Alastor slunk back into the radio station in the early morning hours. A few people were asleep on desks, many had gone home. The sailor was passed out in his chair in the studio, still wearing his garb. Gently waking the boy he let him keep the coat as promised, only trading back hats and shoes.

"Man I have to thank you," the sailor kept whispering despite Alastor's winces and hushes. "The mates left me out on my own and I couldn't figure out how to get back. Could have caught the bite in the cold."

"Mhmm," Alastor grunted, tying his shoes.

"You really saved my life. And the coat...been saving up for one but couldn't get one this warm on my salary. Gets frigid out at sea-"

Alastor rubbed his temples, his head pounding. If he heard the kind words at all they passed through him without understanding. His only concern was getting the boy out.

He held a finger to his lips and led the boy down to the street, tiptoeing past the remaining slumped forms in the office.

When they reached the pavement the boy was talking at full volume, his eyes brimming with tears.

"Really sir, there's gotta be something I can do to make it up to you. I feel like you're my guardian angel or something."

Alastor finally paused as he processed that. Guardian Angel. He shook his head. Gave the boy a warm smile, a few extra dollars, and sent him on his way.

He trudged back to the studio and slumped into his seat, letting his head fall back.

Guardian angel.

His mind started spinning, and he rubbed his hands like the fabled Lady MacBeth.

Six people. He had murdered six people.

But they were all bad people.

He shook the thought away. But it kept creeping back.

Your boss killed your mom. They think you killed the bootlegger, but you're taking the fall for Nifty. You saved Nifty. The priest had to go. You saw the corruption and you ended it for a more Godly man to take his place. And he would have ruined everything. The police officer was corrupt as well. Maybe the axe was a bit dramatic, but that kind of dishonest man in a position of power...it was dangerous. Children lost parents over a thing like that.

The woman, he shuddered, still feeling a chill from this one. A flash of the lady from the voodoo shop, choking, sputtering. He shook his head. She had volunteered for his little experiment. They had both been so sure it would work. She had been teaching him tricks and concoctions and they both thought they had discovered a new healing balm. A stepping stone at something greater. Something to bring back his mother. He had made the cut to her neck, she had given him the Athame to do it. Insisted she had to be in peril for it to work.

But it didn't work. He had stayed with her. Put posies on her eyes. He didn't cry. He rarely did anymore. But the dark heaviness still filled him.

He trudged back up to the studio, going through his papers, preparing for the morning. He felt as though he had been hit by a train, his head and body aching with hangover and exertion.

"Oh just a minute sir, please, let's make sure we aren't interrupting-"

A voice cut through. Nifty's voice.

He saw her slink through the door, and close it tight behind her, as if being chased.

"Good morning," she chirped. Her voice was sunny as always but her body was closed off, her eyes wary.

"Good morning, Darling," Alastor shot her a smile. His didn't reach his eyes either. For a moment they stared at each other. She cautiously moved closer.

"I'm so sorry about last night, sir." Her voice was barely a whisper, her eyes on her hands.

He watched her for a moment. Allowing her to squirm under his gaze. Then he sighed, leaning back in his chair, propping his feet on the desk. "We have a deal," he said in a bored tone. "It's my job to protect you."

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm grateful, sir."

"But I'll thank you to use better judgement so it's not so difficult a task?"

She again nodded, wiping at her eyes. He felt a pang of guilt. It was rather opportunistic that she had provided him with a reason to create his alibi. But he couldn't let her know that. She needed to stay safe. He couldn't lose her.

She moved around the table and hugged him, tears moistening his shirt. He dared to touch her hair. The affection feeling uncomfortable but necessary. She was still a child, barely 18, and he knew it reassured her.

"Thank you," she muttered again. When she pulled back, he saw she was smiling. Her eyes were the same as the sailors. He wasn't bad. He was a saviour. Right?

Cleaning her face with the hem of her skirt, she shifted back into the bustling busy girl he was used to, darting around the desk, cleaning and straightening things up.

"You have a visitor," she chirped, her voice at a normal volume again. "The detective is back."

He groaned but patted her head as he pulled himself from the chair.

