Would've uploaded this yesterday, but for some reason this site wouldn't let me upload ANY documents. So, it's a day later than I uploaded on AO3, but here you go!
Happy (Early) Valentine's Day!
So, since creating my OC Tina for my "Let's Fall in Love" fanfic, I've had DOZENS of AU ideas brewing in my brain. One of them I finally decided to tackle, in light of the upcoming holiday, based on one of my favorite Greek/Roman myths, "Eros/Cupid and Psyche."
While this will take place in the modern age, please note that this is an intentional deviation from the canon of "Hazbin Hotel," to better fit the formula of the myth this is based on. For instance, I started writing this based on a certain theory I had that, thanks to some pesky Season 2 leaks, has been proven to be false (I was mad too, cuz I'd already written two and a half chapters), but I'm still keeping it the way it is because it fits the narrative I'm going for. There will be some references to "Helluva Boss," particularly in terms of Hell's hierarchy, but the focus will be primarily on "Hazbin Hotel" characters.
This first chapter does contain a scene that refers to the current real-life political situation in America, which I understand might receive some backlash, but when I considered what my OC would be like if she were alive in 2024/25, there was NO WAY she would NOT be responding to this crap. So please, refrain from bigotry in the comments.
The song used in this chapter is "Devil's Got Your Tongue" by Abbey Lincoln. I didn't use the full lyrics because one, it's a long song, and two, I legitimately couldn't find the lyrics written down anywhere and had to do my best guess-work from the music track. Still think I got a few words wrong, but the message still comes across.
Chapter title is inspired by Taylor Swift's "The Archer." I tend to use a lot of song titles when writing these Alastor fics.
As demeaning as it was being Lilith's lapdog, one of the perks for Alastor was that it gave him unique access to the living world. A privilege granted to so few sinners.
In recent years, Lilith had gained a wider reputation among humans, thanks to historians unearthing lost texts concerning her existence. For too long, they'd mistaken Eve as Adam's only wife, as the canonical Bible had erased any mention of Lilith entirely.
This had led to Lilith receiving her own cult following. Quite literally. As such, she was summoned to Earth so many times, she often called upon Alastor to help unburden the load. Even more so as of late, because he was "such a good little errand boy," she'd say while ruffling his hair like a pet. Though he knew it was because she was too busy with her marital problems to bother with the problems of mortals.
The funny thing was it was mostly women who summoned Lilith. Particularly wronged women seeking one of two things: revenge on the people who wronged them, or to find true love. The first wasn't an issue for Alastor. Abusive and disloyal men had been his favorite victims as a serial killer. The second was another story.
Of all the sins Alastor had committed to land himself in Hell, lust wasn't one of them. At least in the sexual sense. Even in life, he'd never understood anything about sexual desire, let alone romance. But because Lilith had ordered him not to refuse any paid offers, he was forced to be creative. All he had to do was find a decent sort of man with no history of violence or infidelity and arrange it so he and the client would meet. The results were, usually, satisfactory. Although Alastor had a feeling the women didn't care too much about what kind of man came their way, as long as he was handsome and didn't abuse them.
To think that he, the Radio Demon, one of the most feared Overlords of the Pride Ring of Hell, had been reduced to a mere matchmaker. Even the Vees laughed at how far from power he'd fallen. And despite all the half-assed matches he'd made, he still didn't understand the concept of love. Why mortals and immortals craved it so much. He'd loved his mother, but romance, to Alastor, seemed like a complete waste of time, nothing more than a fleeting distraction from the mundane, nihilistic reality of life. And for most people, what they mistook for love only led to their ruin. He'd seen it in his mother and all the women who summoned him. And yet, even after harmful heartbreak, they still craved it again.
It wasn't until Alastor's seventh year of accepting Lilith's calls that he started to understand what all the fuss was about.
It started like any other night. He felt a pull on the chain that bound his soul to Lilith. Once, twice, three times. That was her signal to ascend to the living world. Rolling his eyes, Alastor placed his cane in front of him, resting both hands on the mic, and waited for the summoning spell to divert to him.
