheer ability to enrage beyond all sense and reason, until he could just grip her f***ing neck and throttle and CRACK-!

And it seemed, for a split second, as though that was what he might do, when Terese- who'd remained calmer than Greg and whose better behavior elevated her from underdog to favorite for all observing- took what she knew would be her indisputably fair opportunity to thrust her calf forward and boot him forcefully off the deck. Kicking an old man off a porch would normally fall in the ranks of 'lowest of the low,' on par with beating a puppy, but Greg had made a truly despicable display of himself. One neighbor 'woop'ed in approval. It echoed too loudly down the street, triggering peeps of laughter as Terri slammed the front door shut with the loudest bang she could manage.

Terese practically vibrated with victory behind the closed door, as Alastor silently congratulated her with a glowing ear-to-ear smile. He had found that very entertaining. They waited, chittering softly to each other as the last few observers re-entered their homes. Greg was quickly upright and again furiously puffing smoke from the side of his mouth. ('Damned raisin is indestructible,' thought Terri, who had hoped to see him felled like a flipped turtle for a full minute, at least.) Eventually, she whispered, "You're on, Star of my Show." Alastor kissed her hand before creaking open the door with fake hesitation, face wiped clean of his devious smirk as he approached his grandfather.

"Walk around the block?" Al suggested, subtly suggesting an alliance.

Mr. Sigfried said nothing until they were half a block away from the house. "What's this about?"

Al feigned dropping his guard, as if their previous conversation had been an act to placate Terri, and he'd been secretly living in fear. "I agree with you. I think she murdered my parents." Al let the intrigue build in silence for a few seconds before continuing, "I know how we can get rid of her. Together." What Greg really wanted, Al knew, was interest in allyship against Terri, and based on the man's quickening step, indicating excitement, this desire had been piqued. "There's only one door and one key," Alastor lied. "You were right the first time. If we destroy the house, we destroy the door, and if we do that while she's in her den, we can isolate her and starve her." Alastor leaned into his cuteness and tried to elicit parental instincts the way he knew Terri did, telling Greg he was afraid of her, calling him 'grandpa,' using speech patterns and mannerisms typical of Bert, and, of course, using the siren voice, or else Greg would surely send someone else to do this- but he agreed. About an hour later, he returned to meet Alastor outside, believing Terri asleep inside her den. Alastor was pleased that the siren ability sustained power over time when fed by an existing desire, but he took no chances, picking up where he left off to keep the old man leashed.

Whole-house gas for heating and cooking, as well as lighting, was available but unusual at the time. Most considered it highly unsafe. Those people were not eccentric drunk tinkerer Bert Sigfried. Always eager to stay up-to-date (such was his fascination with radio early on) and pinch a penny (as it was more efficient than coal stove-driven radiators), he'd deemed the one-off cost of installing additional gas fixtures one that would pay for itself. Explosions? "It'll only break if you're an idiot!" he'd declared as Camille snatched a box of cigarettes from his front pocket before her supposedly 'not an idiot' husband could go for one habitually during the installation.

Greg enjoyed a laugh as Alastor relayed the example of his father's adventures in technology, and grinned wider still as the reason for the tale became clear. If they lit along the gas line, the house would go up in flame faster. He thought they'd have enough time to run, having no reason to suspect the line had recently been magically tinkered with by Terri to create an open leak, especially when the ground had appeared undisturbed before Greg exposed it very close to the house's outer wall. There was no snow on the ground now, but plenty of dried leaves for Alastor to kick over the new hole, before Greg could notice the puncture, under the guise of providing better lighting power. The entire patchy plan would have seemed either suspicious or infeasible, or both, by someone not under a spell, but Greg wasn't so lucky. His enthusiasm for burning the witch overrode what tiny sparks of reason could reach him.

"This is for your father," he told Alastor. They stood back as he tossed a few burning matches into the pile of dried leaves, while Alastor continued backing up behind him.

Alastor focused hard on the heart-aching content he had briefly viewed in those desperate, pleading letters, written by a sad, sick man to such a cold, useless father. The pain Al felt over being attacked and abandoned was overridden temporarily by bitter hatred for a common enemy. And the words Greg used for Terri during that screaming match, his willingness to choke her-repulsive! The world was better off without him. As the first flame licked the leaves, Alastor accused, "You really didn't care about my father," while Greg whipped around in confusion. "But I did," Alastor finished, and bolted as fast as his legs could carry him.

Watching from an upstairs window, Terri used the same trick she had once used to alter the oxygen content of the air around Al's crude voodoo doll, altering the air around the puncture such that the leaking gas ignited in a strikingly well-directed blast toward the arsonist, and little else. She made brief eye contact with the victim in the fleeting moment before the eruption, then smiled a winner's smile as she watched him burn, flailing as the side of the house and most of the grass around him remained supernaturally untouched, the isolated flames extinguishing as he twitched.

