Archive of Our Own

             Alastor stood atop the concrete platform, a paper-wrapped package tucked under one arm as he casually tapped his toe to the beat of the song playing from his microphone.  The shaft may have been mutilated and its performance may have been hindered — that was something he wasn’t in the mood to dwell on at the moment — but at least the speaker still worked wonders.  And it was still its usual cheeky self, so that was assuring.

            He hummed along to the song as he eyed the railroad.  The chain of iron and wood stretched far and long into the barren land outside of Pentagram City.  Railways weren’t the most convenient method of travel between the Nine Circles of the Pride Ring, especially in a world of constant modern innovation and magical wonders.  Alastor, however, always preferred a classic touch and the railway system was one of the very few remaining practices from his time.

            There wasn’t much of a crowd around railway stations these days, which allowed for some much-needed privacy.  Unfortunately, that also meant that many of the shier souls believed trains were a great place to sneak away for some more… lewd rituals.

            Alastor scrunched his nose when his eye caught not one, but many used condoms collected with some fallen leaves and basic trash over the clogged sewage drain.  He mentally tried to calculate when the next acid rain might be.  While many Sinners cried that it was just one of many of Hell’s natural torture methods, Alastor had learned to appreciate that the acid also rid the streets of the trash and debris that city workers couldn’t be bothered to clean up.

            Speaking of…

            Alastor eyed the imp working as Station Master.  He was a hybrid of some type, with the reddish skin of an imp but the larger build of a hellhound.  Alastor didn’t want to ponder on the implications of that particular mating and instead focused on the imp’s lack of doing anything for his job.

            The imp leaned against the side rail, smoking a cigar as he idly scratched himself.  He didn’t even so much as have a broom beside him to clean up the littered platform.  In fact, Alastor wasn’t even sure if the imp was lucid.  His eyes were glazed over, and now that Alastor got a close look, the jacket for his uniform looked inside out.  And fully unkempt, but that was beside the point.  It seemed Alastor and everyone else was left with no choice but to wait for nature to take its course and clean the platform for them.

            It seemed no one else minded the trash anyway.  Other beings on the platform, Hellborn and Sinners alike, just avoided it or trampled all over it.

            There were currently two baphomet children playing tag across the platform, running between waiting patrons as their mother fiddled on some tablet.  At least she was better dressed than the imp, but Alastor wondered what her job was if it meant she was fiddling away on Pride.  Meanwhile, a few Sinners were kicking a can of something back and forth, laughing when it burst open and spewed foam all over them.  

            While everyone seemed to be carelessly enjoying themselves, none of them were foolish enough to get close to the Radio Demon.  There was a healthy space between him and the handful of occupants waiting with him on the platform.  

            That was, until one of the children was too caught up in their game to bother looking where they were going.  Alastor was shocked out of his thoughts with a screech from his microphone when the boy bumped into his leg.  Alastor looked down in time to see the pudgy thing fall back on his rear.

            Alastor’s lazy smile grew into a hungry grin as he towered over the child.  “Oh my,” he said, bending at the waist to close the distance.  “What have we here?”

            As was expected, the boy only stared up at him in growing fear as Alastor showcased all his sharp teeth.  The girl was saying something, but Alastor wasn’t listening.  He kept his eyes solely on the boy and let his constant static feed grow in volume.  “How delectable,” Alastor said as he slowly reached one hand down.  “I’ve not yet tried meat from one so young—”

            In the next instant, the boy was being snatched from behind by his own mother.  The woman had a look of pure alarm on her face as she retreated with her son.  “I’m so sorry, sir,” she pleaded as she carefully slid her son behind her and continued taking measured steps back.  “I should have been paying attention.”

            Alastor wholeheartedly agreed.  He slowly straightened back to his full height and shifted his gaze from the boy to his mother.  “Nonsense!  I’d love to take one off your hands if you find two to be too difficult to handle.  I won’t even ask for payment for all my trouble.”

            “No, thank you, sir.  Thank you for your generosity.  Please excuse us.”  She then turned to her children.  “We’re leaving.”  The children didn’t even fuss as the mother took them both by the hand and hastily led them off the platform.

            Which was a shame for them, really, because Alastor could hear the distant horn of the coming train.  But the mother should be grateful in the long run.  There are many more in Pride who don’t have near as mild a temperament as Alastor.

            He kept his eyes on the three of them up until they disappeared around the corner.  He then wiped his leg and resumed the music that had paused upon being disturbed.

            The platform was much quieter now.  The tense moment effectively caused any joy and carelessness to die.  Alastor was relieved.  Ever since the hotel’s grotesque redesign, it had been insufferable to linger and feign interest.  Any and all investment Alastor had made had been completely obliterated during the fight and now the place oozed his magic from every corner.  Worse yet, now that obnoxious king was sticking around, as if he fully intended to entirely blot out Alastor from the hotel.

            It might still be bearable if it wasn’t for the new residents now flooding their halls, each of them seeming hellbent on being the greatest nuisance in Hell.  There had been so many new faces that Alastor practically had to swim his way out of the hotel with how thick the crowds had gotten.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, he almost had to fight Vaggie on his way out.  Though it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t appreciate the chance to put that graceless angel in her place.

            Alastor had managed to sneak his way around the cameras that had invaded their lobby and evade the prying hands of fans of the Radio Demon.  He had almost been out the door when Vaggie was suddenly calling for him.

            “Alastor!” she snapped, her voice somehow carrying over the cacophony of the crowd.  “We need your help.”

            As ever, she never spoke with gratitude for all he’d done.  No, her tone carried with it an authority that she didn’t hold.  Still, for the sake of appearances, he stopped and regarded her with a disinterested glare.  “What is it now, Vagilla?”

            She gestured behind her to the growing crowd.  “We can’t handle all these people on our own.  You’re the hotelier or whatever.  Are you going to do your job or not?”

            Alastor pursed his lips and gazed at the energized crowd.  Not that he had any intention of staying, but he decided to give a long, considering pause.  Purely because he knew it would only irritate her.

            “Do your job, Alastor,” she reiterated impatiently.

            When Alastor returned his gaze to her, he was almost giddy.  He booped her on the nose with a single finger as he said, “It seems you’re forgetting something very important, my dear.  We made a deal, remember?  I help you with your commercial, and I never have to deal with television again.”

            “What?”  She furrowed her brow and threw up her hands.  “What does that have to do with anything?”

            “I’m being patient because you’re hindered,” Alastor explained, putting one of his hands over his eye to emphasize his point.  “I imagine it’s very difficult for you to see, given you only have the one eye, but I do believe those are news crews for television.  Which means the condition of our deal stands and I don’t have to help at all.”

            His smile grew as her jaw dropped in exasperation.  “And besides,” Alastor added excitedly, “I’m off for the day!  I’ve already made the arrangements and Charlie is fully aware that I’ll be absent today.”

            Vaggie glared up at him as she shook her head.  “Este pendejo—” she started, but Alastor wasn’t going to let her continue.

            “Go ahead and ask her,” he said, gesturing towards where Charlie was currently caught up in the middle of the crowd.  “Or, better yet, you can check the schedule — which is available for all eyes of the staff, mind you — and see for yourself.”  He smiled wide as she glowered at him.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a more important engagement today and I’ve wasted enough time on you,” he said as he turned on his heel and away from her.

            “Que te la pique un pollo.”

            “I’ll be sure to avoid chickens, then!” Alastor said cheerfully over his shoulder.

            Unfortunately, Alastor didn’t get far before the damn devil himself decided to further ruin his morning.

            “And where exactly do you think you’re going?” Lucifer asked.  His arms were crossed and he had his weight on one hip, looking thoroughly like a surly mother one hair’s breath away from throwing a shoe.

            “Out, if you must know,” said Alastor with a snarl.

            Lucifer narrowed his eyes as he regarded the package held in Alastor’s free hand.  “Uh-huh.”

            Alastor brought the package close to his chest in a meager attempt at keeping it away from prying eyes.  With a smarmy grin, Alastor provided, “Since you seem so curious, I’ll let you know that I have an engagement of utmost importance with a dear friend of mine.”  With the length of his arm, Alastor brushed Lucifer aside as he continued forward.  “The details are none of your business, I’m happy to say.”

            “You have friends?  Wait a minute…”

            The weight in Alastor’s hand suddenly vanished.  In a spike of alarm, he glanced down then around before whipping back to glare at Lucifer, who now held Alastor’s package in his hand.  “Do you mind?” Alastor pressed.  He reached out his now empty hand.  “That’s mine.”