After a flash of red light and a blast of air from beneath his feet, Alastor found himself in the middle of a pentagram laced with symbols meant specifically for Lilith. As expected, a woman knelt before him, a copy of Demon Summoning for Dummies in her hands. Amateur. She looked to be in her thirties, blonde and blue-eyed. Most women would scream or recoil at the sight of him. This one simply raised an eyebrow.
"I was expecting…" she started to say.
"Lilith? Queen of Demons?" Alastor sighed, as this was often the first question on every woman's mind when they saw him and not his mistress. "Her majesty is indisposed at the moment, may I take a message?"
Most clients were hesitant to work with a man at first, as they'd been hurt by men themselves. This woman, however, remained calm, wearing an expression of only slight disappointment.
"Can you tell her I wanna make a deal?"
Her accent was midwestern, though the sight of the Statue of Liberty out her window indicated they were in New York. Alastor was used to appearing in the middle of the woods or rundown sheds or basements, but this was a lavish apartment. If not a penthouse, certainly close. The blood circle had been drawn on posterboard, surrounded by newspapers. He wondered why until he noticed the plush green wall-to-wall carpeting.
She seriously didn't want to get blood on the expensive carpet.
The woman herself, despite recently handling chicken blood, was in a perfectly clean blue suit. A pair of bloody nitrile gloves lay bundled beside her. Alastor chuckled to himself. Most people who summoned him weren't so tidy.
"Whatever business you have with my mistress, I am more than capable of carrying out myself." With a flourish, he spun his cane and bowed. "Name's Alastor. Pleasure to be meeting you sweetheart, quite a pleasure!"
He extended a hand, but she refused to take it. "Aren't we supposed to save the handshake for after the deal?"
The Radio Demon had respect for cautious clients. It meant they had sense. He politely retracted his hand, returning it to his cane.
"So, what is it this time? Abusive boyfriend? Neglectful husband? Looking to start over with someone new?"
Thankfully, she cut to the chase. "My husband had an affair."
That was going to be his next guess. "And you'd like me to exact your revenge! Now, I can't kill him, unfortunately." He sneered at this unfair restriction of his power in the living world. "I'm not the Angel of Death and can't take any mortal soul before their time."
Breaking this rule would not only get him in trouble with Lilith, but Heaven itself. The exception was if a human offered their life to him willingly, but he wanted to see how far this woman was willing to go before mentioning this juicy little loophole.
"I can, however, make him suffer." This part, Alastor was always excited about. "Which kind of torture do you prefer? Psychological or physical?"
There were so many delightful things he could do to a human soul without outright killing them. Bloodletting, electric shock, waterboarding, dismemberment. Oh, he certainly hoped she'd go for the last one.
"Not for my husband," the woman said. "For her."
Alastor's murderous fantasies evaporated into confusion. "Who?"
"The slut my husband slept with. Tina Davis." She spat, as if the name alone were poison. "Bitch seduced Ethan so she could sing at his club. That gold-digging whore."
The Radio Demon blinked. In his seven years of running errands for Lilith, this was certainly a first.
"You…want revenge on the woman who had relations with your husband," he said slowly, struggling to process the request, "but not your husband himself?"
Most of the time it was the man who was the focus of the vengeance. After all, he was the one who cheated. Why was she only concerned about the woman?
"Oh, I'm totally getting revenge on him later," she stated. "But see, I can't get pregnant if he's dead. I'll kill him once the baby's born."
Her nonchalance surprised Alastor. Not that he hadn't met his fair share of murderous women in Hell, but he wasn't used to this behavior from the women who summoned him.
"Well, forgive me for my presumptuousness, madam," Alastor said, tilting his head, "but if you're so adamant on carrying out such heinous deeds yourself, why summon a demon to do it for you?"
"Because taking out my husband will be easy." The woman closed the book, settling it in her lap. "But that floozy will be harder. Especially since she quit my husband's club. And while I'm good at poisoning, stalking isn't my forte."
Alastor nodded, as if they were discussing the weather and not murder. "And what sort of revenge, exactly, would you like me to enact on this…Tina, was it? Is that her given name, or is it short for something?"