When law enforcement arrived, the criminal intent was obvious. Several neighbors remarked on the heated dispute they'd witnessed, how the man had clearly cracked, perhaps due to grief. Clearly he had located the gas line in hopes of setting the house ablaze more efficiently. Strange trajectory of the blast, though. Wild.

Alastor, who now lived with a woman who coughed up diamonds, felt no envy over the inheritance his cousins would receive. He just hoped they'd turn out better than Greg. He was quite satisfied by how he and his partner had devised a way steal their enemy's reputation from him, as well as his life. And now that the wretched dragon was dead, he could go back to hating his piece of shit father in peace. At least, he hoped so, because his complicated feelings on the matter were the only thing dampening his mood.

"What's the matter, my ruthless little assassin?" asked Terri, returning to the Other House's porch swing with a bitter tea for Alastor and a sweet one for herself. She was glowing with pride and thought Alastor deserved to be doing no less than the same.

Alastor confined his visible emotions to the safe realm of the 'irritable' category, instead of 'pained.' "I defended him..." he grumbled.

Terri saw the porch light above Alastor flicker and deciphered the vague statement. "Hmmn. Yes. And Because you're loyal. Obviously you get that from Camille. She was very protective of you." Silence from the child. "I notice you defended me, too, even though I failed to protect you recently. You can be so kind for someone who barbeques his enemies." A soft giggle from Alastor, but nothing else, as she sat on the porch swing next to him. "I'm glad you want to stay, Button." She took his hand and kissed it, as he sometimes did hers. "And I understand how you feel," she whispered, "about spending energy on family who doesn't care. It's lucky we have each other now. You're much better for me, dear." She was sincere, innocently unaware of a slow-cooking, toxic incompatibility lurking beneath the surface.

"It is," Alastor responded automatically, not really paying attention, as he recalled watching Greg's flaming body fall. He could still feel how widely his smile had stretched his across his face. Some sadistic switch had kicked on. He imagined another body in that space. And another. And another. Each one, someone who had it coming. In his memory, he heard the scream of the first victim he'd watched Terri devour on the hunt and hoped to replicate it, five hundred-fold. To be the predator, not the prey, was appealing, but Alastor wasn't as concerned as Terri was about 'winning.' He only wanted to make sure the bad people lost.

Alastor ripped himself out of his thoughts, realizing he was ignoring his companion. He kissed Terri's hand back and looked at her with true, caring tenderness, still willfully blind to the fact that, not only was she exactly the type of public menace he insatiably wanted to destroy, she was one of the worst. "I'm glad we have each other, too."

Alastor spent the night in the Other House's bedroom. He was glad instead of unnerved for Terri's stealthy hug under the guise of the blanket, the mattress, the crackling warmth of the fire. He was shutting his eyes when the question occurred to him. Waitwaitwait. "Miss Terri?"

"Yes, love?"

"How did you perform that trick? With the gas?"

"I did the same thing I did before. With your doll."

"But when I asked about that you told me you tampered with...atmospheric gases."

Terri hummed.

"...Can't you only do that in here?"

"...I can't make things outside. But I can alter them." Terri suppressed her own foot tapping, but her knee was jerking and she was smiling with the delight of a small child waiting for someone to understand a joke or guess a special secret.

Alastor hummed back but did not take the bait. He wasn't sure he had the energy for this guessing game, or if he wanted to understand this secret. He yawned, "That is very impressive," and shut his eyes.

Terri crossed her arms. Seriously? Ah, well. She felt his sweet presence in the blanket and mattress extensions of herself, such a rare treat. He was here. Good enough.

[X]

As she finished initialing and signing the forms, Terese nudged Alastor's foot with hers under the Earth home's kitchen table, smiling warmly. "Now we can be together. Right here. Your home."

Alastor smiled back. "Thank you. ...This means a lot to me."

Pulling the con together had felt like quality bonding time, the first Alastor had been enthusiastic about since...the incident. The sweet kiss on the cheek she'd given him after it was all through and her whisper of "You are my very, very favorite," had been worth every ounce, and more, of parental affection and pride he'd ever wished for and been denied. They were faithful teammates. Everything was once again as it should be, right?

"Now… Just one little thing left to do." Terri made the silly 'nothing up my sleeves' gesture she enjoyed making before producing something from thin air, and before he knew what it was, Alastor made an awful prediction. There was a split second when his stomach dropped and his chest felt filled with rocks as he thought, 'My god, I killed the wrong one.' But then Terri was waving a few simple sheets of paper at him- it was only more forms. Alastor could breathe again. Of course. Why had he leapt straight to the notion of buttons? If she'd intended to mutilate and drag him back to her den to keep him as her doll, why secure this house? He was being needlessly paranoid.

"These ones are for you," she said, extending her hand.

It made sense that he'd need to sign something, Al supposed. Eager for the period of uncertainty to end, he accepted the papers as if she were handing him solid gold. His pen hovered close to the dotted line, but he'd trained himself well, so his eyes brushed over the words with a cursory glance at first, then more attentively as a few words jumped out at him. As he recognized what he was looking at, his relief and calm slowly morphed into surprise, confusion, and finally, resentment.

