Car lights flashed, catching Angel's attention as he finally emerged from the studio. The abrupt signal drew his gaze towards the vehicle, and without uttering a word to Charlie, he made his way inside and settled into a seat. Similarly, Charlie remained silent as the engine of the limo roared to life and the car set off, transporting them both to their hotel.
An uncomfortable silence enveloped the cabin as the two demons embarked on their journey homeward. The weight of an unresolved issue hung heavily in the air, a topic that both knew demanded attention, yet neither wanted to break the silence. Time seemed to stretch on endlessly until finally, they arrived at the safety of the hotel.
With a heavy heart, Angel trailed behind Charlie as they entered the building, his gaze fixed upon the floor. As they stepped into the foyer, he sensed the weight of nine-eyes turning toward him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet their gazes. The fear of being pitied or regarded with disgust gripped him tightly. The truth was now out in the open, irreversible and unchangeable. There was no turning back.
He hastened towards the stairs, his sole desire being to seek solace and seclusion within the confines of his room. It was a place where he could momentarily escape the torment that awaited him at the studio, the place he had to return to. The mere thought of returning to Valentino, his captor, his abuser, filled him with dread. Valentino was a monstrous figure, a being who held a binding grip over his very soul, a possession that seemed impossible to break free from.
"How long?" Vaggie's voice shattered the suffocating silence, her question piercing through the tension. There was neither accusation nor genuine concern in her tone, but rather a detached neutrality, as if she sought to gauge the extent of the threat this situation posed to the hotel. How much of a threat Angel himself posed to them all. Angel attempted to respond, parting his lips slightly, but his voice failed him. The weight of the moment bore down on his fragile form, as if an immense pressure threatened to crush him, rendering him incapable of uttering a single sound for fear of shattering into irreparable pieces.
"Too long," a single female voice cut through the silence. Cherri's words resonated with a chilling anger, directed towards those who believed they had the divine right to inflict torment and suffering on others merely because they held the power to do so. Angel's lower arms instinctively wrapped around his torso, a desperate attempt to contain the overwhelming emotions swirling within him. He resumed his path towards the stairs, seeking refuge, when he suddenly felt a delicate pair of hands gently grasping his own. His attention shifted to the person who had reached out to him, revealing Niffty. The diminutive, bug-like cyclops gazed up at him with a genuine and compassionate expression, offering a ray of hope amidst the darkness.
"If it makes you feel better," Niffty spoke in her almost childlike voice, her words carrying a genuine sincerity. "I thought you looked really nice this evening." Angel's immediate response was to kneel down, enveloping the smaller demon in a tight embrace. As he did, he glanced upwards, sensing a hand landing cautiously on his shoulder. Charlie's expression remained composed, her emotions carefully controlled. While concern flickered in her eyes, she understood that this was not the moment for questions or expressing her own distress. She could see the fatigue and weariness etched upon Angel's face, evidence of the battles he had fought. Slowly, the white-furred spider rose to his feet, his gaze conveying a wordless appreciation towards Charlie. Cherri, on the other hand, stepped forward and threw her arms around him, offering her support. Angel gratefully accepted the gesture, his resolve faltering as a single tear slipped past his eyelids, tracing a path down his cheek.
"Alright everyone," Alastor's voice emerged from behind Angel as he materialized, his hand finding its place on the Spider's shoulder. "There will be time for expressions later. For now, my dear fellow, come along." Before Angel could voice his objection, he felt a force pulling him into a swirling darkness. The world around him blurred and distorted, and the last image that remained in his vision was Cherri, reaching out as if attempting to halt his departure. In a mere instant, the consuming darkness swallowed him whole. Moments later, the shadowy veil lifted, leaving Angel stumbling forward, disoriented. A wave of dizziness overcame him, causing him to succumb to unconsciousness.
