Alastor called in sick to work the following morning, claiming to have a stomach virus that would likely leave him incapacitated for a few days. The station, knowing he hadn't called in sick for a single day or even been late in all his years working there, were very understanding and told him to take as much time as he needed and that they would look forward to having him back.

In a sense, he was sick. He lay in bed the whole of Monday, incapable of getting up, only going to the toilet and feeding a very worried Harry, who occasionally crawled into his bed and snuggled up beside him to make him feel better.

But it was of no use - he felt that there was something rotten inside him that he couldn't quite get rid of, like a brown tooth that simply would not come out of his mouth no matter how hard he tried to pull. A lot of the time he didn't even think of Anthony, but when he did, all he felt was a sharp pain against his side, like someone was stabbing him What had he been thinking? What case would he ever be able to plead?

He should've just hung his head and left the platform the moment he realized that Anthony knew what he had been doing. But he had tried to explain himself, to find some glimmer of hope that someday Anthony might understand that it wasn't all just a job, that it hadn't been for Montenegro, or money, or power, or even for Anthony himself. But it was all lost, and if he had had his wits about him whenever Anthony was involved, he would've realized that sad fact sooner. He was, in short, now fully resigned to his fate.

Contact with Anthony was out of the question, and out of respect, he had to fall out with his friends, and possibly with Molly, too. He didn't know how in the world he would be able to attend the next Montenegro dinner party, though they had had one very recently, thankfully, and weren't likely to throw another one for a few weeks.

He felt ruined, somehow. He knew that everything else in his life was in order - there were no suspicions surrounding him over any murders, no problems at work, no problems with Montenegro himself, and he had even been able to get rid of that pesky Ridley character. And yet he still felt as though his life were in shambles like it was all over and he had better relocate someplace else since here in New Orleans everything had fallen apart.

On Tuesday, he went on a killing spree.

He had always made sure not to have any 'regular haunts' when searching for victims, but he did have a sort of criteria. He milled around the city (never wearing his signature suit, of course) and visited run-down bars and smelly inns where more unsavory characters were sure to frequent. The first victim of the evening came as a surprise even to himself.

He was just leaving from having a nice dinner at a regular, if somewhat dingy cafe when he heard a woman calling the black server a rather derogatory word after getting her order slightly wrong. He followed the woman back to her home (a blessedly out-of-the-way, dark street) and stabbed her fifteen times in the back before she had the chance to utter a peep.

Making sure he didn't get any blood on his clothes, he plucked out her eyeballs with a special scooping device he usually had in this suit and shoved them into his pocket before swiftly taking his leave.

His next two victims were regulars: two shady men who (from appearance and demeanor, at least) appeared to be brothers. They had left a loud, sticky bar somewhere downtown after a brawl and had decided to prowl about the dark streets, much like Alastor did. He noticed the victim before they did.

A girl was walking alone in their general direction, and though she was alone there were a few people still milling about the streets at that time, so they kept following her until there was no one in sight. The girl had noticed their presence and had begun accelerating her pace but to no avail. Finally, in a dark street that gave way to an alley, the girl was cornered, and she turned around to face them. Were they going to rob her?

Kill her? Worse? She had no way of knowing. But just as she had opened her mouth to start screaming, Alastor crept up from behind and slashed their throats in under a second. The girl stood, paralyzed, and before examining his victims, Alastor went up to her, looked her dead in the eye (he never took his cane as it was too characteristic, unfortunately), and told her that she would forget all about the evening, and rush back to the safety of her home. The girl fled, and so did Alastor, but quite in the opposite direction.

He knew it was a rather sloppy way to go about it, and though he took all the precautions he could think of before heading back home, he still felt dirty afterward, knowing that he hadn't even done it for the taste of their sins, but rather because of his inner desire to kill. On the walk home after killing the two men, he was horrified to find that he had far too much time to think, and thinking always led him back to Anthony, and the pain they had both felt that past Sunday evening.

He wondered about him - how was he doing? Was he completely unfazed by it and was just angry at him for lying? Would he be going to rehabilitation or would he be able to talk his way out of it, just as he talked his way out of so many other things?

God, how he wished he could reach out to him, even reach out to Molly and ask her if she would let anything on. But he knew that not only was it very likely that his endeavors would be fruitless, but that he had no right to pry into Anthony's life. Not anymore.

He stopped by a random side alley to vomit. It reminded him of the old days when he would vomit in the street after Carmelita touched him. It seemed that everything bad was coming up deep from his depths, and there was nothing he could do to stop the rainfall of horror that were his thoughts and feelings. And yet.

And yet he knew that the murders had somehow soothed him. If he hadn't killed those three people he might not have been able to fall asleep, as ironic as that sounded.