She shrugged. "Her real name could be Harlot for all I care."
"Oh, you really hate this woman, don't you?" Females weren't his usual brand of victim, but he might as well get some enjoyment out of this by tormenting someone. "So, bearing in mind I can't kill her, what would you have me do?"
The woman's blue eyes were as cold as ice. "Make her life a living Hell."
"Hmm." Alastor's interest was fading. "Afraid you'll have to be more specific, darling. Making someone's life a living Hell can mean a number of things."
She leaned forward. "I read on the Cult of Lilith subreddit that you can do love spells."
The Cult of Lilith what now? His frequent trips to Earth had not been helpful in updating his modern slang.
"Lilith can do love spells. My specialization is torture." Alastor examined his fingernails, growing more bored of this conversation by the second. "What I can do is place a person in another's path to encourage partnership."
"Then place someone in Tina's path." A devious grin crept along the client's face. "Someone she can't help but fall for. Someone awful for her. Someone who will make her miserable. That's what I want. For her to fall for the vilest, cruelest, most despicable man you can find. That'll teach her to go after someone else's man."
Now this was an interesting challenge. Under Lilith's jurisdiction, Alastor had often been summoned to find a suitable match. Never had he been requested to find an unsuitable match. My, that would be torturous.
Although intrigued, the Radio Demon was also hesitant to fulfill this request. Despicable men irked him more than anything. It would go against his code to knowingly pair a lady with such a man. Then again, a woman who fooled around with a married man was just as immoral. Perhaps she deserved to be taught a lesson. The punishment of a terrible relationship seemed to fit the crime of ruining a marriage.
Besides, thanks to Lilith, he couldn't refuse even if he wanted to. And there was another perk to taking deals like this.
"If I were to do this," Alastor said, stretching the corners of his mouth as far as possible, "what are you willing to offer in return?"
The client sighed, as if she'd expected this. "What do you want? My first-born? My immortal soul?"
Why the Devil would her first-born be the first to come to her mind? This woman truly was heartless. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to kill her or take notes.
"I've no use for babies." Alastor waved a hand. "Your soul will be plenty."
Chances were her soul would go to Lilith, as this deal was meant for her. However, Lilith wasn't always interested in the souls Alastor collected for her and would allow him to retain ownership of some. Alastor so hoped Lilith would let him keep this one. She might be a lot of fun to play with.
"Just to be clear," the client said, raising a finger, "you won't be getting my soul until after I die, correct?"
"Correct!" A ding went off, followed by applause, giving the atmosphere of a game show. "And as a bonus, you will receive a one-way ticket to Hell! Not that you weren't already headed there anyway with this Lucrezia Borgia act you've got going for you."
She blinked. "Who?"
Alastor rolled his eyes. "Young people these days are so uncultured."
"Whatever." The thought of losing her soul didn't seem to faze her. "Can you do it or not?"
"Of course, I can. But for this deal to be complete, I'm going to need to put a name to the face."
"Carrie."
He chuckled. "Your full name, please."
"Caroline Ann Lowen."
"And do you, Caroline Ann Lowen," as he spoke, shadows overtook the apartment, his red eyes and glowing smile the only sources of light remaining, "agree to surrender your mortal soul upon your death to myself, if I find a vile, cruel, despicable man who will make the life of one Tina Davis, the woman who made a cuckold of you, a living Hell?"
Carrie squared her shoulders with no hesitation. "I do."
Green light emanated from his hand as he extended it. "Then it's a deal."
Alastor stood outside the comedy club where Carrie had said Tina Davis would be performing tonight. It was all over her Instagram, whatever that meant. He hopped between people's shadows, entering the club unseen, searching for his target.
He never sprang on his targets right away. No, he would follow them and wait for an opportunity to sweep them away into a delightful few hours of torture. In this special case, he wanted to get to know this Tina Davis's routine, what places she frequented most, ideal places for her to meet someone ghastly. Fortunately, there was no time limit on this deal. He could go at his own pace.
When Alastor had heard "comedy club," he'd expected something like a speakeasy. But this place was like a casual lounge, favoring coffee over alcohol. The audience was dressed for a quiet evening at home rather than a night out, some people even in pajamas.
