After the trip to the hospital, Vox winds up at a dive bar in the sketchy section of town. He's got a whisky in front of him, his phone in his good hand, and a pencil pinched between his upper lip and his nose. To put it plainly, he's rather peeved.
"How can there be no information about this place on the internet," he grumbles, barely catching the pencil when it falls. His good hand is in a splint, which means writing is impossible and typing is nearly just as impossible.
"You a history buff or something," the bartender asks. He's a gruff fella with salt and pepper hair and a scowl permanently carved onto his face.
"Or something." Vox sets his phone down and takes a sip of the whisky. It's top-shelf stuff, high quality, but he can barely taste it. The smell of flowers is stuck in his nose, suffocating. "You lived here long?"
"Long enough." He shrugs, polishing a glass to a shine. Vox will hand it to him, he runs a tight ship. The bar isn't sticky, the chairs don't wobble, and the waitstaff are quick. "What do ya wanna know?"
"Since this is a small town, I assume you know where I live already."
"Yeah, the old Découx property." Vox nods, remembering that name from his research. Alastor Découx had been a cannibalistic serial killer, probably one of the more exciting things to ever happen in Static. "You havin' some problems out there?"
"As a matter of fact, I am. Do you happen to know…." Vox lets out a sharp sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is going to sound really stupid but stay with me. Do you happen to know any priests that would be willing to come out and bless the place?"
"In this town?" The bartender lets out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. "Hell no. Barely any Christians come here and they certainly don't stick around long."
"What? But my cook goes to church—"
"It's less of a church and more of a gathering place. We've got a lotta pagans in this town. No priests, though. Last one we had of those got run outta town, oh, back in the late fifties. He used to live out on your property."
"And yet you still called it the Découx property."
"And yet." He gives Vox a sharp smile with too many teeth, finally setting that stupid glass down. "Name's Husk."
"I'm—"
"I know who you are, Mister Vee. This is a small town, remember?" Another soft chuckle that sounds more like a purr. Vox shifts uncomfortably on the stool, tapping the pencil against his notebook. "Listen, man, if you wanna know about the history of Static, you need to talk to the old-timers."
"Not the wise bartender?"
"The wise bartender is about to close shop for the night." Vox hates to admit that he whines a little, sounding more like his daughter than a grown man. "Look, just, wait here while I get the drunks taken care of. We can talk in the back." It takes less than an hour for Husk to shoo people out of the bar, using a broom on a particularly stubborn ass with a mohawk. "Damn it all, Blitzø, get the fuck out and go find your boyfriend," he growls. The drunk honest to God snaps at the broom like an angry cat, but Husk manages to scoot him out the door. He locks it to be safe, Blitzø scratching at the glass with a whimper.
"Is he okay? Like, mentally?"
"Nah." Husk grabs a bottle of whisky and nods at a door near the bar. Vox finishes his glass like a shot before joining him, finding himself in a cluttered office with dim lighting. He drops into a decent chair made of warm wood and cracked leather while Husk does the same behind a desk covered in bills and inventory sheets. "So, what do you wanna know?"
"Tell me about the serial killer."
"Which one?" Vox leans forward, arms on his thighs as he stares up at Husk with desperation. "There were two serial killers that lived on that property. There ain't much anyone knows about the first, only that all of her husbands had a tendency to disappear and her larder was never short of meat."
"Two fucking cannibals? In one town on the same property?"
"Gotta be a world record, right? Anyway, no one messed with the old lady. She wasn't pickin' men from town, so they let her do what she wanted. Plus, I hear she made a damn good stew and she wasn't stingy when food was scarce."
"Wait, people knew she was a cannibal and still ate her food?"
"You gonna make your baby starve if someone was offerin' her food?" Vox falters at that and Husk nods. "Anyway, she lived well into her eighties and a whole lotta people were sad when she passed. They had a big funeral for her and someone made her a monument for her grave."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Vox mutters.
"The other guy is Alastor Découx, who was a real sicko—" The door of the office swings open with enough force that it slams off the wall and would've ricocheted closed again if a pale hand hadn't caught it. The man standing in the doorway has bright pink hair that matches the skin-tight dress he's wearing, showing off miles of toned legs.
"Heya, Husky," the guy purrs. His voice sounds vaguely familiar, rough and drawling. "Ya got time for me? I'm starvin'— Oh. Didn't know ya had company tonight."
"He was askin' about our town's serial killers. I was just tellin' him about Alastor." The guy's eyes light up and he kicks the door shut, settling on top of the desk. "Dadgum it, Anthony—"
"You wanna know about Alastor, huh?" Anthony looks positively giddy, like he'd been waiting on someone to ask him about a special interest. It's the same expression Vox gets when sharks are brought up. The grumpy annoyance Husk sports is the same one Valentino gets when sharks are brought up. Maybe they could go on a double date and talk about sharks.