            Lucifer scrutinized the package wrapped in brown paper and twine.  He furrowed his brows and sharply jabbed a finger against the surface.  “This is a Goetia sigil.”

            Alastor’s breath momentarily caught in his throat.  To hide his surprise, he snatched the package back from Lucifer and held it tight against his chest.  “What a surprise!  It seems the king isn’t as half-witted as anticipated.  Which is really a shock, given your half-size.”

            Lucifer’s expression didn’t change and he continued to point a finger towards the package in the crook of Alastor’s arm.  “That’s Vassago’s sigil.”

            “Is it?”  Alastor looked at the package, widening his eyes to appear interested.  “I wasn’t aware.”

            “Yeah, right,” said Lucifer with a growl.  “What business do you have with Vassago?”

            “My own,” responded Alastor tersely, quickly losing his patience.  “Which is none of yours, I must point out.”

            Lucifer took a step forward and Alastor made a point to stand his ground, even as the pint-sized pain-in-the-ass jabbed his finger against Alastor’s chest.  “Back off him.  There aren’t many good demons in this place and I won’t allow someone like you to get your claws in him.”

            Alastor bit down the pain radiating from his chest and slapped Lucifer’s hand away.  “And since when did Hell’s supposed king start caring about his subjects?”  Lucifer opened his mouth to say something but Alastor was already fed up with the conversation.

            As if Lucifer could “allow” for Alastor to do anything.  Alastor didn’t need his permission.

            “Oh dear,” Alastor cut in before Lucifer could say another word.  He was looking over Lucifer’s shoulder to where Charlie was very evidently uncomfortable talking into a microphone that had been shoved into her face.  “Poor Charlie seems so overwhelmed.  A decent father would offer a helping hand.”  He let out a bone-weary sigh.  “I suppose that falls on me, then.”

            Like the predictable dolt he was, Lucifer immediately spun to check on his daughter.  Just as quickly, he turned to glare at Alastor.  It was obvious he was torn between not wanting to fall for Alastor’s unmistakable distraction — which was quite the low-bearing fruit, Alastor would admit — and knowing that Alastor was at least partially correct in his assessment.  Charlie could use some saving.  She had done a poor job of managing the media already and was bound to only make things worse for herself if she was left alone.  But Alastor had no real intention of being her savior today.

            Alastor patiently stood, waiting for the useless king to play into his hands.  Gradually, Lucifer accepted the only real choice available to him and shot Alastor one last glare, saying, “We’re not done here,” before hurrying in to help Charlie.

            “I believe we are,” Alastor commented to himself as he waved Lucifer off with a flutter of his fingers.

            By the time he finally left all the noise and contemptuous company the princess kept, he was ready for some peace and quiet.  So it was a massive relief when the train arrived and Alastor was able to get himself a private compartment.  He gingerly placed the package on the seat beside him and gave it an assuring pat.  Once his microphone was carefully propped on the seat opposite him, Alastor treated himself to some coffee he had made fresh that morning and stored in his void for just this purpose.

            With a contented sigh, Alastor sank in his seat and took a long drink of his coffee.  He turned his attention out the window, the landscape gradually passing by as the train left its station and proceeded to the next city waiting beyond the vast desolate landscape.  Cityscape gave way to cracked ground, ponds of fire, and kaisers of lava.

            Most, Sinners and Hellborn alike, couldn’t survive in the wild lands between established cities.  It took tenacity and an unfaltering will.  And, of course, the good fortune to be reborn in Hell with a decent demon body.

            Alastor was not one of those fortunate few.  And so here he was, having to rely on other methods.  And even then, the trains didn’t always make it.  The land was too unpredictable and sometimes new kaisers would erupt right beside a passing train.  Or a fire lake may expand and engulf the track.  Alastor once had the experience of being abandoned on the side of the tracks because the ground had cracked open and swallowed the tail end of the train.

            Lucky for Alastor, there had been plenty of food around to keep him satiated until help arrived in the form of a colossal shadow-shrouded macaw that rained stars from its outstretched crimson wings.  To this day, Alastor could still plainly see the way the sky had been cast in darkness, as if the shadows themselves were stretching out from ebony feathers.  And how crimson eyes blazed in the darkness with a fierce might that was only matched by the radiance of the glimmering golden stars.

            Alastor smiled into his mug at the memory.  It was nice getting back into the practice of seeing his old pal in the flesh again.  For the last seven years, Alastor had all but entirely cut off ties.  He had only managed to keep to their annual tradition by proxy, and that had hardly sufficed.

            Today technically wasn’t following tradition either since it had only been six months since their last get-together.  But since Alastor and the motley crew had managed to not only fight back against Heaven but win, Alastor felt he deserved a celebration on his survival with his dear friend, Vassago.

            He and Vassago have had this annual tradition since… well, since Alastor’s first few years in Hell.  Though it was significantly different then than what it was now.  Back then, Vassago had just wanted to see if Alastor had somehow managed to not lose his swollen head in those early years.  Vassago had essentially said as such one morning when he found Alastor after a botched assassination attempt on his life.  Alastor still hadn’t figured out why Vassago came to him that day, but he was grateful that the state he was in was acceptable.  He had barely sustained an injury, though he had managed to lose his tail in the heat of the battle.  No major loss.

            That had been the first time Vassago invited Alastor over.  To celebrate his survival.

            Alastor’s early days were a combination of pride with overwhelming power and shame for his ignorance.  And whenever Alastor got a little too full of himself, Vassago was quick to remind Alastor of those days.  Not that Alastor needed much of a reminder.  Every time he took one of these long rides, he couldn’t help but think back on those days so many decades ago…

            Overwhelming power was a drug.  It was intoxicating, providing a rush that Alastor hadn’t known on the mortal plane.  There had been moments, sure, where he had an inkling of that power whenever he held the life of another in his hands, but it had merely been a taste of what greeted him upon arriving in Hell.

            For the first time in his existence, Alastor was untouchable.  Finally, it was Alastor who had the power to dictate the world around him.  And if anyone tried to challenge him, they swiftly fell under his newly found might.

            Hell was filled with threats, especially for those freshly fallen, so Alastor had plenty of damned souls on which to experiment his new power.  One after another, each one stronger than the last, they fell at Alastor’s feet.  And as Alastor grew more comfortable with his standing, the hungrier he became.

            He saw those in power — Overlords, they were called — who stood above the rest of the Sinners.  They were the most powerful and the most influential.  They also, mostly, were complete and utter tyrannical brutes who tortured the souls under them simply because any who challenged them were severely outmatched.

            Then Alastor arrived.

            When he faced off his first few Overlords, he honestly thought it’d be harder.  But Alastor barely had the chance to flex the extent of his full capability before they were in his clutches and their screams were on his airways.  It was as if Alastor himself was might incarnate.  Nothing could stop him.

            It was months after he erected his radio tower and began treating Sinners to his special broadcasts when whispers of a powerful visitor filtered through his feed.

            “Prince” was the word most often repeated, which was absurd, really.  Everyone knew the King of Hell — if he could be called that — only had one descendant who was very obviously a woman.  It was bold for someone to claim themselves higher in the hierarchy, even if they were powerful.  Not even Zestial called himself anything higher than an Overlord.

            It was difficult accumulating any more information than that.  It was as if no one was brave enough to speak about the visiting Overlord.  And from what his shadow minions were able to spy, Sinners fled whenever the supposed Prince made his appearance anywhere.

            It was similar to how Sinners reacted to the despotic Overlords Alastor was making an effort to eradicate.  The Overlord had made a poor act of judgement when he walked into Alastor’s city.

            The western point of Pentagram City was by far the nicest.  Not that the streets were cleaner or that the residents acted with more class, but the services available were far better with their upkeep.  That, due in large part, was thanks to the current Overlords at large.

            They called themselves sisters, but Alastor found that questionable.  For one, they looked nothing alike.  One a portly fish-like demon with an inconvenient fin and the other was a giraffe-like demon with spots.  Mind, siblings in Hell often looked drastically different so that didn’t hold much merit.  No, it was more the way they draped themselves over one another and talked to each other.  But, in all honesty, Alastor didn’t mind.  And they were too powerful for others to mind much either.

            The two women ran an efficient district in the city.  Their industry manufactured several layers of entertainment.  The theatre, the printing press, the museum — dilapidated as it was — were all under their control.  And they welcomed Alastor to construct his radio tower without any hindrance outside an expected fee for the property.  They were a couple of the few Overlords who actually worked to bring order to Hell, so they remained off Alastor’s list.