Alastor wasn't surprised by Angel's unconsciousness; the disorientation caused by shadow teleportation often affected those unaccustomed to it. Moreover, this was the first time he had ever performed the feat with another soul, leaving him unsure of how someone else would fare. Kneeling down, he gently lifted the younger man into his arms, cradling him securely. Making his way to the center of the living room, he approached the luxurious leather curved art deco couch. A door leading to an unused bedroom caught his eye, but he decided it was best not to give the Spider any ideas in his current state. With utmost care, Alastor laid Angel down on the couch, ensuring his comfort. His shadow, ever obedient, fetched a blanket and draped it over the unconscious demon.
Taking a seat on the couch himself, Alastor positioned a throw pillow against his own leg, ensuring that Angel's head didn't rest entirely on his lap. A slender shadow tentacle reached out, selecting a book from the nearby bookshelves. Alastor welcomed the distraction, desiring something to occupy his mind amidst the awkwardness of the situation he had found himself in. With the book in hand, he began to read, allowing the words to transport him to another realm, momentarily setting aside the complexities that surrounded them.
Alastor contemplated the course of action as he sat there with Angel on the couch. Logically, he could have carried the young demon straight to his own room and be done with it. But then what? Angel wouldn't be entirely alone; he had his female companion, Cherro, to keep watch over him.
Alastor knew that the one-eyed girl's loyalty and protectiveness towards Angel were unwavering. He recalled the incident when they had overheard Valentino chastising Angel, how Cherri had been ready to storm off to the studio in a fit of rage. Sensing the potential danger, Alastor had resorted to restraining her impulsive actions using his shadow tentacles. He didn't want her impulsiveness to backfire and inadvertently put Angel in further harm, or even endanger herself.
Angel emitted a soft groan, indicating that he was beginning to stir and regain consciousness. Alastor swiftly responded by activating his radio, allowing gentle piano music to fill the room, its soothing melody aimed at lulling the spider back to sleep. Aware that Angel might feel disoriented and confused in an unfamiliar environment, Alastor believed it was best for him to rest and recover before addressing the pressing issue that lay before them.
As he sat beside the unconscious demon, Alastor found his hand unconsciously gliding over the mop of fur that constituted Angel's hair. Though his gloves prevented him from physically feeling the individual strands, he could discern their soft and smooth texture as his fingers deftly maneuvered through them. There was a strange comfort in this simple action, a connection formed through the motion of his touch, even if Angel himself couldn't perceive it.
Alastor's smile softened as he observed the slumbering form of the younger demon. He couldn't quite comprehend why he felt such a strong pull towards Angel. Sentimentality and affection were never traits that resonated with the Deer Demon. He had no interest in pursuing romantic relationships, regardless of gender. However, Angel had managed to captivate his attention in a way that others hadn't. Perhaps it was because Angel was one of the few demons who didn't fear him. Most denizens of Hell knew of Alastor's reputation as the Radio Demon and regarded him with trepidation. The only exceptions were the newly arrived souls who hadn't yet learned about his notoriety, those who dismissed the stories as mere rumors, or those who possessed enough power to perceive that he posed no immediate threat to them. Angel, however, fell into a unique category.
Considering Angel's association with the Vee's, it became clear why he had feigned ignorance of any familiarity with the Radio Demon's reputation. It shed new light on the outburst Angel had unleashed weeks ago. There was a complexity to the spider demon's character that intrigued Alastor, a duality that defied easy categorization. It was a puzzle that Alastor found himself increasingly drawn to solve, even if he wasn't fully aware of why.
In addition to the enigma that Angel presented, Alastor couldn't ignore the signals of pain that he picked up whenever they were alone together. It was as if there were countless radio waves of agony and torment permeating Angel's being, creating a cacophony of suffering that reverberated like relentless static feedback. While Alastor wasn't typically inclined to go out of his way to assist others, he couldn't simply disregard a soul enduring such anguish for the amusement of others. Growing up in New Orleans, he had witnessed far too many instances of people being subjected to torment for mere entertainment.
