Alastor was in a hole. The time he had taken off from work to go on a killing rampage and self-isolate into the darkest, most gruesome parts of himself had done little to quell the restlessness and pain that had accumulated in every last bit of his body, refusing to be extinguished. Laying in bed much too late in the evening, his eyes bright yellow in the darkness, he felt dirty, and disgusting, just as Anthony had accused him of being.
Had all his actions been only to confirm what he thought that Anthony thought of him? Was his masochistic side gaining far too much on him and forcing him to tear himself apart by tearing others apart? Perhaps his sadism had gotten the better of him - he was a serial killer, a mass murderer, a heartless, scheming demon that had long been twisted by time and darkness. But he had not thought he was so cruel as to hurt Anthony. Yet he had been, he was. And it had been a long time since he had felt guilt.
Or pain, or any real, untethered human emotion. It wasn't that his emotions simply disappeared, but they had faded into such a desolate corner of his brain that he had not bothered with them for years, and they had not bothered him. That was until they came to break down his front door and assault him.
He turned in his bed, nothing in his apartment able to provide him any real comfort or peace - even little Harry felt the dark energy surrounding the place, and he spent most of his time sleeping, his playfulness temporarily dampened. Harry - he remembered the first Harry, the boy who had been himself. Even thinking of all the things that had happened to Harry was enough to make Alastor uncomfortable - it had been another person, in another life, and in some ways, he had been avenged.
Then, he thought of the second Harry, the first of his cats. He remembered how happy he had made him in that darkest part of his life, and felt a fondness remembering how he had made his way to the Cormiers' friends after the tragedies occurred. The Cormiers. Now, those were people that Alastor could not think of.
He clung to the blue suit that Mrs. Cormier had made him as if it were a lifeline, but he would not dare to reminisce on her cooking or the absent-minded way she had sometimes rubbed at the nape of his neck when she was feeling particularly protective over him. Thinking of Mrs Cormier would only lead to thinking of Guidry, his watchful eye, his rough kindness. The two of them chose to stand their ground to the Lundelvilles for what they had done to Harry instead of fleeing.
Alastor clutched his sheets in his hands, feeling something burn behind his eyes, and though he tried to tell himself that it was the remnants of his rage, he knew that that likely wasn't true. Silently, he stood up in the dark room and diligently put his clothes on, like a man preparing for a funeral. Something had to change - he could feel stones weighing him down into the very bottom of the ocean, could feel the pressure increase with each second that passed. He needed to rattle himself - if he didn't do something to change this, he would be rendered useless. And so, with the last of his energy, he stealthily left his apartment and made his way out into the street.
The night was strangely cold considering it was still summertime, so no one thought much to see him in layers, covering most of his face. He slowly made his way to the shadier parts of town, his feet carrying him automatically. He couldn't even bring himself to enjoy the prowl, as he usually did, drinking in the sounds and smells and feeling of New Orleans.
It all seemed tasteless and sterile to him, a city that he usually savored for being so full of life and death coexisting. Being somewhat employed by one of the biggest mafiosos in town and enough time with Anthony had made him well-versed on where he had to go to do what he desired - well, what he seemed to desire.
Though his brain seemed to hold no rational thought, his feet carried him on his way. As the streets became a bit more crowded, the smells a bit more pungent, and the buildings more dilapidated, Alastor made his way deeper and deeper into the seedier areas, and then finally found his destination. He had never actually gone into this particular place, mind - he had heard Anthony and Edwin talking about it in hushed tones one night when they thought the others weren't listening.
But Alastor was always listening. He knocked on the rotten-through door to the opium den. He had no real idea what the hell he thought he was doing here, but he found it was fairly easy to get inside and be led to a private room by a man whose features he wouldn't be able to pick out of a lineup a second later.
That was after he had given his money, of course. Few questions were asked, and though he thought he could catch a glimpse of the other users who were doubtlessly around at this godforsaken hour, there was a strange feeling of privacy he hadn't been expecting.
