Chapter Text
Woe to the earth and the sea, because the devil has gone down to you!
He is filled with fury, because he knows that his time is short.
- Revelations 12:12
New Orleans. October. Sunset.
Alastor hops off a cable car in Tremé and weaves through the crowd of evening commuters. Hollis is right behind him. The crowd thins and Alastor breaks into a run, his schoolbooks rattling against the violin case in his backpack.
It is finally Friday. Tonight, he and Hollis and the rest of the band are playing the Francs Amis dance hall — and they're late.
They pound the pavement down Robertson St. and skid to a stop by the front door of the Francs Amis. Alastor grabs the strap of Hollis's backpack before he can go in.
"Suit check," Alastor whispers.
"Right."
They turn to face each other. Alastor dusts off the shoulders of Hollis's jacket and straightens his shirt collar; Hollis tightens Alastor's bowtie. Hollis's forehead glistens with sweat — Alastor produces a comb from his pocket and runs it through Hollis's hair.
"We're ready," Alastor says. He takes Hollis firmly by the shoulders and looks him in the eyes. "Don't forget to smile."
Hollis nods.
Alastor pulls open the door. Tobacco smoke washes over them. Alastor breathes it in and blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust. This early in the evening, the bar is mostly deserted. The rest of the band is in front of the stage, waiting for them.
Alastor crosses the empty dance floor and turns back toward Hollis. At that moment, he realizes there is a white kid seated at the bar, staring at him.
The Francs Amis caters to a diverse clientele, but the kid still sticks out like a sore thumb. He's about Alastor's age — 16 or 17. His golden hair reflects the dim light of the bar's single electric chandelier, and he has the palest blue eyes Alastor has ever seen. When their eyes meet, the kid turns away to nurse his soda. Alastor only catches a glimpse of his expression — but that brief moment of eye contact sends a lick of fear up Alastor's spine. He's frowning, his eyebrows drawn together, like he doesn't understand what he's seeing. Alastor freezes, his smile faltering.
Hollis catches up and follows Alastor's eyes to the bar, but the white kid is now studying the patterns on the wood, and Hollis's gaze slides right past him.
"Is everything okay?" Hollis whispers.
Alastor brightens his smile. "Of course."
The white kid sticks around as Alastor rosins up his bow. While the band is tuning up, the kid raises a hand for another drink — after a brief back-and-forth, the bartender pours him another Coke. He sighs, reaches over the back of his seat to dig through his backpack, and produces an unopened bottle of whiskey. He pries the cap off with his thumb and pours at least three fingers into his Coke.
Hollis taps Alastor's shoulder. Alastor nods. The drummer taps out a beat. Alastor tucks his violin under his chin, lifts his bow, and the world falls away.
Their band is called the Moonlight Orchestra. Hollis joined a year ago, after the band's old trumpet moved to Chicago — Alastor joined later that winter, when Hollis finally convinced the band to add a violinist. Alastor plays violin for the majority of the set, except for the songs where he swaps onto piano and the pianist switches to saxophone.
As he settles down on the piano bench, he spots the white kid in the crowd, watching him — but his gaze slides away, again, when Alastor meets his eyes.
After the set, the band gathers around a table at the back of the bar, where the owner brings out food, drinks, and a $2 bill for each performer.
Patrons crowd the table offering their congratulations — Alastor is pulled into a conversation with an old man he recognizes as a curator at Economy Hall. When he turns back to the table, Hollis is laughing, radiant — he has already charmed a girl halfway into his lap.
"Alastor, right?"
"Yes," Alastor says. He turns — the white kid from the bar is behind him with his hand extended. Alastor stares at the kid's hand in shock for a moment too long, and he drops it.
"I'm Lucian," he says. "Lucian Magne. It's good to meet you."
Alastor masks his confusion behind a smile. "Likewise."
"I see you're a multi-instrumentalist," Lucian says. "What do you play?"
"Piano, violin. Clarinet, briefly. I'm not half bad at cello. Why do you ask?"
"I'm looking for a teacher," Lucian says. "I play violin, but the piano has always eluded me. Will you teach me?"
The table has gone quiet. Alastor can feel the eyes on them.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Alastor says.
Lucian glances over Alastor's shoulder at the table. Alastor can only guess at the expressions he finds there.
"Understood," Lucian says, and disappears into the crowd.
Alastor stares after Lucian for a long moment. He turns back to the table to find Hollis looking at him with raised eyebrows. Alastor shrugs and returns to his food; the hum of conversation picks back up, and Lucian is forgotten.
