Houston, we have contact and capture.
None of us are that strong, Gigi. None of us. Not me. Nor Grace.
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At dinner, Alastor had extended Grace an invitation to join him in his radio tower. And like the fool she was, she leapt at the offer.
Now, awash in terrible, awkward regret, Grace stood stiffly with her back to the door in the tower. She stared at him in wary silence.
Alastor studied her before finally remarking, “You know … you really should smile more.”
“Oh you did not just!”
Alastor stared, smiling, and yet looked baffled by her reaction.
Grace didn’t owe him an explanation. He didn’t deserve one. Nonetheless, she said, “That sort of suggestion is an insult where I’m from.”
“Well then, where you’re from is stupid.”
“I came up here only to find your door closed and locked. And then you greet me by insulting me.” Grace narrowed her eyes at him, absolutely not smiling. “Why did you ask me up here?”
“I saw how you were getting on with everyone else at the pool. They were all … excessively loud … about enjoying your company,” he said with a shrug.
“Oh, what do you care?”
“Seems everyone else has gotten to know you.”
Is he jealous? Feeling left out? He sounded like neither of those things. So why does this matter to him, then?
“Yeah,” Grace replied, “but with them, it’s because it’s in their nature to want to get to know people. With you …” She stopped, her eyes going wide in realization. “With you, it’s just a means to an end. Isn’t it?”
“And you like that, don’t you?”
Grace scoffed, her gaze sweeping him. “You couldn’t even begin to imagine what I like.” She glanced over her shoulder, out the window overlooking Pentagram City. Here again, the thoughts of her eternal punishment were reinforced. But if that were the case, why did it seem like she was being punished but other sinners were not?
Alastor certainly wasn’t. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy it here. No. He was thriving, like Kofax and Cherri.
“If I’m being punished by being in Hell,” Grace asked, “why aren’t you?”
Judging by the way his eyebrows jumped, the question took him by surprise. And to her surprise, it took him several moments to reply. “It’s not punishment. It’s character-building.”
“What would be a good punishment for you?”
He laughed. Ha, ha-ha. A good fake laugh, if ever Grace heard one. A 'fuck you, I’m not telling you that!' sort of laugh.
Which meant he was convinced there was such a thing as an appropriate punishment for him.
She blurted before thinking better of it, “You’re not running things down here.”
That statement earned her a solid foot of horn growth atop Alastor’s head, his eyes flashing. “Choose your next words with care, my pet.”
Found it! Grace smirked, leaning against the windowpane. So the way to Alastor’s heart is through whiskey and jazz, huh? She thought to kill two birds with one stone: choosing her next words carefully and testing that postulation about him. “You ever play music up in here?”
His eyes returned to normal in a blink but the antlers remained. “I can.”
“Got any whiskey?” she asked, although the intent was more for him to drink than for herself.
Alastor studied her, clearly trying to figure out what game she was playing.
No game, she mentally assured him smugly. I just want to get to know you. Seems nobody else has.
He kept his gaze on her but reached below his desk. Of course he had a bottle of whiskey up here. The surprise came when he opened it; it was full.
The next surprise came when he poured her a cup before pouring himself one.
Grace didn’t know what point she was trying to prove in accepting the drink. Maybe it was a display of trust, of respect. Whatever; she tossed it back quickly—in half the time Alastor took to drink his.
Maybe he actually enjoyed it and was savoring it whereas Grace disliked the flavor. It was like drinking hot air. She held onto the glass, cocking her head before telling Alastor, “You remind me of a morally grey Bert Healy.”
He blinked. “Who?”
“Oh. Right.” She chuckled at herself. “Annie was long after your time, wasn’t it?” Grace pursed her lips. “Do you know much about what happened on Earth in the time after you died?”
He took a sip from his glass. “Why would I?” Alastor replied. “What's it matter to me?”
Rather than answering his question, Grace continued, “Is there a way to find out about events after you died?”
“I suppose … if you really wanted that information, you would find someone newer in Hell than you are and ask them.”
She handed her glass back to him since it was empty. He refilled it rather than putting it back from where he’d gotten it and gave it back to her.