The place was wooden and dark, and just stepping into it and smelling it was enough to already make him feel high, especially because he would be sleeping right now if it weren't for the circumstances, and had already been feeling drowsy. He was left alone relatively quickly, too, which almost made him feel like he hadn't seen anyone since he had left the more crowded areas.
He sat down on a little cushion that had been put on the ground, though most of the area was blanketed, with a low wooden table on which sat a contraption with strange things around it. Alastor noticed with some apprehension that he would have to work out the mechanics of this whole ordeal all by himself, and so he awkwardly sat down.
By his estimation, whoever was in charge here left things more or less established, so that the person coming in wouldn't be able to muck up the smoking process too much, even if they were a complete newbie, like Alastor was, even though newbies usually didn't find their way into places like this.
Trying not to think about it more than he wanted to, Alastor held the long contraption into his mouth and lit it on the little lantern on the table. He breathed in, hoping or not hoping that he was inhaling this correctly, held it, and then released the clouds of smoke from his mouth into the air.
He was briefly reminded of his time at the Guills, the way the crimson smoke billowed in their house when they went to visit, the strange visions he had, how so many of them had come true so far, to the point where the ones that hadn't happened he was sure would. He remembered how those evenings had predicted Guidry and Molly soaking in their baths of soil, how he had become swallowed up by the dirt.
He remembered the first time he had seen Anthony. Immediately, his gut twisted up, and then he suddenly realized he was not in his right mind. For some reason, he breathed in from the long pipe one last time before sinking back into the blanketed surface of his small space, time ceasing to flow in its usual stream. The moment his head met a surface, he felt how he escaped himself.
Now he could see the first time he had met Anthony, not as a promising ghost, or a lovely vision, but as real Anthony, with his somewhat capricious face, his mannerisms, the defiant look in his eyes. Anthony, standing on top of that balcony the night of Montenegro's dinner.
Anthony's eyes met his, real this time, not just Alastor's imagination meeting itself. It was sweet, so sweet to see him again, it was almost like he could touch him again like he could smell the scent of his smoked-in car, could feel the moments when he'd crack a joke and turn to Alastor for confirmation.
He then remembered the way that he had found him, a needle in his arm, his eyes becoming milky. He remembered carrying his body, fragile as could be, into the car, and driving like crazy to get him help, because he thought he would die.
The hospital, the uncertainty. Sal Montenegro, his disappointment in his son, the resentment in his eyes. The opera, the tickets Anthony had been so thoughtful, so kind as to get weeks in advance. But throughout the beauty of the manifestation of his attention, the constant feeling that something was amiss. The structure over the train tracks, Anthony leaping.
No - Anthony trying to leap. Telling him that he was disgusting, that he never wanted to see him again, all the things he deserved, and more. Alastor felt he was about to vomit - he didn't want to relive all these things, didn't want to remember all the terrible ways he had lost Anthony.
He tried to pedal back to the good moments, sitting at a bar, Anthony growing gloomy and then immediately perking up when someone paid him a compliment. Anthony dancing, feeding the ducks, Anthony with Molly, Anthony looking at Alastor like the clouds had parted and he was drinking in the sun. God, god, god, god that would never hear him, that would never touch him, how he loved Anthony. Yes, Alastor suddenly thought that if he could live in this world, rehashing all the better times he'd been a good person to him, he would like to be high all the time, enveloped in only the good emotions. The thought shook him abruptly and steered his thoughts in a completely different, darker direction.
This was the same sort of escape Anthony took - was that why he had sought this out? Did he want to know why Anthony did what he did? Or was this some sort of sick way to get closer to him? If it was, he was ashamed of himself - he knew that these were the darker parts of Anthony, the ones he had tried to conceal from him so hard.
He would not want him to do this. But, then again, he hated him now. Maybe he would want to find him like this, destroyed by himself just as he had destroyed him. Alastor felt himself begin to choke, the thick film of his thoughts webbing away to show him some of reality. There he was - lying in a catatonic state in an opium den on the bad side of town. What the hell did he think he was doing?