"Yes," Vox says, hissed out between his teeth like steam.
"Alastor Découx only killed men who had it comin'. He would stalk his victims for weeks and months, making sure he had all of the facts before he carved them up like a Thanksgiving ham. Most of 'em abused their families, a few were rapists, all of 'em were monsters and you know what you do with monsters, right? You put 'em down. This goes on for two years before anyone even catches on. At first they think these dirtbags are skippin' town, but then they start to find pieces of 'em throughout three parishes. Little pieces ya can't eat or didn't look tasty. That's when the cops realized what was happenin'. There were curfews and warnings and raids, but they never got to him."
"Except they did," Vox corrects.
"Nah, that stupid hunter got 'im. Thought he was a deer or some shit, had the eyesight of Mister Magoo. His hounds tore inta Alastor until he looked like one of his victims, cops couldn't even tell who murdered who for a while. At least, not until they searched Alastor's house. That's when they found more people pieces, trophies and pies and such. They demonized him, but all he was doin' was takin' out the trash." Anthony's smile is a bone-chilling sight, his laugh like the rolling tide of thunder. "He's an artist with a knife."
"Was."
"Huh?"
"You used present tense, like he's still kicking. He was an artist with a knife." Anthony shrugs, kicking his long legs out to rest his feet in Vox's lap. The heeled boots are mercifully clean, patent leather buffed to a shine.
"Tomato-tomahto." Anthony heaves a sigh that makes his dress stretch taut over his chest, the fabric shimmering when it catches the light. "Sucks that he died, though. Always played killer tunes in that radio station a' his." Vox's hands tighten on the chair arms, knuckles aching.
"Radio station?"
"Yeah, he was a real radio demon. Had some serious charisma behind the mic."
"You talk as though you were there."
"Maybe I was." Anthony brings his hands up to frame his face, grinning. "I look great for my age, eh? Dermatologists hate me." Anthony rests his palms on the desk behind him, arching his back into a pose that would've made Valentino drool.
"What happened to his body? Unknown grave? Cremation? Crossroads burial?"
"Buried in the cemetery on the edge a' town, right next to his ma. Personally, I like a good cremation. It's cheap and I'm a tight-ass, but my own ma was dead set against it." Vox wonders how high Anthony must be to keep confusing present and past tenses like this. Like he'd already died and been planted. "What about you? How ya wanna be treated after you kick it?"
"I hadn't thought about it." In truth, Vox has thought too much about it. He's got a folder at his lawyer's office thicker than his wrist; insurance policies, trust fund and general bank information, obituary, and a small plot of land where he can have a natural burial. No crypt or concrete liner, nothing but pine and cotton between his body and the earth.
"Yer a bad liar, Mistah Vee. You think about death a whole lot."
"Don't make this weird, Ant," Husk admonishes, though there's no edge in his voice. He's fond of Anthony. Boyfriends? Friends with benefits? There's certainly something going on between them. "Not everyone wants to discuss their funeral plans."
"They totally should, though. Do you know how much easier the process would be on the people left behind if they had a clear idea of what the dead guy wanted? Not just vague ideas, somethin' concrete." Anthony has straightened during his little speech, all levity falling from him. "My poor ma wasn't—" Anthony swallows hard, blinking away tears.
"It's okay, kid." Husk doesn't rise from his seat, but he reaches out a hand that Anthony gladly accepts. "You don't hafta worry about that anymore." Husk spares Vox a quick glance before he speaks again, treading carefully like grief is a secret. "Она знает, что ты сделал все, что мог, и я уверен, что она тебя простила."
"You're a sweetheart, Husky." Anthony brings their joined hands up to his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to Husk's knuckles like some kind of old fashioned suiter.
"Don't push your luck."
"I'm sorry, can we get back to the whole serial killers living on my property thing," Vox demands. Anthony and Husk give him matching unimpressed expressions that they had to have practiced in a mirror. There's no fucking way that wasn't planned. "Don't give me that look, asshole."
"Awfully demanding for someone in need of answers," Anthony sing-songs. He's still holding Husk's hand, thumb rubbing over the back of his knuckles. When Vox makes an annoyed sound, Anthony waves him off with his free hand. "Relax, Vee. Ya got all the info we can give ya."
"That's it? What about people who lived there after them? Any weird shit in their houses or whatever?"
"You mean like ghosts," Husk asks with a laugh. "Nah, no ghosts in Static. Those mostly stick to Orleans Parish, better haunting grounds."
"Besides, no one else has lived on that property since that priest was ran outta town," Anthony adds. "It sat abandoned until you bought it a few years ago. That was big news in town, too. Some hotshot California billionaire buying up land in bumfuck Louisiana."
