Snyder initially thought the party would be boring, but when he caught wind that there would be several rounds of potion roulette being hosted by one of witches that worked directly in the Ambassador's own shop, his interest was piqued. Say what you like about the little bitch, but her products were known to be top notch. He was curious what sort of consequences something she made would have if you lost.
He followed the sound of roaring laughter to find a small crowd of ghosts standing around a table covered in identical vials. A woman with short pink hair coughed and sputtered loudly until finally a swarm of butterflies erupted out of her mouth, fluttering around the crowd of onlookers a few times before exploding in a display of tiny colorful fireworks. Everyone cheered and clapped in delight while the witch handling the station gave the pink-haired woman a glass of water.
"Who's next?" the witch asked cheerfully.
"What're the rules?" Snyder asked, rolling up to join the group.
"Everyone playing picks one vial off the table at random. Don't worry," she assured him, "None of them will hurt you, they're more like prank potions. May I?" She leaned behind him.
"Sure," he said.
She pushed his wheelchair toward the table and continued explaining, "Half of the vials are filled with colored water, the other half are potions. The Ambassador is providing cash prizes. Everyone starts off with a dollar. For every round you win, that amount doubles. You can cut your losses and dip out whenever you want, but if you lose, you get nothing. Want to give it a try?"
"Doubles, eh? That could get pricy pretty fast," he observed, leaning forward in his chair, "I'm in, let's try it." He reached a thin, wrinkly hand out and grabbed one of the vials.
While Snyder gambled his dignity, Benjamin Shakespie found himself kidnapped. He'd been walking along, sipping a cold soda and minding his own business, when some young lady in a white dress nabbed him by his ratty canvas shirt and pulled him into a section with several small tables all arranged in a circle.
"Madam, please unhand me," he asked politely as he tried not to trip. He barely managed to keep his drink from spilling.
"Nope, you're coming with me," she said with a smile.
"I beg your pardon?"
She dragged him over to one of the tables and pushed his chest just forcefully enough to make him sit down. He plopped gracelessly onto the chair with an "UMPH" and stared bewildered at his kidnapper.
She was rather beautiful in a haunting sort of way, with long black hair and striking dark eyes. The light on her skin and dress shimmered like she was reflecting moonlight, even in the middle of the day, and her hair floated gently in the air as if she were underwater. She'd left a wet spot on his shirt where she'd grabbed him. It didn't matter; the shirt was hardly better than a rag anyway.
Before he could ask what was going on, she'd given him a wink, and floated off to collect another unsuspecting soul. She swam through the air like a mermaid, the folds of her dress dragging behind her. While she grabbed another bewildered ghost by the shirt, Ben examined his surroundings.
A Salem witch with a noose around her neck leaned against a tree, a stack of papers in one hand and a bundle of pencils in the other. She watched the drowned girl with an amused glint in her eye, shaking her head and trying not to laugh. Above her head, hanging from the tree, was a painted wooden sign that read, "Speed Dating"
In the centers of each table were pairs of heart-shaped rose quartz carvings. Examining the ones on his own table, he found that they were tiny boxes, just large enough to hold a piece of folded paper. One lid had wings engraved, and the other showed flaming horns. He didn't like where this was going.
He'd have stood up to leave, but something kept him in place. Literally, he couldn't move. "What in the name of Lucifer?" He muttered to himself. "Excuse me," he waved toward the Salem witch, "I beg your pardon, miss, but I seem to find myself stuck."
"Oh good," the witch said happily, "That means it's working!"
"What is working, ma'am?"
"The seats are enchanted. If there's someone nearby that you need to meet, you won't be able to move."
He saw the flaw in that logic relatively quickly, "And if this hypothetical individual is sitting at an entirely different table, how are they to meet me if they find themselves stuck, too?"
"Clever man," she looked impressed, "You must work with witches often."
"Quite," he confirmed without telling her his name. She'd know who he was if he said it, and the whole point of this event was the freedom of anonymity. "And suppose I have no interest in your speed dating booth?"
"Oh, you will." She said confidently, "But if it makes you feel better, once you've had a conversation with the person you're meant to meet, you'll be able to move again. Consent is important, after all."
He stifled a sigh and took another sip from his drink, leaning back in his chair. There was nothing to be done. It was usually best to give in and let things happen where the coven was involved, so he watched other people walk by while the drowned girl filled up all the chairs with confused and unwilling participants. Elida and her sisters always got what they wanted one way or the other. He wondered where she'd run off to. He wanted to ask about the grand statue with her name on it.