Hollis Fisher has lived on Alastor's street as long as he can remember. They leave before the others, whose mothers aren't waiting up for them, and step through the door of the Francs Amis together onto the silent, misty street.
Hollis fists a hand in Alastor's shirt and shakes him. "We did it!"
Alastor stumbles, laughing, when Hollis releases him. "You played well."
"Do you think? I made a couple of mistakes in 'Avalon' — "
"Completely unnoticeable, and you recovered gracefully."
Hollis leaps down the sidewalk, pumping his fist in the air.
"Excuse me," a voice says.
Hollis freezes and turns back toward the Francs Amis. Lucian is leaning against the wall, next to the door. He stands upright and approaches them. He's small — a head shorter than Alastor — but Alastor is more certain than ever that they are the same age.
"Pardon me for interrupting, and for putting you on the spot in there," he says, "but I'm hoping you'll think about my request."
Alastor blinks. "I can't," he says. "I'm sorry."
"I'll pay ten dollars an hour."
Alastor instructs Lucian to meet him that Sunday after church. Before the service, Alastor approaches the pastor and gets permission to use the piano after everyone clears out. Then he returns to the pew where his mother is waiting.
"You don't have to wait for me," Alastor says. "I can just meet you at home."
"I want to meet this boy," she says.
Alastor feigns interest in the sermon, which seems to last an age. Finally, it ends, and people begin to file out.
Alastor and his mother find Lucian on the church lawn, sleeping against the trunk of a tree. Lucian is unnaturally pale in the sunlight, like it is his first day aboveground.
"Hello," Alastor says.
Lucian jolts awake. "Oh — hey! You're done!" he says. He gets to his feet. "You must be Alastor's mother. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Thomas. I'm Lucian Magne." He extends a hand and Alastor's mother shakes it.
"Magne — un nom français. Parles-tu français?"
"Un petit peu. Je l'ai appris á l'école," Lucian replies in perfect French, "mais je sais mieux lire que parler."
Alastor's mother gives Lucian a warm smile. "I hear you've asked my son to teach you the piano."
"I have. He's a skilled musician."
"That he is," she says. "Maybe you can help him brush up on his French when you're finished with your lesson." She kisses Alastor's forehead. "I'll see you back at home. Pleasure to meet you, Lucian."
She heads off down the sidewalk.
"Come on," Alastor says.
The church is empty now, though there are a few groups still congregating on the lawn. Lucian follows Alastor up the church steps, but freezes in the doorway.
"We're going in there?" Lucian says.
"I don't have a piano at home, so I asked if we could use this one," Alastor says. "Is that okay?"
"Yep — fine," Lucian says, and follows Alastor inside.
Lucian and Alastor step up onto the chancel and sit side-by-side on the piano bench. The pastor gives them a friendly nod and retreats into his office.
Behind the piano is an overstuffed shelf of music books. Alastor leafs through them at random, searching for an appropriate starting piece.
"It's sorta pretty in here," Lucian says. "The stained glass is nice."
Alastor looks up. "I guess."
"I've never been in one of these."
"You've never been in a church?"
"No."
"You're not religious?"
A beat of silence. "It's complicated."
"Huh," Alastor says. He pulls out a book of songs for children — surely those are simple — and every book that was balanced above it topples to the floor. He curses under his breath.
"What do you do in church?" Lucian says.
"Take communion. Pray. Sing. There's a different sermon every week."
"What was this week?"
Alastor glances up to make sure they're still alone. "I wasn't really paying attention," he whispers. "Something about God's unconditional love?"
"Ah," Lucian says. "That."
Alastor finds the hymn he's looking for, bends the book's spine backwards so the pages lay flat, and sets it on top of the sheet music from today's service.
"We'll start with this," he says.
"'I Lived In Heaven,'" Lucian reads.
"Yes. It's a simple song for kids — it'll be easy to learn. Do you know which key is middle C?"
As promised, Lucian is a comically poor pianist. He instantly forgets the location of every note; he flattens his hand no matter how many times Alastor reminds him to arch his fingers. It takes Lucian their entire first lesson to stumble through the right hand of "I Lived In Heaven".
They end after an hour. Lucian pays in cash, and they part ways at St. Bernard.
Alastor arrives home in the early afternoon. Alastor lives in a yellow clapboard house in Filmore. His father will be away until late that night — jambalaya and radio jazz drift through the kitchen.
"I'm home," he calls.
He finds his mother in the kitchen.
"How'd it go?" she says.
"Pleasantly enough, but he's terrible at piano." Alastor slides the $10 bill across the counter and his mother pockets the money.
"That may be why he wants to learn," she says. "He seems like a nice boy."