Does no one care about fashion anymore?
Just when he was about to give up on his search, he heard her name over the speakers, quickly followed by applause. He slithered to a shadow on the wall, turning his attention to the stage with a brick wall backdrop, where a tiny black woman was stepping up to a microphone. Well, she appeared tiny to the seven-foot-tall demon, but perhaps she was average for a human's height.
He recognized her from the picture Carrie had shown him. Her round, golden-brown face framed by a black bob that fluffed at its ends. Her yellow V-neck flounced around her body, jeans hugging her hips, forming a figure Alastor considered healthy for a woman. Just the right amount of meat.
Her plump lips curled into a welcoming smile he couldn't help but approve of as she waved to the crowd. She took the mic off the stand and sat on a stool in the center of the stage.
"So, how many of y'all were disappointed 'bout the election last week?"
The people around him booed, but Alastor was less affected by her words and more by her accent. Definitely a born and bred Southern, just like him. Not quite Louisianan. Maybe Georgian? Alabaman? He'd had to shed his own Southern accent for radio. It amazed him that someone, another black person, would be bold enough to talk so "country" in New York City of all places. Things had certainly changed on Earth since he'd died.
"Yeah, yeah." She waved a hand, set the mic back on the stand. "Knew I was gonna get flack for this as soon as I said it. I mean it was a tough race. We had to choose between a one candidate," she said, raising one palm upward, "with a criminal record, a history of bankruptcy, several sexual assault allegations, two impeachments from his last term, and a Nazi-esque platform. Meanwhile the other candidate," she said, holding out the other hand, "had no criminal record, a law degree, years of political experience, a platform promotin' equality and economic growth and…"
She paused, weighing both hands like a scale, her nose scrunching. "Wait, why was it a tough decision again?"
Half the crowd burst into laughter.
"Sorry. Let me try this again." She did the same motion with her hands. "One candidate was a white man, and one candidate was a black woman. Oh!" She smacked her forehead. "That's where it went wrong!"
Alastor didn't understand the context behind the bit, so the humor fell flatter for him than it did for the audience. But the passionate way she spoke about America's current political situation reminded him of the protestors who'd march New Orleans for their rights.
"Like what the fuck did our female and black ancestors get us the vote for," Tina addressed the crowd, picking the mic back up to walk around the stage, "if when we finally have the chance to elect a woman president and not Hitler 2.0, we just stay at home and decide not to because we," she took on the tone of a whiny teenager, "'just can't decide!' God, ya think with all the times we spend on our phones we'd take five seconds to do a fucking internet search!"
Her profanity was off-putting, but Alastor found himself listening intently to her speech. He wasn't caught up with human politics, but his understanding from newly fallen sinners was that things from his time like racial segregation and gender inequality had diminished. But it seemed there were still things worth complaining about. And the woman was certainly loud and engaging enough to grab his attention.
"Did you vote?" She pointed to random people. "Did a? How 'bout you?" She faced a group of young adults. "First time voting, huh? Did you vote? Or were ya one of the millions who stayed at home this election? Who could've voted for someone who actually cares?"
A man, probably the club owner, walked not so subtly onstage, tapping Tina on the shoulder. He whispered something.
"No, I ain't gonna tone it down!" She brought the mic to her lips, muffling her voice. "Freedom of speech, my ass! Ya can't speak your mind in this country without gettin' shot!"
The owner tried to take the mic from her. "Thank you, Tina."
She yanked it back. "I got six minutes left in my slot."
"Not anymore." He leaned into the mic. "Next up we have—"
"Owen!"
He covered the mic so the audience wouldn't catch his next words, but Alastor's keen ears picked them up. "Get off the stage, or I'll call security."
Tina held the owner's gaze for a moment. Then she shoved the mic into his hands and stomped off. If Alastor weren't supposed to stay hidden, he'd be applauding the woman's entertaining failure.
Shame though. It was a rousing speech, if lacking in the comedic aspect.
He slithered across the floor, finding Tina's shadow and following her backstage. The owner, Owen, shortly joined her after announcing the next comic.