When the circle of tables was full, the Salem which began passing out pencils and scratch paper to everyone. "Okay belles and beasts," she announced, "Here's how this works; You've been magically guided here by a spell I wrote myself." She sounded very proud.
"I'll set a timer of ten minutes," she explained, "during which time you'll talk to the person sitting at your table. When it goes off, the person in the seat closer to the center of the circle will get up and move to the right until you've found the person you're meant to meet. What you do after that is up to you. You'll know it's them because the boxes on your table will carve their initials into the center of the lid while you converse. The boxes are yours to keep. These papers are to share contact information, should you wish to do so."
She continued, "Our… enthusiastic… new friend dragged you over here under my direction, because-" she paused for dramatic effect. Ben drummed his fingers on the table in irritation. The stimming helped him relax.
Finally, the Salem witch finished her own sentence, "According to my divinations, every one of you happens to have a soulmate. You never got the chance to meet, because they didn't end up in the same realm as you, but they're here today. You're welcome."
She let the implications of her declaration sink in a bit. Ben's eyebrows shot up in a mixture of surprise and horror.
"All of us?" an incredulous ghost with an arrow in his chest asked.
"All of you. I made sure of it. It was a complicated spell, but I managed." She grinned happily. She'd been working on this since before that sad imp wedding Alastor had helped with ages ago.
After a moment, the witch continued, "The purpose of the Ambassador's event is to bring demons and angels together. What better way to do that than to find your perfect match? Ah! I just love love." She pressed her hands to her heart and twirled around girlishly.
"That seems a bit cruel," Ben said. He hadn't meant to. It just slipped out. Everyone turned to stare at him. He wished he weren't wearing his dirty cave clothes.
"Cruel, how?" A man at the table beside him asked.
"I think I see what he means," the drowned girl said, moving to sit in the only empty chair that remained. She settled right in front of Ben. "Ignorance is bliss, so it can't be fun knowing you could have love, but that you can never be with them."
"Precisely," Ben agreed, "The logistics are a nightmare."
"Hold on," another person spoke up, "I recognize your voice… Are you Mr. Shakespie?"
So much for anonymity. Half the guests started whispering to each other, the other half had no idea who he was. He sat up straight in his chair. He may not be able to leave, but he still had his dignity.
"Who's Shakespie?" One of the confused ghosts asked. Ben guessed they were probably an angel.
"The Ambassador's business partner," another one, probably a demon, explained. "He's famous!"
"He knows Elida?"
"I wish SHE was my soulmate…"
"I heard she was best-friends with a demon, is that you?"
Ben sat quietly while people threw questions at him left and right. He ignored them, accepting the paper and pencil from the Salem witch when she passed by his table. He tapped the pencil's eraser on the table absentmindedly.
"Alright everyone, chat away," The Salem witch declared, twisting an egg-shaped timer.
The drowned girl's paper got soggy the second she touched it. She looked a bit sad about that, so Shakespie tore off a piece of his already hole-covered shirt and handed it to her. "Here," he said, "I'm sure our host can enchant your pencil to mark this, even if it gets wet."
She lit up, "Thanks! That's a good idea. Hey, Cruci, can you…"
The witch touched the pencil and it transformed into a sharpie. "There you go," she chirped, before muttering some witchy nonsense to herself as she walked away, "Shakespie sharpie, sharp and shelled, soon you'll see, all will be wet wonderful and watery."
Yep. Cruci was definitely one of Elida's.
"So, how do you know miss… Cruci, was it?" Ben asked the drowned girl.
"Yes, that's right."
"Are you a member of the coven? There are so many, I have difficulty keeping track of them all."
"Oh no," the drowned girl laughed, "I just met her a few minutes ago."
"I see," he said, "You seem so familiar with her," he observed.
"I make friends fast," she explained.
"An admirable trait."
"So, you live in Hell?"
"Every day but today," he joked.
"What's it like?"
"You're an angel?"
"Every day but today," she joked back. "What did you do to end up in the pit?"
"I'm a cannibal," he said plainly, expecting her to recoil. Even other demons got uncomfortable around the cannibals. He took a sip from his soda.
"Ahh," She said, her lips slowly widening in a surprisingly devilish grin, "So you know how to properly eat a lady."
Ben spat out his drink.
As poor Benjamin tried to regain his composure, Elida and the Vees returned to the cemetery. Vox tried to convince her to stick around them a little longer, but she politely excused herself and went to check on each of the booths to make sure her sisters were doing well. As she passed by the pumpkin carving station, she caught sight of Alastor. He was lifting his pant leg to return a knife into a concealed sheath. She blinked, looking him over. Was she crazy, or were the straps and blades kind of… hot? Elida shook her head. He would hate it if she said something like that.