It was a deep-rooted aspect of his character—the lingering empathy he carried despite the sinister transformation he had undergone. Alastor couldn't turn a blind eye to the distress he sensed within Angel. There was an innate desire to understand and alleviate the spider demon's pain, to offer solace in a way that few others would even contemplate. The complexities of their connection and the anguish that Angel carried became intertwined, drawing Alastor further into the enigmatic web of the spider's existence.
His own father had never been a fatherly figure, at least not in the way Alastor had hoped for. For the longest time, he struggled to even acknowledge the man as his father. He was simply a stranger who would stumble into their shack by the swamp, often in a drunken state. Alastor could still recall the anxiety that would wash over his mother whenever the man appeared. She would dutifully serve him food and drink, treating him as if he were a respectable guest. But once he had consumed his share of gumbo and cornbread, he would forcefully take advantage of the poor woman. Alastor had been taught to hide in the swamp, remaining concealed until the ordeal was over. During those terrifying moments, his father would spew hateful words, blaming his mother for her pregnancy and claiming that the only reason Alastor was allowed to live was because he permitted it. It was a cruel game of power and control, his mother bearing the weight of the man's despicable actions.
In his younger years, Alastor would often fantasize about a different father figure magically appearing to rescue them from this torment. He clung to childish illusions of a savior who would protect them from the horrors they endured. But as he grew older, he gradually came to accept that these dreams were nothing more than illusions. The reality of his lineage and the absence of a loving father figure became painfully apparent. The wounds inflicted by his father's cruelty ran deep, shaping Alastor's perspective and fueling his disdain for those who abused their power.
The memories of his tumultuous upbringing in the swamp served as a constant reminder of the darkness that resided within some individuals, fueling Alastor's own transformation into the being known as the Radio Demon. It was a part of his past he couldn't escape, a testament to the resilience he had developed and the darkness he had harnessed in order to survive.
Alastor's high-yellow complexion, a mix of light skin tone and African ancestry, had subjected him and his mother to scrutiny and discrimination. There were instances when strangers would question his mother, their disapproving stares reflecting their prejudice. As he grew older and ventured into town by himself, he encountered more overt acts of exclusion. Some stores would actively chase him out, refusing him entry, while others treated him with suspicion or imposed unfair pricing. The weight of these experiences bore down on him, serving as a constant reminder of the biases and prejudices that still existed in the world.
During those nights when his father was absent, Alastor would find solace in the comforting presence of his mother. They would huddle together on the small bed, her tears staining the pillow as she wept. In those vulnerable moments, she would impart to him a vital piece of wisdom—to keep a smile on his face no matter what. It was her way of shielding him from the darkness that threatened to consume their lives. She believed that as long as he wore a smile, the negativity and pain would be unable to penetrate his spirit.
Alastor took those words to heart, adopting a facade of eternal cheerfulness as a defense mechanism against the hardships he faced. Behind that perpetual grin, however, lay a depth of understanding and a hunger for retribution. The memories of his mother's tears and the injustices he endured fueled his determination to challenge the world that had treated them with such disdain.
He had been nearly thirteen years old the night the Klan descended upon his mother's shack. As always, his mother had instructed him to conceal himself in the nearby swamp, insisting that no matter what unfolded, he must maintain a smile on his face. Obediently, he followed her instructions, finding a hiding spot that offered him a view of the impending events. Yet, to these white hooded men, he remained unseen, a ghostly presence in their midst. Among the crowd stood his father, the sole figure without a white hood, his gaze fixed upon his mistress with disdain, as if she were an object to be discarded. In the neighboring houses, he glimpsed anxious, dark faces peering out from windows, their eyes filled with fear and trepidation over the unfolding scene.
His mother was forcefully yanked out of the house, forcefully thrown to the ground by the Klan. In the midst of the chaos, a man emerged from the group, clutching a wooden statue depicting one of his mother's cherished Santerian Orishas.