Shit. Grace swallowed a sigh. Maybe this time she would try pacing herself a little. “You missed an event I think you'd find quite funny.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“Wanna bet?” she replied with a smirk.
“Y’know, that's how I won Husk’s soul. Are you so sure you want to bet against me?”
She sipped the whiskey. “Yeah. I do.”
He laughed, much more genuinely than the last time he’d laughed. “I’ll give you a sporting chance. What do you want to wager?”
“If I win … you have to introduce me to someone you consider a friend.”
“And when I win?”
His phrasing wasn’t lost on her. Nonetheless, Grace replied, “You can have my soul.”
Alastor’s eyebrows leapt up.
Interesting. Grace knew that if he was an Overlord, wheeling and dealing souls would be enticing to him. She didn’t expect, however, he would be that excited over hers. That should have been a red flag.
Enthusiasm regardless, he cautioned, “Many people offer to sell their souls without considering the grave ramifications of such a transaction.”
“I’m just that confident in my story.” She grinned. “So, is it a bet or not?”
His eyes narrowed but he agreed.
“Okay, so, this happened before I was born. It was the late 1930s, if I recall correctly.” Grace paused. “Are you at all familiar with H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds?”
“Of course,” Alastor replied. “I read that in—I think it was Amazing Stories.”
“No clue what that is, so I’ll have to take your word for it.” She continued, “Anyway, there was a radio drama performed of that story on Halloween one year and apparently the audience didn’t realize it was a radio drama.”
Alastor leaned forward, his smile widening in anticipation.
“Some listeners thought the invasion wasn’t by aliens but by the Germans, which I suppose makes sense given the Munich Crisis was at its height just around that same time.” Grace gave Alastor a cocky smile at having remembered that. “I so was paying attention in your class, Ms. Marchant! So there!”
He cocked his eyebrow at her but remained silent.
“And actually, I think World War II started less than a year after this broadcast. But anyway, so people didn’t realize it was a show. They thought it was real and whether the listeners thought it was the Germans or martians invading, the broadcast caused mass hysteria, panic, and terror throughout the US.” She held her breath. The next few moments would determine whether Grace was getting to meet one of Alastor’s friends or would lose her soul to him.
Alastor burst out laughing. “That’s fantastic!”
She exhaled, her knees practically buckling; being owned by another sinner, even if it was Alastor—especially if it was Alastor—was a scarier proposition than she realized initially.
His laughter petered out and he stopped to catch his breath.
“You laughed at my story.” Grace grinned, encroaching on his personal space, booping his cute little pointy nose with each word: “I. Won. Our. Bet.”
Alastor didn’t flinch nor did he show any kind of emotion at having lost the wager beyond his typical unbothered smile, much to Grace’s chagrin.
All the men she’d ever flirted with flirted back, at the very least.
With Alastor, there was … nothing.
There was a hint of agitation in his voice when he asked, “Why, exactly, are you here again, my little fawn?”
Grace furrowed her brows. “Your eerily specific ad that played on a radio that hadn't been plugged in for like a decade?” If it had ever been?
“No.” There was more than a hint of agitation in his tone now. “Here. In Hell.”
“Oh. Well … I suppose it would be because of Chris. Matt. Josh. Andy.” With each subsequent name, Alastor’s eyebrows drew closer together, his eyes narrowing more and more. “Dave, Justin, Danny, Jim, Joey, Ryan, Billy, Tony, Kevin, Kyle, Brian, Tommy, Steve, Tim, Jason, Zach, Ben. Another Chris, not to be confused with the first.” She blew out a breath. “And they were just in the week before my husband murdered me.” Grace added for good measure, “Just to be clear, those were men I fucked, not ones I killed.”
“Did you ever have any regrets?”
She smirked. “How could I regret something that feels so good?”
“Even though you must have hurt your husband?”
Grace heaved a satisfied sigh as if reliving the best of her experiences. “Especially because it hurt him.”
Alastor’s eyes widened, his ears going erect. He said nothing further.
Feeling more than a little on edge suddenly with the way he stared, Grace said with stilted voice, “You gonna play some music here, or what?”