He looked up and saw her. His casual smile lit up into a genuinely happy one, "Elida! Welcome back, love!" He stood to greet her, holding a pumpkin in his hands. "Where shall we put this?"
He'd carved a snowflake. It drew a flattered smile from her lips, and she tried not to blush. How could someone so openly sadistic be so sweet and adorable? She took it, admiring his handiwork. He hadn't scooped out enough of the guts, so the inside was still a bit stringy, but the carving was clean. "How about the mausoleum," she suggested. "We can put it by the entrance for everyone to see when they come for dancing after sundown."
"A capital idea!" He took it back. He wouldn't be caught dead allowing a lady to carry something so heavy around.
Maybe this was a good time to tell her. He needed to get it over with. He opened his mouth.
He couldn't do it.
Damn it, what was wrong with him?
He couldn't just stand there with his mouth open like an ignoramus, so instead he said, "You know, that monument of yours is drawing a lot of traffic." He glanced toward her grave.
"Oh, don't tell me that," she pulled her Santa hat down, trying to cover her face. "When my dad dies, I'm going to kill him."
"That's what I did to mine," Alastor said conversationally, "But in a rather different context. You wake up to the sound of his anguished screams every morning," he sounded delighted at the very thought.
"How many people are in there, anyway?" She asked.
"I've lost count, hahaha!"
"You would," she laughed with him. He liked her laugh.
His heart twisted painfully. He didn't know what to do. He thought he was above all these silly emotions, and yet here he was, completely paralyzed by them. He never should have gotten so close to her. It would have been easier to carry on thinking he was incapable of love or attraction. It worked for decades; it would have worked for decades more. But she had to come along and be just so… well, magnificent was the closest word he could come up with, but it still didn't feel like enough.
When they got to the mausoleum, Elida opened the pumpkin's lid. "Why don't we light it now," she suggested, "That way it'll be glowing when the sun goes down."
"As you wish." He handed the pumpkin to her and snapped his fingers. A tiny flame appeared in his hand, and he dropped it into the squash. It flickered and danced, but stayed lit.
Elida closed the lid and held the jack-o-lantern upward. She pursed her lips, blowing gently and sending it rising into the air. It hovered just above the mausoleum entrance, floating freely. "Perfect," she declared, admiring it.
"Yes," Alastor agreed, looking at her face, "Perfect."
Good lord, he felt like he was going to burst.
"Want to get some face paint?" She suggested, taking his hand and dragging him away without bothering to wait for his answer.
He didn't want face paint. "Absolutely," he said, trying not to focus too closely on how his body reacted to her touch.
Strangely, two souls, one in a colonial general's uniform and another in some too-tight t-shirt, crawled up from the ground. They dragged themselves up and out of the dirt like zombies. They both had big dopey grins on their faces. Elida waved hello but didn't stop to ask what the hell they were doing underground.
When Elida saw Shrewm, she ran up and gave her a big hug, ignoring the oozing wounds on her arms and face. Shrewm pinched her face affectionately and sat her down in the stool. She didn't spend any time staring. She figured they'd stop by eventually, and thus had their pictures already ready in her head. Using the side of Elida's face that had no blood trailing down it, Shrewm painted three spindly and long-stemmed mushrooms. A tiny rope bridge connected the tops. Two silhouetted figures stood on either side, reaching out for each other.
"Awww, it's so romantic and weird," Eldia admired the painting, "I love it! Allie, your turn."
"Deer Daddy doesn't want decadent décor destroying his dapper deception."
"What deception?" Elida asked.
"None," he covered for himself, taking the stool, "She's half mad, love." He turned to Shrewm, "Paint away, dear."
Shrewm took extra care not to paint over his dimples; that would be a crime punishable by damnation. She gave him an alligator with a pen in its jaws, drawing a picture of three long-stemmed mushrooms at the bottom of a golden scroll as if it were a signature. The alligator's spine took on the same shape as Elida's rope bridge. Shrewm covered it with a setting spray and handed him the mirror.
He admired his smiling face, "Sufficiently eccentric."
As the day passed, Elida watched everyone interact. Some people she recognized; some she couldn't place. It was going so well. Everyone had cheerful smiles on their faces, and there was laughter in the air. She even caught Marcel openly flirting with someone that wasn't her. She was thrilled!
