Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The jazz was loud enough to shake the floorboards.

Every horn and drumbeat thudded through Alice Everglow’s bones as she spun across the small, smoky stage. Her dark sequined dress glittered under the dim amber lights, and her curls bounced as she swayed in perfect rhythm. For a fleeting moment, she forgot herself — lost in the music, in the pure rush of sound. She had always loved to dance. When she moved, the world blurred into color and motion, and for a few precious seconds, there was no fear, no past, no pain.
Then she opened her eyes.
A dozen pairs of eyes stared back — hungry, gleaming with the kind of attention that made her skin prickle. Men in pressed shirts and loosened ties leaned against the bar, their cigars glowing faintly in the haze. They watched her the way wolves watched a lamb.
She hated this.

Dancing was the only part of her job she could stomach, losing herself in the rhythm, in the way her body moved like it had a mind of its own. But the watchers, the way their eyes crawled over her like greedy hands, made her want to shrink away, disappear into the floorboards. A part of her wished she was like the other girls she worked with—bold, confident, with laughter like champagne bubbles and the ability to sweet-talk their way into a man's wallet. Alice was awkward, timid, always forcing a smile she didn't mean. The ONLY reason she still had this job was because when Alice danced, she was electric.
Laughter and the clink of glass filled the smoky air as whiskey — real whiskey, smuggled and forbidden — flowed freely through their hands.
The speakeasy was packed wall to wall, heavy with perfume and smoke. Ever since the oh so intelligent government outlawed alcohol, the whole city had learned how to drink in secret. Hidden rooms behind false doors, back alleys that led to velvet-curtained clubs — New Orleans was riddled with them. Places where people could forget, if only for a night.
And on nights like this, the men tended to want more than just a drink.
They wanted a show.
Girls in glitter and fringe danced to the pounding beat, smiling wide even when their feet ached and their throats burned from the smoke. Alice was unfortunately one of them. She never quite
The final trumpet blared, and Alice struck her ending pose beside the other girls — one arm high, one leg bent, her breath catching in her throat. The room erupted into cheers and whistles, the loudest coming from the drunken men at the front. Someone tossed a dollar onto the stage, another shouted “Encore!”, but she only bowed her head and smiled faintly, the expression practiced and hollow.
The lights dimmed. The band slid into a slower tune.
Alice exhaled and stepped off the stage, her heart still pounding from more than just the dance.
She could already feel their eyes following her into the shadows.
Backstage was always warmer than the floor outside — too many bodies, too many costumes, too many lamps burning low to keep the powder soft. Alice sat before her vanity, shoulders drawn in, hands trembling only slightly as she fixed her hair.
Her golden curls, usually long and soft over her shoulders, were pinned up tight tonight. Fashion demanded bobs — neat little cuts — and Alice had none of the heart to chop hers off. So the stagehands pinned it. And pinned it. And pinned it.
Her scalp throbbed from the strain. She swallowed, forcing herself not to rub it.
A soft dusting of blush on her fair skin, a little mascara to brighten her green eyes — eyes that were always a bit too wide, a bit too startled-looking. She fixed the beading on her black dress, smoothing it flat over her ribs. From across the room, she looked like the perfect speakeasy doll — glittering, confident, alive.
But close up, her hands wouldn’t quite stop shaking.
“Hon, you killed out there!”
Alice nearly jumped out of her skin as Mimzy flounced into view — all feathers, perfume, and unmaintainable energy. Mimzy was shorter, fuller, and louder than any woman had a right to be, but she carried herself like she owned every square inch of air around her.
Mimzy planted her hands on her hips. “Honestly, dear, I think the fellas were drooling so hard I saw puddles. They loved it!”
Alice let out a small laugh — breathy, shy, but real.
“Well… I'm just glad I didn't trip,” she murmured, adjusting a pin behind her ear.
Mimzy gasped dramatically. “Oh please. At this point you’re a natural. Not as good as me, obviously, but—”
Alice smiled fully this time, shoulders loosening. “Of course. No one could ever rival the Mimzy DuMont.”
“That’s right.” Mimzy winked at her in the mirror. “And had better remember it.”
Mimzy had been the one to find Alice on her first night here — near trembling, barely able to breathe when the music started. She’d taken Alice by the shoulders, slapped some glitter on her cheeks, and told her:
“No one here knows or cares who you are, here, you can be whoever you want to be!”
Alice had never forgotten it.
“So.” Mimzy leaned down beside her, batting her lashes. “What time you off tonight?”
Alice glanced at the clock.
“Oh. In thirty minutes. I didn’t… realize it was that late already.” She said, trying to hide her grateful smile.
“Perfect.” Mimzy clapped her hands once. “Because you and me, are going out for drinks..”
Alice hesitated immediately.
“Oh… Mimzy, I—I don’t really— I don’t drink.”
Mimzy scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Oh come on! Let yourself live a little!
Alice looked down at her hands.
She knew Mimzy wanted company. But, Alice also knew herself, and she was not built for smoky back rooms and talking to strangers.
Alice spoke softly, voice careful, almost apologetic:
“You… don’t have anyone else to go with tonight, do you?”
Mimzy froze.
Then groaned loudly. “Ugh, fine, you caught me. Everyone else is either sick, married, or in jail.” She tossed a feather boa onto a chair. “Which is just rude, frankly.”
Alice couldn’t help laughing — quiet and brief.
Mimzy gave her a hopeful look.
Alice chewed her lip. “Mimzy… it’s late. And it’s a Friday night. I don’t know if—”
Mimzy’s expression dropped, exaggerated and wounded. “Are you saying you wanna go home and sit alone in your tiny sad apartment and think about your sad life again, or do you wanna come drink illegal booze with your favorite person in the world?”
Alice flushed pink.
Because yes — she would go home and cry if left alone long enough.
She sighed.
“…Fine. I’ll go.”
Mimzy brightened instantly. “Atta girl! That’s what I like to hear.”
Alice did not like what she’d just agreed to.
But as the band struck up the next number, she rose from her seat anyway.
The stage lights hit her like a slap — bright, hot, blinding.
The music roared to life, fast and swinging, all piano and horns and brass.
Alice plastered on her showgirl smile — the one that felt like porcelain and might crack if she breathed too hard.
And then she danced.
Her kicks were sharp, her steps clean, her skirt shimmering like black water as she moved. The crowd roared. Men whistled. Someone shouted, “That’s my girl!” though Alice had never seen him before.
She pretended she didn’t hear any of it.
When the final note rang out, she struck her pose — arm up, chin high — and the room exploded with applause.
But the moment she stepped backstage again, the smile slid right off her face, like a mask being set aside.
She exhaled.
Relief washing over her like cool air.
It was finally over.
Before Alice knew it, she was being pulled through the streets of New Orleans, past the buzzing life of the French Quarter, where jazz poured from every doorway and the night air smelled of smoke and magnolias. Men eyed her as they passed, but Mimzy shot them looks that sent them scurrying like rats
The night air outside the club was thick with humidity and cigarette smoke, but inside the speakeasy, it was even thicker—packed shoulder-to-shoulder, glittering with sequins, jazz, perfume, and whiskey no one was legally supposed to have. Mimzy didn’t walk so much as barrel forward, dragging Alice along like a determined parade float.
“Mimzy—Mimzy wait—!” Alice squeaked, trying not to bump into anyone, clinging to her purse like a lifeline.
“Relax, hon! we’re fine!” Mimzy cackled, already waving at people she recognized. “Unless the law busts in, and if that happens—oh well! We just run!”
Alice gave a weak laugh. “That’s… comforting.”
She recognized this place—The Red Magnolia. One of the nicer speakeasies, Alice had performed here a handful of times. Here the floorboards weren’t sticky, the walls had velvet curtains, and the men wore cologne instead of corn alcohol and sweat. Still, the noise pressed on her like a hand at the back of her neck. She stayed close to Mimzy, feeling like a child holding onto her mother’s skirt.
Then the music changed.
The room quieted—not all the way, but enough that Alice noticed the shift. A piano began to play—smooth, warm, quick-fingered, but with a strange cheer to it. Almost… mischievous. Alice turned toward the stage.
The pianist was a tan-skinned man with dark, wavy hair and a grin that looked like it had been painted on, bright and sharp like the edge of a knife. His black suit was immaculate, his crimson bow tie bold as a flare.
And his hands—good lord—his hands danced over the keys like they were alive.
The music swelled and dipped, a hypnotic rhythm that wrapped itself around the speakeasy like smoke. The pianist fingers danced effortlessly over the piano keys, his touch light but precise. The tune was lively yet smooth, playful yet commanding. It was impossible not to sway to it, and even Alice, usually too reserved to lose herself in the moment, found her hips moving slightly, her fingers tapping against the table in time with the melody.
Alice stopped breathing for a moment.
Mimzy followed her gaze.
“Oho,” she said. “Are we smitten, Miss Everglow?”
Alice yanked her eyes away so fast her curls bobbed. “Wh—no! No, of course not! I just—he’s—he plays very well, that’s all!”
Mimzy smirked like a cat who knew every secret in the world.
“Well, lucky for you, I happen to be good friends with,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Big radio hotshot nowadays. Or, well—he will be. He’s convinced he’s gonna have the whole damn city listenin’ to him one day.”
Alice blinked. “A radio show? But he plays like he belongs in a concert hall or even for Louis Armstrong.”
“Don’t you dare tell him that,” Mimzy snorted. “His head’ll get so big we’ll never fit him through the door.”
Before Alice could deny any further accusations of staring, Mimzy suddenly snatched her wrist.
“I am introducin’ you,” she declared.
Alice’s breath caught. “Wait—no—no, Mimzy, I—”
“Too late!”
But the moment Mimzy tugged, Alice’s heartbeat spiked. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up—her hand went cold, her chest tightened. The room blurred at the edges. For a split second, she wasn’t in the speakeasy anymore—she was back in that house, back in that room, back with him—
Raised voice. Slammed door. Hot breath and a hand clamped around her wrist just like this—
Her vision flickered. Her throat closed.
Mimzy paused mid-step and turned. The look on Alice’s face stopped her cold—wide eyes, shaking hands, tears shining at the corners though Alice tried to blink them away.
“Oh—oh sugar,” Mimzy whispered, guilt washing over her. She let go immediately. “Darlin’, I’m sorry. That was my fault. I didn’t mean to grab you like that. Hey—look at me—you're alright. I got you. You’re safe here, okay?”
Alice swallowed hard. She hated how small she felt. Hated how fast fear could swallow her whole. Hated how obvious it must look.
She forced a weak smile and wiped her eyes with the back of her glove.
“It’s fine,” she whispered. “Really. I’m okay. I was just—startled, that’s all.”
Mimzy squeezed her shoulder—gentle this time. Protective. “You sure, hon?”
Alice nodded. “Yeah. I… I’m okay.”
They continued, slower now, shoulder to shoulder instead of one dragging the other.
They wove through the crowd just as the piano song ended. Alice expected applause—real applause. But what she heard was… a few claps. Most of the room just looked away, bored—or worse—irritated.
Alice’s gaze flicked to the charming pianist and then to his skin, he wasn't white. He wasn't all the way dark, but he was dark enough for the wrong kind of people to care. Her stomach turned. Of course.
But the pianist? If he noticed, he didn't let it show.
She hated the South for this. The quiet cruelty. The way people smiled with their mouths and judged with their eyes. She had grown up around it—Sunday dresses and polished church pews and her father preaching about love, compassion, how God created all His children equal.
And then those same churchgoers would step outside and talk about “colored folks” like they were animals.
It had made Alice sick even as a child. She remembered watching a black family sit in the very back pew because everyone else refused to sit near them. She remembered wanting to offer her seat beside them—but she didn’t. She sat still. She stayed quiet. Because that was what a “good” daughter did.
She didn’t speak up then.
She still hadn’t forgiven herself for that.
But she never forgot the feeling of shame. And she never treated people that way herself—not once. She believed kindness mattered. That it meant something.
Looking at the pianist—still smiling, still proud despite the cold reception—something in her tightened.
No one deserved to be looked at the way this room looked at him.
No one.
And in that moment, her fear didn’t disappear… but something steadied inside her.
She didn’t know his name yet.
But she already respected him.
Mimzy shot up and clapped, grinning ear to ear. "Al! You sly devil, you're still as good as ever!"

The pianist turned, and his grin stretched wider. "Mimzy! Well, ain't this a delight?" His voice was smooth, full of something playful yet sharp beneath the surface. He stood, giving a small, dramatic bow. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Mimzy sauntered over, and Alice followed hesitantly, suddenly feeling out of place. Mimzy and Alastor chatted like old friends, laughing and exchanging stories, Mimzy asking about his radio show.

"Ah, it's goin' splendidly!" he beamed. "Only up from here, my dear! Soon, everyone's gonna know my voice, mark my words."

Mimzy laughed. "I don't doubt it, sugar. You always did know how to get folks to listen."

Alice stood awkwardly beside them, unsure of how to insert herself into the conversation. She felt like a child tagging along with adults, her presence unnecessary. The room was growing more crowded, and for a moment, she considered fading into it, disappearing before anyone noticed just how out of place she was.

But before she could, Mimzy put her arm around Alice’s shoulder "Oh, where are my manners? Alastor, this is Alice! New friend of mine. She works with me at the club."
Alice’s throat suddenly went dry “H-hello. It’s… um… nice to meet you.”
"The pleasure is mine, my dear," he said, gently taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
Alice’s face blazed. She snatched her hand back before she squeaked.
“I—uh—you play beautifully,” she blurted. “Truly. I haven’t heard anything like that before.”
He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Well, thank you, dear. Music is a language all its own—why, it can stir the soul, awaken what once slept, or remind us of things we didn’t realize we’d forgotten.” His eyes gleamed—warm and eerie all at once. “And perhaps introduce us to things we never knew we were longing for, wouldn't you agree?”
Alice nodded. "I do. And your radio show... I'll have to tune in one of these nights."

His grin sharpened, pleased. "Oh, do! I guarantee you won't regret it."

Before Alice could say anything more, a man approached their small group, his steps just slightly uneven. Definitely buzzed, but not wasted. He was young, dressed well enough, but there was an arrogance in his eyes that made Alice uneasy before he even opened his mouth.
“Well, well,” the man drawled as he sauntered up, eyes raking over Alice. She stiffened. The dress felt suddenly too short, too bright—too much.
“Ain’t you a pretty thing.”
Alice offered the smallest, tightest smile. “Thank you.”
She angled her body away, already searching for Mimzy, for an exit, for anything.
“How ‘bout a dance?” he asked, stepping closer.
“No,” Alice said softly, “thank you.”
But he laughed—loud, confident, like no had never been meant for him—and reached for her wrist.
“Aw, don’t be shy, sweetheart—”
Her heartbeat spiked, again. The room blurred again. Not here. Not now. Not again.
Alice yanked her arm back—sharper than she realized, her voice cracking out before she could swallow it:
“I said no.”
Mimzy straightened, ready to throw hands, but Alice stepped forward first—voice trembling, but still standing.
“Did your mother raise you without manners?” she asked, clutching her wrist close to her chest. “I’m in the middle of a conversation. It’s rude to interrupt. Especially like that.”
The man blinked, thrown by the sudden fire in someone who looked like she’d blow away in the wind.
His eyes slid to Alastor—lingering there with a curl of scorn.
“Oh, don’t get your pretty little head twisted, babe. It was probably a dull conversation anyway. I mean—look at him.”
He jerked his chin toward Alastor. “Don’t tell me you’re impressed by that. You must not get out much.”
Alice stared at him. Just stared.
How did people like this walk around so confident in being awful?
Her arms crossed, posture small but unyielding.
“Oh? So I should be impressed by you instead?”
He grinned, smug. “Now you’re gettin’ it, doll.”
Alice let out the softest, sharpest laugh.
“You know, if I judged people on appearances alone, I’d have to assume you are a sloppy, desperate, insecure mess.”
His smile twitched.
“But,” she continued sweetly, “I try not to make assumptions.”
She tilted her head. “Though… the sheer desperation of hitting on every woman in this room after they’ve already turned you down is rather hard to ignore ,and just plain pathetic.”
Mimzy slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from wheezing.
The man sputtered, face flushing, then spun and stormed off, muttering curses.
Silence lingered for just one beat.
Then Mimzy burst into loud, delighted laughter. “Where the hell did that come from!?”
Alice blinked hard, her adrenaline shaking her fingertips. “I… don’t know.”
“Oh honey, I loved it,” Mimzy declared, throwing an arm around her.
A warm chuckle slipped in behind them—smooth as honey, sharp as a blade.
Alastor leaned casually against the piano, eyes glinting like polished obsidian and a smile wide.
“My, my…” he drawled, voice rich, theatrical, and oddly delighted. “Miss Alice, wasn’t it?”
He dipped his head slightly.
“You practically chewed the poor fellow up and spat him out.”
He tapped a hand to his chest in mock astonishment.
“I am positively entertained.”
Alice’s face flushed scarlet. “I—I didn’t mean to cause a scene…”
“Oh, nonsense,” Alastor said, offering a charming, gentlemanly bow—almost courtly.
“On the contrary. You handled yourself exquisitely.”
His eyes flicked to hers—warm, but carrying a depth she couldn’t read.
“Quite a spine you have there.” he murmured.
“A rare and lovely thing… especially in a place like this.”
And just like that—
Alice felt her heart slowly tighten up.
Then the band struck up a lively swing tune, the brass blaring in a wild, untamed rhythm that sent energy crackling through the air. The moment the first note hit, Alastor downed the last of his whiskey and slammed the glass onto the bar with a satisfied grin.

"Now that's what I like to hear!" he declared.

Before he could so much as adjust his bow tie, Mimzy grabbed his hand and yanked him toward the dance floor. "Oh, no, you owe me a dance, mister!" she said, barely giving him time to protest.

"Well, if you insist!" Alastor laughed, letting himself be dragged into the swirling crowd.

Alice watched them go, shaking her head fondly before settling into her seat. She didn't mind sitting out. She liked watching, observing. And right now, there was plenty to see.

Mimzy danced fast—Alice knew that well. Most men struggled to keep up with her, but not Alastor. He moved like he'd been dancing his whole life, effortlessly matching her pace, spinning her with perfect timing, his feet never missing a beat. The two of them commanded the floor, drawing cheers and whistles from the crowd.

Alice found herself smiling.

Alastor was... interesting. More interesting than most of the men she was used to. Most of them were predictable—sleazy, dull, or full of empty flattery. But Alastor? There was something about him. Something unpredictable, something sharp beneath the charm. And unlike so many others, he carried himself with the confidence of a man who didn't care what anyone thought of him, it was refreshing.

As the song came to an end, Alastor spun Mimzy one last time before dipping her low, earning a round of applause from the onlookers. Mimzy laughed breathlessly as she straightened up, fanning herself.

"Alright, alright, I'll admit it—you can dance," she teased.

Alastor smirked. "My dear, you wound me! Of course I can dance!"

Alice glanced at the clock on the wall, realizing how late it had gotten. She pushed herself up and dusted off her dress. "I think I better head home."

Mimzy's smile faltered. "You're leavin' already?" she asked, stepping over to hug her. "Aw, you never stay out late."

Alice chuckled softly, hugging her back. "Mimzy, I never even usually go out."

Alastor turned to her, tilting his head slightly. "Well, Miss Alice, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance tonight. I do hope we'll see each other again soon."

Alice hesitated, then smiled. "That... would be nice."

As she pulled away from Mimzy, she glanced back. "Oh, what time will you be at the club tomorrow night?"

Mimzy waved a hand. "Oh, I'm takin' tomorrow off. Got some things to take care of."

Alice blinked. "Oh." She hadn't realized Mimzy wouldn't be there. She'd never had to go in without her before. It made her feel... uneasy.

Still, she forced a smile. "Well, enjoy your night off."

"You sure you don't wanna stay out just a little longer?" Mimzy teased.

Alice shook her head. "I'll see you soon."

With that, she made her way out into the night.

The streets of New Orleans were quieter now, though a few stragglers still lingered, voices low, laughter echoing from alleyways. The cool night air was a relief after the heat of the club, and Alice wrapped her arms around herself as she walked.

Her apartment was small, rundown—nothing fancy. But it was hers, and that was enough.

As she made her way down the dimly lit street, a strange feeling settled over her. The sensation of being watched.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Nothing. Just empty streets, flickering street lamps, the distant murmur of the city.

Still, unease crept up her spine.

She picked up her pace, her heels clicking against the pavement a little faster. The feeling didn't leave her, not until she finally reached her building and shut the door behind her, locking it tight.

Alice let out a breath.

"I’m just tired," she muttered to herself. "That's all."

But deep down, she wasn't entirely convinced.

Chapter Text

The next night, Alice sat at her small vanity, carefully adjusting the sequined straps of her dress. It was one of her more worn costumes—still glittering, but fraying at the edges. Fitting, considering where she was working tonight.

She sighed, pulling her long coat over her outfit. She wasn't looking forward to this shift. Some nights, she got booked at high-end speakeasies, the ones with smooth-talking gentlemen and somewhat well-behaved crowds. But tonight? Tonight was different.

Tonight, she was dancing at a hole-in-the-wall joint, the kind of place where the men were rowdy, the liquor was cheap, and trouble brewed in every darkened corner.

She tried not to dwell on it.

Tightening her coat around her, she headed out.

The entrance to the speakeasy was hidden behind a butcher shop. A burly man stood by the door, looking her over before she spoke some random password.

"Go on in," he grunted.

As she stepped inside, a loud commotion made her freeze.

A drunk man, red-faced and furious, was being dragged out by two bouncers. He was kicking, swearing, swinging blindly at the men hauling him away.

Alice swallowed hard. That’s not a great way to start the night.