            It was the western district where Alastor found himself, sitting in a speakeasy with a glass of rye in his hand.  He sat at the window seat and watched with anticipation as the crowd slowly filtered out of the theatre a couple blocks down the way.

            Theatre in Hell didn’t hold the same class as it did up on Earth.  Demons weren’t expected to dress their best or mind their manners.  In fact, it would be a miracle if anyone could sit through a whole performance without a single brawl in the seats.  Some fights even took place between the performers and the audience.  All that being said, that didn’t mean there weren’t demons who held themselves above the lower riff-raff.  And they could be easily spotted amidst the social dregs, not only because of their finer choice in clothes, but the way they carried themselves.

            Higher class demons walked with grace and poise.  They also tended to part away from the rowdy crowd, often by lingering back or leading the way out.  Alastor wasn’t sure which of the two this visiting Overlord fell, so he had arrived early to watch just in case.

            The hardest part about taking down Overlords wasn’t so much the combat itself.  Rather, it was getting them alone to ensure the combat was on equal footing.  Overlords were cautious and mindful of the threats around them.  It took careful planning and targeted tactics to lure an Overlord away.

            Unfortunately, Alastor knew so little of this Overlord, he didn’t have the proper preparations to make it a smooth encounter.  Normally he’d wait far longer before he struck, but he’d rather take this Overlord down now before he partnered himself with others and pooled resources.  Alastor didn’t need some ally hunting him down for revenge later.

            Taking another drink, Alastor curled one of his fingers, lightly tugging on his wayward shadow.  Ever since his descent into Hell, he had discovered that his shadow had developed a mind of its own.  It was both a part of him and a part of itself.  It was cooperative for the most part, but it could also be a devilish thing that liked to entertain itself, sometimes against Alastor’s behest.  It took some getting used to and Alastor wasn’t happy to admit that he hadn’t gotten the knack for it just yet.

            Today, his shadow was off tampering with the new Overlord’s car.  Without proper transportation, the man would be left no choice but to trek on foot.  And if it turned out the Overlord had some mastery over some type of teleportation magic or another, then this would just be another step towards better understanding his target.

            Alastor tugged again, just light enough to send a message.  It was time for his shadow to go into action.  The crowd had begun to diminish now and those of finer fashion began to stroll out the doors.  Alastor narrowed his eyes, trying to read the crowd from a distance.

            Overlords weren’t the only ones capable of living higher lives in Hell, so all the suits and jewelry did little to indicate which might be Alastor’s target.  Thankfully, Alastor knew one defining fact: the fake prince was a bird-type demon.  Birds weren’t the rarest brand of Sinner, but it was enough to discern him from the masses.

            Alastor leaned slightly in his seat, his smile widening as he caught notice of a cluster of feathers towering over the thin crowd.  He was chatting amicably with a short fellow beside him.  The distance made it difficult to catch defining traits, but it was enough for Alastor to confirm his target.  He watched with intrigue as the Overlord spoke with the short fellow — who was so animated that Alastor could see his gestures from a distance — then parted.  The short fellow disappeared in a golden portal as the Overlord made his way to the street, likely for his car.

            The car that wouldn’t come.

            Alastor chuckled in the back of his throat, watching the Overlord tap his foot as he waited.  Then, after some time, someone who Alastor believed to be his driver came running up to him.  Alastor shifted in his seat and blinked in surprise as he narrowed his eyes onto the driver.  Was that an imp?  While imps weren’t uncommon employees, they didn’t often serve Sinners.  They were typically employed by Hellborn.  

            That was a surprise.  Alastor surmised that perhaps imps were more common employees in other Circles.

            The imp pointed to where he had come from and the Overlord followed after him as they started towards the car.  Alastor tugged on his shadow again, hard enough to summon it back to him.  Once it had returned, a proud grin on its obscure face, Alastor quickly finished his drink and slinked himself down into his shadow.

            In this form, they were one and the same, with Alastor’s conscious mind taking over.  And in his shadow form, he slithered his way across the street.  Shadowwalking was easiest during the evening, with little light to fight his shadows, so he managed to move swiftly beneath the departing cars and wandering groups without catching a single eye.

            When, finally, he found the Overlord’s car, Alastor nestled himself in its shadow.  From there, he waited for the imp to return with his lord.  One they got close, Alastor shot out in his shadow form, pointedly moving across the illuminated ground under the flickering street light.

            “Espera,” said the Overlord, one long arm reaching down to stop the imp from following after.  “Yo me encargo.”

            “Sí, señor.”

            Alastor watched from his new vantage point along the alley wall with open shock.  He fully expected to have to kill the imp first before drawing out the Overlord.  This transgression on his property must be more of an insult than Alastor had initially intended.  This was excellent.  His delighted chuckle took the form of a ripple across his shadow form.

            High heels clacked against the weathered brick road as the Overlord followed after Alastor in measured, unhurried steps.

            Alastor moved to the alley floor and lifted himself from the shadows.  Now back in his corporeal form, he summoned his staff to one hand and idly swung it as he stepped towards the Overlord.  “Good evening,” he said in greeting, stopping once he felt close enough, tapping the end of his staff on the ground before him.

            Alastor’s perception of the world was always hindered in his shadow form.  Colors were dulled and details grew fuzzy.  Now that he was solid again and close enough to see, he was able to take in the Overlord in full detail.

            The Overlord was irritably tall, making Alastor have to look up to meet his gaze.  He was dressed in a fine violet suit, dark enough to resemble the night sky.  Stars were embroidered in the suit in golden threat, accenting up the side of the suit and along the edge of the sash-style lapels.  It gave him the appearance of being clad in a nebula of stars.  In fact, in the dim light of the alleyway, something made the gold in the thread almost twinkle like an evening star.  Likely the effect of gemstones, Alastor deduced.

            Alastor casually took in the gold-dusted white cravat and the ruffled ends of the sleeves then the shimmering crimson sash tied around a thin hip.  This Overlord was extravagant, that was indisputable.  And his fashion style gave Alastor the impression that this Overlord was older than he initially anticipated.

            Older Overlords were far deadlier than new ones, but Alastor wasn’t concerned.  Already he had eradicated plenty of older Overlords within Pentagram City and all without barely any effort on his end.

            As if to concrete the princely title he gave himself, the Overlord even wore a visor in the pointed shape of a crown.  And as expected from someone claiming to be a prince, the Overlord seeped arrogance as he looked Alastor over, not seeming bothered at all by his sudden appearance.  In fact, the bird demon smiled.  One clawed hand rested on a jutted hip as the Overlord gestured towards Alastor.

            “Buenas noches.  Me estaba preguntando cuándo dejarías de esconderte.”

            Alastor narrowed his eyes in annoyance.  He wasn’t familiar with that language.  “You’ll have to pardon me, my good fellow,” Alastor said as he lazily lifted his staff and checked the cleanliness of his microphone.  “I don’t understand incomprehensible languages.”

            “Typical American,” said the Overlord, this time in clean English.  He let out an annoyed trill.  “Always thinking there’s only one language in the world.”

            “Je n'ai pas dit ça,” said Alastor in Louisiana French.  “Yours is simply not worth my time.”

            The Overlord cocked its head at Alastor, its glowing red eyes narrowing in a calculating manner.  “Tu te crois malin, non?” he said, speaking in traditional French.

            Alastor stood in muted shock, which elicited a smile from the bird demon.  “My kind knows many languages,” he explained, reverting back to English.  “It’s part of our duty.”

            Alastor stared at the Overlord, weighing those words.  As far as he was aware, none of the Overlords he’d come across so far spoke any other languages.  It’s Hell.  Why bother with cultures anymore?  Either way, Alastor wasn’t fond of the way the Overlord threw his own language back in his face.

            This game wasn’t as much fun anymore.  “How commendable of you,” said Alastor with a sharp grin.  He tapped a finger against his microphone, drawing in the shadows around him.  “It’s not many who bother to educate themselves.”

            “And it’s not many who bother to better Hell,” countered the Overlord with a considerate look.  “I had asked the King this evening about the recent fall of Overlords here, but he doesn’t follow politics.”

            “So you’ve heard of me!”  What a delight it was to discover that Alastor’s reputation preceded him even in other Circles!  “Then I would expect an educated man such as yourself to understand the situation you’re in.”

            The Overlord fell silent then.  He looked around the alley as if considering it for the first time.  Then he used one long finger to first point at Alastor then himself.  “Wait.  You think you—That I—”  He threw his head back in a caw-like laugh.  “Qué tonto eres.”