With all the effort he could muster, he tried to stand up, but he was quickly disheartened by the apparent weakness of his limbs, which refused to carry him so much as two steps forward as if he were already half asleep. Desperation set into him - he was not used to being so out of control, so incapacitated.
What if someone wanted to hunt him? What if someone was watching him, and he had just created an opening? A million scenarios came up inside him in which he imagined the ways he might be killed while so vulnerable.
He itched to somehow flush the drug out of him, to release himself from his weakness. He grew more and more frustrated - he wasn't even in his right mind to be imagining how he could work magic into lucidity. Terror and panic gripping him, he reached for his coat's inner pocket and touched the black orb he always carried with him, the one that had taken him to that little town in Louisiana all those years ago, as if it could help him as if he weren't still lost. He stumbled as he wobbled up, and then hit his head on the wall before passing out entirely.
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As fate would have it, Alastor awoke an hour later, his hand still closed around the orb. He left the opium den as quickly as he could with the drug still in his system and hastened back home. Alastor didn't hear anything from Anthony for at least two weeks.
After the first week, he was able to become a semi-functional human being (relatively), and he was received with a lot of love and worry in his job. And though the vacancy that had been left behind with Anthony's departure from his life was always felt, he found that, after a lot of murders and an insane consumption of human flesh, he was able to recuperate his will to keep going. As was expected, he heard nothing from Molly or any of the others, for that matter.
This made sense considering that most of them didn't have his phone number, and even if they did, they probably wouldn't call him if Anthony wasn't comfortable with his presence.
It was likely that they all hated him, and though the thought had been strangely hurtful, it wasn't as terrible as Anthony, of all people, hating him. He was also haunting him. He had always been present, Alastor found - from the moment he had seen him in the Guills' living room, Anthony had been looming in the periphery of his life, unseen but deeply felt.
He had become a real, tangible person in the time that he had been Alastor's friend, and he had unfortunately taken the boy for granted. Now that he knew that he existed, but existed quite apart from him, it was a new sort of pining. He had always craved (in a dull, almost distant, and idyllic way) to meet the boy in his visions, but it had been a fleeting dream, one without any real foundations in reality.
But he had met him - and it had surpassed all his expectations and left him feeling like an absolute, blundering idiot who didn't know what to do with himself. And, as life would have it, the beautiful thing that he had so callously held in his hands he had spoiled.
Well, there was nothing he could do - it took him an entire week to realize that, and when he did, the process of learning how to live with it was even harder, but at least he was able to do his job, to stop killing people en masse. And, as one thing led to another, the station was swamped with grisly stories, some of them dealing with Alastor. It had always been a rather pleasing thing for him to speak of his victims and retell the whole sequence in detail (making sure he didn't overspeak and say something that hadn't been in the newspapers).
He made up for his week-long absence with his uncanny ability to narrate what had happened as if he had been there, something that fed everyone's more morbid desires and tendencies. Bradley had gladly patted him on the back and asked if Alastor would be going to Montenegro's dinner party next weekend since he was feeling better. Alastor, who had not yet found the energy to rummage through his accumulating mail, only nodded and pretended he knew what the hell it was he was talking about.
Sure enough, he had received an invitation to a small dinner party that the Montenegros were hosting. His heart had leaped and splattered on the ground when he had seen it, and the potential, however slim it was, of seeing Anthony was too much for him to handle after over a week of worries and abstinence.
But he knew he would be lucky if Anthony didn't spit in his face the moment he dared show up. And so, two weeks had passed, and here Alastor was, on his way once again to the Montenegro mansion, but feeling much changed since the last time he had been there. It was as if something vital had shifted, something deep and buried beneath him that in turn altered all the strings responsible for his actions.
It was the strangest sensation, but at the very least as he sat in Bradley's car making polite conversation, he didn't feel an overwhelming wave of sensations as he had expected. Instead, he felt oddly calm, expectant of what the evening would bring. He was probably very collected because deep down, he knew that nothing of consequence would happen that night. And nothing did.
