Why yes, I'll take your soul

Alastor let out a quiet hiss of pain as he shrugged off his shirt, folding it with absentminded care before setting it neatly on the bed. With practiced precision, he cut through the stained bandages and began to unwrap them.

It was worse than yesterday.

The infection was spreading, no, crawling. The pale gold spiderwebbing had stretched across most of his chest, thin lines branching outward like roots. It had curled around his ribs, snuck along his side, and was now beginning to creep up toward his throat.

He clicked his tongue, jaw tightening. This was bad. He’d need a turtleneck soon, just to keep it hidden. Assuming, of course, it didn’t kill him first.

The pain was no longer a dull, ignorable thrum. It flared whenever he moved, whenever he exerted himself, physically, or worse, magically. Every pulse of effort came with a sharp reminder that something was festering inside him.

The Beelzejuice had proved… marginally effective. It hadn’t cured anything, but it had slowed the spread, dulled the worst of the heat for a time. That was something

Alastor reached for the bottle.

Empty.

He grit his teeth. “Of course.”

He’d have to send his shadow to retrieve more. With a flick of his wrist and a pulse of—

His body seized.

He dropped to his knees, one hand slamming to the floor to catch himself as the other clutched instinctively at his chest. A violent cough tore through him, then another, and another, each one wrenching his ribs. Bloodied bile splattered the floor in front of him. The room tilted. The floor swayed under his palm.

‘Pathetic.’ He couldn’t even detach his own shadow.

It was an excruciatingly slow, humiliating, and painful process, but eventually, he cleaned up the mess by hand. When the last smear of red and gold was gone from the floorboards, he straightened with a small, controlled breath and set the cloth aside.

Then, with trembling fingers, he redressed the wound. 

Something had to be done.

This wasn’t a normal wound. The gold-veined rot was spreading, creeping further each day, and Alastor needed more information. He needed to know how it behaved, how fast it moved, what to expect, and most of all, how to combat it. 

He needed data. Observation. Experimentation. See how this progressed in lesser demons before it progressed much further in him.

He waited until the dead of night before retrieving one of the many angelic spears he had stashed away after the exterminator battle. Spear in hand, he slipped out into the streets of Pentagram City, taking care to avoid the hotel's denizens on his way out.

He didn’t need anyone asking questions.

Now to choose a victim.

Thanks to his reputation, he shouldn't encounter too much resistance. Still he didn’t want to exert himself any more than necessary.

Not tonight.

Sticking to the shadows is considerably harder when you can't command them, but Alastor was nothing if not exceptional.

He moved carefully through the alleyways, thoughts still turning over in his head, until something in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

A sleazy-looking bear demon strutted past at the mouth of the alley, draped in gold chains and gaudy designer nonsense. One of Valentino’s pimps, no doubt.

Alastor’s lip curled.

Driven almost purely by petty spite, he made his decision. This pompous little sinner would be his test subject.

He watched for a while, lingering just out of sight, back pressed lightly to crumbling brick as he listened to the exchanges in the street. The bear barked orders, laughed too loud, smacked one of his workers for not smiling enough. Charming.

Alastor waited until all of the pimp’s whores were “occupied,” then he struck.

One solid THWACK to the back of the head and the demon crumpled like a rag doll.

Crude. But necessary given the circumstances.

Grabbing the pimp by the collar, Alastor dragged the limp body to a nearby abandoned apartment building.

The door gave under one sharp kick, banging off the wall and sending roaches skittering into the corners. The air inside was damp and stale, thick with mold and old piss. Wallpaper peeled in long, curling strips. 

The sink was the only thing that looked remotely sturdy in this forsaken cesspool, and with a few strips of pilfered curtain and some creative knots, the sinner was secured.

Just as Alastor finished tying the last restraint, the pimp began to stir.

“Mmm. What the fuck is going on.” He slurred, blearily staring at his restraints. “Do you know who I am?  Who I work for?! Val will have your fu–” His eyes finally landed on Alastor and the rest of the sentence died in his throat.

"Fuck. Fuck!" The pimp stammered, trembling in his restraints. Sweat broke out along his brow.  "Look, I know things—I can be useful! You want Val’s dirty little secrets? I’ll tell you any—"

Alastor cut him off with a clean thrust of the spear, driving the angelic blade straight through his chest.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the pleading. He did. Quite a lot, in fact. Under normal circumstances, he would have drawn it out. He just didn’t have the luxury of time.

Not wanting to sit on anything in this rotting approximation of a home, he simply stood, hands folded neatly over the spear’s shaft, watching in silence, eyes sharp and focused.

The sinner writhed in his bindings, heels scraping against the tile. His eyes bulged with terror. Blood frothed at his lips as he jerked and gasped, ragged breaths turning to wet gurgles. His movements grew wilder, then weaker, until at last his head snapped backward with a pleasing crack, shattering the porcelain sink in one final death rattle.

Alastor stared at the corpse in annoyance.

“Tsk. I forgot how fragile most demons are,” he muttered to himself.

He’d need another subject, preferably one built to last. And he’d have to be more delicate this time. Driving the spear clean through the chest had been a bit... excessive. Foolish, even. He could admit that. He’d let his irritation get the better of him. Frankly, even he might not have survived a blow like that.

With a steadying breath, Alastor rolled his shoulders back, smoothed down his shirtfront, and fixed his smile into place. By the time he stepped out of the bathroom and back into the hall, the annoyance had been buried under his usual, carefully practiced cheer, and he stalked once more into the streets of Pentagram City.

This time, inspired by his previous choice of target and his newly refined criteria, Alastor already had a specific hunting ground in mind.