            Alastor’s eye twitched.  His smile twisted into a snarl.  While this wasn’t the first Overlord to laugh in Alastor’s face, it had been a while since last someone dared.  And Alastor had not missed the feeling of being patronized.

            “Enjoy this laugh,” he said haughtily.  He spun his staff in one hand while he used the other to pull the growing shadows from beneath his feet.  “While you still can.”  Emerging from the shadows was a small legion of shadowy spawns, all sharp claws and bloody fangs.  From his back sprouted inky tendrils, twisting hungrily in the dark alley.

            Just as many Overlords had done in the past, this man looked at Alastor’s power with unbothered amusement.  “You have no idea who I am, do you?” he asked casually, even as Alastor’s minions began to crowd him.

            “Ah, yes.  A ‘prince,’ I believe you were calling yourself.  Very presumptuous of you.”

            “You don’t believe me?” asked the Overlord as he crossed his arms.  He eyed an eager minion that drew close.

            Alastor chuckled, his constant static feed accompanying it with a staccato.  “That tactic may protect you wherever you’re from, but even the lowest soul here knows the King only has a daughter.  And while I’ve never met the lady, I’m certain she doesn’t look like a pigeon.”

            That wiped the smile off the Overlord’s face.  He let out an annoyed chitter and dropped his hands into fists at his sides.  With a stomped foot, he declared, “I’m not a pigeon, irrespetuoso hijo de puta.”

            “Your insults don’t hurt if the person you’re cursing isn’t able to understand your gibberish language,” Alastor informed.  His smile grew wide as the Overlord grew more flustered.

            “That’s it,” he said, throwing his hands up.  “I won’t tolerate this anymore.”

            “You won’t have to,” Alastor responded breezily.

            Alastor’s minions finally pounced, the horde of them launching off the ground like a shadowy veil ready to consume the Overlord.  Just before any of them could make contact, however, the alley was consumed in a blinding light.

            Alastor was left no choice but to shield his eyes.  He grit his teeth as he felt the shadows around him evaporate in the light.  He was left feeling raw and exposed when even his dark tendrils disintegrated under the fierce power.

            When he could finally bear to look again, Alastor stared across the alley.  The Overlord stood his ground, a shimmer of stars erupting around his lifted hands and shrouding him in a protective barrier that coalesced into a single star beneath his feet.

            Alastor’s minions were gone.  His tendrils were destroyed.  All in a single act.  Alastor’s smile turned sharp as he bared his teeth.  This might actually be difficult.

            “What a flashy trick,” he ground out between his teeth.  “But I have plenty of my own.”

            In a showman’s fashion, Alastor spun his staff before thrusting its tip towards the Overlord.  A sonic screech spilled out with a burst of static as emerald lightning shot across the alley.  The ground split from the arcane magic surging across the ground.

            In the wake of the cracking lightning, Alastor could hear a voice in his ear.

            “Impresionante.  But not good enough.”

            Alastor spun where he stood, instinctively drawing his shadows up to form a shield between him and the Overlord.  But just as before, a blinding flash of light had the shadows fading away in an instant.  Next Alastor knew, something strong and blazing was pinning him against a wall.

            Looking down, Alastor realized it was a massive star pushing him against the wall, its brilliant light burning everywhere it made contact.

            “Is this the root of your power,” asked the Overlord as he bent down and retrieved Alastor’s staff.

            Alastor had been so overwhelmed by the attack that he must have dropped his staff in the process.  But before the Overlord could get a close look, Alastor cast away his staff into his shadow void.

            “Grosero,” said the Overlord as he flexed his now empty hands.  He smirked up at Alastor, waving one of his hands.  Alastor felt a sharp tug inside himself then stared in awe as his staff suddenly reappeared in the Overlord’s hand.  “I have a knack for finding lost things,” he boasted as he looked over Alastor’s staff, poking at the eyeball glaring up at him.  “That includes items hidden away.”

            In protest, Alastor once again cast away his staff.  This arrogant fool can fetch it all his wants, but Alastor would hide it away as many times as necessary, if only to prove a point.

            The Overlord shrugged, not summoning Alastor’s staff a second time.  He strode his way over to Alastor with a casual sway of his hips.  “I believe some proper introductions are in order.”

            He bowed before Alastor with a hand delicated placed against his own chest.  “I am Prince Vassago of the Ars Goetia.  Hellborn and demon royalty.”

            Alastor’s eyes widened.  Ars Goetia?  He had heard of them, yes, but he’d never seen one.  No Goetia resided in Petagram City so no one bothered to talk about them.  Never did he imagine that he’d come across one.  And certainly he wouldn’t have expected one to look like any other Sinner walking the streets.

            In hindsight, much to his own contempt, he realized all the clues had been there had he just bothered to look.  Irritably, Alastor looked away.  It felt much better to instead focus on the heat spreading across his chest from the star keeping him in place, burning him like the rays of the sun on a hot summer day.  So long as he didn’t make direct skin contact, it was bearable.

            “Welcome to Petagram City,” Alastor grumbled.  “I’d introduce myself but, as you can see, I’m indisposed at the moment.”

            “Oh, but I know who you are,” said Vassago with a cheeky grin stretched across his beak.  “The King may not keep up with politics, but I do.  And when Overlords start disappearing, it draws attention.  It’s impressive what you’ve been able to do, especially since you’re so new to Hell you still smell like Earth.”  He looked Alastor over.  “You’re the infamous Radio Demon, aren’t you?  The one who has recently made an impression on the radiowaves.”

            Alastor, despite himself, took pride in knowing that even an Ars Goetia had heard of him.  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Alastor said with an attempt at a professional grin.

            “I wonder, though, why you targeted me this evening.”  Vassago crossed his arms with a huff.  “I don’t believe I’ve done anything wrong.”

            Alastor understood full and well that he was in a fragile predicament.  Pinned as he currently was, Alastor was at the Goetia’s mercy.  But he had a lifetime of social maneuvering under his belt and knew if he played his cards right then he could still gain the upper hand.

            “It was simply because you didn’t need to do anything,” Alastor said with a casual shrug—wincing when the gesture caused his sleeve to move up just enough for Alastor’s wrist to make contact with the star.  “You evoked fear without lifting a single finger.”

            “And so you thought I was a threat,” Vassago reasoned.

            “And so I thought you were someone coming in and tarnishing all the cleaning I’ve done,” Alastor elaborated.  “It seems I was wrong in that assessment.  I do apologize for that.”

            Vassago let out a doubtful chirp.

            “I apologize for my rude behavior as well,” Alastor went on, trying to sound remorseful.  “I hope you understand that I was merely trying to put you off your game.”

            “Well done,” Vassago praised dully.  He took in a deep breath.  “Eso servirá,” he said with a snap of his fingers.

            The star pinning Alastor against the wall vanished in a puff of glitter that clung to his coat.  Alastor made an attempt to fan away the sparkling particles with one hand while he used the other to wipe them off the front of his suit.

            “How gracious of you!” Alastor said sweetly.

            “Take this as a lesson,” Vassago cut in.  “Be mindful of those you don’t know.”

            Alastor chose not to take that as an insult.  In this regard, Alator had already misstepped.  “Fair enough.”  Once his suit was as clean as he was going to get it without implementing fire, Alastor fixed his bowtie and gazed up at Vassago.  “I’ll be sure to be more mindful next time demon royalty crosses my path.”

            “I don’t think you understand,” said Vassago.  “You may be powerful enough to take on Overlords, but you can hardly do anything against an immortal Ars Goetia.”

            Alastor nodded along, feigning interest.  He understood well enough that Sinners were mostly immortal.  If one was killed in the traditional sense, they simply remanifested back to where they originally spawned once they fell through the fire.  But if someone contained the right power — someone such as Alastor — they had a way around that.  He idly wondered if the Goetia knew that was possible.

            “Of course,” said Alastor.  “A lesson well learned.”

            “Yeah, sure,” said Vassago mildly.  Then his eyes narrowed, openly scrutinizing Alastor.  “¿Qué es esto…?”

            He stepped forward, his hand reaching out and grabbing what looked to be open air.  But then, as his fingers curled, something appeared in his hand.  It was vague and flickering, but its golden light and the chain-link shape was indisputable.  Alastor knew exactly what it was before he even managed to see the chain reach from the Goetia’s hand to his throat.

            Alastor’s breath left him as he stared.  His soulchain was a secret!  How had this demon managed to see it?  Much less actually hold it?  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

            Vassago frowned and instantly released the chain.  Once it left his hand, it vanished back into outward nonexistence.  “Sorry.  I didn’t realize what it was.”  He folded his arms over his chest.  “Your life seemed so hard…”

            Alastor narrowed his eyes at Vassago.  “What do you know?” he asked, leaning more towards the anger boiling inside him for having his privacy so openly probed rather than the fear curdling in his stomach.