"That was uncalled for," he said.
Tina snorted. "It's relevant."
"It's upsetting." Owen crossed his arms. "People come here to laugh, not to get angry."
She matched his pose, scowling.
"I'm sorry, Tina. I know things have been rough for you lately, but we can't be preaching political stuff here."
"Just last week ya let Bob go off on how transpeople are leadin' the human race to extinction."
"That was different."
"How, Owen?" She threw up her arms. "How is me spoutin' political shit any different than Bob spoutin' political shit?"
"You're…"
Owen winced, as did Alastor. For he could see the murder brewing in Tina's dark eyes.
"I'm what, Owen?"
"You're, uh…" Owen rubbed the back of his neck. "In a different…position than Bob."
Alastor couldn't help but feel second-hand embarrassment from this pathetic man.
"And what position is that, Owen?" Tina's high heel landed on the floor with the force of a general's boot. "That I'm a woman? Or that I'm black?"
If a black woman had spoken to a white man this way in Alastor's time, she would've been beaten in broad daylight. But despite Owen being taller, he shrank under her glare. This Tina was a force to be reckoned with.
And somehow, in the span of five minutes, she'd earned Alastor's respect.
Owen averted his eyes, sputtering, "M-Maybe it's best if we…give your slot to someone else for a while."
Tina's shoulders sagged. "You're firin' me."
"Y-You have a lot going on right now and—"
"Stop." She raised a palm. "I'll go."
She picked up a purple coat from a chair, shrugged it on, slung a duffle over her shoulder, and walked out of the club, her head held high. Despite losing the battle, she retreated with dignity.
This is the supposed harlot who seduced her boss? Alastor had pictured a young, promiscuous floozy. But this woman had a brain, a backbone, a bite. And the more he watched her from her shadow, the more he realized she wasn't that young after all. Her complexion was clear and smooth, but the way she carried herself suggested she was older. Maybe closer to his age when he'd died, in her mid-thirties. Not the sort of woman he'd expect to be foolish enough to go after a married man.
Then again, appearances could be deceiving. He of all people knew that. He'd taken advantage of the traits his father had granted him and passed himself off as white. That on top of his charming persona had made it so easy to lure his prey to their demise.
It was when she approached the subway station that Alastor noticed a tear streaming down her cheek. Others followed suit. Tina wiped her face on her coat sleeve.
Case in point. Although she put up a brave front, getting fired still upset her. Wait. Didn't she quit her job at that other club as well? Yes, the job with Carrie's husband. That meant she'd lost two jobs within such a short time frame.
Hmm. And I thought I had bad days.
He followed her on the subway. Alastor was sure she was on her way home, but the neighborhood they came to was rather…seedy. Typical of what he'd see around Valentino's porn studio back in Hell. Then, to Alastor's horror, Tina turned into a building labeled with a neon sign that would redden his cheeks if he were currently corporeal.
Bindy's Burlesque.
No. Absolutely not.
Dens of erotic displays were things Alastor avoided like the plague. He considered waiting outside, but didn't know how long it would be until his target re-emerged. He could lose track of her, and that wouldn't do.
So, swallowing the bile in his throat, he slunk under the doors. At least burlesque shows were slightly more tasteful than the strip clubs scattered throughout Hell. Hopefully, he wouldn't see too much skin on this little detour. Nevertheless, he tried ignoring the stage as he searched for Tina's shadow.
He found her again backstage. Just as she was slipping into a dressing room. This time, he waited outside the door. He may be stalking the woman, but he had standards. Enough not to watch her change. Though he wished there weren't so many scantily dressed dancers rushing in and out.
If this was Tina's other job, one wasn't enough to pay the bills. Alastor had thought the economy might've improved since the Great Depression, but clearly not, if the average person still required to work more than one job.
When his target emerged from the dressing room, he had to cover his mouth to stop himself from laughing. She was dressed like, of all things, a demon. Complete with a headband of plastic red devil horns. The irony was so hilarious he wasn't even flustered over her red corset, booty shorts and fish net stockings.