"Bu-but—" Vox can feel his face turning red as he struggles to make the words come out around the block in his throat. He knows what he wants to say, but his body refuses to obey. Anthony's mocking expression softens, that cruel smile turning sympathetic. Vox fucking loathes him in that moment.
"There aren't any ghosts, Vox."
"I've heard them." Anthony and Husk share a look, Husk's admonishing and Anthony's a little guilty. "What? What's with the faces?" They're quiet long enough that Vox slams a fist down on the desk, causing a pile of invoices to avalanche to the floor. "Tell me!"
"Maybe ya just need to get some rest." Vox can't help the way his temples throb, the way his teeth gnash together as his blood pressure skyrockets. How many times is he going to hear that phrase? How long until someone just fucking believes that he isn't losing his goddamn mind?
"I'm not fucking crazy! I don't need to rest! I need some answers!" Husk stands quickly, putting himself between Vox and Anthony like he's genuinely afraid for their safety.
"I think it's time for you to go on home," Husk advises in a tone that brooks no argument. Vox wants to beat his fists against the desk, drop to the floor and throw a world-class tantrum that would put Velvette's to shame. Instead, he turns sharply on his heel and marches out of the shitty bar. The truck is waiting in the parking lot, Valentino leaning against the front grill with his arms crossed over his chest.
"What are—"
"Find any answers at the bottom of that bottle, Papi?"
"Yeah, actually," Vox snaps. "Two different serial killers used to live on our property." Valentino's eyes go wide as saucers at the information and Vox can't quite bite back a satisfied grin. Finally, someone has the appropriate reaction. "You know that radio tower in the woods? Yeah, dude used to tear people apart out there and eat them."
"Are you fucking with me right now?"
"Would I joke about cannibalism?"
"The Donner Pass-themed party last year proves that, yeah, ya would." Vox rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "A fucking cannibal used to live out there? And the real estate bitch didn't say anything about it?"
"Technically, she didn't have to disclose it since it happened back in the forties. Believe me, if we could sue the bitch, we would. But we can't, so I'm gonna spam her with bad Yelp reviews." Vox sighs sharply, letting himself be enveloped in Valentino's arms.
"Petty bitch." But it's said affectionately with a nuzzle against his cheek that has all of Vox's tense muscles starting to unwind. "Let me take you home, mi vida. Let me make you feel good."
"You're really doin' a number on him, kid."
"Not like I have a choice," Angel shrugs. He's still perched on Husk's cluttered desk, one long leg drawn up against his chest and the other dangling over the edge. He remembers doing something like this back in the eighties. He and a couple humans were on the train tracks, the type that form a bridge over a deep river, and Angel was letting himself dangle in the air. The humans had jumped after him and their bodies had sounded like shattering glass when they hit the water below.
"You don't hafta corrupt everyone, you know. King Asmodeus—"
"Ozzie's got nothin' to do with this, Husky." Husk sends him a disbelieving frown and Angel can't help the way he tilts his head back to groan. "He doesn't have everything to do with this. The souls I corrupt go straight to Pride, remember? Only the talented ones get to branch out into the other Rings and that's only with Lucifer's permission. Last I checked, the royal duck is having too much fun running this town."
"Even more reason to leave Vox the hell alone. Did you see how fragile he was just now? His sanity is an eggshell with a boot hovering over it. Give him a fucking break."
"Should I start haunting the tall fucker instead? Show him what Vox has been dealin' with this whole time?"
"Why don't you just tell them what's goin' on?" Angel freezes at the suggestion, caught off guard. Could he do that without being punished? He's not gonna do anything that jeopardizes his place on Earth, not after the decades he'd spent in Hell. "Did you seriously never consider that?" Husk snorts and shakes his head. "It's a good thing you're pretty, Ant."
"Shuddup."
"Are you gonna do it?"
"What if it drives them both off the deep end? Then I'm out of a meal. No offense, Husky, you taste great an' all, but you're no human." Angel pats his too-flat belly and Husk looks away with something like guilt. Demons can feed off each other, but it'll never be truly filling. It's why Alastor still prefers human meat when he can find it.
"You'll never know unless you try." Angel heaves a sigh, finally meeting Husk's gaze. He wonders what color his eyes had been when he was still alive, if they were the same deep brown as his glamour. Did he have patches of vitiligo back then?
"Valentino has a nail appointment tomorrow, I'll do it when he gets home."
"Good." Angel nods, satisfied with the decision. At any rate, if the socialites book it back to California, it won't take long to find another human willing to live in a mansion. Angel really hopes these humans stay, though. He bets Valentino tastes like cherries.
"In the meantime, I believe you and I had a date."
"I thought I wasn't filling."
"Nah, but a light snack never hurt anyone and I'm feelin' peckish."