Moving to the door, he put on his best smile before opening it to see the detective patiently waiting. Same boyish, slight grin, same worn coat. His eyes shadowed with bags but alert. But his hands weren't in his pockets. They were holding two steaming paper cups.

"Good morning," the detective said quickly, his eyes dancing. He brushed past Alastor into the studio, an air of excitement radiating from him.

"Well it seems someone got more rest than most this Nola," Alastor chuckled, eyeing him suspiciously and fighting his irritation at the man's brashness.

"It seems you did not. You look like you had quite a night," Nick Davies, extended one of the cups. Alastor didn't drop his smile, but eyed it suspiciously. The detective noticed. "Just coffee. The normal beans. Not that atrocious chickpea. I didn't know how you took it so I thought black would be the safest option."

Alastor took it skeptically, feigned a sip, before setting it down on the desk. "And too what do I owe such niceties, detective."

"Well I'm here on business but I thought the perkier you were the better," Nick tapped his temple. "Clear head for a clear alibi. I trust you already have yours rehearsed."

Alastor did his best to seem confused, seething inside. The detective watched him from over the rim of his own cup. Those dancing eyes infuriated him. With such insubstantial evidence there was no reason the man should suspect him this much, yet he was already acting like he was moving in for a checkmate.

"I'm afraid I'm not sure what you mean…" Alastor said slowly.

The detective smirked. "There was a murder last night. As predicted. Bourbon street. In the middle of a crowd actually."

Alastor let his mouth fall open. "The middle of the street?"

The detective continued to smirk. "A bit performative, yes?"

Alastor fought to keep his anger down. "Surely someone saw him then?"

"Not a one," the detective leaned in, excited, conspiratorial. "Not a damn person on the street saw who did it. Our man is a master at his craft."

"And they know it was him?"

"R carved on the face."

"A thing like that," Alastor muttered softly. He pretended to gaze off, horrified, but his mind was spinning. Nick was watching him closely. The whole exchange felt off. It was clear Nick believed it to be him. But he almost seemed….enthralled. Alastor didn't feel like an animal backed into a corner, he felt like he was losing a chess match, and his opponent was having an absolute gas. He struggled to divert.

"So I suppose you want to know I was here all night, which I was," Alastor said slowly. "And if it would help the investigation I'd be more than happy to put out a message on the waves. Tell people where to find you if they have any information?" He tried for a soft smile but was finding it harder and harder to keep up the appearance.

The detective gave a bark of a laugh. "Yes, I'm sure you'd be more than happy to do that."

Alastor felt his resolve slip, a glare slipping across his face. The detective, ever observant, put up his hand in mock surrender.

"I've already asked around outside, they all back your story. Spent the night in the office. You look like you slept in your chair the way you're favoring your left side so much, age doesn't make it easy on us does it old friend?"

Alastor suddenly felt conscious of the fact that he had been limping slightly. His right leg was sore, not from the poor sleep, but from the running. He felt vulnerable under the detective's gaze.

"And the window doesn't open," The detective nodded to the far corner. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. And it was correct. Part of the sound proofing meant it was sealed permanently.

"So I suppose...you're clear for this one," Nick punctuated his conclusion with a sip of his coffee.

Alastor felt relief wash over him. He had done it. He could have shouted for joy.

"Thank you detective," he said, lightly. "I must say, you're very thorough. What the case needs I'm sure. I'm glad we could sort this out. And if you want me to make any announcement-"

"Quite performative…" the Detective mused again, the same smirk and tired, dancing eyes.

Alastor faltered. Perhaps not out of the woods yet.

"Well, I best be off," The detective gave him a mock salute and began to make his way for the door, hand back in pocket and shoulders tightened into a hunch. "So you don't take it black?"

Alastor froze, his attention drifting back to the coffee. The detective turned to look at him.

Alastor cleared his throat. "Milk and two sugars," he tried to smile. "Light and sweet for me. Not a fan of the bitterness."

The detective nodded, and slipped out the door.

Alastor finally let his demeanor slip, glaring at the door. He caught Nifty out of the corner of his eye, still busing herself, but watching him all the same.

This detective was proving to be a bit to competent for his liking.