At the sound of applause over the most recent number, Tina rushed to the wings, followed by a male and another female dressed in matching devil outfits. Alastor noted how Tina smacked the palms of the women coming offstage, what Rosie had once referred to as a "high five." Tina and the other two performers waited for the curtain to lower before going onstage. From the other side, two stagehands in black rolled out a red piano and, to Alastor's surprise and delight, Tina sat at it.
Comedienne, political activist, burlesque performer, now a pianist. This woman was a jack of all trades. Add serial killer to the list, and they'd be kindred spirits.
Alastor shuddered in the shadows of the wings. She's your target. Stop finding ways to compliment her.
The curtain raised, the audience whooping from their tables in a way the Radio Demon wanted to slaughter them all. Dancing and music were meant to be art forms, not outlets for debauchery. To think his target had been arguing against sexism an hour ago, only to come work at an establishment that was one step away from a whore house. Well, she had slept with her married employer, so this shouldn't surprise him too much.
It didn't matter if she had spirit. She was still a sinner who deserved punishment.
A slow, jazzy melody, sounding very reminiscent of his era, caught his ear. Deciding he could get some entertainment out of this performance, racy as it might turn out, he spread his shadow across the curtain wing to get a decent view of the demon costumed woman at the piano. As she played, the other two performers engaged in something between a tango and a pas de deux.
But once Tina opened her mouth, the dancers faded into nothing more than two red blurs.
"Long ago, falling shadows
Sent you on the run.
And you learned to hide and sneak,
Running from the sun."
She closed her eyes, not even peeking at the sheet music before her. The notes were engrained in her fingers, transferring flawlessly to the ivories.
"Many, many things have changed,
Many songs were sung,
But today, it's sad to say…"
She opened her eyes briefly to wink at the audience. "The Devil's got your tongue."
She stuck out her tongue for emphasis, earning chuckles from the crowd. Alastor might've chuckled too, if he weren't so spellbound.
The provocative outfit soon became insignificant. The only thing worthy of attention was her voice. It was strong, powerful, carrying the soul of the jazz age he dearly missed. Despite the erotic setting, the divinity of her voice could, dare he say it, rival Lilith's.
No wonder she'd managed to steal someone's husband away. A pretty face could turn heads, but talent, that could draw sailors to their deaths.
"Devil's got your tongue.
Oh, Devil's got your tongue.
Always there's tomorrow
And the seasons come."
Towards the song's end, Alastor spotted tears forming in the engaging singer's eyes. But her cheeks were so big from her smile, he was sure no one but him noticed.
"Love is made forever,
Ever as the sun.
You got holy magic
But Devil's got your tongue.
You got holy magic
But the Devil's got your tongue."
He watched her all through the night. Although she changed costumes and music genres with each performance, she tackled each one with passion and grace. Even when she danced provocatively with her chest barely covered, Alastor couldn't bring himself to look away.
Romance had never been a priority for him, but he recognized a beautiful person when he saw one. Even a blind person could see the beauty in Tina Davis from her voice alone. Her energy, her emotion, the relationship she built with her audience through simple looks and gestures. But while she catered to their lecherous palette, she retained her independence when one eager guest attempted to crawl onto the stage. Alastor forgot to hide his laugh as she kicked the wretch with the sole of her foot, earning a few startled gasps from the performers backstage. Whatever, make them think the place is haunted.
It wasn't until the emcee introduced the last act of the night that Alastor remembered why he was here. His job was to study his target, not ogle her. Regaining his focus, he followed Tina to the dressing room, prepared to wait outside once again. But before she could slip inside, a stagehand sidled up to her, leaning against the doorframe.
"Hey, Tina," he said in a Brooklyn accent. "If you're not busy after closing, can I treat you to a drink?"
From the shadow on the wall, Alastor could smell marijuana on the stagehand's breath. If a man's character could be measured by the drugs he took, this fool might do his job for him.
"Too tired, Jorge." Tina pushed the dressing room door open. "Maybe next time."
Frowning, Jorge snatched the doorknob to stop her from opening it further. "That's what ya said last time. And the time before that."