Shaking off her nerves, she hurried backstage.
Alice sat at her vanity, touching up the rouge on her cheeks, pretending her hands were steady. Her reflection stared back at her—painted lips, curled lashes, her blonde hair pulled into that too-tight updo that had been pinching her scalp all night. On the outside she looked like every other flapper girl in New Orleans.
Inside, she couldn’t feel more out of place.
She was fastening one last bobby pin when a voice boomed through the dressing room:
“Alright, ladies! Listen up!”
Alice stiffened. The chatter around her died instantly. Every girl turned.
A tall, thin man stood in the doorway. His hair slicked back like oil, his jaw sharp, and his expression permanently irritated—as though simply looking at them was a chore.
“Name’s Mr. Corbin,” he announced. “I’m your new manager, which means you follow my rules now.”
Alice’s stomach dropped. Nothing good ever started with rules.
Mr. Corbin paced the room slowly, like he owned every inch of it.
“You girls dance fine—nice legs, nice smiles—great. But starting tonight, you’re also gonna be spending more time out on the floor. Chatting. Laughing. Keeping the fellas entertained. Make sure they’re having a good time.”
A few of the dancers exchanged nervous looks. Alice felt her pulse pick up.
A girl with a red bob—Clara—folded her arms. “We were hired to dance, sir. Not… entertain.” She hesitated, then added quietly, “What if the men try something? At other clubs we’re kept separate for a reason.”
Mr. Corbin let out a long, theatrical sigh.
“You girls are so dramatic,” he said, shaking his head like they were children complaining about bedtime. “If a fella gets a little handsy, that means he likes you. Means he’s happy. That’s a good thing! And good for business.”
Alice felt something go cold inside her.
Clara’s jaw clenched. “That’s not—”
But Mr. Corbin cut her off, sharp as a whip. “This isn’t a church picnic. You don’t like it? The door's right there.” He pointed behind him. “But if you leave, you don’t come back. And good luck finding another job. Clubs aren’t exactly lining up to hire girls who can’t take the heat.”
The room was silent.
Alice swallowed hard. Her fingers curled into fists in her lap.
She could feel her voice rising inside her—say something, say something, say something—
“I—” Alice started, but the word came out like a squeak. Her throat tightened. Her heart pounded. She stared at her hands instead. The courage dissolved.
Mr.Corbin walked out.
The door shut.
No one breathed.
Finally, Clara exhaled. “Pig,” she muttered.
A few girls nodded weakly.
Alice pressed her hand to her chest, trying to slow her heartbeat. She needed the job. She needed some way to pay her rent. She needed to eat. She needed… She needed to survive.
Just through the night, she told herself.
Just get through this one night. It will be alright.
She hoped she wasn’t lying to herself.
Alice’s stomach dropped when she realized it was her turn. She stepped onto the stage, the spotlight warm and heavy on her skin. And—of course—it was a solo. Perfect.
The slow swing tune began. Alice didn’t so much dance as detach. Her body moved on auto pilot and learned muscle memory while her mind went somewhere far, far away. She could feel the new manager’s gaze burning into her back, reminding her exactly what happened if she didn’t look pleasing enough. So she widened her smile—too wide—and did what she always did: survived.
She forced herself to meet the eyes of the men below. Young ones, freshly 18, all nerves and eagerness. Old ones, old enough to be her grandfather, watching her with hungry eyes. Her skin crawled like it was trying to leave her body. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t.
In the back of her mind, she thought of how her life has taken such a downhill turn. Then her father’s face flickered. Disappointment. Shame. The kind that didn’t need words. She almost laughed—actually laughed—imagining his expression if he saw her now. His god-fearing daughter, dancing for strangers in an illegal speakeasy. She could feel that guilt like ink seeping through her bones. Every night she worked, she felt like something inside her stained a little darker. But she had nowhere else to go. No one else would have her. If there was a different life she could run to, she would have fled yesterday.
Then—mid-movement—she locked eyes with someone in the crowd.
A slender figure. A bright red vest.
Her heart lurched. Alastor.
The pianist from last night.
She nearly missed a step. Heat rushed to her face—embarrassment, surprise, something she didn’t want to name. She chastised herself instantly. Get it together. He’s just a man. You barely know him.
The final note landed. Alice struck the polished end-pose like a marionette snapping into place. Applause scattered weakly through the room.
She didn’t wait. She hurried offstage and dove into the dressing area, keeping her hands busy so she wouldn't have to go out on the floor—fixing lashes, smoothing curls, pinning straps, whispering encouragement to the newest girls. If she stayed useful, she stayed invisible. If she stayed invisible, she stayed safe.
At least, she tried.
She was in the middle of gently brushing through a dancer’s hair when a hand clamped around her shoulder and spun her sharply. Her heart jolted painfully.
Mr. Corbin. The new manager.
His expression was already furious.
“I think you’ve been back here practically all night!” he snapped.
“I— I’ve been helping the others—” Alice began, voice small.
“I don’t care,” he cut her off. “I tell you what to do. You don’t decide where you belong.”
His hand closed around her arm.
Alice froze.
Her pulse roared in her ears. Memories. Hands grabbing. Voices shouting. A room she didn’t want to remember.
She tried not to shake.
Mr. Corbin shoved her out of the dressing room, the door slamming behind her with a finality that felt like a cell door closing.
She staggered in the club, breath trembling in her lungs. This was her worst nightmare.
Alice forced herself to walk the room, a smile stitched onto her face like a mask. She laughed when she was supposed to. Nodded when she was expected to. She hated every second of it.
She kept looking for Alastor. Just a glimpse. Just someone who didn’t make her skin itch.
But she didn’t see him anywhere.
He probably saw me dance… and left.
The thought sank in her stomach like a stone. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d hoped he’d stay.
A tap on her shoulder pulled her back.
She turned to see a middle-aged man in a dark purple suit, hair slicked back except for a distinguished streak of gray. He smiled in a way that made her bones tense.
“Well, hello there, darling,” he purred. “You are a very pretty lady.”
Alice’s smile snapped into place automatically. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
He pulled out a chair beside him and patted it. “Come, come. Your feet must be tired.”
Alice didn’t want to sit. Every inch of her body resisted.
But she saw Corbin watching from across the room.
If she refused, she’d lose her job.
So she sat.
He ordered her a drink—she declined. He ordered again—she declined. It took five tries before he finally understood. He only smiled wider, like the refusal made him interested.
And so the evening dragged.
His name was Jeremy Bakersfield. A “businessman.” In stocks, he said proudly. Alice didn’t know what that meant, so he explained. At length. Loudly. Dramatically. About how the market could make a man rich, truly rich, and how certain people were meant to have wealth and others were simply born to serve.
The longer he talked, the more rotten he became.
He bragged about scamming families out of savings. Called it cleverness. Smiled like a man admiring his reflection. Alice simply nodded when required, hands tight around the edge of her dress, nails digging crescents into her palms.
Hours passed. His breath smelled like whiskey. His eyelids drooped, but his grip on his glass and his ego remained sharp.
Alice wanted to scream. To run. To disappear.
And then—she heard a voice.
Smooth. Warm. Amused.
A voice that cut through the noise like a radio being tuned perfectly into clarity.
Alice turned.
Alastor.
Relief flooded her so strongly she nearly sagged.
Jeremy was drunk and oblivious, didn’t even look like he was looking in the same direction. Alice attempted to slip away—but his hand shot up, grabbing her wrist and yanking her down beside him.
“And where do you think you’re going so soon, sweet cheeks?”
Alice’s heart spiked again.
She forced a pleasant tone, smoothing her expression. “Oh—I just need to powder my nose, that’s all.”
Jeremy’s laugh was sloppy and heavy. “Ohhh, alright then, I guess I’ll let you.” He waved a lazy hand, as though granting her permission.
Alice did not laugh.
Alice slipped away, weaving through the smoke-hazed crowd toward the bar. Alastor stood there alone, leaning casually against the counter, swirling his drink in slow circles. No spotlight. No piano. No wide stage grin. Just a quiet, thoughtful poise.
For once, Alice didn’t feel nervous approaching him. Just tired. So very tired.
“Hey… Alastor,” she breathed.
His expression lifted instantly—warmth blooming like a stage lantern easing into glow.
“Well now,” he said, voice dipping into that smooth, theatrical cadence of his, “bonswa, Miss Alice.”
His smile was effortless—confident without trying. “How are you faring on this fine night?”
Alice let out a quiet, humorless exhale. She didn’t want to sour the air or bring her burdens to him—but the weight was too heavy to keep inside anymore.
“To be honest… not great.”
Alastor’s brow arched—not in pity, but in attention. He leaned in slightly, as though the rest of the room had fallen away.
“Oh? That simply won’t do,” he murmured. “Go on. Tell me what troubles you.”
Alice told him.
The new manager.
The rules.
The way the men watched her.
The pressure to smile.
The touching she could not refuse.
How wrong it all felt—and how trapped she was.
Alastor listened—truly listened—his face calm, his eyes sharp.
When she finished, he took a slow sip of his drink, as though tasting the room before answering.
“May I be frank, Miss Alice?” he asked lightly.
Alice nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”
“You don’t strike me as the sort of girl who would flourish in this… environment.”
He didn’t say it mockingly. Just simply, honestly.
Alice stared at the counter. “Yeah. I’m no Mimzy. Hell—she probably wouldn’t even be mad about the new rules.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head. “She’d just be mad she wasn’t getting paid more.”
Alastor let out a faint chuckle—a warm, genuine sound.
Alice sighed. “I just like dancing, that's it. Lord knows I would rather have any other job. But no, no one wants a stupid woman.”
The bitterness surprised her. The shame stung.
Alastor clicked his tongue softly.
“Miss Alice,” he said gently, “you are not stupid. Simply… underestimated.”
His tone wrapped around her like something warm. “And if others fail to see your worth, that is their blindness, not your lack.”
Her heart fluttered—small, startled, grateful.
He glanced around the room—the sticky floors, the predatory stares, the desperation thick in the air.
“Truly,” Alastor said, his voice low and almost tender, “what is it that keeps you here?”
Alice let out a breath she’d been unknowingly holding—months of resignation wrapped inside it. “Rent. Food. Surviving.”
Her gaze fell to her hands resting on the counter—small, tired, worn down.
“If I could work anywhere else… I would,” she murmured.
Alastor didn’t smile—not exactly. Rather, something thoughtful curved at the edges of his expression, like this was the answer he expected… and the one he’d been waiting for.
“Miss Alice,” he said, tone slipping into something almost velvety, “you have no family to help you? No home you could return to?”
Alice gave a short, humorless laugh.
“I wish. But no. They wouldn’t lift a finger. Not for me.”
Something flickered in his eyes—not pity, not sorrow. Understanding. A quiet, private kind.
She didn’t want to sit in that heaviness any longer.
So she tried to change the subject.
“So… are you playing piano tonight?” she asked, attempting a smile.
Alastor grinned, his teeth just barely visible. "No, not tonight. Just wanted to check this place out. Never been here before."

Alice scoffed, glancing around at the dingy speakeasy. The walls were stained with years of cigarette smoke, the wooden floor scuffed from too many dancing shoes and the occasional drunken brawl. "Well, you're not missing much," she said. "The crowd here is... rowdier than the others."

Alastor hummed in agreement, his dark eyes scanning the room. "I noticed. Not exactly a high-class joint, is it?"

Alice shook her head. "Not at all."

“I can see that quite clearly.”
Silence settled for a beat.
Then Alastor spoke, voice softening. “You know… I may know of something better. A job. One that requires far fewer unwanted eyes.” His smile tilted knowingly. “Would that interest you, perhaps?”
Alice nearly jumped. “Yes. Yes, absolutely—Lord, I would do anything to get out of here. Who do I talk to? Who’s hiring?”
Alastor laughed—low, warm, and genuinely amused.
“Miss Alice, the employer would be me.”
Alice blinked. “You… want me to work for you?”
“Only if you wish to,” he replied smoothly. “But yes. I believe you would make a lovely addition to my radio operation.”
Alice’s chest filled—relief, disbelief, something bright she hadn’t felt in months. “Alastor, thank you—truly, I don’t even know what to say—”
“It is no trouble at all.” He tipped his head in that gentlemanly way of his. “Would you be free to start tomorrow, madmwazèl?”
Alice’s excitement faltered. “I… can’t. Not tomorrow. I’m already booked to dance across the Quarter. If I don’t show, the other girls will have to work twice as hard.” She swallowed. “I can’t do that to them.”
Alastor regarded her quietly, then smiled—a softer one this time.
“You are far too kind for your own good,” he murmured.
Alice shook her head gently. “There’s no such thing, Alastor.”
His gaze lingered on her—warm, knowing, and just a little unreadable.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But it’s rare. And rarer still that it survives.”
Alice and Alastor talked for a while. She found herself laughing softly at something Alastor said—something clever, lightly teasing. She hadn’t expected him to be so easy to talk to. He was quick-witted, charming in a way that felt effortless, yet there was something real beneath it—something warm. For the first time that night, she felt her shoulders loosen.
Then a hand clamped down on her hips.
Alice’s entire body went rigid. Her breath stopped. The noise of the bar vanished, replaced with the familiar, suffocating rush of fear.
Jeremy.
His breath was heavy, sour with alcohol.
“There you are…Abby,” he slurred, as though she were property he’d misplaced.
Alice couldn’t speak. The world tunneled.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he drawled, gripping her tighter. “How about we have that dance?”
“No,” Alice managed, voice trembling. Then louder, with a crack of something breaking inside her—
“I said no. I’m not dancing with a terrible person like you.”
Jeremy’s expression twisted—ugly, mean.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” he snapped, pulling her closer. Alice struggled—but it was useless. Her vision blurred, panic rising fast, her voice lost—
And then—
CRACK.
Jeremy’s head snapped sideways.
Alastor stood where Alice couldn’t. His fist was still raised. His eyes burned with something sharp and unmistakably dangerous.
“I do believe,” Alastor said, voice gentle as honey but ringing like steel, “the lady said no.”
Jeremy staggered, clutching his jaw. “You—You little creole rat—”
Alice flinched.
And Alastor didn’t hesitate.
He drove his shiny shoes hard into Jeremy’s stomach. The man collapsed to the floor with a choked grunt, wheezing and swearing.
Alastor didn’t even spare him another look.
He turned to Alice—every trace of that sharp, violent energy gone—replaced instantly with concern. He touched her arm lightly, as though afraid she might shatter.
“My dear,” he murmured, voice low and careful, “come with me.”
He didn’t drag. He guided her.
They slipped through the crowd, through the door, out into the cool night air.
Only once they were outside did Alastor stop. He turned to her fully, his hands hovering near her shoulders, not touching—waiting for permission.
“Are you alright?” he asked softly.
His voice was no longer playful—just warm.
“Did he hurt you?”
Alice shook her head, breath still unsteady. “I—I’m alright. I think. Just… shaken.”
Alastor exhaled, relief softening his features.
“Good. Good.” His smile returned—gentler, smaller. “He will not trouble you again. I promise you that.”
Alice actually believed him.
She managed a fragile smile.
“Thank you… Alastor.”
His eyes crinkled, warm and fond. “Of course, Miss Alice.”
He offered his arm the way a gentleman would escort a lady in a ballroom—not a speakeasy back alley.
“May I walk you home?”
Alice hesitated only a heartbeat—then slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.
“Yes. I’d like that very much.”
As they walked, Alastor hummed a tune she couldn't quite place. It was oddly calming. It soothed her nerves more than she expected, the night no longer feeling quite so sharp.
“So…” she ventured, “if I took the job… what exactly would I be doing for your radio show?”
Alastor perked up instantly, as if she had just asked him about his favorite subject.
“Oh, all sorts of things,” he said, his hands folding behind his back as he walked. “Tidying up my office, fetching coffee, answering telephone calls, helping organize sheet music and records—perhaps even looking over my scripts.” He cast her a sideways glance. “I have a feeling you’d have an excellent musical taste and a great editorial eye.”
Alice blinked. “That sounds like… a lot.”
He waved his hand dismissively, cheerful and confident.
“Nonsense! I have the utmost faith in you. And besides—” his grin softened just a little, “you deserve something better than that mauvais, dreadful place.”
Alice looked down, touched in a way she didn’t quite know how to name.
“I’ll tell you what,” Alastor added. “Tomorrow evening—you and I will go to dinner. And we’ll discuss it properly. Somewhere nice.”
Alice deflated. “I can’t. I have a shift tomorrow, remember."
For a brief moment, disappointment flickered across his face.
“Ah,” he said. “Of course. Well—should circumstances change… you need only say the word.”
Alice smiled, a small, real thing.
“Alright. I promise—I’ll let you know.”
Her apartment building came into view—small, sagging, the steps leaning like they were tired from holding their own weight.
Alastor slowed to a stop, looking it over with a slightly raised brow.
“…You live here?” he asked.
Alice’s face flushed hot with embarrassment.
“I know. I know it’s awful.”
He immediately straightened, expression shifting—as if catching himself.
“No—no, I didn’t mean it like that.” His tone gentled quickly. “It’s just… you’re far too lovely and beautiful of a soul to be tucked away in a place so—” he searched for a word, “forgotten.”
Alice blinked—heat blooming in her cheeks again but for a very different reason.
Alastor, realizing what he’d said, suddenly seemed unsure of his hands, his posture, everything.
“I—I simply mean—anyone with eyes could see that, dear” he added, stiffly attempting nonchalance.
Alice tried not to smile too wide, but it was hopeless.
She giggled softly. “Thank you, Alastor.”
His own cheeks turned pink.
“Yes, well. Quite.”
They stood there a moment—night air warm, street quiet, something unspoken floating between them.
Alastor tipped his hat, his grin sharp and mischievous. "Well, I guess it's goodnight, Miss Alice."
"Goodnight, Alastor," she murmured, watching as he disappeared into the night.
Alice could only stand there, frozen, as he turned and disappeared into the dark.
She exhaled at last, realizing she’d been holding her breath. “...What just happened?” she whispered to herself, her cheeks still burning.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Alice woke to the shrill ringing of her apartment phone.
She groaned, burying her face in her pillow.
It was far too early for anything good to be happening.
She fumbled the receiver to her ear.
“…Hello?”
Mimzy’s voice blasted through the line like a trumpet solo.
“ALICE! You will not BELIEVE this!”
Alice squinted at the ceiling, still half-asleep.
“…What.”
“You know that new manager? Mr. Corbin?”
Alice grumbled, “Yeah, I met him last night. And let me tell you—he is a complete—”
“He’s DEAD!”
Alice sat straight up like she’d been shocked.
“What!?”
“Oh yeah! They found him in the club this morning!” Mimzy exclaimed, far too excited for someone delivering news of a homicide. “Apparently he had this big ol’ slash across his face—like a smile. Real gruesome stuff.”
Alice froze.
She knew that description.
Everyone did.
New Orleans’ infamous serial killer.
The one who carved grins into his victims.
“Oh my god… I was AT that club!” she squeaked.
“I KNOW!” Mimzy wailed. “I swear I picked ONE NIGHT to take off and I missed a murder! Unbelievable!”
Alice’s sleepiness evaporated, memories from last night hitting her like a brass band.
“Oh, Mimzy—Mimzy—Mimzy. You’re never going to guess what happened last night.”
“MORE happened besides the murder!?” she demanded. “I miss one shift and the universe throws a full production number—great!”
Alice laughed.
“Well… I think I got a new job.”
Silence.
Then—
“WHAT!? What do you MEAN!?”
Alice launched into the story—seeing Alastor, the talking, the job offer, the punching Jeremy, the walking home.
Mimzy, horrified and delighted: “He beat a man up for you!?”
Alice, flustered: “Well—yes—but also no—but also yes—look, the point is—”
Mimzy gasped dramatically.
“Miss Everglow. You are SMITTEN.”
Alice flailed. “No! Absolutely not! I—no! I mean… he did say I was beautiful before I went inside…”
“NO HE DID NOT.”
Alice smiled ear to ear “He so did!”
Mimzy sounded personally betrayed.
“Wow. He’s never called me beautiful. And I literally show up to work covered in glitter.”
Alice giggled until her stomach hurt.
Then Mimzy asked, “So when do you start?”
Alice hesitated.
“Well… he asked if I could start today but, I was booked one more night for the club, but… If Mr. Corbin was murdered, I guess not.. So I guess I should call him.”
“Well yeah!’” Mimzy snorted.
“Oh! And also,” Alice added, “He wants to take me to dinner to talk more about the job.”
“…Dinner,” Mimzy repeated.
“What?”
“You’re telling me: a man calls you beautiful, punches some jerk into the floor for you, walks you home, and then asks you to dinner—”
Alice braced.
“THAT, my darling, is a DATE.”
“No it’s not,” Alice protested. “It’s strictly professional!”
Mimzy hummed a tune of disbelief.
“Mhmm. Sure. And I am the King of England.”
Alice rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw the back of her skull.
But… she was still smiling.
Mimzy sniffed dramatically through the receiver.
“Anyway. What are you wearing?”
Alice blinked up at her ceiling. “I—don’t know? I have no idea where he’s even taking me. I just… want to look nice.”
“Oh ho ho,” Mimzy crowed, delighted. “Because you want him to call you beautiful again?”
Alice rolled her eyes.
“No,” she said.
But Alice knew that was a lie.
“Sure, sweetheart, sure,” Mimzy teased. “Call me tonight. I want details. If you leave anything out I’ll go knock on his studio door myself.”
Alice laughed. “I will, I promise.”
“And wear red. If I know Al, he’ll wear red. He always wears red.”
Alice hesitated.
“…Really?”
“Oh yeah. He’s got a whole theme. Trust me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Alice hung up.
The apartment went quiet.
Her heart was doing something stupid—falling.
She slipped out of bed and crossed the room to the little table where the phone book lived under a stack of bills. She flipped pages with shaking fingers until she found it:
Broussard Radio Broadcasting Studio.
Her pulse thumped in her ears as she dialed.
It only rang once.
“Hello there!” came Alastor’s bright, crisp voice. “Alastor Broussard’s Radio Station! How may I assist you this lovely morning?”
His cheeriness almost knocked her over.
“Um—hi. It’s, uh… Alice, Alice Everglow.”
There was a shift—warm, pleased.
“Alice! Good morning. How are you today?”
Alice exhaled. “Well… funny thing. Or I guess… not funny.”
She braced herself.
“My new manager was murdered last night.”
A quiet beat.
Then, calm as still water:
“Mon Dieu, really? You don’t say.”
Alice rubbed her temple. “Yeah. They’re saying it was that serial killer. The… smile one. It’s crazy, we could have been in the same room as him and never even known.”
“Yes,” Alastor said lightly. “The world is full of surprises.”
Something in his tone made the hairs on her arms lift—but she shook it off.
“Well, anyway,” she continued, “I’m not working today because of… that. So I’m free for dinner. If the offer still stands.”
“Oh, splendid!” Alastor’s voice brightened instantly. “I’ll pick you up at 6:30. On the dot.”
Alice smiled without meaning to. “Okay. Where are we going? And how should I… dress?”
“That,” he said, voice wrapping around the words like silk ribbon, “is a surprise. But do wear something nice.”
“O-okay,” she said, suddenly shy.
“Wonderful. I look forward to this evening, Alice.”
And then—click.
Alice lowered the receiver slowly.
Her heart was practically beating out of her ribs.
Alice spent the rest of the day pacing circles in her tiny apartment—back and forth across the creaking floorboards, wearing a path into them. She tried not to think of it as a date, truly she didn’t—but her stomach didn’t seem to get the message. Her nerves had set up camp there and were not leaving.
She pulled out the nicest dress she owned: a soft red one, worn but still lovely, the color warming her pale skin. She clasped her mother’s pearl necklace around her throat—her hands shook a little—and let her golden hair fall loose for once. No pins. No harsh curls. Just her.
The clock ticked. And ticked. And ticked.
6:29…
Alice stood frozen in front of the mirror, breath shallow.
6:30.
A gentle, polite knock.
Her heart stopped.
She opened the door.
Alastor stood there in a red pinstripe suit—just as Mimzy said he would. His posture was immaculate, his smile easy, and there was something striking about him in the dim hallway light—sharp edges softened by warmth.
For a full beat, they simply looked at one another.
Alice had always thought him handsome in a peculiar, magnetic sort of way—his foxlike grin, his confident posture, the way he seemed to command a room just by existing. But tonight?
Tonight, he was breathtaking.
Alastor’s eyes widened just slightly—like she had managed to surprise even him.
“My, my…” he murmured. His voice was warm honey. “Miss Alice. You look positively stunning.”
Her face flamed hot. She dipped her head, suddenly shy. “You… look very handsome yourself.”
He laughed—a bright, delighted sound—and took her hand, lifting it to his lips. The kiss was soft. Gentlemanly.
“Why, thank you. And look at us,” he added lightly, “matching without even planning it. Red does love you, Miss Alice.”
Alice swallowed. Her heart fluttered. And because she could not think of anything clever, she simply let him guide her down the stairs and out into the evening air, his arm linked with hers.
New Orleans night was warm, humming softly with jazz and cicadas.
“So,” Alice managed, finally. “Where are we going?”
Alastor hummed—amused, secretive.
“Well, I did consider taking you to my favorite speakeasy. Charming place, lovely music—but you’ve spent far too many evenings in places like that, haven’t you? No. No, that simply wouldn't do for tonight.”
Alice blinked, curious. “Then where—?”
He lifted a hand, gesturing ahead.
Alice followed his gaze—and stopped walking.
Her breath caught.
The restaurant before them glowed softly against the street of the French Quarter, all warm golden light behind tall windows. Antoine's. She had walked past it dozens—hundreds—of times. People whispered about it. Important people. Wealthy people. People who weren’t… her.
She had never even dreamed of stepping inside.
But Alastor simply smiled at her expression.
“I take it I’ve chosen well?”
Alice nodded, a little dazed. “I’ve always wanted to come here. Always.”
Alastor chuckled, pleased.
“Well then. Tonight,” he said, offering his arm once more with theatrical flourish,
“you shall dine like a queen.”
Alice felt something warm bloom in her chest.
She took his arm.
As they stepped inside, Alice felt the world shift around her.
The restaurant was nothing like the cramped, dim taverns she was used to. Here, everything glowed. Warm golden light poured from chandeliers like captured sunlight, reflected softly in polished mahogany and glass. The air was thick with the scent of butter, wine, and spices—rich and inviting. A jazz trio played in the corner, the smooth trumpet weaving gently with piano and brushed snare, creating a sound that felt like velvet.
Alice stared, wide-eyed.
She had never seen beauty like this—not up close, not where she could touch it.
For a moment, a quiet thought crept up from her chest and lodged itself in her throat:
I don’t belong here.
Girls like her didn’t sit beneath chandeliers. Girls like her scrubbed floors beneath them.
Her stomach tightened.
But Alastor’s hand brushed lightly against her back—guiding, not pushing—and the uncertainty folded in on itself. He led her toward a booth near the back. The seat cushions were plush, deep red velvet that seemed too soft to sit on. They slid into their seats, facing one another across the polished table.
Alice fell silent. She was never one to speak much, but here, the words trapped themselves before they even formed. Under Alastor’s gaze—sharp, amused, and far too perceptive—she suddenly felt like she took up too much space. She fiddled with the hem of her dress, looking anywhere but at him.
Alastor, in contrast, looked perfectly at home—like this world had been made precisely for him. He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand, studying her with the kind of interest that made her feel seen in a way she wasn’t sure she wanted.
“So…” he murmured, cutting gently through the silence. “Have you always been this quiet?”
Alice let out a tiny laugh, thin and nervous. “Yeah… I guess so.”
He smiled—slow and entertained. “How mysterious. A woman of few words. Though I am curious—why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”
Alice blinked, unsure where to begin, unsure if she should begin.
Seeing her hesitate, he softened the question. “Alright. Something simple. Where are you from?”
That, at least, she knew how to answer.
“I’m from Jacksonville, North Carolina," she said. “I lived with my parents and my sister. My father was a pastor there.”
“Oh, how quaint,” Alastor said lightly, though not unkindly. “And what brings you all the way to New Orleans?”
Alice’s smile faltered, as if the question tugged at something tender.
“Well… some unfortunate things happened.” Her voice went small. “And I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
Alastor tilted his head, studying her more closely—but before he could speak—
CRASH.
A waiter dropped a tray across the dining room. Plates shattered like gunshots against tile. Conversation died. Eyes turned.
Alice jumped.
Her body jolted violently, breath catching in her throat. Her hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles blanched. For one terrible heartbeat, she was back in that house—back with her ex fiance— back with his hurtful words and even more hurtful hands.
The restaurant slowly returned. People resumed talking. The music continued. Life moved on.
Alice couldn’t.
Alastor had not reacted to the crash at all. He simply looked at her. Really looked.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice quiet, stripped of theatrics.
Alice’s face burned. “Y-Yeah. I’m fine.”
Alastor didn’t believe her, and Alice could tell. His eyes held the same stillness as a man in the middle of solving a puzzle.
“…I just don’t like loud noises,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t pry. He just waited.
Alice’s chest tightened. The silence asked for truth, and she feared her vague answer just made her look more crazy.
Alice took a deep breath “The truth is…When I was back home…” Her voice faltered, the words catching in her chest before she forced herself to breathe again. “My father arranged for me to marry a man almost twice my age. I didn’t want to. I begged not to. But, my father wouldn’t change his mind.”
Her fingers curled in her lap, nails digging into her palms.
“My ex-fiance was… a very demanding man.” The word demanding felt too small, too polite—like trying to describe a forest fire as just warm. “He wanted to bed me before we were even wed. And I—” Her voice thinned, trembling. “I was raised to believe that meant something sacred. So when I refused, he became… cruel.”
The air felt too tight, too shallow. She swallowed hard.
“He would say things that made me feel small. Worthless. And when words didn’t work—” She stopped, chest rising sharply. “His hands did.”
The silence that followed was heavy—thick as smoke.
Alice stared down, blinking hard, as if trying not to cry in a place too beautiful for tears.
“When I finally worked up the courage to tell my father,” she continued, voice cracking carefully apart, “he didn’t believe me. He said I was being dramatic. Ungrateful.” Her breath shook. “He told me to do my duty, for the family, for God.”
For a moment, she looked like a ghost—someone speaking about their own death.
“So I ran away," she whispered. “In the middle of the night. I walked until my feet bled and got on a train” Her hands trembled in her lap. “And… I ended up here in Louisiana "
A heavy silence hung between them.
Alastor’s expression did not shift, but something in his eyes darkened. Not pity. Something sharper. Deeper.
Then, Alastor let out a quiet, "Mon Dieu... That's awful."
Alice tried to smile, to shrug it off. “It’s fine now. It’s all in the past.”
“Oh, but it is something,” Alastor replied gently. “And yet here you are—dismissing it, as though it were no more than a storm that simply passed. How curious.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. No one had ever refused to let the conversation end there.
Thankfully, the waiter returned with menus, and the tension eased like a held breath released. They ordered—steak for Alastor, shrimp for Alice—and conversation softened again.
But as the minutes passed, Alice found herself thinking:
I can’t believe I told him all of that.
She had never spoken that whole story aloud. Not once.
The silence that followed was thick—not uncomfortable, just full. Like the air between them had weight now.
Alice cleared her throat and let out a small, shaky laugh. “I’m… sorry,” she said, fingers twisting the cloth napkin in her lap. “I didn’t mean to say all that. I don’t know why I just… spilled everything like that. Especially on our first dinner.”
Alastor flicked his hand dismissively, a light grin returning to his face. “Think nothing of it, my dear. I did ask, after all.” He tapped his fingers against the table, rhythmic and thoughtful. “And I’ve always found people’s stories—true stories—much more captivating than any polite small talk.”
Despite his casual tone, his eyes were still watching her closely.
Alice, still feeling painfully bare from her own confessions, tried to deflect.
“Well… now that you know my entire life story,” she said with a small, wobbly smile, “why don’t you tell me a little about you and your family?”
For just a heartbeat—quick as a breath—Alastor’s expression slipped.
A shadow.
A flicker behind the eyes.
Then the grin slid neatly back into place, smooth as polished glass.
“Oh, there’s really not much to say,” he replied lightly. The tone was light in the way a knife glints in the sun—pretty, but still sharp.
Alice hesitated. Then, gently, “Well, where are you from?”
Alastor’s smile widened—not in amusement, but in something harder to name.
“You wouldn’t know the place,” he said, almost teasing. “Some bayous, west of New Orleans.”
That surprised her. Alastor looked like he’d been born in the center of the city’s ballroom lights—so sleek and refined and cultured. She never would’ve pictured him waist-deep in swamp water under hanging moss.
“Oh—really?” she breathed. “I… I would never have guessed.”
He chuckled softly. “I get that a lot.”
Alice’s face brightened with a tender kind of nostalgia.
“I’ve always wanted to see the bayous here,” she admitted. “Back in North Carolina, we lived near the marshes. My grandpa—on my mom’s side—used to take us out on his fishing boat all the time.”
Her smile warmed—real and soft.
“My father never went. But my mother and my sister did.”
She let out a small laugh. “My sister Cindy hated it, though. Thought it was boring… and she swore the mosquitoes were going to eat her alive.”
Alastor’s laughter joined hers—quiet, but genuine.
Alice went on, her voice gentling.“But I always liked it. The stillness. The vines hanging low, how the water reflects the sky… and the animals, just being themselves.”
She looked up at him. “It always felt… peaceful. Like the world was whispering.”
Alastor’s eyes lingered on her a moment too long—something old and aching flickering there.
“Yes,” he said softly.
“One could say that.”
Alice smiled and was like “So, tell me about your folks”.
Alastor dropped for a moment, tone still deceptively casual “My father was… lacking, let’s say. And my mother—well, she was a good woman. Strict, but good.”
The way he said strict carried weight. And the way he said good carried something else entirely.
Alice tilted her head. “Do you still see her?”
Another flicker.
“No,” he said. “She passed away a few years ago.”
“Oh.” Alice’s voice softened. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged—not dismissive, but final. “Life goes on.”
“And your father?” she asked gently.
Alastor laughed. But it was not a warm laugh. It was sharp, amused, almost… cutting. “He’s long gone. Best that way.”
Alice felt a faint chill crawl up her spine. She didn’t press.
So instead she asked, quietly, “What was your mother like?”
This time, Alastor’s smile changed. It softened—subtly, but undeniably.
“She was remarkable,” he said, voice low with memory. “Strong, but with a softness when it mattered. She didn’t raise her voice often… but when she did, the whole house listened.” A small, nostalgic hum. “And she made the best jambalaya in all of Louisiana, it was to die for.”
Alice smiled, warmed by the way he spoke about her.
“She sounds wonderful.”
“Oh, she was,” he said—and for once, there was no performative lilt in his voice. Just the truth.
He tilted his head, regarding her again. “And your mother?”
Alice’s expression grew gentle. “She was a lot like me. Quiet. But… kind, we were very close.” Her smile softened with memory. “She sang in the church choir. She had the loveliest voice. Everyone said she sounded like an angel.”
“And your father?” Alastor asked.
Alice’s hands stilled. “Strict.” The word landed flat. “He always preferred my sister. Cindy—she was… everything I wasn’t. Sparkling, confident. Perfect.” Alice exhaled, then smiled faintly. “But we were close, me and Cindy. She never treated me the way the others did. And when I ran away… she helped me. She and Mimzy got me the job at the speakeasy.”
Alastor leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. “And so, you found yourself in a smoky jazz club, dancing in fringe and silk.” His grin widened. “A very interesting place for a pastor’s daughter to land.”
Alice laughed softly. “Not exactly the life I imagined. But… it’s the one I have.”
Alastor’s eyes glinted—curiosity, amusement, something sharper beneath.
“Well,” he said, voice warm and intent, “I must say, Alice… you continue to surprise me.”
Alice suddenly let out a small laugh. “Good lord,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re supposed to be talking about my radio job, and instead we’re—” she gestured vaguely, “—pouring out our entire life story.”
Alastor snickered, delighted. “Well, I did say dinner would be interesting.”
Alice smiled, cheeks tinted pink. “Still… we got awfully off track.”
“Quite right,” Alastor said, straightening as if conducting an interview. “Very well then. Qualifications! What sort of education do you have?”
Alice flushed and toyed with her fork. “Well… I was homeschooled. By my father. So it was, um… a lot of scripture and hymns and… scripture.”
Alastor clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Ah. A curriculum of God, Jesus, and—let me guess—the Holy Spirit.”
Alice let out a tiny laugh. “Pretty much.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Well! As long as you can read and write decently, you’ll already have more qualifications than most men in broadcasting.” He leaned in, voice bright and confident. “The rest is simply timing. Changing records. Announcing segments. Adjusting the phonograph. If you can walk and chew gum, you’ll be just fine.”
Alice felt a warm flutter of relief. “I… really hope so.”
Alastor’s grin softened—not sharp this time, but encouraging. “My dear, Miss Alice, I am certain of it.”
Then, their food arrived.
The scent alone made Alice’s eyes widen—warm butter, lemon, garlic, and spice rising from her plate. She took her first bite, and nearly melted. The shrimp was tender, flavorful, not rubbery or greasy like at the club. It was easily the best thing she had eaten in months—maybe years. She took small, savoring bites, almost reverent.
Across from her, Alastor cut into his steak with an almost theatrical elegance. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful, the corner of his lips curled in a faint, knowing smile—as if dinner itself was a performance he was enjoying to the fullest. Not rushed, not careless. A man who had all the time in the world.
They talked about everything and yet nothing—New Orleans jazz, silly speakeasy customers, the terrible fashion choices people made when drunk. Alice laughed more than she had in a long time. Alastor’s laugh, quiet and warm, felt like velvet—inviting, amused, intimate.
When they finished, Alastor paid the bill without hesitation.
Alice felt a tiny knot twist in her stomach. She hated accepting expensive favors. It made her feel… indebted.
But when she opened her mouth to protest, Alastor simply said:
“Consider it a celebration of your new employment. And a well-deserved treat.”
There was no smugness. No expectation. Just certainty.
So she said nothing. And for once—allowed herself to enjoy being cared for.
Outside, the night was alive.
Sparkly stars sprinkled the velvety night sky, warm streetlamps glowed amber against the cobblestone. Jazz drifted lazily from an open bar door. Laughter floated through the streets. People danced, strolled, lived. But tonight—it all felt different.
Maybe because Alastor’s arm was linked with hers.
Her heart fluttered, traitorous and warm. The city didn’t feel harsh tonight. Or overwhelming. Or lonely.
It felt… magical.
And that scared her.
Because this man was going to be her employer. Her boss. And yet—she could not deny the truth humming inside her ribs:
She was falling for him.
God help her—she was falling for him.
The walk ended too soon.
Her apartment building looked even sadder than usual under the streetlights—like it didn’t belong in the same world they had just stepped out of. Alastor did not comment this time. He only turned to her, expression gentler than she’d ever seen it.
He reached into his coat and withdrew a card—black with elegant gold lettering.
“My studio address,” he said. “Come by in the morning at nine o’clock sharp. We’ll get everything settled.”
Alice took it carefully, like it was something delicate. “Thank you… truly. For tonight. For believing I can do this.”
Alastor’s smile softened.
“Miss Alice,” he said, voice low and warm, “you are a far brighter girl than this city has ever given you credit for.”
Before she could respond, Alastor took her hand again—warm fingers curling delicately around hers—and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to her knuckles. The gesture was a bit old-fashioned, theatrical even, but somehow it felt sincere.
Alice’s breath caught, her heart tripping over itself.
“Good night, Miss Alice,” he murmured, voice low enough that the night seemed to lean closer to hear it.
Her face flushed a deep, rosy red. “G-Good night, Alastor. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He stepped back—then paused, his eyes flicking up to her hair, loose and golden in the lamplight.
“Ah—one more thing.”
His tone softened. “I must say, your hair is absolutely beautiful. You should leave it down more often.”
Alice blinked, flustered and warm all over. “Oh—thank you. I… I like it too.”
Something in her voice made his smile flicker, warm and pleased.
Then he tipped his hat in that same theatrical bow—dramatic, ridiculous, charming in a way only he could pull off.
Alice couldn’t help it—she laughed, light and breathless.
And then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the warm New Orleans night. His silhouette slipped into the glow of streetlamps, the faint sound of him humming drifting back to her—soft, steady, distant.
Alice stood there for a moment, dazed.
Then she slipped inside her apartment, closed the door behind her, leaned against it—and felt her heart fluttering wildly in her chest.
Lord help her—she was in love.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Alice rose before the sun, nerves and excitement fluttering in her chest. She took a long, warm shower to steady herself, then stood in front of her small mirror, braiding her hair neatly over one shoulder. She chose the nicest outfit she owned—simple, modest, and far more respectable than the glittering flapper dresses that filled most of her closet.
She really did need to go shopping, she realized. Sparkly dance dresses didn’t exactly say professional radio assistant.
With a deep breath, she stepped out into the soft morning air, humming under her breath as she walked. Part of her excitement came from the job… but most of it was because she would be seeing him again.
She immediately scolded herself for that.
He was her employer.
Her boss.
And surely he was just being kind last night—not flirting.
No one had ever flirted with Alice before. Why would they start now?
Still… she checked her reflection in shop windows on the walk there.
When she reached the address written on the card he’d given her, she stopped. The building was small but charming, well-kept, and warm-looking in a way that made her realize how cramped and dim her apartment truly was.
She was a few minutes early, but she knocked anyway—just once.
The door swung open at once.
Alastor stood there—not in his sharp dark suit, but in a simple white button-down and rolled sleeves, the kind of casualness that felt strange.
“Ah! Good morning, Miss Alice!” He greeted warmly. “Youre here a bit early but, I assume you just want to get a head start, I do admire that. Come in, come in—ready to begin?”
Alice nodded, and he led her inside. The lower level looked more like a cozy home than anything resembling a workplace—comfortable chairs, tidy shelves, sunlight through clean windows.
“You live here?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” he replied easily. “Convenient, really. The studio is upstairs.”
They climbed another flight, and when he opened the door to the studio—Alice had to blink.
It was… chaos.
Controlled chaos, perhaps—but chaos nonetheless.
Records stacked in haphazard towers, newspapers scattered like fallen leaves, walls plastered with posters and scribbled notes.
“This,” Alastor said, with a grand gesture, “is where I spend most of my hours.”
Alice tried not to laugh. “It’s… lively.”
“Mm, yes,” he said, almost sheepishly. “Organization is not my strong suit. That, my dear, is where you come in.”
Alice smiled. “All right. Where should I start?”
“Wherever your instincts lead you.”
Alice got straight to work cleaning the studio, and it was no small task. There wasn't any trash or filth, but there was stuff everywhere—stacks of newspapers, scattered notes, piles of records, and other odds and ends cluttering every available surface. It was like stepping into the mind of a mad genius, chaotic yet organized in its own strange way.

