[A note from the author: I updated chapters 29 and 30 at the same time, so make sure not to skip the last one before reading this one. My analytics are indicating this may have confused some people. I'll put the same note in chapter 31 for those who already skipped 29.]
Alastor needed help.
He sipped his morning joe, made just for him by his best friend, and savored the uniquely divine flavor. One of these days, he really needed to find out what recipe she used; he'd never be able to drink any other coffee again.
Alastor watched the witches bustle about as they gathered in front of the hotel, setting up a large ritual area for the All Hallows Eve mass-haunting spell. His Elida floated above the crowd with a clipboard in her hand, doling out orders like a queen who expected to be obeyed. Demons began arriving in droves, forming a loose crowd, all chatting casually with one another and speculating on what the night would bring. Something exploded. Everyone ignored it.
Most of the faces he knew. There were the overlords and their guests, the Hazbins, some personal friends of the hotel residents, and a few party crashers that hadn't received an invitation. That wasn't unexpected; Elida had made sure to prepare twice as many spell components as they thought they'd need. She had a habit of thinking ahead like that.
Alastor really needed help.
To his surprise, Rosie's motor car pulled up, and the driver stepped out to open her door. She emerged, adjusted her oversize hat, and found him watching her from his room's balcony. He waved at her, beckoning for her to come join him above the crowd. She walked confidently through the demon horde, careful not to step on any of the coven's preparations, and entered the hotel.
Charlie sat with Vaggie, enjoying a slow breakfast. When she saw Rosie, she ran up and hugged her, "Oh, it's so good to see you again!"
"Hey sweet girl," Rosie greeted, "why are ya hanging in here when all the action is outside?"
"Oh, we're not going," Vaggie said, "Charlie isn't human, and I'd rather not go by myself."
"Ah, right, no Hellborn. Well, that's a shame. You'd have been the light of the party, I'm sure!"
"Oh, I don't know about all that," Charlie dismissed politely.
After a quick friendly catch-up, Rosie excused herself and went up to Alastor's floor. His door was open, so she let herself in and joined him on the balcony. His eyes were fixed on Elida.
"How do you do, my good friend?" he greeted. "I was under the impression you wouldn't be joining us today."
"Oh, I've just come to see you off. I've got too much to take care of to leave for a full day."
"Understandable," he replied simply.
Rosie waited for him to say anything else, but he seemed oddly quiet. She followed his gaze to the glowing blue fawn flitting about. She nudged him, "Well?"
"Well, what?" he asked.
"Don't try to hide it, honey. You're smitten." She wasn't going to mince words.
He didn't deny it, only took another sip of coffee.
"So," she prodded, "What are you going to do about it?"
"Therin lies the problem, dear," he stated, "I have no d*** clue." He played a beeping sound over his swear, censoring himself. "Frankly, I thought I was immune to this sort of thing."
"Well, you know this is my specialty," she flattered herself, "why don't you tell me about it?"
"My my, where to even start…" he pondered aloud, "she's an unpredictable and contradictory creature of chaos, coated in sugar and light. Trying to describe her in any comprehensive manner is quite the futile quest."
"Isn't that at least a little bit why you like her?"
"In part." He finished his coffee but held the mug in front of himself like a shield.
"Do you love her?"
Alastor gave her a quizzical smile. "I believe that was preestablished, darling."
She elaborated, "You fancy her, sure. And obviously you're friends. But do you love her?"
"It would be far easier if I did not."
"You should tell her," Rosie said, placing a motherly hand on his shoulder, "we both know you won't be able to relax until you do."
"I'd rather not. I'm quite content with things as they are."
"Contented men don't stare longingly from balconies."
"Ha! F*** you."
"That'll be her job soon enough."
"Oh, please." He paused, eyes still on Elida. "I don't think I'm her type."
"How the fuck would you know? Has she told you her type?"
"She's rejected every suitor from here to kingdom come," he pointed out. "And as she'll be returning home one day, we'd be doomed from the start regardless."
"You're scared."
"Nonsense, just being realistic," he waved her off with his signature smile.