When he got back home, he undressed and went straight to bed, the smell of blood coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

The following day, he had planned to do pretty much the same thing he had done before - the impulse was certainly there, and he found that in the heat of his murderous desire, he was always convincing himself that everything would be fine, that he was smart enough to get away with anything and everything, and that the depraved souls of New Orleans were simply begging for the sweet release of his knives and teeth.

Still, he couldn't shake off the feeling of being dirty and crusty somehow, and no matter how much he slept or how often he showered, he could smell blood on himself and feel as if his eyes weren't keeping themselves open very effectively.

So, that night, when he went out, he decided perhaps it would be best to stop at a bar and soothe himself a bit. There was a neighborhood that he liked to frequent (he went there in his blue suit and would later change - better safe and tedious than sorry).

It was a calmer and simultaneously more chaotic neighborhood, what with all the music that was constantly being played in the street. Alastor knew it was one of the neighborhoods mostly occupied by black people, but the shows and music in the area were so rich that you could always see white people milling about, and Alastor didn't stand out so much.

He found a decent bar called Wendy's on a corner, and from the soothing jazz playing from the inside and the calming smells of cardamom and cinnamon blending with alcohol and tabasco, he was willing to try it out and incorporate it into one of his semi-regulars. Alastor made a point not to frequent bars, much less alone, but every once in a while he would find one that played exceedingly good music or made artwork out of a cocktail, and he would feel compelled to visit it once or twice a month.

In any case, he went into Wendy's the dim, violet lights inside making the atmosphere seem downright magical. Just as he entered, he heard a young woman's creamy voice accompanying the instruments on the stage, and he found that this was more of a jazz lounge than a bar, and liked it all the better for it.

He was looking at the musicians and the beautiful, swaying sinner as he approached the bar area and sat at one of the high stools without thinking. A tall, stately black woman was cleaning a cup with a rag on the other side of it.

She was lean and wiry, her hair exceedingly short for the fashion of the time, and her eyes were lined thickly with purple and black. Her garments, too, were something of a fashion statement, but despite her particular looks, Alastor didn't pay much mind to her as he twirled in his seat to continue watching the band play. He only glanced at her as he sat and bade her a good evening.

"Good evening," the woman replied, and though Alastor had picked up on the hesitant, antipathetic tone to her voice, he didn't attribute much more to it than irritation from working at a bar. Besides, he was enraptured by the show. It seemed so particular, so very enchanting, and he couldn't quite put his finger on why he was so captivated by it.

"What can I get you?" She asked him, and if Alastor had been more aware of his surroundings, he would've realized that the bartender had fixated on him, neglecting a man on the other side of the bar to pay attention to Alastor, who was not paying much attention to her. He looked at her, finally, and in her eyes saw her complete apathy and distrust.

"A martini, please," he asked, returning the stare. The woman didn't say anything, just leaned forward across the bar with a look like death, and it seemed like she sniffed him. Her nostrils flared violently and a look of disgust flooded her face when before she had just been hesitant about him. In a low voice which only he could hear, she snarled.

"You reek of death, dark practitioner. There's no place for you here." The woman leaned back again and started to polish another glass without bothering to check what kind of reaction her wild comment had brought Alastor was struck for a moment, startled, and then his heart started beating wildly. He gulped, and a second after, the woman, still not looking at him.

"Leave before I call the cops," she said rather casually, with the same tone one would've used to say that they were making a cocktail. Alastor ran his tongue through his teeth for a moment and then stood up to leave, rattled.

It wasn't hard to find another jazz bar, but he had been considerably shaken by the experience. There was no doubt in his mind that the woman at the bar, and likely all the people working there (including that strangely enchanting band) were, in some form or another, involved in voodoo.

Despite having his fair share of years here and in New Orleans, and the fact that he had heard that in general it was meant to be voodoo central, there had been scarce occasions in which he had come across true voodoo practitioners, and certainly he had always steered clear of them, fearing that somehow the dark magic that he wielded would be evident to them. And clearly, it was.

The next spot was just a little bit less promising than this one had been, but Alastor had found the whole experience so disturbing that he suddenly grew very paranoid about acquiring any further victims that evening, so he headed back that night after a short sip of martini, trying not to feel too uncomfortable about the presence of other voodoo practitioners in the city.

But if he was being honest with himself, it wasn't the only thing that worried him, or that made his heart heavy. But it was something to blame - and that was good enough.

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"Anthony? Anthony?" Molly rapped at his door, chewing worriedly at her bottom lip. It seemed like all she did nowadays was worry about Anthony. She had nearly lost her mind when her parents had told her that he was in the hospital, and she was driven to near insanity when they insisted in their usual, patronizing, and nonsensically authoritarian way that she would not be accompanying them to the hospital. She had insisted on it, pleading with them to please allow her to see her brother.

