It only takes 2 months before Alastor's station is all people on the streets are buzzing about. From his detailed stories, witness accounts, and interviews to Lucille's singing and the mystery surrounding her, they were raking in attention faster than they could keep up with. With the attention came big business wanting to pay Alastor to have him advertise their businesses for them in-between stories, interviews, and songs. When a year had passed from the station's first broadcast, Alastor had made enough money to be welcomed into the city's Elite inner circle. At the age of 22, he had made it into a circle filled with nothing but old money.
And if there was anything those rich folk loved almost as much as money, it was gossip and speculation.
Lucille was hesitant to attend any events that she and Alastor were invited to, which added to the curious whispers that were passes around about her, but solely because she didn't want to risk anyone seeing her face. The rich and powerful didn't take too kindly to being fooled, and if they wanted to believe that the voice they raved about belonged to a white woman, then who would correct them? Not her, Lucille had said. She didn't want her identity getting out and breaking the profitable illusion they'd started. Especially not when even the cities around New Orleans had started to tune in for his carnage filled broadcasts.
Alastor's voice had been a part of the station's pull, as he had adopted a signature tone of voice that ended becoming widely known. This fame inspired copycat broadcasts, but the shows only ran for very short amounts of time before fizzling out. Anybody who was anybody knew that Alastor's broadcasts were the real deal, unable to be replicated and unable to be matched.
Lucille had managed to move her mother and herself to a nicer place, which had made Alastor look beyond his usual hunting grounds.
The amount of kills he made monthly had dropped ever since his face had become just as known as his voice. Attending shows and ceremonies had cemented his face among the other rich families so he was invited to speak at events and be very close to what he felt was an attraction. To match his newfound status, however, he'd taken to wearing more expensive clothing and mingling with the white-collars. It helped to know who was who when it came to avoiding making a mistake when he took his next life.
When the year mark of his radio show's existence hit, he'd made his 89th kill. He'd become more skilled in finding and hiding victims, and only once had he come close to being caught, having abandoned a body mere seconds before a bystander had rounded the corner and found it. Still drenched in blood, he'd managed to hide and slink away undetected. That night he'd been close to Lucille's new place, so he'd let himself in through the backdoor, dripping blood from his sleeves onto the wooden floor as he did so.
"Alastor," Lucille hisses, standing up quickly from her place on the lounge. "You're going to stain the floors!"
He clears his throat and removes his coat, giving her what he considered his winning smile, "Wonderful to see you too, Lucy." It had been a few weeks since he'd made a kill, and while he did see her during the day during broadcasts, his time away from the station was consumed by dazzling the richer crowds.
Lucille only grunts, coming over with two buckets and a mop. She gingerly takes the sticky coat from his hands with a grimace and stuffs it into the bucket in her left hand, dropping the one filled with water in her right hand to the floor carefully and handing him the mop. "Clean it."
Alastor sets to work while Lucille retrieves her standard cleaning kit for his clothing. As time had passed, he'd noticed that she'd begun to flinch away from his gore-soaked clothing less and less. By this point she'd become familiar with his routine, and his frequent kills.
Lucille had become his most trusted ally, and he'd dare to call her a friend. She kept his secrets, although she still would periodically suggest that he stop his killing once and for all. She frequently pointed out the risks now that he had more eyes on him then ever. That getting caught would unravel everything they'd built, and especially that she didn't see the point in continuing.
"The point, my dear," He'd told her. "Is that it's fun."
Alastor knew the risk he was taking every time he went out at night. Though he doubted he'd ever see anyone important that late at night. No one would believe the poor either, especially not when someone of his status was the accused.
Lucille hangs his wet clothes up outside and come back inside, clothing spotted with water droplets and blood. Her hair had escaped from it's bun, fuzzy curls sticking out from the knot. "Looks like it's time for a second bath." She mutters, then looks up at him and sighs. "Your shirt is bloody too. Would it kill you to at least be a bit cleaner?'
Alastor scoffs, placing the mop back in the bucket. "With the killing? Never. The gore is half the fun."
Lucille makes a disgusted face and walks over to him before holding out her hand, "Shirt."
Alastor grins, "How forward, Miss Bell."
Her jaw drops, face reddening, then she quickly snaps it shut. "No, you ass. I need to clean it before the stains set in permanently." She fusses, but she does look away.
Alastor undoes his wrist cuffs and then his shirt buttons, shrugging it off before handing it gently to her, "It's maroon, though. I doubt any stains would be too visible."
She doesn't reply, instead going to wash the shirt. When she returns from stringing it up and bathing, she's carrying a change of clothes for him and a washing cloth. "Here," She holds them out in offering. "You've got blood on your face as well. I trust you know where the washroom is."
He dips his head in thanks, before heading off to clean up. Once in the washroom, he locks the door and looks in the mirror. His left check was spotted with dry blood, and when he reaches up to rub at it he sees similar on his right hand. This kill had been a bit less... enthusiastic, than the last, but didn't lack his usual fervor.