            “I’m sorry,” he said again.  “Soulchains contain memory.  I didn’t mean to see…”

            Alastor’s thoughts raced.  Did that mean whoever owned a soul also saw their actions?  Knew their past without even having to ask?  That might explain how Rosie knew the cause of Alastor’s death before he had a chance to piece it together himself.  And how she knew just what it took to make him feel comfortable in his new state of life.

            Subconsciously, Alastor brought his hand to his throat, feeling for the chain that both was and wasn’t there.  He could feel it in his soul, but not at the tips of his fingers.  He couldn’t summon the chain forward like the Goetia had, otherwise he may have tried to break it on his own.

            “You know…” started Vassago lightly.  “For a dealmaker in life, you’ve done a poor job of it in death.”

            “Excuse you?”  If this pretentious pillow-in-the-making continued to insult Alastor at every turn, then Alastor was going to reassess his assassination attempt.

            Vassago hesitated before letting out a sigh.  “You’re a dealmaker,” he pointlessly reminded.  “It’s how you moved up in life.  Why not do it here?  Use more than violence.  Find strength in those around you.  Maybe you can free yourself.”

            That gave Alastor pause.

            In life, dealmaking had been essential.  One favor here, a bargain there; that was the only way to move up in the world.  And for a colored man in a white world, it was the only way to survive.  It was one reason why he made arrangements to start the afterlife on the top.  He had no intention of fighting for it all over again.

            Now he was at the top.  He was the most powerful Sinner in all of Hell.  Dealmaking hadn’t been necessary because his own might was enough to get him what he wanted.  He had been so focused on his own privileged station that it hadn’t occurred to him until now that there were those at the bottom ready to deal to move up.  And Alastor now had the power to be the one to offer their dreams in exchange for anything he wanted.  He couldn’t yet imagine how lesser souls could help him break his chain, but he could soon find out.

            How entertaining!

            “That’s very considerate of you!  And what exactly is it you want out of this?”

            Vassago lifted a brow.  “¿Qué?”

            Alastor was really getting annoyed with how Vassago kept slipping into a foreign language.  He’d have to brush up on it later.  With narrowed eyes, Alastor slowly supplied, “I may be new down here, but I’m not a fool.  Shall we skip this game and jump to the part where you demand something for your mercy?  I’d rather be done with it.”

            However, the bird only seemed more confused.  His neck snapped at an unimpressive 90 degree angle as he looked at Alastor with open confusion.  “You didn’t summon me,” he slowly countered, as though that answered everything.  “There is no price.”

            Thoroughly flummoxed, Alastor tilted his own head in confusion, his neck snapping as it turned a 95 degree angle.  “What now?”

            “What?” asked Vassago.

            There was a beat as the two just stared at one another, expecting the other to elaborate.  It was Vassago who straightened his neck first as he said with a dismissive wave, “I don’t want anything.  Just manners.”

            Alastor straightened his neck next, now more confused than before.  This was Hell.  Everyone wanted everything.  Still, he wasn’t going to coerce someone into taking something Alastor sure had no desire to give.  “Manners can be a high cost, I’ve learned.  Many people go their whole lives without learning a single one.”

            “You have plenty of time to pick some up,” said Vassago with a grin.  “Well then…”  He pivoted on his back foot and made a circle gesture with a single hand.  Right before Alastor’s eyes, a portal formed in thin air.  Through the flow of glimmering stars that composed the portal, Alastor could see a grand manor surrounded by a sterling golden gate.  “Time to return home,” he said.  “¡Lo hemos pasado bien!”

            As Vassago set one foot into the portal, Alastor, against his every instinct, took a step forward.  “Leaving so soon?” he asked, eyeing the portal.  He had never seen such magic before.  “Why, you never said what compelled you to offer your help today.”  The thought of owing a debt left a sour taste on his tongue.

            Vassago smirked and continued making his way through the portal.  “Porque sigo la politica.”

            That had, by far, been the most frustrating exchange Alastor had in his first year in Hell.  But he took the Ars Goetia’s warning to heart.  Alastor had been easily subdued by the Goetia.  If there were others capable of similar power, they likely would not be as merciful.

            So, decades later, when Heaven announced their annual purging of Hell, Alastor was ready.  He was not going to risk ignorantly challenging an angel if there was a chance they were capable of the same power as a Goetia.  So he chose to observe, taking in how quickly powerful Sinners were felled by angelic steel.

            He often wondered, though never aloud, if he would have survived that first Extermination Day had it not been for that annoying pigeon.

            Hell was overpopulated.  It was an issue every Sinner was well aware of.  If they didn’t catch the hint when they walked in the crowded streets, or when they were shoved into a cramped subway train, or attempted to find residence without having to fight for space with others, Heaven was sure to remind them of the issue once a year whenever they came in and made their attempt to resolve it on their own terms.

            Exacerbating the problem was the limited space they all had to share, and most people in Hell weren’t the cooperative type.  That meant that those with money often built up.  Adding rooms on top of rooms, building space on top of space.  Highrises and skyscrapers were necessities in the cities to allow as much comfort to as many people as possible.

            Demon royalty, however, was not as confined as the poorer denizens of Hell.

            Alastor leaned back into the sleek leather seat of the limousine as he watched bustling streets of the dense city give way to a lush, flat stretch of land hidden behind a high wall and iron gate.  It’s rare to see so much grass, especially grass almost as green as the Earth above.  Ornamenting the flat land were carefully maniquered bushes and trees, in which hundreds of birds in all shades of colors could be seen chittering amongst themselves.

            Alastor was eyeing a gardener imp attempting and failing to trim a bush while shooing away a pesky goose that kept nipping at his tail when the limousine pulled to a stop.  Alastor leisurely finished the champagne that had been supplied during the ride and retrieved the package that occupied the seat next to him.

            He had dismissed his staff and had it sent away to his shadow void the moment he recognized the limo that had been waiting for him outside the train station.  It was one of many delicacies Vassago had spoiled him with every time Alastor arrived in his city and Alastor basked in it each and every time.

            In little time at all, the door was being opened by the chauffeur imp.  Mindful of not twisting his torso, Alastor slinked his way out of the car.  Standing tall, he eyed the vast courtyard standing between him and Vassago’s estate behind yet another wall.  This one was all smooth stone coated in winding flora, unlike the outer wall that had been gnarled iron.  Instead of the locked gate they drove past, there was but a single archway now, seemingly harmless.  But when one looked at it at just the right angle, they could see a faint veil of light shimmering across the expanse of space in the archway.  Only those who were welcomed were free to pass without harm.

            Alastor confidently patted the package in his arm, making sure the sigil printed on the paper was facing outward.  The sigil glowed a faint crimson as Alastor passed through the archway, dying down to normal ink once again the moment he passed through.

            Beyond the archway, detailed stones of red and gold paved the way across the courtyard, twisting and turning around fountains and topiary plants without any apparent pattern.  It was not a quiet jaunt across the courtyard, which wasn’t outside of the ordinary for Hell.  But while the city streets were often accompanied with cries and curses, the noise here was that of life.  Birds chirping, waters flowing, the clack of his heels against the glittering stone underneath, and the lively tune he hummed along the way all merging together in peaceful harmony.

            The estate standing before him was modest in height, but not in width.  While only being two floors up, it made up for it by expanding out.  In traditional Spanish style — as Alastor had been educated — the estate was asymmetrical in its design, combining both indoor and outdoor structure.  One side was all champagne-colored stucco walls with iron-framed windows, while the other was all open arches like a patio space.  There were winding balconies, open verandas, low roofs and high, all topped with glittering red tiles.

            It was a sight to behold each and every time, even after 70 years.

            As Alastor mounted the small set of stairs leading to the front door, he was saved the effort of even knocking.  A maid imp promptly opened the door and gestured Alastor on inside.

            The imp led the way through the estate, her little legs hurrying along to keep up with Alastor’s much wider gait.  Something she was accustomed to, he was sure, since her boss’s legs were even longer than Alastor’s.  As they passed arching hallways and wide, open rooms, Alastor was eventually led to the drawing room facing the back courtyard.

            Much like most of the rooms in the estate, there wasn’t a door.  And the double doors in the back of the room were wide open, allowing the warm breeze to filter in from the courtyard.