"The bitch was hiding this voodoo crap," one of the men sneered. "Probably used it to lure you in." Alastor felt a surge of anger at the derogatory remark. His mother was a devout practitioner of Santeria, an Afro-Cuban religion with loose connections to Catholicism. She earned her livelihood as a fortune teller, utilizing her expertise in herbs to craft talismans and remedies that aided those who sought her guidance. Voodoo, on the other hand, was a distinct subset of the Santeria tradition, often unjustly conflated with it to vilify the entire practice.
The white-hooded men had arrived with a horse-drawn wagon, its presence casting a sinister shadow over the scene. They callously looped a rope over a sturdy tree limb, cruelly preparing their macabre apparatus. Alastor's heart sank as he witnessed his mother's arms being tightly bound behind her back, a painful restraint. With callous force, she was coerced onto the wagon, where a noose awaited, poised to encircle her delicate neck.
"You mentioned something about there being a boy," the Grand Dragon of the white-robed men inquired of his father, his voice carrying a tone of authority.
"He's not here," Alastor's mother spoke up, her voice filled with a mixture of defiance and sorrow. "I've sent him away. He's reached an age where he can fend for himself and make his own way in the world."
"This better be the truth," The Grand Dragon responded sternly, his gaze shifting towards the assembled crowd. With calculated intent, he elevated his voice for all to hear. "This female n****** has been accused of engaging in seductive and malevolent sorcery, targeting the innocent citizens of our city. Such crimes warrant nothing less than death as punishment. Let her execution serve as a powerful reminder to anyone who dares to commit such abhorrent acts against our community."
Alastor's mother turned her gaze towards the murky depths of the swamp, seeking him amidst the darkness. Though uncertain if she could truly see him, she bestowed upon him a wide smile, silently urging him to maintain his own smile, a symbol that the darkness couldn't conquer his spirit. In response, the Grand Dragon nodded to a group of Klan members, positioned with lit torches at the ready. In one synchronized motion, the hooded figures hurled the torches towards the aged shack. The dry wooden shingles caught fire almost instantly, flames engulfing the structure. Startled by the conflagration, the horse tied to the wagon panicked and bolted forward with great speed. Alastor's mother, standing upon the wagon's bed, was violently thrown backward as the horse took off. The noose around her neck tightened with a sickening crack, as her life was abruptly extinguished. A final twitch passed through her lifeless body before it stilled, the eternal smile etched upon her face.
The hooded men departed, their laughter and taunts echoing in the air, while the faces that had peered out from the windows retreated in shock. Wailing sobs and screams pierced the air, emanating from the ramshackle houses. It was morning when Alastor finally mustered the courage to leave his hiding place in the swamp. Desperately, he wished it were all a dreadful nightmare and that he would awaken beside his mother on their humble bed. But harsh reality gripped him tightly. His home was no more, his mother was gone, and he was left utterly alone.
The compassionate members of the community offered him solace and shelter, but the nights brought no rest for him. Instead, he would gaze out of the window near his cot, a twisted smile etched upon his face. Those men had accused his kind-hearted mother of wickedness, yet they were ignorant of the true meaning of evil. Alastor resolved to become a living nightmare for all who preyed upon the innocent. They would witness firsthand the torment and abuse they inflicted on others, hunted like animals.
There was one individual he yearned to make his primary target, his father—the man who had orchestrated the demise of a woman to conceal his own infidelity. Alastor would not end the old man's life immediately. No, he wanted his prime victim to exist in constant fear, forever glancing over his shoulder, anticipating an unknown entity coming for him. Only then would he allow the old man to see and comprehend the monstrous creation he had fostered.
Regrettably, fate denied Alastor the opportunity to torment his father, as the old man succumbed to a heart attack before Alastor reached the age of sixteen. However, this setback did not deter him. With a deep-seated resolve, Alastor redirected his focus to those who deserved a taste of their own medicine—the countless perpetrators of cruelty and injustice. Securing a job as a radio host at a small-time station, he skillfully operated in plain sight, using his platform to report on the "Boogeyman of New Orleans." Unbeknownst to everyone, he was actually detailing his own dark deeds. Some labeled him a beast deserving of a public hanging, while others hailed him as a hero who dispensed long-overdue justice.
