Chapter Text
The swirling, murky red sky of hell was usually soothing to Alastor. An overarching canopy of chaos, churning like blood as it pools in the dirt. But on this night, the eve of the year's second extermination, the sky outside seemed rather ominous. As if his blood could join in the pool this time.
The extermination was another aspect of hell he previously didn’t mind. Until now. The calamity, the screams of panic, were music to his ears when they belonged to others. He could defend himself just fine, thank you kindly. It was the hotel and those who resided here he now had to concern himself with defending. He isn’t quite sure he would enjoy their dying screams.
(Except for the porn spider. Those he wouldn't mind.)
Looking out the window at the hellscape that was, well, hell, Alastor contemplated the last time he didn’t enjoy hearing someone's scream of anguish. His red-tipped fingers fiddled with the thin chain around his neck, tarnished from decades of this exact motion. The chain brought all those memories back.
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Alastors marriage at the age of 22 had been entirely out of convenience.
And to please his mother.
Eva had been an easy choice. She was naive, soft, and looking for love. At three years younger, she was utterly starstruck by any attention from the older local celebrity.
The charade began one afternoon in the doctor's office Alastor took his mother to in her ailing years.
Which came far too early.
“Would ya look at that. That girl there is makin’ sweet eyes at ya, cher. And she’s sure got a sweet face to match!” his mother whispered in Alastors ear as they passed the front desk on their way to one of her appointments.
Whispered was putting it kindly. Alastors ma, bless her soul, was in Alastors eyes a woman of many gifts.
Subtly was not one of them.
Alastor looked over his shoulder at the girl sitting at the front desk. Dark brown hair, freckles smattered over a delicate nose, green eyes that quickly averted their gaze as her cheeks flushed. A true southern belle. If he felt attraction to anyone, maybe he could have felt it for her.
This was not the first time his mother had tried to play matchmaker. Alastor knew she wanted him to settle down, and that it came from a place of genuinely wanting to see him happy.
He had no interest.
Not that he could ever tell his sweet mother this. The thought of him falling in love and giving her grandchildren was something she had emphasized more as her condition worsened.
Alastor knew she wanted to see it before her time was up.
God, it still stung thinking about her ever ceasing to exist in the same place as him, even if it was nearly a century ago.
He hopes she is happy in heaven.
He looked back to his mothers eager face.
He began courting Eva the next hour.
That hour turned into weeks, which turned into months, and ended with an engagement ring on her finger a year and a half later.
His mother was overjoyed.
And Alastor would be lying if he said he didn’t partly enjoy the act.
It did give him the perfect cover for his nightly activities, after all.
Who would suspect a doting husband of brutally butchering the ner-do-wells of New Orleans?
No one, as he did it all with a smile on his face.
And as much as Alastor could never say he ever loved Eva, he will always hold a respect for the woman. She brought joy to his mother in her last days, and unknowingly played the part of the wife to an entirely normal, non-murderous husband perfectly well.
And of course she gave him Marie.
His precious Marie.
For that, he will always be grateful to her.
At year into their marriage, conceiving a child originally began as another layer of personal protection while the police increased efforts investigating the bayou butcher.
Did he necessarily need to off the deputy mayor?
Maybe not.
Though the man had, rather rudely, refused an interview on his radio broadcast. A horrible offense, really.
But did it make Alastor feel better to slow roast the pig after he stuck his hand up Mimzy’s skirt?
Maybe(!).
The actual conceiving of said child was the only truly laborious part of this plan.
And bless Eva for never pressuring him into it
But in the end, it got the task done. Marie was born.
Alastor had not been in the room for the actual birth.
Not an issue for him. He had no desire to see *that* region more than necessary.
He stood outside Eva’s hospital room, leaning against the wall opposite the door. He aimed to be home within the hour to prepare for his radio-broadcast the next morning. He was interviewing the chief of police on the most recent updates regarding the bayou butcher.
How entertaining.
He planned to see his spawn, coo a little, then leave.