"...These are adoption papers," Alastor said. Better than buttons, by a long shot, but still sorely disappointing. Still manipulative, entrapping. Terese was reverting straight back to her old ways. When had this even been discussed? Who had she sirened at the probate court to allow this so immediately?

Terri traced a more exaggerated smile over her own. "I could be confused, but I think this is the correct reaction." She whistled a bar from 'I Don't Need Anything but You.' Alastor's eye ticked, and across the room, the water in the kettle started boiling even though the stove was off. "What did I do?"

"You said you weren't going to push this," Alastor reminded her.

Terri shrugged and chuckled, "It's only on paper."

"It's legally binding!" It was almost more concerning that she would try chaining him to her by the laws of his own world. How obsessed was she with claiming him as her property? Maybe she didn't view him any differently than Greg had...

"I thought the point was to establish me as your legal guardian."

"This isn't mandatory to do that! ...Was this all another trick? Are you going to leave me if I don't sign this?" he asked, face falling.

Terri's mouth was a straight, indecipherable line. At last, sounding disappointed but tolerant, she said, "No. I am not. I promise." Alastor looked profoundly mistrusting. "What is this obsession with me tricking you?" she asked, sounding like she felt attacked. "Why do you look at me like that when you say it? As if it isn't something you enjoy doing yourself? It's what we just did!"

"Yes, together!" Alastor pointed out. "Aren't we playing on the same team? Like you said?" Alastor briefly allowed himself to be vulnerable, hoping she would understand. "I do want...one person I don't always have to trick...and who I don't always expect to trick me. Just one?" He paused. "You know, if I weren't still worried about you trying to pull one over on me-" He pointed at the adoption papers. "-I'd probably have signed those already." Terri looked thoughtfully at him, as Al asked seriously, "Are we friends? Because if we're not friends, I might as well go."

Terri sighed. "Alright. If you're threatening to put yourself in a less safe situation, then I won't ask you to sign these."

Ugh. "Hey! I'm not threatening anyth-"

"And you seem to think I'm the manipulative one," Terri interrupted him, before batting the unsigned papers onto the floor and dramatically sulking like a teenager.

Alastor swallowed his annoyance. She was a jerk, but she was his jerk. "Miss Terri, you are very lucky that you're charming...most of the time."

Terese perked up. "You've become sassier." She smirked and booped his nose. "Which is why you're lucky you're so cute." She nodded victoriously at the stack of other, signed papers. "Our house." She gestured around with a warm smile as she took his hand. "Welcome home, teammate." When Alastor gave her a suspicious look, she said, "No, no. I'm not shaking your hand. I'm holding it."

Alastor gripped her hand tightly and smiled. "Teammates."

Terri was delighted by the sweet warmth and affection he was exuding, and Alastor could tell. He took advantage of it to ask an important question. Some of Greg's remarks seemed worth considering further, especially his notion that Terri had recruited Al as part of a specific plan for her own benefit. "Aunt Terri," Al asked, strategically reinstating the 'aunt' to maximize emotionality and, hopefully, honesty, "why did you choose me?"

"What do you mean?" This sounded like an 'I don't believe my mother sent you to me'-prefaced question. Was it as simple as 'Why did you keep me instead of killing me?' or did it imply inferences about other plans? As she misdirected, genuine warmth snuck out. "You want me to tell you you're special, eh? You're certainly unusual, but statistics say there must be others," she teased, as Al rolled his eyes. "Buuuuuut, once I found you, I didn't feel the need to look anymore." Her smile glowed. "Satisfied?"

It was, hands down, the sweetest thing ever to come out of Terri's mouth. "Still suspicious."

"Good boy, you pass the test," she joked, ruffling his hair.

Alastor went for the throat. "Why did you offer to share power with me when it's so important to you to save it?" A long silence. 'Uh huh!' Al thought victoriously. 'Let's see her find a cute answer for that!' Of the many suspicious things Terri had done so far, this ranked pretty highly on the list. He was eager to learn the truth.

A long pause. Then Terri rose from her seat, stood behind him, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders over the chair in a particularly tender embrace. "...Because I can't have children of my own, and sharing is as close as I can get to something like...what you humans would call a 'biological child.' I could tell we would get along, so…I offered."

Nonononono, Alastor, don't fall for it, he thought. No way was that the real answer! At the very least, it wasn't the whole answer. But the way Terri squeezed his shoulders and whispered like it was a secret she hid, sensitively, for fear of laughter, made him wonder. He'd be watchful, but for now...he'd entertain the possibility. He disliked how mixed up this made him feel but, as usual, felt the rational part of himself stand idly by as he slipped under her spell. "Aunt Terri?"

"Hmmn?"

The salvaged 'Welcome Home' needlepoint hung in the background. Neither 'o' had a double loop.

"...I'll consider it."