            Alastor freely walked through the archway and stepped into the drawing room, taking in the familiar statues and displays lining the walls.  Sitting in one of the many decorated chairs was Vassago, dressed down in the comfort of his home with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  His spindly form was hovering over the center table, a bundle of various papers splayed out across the mosaic tabletop.  His crimson eyes blazed even in the bright sunlight that filtered through the open doors.  His face was pinched as he scrawled something down using the colorful quill he held in his hand.

            The bright red and purple plume of the quill had Alastor questioning if Vassago was using one of his own plume feathers this time.

            Politely, the imp cleared her throat to get Vassago’s attention.  Startled, Vassago straightened in his chair and glanced towards the open doorway.  “Mr. Alastor is here,” she announced with a gesture in Alastor’s direction.  With that, the little maid imp skittered off.

            “¡Holis!”  Vassago leapt to his feet and approached Alastor with open arms.  Gone was the pinched, worried expression on his face.  Taking its place was a broad grin and eyes that glowed in excitement.  “Mi buen amigo Alastor.  ¿Cómo estás, baby?”

            Alastor did his best to clean the cobwebs from his mind.  In the decades they’d known one another, Vassago had done his damndest to beat the language into Alastor’s head.  While he knew a great deal of it now, it didn’t come easy for him.  Some of the words he was uncertain about, but he understood the context well enough.

            “Vassago!  So good to see you, my good man,” Alastor greeted with a big grin of his own.  “I’m right as rain!  Survived yet another Extermination Day.  A premature one, even.”

            Once Vassago drew close, he leant down and pecked Alastor on the cheek.  It was a customary greeting of Vassago’s and it had taken Alastor a well of willpower to grow used to it.  Nowadays, it was a show of affection that Alastor heartily accepted.

            “Qué alivio,” Vassago said with a relieved sigh, eyeing him over as he did every time Alastor visited, as if looking to make sure Alastor was, in fact, still alive.  “I’m happy to see you.”

            Alastor decided to treat that like an insult and glared up at the prince.  “Were you under the impression that I might lose?”

            Vassago let out a nervous laugh as he flapped a single hand.  “Of course not!  But it was sooner than usual and reports say the attack was focused on your hotel, so…”  He trailed off, his gaze slipping somewhere far, far away from them.

            Alastor narrowed his eyes and resisted the urge to heckle Vassago further.  There was something off about the pretty bird today.  The relief on his face was far more profound than Alastor was familiar with.  Vassago was acting like it had been that first assassination attempt on Alastor’s life all over again.  Vassago was a sensitive soul, so Alastor decided to forgive his assumptions for now.

            He eyed the papers on the table.

            When it came to Extermination Day, Overlords weren’t the only ones who suffered loss.

            For the most part, Extermination Day was a type of holiday for the Ars Goetia.  It was a chance to socialize and watch as the little angels fluttered about the sky.  If the slaughter was close enough, they even had the benefit of hearing the death cries of the Sinners.  Over time, they had adopted the practice of betting on the extermination, gambling over the death toll that would be announced the following morning.

            It was easy for most of the Ars Goetia to ignore their duty to actually govern their Circles, choosing instead to follow Lucifer’s example.  So most tended to remove themselves from the Sinner populace at large, despite having to share the same space.  But some bothered to keep track of the census, to manage the inhabitants in their city and orchestrate how best to move forward with each loss.

            That was the type of prince Vassago was.

            He didn’t celebrate the exterminations.  No, he calculated the loss and worked to better his city for the next year.  He cared about the Sinners, like the bleeding heart he was.  The foolish birdbrain found them fascinating in their behavior.

            Alastor should be grateful for that, he supposed.  It was because of that particular interest in Sinners that moved him to help Alastor all those years ago.

            While it was not uncommon to visit Vassago in the middle of some new action plan for his city, Alastor found it odd this visit.  The extermination had been solely focused on the hotel, as far as Alastor knew.  Vassago shouldn’t have suffered any losses this year.

            He leaned forward to try and spy whatever Vassago was busying himself with, but he was distracted by a sudden, excited trill.

            “¡Vaya!  Is that for me?”

            Alastor looked up to see Vassago eyeing the package still tucked in his arm.  “Ah, yes!  It completely slipped my mind.  For you,” he said as he handed off the package.

            Despite how eager he appeared, Vassago gingerly took the package in both hands.  “¿Qué es esto?” he asked as he pulled at the twine.

            “You’ll have to open it and find out,” Alastor teased in a sing-song manner as he made his way further into the room.  Once he heard the telltale sign of torn paper, he turned just in time to see Vassago’s face light up like the Evening Star.

            “A new Earth book!” he cheered.  His eyes were alight, taking in the book in open awe, despite how yellowed the pages had gotten or how the leather binding was worn and weathered from years of aging.  Vassago turned it over in his hands.  “El ingenioso hidalgo don Quixote de la Mancha,” he read aloud.  “I know this story!  It was one of Man’s greatest novels.  I’ve always wanted to read it.”

            “And now you can,” encouraged Alastor.  “You’re welcome.”

            “¡Gracias de todo corazón!”  Vassago hugged the book to his chest as he made his way across the room towards the bookshelf on the other side.  “How do you keep finding these?”

            “Isn’t ‘finding things’ your whole schtick?” Alastor heckled as he followed after.

            “Not Earth things.  Not unless I’m summoned,” Vassago bemoaned.  “Venga ya, tell me.”

            “Absolutely not!  Otherwise you’d have no reason to keep me around.”

            “That’s true!”  Vassago let out a giddy type of laugh as he slid his new book in with the rest of his growing collection of Earth novels.

            In all honesty, it would be much easier for Vassago to collect his own books than it was for Alastor to find them for him.  It took a considerable amount of money and bartering to coerce Hellborn with Asmodean Crystals to retrieve things from Earth.  But Alastor liked the idea of Vassago believing he was capable of the impossible.  Besides, Vassago seemed to enjoy the surprise of which book he got next.  It was a win-win for the both of them.

            As Alastor neared the elaborate bookcase with its feather-themed carvings and gold foil shimmering in each deep groove, one book caught his attention as it always did whenever he came to visit.  On the highest shelf sat a book of pure elegance.  It was bound in vibrant crimson, with a single violet gem glimmering in the center of the spine.  Unlike the other books it stood amidst, this one was unblemished from use and untouched by the passage of time, despite its age or how often Alastor knew it was used.  The light filtering in through the open doorway shone on the gem’s surface, giving off the appearance that a fire raged deep inside the stone.

            Compelled, Alastor reached up.  He had to move to the tips of his hooves to be able to reach high enough to barely grasp the book with the ends of his index and thumb.  It was enough.  He cursed the ridiculous heights of the Ars Goetia as he brought the book down and held it in his hands.  He hungrily looked over the familiar sigil imprinted on the cover in golden foil.

            He was just flipping it open to a random page when Vassago snatched it out of his hands.  Though it was expected, that didn’t make it any less disappointing.  With a snarl, Alastor glared up at Vassago.  “Not very hospitable of you,” he groused.

            Vassago raised a brow at Alastor, looking somewhere between annoyed and amused.  “Nice try,” he said lightly.  The way he turned his wrist, Alastor expected Vassago to bump him on the head with the book.  Instead, Vassago merely used it as an extension of his hand to point at Alastor.  “Will you ever learn?”

            Alastor shrugged it off with an innocent air.  “I’m insatiable!”  He folded his arms behind his back to come off as unimposing as possible as he leaned forward, attempting to close the gap between himself and the book.  “Come now, my good friend, won’t you let me borrow it?  Just the once?  I give you so much,” he reminded with a subtle gesture to the collection of Earth books.

            “This is my Grimoire,” Vassago reminded in turn, smacking the book with the back of his free hand to emphasize his point.  “No one would be foolish enough to simply loan this out.  Only Goetia Princes are granted these to perform their destined roles.  Without this, I wouldn’t be able to open the gate and lead the vestiges of the dead back to their beloved for Día de los Muertos.  I would no sooner loan this to you than you would your staff to me.”

            Several times Alastor had attempted to get his hands on that book and every time Vassago had denied him, usually with a good laugh.  It had become a bit of a game of theirs.  Alastor would see how far he would get and Vassago would stop him as soon as possible.  This time, however, Vassago’s humor was dulled.  He seemed almost somber as he suddenly looked Alastor over with a fresh wave of concern on his face.

            “Where is your staff anyway?”

            That was a question Alastor had no intention of answering.  “I loaned it to someone,” he lied with a grin.  Though he knew for a fact that all it took for Vassago to prove him wrong was a small flex of magic.