The door cracked open as a stream of nurses and midwives left, followed by the doctor who paused in the doorway.
“Congratulations Mr. Demort-Roux. You have a beautiful baby girl waiting to meet you”.
Alastor shook the doctor's hand, the picture of a perfect gentleman, and made his way into the room. He was greeted with the site of his wife propped up in bed, clearly exhausted but smiling more radiantly than he had ever seen her grin. In her arms was a small, swathed bundle that was letting out an impressive cry for its size. As Alastor drew nearer, he could see the miniature person inside.
Her little head was topped with a surprising amount of dark brown hair, which he could tell would curl like his own as she aged. The hair crowned a face with a complexion just slightly lighter than his, but still retaining the tan tones he saw whenever he looked in the mirror. And when she opened her eyes for the first time, his brown eyes locked with eyes that reflected his own, with the addition of small green flecks.
Alastor always believed he inherited his eyes from his mother. And now they were passed to his daughter.
She reminded him of his mother.
That stirred something in him.
He would call it love, if he believed himself capable of those emotions.
For the first time in a long time, looking down at his newborn daughter crying in Eva’s arms, Alastor felt something besides murderous intent.
Which was shocking. Crying children usually made that urge stronger.
Alastor felt hand moving towards her before he fully registered what he was doing. He pulled back and turned his eyes upwards to Eva.
“May I….”
His wife smiled broadly.
“Please”
Alastor hesitantly gripped Marie around the waist and started to lift. He had no idea how to hold a baby.
Eva chuckled. “Dear, let me. This is pathetic to watch”.
If pathetic were used to describe him in any other situation, he would have a retort ready. But the whirl of emotions within him in this moment was enough for him to let that comment slide.
It had been so long since he felt so strongly about anyone or anything.
Besides his appetite.
Besides his mother.
She scooped Marie into how Alastor could only assume was the proper way to hold a newborn and carefully transferred her into his arms. Alastor looked down. Through the storm of emotions he felt (what a strange concept), one word came to mind.
Perfect
Of all his schemes, plots and plans, Marie was the fruition of his best. There was no doubt in his mind about this. How he, all sharp edges and twisted darkness, could have made something so pure was beyond him.
Perfect, sa petit fleur.
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Alastor always prided himself on his ability to keep people wrapped around his finger. But for Marie, he was content being wrapped around hers.
As the years passed, Alastors adoration for his daughter never wavered, and only seemed to grow as she did.
Certainly, the crying phase and sleepless nights of her earliest years had been difficult (and resulted in the bayou butcher's highest number of kills on record). But to get his petite fille out of it, Alastor believed the lack of sleep ( and pile up of bodies) had been a fair price.
She was adventurous, eager to climb every tree and see every path in the bayou she possibly could. Yet at the same time, oddly reflective and observant for a child. She devoured books like a glutton and held on to every story Alastor told her with baited breath. And she shared an early and apparent love for the radio as well. Alastor would often find her sitting in front of it, reading while music played or a sports announcer narrated the most recent baseball game in the background. The day Alastor had brought her into his studio to show her the radio equipment was what she, at the age of 5, had declared to be “the best day of her life”.
Alastors ever present smile had been genuine that day. It always was whenever his daughter was involved.
Except for when that damn dog got into his yard.
Alastor had been preparing his “venison” for a quick meal before heading into the studio for the evening. He often did this in the earlier afternoon, so that his cooking would not cross paths with when Eva cooked for herself and Marie. His “favorite meat” was for himself and himself alone, and he ensured it was never eaten by his wife or daughter.
He wasn’t an animal.
As he cut into the slab, savoring the smooth slice of the knife against flesh, a terrorized scream rang out from the yard.
“PAPA!!!!”
His blood simultaneously ran cold and hot, and he was out the door, knife still in hand, before his mind could catch up to his feet. The scene before him was one that would live in his nightmares for the remaining weeks he had afterwards. A seven year old Marie laid on the ground, clutching her bloodied and mangled hand as she quietly sobbed. A large dog stood over her, ears back and teeth bared to take another bite. Alastor recognized the dog as belonging to the neighbor.