But they had only come up with a mumbo-jumbo of lame excuses, like the fact that she had a Russian lesson in the morning. Who the hell cared about Russia when Anthony was harmed? But they wouldn't hear of it - in fact, her dad even seemed hesitant about letting her mother go, but even that would be taking it too far. Molly knew the real reason for not wanting to let her go. They didn't want any public displays of unruly emotion.

"Anthony?" Molly repeated, unrelenting, even though he might as well be dead from the lack of response that came from his bedroom. She remembered that awful hour in which she had been waiting by the phone for her mother to call and tell her how Anthony was, and she had the oddest dread that he had died.

Thankfully (if you can ever be truly thankful in a terrible situation), she had been informed that Anthony was fine and that he had 'just injected too much heroin'. Oh, just that? Molly had thought bitterly at her mother's disappointed tone of voice. But a weight had been lifted from her heart, and after inquiring further about when he would be coming back home, she dutifully went to bed, knowing that she had a Russian lesson the following morning.

When Anthony had come back home he had, of course, been particularly antipathetic and with no real desire to speak to anyone. Even less than usual, anyway. Still, he did hug Molly but requested that he give her space.

Molly listened tensely at the dinner table as Anthony and her father had a heated discussion about whether he would be committed to a rehabilitation center. 'Bradley's brother went there, and he says it's very good', her father had stated, to which Anthony threw a piece of broccoli at him. The discussion ended nowhere, of course, with their mother begging them to calm down to save her altered nerves. Immediately after Anthony asked whether he could go out the following evening. Which, even to Molly, sounded incredibly ridiculous given what had just happened. Ashton, through it all, seemed amused. The rat.

Their father, of course, gave a curt 'no', but when Anthony mentioned he had bought tickets for the opera to go with Alastor, her father seemed to pause. Sure, Molly knew that her father liked Alastor and that he was also his friend, but it seemed a bit too much of a stretch that he should be so calm about Anthony going out with him, anyway. He told Anthony that he would consider it which, of course, Anthony took as a yes.

Despite his generally foul mood, Anthony seemed a bit happier before going out with Alastor, a fact that Molly still couldn't quite wrap her head around. Whenever confronted by Molly, however, Anthony evaded all her questions and asked her to give him space. When he returned from the opera his face was puffed and red.

He refused to have dinner with them and had been shut up in his room ever since. Well, Molly had just about had enough of the mystery. Anthony didn't usually keep secrets from him, and she knew that if she pried just enough, he would give way and tell her everything.

He was a chatterbox at heart, and she knew he hated keeping anything - especially his miseries - a secret. Well, the strange depression after his meeting with Alastor was the final straw, and here Molly was, rapping at his door, trying to get him to speak to her.

"I don't see why you waste your energy, little sister," came Ashton's voice from the hallways. He was leaning against the wall the way that Anthony effortlessly did and looked handsome while doing so, but Ashton only managed to look like a prick. Molly rolled her eyes at him and ignored him.

It was easy to ignore Ashton - despite being the firstborn son he was used to being ignored. Nobody in the house liked him very much, even their parents, to who he sucked put to like his life depended on it, especially his father. He wasn't particularly clever, resourceful, or even good-looking despite his good genetics, but that didn't mean that he didn't pretend to be all those things. And to Sal Montenegro, at least, he could find uses for someone as devoted and eager to please as his son. Molly and Anthony, however, found no pleasure in his sour, daft company whatsoever.

"Anthony?" Molly knocked again, trying not to let Ashton's irksome figure get to her. He neared.

"He's a lost cause, Molly. You and I, we're the good ones. I don't see why you bother so much with him." Molly wanted to chomp down on his neck and break an important vein. She bit down a snarky comment and instead just shot him a look.

"He's still your brother, Ashton, show some respect," was all she said.

"Respect? For Anthony? Who disrespects us all by acting like an imbecile? No, I don't think I will," he scoffed presumptuously. At least he acts like an imbecile but isn't one. Unlike you.

"If you have nothing good to say, then don't say it," she snapped, brought to the heights of irritation both by Anthony ignoring him and Ashton's idiocy.

"You have so much ahead of you, Molly. Don't waste yourself on Anthony, of all people."

"Shouldn't you be doing something? Licking dad's socks, cleaning his floor with your tongue?" Molly finally cracked, but Ashton just laughed.

"That right there is all Ant."