"I wouldn't go that far. I mean — he's sort of ... creepy."
His mother frowns. "Why do you say that?"
Alastor shrugs. "Just a feeling."
"You know that is not how we treat people in this family, Alastor." She wipes her hands on her apron and turns to face him. "Growing up, you're going to meet all kinds of people from different walks of life. You have to keep an open mind and look for the best in folks, no matter what. Understand?"
"Yes, ma," Alastor says. "Sorry."
"There's no need to apologize to me. When is your next lesson?"
"Tuesday, after school."
"I expect you to invite Lucian to join us for dinner with the Fishers that evening."
"Mother," Alastor says. "He won't come. It's just business."
"That may be. I expect you to invite him anyway."
They return to the church on Tuesday after school for Lucian's second lesson. Lucian is already inside when Alastor arrives. He's sitting in one of the pews, studying the mural of angels on the ceiling.
"Hello," he says as Alastor approaches.
"Shall we?"
"Yeah."
They settle side-by-side again on the bench.
"You'll be playing the left hand today," Alastor says.
The left hand is a repeating sequence of three two-note chords. Naturally, it takes Lucian half an hour to manage it successfully. From there, they move to playing both hands at once. It is a disaster from the outset.
"You're thinking of what your hands are playing as two separate things," Alastor says. "You need to connect them in your mind. You are not multitasking. You are playing the piano."
"It's harder than it looks," Lucian snaps — then says, apologetically, "I'm trying."
Alastor suggests they try scales. The improvement is instantaneous — Lucian is forgetful, absent-minded, but dextrous. For the first time Alastor can imagine him playing an instrument with competency.
He loses track of time running Lucian through different scales — eventually he looks up and is shocked to find the sun setting.
"We should go." Alastor stands. Before he can second-guess himself, he says, "my mother invited you to dinner, if you'd like."
"Tonight?"
"Yes. Hollis and his mother will also be there. We're having gumbo."
"Yeah, sure," Lucian says.
Alastor leads Lucian down the streets of his neighborhood as the sun sets. Lucian is curious about almost everything they pass — What do they sell here? Is that place good? Have you ever gone there?
Alastor replies in monosyllables — but a smile creeps onto his face the further they walk.
"How long have you lived in New Orleans?"
"Always," Alastor says. "That's our house, down there. The yellow one."
"I like it," Lucian says. "What do you have growing on the porch?"
"Flowers and herbs. They're my mother's."
"They're nice."
They climb the creaky porch steps together. Alastor pushes open the screen door.
"We're here," he says.
Hollis rounds the corner from the living room to the entry hall. "We?"
"You remember Lucian," Alastor says. "My mother invited him for dinner."
"Oh — hello," Hollis says. "Nice to see you again."
"Likewise," Lucian says.
"Dinner will be ready in a few minutes," Alastor's mother calls.
Alastor gives Lucian the tour while Hollis sets the table. Lucian is drawn in by Alastor's record collection; he resumes his line of questioning until he spots the family portrait on the wall and falls silent. He studies it for a moment, then points to the child in the photo.
"Is that you?"
"Allegedly," Alastor says. "I was too young to remember."
They are all sitting stiffly in their Sunday best, Alastor seated in his mother's lap, his father's arm wrapped around the small of her back.
Lucian's eyes linger on Alastor's father. "What's your dad like?"
Alastor hesitates; Lucian turns to face him.
"He's not around much. Works at the docks," Alastor says at last. "What does your father do?"
"Oh. I don't see him much, either. He, uh — he works in construction."
They are spared further discussion when Alastor's mother calls them for dinner.
Alastor sits between his mother and Lucian. They all join hands for the prayer, except for Lucian, who is frozen in confusion until Alastor takes his hand from his lap. Hollis snickers and takes Lucian's other hand. Then his mother prays, and Alastor wonders how Lucian's hand in his can feel cool and warm at the same time.
After the prayer, Lucian tastes his first spoonful of gumbo.
"Oh, hell, that's good," he says.
Hollis lets out a bark of laughter. Alastor covers his grin with his napkin.
Lucian glances up to find Alastor's mother and Mrs. Fisher both staring at him in shock. "I mean — I'm sorry — excuse me," he chokes. "You're an excellent cook, Mrs. Thomas."
"Thank you," says Alastor's mother. "It's a family recipe."
Lucian swallows, his eyes fixed on his spoon.
"So — are you from around here, Lucian?" Mrs. Fisher asks.
"No, I'm from out of state," Lucian says. "Just — straight down from here ... south."
The table quiets as they collectively consider the geographical implications.