The dog had always given Alastor an impending feeling of something unpleasant to come.
How the beast had managed to escape its post in the neighbors yard he did not know or particularly care. He wanted the fucking animal away from his daughter and its head on a plate.
Alastor swung at the dog with the knife he still held, and though the dog turned to run he managed to nick its nose. That was enough for the dog to flee and as it retreated, Alastor grabbed his daughter under the arms and hurried her back inside the house.
He deposited her on the kitchen table and grabbed the stitching kit and cheap whiskey he designated for accidents related to his nightly activities. He strode back to where Marie sat, legs dangling and tears still streaming across the freckles that muttered across her tan-toned face. Alastor took her injured hand, clenched against her side, and without warning poured the whiskey on the wound. She jolted, the tears falling harder while her head tilted back and she bit her lip to hold back a scream.
Ah yes. This usually stung.
Alastor was so used to going through this process on himself, in all his hurried actions forgot that it would likely be jarring for his 7 year old daughter who has never had more than a scraped knee.
He couldn’t help but be a little impressed she didn’t give in to the urge to cry out.
If he attempted anything remotely close to such at the age of 7, regardless of the circumstances, his father would have given him something much worse to cry over.
She certainly was her fathers daughter.
He wasn’t sure he liked that thought.
Alastor slowed his pace and looked at her hand. The bite was deep, and would definitely scar. As her tears began to dry and her breath became more even, Alastor looked up from her hand.
“Fleur, what were you doing in the yard by yourself? You know you’re supposed to tell your father before going outside”.
So help him if he wanted to keep an eye on his daughter while she was outside. He wanted his prized daughter safe from the lurchers and lecherous of New Orleans.
He really wasn’t one to make more work for himself than necessary.
She didn’t answer, but her breath hitched and her eyes drifted down to the table.
Alastor felt the smile he was trying to hold onto tighten.
“Marie Demort-Roux, you know it’s impolite to ignore someone when they’re talking to you”.
She sniffled. “I’m sorry Papa”.
Reddish-brown eyes met brown flecked with green.
“ I just..”
Another breath.
“I see you looking at them all the time….”
Her bloodied hand began to unfurl.
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Alastor unwound his clawed fingers from the pendant in his grasp, giving it the first extended look he has given it in ages.
Between two small ovular panes of glass eged with gold was nestled a pressed camellia flower.
A bonnie marie.
He had the flowers planted in his yard as a reminder of his mother, the flower she had been named after. The flower Marie had ultimately been named after as well. The flower Marie had been trying to retrieve when that damned dog had bit her.
If he looked closely at the petals there were still flecks of Marie’s dried blood, preserved between the glass for nearly a century.
The cold wave of rage was still there.
After ensuring Marie had an appointment with the local doctor the next day, Alastor snuck into the neighbors yard later that night and made quick work of the blasted animal. For all his neighbors knew, the dog ran off and got eaten by a gator.
If he believed in karma, he would think it had something to do with his demise a mere 5 weeks later. A body-disposal turned to his own death at the end of a shotgun and the maws of several hunting dogs.
He hummed as he twisted the chain once more before depositing it back to its place inside his waistcoat.
He rarely allowed himself to think of his daughter. Why get caught up in thoughts about something (someone) he can never go back to?
When he did though, he liked to think she was happy. That she lived a long life. That maybe she was still alive. She would be in her late 80’s now. He hoped she was surrounded by her children, and grandchildren. That she felt no shortage of love or want for anything.
That she forgot about him.
He closed the curtains of the window.
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In heaven, an exorcist lies awake in frustration, her mind groggily trying to recall the old wives tale her mother used to say about being unable to fall asleep.
How does that saying go?
Oh, right.
When you can’t sleep, it's because someone is thinking of you.