"What is your story, I wonder?" Alastor asked wistfully, his gaze momentarily shifting towards the slumbering spider. "It surely couldn't have been an easy journey for you, my dear, considering what you are."
Alastor's words carried a hint of empathy and reflection. In that seemingly, delicate creature, he saw a reflection of himself—a being misunderstood and judged solely based on appearances. Despite their divergent paths, Alastor recognized a kindred spirit in the spider, sharing an unspoken understanding of the challenges faced when existing outside the norms of society.
A knock on the door interrupted Alastor's musings. He gently disentangled himself from the couch, ensuring that his lap was no longer occupied by the spider. The last thing he needed were prying eyes and the assumptions that would follow. With a nonchalant stride, he made his way to the door, where he found Charlie and a visibly agitated Cherri Bomb standing alongside Vaggie, who regarded him with a cautious gaze.
"Hey, Al," Charlie greeted him warmly. "Is Angel here with you?"
"Why, of course, my charming demon belle," Alastor declared, stepping aside with a flourish to allow the three girls to enter. "He was utterly spent, he's practically sleeping like the dead on my couch."
Upon hearing this, Cherri's concern overtook any sense of decorum. She hastily made her way into the room, her modern punk attire clashing with the 1930s-styled study. Ignoring the mismatched surroundings, she focused on where Angel was sleeping and crouched down, scrutinizing his condition with genuine care. Her single eye narrowed, searching for any signs of distress, but soon a satisfied expression washed over her face as she found the resting spider to be in a peaceful health state.
Charlie's expression softened with relief as she addressed Alastor, gratitude evident in her voice. "Thank you for looking after him. It means a lot to know he's in good hands, even if those hands are yours."
Alastor's voice took on a dramatic tone as he responded, a hint of amusement in his words. "Care? Oh, my dear, do not mistake my actions for genuine care. I have no obligations or affections for anyone in this building."
"Well, that's typical," Vaggie grumbled, her voice tinged with frustration, as she strode into the room. Cherri had taken a seat on the couch where Angel was sleeping.
"Angel is certainly someone I can care less about," Alastor stated with a sly grin as Charlie also entered the room. She, however, hung back, as though she didn't want to intrude upon Cherri tending to her best friend. Alastor's crimson eyes flickered with a mischievous spark.
"And yet," he continued, his voice dripping with amusement, "he has managed to attract my interests. That, my dear, isn't a feat that just any demon can claim to achieve." Alastor leaned against the wall, observing the two female demons watching over the sleeping spider with a mixture of fascination and a touch of something else, perhaps even respect.
There was no denying that Angel Dust possessed a certain charisma, a unique flair that set him apart from the rest. His flamboyant personality and devil-may-care attitude had garnered attention from demons across Hell, but it was Alastor who found himself drawn to the spider demon's captivating allure.
Though Alastor had little inclination to form attachments or invest his time in the affairs of others, Angel Dust had somehow managed to pique his curiosity. There was an untamed spirit within him, a recklessness that Alastor found intriguing. It was as if Angel Dust danced on the edge of chaos, and Alastor couldn't help but be enthralled by the spectacle.
"I've been in contact with Valentino," Charlie informed the Radio Demon, her voice firm and resolute. She glanced at Alastor briefly before continuing, "I haven't disclosed the extent of what we've overheard, but I made it abundantly clear that despite Angel's association with him, he remains a resident of my hotel."
Alastor's lips curled into a knowing smile as he grasped the underlying implication in Charlie's words. He understood the weight of the responsibility she bore and the significance of his own role in the hotel's endeavors. His crimson eyes gleamed with a touch of amusement and acknowledgement.