The sun began to dip in the sky and the witches directed everyone to line up along the side of the cemetery road. Angels and demons chatted happily with each other while they waited. Finally, coming in through the large gates, a long line of living people in all sorts of different costumes paraded across the graveyard. None of them could see the spirits watching them.
Elida's mother led the crowd. In her hands she held a glowing turnip carved into a face. It dangled off a string from the end of a long wooden stick. Hundreds of other townspeople held similar lanterns, lighting their way as they went straight for the mausoleum. The crowd was eerily quiet.
When Elida's mother reached the sacrificial tables, she reached into her pocket and placed a single piece of chocolate into one of several empty bowls that had been prepared for just such an occasion. When she was done, she continued walking, following the path back toward the exit.
Silently, everyone in the living crowd took turns giving an offering of candy to the dead while the spirits enjoyed the show. It seemed to stretch on forever, but when the line finally reached its end, Elida's father took up the rear dressed in his best kilt. After he'd given his own offering, he followed the crowd back out the gate. He didn't bother closing it behind him. By the time the glow of the last lantern disappeared, the sun was fully down. The only light left in the cemetery was the single jack-o-lantern floating above the mausoleum door and the soft wispy glow of departed souls.
Alastor gave Elida a look, and she nodded.
Party time.
He snapped his fingers and every pumpkin in the graveyard lit up with a flash. Hundreds of orange faces shined at their hosts. From inside the mausoleum a loud and upbeat song started playing, breaking the spell of reverent silence. The sound carried easily across the vast grounds. Thick white fog rolled out of the door and colorful laser beams danced in the air. The party guests cheered in excitement and started making their way toward the dance floor.
Elida saw a man that looked suspiciously like her business partner grinning like an idiot and being pulled along by the hand by a girl drenched in water. Marcel held his arm out to Mayberry for a dance, which she happily took. Two witches started making out against the mausoleum wall. Elida supposed love was in the air tonight.
Alastor was about to ask Elida to dance, but Mimsy showed up out of nowhere and nabbed him by the arm, "Come on, Tall, Dark, and Creepy; let's show 'em how it's done!"
He was surprised she'd taken that long to try and steal him away, but then again, Mimsy was always more of a night owl. He laughed, letting his old colleague drag him off. Elida gave him a mocking solute, giggling at the scene.
It didn't take long for the witches to set up a massive bonfire. She joined her sisters, twirling and thrashing wildly with the flames to the sound of Alastor's Halloween playlist. Her light-up necklace twinkled cheerfully, small sparks flashing from the crushed bulbs.
After a few songs Alastor emerged from the darkness, grabbing her from behind, his hand over her mouth, "You're coming with me," he declared with a playful smirk.
He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, careful not to hit her in the face with his shovel. She pretended to struggle, but she was laughing too hard for the fake screams to sound like anything but mirth. Taking her into the heart of the mausoleum, he set her back onto her feet and twirled her into position, "Let's see how you handle dancing with actual toes, shall we?"
She couldn't have stopped smiling if she'd tried. They hopped and twirled in an upbeat swing dance, laughing and grinning together for nearly an hour. At one point he dipped her so low to the ground she thought he'd drop her, but he never did. He knew what he was doing. She found she'd gotten much better at dancing than she'd been back at the first Cannibaltown Ball. She felt more confident. It certainly helped that she had such a strong dance partner to practice with.
When a slower song came on to give the dancers a breath, Elida rested her head on Alastor's shoulder and pressed a hand against his chest. He laid his head against hers and they swayed back and forth calmly for a bit. Another slow song followed, and then another. She didn't mind. She liked being so close to him. He made her feel safe and cared about.
For some reason, his heartbeat wouldn't slow back down, even after several minutes of quiet swaying. She wondered why.
Alastor took a shaky breath. It was time. He could do this. He had to. Pulling away just enough to look Elida in the eyes, he held her head up gently by her chin. She looked up at him, eyes soft and trusting.
He began, "Elida, sweetheart, I need to tell-"
Something behind her caught his eye and he stopped. His eyes narrowed, and he sent his shadow out the mausoleum door to investigate. What he found made his lip curl in anger. "Excuse me for a moment, would you?"
"What's wrong?" she asked, following his gaze. She couldn't see through the darkness as well as he could. The flash of calculated rage in his eyes was familiar to her, but out of place here.
He pulled away from her, grabbing the shovel out of its scabbard and gripping it tight. Pushing through the crowd of slow-dancing couples, he exited the mausoleum. Pulling the shovel back, Alastor swung hard, colliding the shovel directly with the back of a living man's head.
With a clang and a thump, the man fell face-first into the grass.