"Now don't you lie to me, Alastor, I've seen this same thing time and time again," she poked him in the chest, "If you don't tell that little girl how you feel, she'll find out another way, and then you're fucked. She's too clever not to put two and two together if she hasn't already."
Alastor really hated when other people were right. Especially when he knew it from the get-go. He had to tell her. But he was worried he'd lose her if he did. And if she did choose to distance herself from him, he'd not only lose his precious Elida, but his mother as well. He couldn't visit Mama without Elida's supervision.
"I almost lost her the other night, Rosie," his smile adopted a pained expression, "She flatlined more than once. I can't lose her."
"If there's one thing I've noticed when it comes to the two of you," Rosie said, "It's that you both have the same look of pure adoration on your faces when you lock eyes with each other. Something tells me you're not going to lose her."
"I'd hoped it was my imagination," he admitted. "Love can be exploited too easily, and I have a great many enemies."
"Well, whether you like it or not, you fell. And clearly, you fell hard. So," Rosie turned to leave, removing her hand from Alastor's shoulder, "you might as well make the best of it." She walked away, greeted a few demons on her way back to the motor car, and drove off.
Up in Heaven, Marcel was busy getting all the angels into the circle Elida had prepared in the courtyard of Redemption City. It was like herding cats. Angels that either had never been demons, or weren't freshly deceased, had grown so accustomed to doing whatever they liked whenever they wanted, that they forgot what it was like to be on a schedule. Some of them would show up, remember something they wanted to do first, disappear, and then forget to return until Marc had sent a cherub to track them down and drag them back.
Despite this, he was endlessly patient. When one of the more prominent and influential angels got distracted for the third time in a row, Marc sighed softly, chuckled to himself, and made one last update to the event's social media page. "Last call for #everyone to come into the spell area. The event starts in 10 minutes. If you're joining, please ensure you're standing within the circle. Everyone needs to have their talismans ready and on their person. See you there!"
Mayberry came up behind him and placed a comforting hand on his back, "Hey, are you doing alright? I'm still more than happy to be your excuse to stay behind."
He smiled sweetly at her, "I'm okay. I think I need to face it; you know? I can always leave early if it turns out to be too much."
"Prince Charming fighting his own dragons," she flirted, moving her hand from his back to brush against his chest. Marc didn't know how to react to the way the unfamiliar touch made him feel, so he just responded with honesty.
"Frankly, I'd take a dragon over this," he said, running a hand through his hair, "but it's not like I'll be the only one looking pale and sickly."
"If it makes you feel any better," she said, "I'll have a giant fucking hole in my head."
"Why would that make me feel better?" He wondered if that was some kind of demon thing: Bonding over gruesome death wounds and gore.
She shrugged, "I don't know. Because at least you won't have to worry about being pretty or presentable. Most people there won't look nice. Death can get ugly no matter who you are, so there's no need to be concerned about looks. Just focus on having fun and forget the rest; that's my plan."
"Good plan," he agreed. He looked into her eyes. She kept her hand on his chest, looking back at him.
"Um, Mr. Mayor," Pentious said nervously, approaching Marc. He looked worried. "Ssorry to interrupt."
Marc tore his eyes away from Mayberry's and turned to the first of the Redeemed, offering him a reassuring smile. "Hm?"
"You know how you gave Husssker that… erm… package?"
"Yeah?"
"I need to sspeak with you about it. And, well, the Ambasssador. And Mr. Alastor…"
Marc's eyebrows shot up in interest. "You know something." It wasn't a question.
Pentious rubbed his wrists uncomfortably, "Yess sir. I was-"
Pentious was interrupted by an alarm sounding on Marcel's phone. "Oh shoot," Marc exclaimed, "I'm sorry, Pentious, we have to get going. But I promise we'll talk after we get back, okay? We'll go to breakfast in the morning tomorrow and you can tell me all about it. Sound good?"
Pentious deflated a bit at the dismissal, "Yess, alright."
Marc didn't want to blow him off, so he tossed an arm around the snake-man. "Hey, let's just enjoy the party, and we can worry about the tough stuff after. Okay?"
When it was almost time, Elida checked a few last-minute things on her clipboard and set to work taking attendance. It was early in the morning, but everyone had arrived. It was time. She flew to Alastor's balcony and perched herself on the railing. He handed her his microphone and stood politely behind her, grinning lazily.