Alastor, meanwhile, sat at his desk, flipping through the newspaper and jotting down notes in a small leather-bound journal. Every so often, he'd mutter something under his breath or chuckle at a headline.
Alice had only just begun sweeping the studio when the phone on the other side of the room started ringing. Alastor didn’t even look up from his newspaper he was paging through—only lifted his eyes slightly, voice smooth as honey.
“Miss Alice, would you be a dear and get that?”
She nodded, setting the broom aside. “Of course.”
She crossed the studio, dust motes drifting in the golden afternoon light, and lifted the receiver to her ear.
She didn’t even get a word out before a voice burst through the line—sharp, furious, unmistakably familiar.
“AL! I swear to God, if you killed her I am actually going to knock your damn teeth out—”
Alice froze, eyes widening. “…Mimzy?”
There was a sudden gasp on the other end. “Alice? Alice, sugar, is that you?”
“Uh—yeah. What…what were you talking about?”
“Oh! Oh, don’t worry about that,” Mimzy rushed, her tone instantly sweet and breezy, though still electric with panic. “Just a little joke between me and Al. Anyway—you never called me last night!”
Alice’s stomach dropped. She had promised. Completely forgotten. Guilt nipped hard.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Everything got hectic and it just slipped my mind.”
“Well, I hope it went well,” Mimzy sing-songed. “And since you’re answering his phone… I’m guessing someone got lucky last night?”
Alice’s face went flat so fast it could’ve broken glass.
“No. Absolutely not. That’s disgusting. I’m just working.”
“Mmhm. Sure, hon. Whatever you say.”
Alice rolled her eyes and hung up before Mimzy could smirk through the line any harder.
From across the room, Alastor finally glanced up. “Who was that?”
Alice let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “It was just Mimzy. Good Lord, she’s dramatic. I couldn’t even say hello before she started accusing you of murdering me—all because I forgot to call her last night.”
Alastor’s expression shifted—surprise, then something tight, irritated.“She actually said that to you?” His voice was still smooth—but there was steel beneath it. His jaw had gone very still. The sort of stillness that meant someone, somewhere, was one wrong word away from catastrophe.
Alice lifted her hands gently, dismissive. “It’s fine. I know you’re not going to kill me, Alastor. That’s just Mimzy being Mimzy. She’s… interesting.”
He exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled.
The smile returned—but thinner. Less teeth.
“Yes,” he said softly.
“Interesting’ is one word for her.”
Then before Alice knew it, she was back to cleaning. It wasn't exactly fun, but compared to her old job, it was a dream. No sleazy men, no forced smiles, just some dusting and organizing. At least she could move freely without feeling watched—

Well... until she was being watched.

As Alice dusted off a nearby shelf, she started humming softly, swaying a little to the rhythm in her head. It was just an absentminded habit. But when she turned slightly, she caught Alastor staring at her.

The moment their eyes met, he immediately looked away, burying his face in the newspaper as if it suddenly contained the most riveting news in the world.
Alice blinked… then bit back a surprised smile.
How funny.
The charming, confident, smooth-talking Alastor—
looked, for that moment, like a flustered schoolboy.
Hours passed in a quiet blur of sweeping, dusting, and reorganizing shelves. By the time the clock chimed noon, Alice had made noticeable progress. Alastor stretched with theatrical flourish before clapping his hands together.
"I do believe it's time for lunch. Miss Alice, you've made quite the progress, you must be starved".
She followed him down stairs into a surprisingly large, tidy kitchen. It was well-stocked and smelled faintly of spice and warm herbs. The contrast between this orderly space and his chaotic studio was fascinating.
Alastor moved with practiced ease, gathering ingredients and preparing soup like it was second nature.
"You cook a lot?" Alice asked, leaning against the counter.
"Oh, quite often." His grin softened. "Cooking is a splendid art. And my mother made sure I learned my way around a kitchen. She believed a man should always be self-sufficient."
Alice smiled. "She sounded wise."
"That she was," he murmured—warmly.
A few minutes later, they sat down to steaming bowls of soup. Alice tasted it and blinked. It was good. Really good.
As they ate, Alice asked, "What time are you going on the air tonight?"
"Tonight? Oh, I won't be," Alastor said lightly. "I take Mondays off. One must keep a little mystery, after all."
Silence settled again—not uncomfortable, just quiet.
Alice looked up to find him reading. Again. She swore he always had a book, newspaper or something to read nearby at all times. Before she could look away, his eyes lifted and caught hers. He laughed softly as her face flushed and she hurriedly returned to her soup.
"Curious about my book?" he teased.
Alice cleared her throat. "Just noticed the title, it's not a book I've heard of before, that’s all."
Her eyes flicked to the spine.
The King in Yellow — Robert W. Chambers
"Most people haven’t read it," Alastor said, amusement dancing in his tone. "But it’s a favorite of mine."
"What’s it about?"
His expression brightened, delight blooming like a light turned on inside him.
"Ah, it’s a book of beauty, grandeur, transcendence—only to unravel into pure, exquisite madness!" he said, gesturing with elegant enthusiasm. "I adore stories that beckon you in with elegance before pulling the ground out from under you. It’s honest. The world is full of painted smiles hiding far more delicious chaos beneath."
Alice blinked. "Wow. That’s… definitely different from anything I’ve read."
"And what have you read?" he asked.
She shrugged, embarrassed. "Back home we weren’t allowed to read much outside the Bible and hymnals."
Alastor paused—surprised.
"No favorite books or stories? None at all?"
She shook her head “Not ones that aren't in the Bible.”
His smile faded—softly, not dramatically. The shift was subtle, but unmistakable. Concern, or something very near it, settled into his expression.
“Your life in North Carolina sounds truly dreadful,” he murmured.
Alice let out a breathy, almost embarrassed laugh. “Yeah… I suppose it was a bit dull.”
But as she said it, she realized—she wasn’t there anymore.
Her life now may be a bit uncertain, unsteady, strange…
but it was hers, in a way it had never been before. She had freedom now.
When they finished eating, Alice began collecting the dishes out of habit, but Alastor’s hand lightly touched hers—warm, deliberate, stopping her without force.
“No need for that.” He was already pushing up his sleeves, a graceful, fluid motion. “I’ll take care of these.”
Alice blinked. “Oh—are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” His grin returned, bright and easy. “Because I have a far more fitting task for you.”
She tilted her head, curious.
“There’s a lovely little library just down the street,” he continued. “Quiet. Sunlit. I believe you’ll enjoy it.”
Alice’s eyes lit up like a struck match. “A library? You want me to… read? For work?”
“Précisément.” He leaned one elbow against the counter, casual but attentive. “If you’re to be my radio assistant, you’ll need to learn how to look over scripts, offer suggestions, perhaps even help shape the content. And I’m afraid my program does not center around Biblical recitations.” His tone was teasing, not cruel.
Alice flushed but laughed softly. “Right. That makes sense.”
“And,” he added, voice dipping into something almost gentle, “you should really learn to make choices of your own. You have more freedom now than I think you even realize. It would be a shame not to use it. A mind is healthiest when it is allowed to wander.”
Her heart fluttered—but not in the romantic way this time.
In the hopeful way.
She nodded, almost glowing. “All right. I’d really love that, actually.”
Alastor’s smile widened, delighted, almost proud.
“I suspected you would.”
Alice slipped on her jacket, still warm from the hanger, a little flutter of excitement in her chest. Not just excitement for the job—though she truly was eager to learn—but excitement for the day itself. Something new. Something hers.
She stepped toward the door, then paused and glanced back at Alastor.
“Are you coming with me?” she asked, almost hopefully.
Alastor shook his head with an easy smile. “I have a few errands to attend to, unfortunately.”
Alice nodded. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”
He opened the front door for her, always the gentleman.
“Yes—bright and early. And tomorrow, you’ll learn how to assist me on air.”
Alice lit up. “I can’t wait.”
He dipped his head in a small, theatrical bow. “Be safe out there, Miss Alice.”
She stepped outside—and for a moment, it felt like stepping into a new chapter.
The October air nipped at her cheeks as she walked—unusually brisk for Louisiana, but not unwelcome. When she reached the library, Alice slowed to a stop.
It was beautiful.
A modest brick building, ivy draped along the window frames like nature’s lace. Warm yellow light glowed from inside, almost calling her in. It didn’t feel like a public place—it felt like a sanctuary.
Inside, a soft bell chimed. The comforting scent of old paper and polished wood washed over her. The world seemed to hush.
Behind the front desk sat an older Black gentleman with neatly combed silver hair and round glasses perched on his nose. His deep, smooth voice rumbled as he greeted her.

"Evenin', young lady. First time here?"

Alice offered him a shy smile. "Yes, sir."

"Well, take your time. We got all sorts of treasures here," he said with a warm chuckle.

Alice nodded and stepped further inside, her eyes widening as she took in the towering bookshelves.
Alice wandered slowly, fingertips brushing along the spines of books. In Mississippi, books were luxuries tied to scripture or duty. Curiosity had always been something she had to hide.
But here—curiosity was allowed.
Her gaze caught on a small display labeled Halloween Selections. It seemed fitting for the time of year.
She plucked up a book she’d only heard faint things about: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.
She didn’t know what to expect.
But she carried it to a cozy armchair, curled into it, and opened the first page.
And the world disappeared.
She read of ambition, of creation, of rejection.
Of something made with love, abandoned in fear.
“Oh come on,” she murmured at one point, eyebrows furrowing. “You spend all that time making the poor dear and then you just leave him?”
Her frustration made her grin at herself—and read faster.
Time slipped past her like a dream.
Until—
“Miss?”
She blinked, heart jumping. The librarian stood beside her, offering a gentle, apologetic smile.
“Hate to interrupt you, but I'm closin’ up for the night.”
Alice looked to the windows—and nearly gasped.
The sky was ink-black.
“Oh! I—I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
“Dont worry, it happens all the time to the best of readers.” he said with a wink.
She checked the book out, thanked him warmly, and stepped into the cool night—hugging the novel to her chest like a treasure. Cars passed her as she walked under the New Orlean’s stars.
She hadn’t walked long before a red Ford rolled up beside the sidewalk.
Her heart leapt to her throat.
For one awful second—she thought she was about to be dragged into a car.
Then the window rolled down.
Alastor.
“What on earth are you doing out this late?” he asked, tone light but eyes sharp.
Alice exhaled in relief and almost laughed. “Just walking home from the library.”
His brows rose. “The library? My, my—you must have been there for hours.”
Alice nodded sheepishly. “I… may have gotten a bit carried away. The librarian even had to kick me out.”
Alastor laughed—a delighted, ringing sound. “Well then, get in. I’ll drive you home.”
Alice didn’t hesitate. She slipped into the passenger seat, warming in the familiarity of him.
Alice shifted the book in her lap and glanced over at him. “So… what errands did you have to run?”
For just a moment, Alastor’s face froze. It was so quick she could have just imagined—but it was there. His fingers tapped the steering wheel, once.
“Ummmm….Ah,” he said lightly, as though recalling something entirely unimportant. “Just a meeting with a few other radio men in town. Discussing equipment. Frequencies. Boring technical matters, nothing too entertaining.”
He said it too quickly. Too smoothly. Like a man who had practiced an answer he didn’t expect to be questioned on.
Alice didn’t notice—she was too busy trying not to stare at how his eyes glowed in the dashboard lights.
Alastor immediately leaned into a brighter tone. “So,” Alastor said, pulling back onto the road, “what book has captured your soul so thoroughly?”
“Frankenstein.”
Alastor’s eyebrows shot up. “Goodness! Straight from holy scripture to gothic literature? You don’t waste time, do you?”
Alice laughed with him, cheeks pink from excitement. “I know! I know! But it’s just—fun. And it makes me think—like—actually think and feel, and it’s just feels—”
“Alive?” Alastor finished for her, his voice dipping into something softer—almost reverent.
Alice blinked at him, surprised, he read her mind.
He smiled forward again, eyes on the road.
“Stories have a way of doing that.”
Alastor pulled up to the curb outside Alice’s run-down apartment building. The paint peeled, the windows rattled in their frames, and the porch light flickered like it was too tired to stay awake.
Alice’s stomach tightened. She didn’t want to get out. She didn’t want the night to end. She could stay in that car and talk to him for hours—about books, the weather, nothing at all. It didn’t matter. Being near him felt safe. And exciting. And terrifying.
When the car stopped, she forced herself to look at him—and the breath left her chest.
The streetlight outside cast long golden shadows across his tan face, softening his sharp cheekbones and catching in his deep brown eyes. His brown curls were mussed from the wind, falling in loose waves across his forehead. His expression was gentle, almost warm in a way she rarely saw from him.
He looked beautiful. Too beautiful.
“Well,” Alastor said quietly, his smile curling at the edges. “I’ll see you tomorrow, miss Alice.”
His voice was smooth—soft in a way that made her heart trip.
“Yeah,” she said, swallowing hard. “Bright and early.”
She didn’t trust herself to look at him a moment longer. She pushed open the door and climbed out, clutching the book to her chest like a shield. Alastor lifted a hand in a casual wave before the car pulled away, his taillights fading into the night.
Alice stayed where she was.
The air was cool and damp and smelled faintly of rain. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared up at the dark windows of her building.
She was in love. For real. Helplessly and hopelessly.
And that scared her more than anything.
She had only tasted love once before—and it had broken her. Bruised her. Left her ashamed of ever having believed in something so fragile and soft.
She didn’t think Alastor would hurt her like that—not physically. He was careful with her. Charming. Gentle in the ways that mattered.
But emotionally? She had no idea what he felt. She couldn’t read him. He was kind—yet distant. Bright—yet guarded. He let her close, but not inside.
If she confessed and he didn’t feel the same…
He could fire her.
She would have nothing.
Alice let out a long, shaky breath, her eyes stinging.
She didn’t know what to do.
But she knew one thing for certain.
Tomorrow morning, when the studio lights flickered on and the broadcast began—
She would be there.
now, she was content.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Alice woke up in her warm bed, earlier than she had expected. The sun had only just begun to rise, bathing the city in a soft golden glow. Despite the early hour, she felt completely refreshed.