There was no sign of Anthony throughout the whole dinner, and it was the same old farts that Alastor always saw at Montenegro. Not even Molly was in sight, the only Montenegro sibling present being Ashton, whom Alastor didn't care a smidgeon for, and he knew that Molly and Anthony didn't, either.
Alastor did his best to stay away from alcohol, having no taste for it since the whole thing with Angel had transpired, and especially not after his actions in the nights that had followed their quarrel - but still he wished he could find the same solace that other people did in it, even after the little lapse he had had the other night, for looking at the Montenegro's, their combined genetics making up Anthony, was painful as could be.
If only he could see him again - just a peek in the street, even a picture might be fine. But he had nothing. The evening went by painfully slow, but as he was very polite, he stayed as long as he usually did and treated everyone with as much courtesy as normal. Near the end of the evening, Montenegro called him over to his study, and this was the moment that Alastor had been looking forward to the most. It was very likely that he should discuss something regarding Anthony now.
And that would certainly be the only worthwhile moment of the whole evening. Montenegro's study was just as grand and beautiful as all the other times Alastor had seen it, but tonight it seemed particularly large and dark like something was lurking in the shadows of all the empty corners untouched by light.
He was strangely reminded of the hoaxes Guidry would set up so long ago, and something pulled in his chest. He usually avoided thinking of such things consciously, but the sensation was so similar it was hard not to think of it.
Montenegro and Alastor proceeded to chit-chat, Montenegro stating that his (very vague) affairs were going quite well and that it was all running smoothly for him. Alastor congratulated him as best he could, though he found he came up short on words due to his lack of interest.
Knowing that it was the professional thing to do, he brought up Anthony. "I'm sure you know, sir, that Anthony… found out that you had asked me to keep an eye on him," he informed Montenegro, feeling like he was betraying Anthony all over again - but it wasn't like they were friends anymore, was it? Anthony had made sure to tell Alastor exactly how repulsive he found him. Alastor swallowed and felt something like poison running down his throat.
He might as well continue the job he had lost Anthony over since he was gone. "I think it's needless to say he wasn't too happy by it and asked me not to see him anymore," and it was all Alastor could do to keep the strain from being audible in his voice, though he allowed himself some level of displeasure to be evident. "I gathered as much - I fear that that night at the hospital I was a bit too vocal about the whole thing, and Anthony always has been good at spying… anyway, it doesn't matter.
You did the best you could, I'm sure." "That I did, I'm glad you say so, sir," Alastor said with a meek smile, and it was getting increasingly harder to keep up this charade of someone who didn't care so deeply for Anthony, especially in the face of this man that he thought had caused so much damage to the person he cared out. Resentment had been building for Montenegro for some time, now, after seeing his almost cruel show at the hospital.
He had understood that he was not a man who was capable of real love, real worry. At least not for Anthony. "I must say, it is rather sad that he was so upset. I had gotten rather fond of the boy," Alastor allowed, hoping to get some more information.
Sal let out a dry chuckle as he puffed on his thick cigar. "I imagined you would, being young and all - Anthony is a pain to have as a son, but if I were his age… I'd imagine I'd like him very much, too," and then Montenegro ventured to look over at Alastor, the younger demon trying not to show what he thought of Montenegro's slightly patronizing comment. "He might come around," he said, though quite doubtfully, "though he is a prideful one, that one." "It's very doubtful, sir. He seemed stung by the whole thing." "Understandably, I think I would be, too." "It's a pity." "I agree, but you needn't worry about him, anyway," Montenegro said, and at that, Alastor's eagerness swelled to unbelievable proportions. "How do you mean, did you send him to the rehabilitation center?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. Well, you know I wanted to - Bradley had recommended a good one, and I thought it would be good for Anthony to live among all those people who have been completely consumed by drugs and see what his future would be like.