"The ocean?" Hollis drawls. Mrs. Fisher elbows him.
"Carolina! South Carolina," Lucian says.
"How are you liking the city so far?"
"It's lovely," Lucian says. "The music, the food, the people." He glances at Alastor briefly. "I'm learning more every day."
Alastor's mother looks between the two boys with a smile. "You know, the pastor's daughter is married to a fellow from South Carolina, isn't that right?"
"I think so," Mrs. Fisher says.
Lucian brightens. "Oh, really? Which part?"
And so Alastor watches in amazement as Lucian charms his mother.
Lucian offers to help with the dishes, but Alastor's mother waves him off; that's how Alastor finds himself in the kitchen washing bowls beside her.
"Do you see what I meant, about reserving judgements?"
"Yes — but for a moment I thought you might have changed your mind. Such language."
Hollis's laughter filters in from the living room. A warm smile breaks across his mother's face.
"You should've seen his face," she whispers.
"You should've seen yours," Alastor replies.
His mother pulls the towel off her shoulder and whips it at him. "Go play cards with your friends," she says. "I'll finish up here."
Alastor returns to the living room to find Hollis cross-legged on the floor, delivering a passionate explanation of the rules for bridge. Lucian is on the couch, listening with rapt attention.
"He's been searching for a partner to beat me with since we were ten," Alastor tells Lucian. He leans over Hollis with a cold smile on his face. "Not a chance."
Lucian and Hollis lock eyes, and Alastor senses the forging of an unholy alliance.
They lose their first game against Alastor — and the second. They keep playing long after their mothers have gone to sleep.
"I hate that smile," Lucian whispers to Hollis.
"It's so creepy," Hollis whispers back. "But I know how to get him to stop — it works every time."
Hollis takes three breaths, each deeper than the last — then he stares directly into Alastor's eyes and blows a long, slow raspberry.
Alastor cracks after about fifteen seconds; he laughs, his smile turns fond, and he reaches across the table to swat the back of Hollis's head. "You're spitting all over the table," he says.
The front door slams open. Hollis and Alastor both flinch.
"Shit," Alastor whispers.
"What's going on?" Lucian says.
Hollis shakes his head sharply and starts picking up the cards.
There's a clattering sound in the kitchen — then heavy footsteps in the hall. Hollis jumps to his feet and stuffs the deck of cards in the pocket of his trousers.
The dark shadow of Alastor's father appears at the end of the hall. He is hunched over, his ears just brushing the low ceiling — he scrapes his claws along the wall as he stomps down the hallway, leaving a trail of muddy footprints. His paw knocks a portrait off the wall, which shatters on the floor. His eyes are two enormous voids of black, which he fixes on Alastor.
"Good evening, Mr. Thomas," Hollis says. His voice is calm, but behind his back his hands are clasped in a white-knuckled grip.
"Pleasure to meet you," Lucian says. He inches out between Alastor and his father. "How was your evening?"
His father turns his gaze from Alastor to Lucian. There is a long, tense silence, where the only sounds are his father's heavy, labored breaths.
Finally, his father grunts, stomps to the bedroom, and slams the door.
"Come on," Hollis whispers to Lucian.
The three of them slip out onto the porch. They linger there for a moment — both looking to Alastor with concern.
Alastor meets Lucian's eyes. They're so blue, they seem to glow in the darkness. "My father is a strict man," Alastor says softly. "One never knows what mood he'll be in when he comes home."
"He's a monster," Lucian whispers.
Alastor snorts. "I guess you could say that."
"I'm serious. He's dangerous. You need to stay away — lock your bedroom door tonight. Promise me."
"Lucian," Hollis says softly. He rests a hand on Lucian's shoulder. "That's enough."
Alastor smiles coldly and leans in, his face inches from Lucian's. "You think I don't know that?" He straightens back up. "You should go before he realizes you're still here."
Hollis steps down off the porch and pulls Lucian after him.
"See you, Alastor," he says.
"Goodnight," Alastor whispers.
He stays on the porch until they have both disappeared into the darkness.
Lucifer jolts awake, like someone has poured a bucket of water on his head. He's back in the hotel, kneeling at Alastor's bedside. Alastor looks worse than he did when Lucifer entered his soul — paler, somehow — and his labored breaths rattle in the back of his throat.
Charlie's hand on his shoulder.
"Dad?"
"How long has it been?" he says.
"A couple of hours. Is everything okay?"
"Fine." Lucifer rubs his hand across his face. "I'm making progress, but I need to go back in."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Make sure I don't let go of him again," he says.
He reaches out and takes Alastor's hand once more.