Vox.

Well. Vox’s property, at least.

He made his way to one of Vox’s lesser-used warehouses. A dilapidated old thing that smelled of blood and oil.

Lurking near the back entrance, distracted and oblivious, was a shark demon.

Broad shoulders, corded muscle, and a thick neck. Tall, though not quite as tall as Alastor himself. 

‘Perfect.’

Alastor can’t really sneak up behind this one. The shark’s back was to the wall, and Alastor’s shadow was not available. So instead, Alastor chose a more direct approach. He strode forward with purpose, using the angelic spear in place of his cane.

“Who the—? Oh fu—”

A sharp crack cut him off as Alastor brought the haft of the spear down on his head. The demon hit the ground with a heavy thud.

“Ugh, what the fuck,” the thug groaned, fingers twitching as he tried to push himself up.

‘Still conscious? Sturdy indeed.’

Alastor rectified that with a second blow, slamming the butt of the spear down onto the back of the demon’s head. The impact echoed down the alley in a dull, satisfying thud. This time, the shark demon went fully limp.

‘Much Better’

There’s never a shortage of abandoned buildings in Pentagram City, especially this soon after an extermination, granted there weren't really any casualties this time.

It didn’t take long for Alastor to find a warehouse that suited his purposes.

Alastor liberated some nearby chains, and dragged over a few rusted chairs, securing the shark demon to one. Once satisfied, he settled into another across from him, folding his hands neatly atop his lap.

It took well over an hour before the demon stirred. Alastor must have done more damage than he thought.

The shark’s eyes fluttered open, scanning the dim room. When they landed on Alastor, they widened in recognition.

He opened his mouth, but before a sound could escape his lips, an angelic spear lanced through his chest. Not all the way through mind you, Alastor had learned his lesson. The point stopped just shy of the heart.

“AGHH! What the fuck!!” the demon shrieked, back arching against the chair as far as the chains allowed.

Alastor tilted his head. ‘He could speak. Good.’

Alastor leaned forward in his chair, grinning sadistically. “Good, you’re awake. What do you feel?”

“What? It fucking hurts, you psycho cocksleeve!” He spat, face scrunched tight with pain as the chains rattled.

“Oh, tut-tut,” Alastor chided, tone almost gentle as he pressed a claw slowly into the wound. The shark’s scream tore through the room. “I have no desire to cause you any additional pain,” Alastor went on, completely unfazed by the shrieking, “but I am conducting research, and I need you to be cooperative. Understand?”

The shark nodded hastily, biting back his screams.

“Good.” Alastor withdrew his claw, wiping the blood off on the demon’s shirt. “Now, what’s your name, my good sir?”

“S-Surf,” he wheezed.

Alastor’s eye twitched.

“Surf.” Alastor rolled the name on his tongue, then clicked his tongue. He disliked it. “What exactly are you feeling?”

The shark stared at him. “Uh… fear, pain, confusion? I, uh… think that’s it.”

“Pain. From this, I presume?” Alastor tapped the bloodied spear tip.

He flinched and gave a jerky nod.

“You’ll need to be more specific.” Alastor said, settling back in his chair. “Tell me everything about this pain.”

“It… uh… it burns. Yeah, it burns real bad, but not all the time. Like, it’s always there, yeah, but it kinda… follows the beat of my heart, ya know?”

Alastor did know. Even now, he could feel that familiar throb, that pulsing flame beneath the skin.

"Elucidating. Is that all?"

The shark nodded vigorously.

Alastor clapped his hands together and offered his best approximation of a friendly smile. “Well then, let’s get that wound tended to. You’ve been so cooperative. I'd hate to see that go unrewarded. I’ll return later to check on you. Be good, and you might even get a bite to eat.”

Alastor returned to the hotel not long after and soon found himself in Charlie’s study, seated across from her at the desk, dutifully assisting her with a towering stack of paperwork.

Charlie had accosted him the moment he stepped through the lobby doors, arms full of folders and a harried look on her face, all but demanding he help. Which, to be fair, was one of his responsibilities.

He set to work with mechanical efficiency. He’d never been overly fond of paperwork (who in their right mind was?) but he’d grown competent with practice. Even during his mortal days, there was a surprising amount of paperwork involved in being a radio host.

It’s a necessary evil he supposed. ‘Ha. Necessary evil’

“Hey, Al… you doing okay?” Charlie asked softly.

Her tone was cautious, probing in a way that made his hackles rise. Like she knew the question was offensive but couldn’t stop herself from asking anyway.

Alastor’s head snapped toward her, neck cracking audibly. “Of course, darling! I’m positively c̵̫̈̑ȍ̶͈̌n̷̻͒̎t̵͔̎̀ẹ̶̳̔̕n̸͍̏t̶̰͖̊!”

Charlie flinched almost imperceptibly, then forced a small, uncertain smile. “Oh. Good. It’s just… you’ve been, um. Quiet. Today.”

“Why I am just so enamored with this paperwork!” He declared, turning back to it with mock enthusiasm. “Riveting stuff! Isn’t it?” 

“I’m glad you’re… having fun,” She said slowly, “but maybe we should call it for the day. We can finish the rest some other time.”

Alastor pushed back from the desk so suddenly his chair screeched against the floor. The movement sent a hot spike through his ribs, but he swallowed the wince before it reached his face.

“Well,” he said with a shrug, already turning for the door, “if you insist.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. In the next breath he was striding out of the study at a brisk pace, leaving the half-finished stack of forms, and Charlie’s worried gaze, behind him without a backward glance.