God knows just staying away from drugs - especially forcibly, can't force the kid to do anything - would do him no good. But he put up such a big fight… my wife, lovely Madeline, bless her soul, she has a good heart. She brought in some specialists, these… doctors of the mind - therapists or psychologists or whatever. A bunch of scammers, in my opinion. Do you mean to tell me they all study the same thing but disagree on every point and every method? Ridiculous.
Anyway, the psychologists agreed that Anthony was not in a state to be admitted into a rehabilitation center yet and that he would benefit from having professional attention without being secluded…" Montenegro took a breath, sighed as if thinking of all the money that he was, in his opinion, 'wasting' on therapists, and then took another breath, probably wishing he could just lock his son up so he wouldn't have to face his disappointment.
Alastor gritted his teeth. "I guess it's all for the best," he said, unconvinced, "Anthony hates having to talk to strangers, and now he's forced to - three times a week, too. Maybe this will help him understand the seriousness of the situation. And if he doesn't… well, he'll just have to hit a real rock bottom to snap him back to reality," Montenegro told him harshly, and his lackluster, emotionless voice was enough to make Alastor's blood boil.
He couldn't understand how he could speak of Anthony so carelessly, as if he were some person that they were reading about in a magazine and decided to criticize and not Montenegro's very own son. "I'm glad you were both able to come to a compromise," Alastor offered, but since this had been the only moment in the whole evening when he had felt anything at all, it was hard to rein in his emotions. "Hm. Me too. All for the best, all for the best.
Mostly, I'm just worried about Molly." "Molly?" "I think you've met her - my youngest. She's my shining star, that one, the only problem being she's so fond of Anthony," Montenegro stated with a dry chuckle that sounded more like he was about to heave. "Surely two siblings being so close can't be a bad thing," Alastor offered mildly, though he was about to throttle Montenegro.
The only thing that consoled him slightly was imagining all the different, gruesome ways he could murder him right now. "I'm glad at least they get along, that's true - can't say the same for my other child. In any case, Molly is going places - I hate to see her so affected by Anthony. Anyway, enough of the kids, I want to talk to you about…" and he proceeded to speak about how he and Bradley had set things up for Alastor to be the one to advertise a new whiskey line that Montenegro was selling.
On the surface, Alastor was agreeable and attentive, but on the inside, he craved to sink his teeth into Montenegro's neck for his comments on Anthony. The only thing that worried him about his son was how he inconvenienced the family - he had said that he would much rather not have his two children be close so that Anthony wouldn't influence Molly badly, perhaps even to make Anthony even lonelier as punishment, which seemed the only way Montenegro knew to educate his children. Alastor thought with some pain how horrible that would be for Anthony, to live in a house full of enemies, and that was exactly what the situation would be if he didn't have Molly.
But Alastor knew that Montenegro could care less about Anthony's well-being, or his feeling lonely and abandoned. It was clear that he had long since discarded Anthony for being useless, and now focused more on his other two children, treating Anthony like a pesky fly he couldn't quite get rid of.
It was disgusting, and he wanted to scream into Montenegro's face that it was no wonder that Anthony had the problems he did, that maybe with some true kindness, he would've felt so hollow that he resorted to what he did. Maybe if Montenegro had ever taken the time out of his day to try and talk to his son, try and understand him, even once, things would be different.
Considering Anthony's soft, mostly emotional disposition it was very likely that a little love was all that he would need to unravel. For now. It suddenly became very clear to Alastor that Anthony would either die of an overdose or abandon his family completely in shame and mutual hatred. Alastor wished with all his heart that it would be the latter. It was a blessing when his meeting with Montenegro came to a close and Bradley himself offered to give him a ride as he was leaving.
Alastor, as usual, told him he would much rather walk but would be heading out with him just the same. The walk back was somehow stale and displeasing, the summer has gotten to that midway point where it is no longer pleasant and everyone forgets why they hated the cold.
Alastor took off his coat and walked back to his apartment, feeling hollow and sad, two emotions that he usually did not allow himself to feel, and yet lately he had found that his emotions demanded to be felt, that they popped up on the surface as they wished and perhaps he had never commanded them, after all.