"Ah, yes," Alastor mused, his voice laced with a hint of intrigue. "By accepting residence within these walls, Angel Dust has become one of the souls you've taken under your wing, Charlie. And in turn, I find myself shouldering some shared responsibility as well, having agreed to lend my assistance to this peculiar establishment."
The radio demon's words carried a subtle depth, hinting at the unspoken bond forming between them. While Alastor had always been driven by his own interests and inscrutable motivations, his involvement in the Happy Hotel had become more than just a passing curiosity. He had willingly aligned himself with Charlie's cause, drawn by the unique challenges and opportunities it presented.
Charlie let out a sigh, her expression tinged with a hint of frustration and longing. As the Princess of Hell, she held a position of authority, but even that had its limitations when it came to intervening in the affairs of individual demons.
"Even as the Princess of Hell," Charlie confessed, her voice carrying a tinge of regret, "my powers and influence only extend so far. I cannot directly interfere in the personal matters of demons unless it poses a threat to Hell itself. As much as I would love to free Angel from his contract with Valentino, especially if he's being held back for some reason, it would be overstepping my authority."
She glanced at Alastor briefly, seeking solace in the understanding gaze of the radio demon. They both knew the limitations of their respective roles and the boundaries they had to respect, no matter how frustrating it could be at times.
Charlie continued, her tone a mixture of determination and resignation, "However, I have managed to come to some grudging compromises with Angel regarding his situation. We've found ways to navigate the complexities of his employment at the studio, making sure his well-being and his journey towards redemption are not compromised."
Cherri, her single eye narrowed with a mix of concern and protectiveness as she stood up from her spot near Angel Dust, her expression reflecting her discontent. She directed her gaze towards Charlie, her tone laced with a hint of annoyance.
"What sort of compromises are we talking about, Charlie?" Cherri's voice held a firmness that demanded answers. She had always been fiercely loyal to her friends, and being kept in the dark about matters concerning Angel Dust didn't sit well with her.
Her concern for Angel was evident in her posture and the protective stance she took. She wasn't about to let any decisions be made without her input or understanding.
"I was just about to discuss that," Charlie statd. "Can Angel be moved to another room so the four of us can privately talk?"
"Certainly," Alastor agreed with a sly smile, his fingers snapping sharply. In an instant, a swirl of shadows enveloped the couch, causing Cherri's eyes to widen in shock and horror. When the shadows dissipated, they revealed an empty space where Angel Dust had been sleeping, leaving Cherri momentarily stunned.
The shadows reappeared in the bedroom, materializing into a separate space, where a bed covered with a cozy blanket awaited. Angel lay undisturbed, deep in the embrace of REM sleep, unaware of the sudden transfer. The doors to the room closed silently, providing a sense of privacy and security for their conversation.
"Now that he's safely settled," Alastor continued, his voice filled with a mischievous undertone, "I believe it's appropriate for the three of you to be dressed accordingly for this meeting."
Cherri's eyes widened in surprise as her clothes transformed in an instant, replaced by a striking ensemble. She let out a startled exclamation, her voice tinged with a mix of shock and confusion.
"Huh? What the Hell am I wearing?" Cherri exclaimed, her tone filled with a mixture of surprise and slight panic. She quickly took in her appearance, observing the long, form-fitting black sleeveless dress that clung to her figure. The dress was accompanied by a dramatic red tulle shawl adorned with intricate beads and sequins, adding an eye-catching flair to the ensemble.
Her long-teased hair had been magically transformed into meticulously styled finger curls, completing the vintage look with an air of elegance.
Cherri's initial reaction was a blend of disbelief and discomfort. She was used to her rebellious style and punk-inspired fashion, and this sudden change was far from what she expected or preferred.
Alastor, still reveling in the mischief he had caused, adjusted his monocle with a smug expression, taking a seat in his elegant wing-backed chair. He glanced at Cherri, the corners of his lips curling into a smirk.