"Welcome, esteemed guests!" She began, her magnified voice hushing the chattering crowd. "I'm so glad you could all make it. As most of you know, the veil is extremely thin on All Hallows Eve. For as long as the dead have existed, we've visited Earth during these times. Some visit family, some haunt their enemies, some just enjoy the change of pace. Tonight, my sisters and I have prepared a spell that will carry each and every one of you to the McCarthy family cemetery, where both demons and angels will spend the day on equal ground with each other."
The witches began passing out small necklaces crafted from twigs and twine. As they did, Elida continued, "These talismans will bind you to our magic for the duration of the event. As is traditional, the spell will break at the stroke of midnight, and we'll all be brought back here. If at any point you want to return home early, simply set the talisman on fire, and the magic will break. Bear in mind that once you're home, you won't be able to go back to the cemetery, so be sure you actually want to be done for the night."
Alastor lifted himself up with a pair of black tentacles to match Elida's altitude. He took the microphone, "And to all you party crashers," he said threateningly, making the uninvited guests feel suddenly very nervous. He paused for dramatic effect, enjoying their terror. Finally, he said cheerily, "Do enjoy yourselves, won't you?" There was an almost audible sigh of relief from the demons who'd never received a proper invitation.
"Though many of you may not yet know, we'll be wearing our human faces," Alastor clarified for the crashers. "If you don't want anyone to see what you looked like when you died, you might want to run along. Otherwise, let's give our Ambassador a hand, shall we, folks?"
A few demons went slightly pale and dipped out of the witchcraft area, handing their talismans back while the rest of the attendees clapped politely. When everything was settled, and Elida had received a text from Marcel that the angels were ready on their end, she fluttered down to the large spell circle, taking the hands of the witches on either side of her. Alastor faded into shadow and joined the other demons, making sure to knock Vox over onto his butt before reappearing beside Mimsy, who cackled at the petty display. She could always be counted on to show up for a good party.
The witches began to chant, and all their eyes adopted the same clouded grey color. They swayed back and forth rhythmically, speaking ancient pagan phrases that were long since lost to all but the most devoted practitioners. Alastor recognized a word or two from times Elida had used verbal spell craft during her potion making, but most of it was gibberish to him. He managed to make out the words, "balance," and "life." The circle crackled with the first tingling signs of intensely strong magic.
After a few moments, the witches transitioned from swaying to walking, stepping slowly in a counterclockwise direction, hands still clasped together. Their movements were careful and calculated. Not a single witch broke the flow as the air within the large circle began to twist and shift.
Everyone's heads felt funny, like the dizziness from a new and expensive drug that you hadn't had a chance to get used to yet. An earthy smell filled everyone's nostrils as a brown and green fog began to rise up from the covens' feet, pouring into the circle and swirling in time with the witches' steps. The fog got thicker and higher, until even the tallest demon was fully engulfed, and all anyone could see were dark shapes and a single blot of white light moving along the edge of the spell's area. Alastor watched it, fascinated with the powerful display.
He really loved witches.
When the coven stopped moving, so did the air. Their voices quieted, and bright sunlight started to peek through the fog as it settled. The sweet music of a songbird chirped through the silence while everyone got their bearings. There were twice as many people in the crowd as there had been before the spell started. No one could tell who was an angel and who was a demon. Everyone looked at each other warily, unsure of what to do next. The witches dropped their arms.
Somewhere in the crowd, a bald boy in a hospital gown kept his eyes shut tight as a blonde woman with a hole in her head held his hand for comfort. He wasn't going to throw up. He wouldn't. He. Would. Not.
They were standing on soft grass, tombstones peeking up beside their feet. Some were flat to the ground, while others were grand monuments. Most of the names read, "McCarthy." A massive stone mausoleum stood magnificently at the edge of the cemetery border. Surrounding it were tables laden with treats and refreshments. Jack-o-lanterns of all shapes and sizes decorated any space that wasn't covered in cemetery bouquets. For a place of death, it was all rather lively.