Plus a morning walk sounded like a good idea.

The morning air was damp, carrying the scent of freshly baked bread. The streets were quiet, with only a few shopkeepers setting up for the day at this early hour. Alice pulled her coat a little tighter around herself as she made her way toward a small bakery she had passed by before. It was a charming little place, the kind that felt warm even from the outside.
The scent of warm sugar and fried dough greeted Alice the moment she stepped into the bakery, soft and comforting like a warm memory she wished she had more of. She couldn’t help smiling. beignets would be a perfect treat this morning—maybe Alastor would like some too.
She slipped into line, when a low conversation at a nearby table caught her attention.
“Another one last night,” a man murmured, voice heavy with something like excitement and dread.
Alice’s ears pricked.
“Who?” his companion asked.
“The Grinning Louisiana Killer.”
The words struck Alice cold.
Alice looked up sharply, her pulse stuttering.
“Same thing as before,” the man continued. “Smile carved right across his face. Like he died laughin’.”
Alice’s stomach went tight. The killer again. The same one who had murdered her awful manager at the club. The same killings whispered about in every alley, bar, and street corner for years now—never caught, never seen, just felt.
The people at the table leaned in closer.
“Strangest part,” one whispered, “he only goes after bad guys. Gangsters, liars, cheaters, men who had it comin’. Some folks think he’s some kinda vigilante.”
An older woman cleaning a nearby table snorted, not bothering to lower her voice.
“He is a hero. Lord knows the police won’t do nothin’ about the filth in this city. Someone’s gotta take out the trash.”
Alice frowned. A murderer was still a murderer. She had to believe that. But… vigilante justice was not unheard of in stories. Just never in real life.
Her eyes drifted to a stack of newspapers on the counter—GRINNING KILLER STRIKES AGAIN splashed across the front page. She reached for one, thinking Alastor might want to mention this on his show.
The bakery owner paused from dusting sugar over a fresh tray of beignets and eyed her with a raised brow.
“That’s some heavy news for a girl like you.”
Alice wanted to roll her eyes—but instead, she smiled politely. “I’ll be alright.”
She paid, gathered the warm beignets and the newspaper, and stepped out into the sunlit street. The air was warm, sweet, almost lazy, and she decided to take the long way back.
Magnolia trees lined the sidewalk, and music drifted faintly from a radio somewhere down the block. But as she rounded the corner, the scene changed—voices rising, boots scraping pavement, a crowd pressed tight.
Police. Crime tape. Blood.
Alice froze.
The smell hit her first—the iron tang of it. Then she saw him.
A man lay sprawled on the pavement, his body twisted unnaturally, his eyes glassy and lifeless. But it was the smile—the horrible carved smile—that made Alice’s knees weaken. Then she recognized the man.
Jeremy Bakersfield.
The smug, greasy stock advisor from the club. The one who cheated people out of their savings. The one who had once tried to corner her outside the door.
Alice’s throat tightened.
She should have looked away. Should have turned around. Should have run.
But she stood there, frozen, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. There was something so personal about the cut of that smile. Something that didn’t just kill a man—but mocked him.
Her fingers trembled around the warm paper bag in her arms.
Finally, she forced herself to move, swallowing hard as she backed away, then turned and walked—quickly, then faster—down the street. The image clung to her, sharp and vivid, refusing to leave even as she put blocks between herself and the scene.
Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
No matter how warm the sun was.
No matter how sweet the beignets smelled.
She couldn’t stop seeing that smile.
Alice rounded the final corner to Alastor’s studio, clutching the warm beignet bag and newspaper to her chest—but her hands were trembling so violently she could barely hold anything at all. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape.
The pattern was too clear.
Too close.
Too personal.
Her manager at the club—killed the night after he cornered her.
Jeremy Bakersfield—the sleazy stock man who had tried to force her into dancing with him—dead the very next morning.
For the past few days, every terrible encounter with a man… the Grinning Louisiana Killer struck.
Her breath hitched.
What if he’s watching me?
What if he’s following me around the city, lurking behind street corners and lampposts?
What if he was choosing his victims based on the men who dared to touch me?
And then—her stomach dropped—
What if he goes after Alastor?
Her chest tightened so hard it hurt. The thought of losing him—of something terrible happening to him—made her almost dizzy.
By the time she reached his front steps, Alice could barely breathe.
She lifted her hand to knock, but it hovered uselessly in the air. For a moment she simply stood there, frozen—then finally, shakily, knocked.
There was a pause.
Too long.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
Then the door opened.
Alastor stood there—hair slightly tousled, shirt sleeves rolled up, unmistakably just woken. He looked… softer like this. Normal. Quiet.
His expression changed instantly when he saw her.
“Miss Alice?” he blinked once, taking in her trembling posture, the red rims of her eyes. His voice dropped lower, steadier. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Alice opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her throat locked tight as if something were pressing a hand against it.
Alastor didn’t force her to speak.
He simply stepped closer and, with a touch light enough to barely be felt, guided her toward the chair near his desk.
A hand at the small of her back—steady, careful.
Almost gentle.
She sat. The newspaper, wrinkled in her trembling grip, crackled loud in the quiet room.
Alastor’s eyes dropped to it.
And then he went still.
Utterly still.
It was the kind of stillness that felt less like calm and more like a blade being drawn behind the ribs.
Alice swallowed, forcing air back into her lungs.
“I—I went out to get beignets and… I heard people talking. About another murder.”
Her voice was thin, stretched.
“From the Grinning Louisiana Killer.”
He didn’t speak.
His expression didn’t change.
But something sharp awakened behind his eyes—dark and precise.
He watched her.
Not the paper.
Her.
Her fingers clenched against the newsprint. “I grabbed the paper so you could use it for tonight’s show—I thought maybe—”
“You got this newspaper for me?”
His voice cut through her explanation, not harsh—just… startled.
Alice blinked. “Yeah. I thought you might want to talk about it on your radio show.”
Silence stretched—long enough that her heart began to pound in her ears.
Then something shifted in him again—not quite softening, but loosening.
Like a rope being released from a too-tight knot.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he said quietly.
“…However,” he continued, tone gentling but somehow deeper, “that alone is not what has you in this state.”
She breathed in, too fast, too shallow. “I saw it, Alastor.” Her voice cracked. “Just a few blocks from here. It was Jeremy Bakerfield.”
The room went cold.
Alastor didn’t flinch, didn’t gasp—just blinked, slow and deliberate. “I see,” he said. “I’m sorry you witnessed that. That must have been… dreadful.”
“It’s not just that.” Alice pressed her hands to her chest, trying to still her racing heart. “This keeps happening. The day after I interact with someone, they die. My manager. And now Jeremy.” She looked up, eyes glassy. “It feels like—like he’s watching me. Like he’s following me, and I don’t know why.”
Alastor leaned back slightly, unreadable. “Yes… the timing is curious.” Then, softer. “But coincidences can stack in odd ways. And it’s not as though any of those men were—pleasant individuals.”
“I don’t care if they weren’t saints!” Alice burst out. “They were still people. And—” her voice broke, “I’m terrified, Alastor. Truly terrified.”
Her eyes lifted to his, wide and earnest and so afraid.
“What if he comes after you next?”
For a moment, the room held still.
Then Alastor gave a short, unexpected laugh. “My dear, I promise you—I’m in no danger.”
Alice’s eyes flashed with fear and frustration. “Alastor, this isn’t funny!”
He softened instantly. His expression was not smug, not flippant—just calm. Comforting.
“No, it isn’t,” he agreed gently. “And I apologize. I only mean to reassure you.” He reached out, brushing his thumb lightly across the back of her trembling hand. “You are not being stalked. You are not in danger. And I give you my word—nothing is going to happen to me.”
Her breath wavered. “How can you possibly know that?”
His gaze held hers—deep, steady, and painfully earnest.
“I—I just have a feeling, it's gonna be alright, I promise."
Alastor exhaled softly, then gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Well then, Miss Alice… why don’t we settle in” He lifted the paper bag she’d brought. “You fetched us beignets, did you not? Let’s enjoy them. I’ll put on a record. We can eat first—then worry about the broadcast.”
It was such a normal suggestion that Alice felt her panic finally loosen its grip. She nodded, breathing in slowly. “That… actually sounds lovely.”
Alastor’s hand brushed her shoulder as he rose—light, but steady. The touch sent a bloom of warmth through her chest before she could stop it. He crossed the room and set a soft jazz record spinning—something mellow, something golden and warm that filled the studio like sunlight breaking through fog.
They sat together at his small table, powdered sugar dusting their fingers as they ate. Alastor skimmed the newspaper she’d brought, eyes flicking sharply over each line. Alice, meanwhile, let her mind drift—her heartbeat finally slowing to something human again.
Then a thought hit her, and she let out a tiny snicker.
Alastor’s eyes lifted. “What’s so amusing, Miss Alice?”
Alice tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “When I was at the bakery… people were talking about the killer. And this one woman—she said she thought of him as a hero.”
Alastor’s brows lifted, his expression flickering between surprise and something unreadable. “A hero?”
“Well…” Alice shrugged, though she looked uneasy admitting it. “I guess, they only go after awful men. So I guess some people feel like… I don’t know… karma is just coming a little faster for them than for everyone else.”
There was a beat of silence.
Alastor did not comment. He only watched her.
Alice continued, voice quiet, almost guilty. “I don't know, I just—I know I should feel worse about it. They were still people, of course. And I don’t believe in hurting anyone.” She pushed powdered sugar around her plate absently. “But it’s hard to feel sympathy for men who hurt others, hurt me. You know…maybe, the Lord really does just work in mysterious ways.”
Alastor let out a sudden, genuine laugh—rich, bright, real, not the theatrical sound he used around everyone else. “My, my! What a morbid sentiment. And here I thought you were a good little Christian girl.”
Alice smirked softly, but her eyes were tired. “I am. I just… see things a little differently now.”
That evening, Alice kept herself busy in the studio—almost gratefully so. Alastor had taught her his routine and it helped steady her. She adjusted the microphone height, checked the signal levels the way Alastor had shown her, and arranged the records he had set aside for the night’s broadcast into a neat, curated stack. The scent of dust, warm tubes, and old vinyl wrapped around her like a blanket.
She brewed his coffee last—carefully. Black. No sugar. Never sugar. She stirred the dark surface out of habit more than necessity, watching faint steam coil into the lamplit air.
The studio door creaked open behind her, followed by the distinct pattern of Alastor’s steps—light, even, unhurried. He never seemed to walk so much as glide.
“Ah! Miss Alice—already hard at work, I see!” His voice came bright, warm, theatrical in that charming way that always filled a room before he actually did.
Alice turned and handed him the cup. Her smile was small, but sincere. “Just making sure everything’s ready. And… your coffee.”
Alastor accepted it with a flourish, lifting the cup like someone about to deliver a dramatic toast. “You are going to spoil me,” he drawled, eyes crinkling with delight. “Truly. I’ll become absolutely intolerable, you know.”
He took a slow sip, savoring, and let out a pleased hum—low, approving.
“Perfect,” he declared, voice softening in a way that felt unguarded. “Just as I like it.”
Alice blushed slightly but quickly turned her focus back to the studio equipment as Alastor settled in. She found it fascinating, watching him prepare. The way he sat up straight, the way his fingers danced over the dials, adjusting the volume with ease. It was like second nature to him.

And then—showtime.

With a flick of the switch, the red "On Air" light blinked on, and Alastor transformed.

"Good evening, New Orleans! This is Alastor Broussard, bringing you the finest tunes and tantalizing tales this side of the Mississippi!"

Alice shivered. His voice was utterly hypnotic, He even put on a transatlantic accent, he sounded like he was from HollyWood. Smooth, rich, and commanding. Even though she was sitting right there in the studio, she could almost imagine herself being transported into the night air outside, where thousands of people were tuning in to hear him.

He began as always, discussing the day's weather. "It's been a pleasant enough day, wouldn't you say? But don't get too comfortable, my friends—the forecast suggests a bit of rain is on the horizon, so be sure to keep those umbrellas handy!"

Then, he shifted into sports, rattling off the latest scores and upcoming games with practiced ease. Alice found it amusing—she doubted he really cared about sports, but he certainly made it sound exciting.

And then, as she suspected he would, he moved on to the biggest story in the city.

"Now, I know you've all been talking about it—the latest unfortunate soul to fall victim to the Grinning Louisiana Killer!" His voice took on a theatrical edge, dripping with mock suspense. "That's right, dear listeners, another name added to the list. And who was the lucky winner this time? Jeremy Bakersfield!"

Alice watched as he shot her a brief glance, his grin never faltering.

"Now, my dear listeners, some folks are calling our mysterious vigilante—a dark avenger prowling the streets! Others think he's nothing but a menace. But what do you think? Should the city be afraid? Or is he simply taking out the trash?"

His voice sent a shiver down Alice's spine. He spoke about it so casually, so smoothly. She knew it was his job to keep the listeners entertained, but... there was something too natural about the way he spoke of it.

Alastor gave her a small motion, signaling her to start the first record. Alice quickly placed it onto the turntable and lowered the needle. As the music crackled to life, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

For the next few hours, they fell into the rhythm of the show. Alastor would talk about a song, share some background information, and then motion for Alice to start the next record. She was amazed by how much he knew—not just about the music itself, but about the artists, the inspirations behind the songs, even little historical facts that made her see them in a new light.

She wasn't even listening through a radio, yet she felt like she was learning just by sitting in the same room as him.

As the night went on, Alice found herself mesmerized by him in a way she hadn't been before. She had always admired his confidence, his charisma—but there was something more to it now. The way he spoke, the passion in his voice, the way he loved what he did. It was impossible not to be drawn in.

She had always known she had feelings for him, but tonight, she felt herself falling even more.

After Alastor finished his show, he leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms before turning to Alice with an expectant grin.

"Well, what did you think?"

Alice smiled brightly. "I thought you were amazing. You have such a natural way with words, you sounded like the people from HollyWood—it's like you were born to do this."

Alastor chuckled, clearly pleased with the praise. "Ah, flattery will get you everywhere, Alice!" He tipped an imaginary hat to her. "But in all seriousness, you did a splendid job tonight. Smooth as butter, not a hitch in sight."

Alice beamed. "Really?"

"Of course! A lesser assistant might have fumbled a record, knocked over my precious coffee, or—heaven forbid—spoken on air without permission!" He gave her a playful, exaggerated look of horror. "But you? You were perfect."

Alice laughed, feeling a warm sense of pride.

"Well then," Alastor continued, standing up and stretching, "seeing as we've wrapped up a rather successful evening, how about we go out and celebrate? There's a certain speakeasy I think we'd both enjoy, if you're up for it that is."

Alice hesitated for a moment. She was about to just head home, but something about the way Alastor was looking at her—mischievous, inviting—made her throw caution to the wind.

"Why not?" she said with a grin.

Alastor clapped his hands together. "That's the spirit! Come on, Miss Alice, I'll drive you home so you can get all dolled up."
They hurried to Alastor’s car, laughter still lingering between them, and once they were inside, Alastor flicked on the radio. A jazzy tune crackled through the speakers, warm and lively, and without hesitation he began to sing along—smooth, rich, effortlessly melodic.
Alice blinked, stunned for a moment. She had already known he could play piano brilliantly, but this—his voice—was mesmerizing. Warm, unforced, full of character. Before she knew it, she was singing too, her voice blending shakily with his at first, then growing stronger as their melodies twined.
It felt natural. Easy. Like they had done it a hundred times before.
When the song ended, Alastor cast her a sideways grin.
“Miss Alice, you have a wonderful voice,” he remarked.
Alice’s cheeks flushed with heat. “Thank you… and you do too! I mean—” she stumbled a little, flustered, “you can sing, you can play piano—what can’t you do?”
Alastor let out a laugh—light and sincere.
“Oh, my dear, you don’t even know the half of it. I play a rather mean fiddle, too.”
Alice stared at him, mouth falling open. “No you do not.”
“I most certainly do,” he said, delighted by her disbelief. “Back home, whenever we had a big cookout, I’d play fiddle while my cousins banged spoons and washboards like we were our own little band.”
Alice burst out laughing at the image—Alastor, dapper and polished as ever, surrounded by rowdy family musicians in some backyard jamboree.
“Okay—that is adorable,” she said through her giggles.
Alastor opened his mouth to protest the word adorable, but her laughter was contagious, and he ended up laughing with her.
The car slowed, easing to a stop in front of her apartment building.
Alice got out and rushed upstairs to get ready, slipping into a navy blue dress with delicate lace trimming. She added a string of pearls around her neck, admiring the way they gleamed in the dim lighting of her bedroom. Her long blonde hair fell naturally over her shoulders. She ran her fingers through it, smoothing it down.

Ready for whatever tonight may bring.

Chapter Text

Alice, still catching her breath, looked at him as though he were gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. "No."
She didn’t even try to be polite. Alastor smirked.
The man, undeterred, leaned closer. "Aw, c'mon, don’t be like that. One little dance won’t kill ya."
Alice narrowed her eyes. "I already have a dance partner. And I can tell you, he’s probably a lot better than you."
The man finally noticed Alastor and gave him a once-over, scoffing. "Him? Sweetheart, you could do so much better."
Alice blinked. Again? How many men were going to feel the need to comment on Alastor like that?
She looked at Alastor, expecting a flash of rage—but the truth was, so was she.
Without thinking, she shoved the man back. "You're being really fucking rude, you know that?"
The man’s easygoing demeanor vanished. He grabbed Alice’s arm, hard enough to make her wince. "Women these days," he sneered. "Some of y’all need to learn your place."
That was it.
Alice’s fist shot up, connecting squarely with his nose. The satisfying crack echoed through the room.
The man stumbled back, cursing as he clutched his bruised face. His head snapped up, furious, and he started toward her—only to stop dead when Alastor smoothly stepped between them.

The air changed.

The man's drunken bravado faltered, like some primal part of him knew better than to pick a fight with this man. He muttered something under his breath before spitting on the ground.
"You Creoles rats, should go back to where you came from," he sneered, wiping his nose. "Back to the musky swamp where you belong."
Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he stormed off.
Alice exhaled, her adrenaline still high, and looked at Alastor. He was standing perfectly still, expression unreadable. But she knew him well enough to know he was furious.
She took his arm, squeezing it gently. "Don't listen to him," she said softly.
Alastor blinked, snapping out of his trance, then glanced down at her hand. Her knuckles were red and already bruising. A slow, sharp grin curved his lips. "My dear," he chuckled, "was that your first time throwing a punch?"
Alice flexed her fingers, wincing. "Yeah… and it hurts."
Alastor laughed, the sound rich and amused, before disappearing for a moment. He returned with a small bag of ice. "Here, darling. A little souvenir from your first bar brawl."
Alice rolled her eyes but accepted it, grateful nonetheless.
She spent the next few hours chatting with Mimzy, who was still gushing over Alice’s impressive right hook. The laughter, the drinks, and the dancing had left her buzzing, but as the night wore on, exhaustion started to creep in. The alcohol weighed on her eyelids, her limbs felt heavy, and Alastor had vanished somewhere into the crowd.
Then—
A scream sliced through the room like a jagged knife.
The music drew to a halt. Conversations died mid-sentence. People spun toward the back, parting in horror as a man was revealed, slumped against the wall. His face was twisted into a grotesque, carved grin.
The Grinning Louisiana Killer had struck again.
"No one leaves until the police arrive!" someone shouted. Chaos erupted—chairs scraped, glasses clinked, and murmurs of fear rippled through the crowd.
Alice, sitting with Mimzy, felt her stomach sink. She was trembling, the adrenaline from her earlier scuffle mixing with fatigue and alcohol. When Mimzy excused herself, Alastor slid into the empty space beside her, his expression calm but sharp.
Alice squinted at the body and froze.
"Alastor," she whispered, her voice shaky, "that’s… that’s the guy I punched earlier. Alastor… It happened again. Another terrible guy I talked to… dead!"
Alastor stiffened, an uncharacteristic seriousness overtaking his usual charm. Leaning down, he murmured in a low, measured tone, "When the police arrive… don’t mention it."
Alice frowned. "Why?"
Alastor hesitated, then flashed a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Because, my dear, if you don't mention it, we'll be able to leave much faster. And I know how tired you are."

Alice, in her half-drunk, half-asleep state, accepted this logic without much thought. "Oh. Okay."

The police arrived and started questioning everyone. Alice, barely able to stand upright from exhaustion and being so drunk, was holding onto Alastor for support when they finally got to her and Alastor.

"Did you see anything suspicious tonight?" an officer asked.

Alice yawned. "Nope."

"And what were you doing during the time of the incident?"

Alice, fighting to keep her eyes open, mumbled, "Talking to Mimzy."

The officer nodded, then turned to Alastor. "And you?"

Alastor smiled charmingly. "Ah, same! Sitting with these lovely ladies all evening."

Alice's half-conscious brain processed that just enough to know it wasn't true—but she was too damn tired to care.
Eventually, they were finally allowed to leave.
As they stepped out into the early morning air, Alice squinted at him. "You lied."
Alastor’s grin widened. "Why, yes, I did."
Alice, still exhausted, let out a weary laugh as they climbed into his car. "Why would you lie to the police? Are you insane?"
Alastor drove in silence for a moment, his hands steady on the wheel but his speed brisk, as if he wanted to put as much distance between them and the speakeasy as possible. Finally, he said, "I just… knew you were tired. It got us out faster, did it not?"
Alice’s eyelids drooped, and she murmured, "Well… I guess." Then she turned to him with a soft, incredulous look. "You lied to the police… for me?"
Alastor’s cheeks colored slightly—a rare crack in his usual composure. "Well… I suppose so. You just seemed… far too exhausted. You might have fallen asleep standing up."
Alice let out a lazy laugh and leaned back, gazing out the window at the fading stars. "You know," she said softly, "you’ve got to be the most remarkable man I’ve ever met."
Alastor’s flustered expression deepened. "Um… thank you."
She settled further into her seat, a drowsy smile on her face. “Good lord”. Alice murmured. “This is so weird”.
Alastor’s eyes flicked to her, misinterpreting her words. "What? The murders? I assure you, it won’t happen again."
Alice barely registered what he said. "No, not that. I never thought I’d feel… this happy again."
Alastor chuckled. "Well, once you practically drink a whole bottle of gin, anything seems possible."
Alice shook her head gently. "I don’t just mean tonight. I mean… the past few days. You make me feel… seen. For more than just a shy, traumatized girl everyone tiptoes around. I feel like you actually see me."
Alastor glanced at her, his usual poise softening. "Well… you’re a remarkable girl yourself, Miss Alice. You’re more real than the other flappers I've met. You’ve been through so much, yet somehow… you’re still sweet, still kind. It’s fascinating."
Alice smiled, her words slipping out before she realized it. "If I didn’t know better… it’s like you’re trying to get me to fall in love with you."
Alastor’s jaw dropped slightly, flustered beyond words. Before he could respond, Alice’s eyelids finally gave in, and she fell asleep mid-sentence.
Alastor pulled up to his studio with the utmost care. He gently carried her inside, setting her on a bed in his spare room and tucking the covers around her.
As he settled in with a quiet, self-satisfied smile, he thought, This girl… she’s finally falling for me.