"Really?" She rolled her eyes. "Then maybe ya should ask someone else lookin' for a one-night stand. I hear Candy's into bondage."
She tried pushing against the door again, but Jorge snatched her wrist. The action sparked a flame of rage in Alastor. His father had grabbed his mother like that too many times. If I wasn't barred from killing in this realm, this wretch would be my dinner tonight.
"Come on, Tina, why won't ya gimme a chance?" Jorge demanded.
"I ain't interested." She narrowed her eyes in defiance. "That not reason enough?"
"So you'll fuck your boss, but not let a minimum wage stagehand buy ya one drink?"
Before Alastor could act on the impulse to jump out of the shadows and choke the bastard until he passed out, Tina jabbed her heel into his foot. He cried out, releasing her wrist and allowing her to escape into the dressing room and slam the door behind her.
"Fucking stuck-up bitch," Jorge grumbled as he hobbled away.
As Alastor waited for his target to change, he felt a mixture of elation at seeing the dame put the brute in his place, and exhaustion at the realization that finding an unsuitable match for her was going to be harder than he'd thought.
It was five in the morning when Tina made it to her apartment. If Alastor could call it that. The ceiling was cracked, the wallpaper was peeling, and he swore a roach had just skittered over his shadow. The single room was cramped with furniture, serving as the living room and kitchen. There wasn't even a bed. Just a rundown couch piled with blankets and pillows. She needs two jobs to keep up with the rent of this place? He'd seen more adequate accommodations in Hell.
Tina dropped her duffle to the floor and dragged her feet to the bathroom, which was thankfully separated from the rest of the space. She didn't close the door, so Alastor lingered there as she opened the mirror to reveal a medicine cabinet. She grabbed an orange bottle, twisted off the white cap, and took out a round white pill. She popped it in her mouth, not even bothering to get a glass of water to wash it down.
From the fridge, she extracted one of those disgusting instant dinners and a bottle of beer. Once her food was microwaved, she crashed onto the couch and turned on the inane picture box. Two nonsensical shows and three bottles later, she passed out.
Once he was certain she was unconscious, Alastor materialized from the shadows, taking physical form. He switched off the television so the noise wouldn't interfere with his contemplation of his next step.
The Radio Demon had seen millions of souls down on their luck. He reveled in their misery, encouraged it, took advantage of it. But even for him, this was…sad.
The woman was drowning her sorrows in drink, after hours of erotically dancing in front of strangers. Twice in one evening, she'd suffered altercations with men, and both times she'd stood her ground. She'd lost one job in a fit of passion, another after having an affair with her married employer. The more he learned about Tina, the more he wondered if Carrie had told him the whole story.
For once, Alastor was hesitant to carry out his end of the bargain. Maybe this woman was an adulterer, but did she really deserve such a harsh punishment? From where he was standing, her life was already a living hell. An abusive lover wasn't necessary.
But a deal was a deal. If he backed out now, Lilith would see to the consequences herself.
Although Alastor wasn't certain Tina would even accept a man in her current state. Not from the way she'd acted with her boss at the comedy club and the stagehand at the burlesque. Whatever had happened with Carrie's husband, it must've hardened her enough to reject any man who came near, whatever his intentions. Had this so-called affair even been Tina's choice?
Alastor didn't think he could stand watching this woman for much longer. If he did, he'd grow to pity her even more, and then he'd never get this job done. He had to hurry this along. At the very least, once it was done, he would have the pleasure of tormenting Carrie's soul when she arrived in Hell.
Love spells may not have been Alastor's forte, but curses were.
He dug his claws into his palm. Once blood was drawn, he approached the sleeping woman. He squeezed his fist above her, allowing the blood to drip onto her forehead. Earlier, he'd managed to peek at the ID in her bag, learning the full name required for the spell.
"Tina Eartha Davis."
The blood spread across her forehead, forming a heart-shaped Veve symbol representing the Loa of femininity, Erzulie. The two daggers stabbing in the curves referred to her Petro version, Erzulie Dantor, who exacted revenge on those who wronged women. Although Erzulie was often associated with the Virgin Mary, Alastor had theorized she was another interpretation of Lilith. Her vengeful side, at least, as this Veve had been appearing in his spells much more frequently since he'd become Lilith's servant. All religions were, in the end, some form of the truth.