He was in a foul mood as he arrived, sticky and uncomfortable, his brain feeling inflamed from the heat and the displeasing conversation he had had with Montenegro. Anthony's absence was deeply felt - if they had been on good terms, he would've found some way to beat the heat and found fun when people were annoyed and on the verge of choking him. He wondered what it was specifically that Anthony was doing tonight.
Surely he was having the time of his life with his wonderful friends, celebrating the fact that he wouldn't be institutionalized against his will. He would be raucous and hilarious, and would probably mount the bar-top at Moe's and try to do a strip tease before the others managed to wrestle him down.
Alastor sighed, thinking about the hypotheticals that he was missing as he came up on his street, and his mood did not improve when he noticed a certain figure leaning against the side of his building, obviously waiting for him.
Ridley. Alastor suffused a deep, resentful sigh, but still did not conceal his irritation. At least it immediately took his mind off Anthony. "Mr Ridley," he said as he neared the man, who somehow looked more run down than the first time he had met him. "I'm sure it's a mere coincidence that you're on my street and not that you're stalking me." But now Ridley didn't even bother to offer some silly excuse or even a nervous chuckle.
Instead, he looked deranged, like a screw had come loose in his head and he had no time for formalities. "How do you do it, Cormier? How did you tap into other magic? I can't explain, I can't understand!" He exclaimed, daring to step forward towards Alastor but realizing he was at least a head shorter and much less intimidating, even with that crazed look of his. "Keep your voice down," Alastor said through gritted teeth, looking around them to make sure no one had noticed his ravings.
Ridley wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked down, ashamed. "Yes, of course, Mr. Cormier, it's only that I'm desperate for answers, I can't find anything on-" "Perhaps we would do better to discuss such matters someplace else," Alastor sighed, rubbing his temples as if he were dealing with a particularly troublesome child. "Yes, yes, of course.
We could have a cold drink. My treat." "It better be." And with that, they took off. Alastor didn't even know why he was humiliating himself by even humoring Ridley, maybe it had something to do with the overwhelming loneliness that hung over him on weekend nights now that Anthony hated him.
Even something that stressed him and caused him displeasure seemed a willing diversion. How the mighty fell. Alastor forbade Ridley from speaking about anything on the street, seeing as the man had a severe volume control problem, and only god knew what kind of people would dismiss it as crazy big-city gibberish and who, for example, worked at the American Magical Congress and had a more reputable voice than Mr Ridley. And so he kept shushing Ridley, who was desperate to have his answers and took him to a bar far from the richer side of the city where he knew he wouldn't be running into anyone he knew. Well, he might run into Anthony in a place like this - but out of all the bars in New Orleans, it would have to be a massive coincidence to see Anthony going to this one in particular.
Besides, it was just as likely that he was still being babysat and was not allowed to go out now that his only get-out-jail-free card (Alastor) had been used. Alastor shook the thought from his mind and tried to focus on his Ridley problem. The man had been trying to dig into some form of information on voodoo and had found nothing useful.
That was likely because all the information on voodoo was passed down from family to family and kept tight between people, rare, real information scarcely finding its way out of tight confines. Books like those that Alastor had burned down in his old house were never sold or leaked, and the only way a family would have them fall out of their possession would be through an accident or by passing on to another family of voodoo practitioners. Even the Guills, Mrs Cormier had told Alastor long ago, weren't real voodoo practitioners.
They were believers, alright, and they respected and practiced the same rituals that the Cormiers did, but they would never be able to influence something like magic. They would never be able to curse or harm someone with magic, let alone do something like what the Cormiers had pulled on their last night on this earth.
And even real voodoo practitioners like the Cormiers held a speck of power compared to Alastor, who had somehow found the way to combine the two arts, seeing them not as two different entities, but as sides of the same coin.
His theory as to why no one in history was known to do such a thing, is that he suspected it had to do with his snapping. The night that he had slaughtered the Lundelvilles had been the night he had lost his sanity, and in doing so, found the dark corners of magic in the place where his marbles had once been.