Chapter Text

Morning light crept weakly through the curtains, and Alice woke with a head that felt like a brass band was marching behind her eyes. Her mouth was dry, her stomach uneasy. She blinked, slowly… and then froze.
This wasn’t her room.
The bed was far too soft, the wallpaper unfamiliar. Her heart jolted.
Where am I?
She sat up so quickly the room spun. Before panic could fully take hold, the door creaked open and Alastor stepped in—with a silver tray, steam curling from a delicate teacup.
“Ah,” he said brightly, “good morning, Miss Alice. I assumed you might require… assistance from your lively night.”
Alice stared at him, wide-eyed and horrified.
“Where—Where am I? What happened? Did we—did I—”
Alastor immediately raised both hands.
“No, no, nothing of that sort. Heavens, no.”
He gestured around. “This is my spare room. You were… exceedingly inebriated. It was simply more practical to bring you here rather than attempt to guide you home in your condition.”
Alice felt her face burst into flames. She sunk back against the pillows, covering her face with both hands.
“Oh my god… I’m so sorry. This is so embarrassing.”
Alastor set the tray beside her, amused and—strangely—gentle.
“Embarrassment implies you did something shameful. You simply… overindulged.”
She took a sip of tea. Warmth. Relief. A very slight return to dignity.
But then—
Last night came back in pieces.
The man who died.
Her own fists.
Blood.
The police.
Alice’s chest squeezed tight.
“Oh. Oh God. The Grinning Louisiana Killer killed again! Someone died. Again. Because of me. I—I didn’t mean to— I didn’t—”
Her breath hitched, trembling.
Alastor sat down at the edge of the bed—not close enough to crowd her, but near enough to anchor her.
“It was chaos in that speakeasy even before we arrived,” he said softly. “A crowded room. Too much liquor. Too many tempers. The man was very rude. What happened was… tragic. But you did not cause it. You are not being watched. You are not in danger.”
His voice, usually sharp and theatrical, was quiet. Steady.
Her breathing slowed.
Her shoulders loosened.
She looked at him—and something in her chest shifted.
She felt… safe.
Alastor studied her a moment longer, then cleared his throat.
“…So. Do you remember anything else from last night?”
Alice blinked.
“Not really. I… I think everything past the fourth shot became a blur.”
Alastor looked away, tapping one finger against his knee—nervous.
“Oh. Well. In that case—no matter.”
Alice slowly narrowed her eyes.
“…Alastor. What did I do?”
His smile flickered—an unsteady thing.
“Well,” he said lightly, “in the car you informed me that I was, quote, ‘making you fall in love with me.’”
Alice’s soul left her body.
“I—WHAT—?! NO. NO NO NO—”
She grabbed the pillow and hid behind it.
“I am never drinking again. Ever. I’ll become a nun. I’ll—move into a convent. I will—”
Alastor actually laughed—soft and almost bashful.
“It is quite alright, my dear. Truly.”
She peeked over the pillow, embarrassed beyond death and resurrection.
“So I—didn’t ruin everything?”
His expression shifted—open, rare, sincere.
“No,” he said. “You didn’t ruin anything. In fact… I find myself feeling much the same.”
Alice froze.
Her breath caught.
They looked at each other—really looked.
Alastor’s voice lowered.
“You are unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I have spent many years surrounded by cruelty, selfishness, and deceit. Yet you—you are gentle and kind. You have suffered, and you still choose softness. It is…”
He exhaled, searching for the word.
“…extraordinary.”
Alice’s eyes stung—not with sadness, but with something warm and overwhelming.
She set the pillow aside.
“Alastor… you turned my life upside down. I didn’t think I’d ever feel joy again. I didn’t think I’d laugh, or dance, or—feel seen. But I do. When I’m with you… I don’t feel like I’m broken anymore.”
Silence. The soft, perfect kind.
Then Alastor stood, straightened his coat, and—despite the faint redness in his ears—bowed slightly.
“Alice,” he said, voice steady and charming,
“I would like to submit my humble request to court you.”
Her heart lifted so hard it almost hurt.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Then stronger.
“Yes. I’d like that very much.”
A small, genuine smile touched his lips.
“Well then,” he said softly, “that is splendid.”
Alastor left the room while Alice tried to make sense of what just happened, she couldn’t. Then the scent of warm batter and sizzling pork drifted through the house long before Alice made it out of bed. Her head still ached, but the smell coaxed her forward, guiding her down the narrow staircase and into the kitchen. The room was bathed in late morning light—gold pouring in through tall windows, catching dust motes in slow, lazy spirals.
Alastor stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, humming softly as he flipped waffles—golden, crisp at the edges, steam curling up like a warm invitation. A plate of pork, browned perfectly with a hint of spice, waited beside them.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted with a teasing lilt, sliding a waffle onto her plate. “Breakfast—or lunch—whichever you’d prefer to call it.”
Alice sank into a chair, still groggy but smiling. The first bite was heavenly—fluffy, warm, just the right amount of sweet. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.
They ate slowly, quietly, sunlight filling the silence with something comfortable.
Then—gently—they talked about them.
Alastor was careful, almost uncharacteristically so.
“It may be... sensible,” he suggested, tone light but earnest, “for you to stay here for now on. The spare room is yours. And it would be safer. Easier too, considering your work here.”
Alice’s fingers paused on her fork. She hesitated—not out of doubt, but out of awe. Just last week, she had been alone in every sense of the word. The idea of belonging somewhere—somewhere safe—felt unreal.
But it also felt right.
“…Okay,” she murmured, the smile tugging at her lips, small, shy, and real. “I’d like that.”
They agreed to take things slow. No rushing. No pressure. Just… companionship.
Comfort.
Something warm and gentle and new.
Later, they drove to her apartment. The New Orleans streets glistened as though the city had been washed clean in the night. Puddles caught the sunlight and tossed it back in diamonds. The air smelled of wet earth and gardenias.
Alastor rolled the car windows down, and the wind lifted his loose curls, brushing through them like playful fingers. The sunlight gilded his skin—the warm tones of it deepened into something almost amber. He looked relaxed in a way she had not seen before, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping rhythm to a tune the radio wasn’t actually playing.
Alice watched him for a moment, quietly.
How strange, she thought, that happiness can return like this. Softly. Slowly. Without warning.
Her apartment held so little—just a few dresses, some small keepsakes, makeup neatly arranged in a tin box. It took one trip to pack her world into the back seat. And when she locked the door behind her for the last time, it didn’t feel like a loss.
It felt like closing the last chapter of a book she didn’t need anymore.
Back at Alastor’s home, she unpacked in the small spare room. She folded her dresses carefully into the chest at the foot of the bed, placed her worn hairbrush on the dresser, tucked her favorite ribbon around the post of the mirror. The room, plain at first, began to soften under her touch. To feel lived in. To feel hers.
When she finished, she sat by the window.
The city of New Orleans spread out below—rooftops glinting, horse carriages clattering faintly down sunlit streets, distant church bells chiming the hour. The world looked bright. Open. Full.
Alice pressed her hand to the glass and smiled—small, awestruck.
For the first time in so long, her life was no longer something she was surviving.
She was living it.
And it felt beautiful.
—
A month passed, and Alice was settling into her new life with surprising ease. Every night, she helped Alastor with his radio show, and with each broadcast, his audience seemed to grow. She had her own little routine now—visiting the library almost every day, keeping the studio clean, and handling whatever tasks Alastor needed for the show. And, of course, every Sunday morning, she went to church.

Alastor never came with her. She learned quickly that his beliefs leaned more toward voodoo, though he never spoke much about it, and Alice never pried. If he wanted to share, he would.

But things were good. Really good.

Alice and Alastor had grown closer, their dynamic becoming more comfortable with each passing day. He was still reserved, always holding a piece of himself back, like he had some grand secret tucked behind his charm. But every now and then, if she found the right topic—something he had a strong opinion about—he would get going, his usual detached amusement melting into something sharper, something brilliant. He was smart, much smarter than she had initially thought, and when he wanted to, he could talk circles around anyone.

Meanwhile, the Grinning Louisiana Killer was still out there, although he did slow down, from killing every day to one new victim every other week. Alice didn't feel quite as tense about the killer anymore, his other victims were men she didn't even know but, The city was on edge, and the police were getting desperate. They started showing up at speakeasies every night, taking names, trying to find a pattern. Alice thought it was funny, considering their job was supposed to be shutting down speakeasies, not using them as hunting grounds.

"They've got no idea what they're doing," she mused one evening, setting down the newspaper. "At this rate, they're just annoying drunks and musicians."

Alastor, lounging in his usual chair, smirked over the rim of his teacup. "Ah, the sweet smell of law enforcement incompetence. Nothing like it."

Alice snorted. "They're just wasting time. The killer's careful. I doubt he's sitting around in some bar waiting to be caught."

"Indeed." Alastor set down his cup with a soft clink. "And since the police insist on making a show of themselves, I'd say it's best we keep a low profile for the time being."

Alice shrugged. "That's fine with me. I'm not exactly dying to run into another grabby drunk."

Alastor chuckled. "I must say, I do rather miss watching you deck a man in the face. Quite the highlight of the evening."

Alice rolled her eyes, but she couldn't fight the amused smile tugging at her lips.
But then her expression dimmed a little. She looked down at her tea.
“You know… it’s so strange. He only kills bad people. Like he thinks he’s… some kind of judge or executioner.”
Alastor didn’t respond.
Alice continued, voice softer, uncertain. “I just… I don’t understand how someone decides who’s ‘bad enough’ to die.”
Alastor’s tone was light, but there was a flicker in his eyes she couldn’t read.
“My dear, you could spend eternity trying to understand the mind of a murderer and never get an inch closer.”
“I know,” she murmured. “I just… I have a hard time with it.”
He exhaled slowly. “Your heart is WAY too big for your own good..” He glanced at her gently. “At least this killer isn’t preying upon children or the innocent. If one must kill, one might as well remove the wicked.”
Alice nodded, unsure.
She swirled her tea, watching the liquid ripple.
“No one is truly bad,” she said softly.
Alastor raised a brow. “Oh? Philosophical are we? Do enlighten me.”
She reached for the worn copy of Frankenstein sitting on the table. She flipped through the pages, thumb brushing annotations in the margins.
“In this book,” she murmured, “the creature isn’t evil at first. He’s just… lonely. He’s hated for how he looks. Rejected. Over and over. And eventually… he becomes the monster they believe he is. Because no one gave him a chance.”
Alastor leaned forward, watching her with a quiet, unreadable intensity.
“So you believe,” he asked softly, “that everyone is born good?”
Alice nodded. “I do. I think everyone has good in them—even all the horrible drunk men. Even… the killer.”
Silence filled the room.
Then—Alastor laughed, not mocking, but warm. Almost fond.
“You,” he said, arm curling around her shoulders with an ease that still made her breath catch, “are the most hopeless romantic the world has ever seen.”
Alice flushed, leaning into his side only a little.
“But,” Alastor added, voice dipping lower, more sincere, “do not punish yourself for what happened that night. You defended yourself. And me. You couldn’t have known what would follow.”
Alice let out a slow, shaky breath.
“…I’m trying not to feel guilty.”
“I know,” he murmured.
They sat in silence again, the lamplight glowing gold around them.
Alastor swirled his tea and glanced at her.
“So,” he said lightly, “you truly believe there’s good even in that cold-blooded killer?”
Alice nodded without hesitation. “Of course. He kills bad men. He’s not hunting innocent strangers on the street.”
A smile tugged at Alastor’s lips—small, curved, almost tender.
“Ah, darling,” he said softly, “I do adore the way you see the world.”
Alice smiled… but something in his tone lingered, just out of reach—
something she couldn’t quite name.
Despite the chaos outside, things between her and Alastor felt... nice. He was getting more comfortable with her, letting his guard down little by little. She noticed it in the small things—the way he'd linger in conversation instead of dismissing it with a joke, the way he'd let his expression slip into something genuine when he thought she wasn't looking.

And that made Alice happy.

One night, after a long day at the station, Alice and Alastor found themselves lounging on the couch, the warm hum of jazz and swing music filling the studio. It had become something of an unspoken ritual—winding down together after a show, just talking about whatever popped into their heads.
Alice stretched her legs out, letting her heels dangle from her toes like they were just waiting to fall off and betray her. One wrong wiggle and she’d be barefoot. They’d somehow ended up arguing—no, debating—which books were superior, which quickly devolved into competitive literary trash talk.
“Alright then, bookworm,” Alice said, pointing a toe at him like it was a weapon. “What’s your favorite book?”
Alastor’s eyes lit up like someone just plugged him into a radio antenna.
“Oh, what a cruel question!” he said, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “But I suppose… The Magic Island, by William Seabrook. A fascinating ethnographic exploration of Haitian voodoo—very educational.”
Alice blinked. “Yeah, I’m sure it is, but that’s the only reason you liked it.”
He ignored her entirely. “And,” he continued, crossing his legs primly even though he was very much a menace, “Decline and Fall by Evelyn Waugh.”
Alice raised a brow. “Didn’t take you for a satire guy.”
“Oh, it’s marvelous. Watching a man’s life fall apart like a soggy biscuit tea? Hilarious. Really makes one feel grounded.” He gave a grin that was just a little too pleased. “It’s all very comforting.”
“Of course it is,” Alice said. “That explains so much about you.”
“And I suppose,” Alastor said, his grin widening, “I don’t even need to ask for your favorites?”
Alice folded her arms. “Oh, whatever. Gothic literature is undefeated. Frankenstein, Dracula, Perfection.”
“Right,” Alastor said with a light laugh, “and this is coming from a girl who, not so long ago, genuinely believed the most sinful book she’d ever read was Leviticus.”
She stared.
Then stuck her tongue out at him.
As mature adults do.
“Fine,” she said, flipping her hair like she was very annoyed (she was not very annoyed). “How about this—ever heard of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes?”
Alastor’s eyebrows rose. “Ah, yes. A brilliant literary study of… gold-digging showgirls.”
Alice’s grin sharpened. “I read it recently. Guess who it reminded me of?”
They didn’t even need to say it.
"Mimzy," they said in unison.

That was it—they both burst into laughter. Alastor actually had to wipe a tear from his eye. "Oh, she'd love to hear that!"

"I know, right?" Alice giggled. "I swear, if she ever read it, she'd think it was her autobiography.
“She’d start narrating her life like it’s written in first-person diary entries,” Alice giggled. “‘Dear Diary, today I convinced four men to buy me dinner because I was bored.’”
“Oh, she’d publish it!” Alastor wheezed. “And call it ‘Philanthropy.’”
They spiraled into laughter again.
When they finally calmed, the energy softened. The conversation drifted—books to memories, memories to dreams. Alice found herself talking about Mississippi nights, porch swings, cicadas buzzing like lullabies, and the sky so wide it could swallow you whole.
For hours, they talked, neither of them noticing how late it had gotten. At some point, Alice felt herself getting drowsy, the warmth of Alastor beside her making it impossible to fight off sleep. Her words slowed, her eyelids grew heavier, and before she knew it, she had drifted off, head resting against his shoulder.
In sleep, Alice found herself back in Mississippi—back in that house. She was on the bed, frozen, while her former fiancé loomed over her with that awful, familiar hunger in his eyes. He grabbed her, tearing at her clothes, and she struggled—but her limbs felt heavy and weak, like she was underwater.
Just when panic took over, a shape stepped out of the shadows.
Alastor.
He pulled her fiancé off of her and struck him again and again until the man vanished into nothing. Then Alastor turned to her, gathering her into his arms. His voice was soft, soothing, safe.
But when she looked up at him—his eyes burned red. Deep, crimson, glowing. Unreadable… yet somehow comforting.
Alice gasped—
And woke up.
Alice's eyes shot open, heart racing.

She was still in the studio. Still on the couch.

And she was still in Alastor's arms.

He was fast asleep, his grip on her loose but steady, his head tilted slightly against hers.

Alice barely breathed. Her face burned as she slowly tried to process what was happening. She had fallen asleep on him—and he had stayed.

She swallowed, her heart pounding in her ears.

"...Well," she muttered under her breath, "this is awkward."

Alice didn't know what to do—should she move? Get up and pretend this never happened? Or just stay?

She was warm, comfortable, and, whether she wanted to admit it or not, she liked being in his arms. It felt... nice. Safe, even.

Her heart was still beating a little too fast, but Alastor hadn't stirred. He was still sound asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm beneath her head.

Just a little longer, she told herself.

Slowly, carefully, she relaxed, letting herself sink into the moment. She nestled her head against his chest and fell back asleep.

Alice woke up to the sound of someone clearing their throat. She blinked, her mind still foggy with sleep, and realized she was still curled up against Alastor. And he was awake.

"Well, well, well," Alastor said, smirking. "Look who finally decided to join the land of the living."

Alice groaned and sat up, stretching. "You could've gotten up, you know."

Alastor gave an exaggerated sigh. "Ah, but I couldn't bear to wake you. You looked so peaceful. Like a sleeping kitten. Or a possum playing dead."

Alice rolled her eyes. "Charming." She got up and headed to the tiny kitchen. "Well I guess I'll take the liberty of making breakfast this morning."

Alastor followed her like a shadow. "Excellent! I'll supervise."

Alice cracked an egg into the pan, glaring at him. "I don't need a supervisor." She tried to stay serious but a small smile couldn't help but curve her lips.

"Nonsense! You need expert guidance!" He leaned against the counter, watching her. "You see, the trick to perfect bacon is—"

"I know how to cook bacon, Alastor."

"But do you know how to cook it perfectly?"

Alice pointed the spatula at him. "You're about to get whacked if you don't stop talking."

Alastor chuckled. "Oh, I like this feisty side of you."

Breakfast was full of laughter and playful bickering. Alice hadn't felt this close to anyone since her sister Cindy. It was... nice.

Over eggs and bacon, they talked about their plans for the day.

"I've got church," Alice said, sipping her coffee.

Alastor made a face. "Pass."

"I didn't even invite you."

"Just making sure." He smirked. "I'll be at my cabin in the bayou for the day. I'll be back for the radio show tonight."

Alice had heard about his cabin before. Apparently, his cousins used to take him hunting there when he was younger. It made sense, in a weirdly fitting way.

Alice and Alastor piled into his red Bentley 3 Litre, radio blaring as they sang along to jazz and swing tunes, grinning like fools.

Alice glanced over at him—his dark hair, his sharp features practically glowing in the Louisiana morning sun. His warm smile. His deep, rich laugh.

He was so handsome.

Alastor pulled up outside the church and gave her a teasing grin. "Have fun doing... whatever it is you people do in there."

Alice laughed. "You mean praying? Worshipping?"

"Yes, that." He waved a hand dismissively.

But something about the way he was looking at her made her heart race. She wasn't even thinking—before she could stop herself, she leaned over and kissed him.

For a second, everything froze.

Alice's brain caught up with her actions. Oh my god, WHY DID I JUST DO THAT?

Alastor was speechless.

Alice's eyes widened in horror. "I—I don't know why I did that! I'm so sorry, I—"

Alastor still didn't say anything.

Panicking, Alice scrambled out of the car and ran into the church.

Behind her, Alastor sped off.

Alice sat stiffly in the pew, barely hearing the pastor's sermon. Her mind was spinning.

Why did I do that? Was that too fast? I DON'T KNOW.

She left church feeling more lost than ever.

When she got back to the studio, Alastor was still gone. She cleaned every surface she could find, trying desperately to keep her mind occupied.

Alastor did come back, but things were awkward.

Painfully awkward.

Neither of them wanted to talk about what happened, so they just... didn't.

They went through the motions. The radio show continued. Alastor was as charismatic and lively as ever on air, but off-air? The warmth between them felt forced.
Suddenly, Alastor began disappearing every night.
The moment his broadcast ended, he would straighten his coat, flash her that bright, unreadable smile, and say something vague—business he’d forgotten… a favor owed… a place he simply had to pop into. And then he’d be gone. The door would close, the silence would return, and Alice would be left alone in that too-large house with nothing but the ticking clock for company.
She asked if she could go with him.
He’d rested a gloved hand on her shoulder, his tone light but firm.
“Not with a killer on the loose, my dear. I wouldn’t forgive myself if something happened to you.”
It should have been comforting.
It wasn’t.
Because the more nights it happened, the more her chest burned with something tight and aching. The memory of the kiss—soft, tentative, startling—replayed in her head like a gramophone needle stuck in place. Had she crossed a line? Had she ruined everything by wanting more?
Maybe he couldn’t stand to look at her now.
Maybe he was out with someone… someone prettier. Someone confident. Someone unbroken.
She never said a word. She just smiled when he came home at dawn, smelling faintly of smoke and city damp, and swallowed the hurt like medicine that didn’t work.
But one night—when he left again—her resolve snapped.
She followed.
Her hands shook on the steering wheel the whole way, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. She trailed his car through dim lamplit streets and rain-worn brick until he slipped into a speakeasy down an alley thick with cigarette smoke and laughter.
Alice crept inside.
Music swelled. Bodies swayed. Perfume and sweat and warmth pressed all around her. And there—at the piano—was Alastor. Smiling like he belonged to every glowing light in the room. Like he fit here. Like this was his real world, and she was the afterthought.
He wasn’t with another woman.
But he wasn’t looking for her, either.
He didn’t even look lonely.
A hollow ache opened up beneath her ribs.
He just didn’t want her there.
Perhaps… he didn’t want her at all.
Alice slipped out before the music ended, the night air cold against her damp eyes. She sat on a bench beneath a flickering streetlamp and let one tear slide free. She thought—stupidly—that maybe she had finally found someone who wouldn’t treat her like she was too much or not enough.
Maybe that kiss had been a mistake.
She wiped her eyes, forcing herself to stand.
A door creaked open.
Alice froze.
She ducked into the shadowed alley, peeking around the corner.
Alastor stepped out.
Dragging a body.
Alice’s breath locked in her chest.
The corpse’s limbs scraped across the ground, heavy and wrong. Alastor pulled it behind a cypress tree, movements neat and practiced—as casual as someone unloading groceries. And then, with a slow, precise motion, he drew out a knife.
Alice’s stomach climbed into her throat.
She watched him carve.
Watched him carve a smile.
A horrible, stretched, mocking smile into the face of the dead.
Her pulse roared louder than the blood in her ears.
No.
No. No. No. NO.
Alastor wasn’t avoiding her.
He wasn’t embarrassed.
He wasn’t seeing other women.
He was the reason the city trembled.
He was the monster whispered about behind locked doors.
He was the Grinning Louisiana Killer.
And Alice had kissed him.

Chapter Text

Alice ran.
She didn’t remember deciding to—her legs just moved. The city blurred around her, her heartbeat pounding loud enough to drown out the world. She stumbled up the studio steps and nearly slammed the door behind her, pressing her back to the wood as if she needed to hold it shut. As if the truth itself might follow her inside.
Her breathing was ragged. Too fast. Too shallow.
No. No, no, no. I didn’t see that. I didn’t see that.
But she had.
She could still see it every time she blinked—that body, limp and heavy. The grin carved into it. His hands. His hands doing it like it was nothing. Like it was routine.
Alastor.
Her Alastor.
Her fingers shook as she dug them into her hair.
“He—No. It—It had to be something else. Maybe he… found the body? Maybe he was trying to… to help? Or—maybe the killer set him up.” The words tumbled out of her in a whisper, frantic and breathless. “Yes. Yes, that’s it. He was just—just helping.”
But her voice cracked.
Because she remembered his face.
Not shocked. Not horrified.
Calm. Focused.
Practice.
Alice stumbled forward, gripping the counter until her knuckles blanched white.
Call the police. The thought struck like lightning.
And immediately made bile rise in her throat.
If she told them—and they caught him—what would they do to him? What would prison do to a man like him? What would he do if he knew she was the one who betrayed him?
She pictured him looking at her—really looking at her—with no grin, no warmth, no jokes.
Just disappointment.
Or worse.
Her chest tightened. She swallowed hard, fighting down a sob.
Leave. Just go. Pack a bag. Don’t think. Don’t look back.
But leave for what? To go back to cheap perfume and sticky bar floors? To smiling at men who didn't care if she lived or died?
And the truth—the one that hurt the most—hit her like a stone dropped straight through her ribs:
She didn’t want to leave him.
She loved him.
God help her, she did.
If Alastor is the Ginning Louianna Killer, then all those men he killed when she first met him, he killed them for her. Because they were rude and mean to her.
Alice sank into a chair, burying her face in her hands.
Maybe… maybe he can change.
The thought was desperate, foolish, and she clung to it like a life raft.
She had seen the way he listened to her. The way he made waffles for her in the morning. The way he laughed around her—really laughed, in a way that didn’t feel sharp-edged.
There was goodness in him. Somewhere. Buried. Hidden. Locked behind a thousand walls and secrets—but she had felt it.
And if she left him… if he suffered… if he died for this…
She couldn’t bear it.
Alice wiped her eyes, forcing her breath to steady.
“Maybe I can help him,” she whispered. “Maybe I can save him.”
Because the thought of anyone else punishing him—hurting him—breaking him—
Hurt worse than the truth.
So she swallowed it down.
She straightened her dress.
She wiped her tears.
And she said nothing.
The Weeks That Followed

Alice treated him with nothing but kindness.

The tension from their kiss still lingered, making things awkward, but Alice was determined to push past it.

She noticed that Alastor seemed... different. More on edge. More restless.

He was always good at putting on a show—he never faltered on the radio. But when the microphone was off, she could see it. The cracks. The tightness in his jaw.

She was patient with him. She prayed for him every night.

And every night, he left.

He never told her where he was going. He didn't have to. She already knew.
One afternoon, the phone rang—sharp enough to make Alice jump.
She picked it up, pressing the receiver to her ear. “Hello?”
“Alice, darling! You alive?”
Alice exhaled a tiny laugh. “Hello, Mimzy.”
“It’s been weeks, sugar! Did you get kidnapped, join a convent, or just forget I exist? You haven’t been out at all!”
Alice smiled weakly. “I know… I know. Things have just been a little—” she searched for a word that wasn’t falling apart, “—complicated.”
“Well then un-complicate them,” Mimzy declared, completely unbothered. “You. Me. Drinks. Tonight.”
Alice hesitated. She hadn’t gone anywhere in ages. Her world had shrunk down to the radio studio, the kitchen, and the sound of a door closing every night.
Maybe she needed this.
“…Alright,” Alice said softly. “I’ll go.”Alice got ready for a night out on the town, she wanted to relax but she couldn’t, she's been on edge for weeks.
Meanwhile Alastor was getting ready to leave, like he did every night.

Alice leaned against the doorframe, watching him button up his coat. "Going somewhere?"

He flashed a small smile. "Oh, just stepping out for a bit."

"To do what?" she asked, tilting her head.

Alastor chuckled. "Oh, you know me. Always keeping busy. Got a little... business to take care of."

Alice's stomach twisted. She knew exactly what he meant.

He turned to leave, then glanced back at her. "And you, my dear?"

Alice forced a smile. "I'm going out, too. With Mimzy."

He stepped closer, voice lowering slightly. "Do try to be careful, won't you?"

Alice swallowed. "You too."

Alastor chuckled and tipped his hat. "I always am."

And with that, he was gone.

Alice grabbed her coat and opened the door—only to be greeted by pouring rain.
“Oh, come on,” she groaned, staring at the downpour. Of course it would rain on the one night she decided to have a life again. Her dress would be ruined. And naturally, Alastor had taken the only umbrella.
She sighed—then her eyes landed on his car parked in the driveway.
He almost never used it. He walked everywhere. Even when he was… doing that.
Alice hovered at the doorway, hands tightening around her purse strap.
Would he be mad if I drove it?
And then another thought slipped in—sharp, bitter, tired:
He leaves every night without telling you anything.
He lies to you.
Her jaw tightened.
She grabbed the keys.
She wasn’t stealing the car. She was borrowing it. Just borrowing it. She lived here. She had a right to borrow it. Right?
Her breath trembled as she opened the driver’s door, the car smelled of damp wood and cigarette smoke.
The engine rumbled to life.
Alice exhaled, slow and shaky.
Just a night out.
Just an evening.
Just one moment where her life did not feel like it was cracking in half.
She pulled out into the rain-soaked street and headed toward the club.
Alice stepped into the dingy, run-down restaurant, the stale scent of cigarette smoke and whiskey clinging to the air. The place was barely lit, casting long shadows across cracked walls and peeling wallpaper. She walked briskly to the back, where a large man in a vest and fedora leaned against the doorframe, eyeing her expectantly.

She leaned in, muttering the password.

The man grunted, pushed open the hidden door, and let her inside.