"No, it's all me. Unlike you, I have a personality," she said, narrowing her eyes. But she felt bad saying such a true, harmful insult, and though Ashton's smugness didn't diminish, she caught something that struck in his eye, and she still felt terrible for it. Ashton licked his lips and moved to go.

"I just hope he doesn't ruin you, too," he remarked with his back turned. Molly sighed, exasperated, and knocked again. She hadn't gotten past two knocks when Anthony opened the door, his eyes puffed by excessive crying, looking like he was falling apart.

"Ant! What happened?" She asked as Anthony hauled her into a bone-breaking hug.

"Alastor," he choked out, crying.

"Alastor? What did he do?" Molly questioned, frowning. Anthony checked the doorway to see whether anyone was listening and then shut the door behind them.

He sat Molly at his massive bed and explained everything to her, from beginning to end. She listened attentively and caught the meaning in the words that he omitted. He didn't say a word of his feelings for Alastor, but knowing him so well, she knew what was going on. When he concluded, she decided to tread very carefully - it was likely that Anthony himself didn't realize the full extent of his feelings. It was clear to her by the way he brushed over all the things he would've otherwise focused on, like the heroin, or trying to toss himself on a train. The focus of his story was Alastor, Alastor, and Alastor.

"Well, why didn't you let him explain?" She asked softly. Anthony stood from the bed, his nerves rattled and started pacing up and down.

"Because! Because - I don't- I can't trust him anymore."

"Maybe he had a good explanation," Molly offered, knowing her argument was weak.

"It doesn't matter if aliens came down and forced him to do it, Molly I can't trust him."

"Okay, I can understand that, but wasn't it kind of… expected?" She asked nervously, hoping she hadn't crossed the line.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you met him because of dad. And, well… it would make sense that he would be keeping an eye out for you, right?" Anthony side-eyed her as he paced, and she could see that it had resonated with him. He hesitated for a second.

"Well, what would it even matter?"

"I'm just trying to understand your… reaction?" Molly tested, hesitant.

"Why are you questioning my reaction and not Alastor's actions?" Anthony suddenly snapped, inflamed.

"I just mean… if there no other reason why you would be upset at Alastor?"

"Stop talking in riddles, Molly," Anthony told her, visibly irked. He had expected her to be fully on his side, not questioning him in this way.

"It's just that… don't you think you might've felt so hurt because he… well because you…?"

"I'll stop you right there, Molly. I'm pretty sure Alastor is as straight as that frigid back of his."

"Just because he's straight doesn't mean you can't… or don't…"

"It's ridiculous, anyway," Anthony huffed, but he looked uncomfortable, and he wasn't staring at her at all, looking as if he were deeply lost in thought. Molly threw her hands up.

"Sorry for saying it. It was just a Theo-"

"I mean why would I like Alastor?" He demanded, his mouth twitching strangely.

"Well, he's pretty handsome, I think," Molly said, considering.

"I guess he is. If you're into that kind of… handsome… person. But it's not like looks are everything."

"No, of course not. I mean, he's also quite funny. Remember that time when-"

"Molly!"

"Right, sorry, sorry."

"It just boils down to…" Anthony sighed and stopped pacing. He sat beside his sister, looking defeated, but the tears in his eyes had thankfully dried. "He sees me as a kid, Molly. He baby-sat me for fuck's sake! And the fact of the matter is that I don't know how much of it was real, and how much of it was fake, does that make sense?" He asked, looking like he was about to start crying again. Molly felt for him - she could see the pain and shame in his eyes, far more than the anger that he had had before.

"I understand," she said, pulling him into her. He lay his head on her chest and accepted her head scratches with cat-like delight. He sighed dramatically as he allowed himself to be comforted, and they just sat like that for a while until Molly finally spoke again.

"I'm a little worried, Ant," she whispered, and if he hadn't been so close to her he wouldn't have heard her. Anthony stood up straight to look at her. She pursed her lips, dreading his reaction to her confession. "I just don't want anything bad to happen to you. And you talk about all these serious things like they're nothing-"

"I know they're not nothing, Molly," he admitted, trying to keep the embarrassment from his face. "I know that,' he said gently, mostly to himself.

"What were you thinking, Ant?" Molly asked, her voice wavering though she was trying to hold it together.

"I don't know. I guess I… wasn't. Thinking, I mean." Molly pursed her lips again, dissatisfied with the answer. Anthony noticed how troubled she was by the whole thing.

"Hey," he said, holding her hands in his. "Don't worry, okay? I'll be alright, I promise." But Molly couldn't look him in the eye as she tried to hide her oncoming tears. "Molly, I'm your older brother, I should be worrying about you," he said teasingly, making her laugh despite her sadness.

"There you go," he said, holding her head to his chest, it being his turn to comfort her.