And so, it only stood to reason that Ridley had gotten absolutely nothing from his ventures, maybe only a few scammers or two that pretended to commute with dead spouses and deceased pets. Alastor suddenly remembered the little situation he had had at the jazz bar a few days past and shuddered. Thankfully, it was likely that Ridley wasn't frequenting any places that would give him real answers.
Alastor didn't even want to think about what kind of regulations would begin if the wizarding world found out about the presence of voodoo in the world. Alastor wasn't even sure if there wasn't a voodoo community or underground currently in existence, though if there was they were surely far sparser and less organized than the American wizards appeared to be. Alastor led Ridley to the remotest table in a rowdy, run-down bar, and the general hustle and bustle were enough to drown out the strange conversation to come.
Besides, everyone was far too drunk to pay attention to two men having a conversation, let alone actually comprehend what it was that they were talking about. Once they were seated, Alastor ordered his usual martini and ordered a beer for Ridley, who was fidgeting in his seat as if he were having a fit. Before the drinks arrived, Alastor turned to Ridley, dreading the oncoming conversation. "First off, Mr Ridley, I would advise you to calm down.
I can't speak to you when you're in such a rattle," and at that he leaned back and sighed, watching as Ridley tried to compose himself. This was such a pathetic excuse for entertainment - Alastor had discarded Ridley as being of no consequence weeks ago. "Right, sorry, yes," said Ridley as he wiped the sweat from his slick forehead.
He took a deep breath, making a real show of calming himself, and then stared Alastor down with a look that surely was meant to demonstrate steadiness of character. Alastor wasn't fooled. They stared at one another for a second, and then Ridley leaned forward towards the other man, looking around. So now he decides to be wary? "I must confess, Mr Cormier, that I didn't drop the subject of voodoo," - the word being said as if it were unholy, setting Alastor ill at ease.
As if wizards weren't capable of dark magic. "And that I couldn't help myself from doing some research, and, and…-" "And?" "Nothing. Every inquiry I made, every type of research I tried to carry out led nowhere - or led to dead-ends and quacks that make the table shake with their knees to make others believe they are communicating with the spirits." At this, Mr Ridley stopped as the waiter brought them their drinks, spilling some on the table with his carelessness. Ridley proceeded and the waiter swiftly zoomed over to another group. "It's like it doesn't exist.
But then I thought - hey, surely if no-mags tried to find anything on magic, nothing would come up. At least nothing real, involving true magic. So then," and the man paused to catch his breath and take a deep swig of the beer. He was talking with a madman's speed. "So then I thought - what's to stop there from being a voodoo community, one that makes sure that nothing is leaked just like wizards do." And then he paused and looked at Alastor meaningfully. "If you're looking for answers with me, I assure you you will be sorely disappointed." "How do you mean, is there no such thing?" "Before I answer that, Mr Ridley, I want to make sure of one thing." "Yes?" "The last time we saw each other I gave you certain information that you inquired after, and in return, you said you would leave me alone.
You see, even if I did know anything, you have nothing to offer me, and I certainly can't believe in your word, as you have no problem going back on it," Alastor said very casually, knowing that such words would throw this very altered man into a frenzy. "No, Mr Cormier, please. I am a man of my word, I promise you.
And I know you didn't want me to disturb you anymore, but I wouldn't be… accosting you if it weren't an emergency." "What is this emergency you speak of, Mr Ridley?" At this, Mr Ridley looked around with even more exaggeration, though it only made them look more suspicious. "I believe there's a voodoo-practitioner serial killer." I'm sorry what did you just say you heard me, mister Mr. Cormier I have reason to believe that there is a serial killer using voodoo to boost his killing I see well Mr. Ridley.
Wall I must say that's an interesting Theory but I can assure you if someone were committing such atrocities I would have noticed by now if you will excuse me. I have more important things than to humor your fantasies good day Mr. Ridley Alistair said before getting up and without a Second Glance walking out the door to another night of wallowing in his sorrows.