The moment Alice stepped in, the atmosphere changed. The speakeasy pulsed with life—booming jazz music, clinking glasses, and raucous laughter. A smoky haze filled the air as people danced, swayed, and talked in close-knit circles.

Alice barely had time to take it all in before she felt a sharp tug on her arm.
"Well, well, well! Look who finally decided to crawl out of her little hole," Mimzy grinned, pulling Alice into a quick embrace.

Alice smiled faintly. "Hey, Mimzy."

Mimzy tossed back a drink before linking arms with Alice, leading her toward the bar. "You gotta catch me up, doll! I've been dancing at every damn speakeasy in town, and the drama I have seen—oh, you wouldn't believe it."

Alice half-listened as Mimzy prattled on about backstage fights, jealous boyfriends, and a particularly scandalous affair between a married club owner and one of the showgirls.

Then Mimzy grinned at her. "What about you, sweetheart? Don't you miss dancing?"

Alice didn't hesitate. "No."

Mimzy chuckled. "Still as stiff as ever."

Before Alice could reply, a man approached them, and Alice immediately tensed.

"I'm not dancing," she snapped, her voice sharp.

The man blinked in confusion. "...I'm the waiter."

Alice felt her face burn with embarrassment.

"Uh—I—right. Sorry." She cleared her throat. "Two cocktails, please."

The waiter gave her a strange look but nodded and walked off.

Mimzy raised a brow. "Okay... what was that?"

Alice exhaled slowly. "Nothing."

Mimzy gave her a look. "Alice. You're jumpy as hell. What's going on?
“Mimzy… you’ve heard about the Grinning Louisiana Killer, right?”
Mimzy’s smile didn’t fade—but something in her expression froze, just a fraction.
“…Sure. Everyone has.” She took a sip—too slow, too careful. “Why?”
“He’s been killing more again,” Alice murmured. “More often.”
Mimzy’s tone was breezy—forced. “Well, I don’t exactly keep scrapbooks on murderers, babe. I don't really keep caught up with the news these days.”
Alice turned to her fully. “You knew Alastor before I did.”
Mimzy shrugged. “I know a lot of people.”
“You really knew him.” Alice’s voice was quiet, too steady. “You spent time with him. Before.”
A beat.
Mimzy’s eyes didn’t flicker this time. They locked onto Alice’s, hard and bright.
Alice set her drink down. "Have you ever noticed anything odd about him?"

Mimzy's eyes flickered—just for a second—but she forced a casual laugh. "Odd? Babe, the man's a walking radio show. He's nothing but odd."

Alice wasn't buying it.

She leaned in. "He leaves every night. I've asked him if I could go with him, and he always says no."

Mimzy hesitated. Then she gave another forced laugh and waved a hand. "He's probably just worried about you. You are a delicate pretty little thing, he just doesn't want any other guys stealing yea."

Alice frowned. "He doesn't treat me like I'm delicate."

Mimzy downed the rest of her drink and abruptly stood. "Well, this has been fun, hon, but I gotta run. Gotta keep the boys entertained, you know how it is."

Alice narrowed her eyes. "Mimzy—"

"Don't worry, sweetheart." Mimzy patted Alice's shoulder. "Alastor's not cheating on you, alright? Relax."

And just like that, she was gone.

Alice sat there, staring at her drink.

Something wasn't right.

Mimzy knew something.

Alice left the speakeasy soon after, slipping into Alastor's car before he realized it was gone.

Her mind raced. What am I even doing?

Everything felt so wrong. She was lying to herself, pretending not to know what she knew.

She gritted her teeth and turned the radio on, hoping music would distract her.

The roads were packed, a slow-moving sea of cars, drunks stumbling across streets, and crowds leaving the bars. Alice huffed in frustration and veered off onto a quieter road, winding through the less-polished, rougher side of New Orleans.

Here, the streetlights flickered. Many of the buildings were abandoned, windows shattered, and chunks of walls missing.
Alice drove in silence while music hummed out of the radio speakers, the road stretching out before her like a dark ribbon. The night felt strangely hollow, the air too still, like the world was holding its breath.
As she crested a hill, her headlights swept over something in the middle of the road.
A shape. No—someone.
A man was hunched over, dragging something heavy behind him. Alice squinted, annoyed at first. Seriously? At this hour?
But when the man lifted his head and saw the car, their reaction was immediate and violent—they dropped the weight and sprinted into the darkness, swallowed by the tree line.
Alice’s irritation curdled into dread.
She crept the car forward, light spilling over what they had left behind.
Her stomach turned.
A body. Limp. Unmistakable.
Her breath hitched. “Oh my God…”
She couldn’t move—couldn’t think—her pulse roaring in her ears.
Then, from the shadows, someone stepped into the glow of her headlights.
Alastor.
Her heart dropped. Their eyes locked—recognizing the car instantly.
No smile. No charm.
Just cold fury.
Alice’s trembling fingers grazed the gear shift, but she was frozen, trapped by the sheer intensity of his gaze.
Slowly, without looking away from her, Alastor walked to the body. He lifted it as if it weighed nothing and slid it into the trunk. The heavy thud echoed in the stillness, making Alice flinch.
Her heart hammered so hard it hurt.
I’m going to die.
Alastor shut the trunk with a sharp, final slam. Then he walked to the passenger door, the sound of his footsteps unnervingly steady, and yanked it open.
Alice barely had time to react before he slid into the seat beside her.

She turned to him, her voice shaking. "Alastor—please—I didn't mean—"

"Drive."

His voice was eerily calm, but there was something cold underneath it. Something dangerous.

Alice hesitated. "I—"

His eyes flicked toward her, and in a blink, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun.

"I said drive, damn it!" he snarled, his voice a sharp crack in the silence.

Alice sucked in a breath, her entire body locking up. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the wheel, her foot barely pressing down on the gas.

She didn't dare look at him, but she could feel the barrel of the gun hovering near her.

The road blurred in front of her, her hands cold and unsteady against the wheel.

"Where... where do you want me to go?" she whispered.

Alastor's voice was steady, measured. "I'll tell you where to turn."

The silence between them was suffocating.

She kept her eyes on the road, too afraid to glance at him. But she could feel him watching her, the gun still in his grip.

Every time he spoke, his voice was sharp and unyielding. "Turn left."

Alice obeyed without question.

"Take the next road."
Her fingers trembled against the wheel. She could barely see through the tears clouding her vision, but she could not cry. Not now.
The drive felt endless.
The city fell behind them piece by piece: streetlamps thinning, buildings dissolving into dark stretches of road, then into wild swamp.
The air changed too—thicker, wetter, heavy with the smell of algae and old mud. Cypress trees rose like silhouettes of drowned giants, their roots twisting out of black water.
Alice’s stomach slowly knotted tighter with every mile.
“Take this next left,” Alastor murmured.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
The road narrowed until it wasn’t really a road at all—just packed dirt, grass, and water reflecting the moon. The headlights carved pale tunnels through the dark.
Then—
“Stop the car.”
Alice’s hands were trembling as she set the brake. She didn’t even realize how hard she was gripping the wheel until her fingers throbbed.
Alastor slid the gun back into his coat, slow and deliberate. He didn’t get out yet.
He looked at her.
Really looked at her.
“Well,” he murmured, voice dangerous in its softness, “I suppose you finally get to see the bayous.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Hope it was worth the trouble, Miss Alice.”
Her breath caught.
Her pulse pounded in her ears.
His tone dropped—lower, colder.
“Stay here.”
A pause.
“And don’t even think about running.”
He opened the door.
Alice didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Didn’t dare.
Alastor walked to the trunk and lifted the body with a startling, inhuman ease—like it weighed nothing at all. He dragged it into the darkness.
The night closed around her.
Alice sat frozen, muscles locked so tightly she thought she might shatter.
Everything was quiet except—
The soft glow of fireflies drifting over the water.
The distant croak of frogs.
The steady, ceaseless hum of crickets.
The bayou was alive.
Alice would have thought it was beautiful if she wasn’t platting her escape.
Her mind screamed at her—Run. Run now. Go.
But her body knew something her mind didn’t want to admit:
If she ran—he would most likely catch her.
And she would never make it out of these woods again.
Minutes or hours passed, Alice couldn’t tell.

Then Alastor reemerged.

He slid back into the passenger seat, brushing the dust off his coat as if he had merely been tending to an errand.

"Drive."

This time, Alice didn't hesitate.

She focused on the road, willing her hands to stop shaking. She refused to let the tears fall.

Chapter Text

When they eventually reached the studio, Alice barely managed to park before Alastor stepped out, circled the car, and yanked open her door.

Before she could react, he grabbed her wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to let her know she wasn't going anywhere.

Alice's breath hitched as he pulled her inside the studio, his grip never loosening.

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

He let go of her.

For a breath.

Then he looked at her—not angry, not panicked, just… amused. Almost.

“So,” he said lightly, as though asking about the weather, “you took my car and followed me?”

Alice’s voice barely functioned.
“I—I wasn’t— I just—”

He laughed.
Short. Sharp.
Empty.

“Don’t lie to me, darling.”

Her stomach twisted. He wasn’t raising his voice—that made it worse.

She opened her mouth to try again, but froze when he reached the counter.

A knife.

A long, polished kitchen knife that caught the light in a thin silver line.
He ran a thumb along the flat of the blade, as though appreciating its craftsmanship.

“You know…” he began, stepping toward her—slow, unhurried, predatory. “I was really starting to actually like you.”

The words were soft.
Almost regretful.

Alice’s blood ran cold.

“But you just had to ruin it.”

The knife gleamed.

Her back hit the wall.
She hadn't even realized she was moving.

“Alastor,” she breathed, her voice cracking, “please… please don’t. I won’t tell, I swear.”

He tilted his head at her, almost pitying.

“Come on Alice, You must know I’m not that foolish,” he said gently. “Secrets, my dear, are delicate things. They only stay safe if the keeper never has the chance to use them.”

Tears blurred her vision.
Her chest felt too tight to breathe.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she whispered. “I swear. I swear on—on my life, I won’t—”

“Ive heard that before, Miss Alice. But you must admit, words are pretty cheap” he replied, smiling.

He kept walking toward her, slow enough for her terror to bloom fully, bright and sharp.
He looked like he was enjoying the fear.

She slid down the wall to the floor, shaking so hard she could barely lift her hands to show she was unarmed. She sobbed, choking on the sound.

“PLEASE,” she managed, voice breaking in half.

Alastor stopped just in front of her.

He crouched down so they were eye-level.
His smile was soft. Tender, almost.

“Oh, Alice…” he sighed. “I do so hate seeing you cry.”

His fingers brushed her cheek—gentle enough that she shuddered.

Then he raised the knife with the other hand.

“Don’t worry, Miss Alice,” he murmured, voice smooth and gentlemanly.
“For you, I’ll make it painless. You won’t feel a thing.”

He raised the knife higher—

“I ALREADY KNEW!” Alice choked out.

Everything stopped.

The blade hovered.
Alastor’s face emptied—no smile, no irritation, just… blank.

“…Pardon?”
Soft. Too soft.

Alice’s voice shook. “I already knew. Weeks ago.”

His grip slipped on the knife—barely, but enough to see.

“How,” he asked, tone still careful, but thinner now. Stretched tight.
“Exactly… how did you know.”

Alice swallowed hard. “I followed you. One night. I thought maybe you were—cheating on me, or something.”

Her words shook. “But all I saw was you playing the piano. I was going to leave, but then I saw you dragging a body. I saw you carve that smile.”

Silence—thick and swampy.

“You never said anything,” he murmured.

“No, didn’t.” she whispered.

His jaw twitched. The charm in his voice wavered, a crack running through it.

“Then why didn’t you run?”

He stepped closer.

“Why didn’t you call the police?”
As Alastor got angrier, his vowels softened—rounded, back to his roots.
“Why didn’t you leave the city, hm?”

Alice’s breath hitched. “Because… I didn’t think you’d hurt me.”

Something in him snapped.

“Oh, don’t ya stand there tellin’ me that, I know your lyin.”
The accent seeped in, thick as river water.
“You think I’m some couyon, cher? Some dumb fool you can feed fairytales an’ sunshine to?!”

Alice flinched—but didn’t look away.
“I’m telling the truth.”

His eyes flashed.
The knife trembled.

“Non. Non. Don’t lie to me, I know your liyin.”
The mask was gone now.
“Secrets don’t keep unless someone’s in the GROUND.”

Alice pressed back, breath breaking. “I’m not lying!”

He stepped so close she could feel his breath.
“What kinda game you playin’ wit’ me, Alice?!”

“I’m not playing anything!” she cried.

That did it.

He lunged, dropping to a knee, gripping her shoulder and shoving her against the wall.
The knife hovered by her jaw.
His voice was raw now—untamed.

“WHY WOULD YOU STAY?!”
His words rattled the room.
“You saw what I am. You saw what I DO. So WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?!”

And without thinking—without breathing—Alice shouted back:

“BECAUSE I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!”

Silence exploded.

Alastor froze, hand slackening.

He stared.
Not angry now. Not smiling.
Just… stunned.

His fingers uncurled.
The knife dropped.

CLANG.

The sound echoed off the studio walls.

He stood slowly—like he was surfacing from deep water—and backed away.
His breath was unsteady.
His face unreadable.

He looked at her like she had just spoken a language no sane person should know.

Alice still sat on the floor, her back against the wall, her body still trembling from the shock of it all. Her breath came in shaky gasps, and the tears wouldn't stop no matter how much she tried to will them away. Her hands felt numb, her fingers gripping the fabric of her dress so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Alastor stood over her, silent, watching.

Then, without a word, he slowly lowered himself onto the floor beside her.

Alice flinched at first, but when he made no sudden moves, she forced herself to breathe. The room was unbearably quiet, save for the occasional drip of rain against the window and her own uneven breathing.

She swallowed hard. "Tonight..." Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "It was raining." She wiped at her face, though more tears followed immediately. "I—I was just going to borrow your car. Mimzy and I were going to the club." Her hands tightened into fists on her lap. "The streets were packed on the way back, so I took a back road. And then... I saw you."

Alastor didn't speak.

The silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken, something Alice couldn't name.
Her heartbeat was still erratic, but the trembling in her hands had begun to ease.
Alice lifted her head—slowly—pushing herself to meet his gaze.
The silence between them stretched… and stretched…
Until Alastor finally spoke.
“The reason I go out every night,” he began, voice low and oddly distant,
“because I’m killing.”
A humorless smile ghosted across his lips.
“Not because I’m seeing another woman.”
Alice blinked.
Of all the revelations—all the danger—that was the one he chose to clarify.
She swallowed, nodding. “I know.”
Alastor exhaled, shoulders dropping just a fraction. His fingers tapped once—light, restless—against the floorboards.
“The reason I’ve been distant,” he murmured, “is because I… wanted you to leave me.”
Alice’s face twisted with confusion. “Why?”
He didn’t answer at first.
His gaze drifted toward the floor, jaw tightening and loosening—like he was peeling open something he’d kept locked down tight.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer than she had ever heard it.
“…Because you’re way too good for me.”
Alice’s breath caught.
He huffed out a short, brittle laugh—nothing warm in it.
“Cher, you see good in every damn thing. In everyone. You’re pure. Untouched by the world. And me?”
His accent began to slip again, vowels rounding, consonants loosening.
“I ain’t never been that. I ain’t never had that.”
He shook his head slowly.
“I thought—if you ever found out what I really am—you’d run. And that kiss…”
His voice faltered, just a little.
“Usuallly I don’t care but, I did not want to ruin you, Alice.”
Alice’s hands relaxed at her sides. Something in her chest tightened—not in fear, but in understanding.
She drew a breath—slow, even.
“You’re right,” she whispered.
His head snapped up—sharp, guarded.
Alice wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, steady now.
“I do see good in things. In people.”
Her voice didn’t shake this time.
“And that includes you.”
Alastor stared at her.
Really stared.
Eyes dark, deep, unreadable.
She shifted closer—cautious, but sure.
Her voice was soft, but clear.
“Alastor, you have given me so much,” she said. “You turned my life upside down. And… I’m glad you did.”
His breath hitched—but he didn’t speak.
Alice continued, eyes glistening but steady.
“You made my life better, Alastor.”
He watched her like a man waiting to see the trap.
To find the lie.
To find the angle.
But there wasn’t one.
There was only her.
And the truth.
His voice was quieter now, no longer sharp or commanding, just... tired. "How?" he asked. "How can you still look at me like that? After knowing what I am?"

Alice swallowed, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her dress. "Because I know there's good in you."

Alastor scoffed, shaking his head again. "You don't understand, darling. I don't just kill. I love it. I crave it." His voice took on a darker edge. "I don't regret it. I don't feel guilt. And I won't stop." He leaned in slightly, his gaze locked onto hers, trying to see if that would finally be enough to scare her off.

But Alice didn't move. She didn't look away.

"I know," she said simply.

Alastor blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her lack of reaction. He expected flinching, stammering, second-guessing. But she sat there, steady and unwavering.

Alice took a breath. "You kill people, Alastor. But you don't kill just anyone. You do have a code. You go after people who are cruel, who hurt others, who ruin lives. That's... something, isn't it?"

Alastor tilted his head slightly, a smile tugging at his lips, though it was more amused than anything else. "Is that what you're telling yourself? That I'm not as bad as I could be?"

Alice hesitated but nodded. "It's the truth, isn't it?"

Alastor chuckled again, this time with genuine amusement, though it faded as quickly as it came. He studied her, his expression unreadable. "So you're not leaving?"

Alice didn't even need to think about it. "No, unless you try to kill me again."

Alastor stared at her for a long moment, his face unreadable.

Alice could see something shifting in his expression, though. Something vulnerable, something uncertain—something she had never seen in him before. He was always so sure of himself, always in control. But now, it was like he didn't quite know what to do with her.

Finally, his voice dropped, quieter than she had ever heard it. "I never thought I'd meet someone who could see me for what I am and still stay." His fingers drummed lightly against his knee, a nervous habit she had never seen from him before. "I never thought I'd meet someone who likes me, even after finding out who I truly am."

Alice smiled softly, her tears finally drying. She reached out hesitantly, placing a hand over his. "Well, now you have."
Alastor stared at their hands—hers small, gentle, resting over his.
His fingers didn’t move.
He didn’t pull away.
He just… looked.
Then, he let out a breath. Not quite a laugh—something quieter, more disbelieving.
“You’re either the bravest person I’ve ever met…”
His voice was low, almost a whisper.
“…or the most foolish.”
Alice gave him a smile—tired, tear-smudged, earnest.
“Maybe both… cher.” She truly couldn’t help herself.
Alastor blinked.
A surprised sound—half laugh, half scoff—caught in his throat.
“Oh, so now you’re makin’ fun of me,” he said, brow arching, voice dipping just slightly toward the bayou again.
“No,” Alice quietly giggled, soft but sure.
“I’m not making fun of you. I like your accent.”
She swallowed, her voice gentling.
“It’s you.”
He looked at her then—really looked.
His gaze ran over her face, searching for mockery, fear, pity—any reason, any excuse, any crack that would prove she didn’t mean it.
But there was none.
Whatever he expected to find—it wasn’t what was there.
Something in his expression loosened.
Not much—just the slightest shift.
But it was enough.
His shoulders uncoiled.
His eyes softened—not warm, not safe—but human.
“…Mon Dieu,” he murmured, almost to himself.
He didn’t let go of her hand.
And he didn’t step away.
For the first time since she met him—
Alastor felt real, not a cocky radio host, not a piano show off.
He just looked like a man.
A dangerous one, a broken one—
but still, a man.
And he was looking at her.

Chapter Text

After that night, Alice and Alastor became closer than ever. Something between them had shifted—no more secrets, no more pretending. Now that Alice knew all sides of him and accepted them, Alastor was different—more open in his own peculiar way. He didn't hold back his amusement when she made him laugh, nor did he shy away from showing her affection in his own unsettling but undeniably sincere manner.

They fell into a routine, one that felt strangely domestic, even comforting. Alice took over most of the cooking, but Alastor was never far, watching her like a hawk, making sure she "didn't burn the whole kitchen down." He had strong opinions on how things should be done, and when she didn't follow his precise directions, he would dramatically sigh and take over, saying, "Oh, darling, we simply must maintain standards, or what kind of savages would we be?" Alice would roll her eyes, but secretly, she liked it.

Every night, she still helped with his radio show. Sitting in the studio, she'd listen in awe as his voice filled the room—charming, theatrical, commanding. She could never get over how effortlessly he controlled the airwaves, weaving tales, telling jokes, playing music. And sometimes, just sometimes, she swore he was speaking to her, even if he never said her name.

Sundays were hers. She went to church alone, sitting in the back pew, head bowed, hands clasped tightly as she whispered prayers. Please, God, save him. Let there be light in him still. She prayed so hard it hurt, convinced that if she just loved him enough, showed him enough kindness, maybe—just maybe—he wouldn't feel the need to kill anymore.

But he still went out at night.

He never said it outright, but Alice knew. The way he'd hum as he put on his coat, the glint in his dark eyes as he tilted his head at her and said, "Don't wait up, dearest." She knew what that meant. Knew he was going out to find some unfortunate soul—someone cruel, someone vile, someone he deemed unworthy of breathing another day.

She still didn't believe in killing. Didn't believe that anyone truly deserved to die.

And yet... she never tried to stop him.

Maybe it was selfish, but knowing Alastor was out there made her feel safe. He was a monster, but he was hers, and as long as she was in his world, no one would dare lay a hand on her.

Also, fixing him gave her a sense of purpose, she believed if she showed him nothing but kindness, he would stop killing, it hasn't worked yet but she was hopeful.
One night the radio show had just wrapped up—music fading out.

“Another successful broadcast,” he announced, dusting imaginary dust from his shoulders.

Alice leaned back in her chair and grinned. “Oh, for sure. Best performance of all time.”

Alastor gave her a look. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true,” she shot back.

He chuckled—right as the studio phone rang.

Both of them blinked.

“…No one calls after the show,” Alice muttered.

“Well,” Alastor said with mild dread, “that’s never a good sign.”

Alice answered. “Hello, Broussard Radio?”

There was a pause. Then a warm, lilting voice drawled through the line:

“Ah shoot, cher. I ain’t mean to interrupt no broadcast—this Alastor’s phone line, yeah?”

Alice smiled politely. “Yes, it is. He just finished up. Do you have a question or—?”

She stopped. Because whoever it was… had gone completely silent.

Alastor raised a brow. “Who is it?”

Alice shrugged helplessly and handed him the receiver.

Alastor lifted it to his ear. “Yes? This is Alast—”

And he froze.

Alice didn’t need to hear the voice to know who it was.

He dragged a hand down his face. “…Hello, Louis.”

Alice could hear that reaction—the distant, overexcited gasp.

“AL?! Who was that pretty lil’ thing that answered ya phone?”

Alastor’s eye twitched. “That was my radio assistant. Her name is Alice.”

“Assistant? Mm-hmm.” Louis did not sound convinced. “She sound real pretty. Maybe you could, ah, introduce her to ya favorite cousin…”

Alastor slapped a hand to his forehead. “No, Louis. No. I’m—” he exhaled, resigned—“I’m courting her.”

Silence.

Then:

A howl of laughter so loud Alastor jerked the phone back from his ear.

“COURTIN’?! LORD HAVE MERCY—I THOUGH I’D NEVER LIVE TO SEE THIS DAY, MAMA NADINE, GET IN HERE!”

Alastor’s eyes went wide. “Louis. No. Louis—LOUIS DO NOT—”

Too late.

A booming woman’s voice burst through the receiver like thunder over the Gulf:

“ALASTOR—IS THAT YOU?”

Alastor looked like a man dying inside. “…Hello, Aunt Nadine.”

“I HEAR YOU GOT YA-SELF A GIRL!”

Alice turned scarlet.
Alastor looked like he briefly considered walking into traffic.

“Yes,” he said through his teeth. “Her name is Alice.”

Nadine clapped her hands on the other end of the line. “Well, ain’t THAT somethin’! You gotta bring her down here so we can all meet her.”

“Aunt Nadine, we really can’t—radio schedule, and—”

“ALASTOR GASTON BROUSSARD.” The tone could have cracked God’s spine.
“You are comin’ home for Thanksgiving. And you bring the girl. That’s final, boy.”

Click.

The call ended.

Alastor slowly lowered the phone.
And stared at it.
As though considering never speaking to his family again.

Alice burst out laughing.

He sighed, defeated. “Well. I suppose we’re… traveling for the holidays.”

Alice grinned. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

Alastor looked at the wall like it had personally betrayed him.
“You say that now.”

Alice smiled “So…Gaston, what do you want for dinner”?

Alastor rolled his eyes “Don’t even start”

A few weeks later, Alice packed a small bag, and she and Alastor drove west, the radio humming sweet swing tunes. At first, she was excited—going to meet his family felt… important. But the closer they got to the bayous, the more her stomach twisted. Her knee bounced. She kept fussing with the fabric of her blue dress.
Alastor noticed.
“Nervous, my dear?”
She shrugged. “A little. I’ve never been great at meeting new people.”
Alastor laid a warm hand over her restless knee. “They will love you. I promise.”

The car finally rolled to a stop in what looked like nowhere—just a little wooden cabin, water, cypress trees, and air so thick with humidity it felt like syrup.
Alice blinked.
“…Alastor? Your whole family lives in there?”

With a light laugh, he stepped out. “No, Gods, I couldn't even imagine that. No, one does not simply drive to my family home. We’ll be takin’ a boat.”
“A boat,” she echoed, smiling. “Lovely. And… where is it?”
Alastor exhaled through his nose, long-suffering. “Ah. Well, I intentionally arrived late to give Louis some time to arrive. He is consistently—how shall we say—unburdened by the concept of punctuality.”

“Oh, I get that. There's always that one family member that struggles with time. My sister was always late to everything,” Alice laughed.
Alastor smiled, but it faded. “Are you certain you don’t mind missing your family this holiday?”
Alice’s smile faltered. “They… didn’t call. So it’s fine.”
It wasn’t, not really. But she said nothing more.