He opened the drawer to his right; inside was a collection of records stored like hanging folders in a file cabinet. After scrutinizing his choices, he selected one, pulling the record from its sleeve and setting it on, of all things, a gramophone in the corner of the room.
Grace tittered. “A gramophone? Really? In this day and age? Even I have a Walkman and a Discman!”
Well, she had them, anyway. They were probably lost to the apartment fire she’d eventually confirmed consumed her community.
“You have what?” he replied.
She snorted and said under her breath, “Luddite.”
Music started playing. Sure enough: jazz. This Mimzy bitch is two for two. And Grace was jealous.
In an effort to distract herself, she began swaying with the music while Alastor served himself more whiskey and emptied a subsequent glass.
Grace closed her eyes. She’d never been one for jazz—in the past, she’d even claimed to hate it—but this wasn’t so bad, actually. She let the melody wash over her. “What is this?”
“It’s called The Blue Room.”
After a couple rather mellow songs, Alastor switched out the records and had more whiskey.
The next piece had an upbeat tempo, what Grace recognized as big band music. She went from ‘this isn’t so bad, actually’ to ‘this, I like!’
Amid her dancing, she heard Alastor set his glass down. They must have exhausted that bottle of booze.
She twirled around only to find Alastor on his feet, his arm extended toward her, palm up. He wasn’t looking for a handshake. “Do—you—are you asking to dance with me?” Grace stuttered.
He smiled in silence but she slowly placed her hand in his.
Whatever magic coursed through this demon’s veins, being to some degree inebriated wasn’t slowing him down. Grace thought even if she’d been completely sober and he’d had the entire bottle of whiskey all to himself, she probably still wouldn’t have been able to keep up with him.
They danced several songs from big band to swing before she finally gasped, “I’m exhausted!” What Grace really wanted to say was that she felt like throwing up. He probably wouldn’t take vomit on his pinstriped suit in stride—drunk or not.
Alastor laughed yet switched records again.
The next song, Grace knew. Everyone knew it. Embraceable You.
And still, despite it being a ballad, he wanted to dance with her.
Grace’s pulse raged to be so close to him.
His grip tightened around her; at first she thought he might have been trying to hurt her, but no. There was a sweet desperation in his embrace. Grace met his gaze, and as always was met with that same smile. The smile that could have been a window to literally any thought, any emotion.
Oh, to know what’s going on inside that head … I’d sell my soul for that knowledge.
She braced herself with her palm to his chest and he flinched, followed by a relieved sigh. For a moment, he’d looked—shocked?
Grace’s eyebrows jumped up. What the fuck?
“What’s that look for?” he asked her.
Grace swallowed a yelp. Oh shit! He saw that?
Okay. He’s staring.
I’ve gotta say something!
Grace ran her mouth with whatever popped into her head just to keep from sharing her musings. Unfortunately, what cascaded out, instead, was this:
“Just thinking about how nice it could’ve been … a cool, stormy night in a quiet café somewhere. Curled up with you beneath a shared blanket on a cozy plush couch that’s barely big enough for us, giant mug of hot cocoa in my hands, while music just like this is being played live. The door is open and we can hear the rain beating against the pavement outside. And it’s just …” She exhaled, “Perfect.”
And unfortunately, it was all true and infinitely worse than what she decided against sharing.
He commented, “That sounds like a pleasant evening.”
He said it just as one might refer to doing a crossword puzzle or playing checkers with an acquaintance.
She chuckled. She actually chuckled. When she was alive, this would have been cause for despair. But no. Not Grace in Hell. Grace in Hell found a morbid humor in her situation. “Listen to me … reminiscing for a life I could never have had.”
Who would’ve taken Cupid for a sadist?
Alastor dipped her then and her leg slipped between his, the full length of her thigh sliding against his crotch.
The contact was thorough enough to tell her there wasn’t so much as a twinge of interest on his part.
Grace scrambled upright and pushed him away with a breathless, “I’d better go.”
Without looking back, Grace fled the radio tower.
Next week, Chapter 10: There's a Gloria Estefan Song About What Happens in this Chapter
Stay sane, deer friends!