But the last one... had it in excess.
A man who'd been bothering Lucille for months, catcalling and constantly attempting to attract her attention, had made the unfortunate choice to go out alone one night. While Lucille was a bearcat, she was visibly uncomfortable when the man came round. She'd later confided in Alastor, when they'd passed him on the way to the station one morning, that he'd felt her up on several occasions. He'd crossing multiple lines and boundaries.
So he'd taken it into his own hands. He'd followed the man to the docks -caught him leaning over the railing, upchucking from all the gin he'd been drinking at the speakeasy- and slit this throat from behind. Deep enough to bleed him dry, but shallow enough for it not to be immediate. Then, he watched as the man coughed and choked on his own blood, turning around to see Alastor at the last minute before he stopped breathing altogether. Alastor had then kicked the body into the river and left.
Lucille didn't know still, but he figured it would click when she realized the scofflaw wasn't around anymore. It was the least he could do, since he figured that she had to have confided in him for a reason.
Alastor washes his face and hands off, drying them both with a towel before looking back up into the mirror to see if he'd gotten it all-
-Only to see his reflection grinning inhumanely wide back at him.
He jumps backwards and rubs his eyes, looking closer then to see if what he was seeing was real. But the mirror only reflected his own shocked eyes back at him now. He steps a bit closer and lightly touches the smooth, cool surface.
Quiet laughter echoes in his head and he grimaces. The voices, ever present in his head, began to babble softly. The taunting lift to their indistinguishable words was enough to make him feel foolish. He knew he wasn't well, but now he was seeing things too?
Bushwa.
Alastor pulls on his clean shirt and buttons it as he walks back out into the parlor to see Lucille still there, reading now. "Better?" he asks.
She looks up and holds her hand up, thumb and forefinger touching, "Berries."
He sits down in the armchair across from her. "So how are things with you mother?" He asks.
Ms. Dorothy Bell, Lucille's mother, hadn't been very pleased the first time she'd met Alastor, which had been only a few months ago. Firstly, she had already been upset that she didn't know where Lucille got an excess of money from all of a sudden when the radio show hit it's paying peak, but the final nail in the coffin had been when she came home to an "unknown white man" in her home.
Alastor had just finished getting dressed in fresh clothes when Dorothy had walked in. She'd been mid-sentence as she walked through the door, but the moment she'd seen Alastor she hadn't even given Lucille a second to explain before she'd panicked. She'd thought Lucille was in trouble, thinking the sudden excess of money had been something borrowed and that Alastor had come to... collect. Dirty money.
In the end they'd ended up lightly explaining their arrangement, leaving out -of course- how she and Alastor had truly met and then later "reconnected". While the woman had still been suspicious, there were only so many questions she could truly ask.
"They're well," Lucille says lightly. "She hasn't brought you up in a while, since I got her to finally stop believing that you're really an undercover bruno for some gang that's here to either harm me or bump me off."
Alastor laughs, "Your mother's no dumb Dora, so I'm sure she's still watching. Any good mother would be."
Lucille laughs softly and shakes her head, turning the page in her book. "We don't keep up with the business of the white folk in this town, so she doesn't know that your fancy clothes and whatnot aren't the signs of blood money." She continues. "And yes... she is a good mother. Which is why I want to keep her as far from our arrangement as possible."
"I wouldn't hurt her." Alastor says evenly.
"I wasn't insinuating that you would."
"I still don't kill women, if that's any consolation." He reminds her. "And although I may not be a man with many morals, that's one I adhere to."
"Why? Because we can't put up enough of a fight?"
Alastor quirks an eyebrow up, "You want to know the truth?"
Lucille bookmarks her page and shuts it, turning her full attention to him. She waves for him to continue.
"It because of how my father brutalized my mother." He tells her. "I don't want to be like him. I don't want to be a man that takes advantage of a woman's smaller stature for his own cruel amusement."
She hums and opens her book, looking back down at the pages. "Well," she continues. "I guess that leaves me in the clear."
Alastor scoffs softly, "It would be a waste and a downright shame to kill you. I consider you dear to me, as well as a trusted confidant. An equal."
Lucille's eyes widen a fraction before she looks up at him, a curious kind of look on her face. "Never thought I'd see the day where a white man calls me his equal, let alone his friend." Then, she pauses. "But I consider you a friend as well, Al."
He blinks, then laughs at the nickname, "Al, huh?"
She grins, "Pals have nicknames for one another, so if you're callin' me Lucy, then I'm callin' you Al."
"And you don't mind being pals with a murderer?" He asks, amused as he waits for her answer.
She doesn't hesitate, "Better pals than enemies, I'd say."
"Smart girl."
"And a smart girl is a safe girl."
Two months and 8 kills later, Alastor is offered up the opportunity of a lifetime on a silver platter.