They waited. Alice wandered, watching dragonflies skim the water. She rolled over rocks to see tiny bugs scurry away. Alastor checked his pocket watch every ten seconds, jaw tight.
Then Alice looked up and her heart stopped

She recognized a tree. Draped in moss. Tree limps going every which way.
Her breath snagged. She had been here before.
This was where he had made her drive him—that night.
Her hands shook. She tried to steady them. I tried to breathe. Images from that night unwillingly flooded her mind. The dead body. The gun. Alastor

Alastor saw Alice trembling immediately.
“Alice? You’re trembling. Are you still nervous?”
He touched her shoulder. She flinched.
He froze.
“Alice…?”
Her voice was thin. “This… is where you hide bodies, right?
Silence.
Then Alastor exhaled. “Yes, I mean only some of them”
Alice nodded, fighting the shiver crawling up her spine. He stepped closer—slow, so she could choose to move away—and gently wrapped an arm around her.
“You are safe, my dear. Truly.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

He looked away, guilt pulling at his expression. “I am the one who should apologize. For that night. For—”
The sound of a coughing boat motor cut him off.

A flat-bottomed skiff wobbled into view, captained by a sun-browned man with mischief in his grin.
“Allez! Look at you!” the man shouted, hopping out and immediately dragging Alastor into a rib-crushing hug. “Mon p’tit cousin, you done got tall! Almost eye-to-eye now, eh?”
Alastor, expression pained: “Hello, Louis. Only twenty minutes late. That's got to be a record.”
“Twenty?” Louis blinked. “I was shootin’ for forty. I’m slippin’.”

Then his gaze landed on Alice. His face lit up.
“And who is this pretty lil’ thing? Cher, you must be Miss Alice.”
Alice blushed. “Nice to meet you, Louis.”
“Pleasure’s mine, bébé.” He elbowed Alastor. “Now tell me—is she blinkin’ twice for help? I can hide you behind a cypress tree, sweetheart.”
Alastor shut his eyes. “Can we please get on the boat.”
Louis held up both hands. “Aight, aight. City folk get cranky when they hungry.”
Louis hopped back aboard. Alastor loaded their bags, then took Alice’s hand, steady and gentle, guiding her in after him.
The boat pushed off, and the bayou rose around them—green, warm, alive, humming like something ancient and breathing.

The boat chugged lazily through the water, the bayou unfolding around them in shades of green and gold. Alice leaned over the side, watching the moss sway from the branches like curtains in some ancient ballroom. It reminded her of the marshes back in North Carolina—before her life had… taken such a downhill turn. Thanksgiving was days away. Her family would probably just sit around a table pretending she didn’t exist. A comforting thought.
Meanwhile, Alastor and Louis were having a conversation about fishing, family drama, and a cousin who allegedly tried to fight a possum with a broom.
At last, the boat drifted into view of a small village of wooden houses perched on stilts right above the swamp. It was lively—grandmothers gossiping on porches, dogs barking at nothing, and children splashing each other in the water.

The moment Alice stepped off the boat, the splashing children froze—stared—like they’d just spotted a mermaid.
Alice smiled and waved politely.
The kids screamed and ran.
Not away—toward the nearest house—yelling:
“TANTÉ NADINE! TANTÉ NADINE! ALASTOR BROUGHT A LADY!!!”
Alice didn’t have time to react before a door flew open and a woman barreled out—apron on, hair tied back, voice already halfway raised.
She took one look at Alice and made a delighted noise that sounded like someone finding a stray kitten.

“Ohh! Look at you! You must be Miss Alice!” she exclaimed, grabbing Alice’s shoulders like she was checking for ripeness.
Alice blinked. “Um—yes! Hello, it’s nice to meet—”
Too late. She was already in a full hug.
“I’m Nadine, baby! Lawd, you are just precious.”
Alice squeaked politely.
Nadine then noticed Alastor and gave him a hug too—except this one came with shoulder smacking.
“Al! Look at you! I’ve missed you so much baby. You don’t write, you don’t call! Like I’m supposed to be fine with that!”
“It’s good to see you too, Aunt Nadine,” Alastor replied, tone dignified but also deeply resigned.
Nadine didn’t bother responding—she just grabbed Alice’s hand.
“Come inside, sweetheart. Let me LOOK at you properly.”

Inside was a whirlwind. Dozens of cousins. Aunts. Uncles. At least two babies. Possibly a ferret. Everyone was talking. Everyone had a story. Everyone had questions.
“Oh she’s so cute!”
“She talks real sweet!”
“You eat crawfish, bébé? Or you one of those people who cry over spicy food?”
“This Alastor’s girlfriend? Well I’ll be.”
Alastor rolled his eyes so hard they nearly left orbit.
Alice smiled until her face was numb, nodding, greeting, trying desperately to remember names. Every cousin seemed to be named some variation of Louis, Louise, Lucille, or Lulu.

Finally—finally—Alastor tugged her gently away and into a small room, shutting the door behind them.
Alice exhaled like she had just escaped a stampede.
“I told you they were a lot,” Alastor said, sounding… apologetic?
“They were really nice,” she admitted, flopping onto the bed.
The mattress squeaked, soft and comfortable. Alice glanced around—the room was crowded with memories. Shelves of records and old books. A duck frozen mid-flight on the wall. A deer with glassy, judgmental eyes. And—dear Lord—a massive alligator skull like some kind of swamp throne centerpiece.
Her gaze landed on the nightstand. A photograph—old, edges worn soft by time. A bright-eyed boy with a lopsided smile stood next to a graceful woman whose hand rested on his shoulder.
Alice picked it up carefully.
“Who’s this?”

Alastor took one look at the photograph and sat beside her, the bed dipping. He took the photo from her hands with a slow, steady breath.
“That,” he said quietly, “is me. And my mother.”
The tone of the room changed—like the bayou outside had gone still.
He wasn’t smiling now. His eyes didn’t glitter with mischief. He looked… young. And tired. And somewhere far away.
Alice’s hand slid around his arm, soft, grounding.
“She’s beautiful,” Alice murmured.
“She was,” Alastor agreed. His voice didn’t waver—but it was different. “I– I haven’t been back here since she passed.”
And suddenly it made sense.
The tightness in his shoulders.
The clipped patience.
Every room, every family member, every blade of grass here, held a memory of her.
This was grief—complicated and unspoken.
Alice leaned her head against his shoulder. There were no perfect words, so she didn’t try to find any.

Her eyes drifted to the wall of taxidermy again.
“…Wait. This is your childhood room, isn’t it?”
Alastor nodded without looking up.
“So… you hunted all of these?”
Alice stared at the wall like it was a horror museum curated by a very polite serial killer.
Alastor followed her gaze, nodding fondly.
“Yes. My cousin Adonis did the taxidermy. He had… artistic flair. He let me keep the ones I killed.”
Alice pointed at the alligator skull the size of her torso.
“You killed an actual alligator? How?!”
Alastor blinked at her. Slowly.
“You're surprised I killed an Alligator? Alice. I have killed people.”
“Yeah, I know,” Alice said immediately, “but people don’t have razor sharp teeth or jaws that can snap your arm off like a celery stick.”
Alastor didn’t miss a beat.
“You have clearly never met the men who come down from Boston. Some of them could break your spine just by breathing in your direction. They’re more bear than human. I swear one of them had fur. Chest hair like a rug.”
Alice’s brain caught up with her mouth. She froze.
They just stared at each other.
Then—Alice snorted. Loud.
Alastor’s face faltered. He attempted dignity. He really did.
Alice broke.

She doubled over laughing, wheezing like an accordion.
And Alastor—Alastor lasted all of three seconds before his composure cracked like thin ice, laughter tearing out of him sharp and wild, like he hadn’t done it in far too long.
They both collapsed onto the tiny twin bed, laughing until their stomachs hurt, surrounded by staring glass eyes of every swamp creature Alastor ever traumatized.

Just as their laughter was tapering off, the door flew open with the force of a hurricane.
Aunt Nadine burst through the door and stood there with her hands on her hips like the wrath of God Himself had sent her.
“Oh NOW HOLD ON.” she announced to the universe. “You two better be jokin’. Layin’ on a bed. Door closed. Lord have mercy, I ain’t raisin’ another scandal in this family!”
Alice shot upright so fast she nearly launched herself off the mattress. Her face went crimson.
“Nadine,” Alastor said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, “I am twenty-two.”
“And I am still your AUNT Nadine,” she snapped, pointing at him like she was banishing a demon. “You gon’ say it with respect.”
She turned to Alice, squinting like she was evaluating the integrity of her soul.
“Girl, you best be keepin’ your corset on.”
Alice made a tiny squeaking noise.
Nadine fanned herself dramatically.
“Oh, Lord, give me strength today. Y’all get up and git. Supper’s almost ready.”
And with that, she marched out—leaving the door wide open behind her, like that was some kind of morality forcefield.
Alice and Alastor looked at each other.
Both horrified.
Both mortified.
Both two seconds from cracking again.
Then it started—first a snort, then a giggle, then they were laughing all over again, clutching their stomachs like they were dying.

When they finally composed themselves enough to walk out, their faces were still flushed and eyes watery from laughing too hard.
And the smell.
The smell.
The air outside was thick with the scent of frying fish, spices, something buttery, something smoky—heaven. Alice watched Alastor grab a plate like a man on a mission, wandering down the line of pots and pans like a general surveying his troops.
He just scooped food straight from each pot—no hesitation, no questions—just loading his plate with practiced efficiency. Clearly a lifelong skill.
Alice hesitated, unused to buffet-style family chaos, but followed him. She got only a small amount—a few pieces of fish, a roll—very polite, very dainty.
She and Alastor sat on the porch, where cousins lounged on steps, uncles told stories too loud, and children darted around barefoot, dripping from the water. Laughter rolled like warm wind.
Alice took a bite of the fish.
Oh.
She nearly saw God.

Just as she was savoring it, Aunt Jeanne materialized behind her.
Jeanne looked at Alice’s plate, then at Alice herself, then gasped like she had discovered a crime scene.
“Girl. HONEY. You eat like a sparrow. Look at you—skin and bones, bless your heart.”
Before Alice could protest, her plate was gently yanked away and replaced with a mountain of fish, rice, greens, cornbread, and something Alice couldn’t identify but smelled like it could cure emotional pain.
“There. Eat.” Aunt Jeanne said, satisfied. “You too precious to starve in my presence.”
Alice, wide-eyed: “Oh. Thank you—”
Alastor, watching all of this with a slow-building grin, started laughing again.
Alice gave him a shove.
But she was laughing too.

After supper, the sun had dipped low, turning the bayou water gold. The porch was loud with belly laughs, clinking bottles, and someone arguing loudly about who once wrestled “the biggest gator this parish ever saw” (it was absolutely a lie).
A cluster of the men suddenly turned toward Alastor.
“Aye, Al!” one of them hollered. “We headin’ out soon! Gotta catch us a gator for tomorrow’s dinner! You comin’ or you gone soft livin’ up in the city?”
Alastor lit up like a kid hearing the ice cream truck.
“But of course,” he grinned, straightening his suspenders like he’d been waiting all day to be asked.
He strolled over to join the group. Alice trailed after him, just to listen, not intending to join anything involving large reptiles and potential death.
The men were huddled around, debating strategy like they were planning a military operation instead of just… gator hunting.

Then Louis turned—and spotted Alice.
His expression was pure shock and amusement.
“Cher… you not actually thinkin’ you comin’, are you?”
Alice blinked. She hadn’t been. She really hadn’t.
But something in his tone—light, teasing, dismissive—flipped a switch.
“And why not?” she asked, voice calm, chin lifting.
Louis laughed, big and loud, like she had just told a joke.
“Ohh, she’s funny, boys! Look—look at her!” He gestured at her like she was a decorative lamp.
Alice’s jaw tightened—just slightly.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, still polite, which somehow made it scarier.
Louis shrugged, still grinning.
“Well, cher, look at you. You’re just a little thing. You ain’t cut out for gator huntin’. That’s all.”
Alice crossed her arms.
“So. Because I’m a girl,” she clarified.
Louis nodded like this was a scientific fact confirmed by God and the U.S. Census.
“Yeah.”

Alice’s expression did not change.
Her soul, however, set itself on fire.
“You wanna bet?” she said simply.
The entire circle of men went: OOOHHHH—
Alastor, standing just behind them, raised his brows.
He had never seen this side of Alice.
And he was absolutely delighted.
Louis smirked. “Alright then, cher. If you can’t handle it—if you get scared, if you scream, if you back out even once—you gotta jump in the swamp. Fully clothed.”
Alice didn’t blink.
“Fine. But when I don’t back out—you are washing all the dishes. Tonight and tomorrow. So the ladies can rest.”
The aunts inside perked up like hunting dogs.
Someone whispered, “Lord, please let her win.”
Louis groaned dramatically, but stuck his hand out.
They shook on it.
“It’s a deal, little lady.”
Alice smiled sweetly—dangerously.
Alastor just stared at her like he was finally seeing what Alice was truly capable of, and he loved it.

Chapter Text

Louis and Alice bickered back and fourth for a bit until Louis raised a brow..
“But you ain’t goin’ out there in that pretty dress, are you? Bayou mud don’t care how fancy you look, chère. 'Less a fine Southern belle like yourself is afraid to get a little dirty.”
Alice didn’t even blink.
“I’ll change,” she said, and spun around on her heel before he could smirk again.
She slipped back inside, heart beating quicker than she wanted to admit. In the quiet of Alastor's old room, she rifled through Alastor's luggage. She found a pair of trousers—too big and a crisp white shirt that smelled faintly of cedar and cigarette smoke. The pants sagged comically on her hips; the shirt swallowed her whole. She tucked the shirt deep and cinched the pants tight with a belt that wrapped around her twice. Then she gathered her hair back with a scrap of twine. A little messy, but it will do..

She opened the door—and nearly bumped right into Alastor.
He blinked at her, surprise warming into amusement.
“Well… look at you.” His eyes flicked over the outfit. “Is that my shirt?”
Alice tugged at the hem.
“I won’t get it too dirty. Promise.”
He laughed—not his usual theatrical one, but a softer, genuine sound that warmed her chest.
Alice lowered her voice, suddenly unsure.
“I wasn’t… too mean, was I? I feel a little bad.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Alastor said, eyes dancing. “Louis’s ego needed to be lanced years ago. You provided the finest entertainment of the evening.” He paused, a rare sincerity slipping in. “You were brilliant, my dear.”
Her cheeks warmed. She hoped the shadows of the house hid it.
Alastor’s expression shifted, thoughtful.
“But—are you sure about going? Guns are loud, and I know you're not a fan of loud noises.”
Alice scoffed lightly.
“No way, guns are loud? Really? Couldn’t possibly have guessed.” She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her affection. “If I know it’s coming, I’ll be fine… I think.”
He held her gaze for a moment, searching—then nodded.
“Well… then. Shall we?”
He opened the door for her, fingertips brushing the small of her back as they stepped outside.

They boarded a little flatboat with Louis and another cousin whose name slipped Alice’s mind the moment she heard it. The motor buzzed to life, and they drifted into the bayou.
The evening sky was a blaze of orange, melting into rose, then violet. Cypress trees hunched over the water like old storytellers, their moss swaying in the warm evening breeze. Fireflies just began to float up from the reeds, soft glimmers like drifting stars.
One landed on Alice’s fingertip. Tiny. Gentle. A small miracle.
She smiled.
And when she looked up—Alastor was watching her.
Not with mischief. Not with cunning.
Something quieter. Warmer. Like he was seeing something rare.
He jerked his gaze away the second she caught him, clearing his throat.
Alice laughed under her breath—and didn’t look away this time.

They pulled into a narrow channel of the bayou, where the trees crowded in close, leaning over the water like they were listening. The chatter died. Laughter faded. Even the cicadas seemed to quiet.
Everyone watched the surface—still as glass. A few held fishing poles dipped in; others gripped rifles with steady, practiced hands. Alice sat perfectly still, her chest tight, preparing herself. There will be a gunshot. You know it. Don’t jump. Don’t flinch. Don’t show them. She inhaled slow, deep, steady.
Next to her, Alastor and Louis had spent the entire ride bickering like two old men over a church pew. Alastor insisted on taking the gun; Louis insisted “not on God’s good bayou.” So Alastor sat with the fishing rod furiously wrapped in his hands while Louis aimed down into the water like he was posing for a painting.
The third cousin—whose name Alice still absolutely did not remember—just leaned forward at the bow, eyes narrowed, searching for the slightest ripple.

Then it happened.
Alastor’s line jerked—hard.
The pole bent almost in half.
Alastor’s eyes lit up. “Ha! There we are—”
“REEL IT IN FASTER, AL!” Louis snapped, practically climbing over him.
Alastor shot him a glare sharp enough to peel bark.
“Ferme ta bouche, Louis!”
The water broke.
A huge dark shape surged upward—scales catching moonlight—jaws wide enough to take a man’s leg in one bite. The hook was set deep. Alastor dug his heels in, muscles tight, every tendon in his arm straining.
Louis raised the rifle—aiming—finger tightening—
Alice braced. Breath locked. Shoulders squared. Ready for the bang. Ready. Ready.
But then, the gator thrashed.

The tail slammed the side of the boat—hard.
The world lurched.
Louis’s footing slipped.
The shot went off inches from Alice’s ear.
White-hot sound.
Sharp. Violent.
Her whole skull rang.
Louis toppled backward—straight into the dark water.
Alastor’s rod snapped upright—the line snapped.
“DAMN IT!!” he barked, frustration cracking his voice.
Alice’s heartbeat thundered, her hands white knuckling the boat—and then she saw it.
A shadow—huge—gliding beneath the murky water
Heading straight for Louis, who was still in the water.
No one was looking in the same direction as her.
Not Alastor.
Not the others.
No one was watching the crime scene that was about to happen.
Except her.
Alice didn’t think.
Didn’t hesitate, Louis couldn't afford it.
Her hand closed on Louis’s dropped gun—she lifted, aimed, and fired.
One clean shot.
The gator’s head jerked.
The water stilled.
Silence, except for her ringing ear and Louis sputtering, still alive.
The alligator floated belly-up in the water—huge, heavy, and very dead.

For a second, no one spoke. No one moved. Even the bayou seemed to hold its breath.
Then the men exploded into cheers like they had just won the World Series.
Alastor threw his hands up.
“Mon dieu, Alice! What a shot!”
Louis, still coughing up swamp water, pointed weakly from where he bobbed like a sad, wet piece of laundry. “I—I had it handled, y’all—”
“No you didn’t,” the nameless cousin said immediately.
They hauled the gator onto the boat, then hauled Louis on after it, in that exact order.
Alastor clapped Louis on the back—hard.
“Well, looks like someone is washing dishes tonight and tomorrow night! A bet is a bet!”
Everyone laughed. Louis looked like he wanted to throw himself back into the swamp.
Alice, however, sat very still.
Her ear was still ringing from the gunshot.
Her heart was still doing a strange uneven thing.
And her eyes kept drifting to the limp gator—the weight of what she had done sitting strangely in her chest.
She’d never killed anything before.
Not even a fish.
And now she’d killed a big beast who was swimming and living only minutes ago. Now dead.
Alastor flopped down beside her, still cackling at Louis’s misfortune.
But he paused. He noticed.
He leaned in gently, voice low.
“Are you alright, mon cœur?”
Alice blinked, pulled her smile up like a curtain.
“Yeah. I think my ear’s just still ringing. That’s all.”
He believed her.
He wrapped an arm around her shoulder—not dramatic, just warm and steady.
He began to hum—soft, familiar, soothing—and the tight feeling inside her loosened. Just a bit.
The cousin-whose-name-she-still-did-not-know sniffed and leaned over.
“So where you learn to shoot like that, cher? That was clean.”
Alice let out the most awkward, nervous laugh imaginable.
“Oh, uh—ha—well, that was actually my first time shooting a gun. So… I think I was just really, really lucky.”
The cousin lost it.
Bent over, wheezing. Tears. Actual tears.
“Oh hoh! LOUIS!” he hollered. “You got outshot by a girl who ain’t never even HELD a gun before—ohhh that’s rough, man, that’s rough.”
Louis groaned into his hands.
“Would y’all PLEASE shut up—”
Alice just sat there, smiling weakly.
Trying not to think about the alligator.
Trying not to think about how her hands were still vibrating.
But Alastor’s arm stayed around her.
And his humming stayed soft.
And she leaned, just slightly, into him.
And the boat kept gliding home.

When they returned, the whole house practically celebrated sending Louis straight to the kitchen sink. All the aunts clapped like they’d been delivered from suffering. One even said, “Praise the Lord and this tiny girl right here,” and kissed Alice on the forehead.
Alice couldn’t help but smile, even if it was small and tired.
Alastor, though, did not take her back inside.
He touched her wrist—light, asking—and said, “Come. I want to show you something.”

They walked beneath the canopy of the bayou, where the air was thick and green and alive. The cicadas hummed, frogs chorused low and steady, and the world smelled of wet leaves and dark water. Alice didn’t know where they were going, but she followed.
Eventually, the trees parted.
A clearing opened up like a held breath.
Tall cypress trees draped with silver moss.
Pockets of water gleaming like glass among the cattails.
Fireflies drifting in slow, golden constellations.
It looked like something out of another world.
Without a word, Alastor simply lowered himself to the ground and stretched out on his back, as if the earth itself were familiar to him.
Alice knelt beside him, confused and gentle.
“What are you doing?” she murmured.
He smiled—not sharp, not performative—just soft.
“I used to do this all the time when I was a boy,” he said. “Lie down, stare at the stars, and just… think.”
So she laid down beside him.
The clearing above them was wide open, framed by moss and night sky. The stars looked brighter than they did anywhere else—like they had stepped closer, just for the two of them.

They laid there in silence.
A silence that didn’t press—it rested.
After a while, Alastor’s voice came low and thoughtful.
“Alice… May I ask you something?”
She turned her head toward him.
“Of course.”
His eyes were still on the sky, but his attention was on her.
“Why did you take that bet with Louis? I’ve always thought of you as someone who lets foolishness slide. I don’t think you wanted to go gator hunting. So… why?”
Alice breathed out slowly.
“No,” she said quietly, “I didn’t want to.”
She traced the stars with her eyes.
“It was the way he said it. Like it was already decided I couldn’t. I don’t like when people assume I’m weak just because I’m quiet. Or small. Or polite. I’m not helpless. I never have been.”
A firefly landed on her wrist, glowing faintly.
She swallowed.
“You know, the real reason I knew how to shoot… was because of my ex-fiancé.”
Her voice stayed soft, but the words were sharp.
“I was scared he might kill me one day. He was getting more violent. Each month worse than the last. And he was a big hunter, so he had all these magazines lying around—how to hold a gun steady, how to aim clean.”
She closed her hand slowly, watching the light float away.
“So I taught myself. Quietly. In case I ever needed to protect myself.”
The night did not silence itself—it listened.
Alastor turned his head toward her.
His expression was unreadable at first—something deep, something old.
Then he spoke, voice low.
“I still cannot believe you were made to endure that.”

Alice didn’t respond.
There wasn’t anything to say.
So they simply lay there—two people who had survived things they didn’t talk about—under a sky that kept its own quiet counsel.
Alice turned toward him, the fireflies painting little flecks of gold across her cheek. “Can I ask you something?” she said, voice careful as if stepping over something fragile.
Alastor’s eyes slid to hers. “Only ask it if you truly want the answer,” he warned, but there was no malice in it — only that curious, measured curiosity of his.
She hesitated, breathing in the warm, wet night. “Okay. You don’t have to answer if it’s—well—private. But… Why do you kill people?”
The question landed between them like a stone. For the first time that evening, Alastor went very still. The crickets seemed to hush. Alice felt the color creep into her face and immediately tried to take it back. “Never mind,” she added, but the words were small and brittle.
After a long stretch of silence, he spoke. His voice was quiet, almost casual — as though saying it plainly made it less horrific.
“I kill people who deserve to die.”
Alice’s breath caught. “That’s—” The rest of the sentence dissolved into the night. The stars hung above them, indifferent and unblinking.
“Why?” she asked again, this time gentler, carefully peeling back the question as if afraid it might cut her.
Alastor shifted, rolling onto his stomach so he could face her fully. Moonlight slipped through the hanging moss, casting soft shadows across his features.
“Control,” he said simply. “It gives me a kind of control I was never allowed to have.”
“Control?” Alice’s brow furrowed. “Control over what?”
His gaze moved past her, settling on the slow sway of the moss overhead. When he spoke again, his voice was measured — not rehearsed, but long examined.
“Look at me, Alice.”
She did.
“My face — my skin — marked me as an outcast from the moment I was born. People didn’t need to know my name to decide who I was. What I was.” He exhaled, steady but tired in a way he never allowed himself to be. “Do you know what it’s like to have the world write your story before you ever get to speak a word of it? To be dismissed, hated, simply for existing?” His jaw tightened just slightly. “It builds. It festers. And eventually, it demands release.”
Alice looked at him, her expression softening and knowing, though she didn’t interrupt.
For a moment, something small and unguarded flickered in his eyes — not apology, but something adjacent.
“I suppose,” he murmured, voice quieter now, “we are more alike than I gave us credit for.”
The words felt like a bridge he wasn’t sure how to walk across — but he’d placed it there anyway.
Alice’s voice was quiet but steady. “I never thought of you as less than.”
Alastor’s expression shifted — not into one of his usual theatrical grins, but something smaller, realer. “That,” he said, “is what I like about you, my dear.”
She gave a faint, shy smile. He looked away toward the trees, the fireflies drifting like tiny lanterns between them.
“Honestly,I just don’t feel like I belong anywhere,” Alastor admitted.
Alice didn’t interrupt — she simply listened.
“I’ve always felt like I’m made of the wrong shades,” he said. “Too white for the bayou. My cousins—” he let out a quiet laugh with no humor in it — “they don’t shove me out, but they never let me forget I’m not fully one of them either. And yet, in New Orleans, I’m too Black. Too other.” He shook his head, jaw tightening. “I will never understand why skin is allowed to write a person’s entire story for them. I hate it. And there's no ethical way to fight it, no polite way to protest it. It drove me mad.”
He took a slow breath.
“But killing those men — the ones who take, and take, and take — watching their arrogance crack, watching the fear come, watching life drain out of their eyes… It feels like I am taking something back. Like I am not the one being pushed anymore.” His gaze was steady, not cruel, just painfully honest. “It makes me feel alive. It makes me feel in control. I like to think of it as karma — a spirit of retribution with my hands.”
Alice didn’t know what to say at first. She stared up at the stars, the quiet stretching out.
“…I know what it feels like to be underestimated,” she finally said.
“I know,” he murmured. And he did.
“But…” Alice swallowed. “I don’t kill because of it.”
Alastor shrugged — a motion that was somehow both tired and dismissive. “I take out the worst of them. The ones who strut through life untouched. It is a service, in my eyes. Someone has to tip the scales.”
Alice looked at him in the dim light — the weight of what he believed settling like mist between them.
“It’s not… ethical,” she said softly. Her voice wasn’t accusing. Just... sad.
For a moment, he listened. Then his expression tightened. He sat up, offering her a thin, sharp smile that had edges again.
“Remember when I told you you could spend the rest of your days trying to get inside the mind of a killer?” he said. “Stop. You won’t like what you find. And it will eat you alive.”