            Vassago didn’t, though.  He merely shook his head with a soft scoff.  “Anda ya.”  He returned his grimoire to his shelf.

            “Then perhaps just a peek” Alastor pressed, testing his luck.  “Just a simple spell certainly won’t hurt anyone—”

            “Grimoires are dangerous, Alastor!”

            Alastor stared up at Vassago in utter bewilderment.

            Vassago glared down at him, his eyes radiating dangerously.  His feathers, normally primmed and smooth, puffed out around his neck and the crown of his head.  His feet were planted firmly on the ground as his hands formed fists at his side.

            “¡Esta no es una herramienta frívola que pueda usarse por capricho!  Su propósito es mantener el equilibrio entre los reinos, y debe manejarse con extremo cuidado.  Si alguien la utilizara para sus propios fines, podría poner en peligro al mundo tal como lo conocemos… ¡y su vida estaría perdida!

            ¿Quieres que te ejecuten, Alastor?  ¡Porque no podría soportar verte decapitado frente a un concilio!”

            As Vassago went on his rapid tangent, he began to swing his arms about in a dramatic display of anger and frustration.  He spoke so quickly that Alastor was unable to understand most of what he said.  Though he was certain he caught “executed” somewhere in there and he hoped it wasn’t a threat.

            The rant ended with Vassago placing both of his hands on Alastor’s shoulders and giving him a shake as if to accentuate his point.  Alastor could endure the sharp talons digging through the fabric of his jacket, but the aggressive jostling pushed and pulled on his chest wound and Alastor winced with a sneer.

            Vassago immediately retracted his hands.  “Lo lamento mucho.”  He brought his hands down to hug himself.  “Perdóname,” he pleaded.

            Alastor couldn’t recall the meaning of that last word, and he was admittedly still wrapping his mind around what the hell that was all about so he didn’t bother to try and translate it.  He could at least recognize that Vassago was remorseful.

            Alastor wasn’t fond of Vassago believing he had been capable of hurting him so easily, but he’d rather that than the alternative.  “No harm done, my friend,” Alastor attempted to appease.  “A quick trip to the tailor and it will be as though nothing ever happened.  Now then!”

            With a quick step, Alastor moved to Vassago’s side and gently coaxed the prince forward with a subtle press of his hand against his back.  “Shall we discuss the cause of this amusing little nervous breakdown of yours?”

            “Ay, Lucifer,” Vassago muttered under his breath as he allowed Alastor to guide him back towards the cluster of seats.  He ran his hands first down his face then through his feathers to smooth down any that persisted to stand on end.  He took a deep breath before saying, “There was a trial recently.”

            “Oh!  The one that caused all that commotion months ago?  That was quite the show!”

            Alastor had been in the middle of a broadcast when his airways had been commandeered by some legal trial.  Upon further investigation, he found that the hotel’s television had also been taken over, each channel playing only live footage of some trial.  Charlie had been a bundle of nerves during the whole thing and Alastor wasn’t sure which he liked more: taking in the politics of Hell’s elite race, or watching the princess squirm.  Either way, Alastor had been eating well that day.

            “I recall some Goetia prince had been quite upset that his plotting had been undermined.  Had to do with invading Earth, I believe,” Alastor said plainly.  He knew a great deal more than that, of course.  It wasn’t very often something happening in other Rings was of such importance that it played across every media outlet in all of Hell.

            Unfortunately, most Sinners knew very little — primarily because they just dismissed the trial entirely since it didn’t influence their day-to-day — and Hellborn weren’t usually willing to talk about such things to anyone other than their fellow Hellborn.

            “That was Stolas,” Vassago supplied miserably.  “He’s my friend.”

            Alastor’s ear twitched in sudden interest.  This was a new development.  “Is that so?  I hadn’t known.”  Once they got close to a cushioned sofa, Alastor took the initiative and sat down.  In invitation to Vassago, he patted the empty cushion beside him.  “Come now.  Let’s have a sit, and you can tell me all about it.”

            “Caramba,” Vassago muttered as he drew close.  Instead of accepting Alastor’s invitation, however, Vassago opted for the floor.  It was juvenile yet endearing, the way he scooched himself across the rug until his long legs were tucked under Alastor’s.  “It was so terrible, Alastor.”  Vassago arched forward, his long back bending so he could rest his head atop Alastor’s lap.

            Alastor froze, jumping slightly from the sudden intimate position he found himself in.  While Vassago had a history of using physical touch as a way of expressing his affection, this was far closer than they had ever been before.

            He opened his mouth, a sharp comment on his tongue ready to torment Vassago for his ridiculous behavior, but Alastor paused.  In the shift of movement against his thighs, he could feel it as Vassago let out a bone-weary sigh.  Alastor mutely watched as Vassago carelessly grabbed his crown from his face, holding it weakly in his hand as he slumped further into Alastor’s lap.

            For one long moment, Alastor didn’t move.  Vassago didn’t say anything nor provide any direction on what exactly Alastor should be doing in a situation such as this.  Alastor’s hands hovered in the air as he debated his options.  His primal impulse was to push Vassago off, but that seemed neither productive nor appealing.  His next thought was to draw back and ridicule Vassago so mercilessly that he got off himself (Alastor had learned from the past that particular tactic was effective).  But then something flicked to the forefront of his mind.  A distant memory, vague and ununiform.  Like seeing something in the peripheral of the eye.

            Slowly, uncertainly, Alastor lowered his hands and rested them atop Vassago’s head.  Keratin-tipped fingers slowly drifted through crown feathers, providing soft scratches along the way.  Vassago let out a whispered chitter and leaned into the touch, affirming that Alastor had made the right choice.  One hand moved back to massage where red crown feathers met purple plume, while the other drifted down to scratch the small feathers clustered beneath Vassago’s beak.

            Vassago whistled, low and light beneath his breath, and something fluttered deep in Alastor’s chest at the sight.  Something almost forgotten spread through Alastor’s limbs, warming him from the inside out.

            When was the last time Alastor had done something like this?  It felt as if this was the first time, but something was attempting to flicker to life in the back of his mind.  A memory from many, many years ago, so vague now that it was barely the impression of an image.  He had been young, that Alastor could recall, but he couldn’t quite place the time or circumstance.  Had it been a cat?  A rabbit?  Or maybe it had been a bird.  But Alastor remembered once petting something, small and soft, and he had been elated in an otherwise miserable life.

            Alastor thought perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him — that it was possible his wound had brought on a fever that had finally consumed him — but even if that were the case, Alastor liked this feeling.  He was willing to indulge himself with this fleeting fancy.  Besides, it seemed Vassago was enjoying it, so that made it another win-win for the both of them.

            Letting out a small, contented sigh, Alastor let his fingers comb through Vassago’s crimson feathers.  He waited patiently as Vassago tipped his head to get more comfortable.  He didn’t know how much time had passed before Vassago let out another sigh, this one long and alleviating.

            Vassago sagged further into Alastor’s lap, setting down his crown to instead use his hand to wrap around Alastor’s leg in some faux portrayal of a hug  “I never would have expected that from Stolas,” Vassago muttered.

            “Expected what, exactly?” Alastor gently coaxed.

            “Wanting to invade Earth,” Vassago elaborated.  He shook his head slightly.  “When Andrealphus had organized the trial — ese bastardo — I had believed he was merely trying to enforce some marital obligation on Stolas for cheating on his sister — esa cabrona — and divorcing her.  I never would have thought it had to do with the misuse of a Grimoire.”

            Ah, Alastor thought, quickly absorbing all the new information.  He hadn’t realized during the broadcast that a Grimoire had been the sole cause of the supposed invasion.  “Was Andrealphus that incestuous fellow?”

            There was a weak laugh that rumbled in Vassago’s throat.  “There’s no proof of that, but yes.”

            Alastor hummed.  A lot of the commentary from the trial was beginning to make sense.  But there was still something that didn’t make sense to him.  “What had Stolas’ plan been?” he asked.  “What damning act was he doing on Earth?”

            Vassago threw a hand up in the air.  “That was never addressed!  Satan didn’t bother with the details — none of them did.  They all latched onto an easy verdict and made their judgement.”  He then directed his aloft hand to the table with his stack of papers.  “I have been trying to figure it out.  I thought maybe — just maybe — if I could learn the truth, then I could understand why Stolas did what he did.  Why he forced an imp to act on his behalf.  I just—”  Vassago lifted his head from Alastor’s lap and buried his face in his hands.  “I don’t understand.