"Just a fashionable women's style from the roaring twenties, my dear," Alastor remarked, his voice dripping with amusement. "It suits you so much better than those absurd rags you were wearing earlier."
Cherri's eyes narrowed, and her frustration simmered beneath the surface as she started to summon an explosive to her hand.
Charlie's words carried a tone of understanding and diplomacy as she took a seat on the couch, gesturing for Cherri to join her. She recognized the need to diffuse any further tension and maintain a sense of harmony within the group.
"Just humor him, Cherri," Charlie suggested gently, her voice laced with a touch of empathy. "Alastor has a strong affinity for his time period, and this room happens to be his domain here at the is all temporary, once we leave, we'll return to our usual attire."
Cherri let out a disgruntled sigh through her nose, her frustration still evident, but she acquiesced, settling down in one of the art deco armchairs. It was clear that Alastor hadn't exactly won her over with his charm and antics.
"So, you came to a compromise with Valentino," Vaggie asked, taking a seat beside Charlie on the couch. Her tone held a mix of curiosity and concern, eager to understand the arrangement they had reached. Charlie nodded affirmatively, signaling her readiness to provide an explanation.
Charlie entered her office at the hotel, feeling a wave of distress wash over her. Leaning her back against the closed doors, she could sense her stomach churning, as if it might revolt at any moment. Unshed tears welled up in her eyes, poised to stream down her face. The weight of what she had overheard, and what they all had just listened to, was incomprehensible. Her father's words reverberated in her ears, igniting within her a burning determination to halt the malevolence unfolding before her very eyes.
"It is not within our purview to meddle in the affairs of sinners. Should demons of our stature intercede on behalf of one, it would set a precedent wherein others would come to expect our assistance with every minor predicament they face. We are not their guardians or protectors. Our purpose lies in the pursuit of our own desires and ambitions, not in playing savior to wayward souls. Let these beings face the consequences of their actions, it is not our burden to bear."
As Charlie contemplated her father's words, she couldn't deny the potential consequences of interfering in the affairs of the lower-class demons. There was a chance they could become dependent on the assistance of the royal-classed demons, exploiting their power for personal gain. It was a delicate balance, and Lucifer had a point.
But if not her, then who? Who possessed the authority and capability to address the unfolding turmoil? Even the existence of the hotel, which her father deemed as interference in demonic affairs, held a different meaning for Charlie. She saw it as a way to guide sinners towards self-improvement, nudging them to seek their own redemption. However, the recent revelations made it clear that mere choices for change were insufficient. A higher power was already inflicting torment upon Angel, and it would require more than the Spider could do alone.
Remembering Alastor's explanation about forced contracts, Charlie recognized that Valentino had a degree of control over Angel but not complete dominance. The Spider's resistance weakened the binding agreement. However, Charlie understood that she needed to demonstrate to Angel the value of the hotel and the souls residing there. She had to prove that they were a genuine community, one that genuinely cared about and welcomed him as their own.
With a renewed sense of determination, Charlie walked over to the desk and picked up the phone. It was time to take action, to gather support, and to show Angel that there was something worth fighting for.
"Hello," the receptionist's voice sounded somewhat disinterested. "You've reached Porn Studios, your go-to destination for indulging in your sensual desires. How may I assist you today?"
"I'd like to speak with Valentino, please," Charlie asserted in a firm tone, determined to get through to the demon in question.
"That's quite a request," the receptionist responded matter-of-factly. "Mr. Valentino doesn't typically entertain calls from just anyone."
"He'll make an exception for this," Charlie replied confidently. "Please inform him that Princess Charlie Morningstar would like to have a word."
"Please hold on a moment," the receptionist replied. "Do you have a scheduled call with Mr. Valentino?"
"Well..." Charlie hesitated, feeling a slight wavering in her resolve. "No, not exactly. However, I have an urgent matter that needs to be discussed regarding one of his employees."