A living woman with tears in her eyes knelt nearby, replacing a vase of wilted lilies with fresh ones. She didn't see the dense crowd of spirits. If she could, she'd have seen people of all shapes and sizes. Some sporting gruesome death wounds, some old and decrepit, and some that appeared to be only children. They came from time periods and cultures from all over the world.
Alastor was the first one to notice the comically large and imposing statue towering in the center of the graveyard. He started laughing.
A few people jumped at the abrupt way he broke the silence, but then took it as a signal that the party had begun. They all spread out, chatting and exploring excitedly. Some of the demons in attendance hadn't seen the sun in centuries, and they basked in it, smelling fresh air for the first time since they'd died. The witches each went to the areas they'd been assigned to supervise; Elida had put them in charge of everything but the music. Alastor had insisted on taking care of the tunes himself.
Elida turned toward the sound of a laugh she knew by heart. The radio distortion was gone, but it was clearly him. She weaved through the crowd of souls until she was able to peek around an especially tall tombstone. She saw him.
He was dark-skinned and handsome, with a tall shovel in his hand and a gunshot wound in the center of his forehead. He wore a red vest over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had black leather gloves on his hands, and a few suspicious red spots on his arms. His shoes were coated in mud, and he had an easily concealable utility strap that held what Elida could only assume were his murder tools. How he didn't get caught as a serial killer when he was alive was completely beyond her; he couldn't have looked more like one if he'd been wearing a costume.
He pinched the bridge of his nose as he laughed. She smiled. He had dimples. Then she saw what he was laughing at, and her smile turned to a grimace.
"Oh no…" she said, walking up beside him, cringing hard, "I forgot about that."
"Golly, darling, how could anyone forget about something so hilarious? Ha ha ha ha ha!" He bent over, the maniacal laughter taking over him as it often did. "Dear me, it's magnificent! Quite a likeness. Beautiful!" That last bit slipped out by accident, but he pretended not to have said it.
"It's ostentatious and obscenely grandiose," Elida countered, wrinkling her nose up at her own grave. It was a 20-foot-tall statue of herself, inaccurately depicted wings stretched out wide. One arm held a witches' broom, and the other reached to the heavens, holding up a torch. Instead of stone, the flame was crafted from orange, red, and yellow glass, giving the illusion of burning when the sunlight hit it right. Other than the mausoleum, it was easily the largest and most eye-catching structure in the cemetery.
Elida leaned against another tombstone; arms crossed while Alastor had his fun. She pursed her lips. It really was an obnoxious statue. She obviously hadn't been consulted when her parents had commissioned it. "Yeah, yeah, yuck it up," she said, rolling her eyes.
"When you said you came from old money," Alastor commented, wiping a tear from his laughing eyes, "I never pictured this."
"How are you the only one who noticed it was me?" she asked, looking around at the other spirits, still getting settled in.
"You showed me what you looked like when we first met, don't you recall?"
"Oh yeah, I did, didn't I? Suddenly I regret doing that," she laughed.
"Your soul is far lovelier than your human form," Alastor mused.
"Gee thanks. I'm glad you dislike my face," she said flatly. She was teasing him; she knew he hadn't meant it as an insult. And it was true. She was a pretty normal-looking human, but nothing short of an ethereal goddess as an angel. The contrast had to be surprising.
"Oh hush, you," he waved her off. "What does this plaque say?"
"Oh gosh, please don't," she cringed harder.
He leaned down to read the inscription, "Here lies Elida McCarthy – Friend, Sister, and Hero." Below the initial title, a long paragraph described how Elida had not only given her life to save a child, but how she'd rescued her family from the brink of destitution with her brilliant business acumen, bringing them into a new age of wealth and prominence. "Oh, how juicy. It seems I'm not the only shrewd dealmaker here," he smiled at her, amused at the way she buried her face in her hands.
"I really wish they'd just said something normal, like R.I.P. or whatever."
"Nonsense. Why, that would be such a… RIP off! Ha ha ha!"
That broke her. She cracked up laughing with him. "You're ridiculous," she giggled uncontrollably. As was their custom, they fed on each other's laughter, ending up rolling on the ground, wheezing.
Alastor cherished these moments. How could he possibly risk losing this by telling Elida the truth?