            “And no one there actually cared to find out.  No one wanted to do procedure, ask questions, learn the truth.  They didn’t listen to a thing I had said and almost killed an innocent imp because of it!  I tried to orchestrate a retrial but I was denied.”  He threw his head back in a squawking groan.  “¡Estoy harto!  They never listen to a thing I say!”

            “You do know,” Allastor started pointedly, “you are a prince.  You could always just show your might and make them listen.”

            “No, Alastor!  Hell is better than that,” Vassago argued haughtily.  At Alastor’s dubious stare, he backtracked.  “It can be.  If people just listened.  If they cared.”

            “This is Hell, my dear.  If people cared, they wouldn’t have wound up down here.”

            “People wound up here because someone cared,” Vassago countered.  “Lucifer gave us knowledge because he cared for our freedom.  And we should do the same for others.”

            Alastor was not in the mood to consider the moral dilemma that was Lucifer Morningstar, so he decided to skirt around that topic.  “All the more reason to do without, then!  Look how frazzled it's made you,” he teased.

            Vassago shook his head morosely.  “I’ll never stop trying to make things better here.”  Then those eyes rested on Alastor, uncertainty swimming in those bright crimson pools.  “And I know you feel the same.  You were making Hell a better place for the Sinners until seven years ago.”

            Somehow, Vassago moved even closer than his spot on the floor, scooching across the rug until his elbows were resting on Alastor’s legs.  “You still haven’t told me where you’d been.  Or what happened.”

            That was definitely something Alastor did not want to discuss with Vassago.  “I had merely taken a sabbatical,” he said dismissively.  “Several people had once the exterminations started.  It was the smart thing to do.”  He quickly turned his attention to the papers on the table.  “Which is more than I can say for that Stolas friend of yours.”

            There was a brief moment where Vassago merely stared at Alastor, perhaps trying to find something Alastor wasn’t ready to divulge, before he accepted the change in topic and also looked towards the table.  “Stolas is a very intelligent man,” he said, tone somber.  “One of the wisest of the Ars Goetia.  It’s why it doesn’t make sense.  I wish I knew what it was he was plotting.  And why he’d so openly confess his conspiring.”

            “Perhaps he was ‘scheming more mastermindery,’” Alastor supplied, quoting the comical line used during the trial.

            Vassago tilted his head curiously.  “¿Qué?”

            “Those were his words,” Alastor explained with a shrug.  “It all seemed very performative to me.  As if he was wanting to make it appear bigger than what it was.  In fact, he seemed confused that his punishment wasn’t as drastic and even tried to point out the severity of his actions.  I don’t know the fellow, but if you say he’s ‘one of the wisest,’ then it seems like a manipulation tactic to me.”

            When Alastor returned his attention to Vassago, he found him staring at Alastor with wide, owlish eyes.  “You’re right!”  He hurried to his feet, jostling Alastor’s legs in the process as he scurried to get up.  He swept across the room in a hastened gait and swept up a couple of pages from the table.  “He would know they wouldn’t care to ask what he was doing or why.  And ‘mastermindery’?  What kind of word is that?  Stolas would never say such a thing.  But no one would notice, would they?  I didn’t.”

            He brought a hand up and scratched at his freshly combed feathers, mussing Alastor’s hard work.  “There’s something deeper going on here.  Stolas had never publicly acted on his emotions before.  And he loves his daughter — he would never do anything to compromise her.  Why would he make himself a target like that and risk her status?”

            Alastor mentally sighed in relief, grateful that Vassago’s attention was now focused wholly on something else.  He pushed himself to his feet and casually strode his way over to Vassago’s side.  “Might I suggest you track him down and find out?”

            Vassago whirled around to stare at Alastor.  “¿Mande?”

            “He’s alive, isn’t he?  Just ask him.”

            “I…”  Vassago looked down.  “He’s been banished.  No one is allowed to see him.”

            “I don’t have much experience with the matter of friendship,” Alastor confessed, “but wouldn’t a good friend not care about such a thing?”

            “A good friend…” Vassago repeated in a whisper.  His brows furrowed low as he mulled over the words.  “You’re right.”

            “Of course I am!”

            “But I couldn’t guess where he is.  Who knows where he’s taken refuge?”

            “Come now,” Alastor coaxed.  “Isn’t it your specialty to find missing things?  Certainly an oversized owl would fall under that category.”  He folded his arms behind his back.  “If not, I would look into that imp he had come to defend.”

            “Alastor, you’re right!”  Vassago spun, throwing his papers in the air to grab Alastor’s arms, once again shaking him in his enthusiasm.  “I can find him!  And he can explain why he did what he did.  Maybe once I find out, I’ll have enough cause to organize a retrial!  Stolas can be a prince again!”

            Alastor was doubtful everything could be turned around so easily, but it was good to see Vassago happy again.  A solemn Vassago made for such terrible company.  “Now, there’s the Vassago I know.”

            Vassago chirped in delight as he released Alastor and pulled the cord that rang for service.  “This deserves a celebration!”

            “I thought my presence was cause enough for celebration,” Alastor jested.

            “Of course!  But this deserves a second serving of the absolute best!  And we can research what to do next while we eat!”

            Alastor didn’t recall when he volunteered himself to help Vassago find his lost friend, but he was willing to provide some of his effort if it meant he’d be able to eat twice his fill.  He reached down and grabbed a bundle of papers that had an unfamiliar Goetia sigil on the page.  A brief glance was all it took for Alastor to realize it was a page explaining Stolas’ duty as a prince and what his Grimoire had been intended for.

            Now this was worth his effort.  “Very well!  Let’s make it a date.”

            As Alastor made his way past the threshold of Vassago’s home and out into the courtyard, he felt a rare state of being full.  He had easily eaten his weight plus some in some of the most delectable meat he’s had the chance to savor since his descent into Hell.  This truly had been quite the celebratory feast.

            And it had been great company, as it typically was whenever he came to visit Vassago.  Vassago had been energetic throughout the entire meal, speaking excitedly as he researched the rogue imp that had been presented in the court trial.  And Alastor reveled in the discussion of Grimoire spells as he read over the vague details of Stolas’ book.

            Alastor could confidently say that this had been one of his best visits yet.

            “You look better,” Vassago commented.  He had walked Alastor out and now stood in the doorway, looking Alastor over.

            Lifting a brow, Alastor shot him a quizzical look.  “In comparison to…?”

            Vassago shrugged.  “You seemed down.  Or distracted, maybe.  It was subtle, but I could tell.”

            Alastor took a subconscious step back.  As far as he was aware, he had presented himself as unbothered as ever.  Prim and primed and perfectly whole.  “Not at all,” he responded cheerily.  “You’re projecting, my dear.  You had been in quite the state, after all.”  He looked Vassago up and down and gave an approving nod.  “And you look much better now.  You’re welcome!”

            Vassago smiled, amused.  “Yes, thank you.”  He folded his arms.  “But you would tell me if there was something bothering you, yes?”

            Alastor smiled up at Vassago, fully aware of the constant twinge in his chest from the festering wound that refused to heal.  He thought to his mutilated staff, safely hidden away in his shadow void and hoped Vassago would let it stay there.  “Of course,” he said coolly.  “We’re friends, after all.”

            Vassago’s smile didn’t vanish, but it did diminish slightly.  “We are.  And I’ll be here to return the favor you granted me today.  Whenever you’re ready.”

            Those words tugged at something in Alastor’s chest, the sensation different from the painful pull of one of his stitches.  He chose to dismiss it for now and instead gave Vassago a grand bow.  “Why, thank you, Prince Vassago!  It’s a deal.”

            That had Vassago smiling bright again.  “Qué tengas buenas noches.”

            “Good evening to you as well!”

            With that, Alastor spun on his heel and made his way across the courtyard towards the waiting car on the other side of the wall.  He felt Vassago’s eyes on him every step of the way, making him feel tense.  It took a great deal of self-restraint to not rub at his aching chest.

            The last he wanted was for Vassago to pity him for a wound garnered from his own hubris.  No, this was a dynamic Alastor had no intention of tarnishing.  Maybe he’d tell Vassago one day, when Alastor is able to look back on his wound and his chains and laugh at a time gone by.  And if Alastor played his cards right, that would be sooner rather than later.  He was done waiting.

            As he neared the car, the chauffeur imp opened the door for him.  Alastor paused, turning back and was by no means surprised to see Vassago still watching from the doorway.  Alastor wiggled his fingers in farewell.  His sight wasn’t good enough to see if Vassago returned the gesture, but Alastor could easily imagine him doing so.

            He slipped into the back of the limousine with a contented smile.  Already he was looking forward to their next reunion, fully believing they’d both have good news to share.