"Alright," the receptionist responded with an indifferent tone, seemingly unconcerned about the nature of Charlie's call. "Hey, Mr. V, got a Princess Morningstar on the line for you." There was a brief exchange of conversation that Charlie couldn't decipher, but Val's reaction hinted at a lack of surprise upon hearing her name. "I've been instructed to transfer your call. Mr. Valentino will speak with you in his private office."
"Thank you," Charlie acknowledged appreciatively.
"So, what can I do for you, Princess?" Valentino responded, his voice carrying a strained veneer of pleasantness to conceal an underlying annoyance. "I assume that Angel Cakes got to your hotel in one piece."
"I would like to discuss certain terms concerning Angel Dust," Charlie stated firmly. Her mind raced, recalling the overheard exchange and the disturbing realization that Angel had been held captive, subjected to the brutal control of both Vox and Valentino. She pushed away the disturbing thoughts, not wanting to dwell on the potential horrors Angel had endured.
""On what grounds?" Val inquired, his voice laced with a smug tone, confident in his position of power. It was as if he knew that there was little she could do, considering the binding contract between the Spider and himself. Despite her higher status, she held no authority over his merchandise.
"As you are well aware," Charlie began, her tone resolute as she laid out her argument, "Angel has become a resident of my hotel project."
"Without my permission," Valentino retorted, his attempt at maintaining politeness barely masking his displeasure. "Perhaps it's me who should be setting the terms, your highness." His voice dripped with a veiled threat, implying that he held a position of power over the situation.
"Be that as it may," Charlie asserted firmly. "Once Angel agreed to be a part of this hotel, he became my responsibility." There was a moment of silence, indicating that Valentino hadn't anticipated or considered the extent of Charlie's authority over Angel.
"I'm raising these concerns because you had him entertain a client at the studio, despite the fact that I could clearly see he was in no condition to entertain anyone," Charlie continued. "Moreover, he was kept at the studio for over a week without any explanation or an estimated time of his return to the hotel." Her voice held a mixture of worry and frustration, emphasizing the mistreatment Angel had endured."
"As we discussed the other day, my dear girl," Valentino responded, his attempt at maintaining politeness wearing thinner with each passing moment. "Angel was occupied with a special project for me, which kept him quite busy. So, I fail to grasp the nature of your concerns." There was an undertone of dismissal in his voice, as if he believed Charlie's worries to be inconsequential.
"I have no objection to Angel being involved in this so-called 'special project'," Charlie stated, careful not to reveal her suspicion that this endeavor was likely something she would strongly disapprove of. The visible bruises and injuries on Angel, evident of the toll it had taken, hinted at her potential horror. Yet, she had to conceal her true feelings.
"What concerns me," Charlie continued, her voice filled with a mixture of worry and frustration, "is when the residents of my hotel vanish without explanation for extended periods of time. And upon their return, they are not afforded the opportunity to properly rest and recover." She couldn't ignore the sight of the Spider on the verge of an anxious breakdown, a clear sign that something had transpired beyond his control. It was an unsettling reality she had to accept, even if she longed to contest it.
""A client specifically requested him," Valentino dismissed the matter as if it held little importance. "I can't simply inform them that Angel-Cakes is unavailable due to recovery from a taxing filming session." Charlie cringed at the demeaning pet name Valentino used for Angel, recognizing the underlying intention behind it despite the attempt at cuteness.
"I only decline a client's request when Angel is already booked by someone else," Valentino added, his words implying that he considered Angel's availability solely based on monetary value.
"How long can someone hire Angel for?" Charlie inquired, her voice tinged with concern.
"Hmm?" Valentino responded, his tone displaying a hint of confusion.
"How long can someone hire Angel for...whatever purpose?" Charlie clarified her question, emphasizing her curiosity about the duration of Angel's engagements.
"He's priced at 10,000 a night," Valentino replied, a touch of curiosity creeping into his tone. "Why do you ask?"
"I would like to pay for Angel," Charlie stated firmly. "I would like to book his time... for an entire week." Her determination was evident in her voice as she expressed her intention.