He continued the spell in Creole. "I, Alastor Emile Hartfelt, place this curse upon you, in the name of Lilith, Queen of Demons." The stabbed heart glowed to life. "From this day forth, without any intention on your part, you will attract the attention of the vilest, cruelest, most despicable men in all—"
Tina's eyes popped open, startling Alastor so much that he stumbled backward and screamed, "LANFÉ!"
He quickly fell into his shadow just as Tina sat up. She looked frantically around the room.
Alastor watched her with bated breath, praying she hadn't seen him, or that she'd at least write the altercation off as a nightmare. Hopefully, he hadn't scared her too much.
Wait. Why would I care if I scared her?
She rubbed her forehead, the Veve now completely dissolved into her skin. Skin that reminded him so much of his mother's, though a shade lighter. Golden like the way the sun hit the cypress trees of the bayou at dusk. She threaded her fingers through the knots of her hair. Though tangled in such a mess, he imagined it would be soft like a kitten's fur. He wondered if she would allow him to comb out those pesky knots with his own fingers.
Alastor mentally slapped himself. Why am I thinking so much about her hair?!
Then in the darkness, her eyes landed in the corner. In the very direction of his shadow. Although she couldn't see him, the moment her eyes met his, Alastor felt as if her gaze alone would pull him out of the darkness and into her world.
When a human's heart stops beating, it is reformed in the afterlife to pump new, immortal blood. Blood that could sustain the new body for eons, but should the heart be pierced with angelic steel, it would stop all together. The heart served as a reminder to the Radio Demon that even his afterlife was finite.
But now it was more. For it was beating faster than when he'd run from the hunters who'd shot him. The blood it pumped was warm, and yet he shivered from the sudden jolts of it. That eager heart threatened to leap out of his chest and pull him towards the human woman. The one whose eyes carried so much darkness and sorrow. Darkness he wished to nurture, sorrow he wished to relieve.
The urge to step out and show himself to her was overwhelming. To steal her away from this dissatisfying life of hers. To take her in his arms and…
The rational part of his mind cried out, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!
This was enough to yank him back into the shadows. Tina, of course, was completely unaware of his inner monologue as she yawned and plopped back onto the couch, pulling the mess of blankets over her body. As he waited to ensure she was asleep, he remained fixated on her face, smushed against the pillows.
He reformed over the couch, contemplating what had just happened. These thoughts, these urges to make himself known to her, they'd come out of nowhere. It was almost as if he were under a…
His eyes widened in horrifying realization. Oh no.
There was no way. The Radio Demon didn't make mistakes. Not like this.
He went over the events leading up to his sudden…euphoria? Rapture? Enchantment? He recounted the steps he'd taken, the number of blood drops, the timing of the Veve, what he had said.
What I said. Alastor covered his mouth. Fuck, what DID I say?!
He had meant to say: you will attract the attention of the vilest, cruelest, most despicable men in all THE WORLD.
But, thanks to Tina's unexpected awakening, what he'd actually said was: you will attract the attention of the vilest, cruelest, most despicable men in all LANFÉ. The Creole word for "Hell."
HELL. No, that couldn't have counted. It'd been an exclamation. A slip of the tongue. A nonintentional curse. He facepalmed. Of course it was a curse. In every sense of the word. And it had worked instantaneously.
It was too late to fix it. The damage was done. Thanks to his blunder, Tina Davis would be acting like a beacon to the vilest, cruelest, most despicable men in all of Hell.
Including himself.
Yeah, I'm sure you were wondering how I was planning to present not interested in love Alastor in the role of the "God of Love." I had to get creative with the concept. If you're new to my fanfics, yes, I'm aware Alastor is asexual. I'm asexual myself, and I still like playing with his romantic orientation, in a way he ends up more demiromantic than aromantic in my fics. But no, I'm not erasing his asexuality.
Chapter 2 will be released soon, but in light of those pesky Season 2 leaks I mentioned, it will be undergoing a heavy re-write.