At a party, celebrating the grand opening of a big department store in the city by one of it's richest families, he catches the eye of the family's eldest daughter: Ruby Dupont. Ruby was a round eyed brunette who was still a bit of a tomato despite her schooling. She was notorious for being awful to the help, however, throwing fits when she didn't get what she wanted, and spending exorbitant amounts of money on pretty things. In Alastor's opinion, she reminded him of a crow.
He was helping himself to some of the event's hors d'oeuvres when she sauntered over to stand beside him.
"If I may say, your choice in clothing is wonderfully elegant." She tells him, reaching to grab some slices from the cheese and olive platter in front of her. "And I adore anything elegant."
Alastor donned a black coat with a deep red vest and pants, a white undershirt and a black and grey striped tie. He usually chose dark colors, reds and blacks, on the chance that the voices whispered and coaxed him into the mood for a kill. It inconvenienced Lucille less when it came to cleaning. "Ah, thank you." He gives her a smile then continues to pick foods for his plate. "Ruby, isn't it?"
"Yes, and you're the Alastor Bechard that I hear of so much. I've seen you at parties before but you always seem to disappear before the end of the night." She notes, the last part with a disappointed pout in her tone.
He looks down at her again, taking in the widened pupils, her blushed cheeks, and the quick rise and fall of her chest that she'd all but pushed up against his arm. All clear signs that she was interested in him.
Body language was something Alastor had learned to read well from a young age, and even more so in recent times. Attraction was something he'd seen aimed towards others around him but it was fairly new for it to be directed at him. The interested party would give themself away with close proximity, or a blush and glances full of longing or lust. The emotion he was most familiar with, however, was fear: Sweating, pale faces, widened eyes, trembling, shortness of breath, etc. Usually he didn't make a habit of letting victims see his face, but there were rare occasions where it couldn't be helped.
Out of 96 kills, only 9 had seen his face: His father, the scofflaw that harassed Lucille in addition to the first 6 men he'd offed that had assaulted her, and the man that had attempted to mug him after he'd left his job over a year ago. The others had backs turned, or it was too dark for their eyes to focus on him before blood was spilled.
But the emotion he was seeing now was Ruby's lust.
Alastor hesitates for a moment to consider his next course of actions. The Dupont family had money, and money could be... useful. He didn't have a need for anything Ruby could give him aside from that. Money bought status, and it bought travel... and it could be helpful to kill outside of the city. It would satiate his and the voices' appetite for violence, and give the city time to breathe and assume the killer had moved on. Having money also meant no one would know where he traveled to, so any murders outside of the Crescent City couldn't be tied to him in the even something happened.
And so a plan began to form as Alastor stepped into the perfect character for the role.
He mimics her actions, turning to almost face Ruby and look directly down at her. "Well, had I known a skirt like you had been present I would've stayed a bit longer." he replies smoothly, satisfaction coursing through him when she blushes openly.
She ducks her head, bashful now. "Oh you're feeding me a line." She says coyly.
"Insincere flattery isn't my game," He tilts his head to the side to try and catch her eye. "Beautiful women such as yourself deserve such compliments."
Ruby looks up to meet his eyes, flustered. It was obvious she hadn't anticipated this immediate kind of reaction from him. "Is there... anyone in particular that you fancy?" She asks, pushing forward.
Alastor only hesitates for a beat before replying, "Only one, at the moment."
The seeds to grow his plan had been successfully planted, and within a few weeks he'd slithered his way into her family's good graces. He'd charmed her parents, impressed her siblings and older brother, and secured Ms. Dupont's heart in a secure grip. With every smooth lie, he moved himself closer to his goal. The only downside...?
"Are you really doing this?" Lucille asks, visibly annoyed. "Ruby Dupont is nothing but a baby vamp with no brain and a bunch of cruelty to fill it's place."
Alastor straightens his tie in the mirror as he replies, looking through it to meet Lucille's judgemental eyes. "But she's got the money to make sure I'm never suspected or caught." He replies. "While I'm not exactly behind the eight ball when it comes to money, more can never hurt."
Lucille crosses her arms and looks away, "She doesn't like people like me." She says derisively. "And saying I'm your assistant is only going to make me her main target. She'll see me as another one of the help, and you know how she treats them."
He sighs and turns to face her, "Lucille. Just consider it for a moment, won't you?"
She groans, anxiously combing her fingers through her curls. "But if you marry her then she'll be in a position to find out about what you really do." She counters. "Isn't that dangerous? And it's not like you could bump her off if she did. She's a woman."
Alastor shrugs, "All the women from old money do is sit around and beat their gums, they don't pry too much into their husband's business. She wouldn't be a threat."
Lucille flounders for a moment before turning on her heels and marching off. "Fine, but this is an awful idea." She calls back.
Alastor turns back to the mirror and neatens his hair, a grin already on his face.
Time to put on a show.