Silence returned — thick and deep as the bayou around them.
They laid there again, side by side. Fireflies drifted. Water lapped somewhere far off. The air was warm and full of living things.
The question had been asked.
The answer had been given.
And the space between them had changed — quieter, heavier, and somehow more honest.
Alice was quiet for a long while, staring up at the stars. But her thoughts were loud — too loud. The memory of the alligator surfaced over and over, the snap of its tail, the shot, the way it floated afterward.
Finally, she said softly, “Alastor… can I ask you something else?”
He let out a slow sigh, already weary. “If it’s about the last topic, spare me. I’m not in the mood for a sermon or a moral debate right now.”
That should have stopped her. But the silence pressed too hard against her chest.
Because the truth was — she wasn’t thinking about good and evil, or justice, or anything that big.
She was thinking about the moment she pulled the trigger.
She sat up suddenly, voice breaking just a little.
“I don’t understand how you do it,” she said.
Alastor blinked, thrown off. “Do what?”
“Take a life.”
The words fell between them like something heavy.
“I’ve never killed anything before,” Alice continued, her hands twisting together. “Not even a fish. And then tonight I—” Her breath shook. “I killed something. I know it was just an alligator. I know it could’ve hurt Louis. But I just… pulled the trigger. And it died. Just like that. Life is supposed to be precious, something sacred. And I took it away in a second.”
Alastor stared at her, confused. “Then why did you shoot?”
“Because I thought it was going for Louis,” she said. “But what if I was wrong? What if it was just trying to get away? What if I took its life for nothing?”
Alastor sat up too, placing his hands gently but firmly on her shoulders, grounding her.
“Alice. Listen to me.” His tone was calm, steady. “You’re thinking yourself into a place that doesn’t help. You saved Louis. That’s what happened. Everything else is just noise.”
Alice swallowed hard. Her eyes were shiny, but she refused to cry.
“When I was little,” she said, voice soft, “I was raised to believe that all life is a gift. That taking it — any of it — stains your soul. It’s why I never hunted, never fished. I didn’t want to be responsible for ending something that wanted to live.”
Alastor blinked — genuinely surprised.
“…Your father taught you that?”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a beat. Then:
“Well,” he said slowly, “you still eat the steak I cook, so that’s a bit rich, isn’t it?”
Alice froze — and then let out a breathy, embarrassed laugh.
“Good lord,” she muttered. “You’re right. I sound ridiculous.”
Alastor’s smile softened — real, warm, a rare thing.
“My dear, your soul is probably white as fresh snow. I don’t think a single alligator is going to darken it.”
She giggled, just a little — the tension breaking.
Then Alastor stretched out again beside her. “Besides,” he said lightly, “it’ll be a cold day in Hell if you ever end up there.”
Alice looked at the stars for a moment before she asked, very quietly,
“…What about you? Where do you think you’ll go?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Hell,” he said. Simple. Certain.
Alice turned her head to look at him, something aching in her chest.
“And you’re… okay with that?”
Alastor’s eyes stayed on the sky.
“Alice,” he said gently, but with clear finality, “let’s not talk about that.”
So they didn’t.

They laid there awhile, just listening to the crickets and the soft movement of the water somewhere beyond the trees. The air smelled like damp earth and wild mint. Alice breathed it in like medicine.
Alice broke the silence. “Who was that other man in the boat with us?”
Alastor made a small noise—half-laugh, half-amusement. “That was Adan.”
“Adan!” Alice snapped, relief blooming. “That’s his name—I was trying to remember all evening.”
He smiled at her triumph, then the mood shifted, something curious and sharp moving into his voice. “Speaking of names, tell me,” he said, almost casual, “what was your ex-fiancé’s name? You’ve never said it aloud.”
Alice’s smile faded. She glanced up at the moss-draped branches as if the trees might answer for her. “Why do you want to know?”
Alastor’s eyes were steady. There was no theatrics now—just a slow, dangerous calm. “Curiosity,” he said. “Or… perhaps so I might just find out where he lives and works.”
Alice’s jaw tightened. “You’re lying.”
He didn’t bother to deny it. After a pause, his voice went low, hot with something close to fury. “Wouldn’t you like to see him gone, Alice? He was awful to you. He deserves—” He stopped himself, breath hitching. “He deserves justice.”
Alice took a long, steadying breath. The bayou night seemed to bend around her words. “I appreciate that you care,” she said, softly but firmly. “But that is between him and God. I don’t want you—any of you—taking that into your hands for me.”
Alastor’s jaw worked. For a moment the old, darker hunger flared behind his eyes, then he let it go—just enough to nod. “Fine,” he said, clipped. “For you. I will refrain.”
She watched him, searching his face. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want him to face consequences,” she added. “Just not… your consequences.”
“Noted,” he said, and there was something like a promise in it, rough-edged but sincere.
Alice immediately changed the subject. “It’s really lovely out here,” she said eventually, eyes tracing the stars through the moss-hung branches. “Do you like it?”
Alastor let out a long exhale. “Yes. As much as I adore the… theatrical chaos of the city, it’s quiet out here. Peaceful. I think I’ll retire out here someday, when I’m old and frightening and everyone assumes I live in a swamp anyway.”
Alice smiled. “I don’t blame you. It’s beautiful.”
He hummed, then added, almost too casually, “Perhaps I’ll have to take you with me. Someone must keep me entertained. And argue with me. And call me out when I say something insensitive.
If Alice’s face had been on fire, thank goodness the darkness hid it.
She prayed he was blushing too. He absolutely was not. But she hoped.
She cleared her throat. “Right. And someone has to keep you out of trouble.”
“Oh, you can certainly try,” he said, very matter-of-fact.
Alice snorted. “Please. You’ll still be chasing down terrible men at ninety. The 1990s won’t know what hit them.”
That did it — Alastor laughed.
A real, bright, ridiculous laugh that echoed through the trees.
“My darling, you know me far too well,” he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

As the night deepened, the air grew cooler. Without thinking much of it, Alice scooted closer. Then a little more. Eventually, they both ended up lying flat on the soft grass, his arm resting lazily around her shoulders. Her head found his chest like it belonged there.
Alice watched the branches overhead sway slowly.
She really did love him.
Even if he was complicated, sharp-edged, and stitched together from hurt and stubbornness. She believed he could change. She believed he wanted to. And maybe—maybe—if someone showed him he belonged somewhere, even if that “somewhere” was just beside her… maybe that would be enough.
The night hummed gently around them.
At some quiet, comfortable point, sleep slipped in.
Alice’s cheek rested over his heart.
Alastor’s hand rested, light and absent-minded, between her shoulder blades.
And in the middle of the bayou, under the soft flicker of fireflies, they both drifted off.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Alice woke with a stiff ache in her back and a heavy fog in her head. She blinked up at a familiar-but-unfamiliar ceiling of pale, chipped wood. Alastor’s childhood room.
She remembered falling asleep outside last night—stars shining through the cypress branches, distant frogs humming—but she didn’t remember coming back inside. And Alastor was nowhere to be seen.
She sat up, blankets bunching around her. She was still wearing his shirt and trousers. That made her laugh softly, a tired little giggle that warmed her chest.
Today was Thanksgiving.
Normally, she would have already been up, sleeves rolled, hair pinned back, standing beside her mother while they chopped, stirred, baked, and fussed. The house would smell like cinnamon rolls, and Cindy would be complaining about peeling potatoes.
But not this year.
Her family hadn’t written. Hadn’t called.
Not even a short letter to say we miss you.
Alice lay back down and stared at the ceiling, pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling. She missed them—her mother’s hands, her sister’s laugh. She wondered if they missed her at all.

Eventually, she pulled herself up and dressed in a simple but pretty dress. The house was quiet… except for the smell. Warm, rich, savory… holiday smell.
She followed it to the kitchen.
Aunt Adine and Aunt Jeanne were bustling around the stove, sleeves already rolled, pots steaming, something frying in a heavy skillet. They looked like they had been awake for hours.
“Good morning,” Alice said softly.
Both women jumped a mile. Aunt Jeanne slapped a hand over her chest.
“Good Lord, child—you near sent me to Heaven early!”
Alice flushed. “Oh! I’m so sorry—”
Aunt Jeanne waved her off. “No, no, you already saved us from spending all night washing dishes. Now what will we have to do with ourselves after dinner, hmm?” She elbowed Aunt Adine dramatically.
Aunt Adine scoffed. “Sleep. Obviously sleep.”
The three of them laughed.
Alice stepped closer. “Do you need any help?”
“Ain’t you just a blessing,” Aunt Adine said with a warm smile. “Yes, sweetheart. Could use a hand choppin’ some vegetables for the stew.”
Alice washed her hands, put on an old raggedy apron and fell into the rhythm of chopping carrots, then celery, then green pepper. Aunt Adine hummed as she stirred a heavy pot, the sound as soft and slow as the morning light.
After a while, Aunt Adine said quietly, without looking up:
“You really are just a sweet little thing, Alice. Truly. I never thought in all my life Alastor would find anyone—much less a girl as good-hearted as yourself.”
Alice blinked, cheeks warm. “Why do you say that? He’s very charming.”
Aunt Jeanne let out a short laugh.
“Charming,” she agreed. “And prissy.”
The two aunts burst into laughter. Alice didn’t.
Aunt Adine softened. “No harm meant, sugar. We just… Alastor’s always been a complicated one.” She stirred the pot again, slower. “For a long time, we weren’t sure if that boy was ever gonna find a place where he fit. Or let alone someone who fits with him.”
Alice didn’t know what to say to that. Her hands kept moving, slicing the last carrot into neat little circles.
“He’s doing well in New Orleans,” she said finally. “His radio show keeps growing. People love him.”
Aunt Jeanne leaned back and exhaled. “Well… I’m glad he’s doin’ well.”
Her tone was gentle—but there was something else beneath it. Something like history.
Alice looked down at the cutting board.
She wondered, not for the first time, what parts of Alastor’s story she still didn’t know.

They fell into an easy rhythm in the kitchen—each of them doing their own part. Aunt Jeanne kneaded dough with brisk, quick motions; Aunt Adine hovered over a large pot, stirring thoughtfully; and Alice, every couple of minutes, chopped something or stirred whatever someone pointed at. The kitchen smelled of onions, thyme, and smoked sausage. It felt warm. Home-like.
“So,” Aunt Adine said after a while, breaking the comfortable quiet, “are you and your family doin’ somethin’ another day to celebrate, cher?”
Alice stilled her knife.
“No… I don’t exactly talk to my family anymore these days.”
Aunt Adine turned, brows lifting. “What? Why—”
Aunt Jeanne smacked her lightly with the back of her hand.
“Adine, quit bein’ nosy.”
“Well, excuse me for having a heart!” Aunt Adine huffed—but her expression softened. She turned to Alice again. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just… you’re the sweetest girl I ever seen come through this house.”
Alice shook her head gently. “No, it’s alright.”
And she told them.
About her father who believed obedience was the only form of love.
About the despicable fiancé chosen for her.
About the way every door was closing and she had to run before she suffocated in her own life.
By the time she finished, both women had stopped what they were doing entirely.
“Oh, baby…” Aunt Adine murmured, covering her chest with her hand. “I can’t believe you went through all that. Poor cher… poor thing…”
Alice’s throat tightened, but she smiled anyway, because smiling was easier than crying.
She told them then—quieter—how she danced in small clubs to survive.
And how one night, there was a pianist, a young man with a bright grin and eyes full of ambition.
“Oh that’s just precious,” Aunt Jeanne said with a soft laugh.
Aunt Adine suddenly wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron.
“I just wish Estelle was here…”
Aunt Jeanne’s face softened too. “I know.”
She glanced at Alice, voice warming with memory.
“She would’ve eaten you up, honey. Loved you to pieces.”
Alice blinked. “Who’s Estelle?”
Aunt Adine hesitated—but only for a second.
“Our sister. Alastor’s mother.”
Alice straightened. “Oh! I… I’ve heard a lot about her.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Aunt Jeanne said with a small smile. “Those two were real close.”
Aunt Adine took a deep breath, staring down into the pot as though watching years unfurl in the steam.
“That’s why we worry about him so much. Ever since she passed, he never wanted to come back here. To the bayou. To any of us.”
She shook her head. “Just him… alone in that big city.”
Alice nodded gently. “He really is doing great there.”
“I know,” Aunt Adine said softly. “And I am so glad he found a girl like you.”
Alice’s heart warmed—a tender, almost fragile feeling.
She smiled.

Then, gently, she asked:
“Do you know anything about Alastor’s father?”
Both aunts froze—like a pot had dropped.
Aunt Jeanne was the first to speak.
“Do you know anything about his father?”
Alice shook her head. “No… he never talks about him. But I get the feeling they didn’t get along. And that he’s… also passed.”
Aunt Adine looked down, hands tightening around the wooden spoon.
“I don’t know what Estelle ever saw in that man. But…”
She exhaled, tired, old in that moment.
“That story is not mine to tell, cher.”
Alice didn’t press.
She simply nodded—and continued chopping, very quietly.
The pot bubbled.
The kitchen grew warm again.

Alice heard footsteps coming down the hall — quick, confident ones — and before she could turn, Alastor appeared in the doorway
“Good morning,” he began cheerfully. “Have any of y’all seen—”
Then his eyes landed on Alice, standing there in an apron, helping his aunts chop vegetables.
He blinked. “Well, I see you two have kidnapped my girl and put her to work."
Aunt Adine snorted. “Hardly. She offered to help. Unlike some people in this family .”
Alastor raised an eyebrow. “Sure, sure. Next thing I know, you’ll have her chained to the stove.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Aunt Adine said with a grin.
Alice giggled and untied her apron. “I was just helping a little.”
“Mm-hm.” Alastor took her hand and gave a little tug. “Come on, dear, before they put you to work for good.”

Outside, the sun was climbing through the moss-draped trees, and the air smelled faintly of wet grass and wood smoke. Alice stretched and squinted toward the bayou.
“So,” she said after a moment, “how did we get back here last night? I don’t remember walking back at all.”
Alastor smirked. “I figured you wouldn’t. You were dead asleep.”
Alice stopped. “Well that doesn’t—Wait… did you carry me or something?"
“Well, I couldn’t just leave you there for the mosquitoes to feast on. You’d have looked like a pincushion by morning.”
She laughed. “You didn’t have to carry me, I could’ve walked.”
“I know,” he said with a shrug. “But you looked too peaceful. Didn’t have the heart to wake you. Besides, I needed the exercise.”
Alice flushed a little. “So where did you sleep then?”
“Couch,” he said casually, brushing something imaginary off his sleeve. “Didn’t want your delicate conscience fretting over impropriety.”
Alice gave him a look. “You’re mocking me, aren't you?”
“Always,” he said with a grin. “Now come on, I’m taking you fishing.”
“Fishing?”
“Yes, ma’am. How else are we going to get fish for the seafood boil?”
“The what?”
Alastor looked scandalized. “The seafood boil, my dear—it’s seafood sent straight from heaven. Shrimp, crawfish, corn, potatoes, all stewed together in glorious perfection.”
Alice blinked. “But it’s Thanksgiving. Don’t y’all have turkey and cranberry sauce and whatnot?”
He chuckled. “There might be a turkey—if Jeanne hasn’t burned it—but there’ll also be duck, crawfish, shrimp, corn, and, of course, the alligator you so heroically took down last night. I think Adan was carving it up this morning.”
Alice grimaced. “That poor thing…”
Alastor gave her a look. “You’re not about to mourn your dinner again, are you?”
“No, well—maybe a little.”
He groaned. “You're a sentimental fool.”
Without missing a beat Alice spat “And you're a heartless freak.”
They both laughed.

They wandered down to the creek, where the water glinted green in the sunlight. Alastor handed her a fishing pole like it was some grand ceremony.
“Alright,” he said, “just cast it gently.”
Alice squinted. “Okay…”
She swung—and immediately got the line tangled in a low branch.
Alastor nearly doubled over laughing. “Oh, splendid! A fine catch—you’ve snared yourself a cypress!”
“Oh, hush,” Alice said, trying to untangle it, cheeks burning.
Her next cast landed in a clump of weeds. The next caught on a submerged log. The one after that… somehow managed to lasso her own boot.
Alastor was no help—he was laughing too hard to breathe.
Alastor was laughing so hard he had to wipe a tear from his eye. “My dear, I think your talents may lie more in hunting than fishing—because I’m fairly certain my three-year-old cousin could outfish you!”
Alice rolled her eyes, trying not to smile. “Yeah, well, you better remember that next time you make fun of me. I’ve got a good shooter’s eye, apparently.”
He chuckled, leaning in with that trademark grin. “Hmm… you do have a point there.”
They both broke into laughter, their voices echoing across the quiet bayou.
Eventually Alice set down the fishing rod and just watched Alastor fish. The sunlight caught his grin and the rhythm of his movements; for a moment, it was easy to forget everything else. Just two people on a warm Louisiana sun

Eventually, they brought the fish back to the house, and Alastor was immediately tasked with filleting them. Alice offered to help, rolling up her sleeves, but he shook his head with a grin.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, my dear,” he said smoothly. “I know you won’t enjoy this part, trust me.”
But Alice insisted. “It’s fine! You caught most of this fish, I need to do my part and help.”
That confidence lasted about five seconds.
She stood beside him, watching as he scraped the scales off the fish—while it was still alive. The sound of the knife against the skin, the smell, the way the creature twitched—her stomach churned. She covered her mouth and turned away.
“I… think I’ll help set up inside,” she mumbled, hurrying back toward the house.

By the time the feast was ready, the kitchen smelled heavenly—spices, herbs, and the rich scent of fried catfish filling the air. The whole family gathered around, laughing and talking over one another as steaming dishes filled the table.
Alice took a plate and eagerly grabbed a little bit of everything.
Alice and Alastor sat out on the porch with their loaded Thanksgiving plates, the air warm and humming with the sounds of crickets and laughter drifting from inside. The sun was setting low over the bayou, painting the sky in shades of gold and deep orange.
Alastor seemed in unusually good spirits. He’d been joking with his cousins all afternoon, telling stories, and even laughing — real, genuine laughter. It made Alice’s heart swell to see him so at ease.
She took a bite of the alligator meat and froze. Within seconds, her mouth was on fire. Her eyes watered, her cheeks flushed red, and she tried to hold it together, but a small cough escaped.
Alastor turned, startled. “Are you choking?”
In a tiny voice, she croaked, “No… it’s just really spicy.”
“Really?” he said, amused. “This is nothing, my dear.”
“Nothing?” Alice sputtered between coughs. “Alastor, look at me — I’m white as a ghost. The only seasoning I know is salt and pepper! This tastes like the sun itself set it on fire!”
Alastor’s grin widened as he struggled not to laugh, dimples twitching. A moment later, he disappeared inside and came back holding a glass of milk, which Alice snatched and downed in seconds.
By the end of the meal, her plate was clean — and she’d gone through three glasses of milk.

Aunt Adine joined them on the porch, balancing her own heaping plate. She plopped down with a sigh of contentment.
“Well,” she said, fanning herself with her napkin, “what do y’all think of the food? Be honest now.”
Alastor dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin, smiling. “Oh, it tastes splendid. Perfectly seasoned—though Alice thinks it’s a little too spi—”
Before he could finish, Alice cut him off with a bright, too-sweet smile. “Oh, I love it! Best Thanksgiving meal I’ve ever had, truly.”
Adine chuckled. “Glad to hear it, sugar.”
The laughter and chatter of the rest of the family drifted up from the yard—children running, cousins bickering, someone tuning a banjo. Adine watched them with a soft smile that trembled slightly at the edges.
“It’s been so long since the whole family was together,” she said quietly. Then her voice faltered. “Oh, Al… I so wish your mama was here.”
Alice saw something flicker across Alastor’s face—something sharp and sorrowful that he quickly masked with a grin. But before he could speak, Adan dropped heavily into the seat beside him, slapping him on the back.
“Hey, little Al! When you leavin’ for the big city?”
Alastor blinked, almost relieved by the interruption. “I’m not sure. Depends on the weather tomorrow.”

Then Louis sat down on the porch rail, smirking. “Leavin’ so soon? Can’t handle the bayou no more? City got you too fancy?”
Alastor’s smile tightened. “I have a job there, Louis. A real job. I don’t just laze around on a shrimp boat all day.”
Louis’s jaw set. “My job’s a strong man’s job, unlike you sittin’ inside readin’ news off paper.”
Alastor’s eyes gleamed—dark, dangerous. “I’m much more than that, but I wouldn’t expect you of all people to understand.”
The tension thickened like humidity before a storm.
Aunt Adine raised a hand. “Alright, boys, calm down—”
But Alastor leaned forward with a grin too sharp to be kind. “Wanna compare paychecks, dear cousin? At least people know my name. No one knows or cares who caught their shrimp.”
Louis’s face turned red. “You don’t even belong here. You know that. That’s why you left, right?”
Alastor froze. His grin faltered.
Louis went in for the kill. “You’ve always been too soft for the bayou. Only half the man I am. Too light.”
The world seemed to still. Even the cicadas quieted.
Alice’s stomach dropped—she saw Alastor’s eyes darken, his smile twisting into something that sent a shiver down her spine.
Before he could move, she jumped between them. “Stop! It’s Thanksgiving! Nobody should be fighting—you’re family!”
Alastor exhaled slowly, schooling his face back into its usual charm. “You’re right, Alice…” His tone softened, almost convincing. Then his grin sharpened again. “…except I think I’m done with this family.”
And with that, he shoved her gently aside and decked Louis square in the face.
Chaos erupted.

People screamed, others cheered—someone yelled, “Ten dollars on Louis!” The table nearly tipped over as the cousins scrambled to separate them.
Louis got in a few wild swings, but Alastor fought like a man possessed. It ended when Aunt Jeanne grabbed him by the collar and yanked him off, scolding like a woman twice her size.
Louis stumbled back, nose bloody, one eye swelling shut, lip split. Alastor, breathing hard, had only a small bruise on his cheek and a smug little smile.
He straightened his shirt, brushed off his sleeves, and said evenly, “That’s it. I’m leaving.”

Then he turned on his heel and stormed back into the house. Alice stood frozen on the porch, her heart pounding. The laughter and shouting had faded into murmurs and awkward glances. Aunt Adine touched her shoulder softly.
“You alright, sugar?”
Alice blinked and nodded, though her hands were trembling. “I’m fine,” she said quietly — but she wasn’t. She was furious. Furious at Louis for humiliating Alastor, for twisting something ugly out of jealousy and pride.
The screen door creaked open behind her. Alastor strode out, his face a perfect storm of anger and restraint. He carried their luggage in one hand.
“Come on, Alice,” he said tightly. “We’re leaving.”
Alice looked at his family — at the cousins who now whispered in guilt, at the uncles pretending not to watch, and at Louis, still scowling with blood on his nose. She took a breath, then said, “Well, it was lovely meeting y’all… at least most of you.”
Her gaze landed squarely on Louis.

That did it. Louis shot up, face red as a crawfish boiled. “Oh, you got somethin’ to say, little belle? Why don’t you go run back to your rich white suburban neighborhood where you belong?”
Alastor froze mid-step. His eyes darkened — no smile, no mask — and for a second, Alice swore she saw the glint of something truly dangerous. He took a step forward, but Alice raised a hand, stopping him cold.
“Louis,” she said, voice steady but sharp as glass, “you sure got a big mouth for someone who got outshot by a girl — and one who saved your sorry hide, too.”
Louis sneered. “You just got lucky.”
“Maybe,” Alice said with a shrug, “but maybe you need to learn when to shut your mouth — and stop trying to one-up everyone around you.”
The porch went dead silent. Louis’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say another word.

Alice turned, head held high, and stepped onto the boat with Alastor. He didn’t hesitate — he started the engine, and they sped off down the dark bayou. The warm glow of the house faded behind them, replaced by the soft hum of crickets and the churn of water beneath the hull.
For a long time, they said nothing.
Finally, Alice broke the silence. “Hey… you okay?”
Alastor’s eyes stayed fixed on the water. “I’m fine.”
She moved closer, her voice gentle. “Hey, don’t take what he said personally.”
“How am I not supposed to?” he said quietly. “My own blood just reminded me I never belonged here.”
Alice’s heart ached. “He’s just jealous,” she said. “You’re doing something with your life, Alastor. You got out. You made something of yourself. He’s stuck there, trying to tear everyone else down to feel taller.”
He said nothing for a moment. Then, faintly — “You really think so?”
Alice smiled. “Yes, and it didn’t even work in his favor, because you totally won that fight.”
That earned her the smallest grin. “Of course I did. You didn’t doubt me, did you?”
“Not for a second,” she teased.
Alastor chuckled, the tension easing. He put an arm around her shoulder. “That’s my girl.”

By the time they reached Alastor’s cabin, the stars were already bright above the trees. He parked the boat and loaded the luggage into his car.
Alice glanced back toward the dark bayou. “How are they gonna get their boat back?”
Alastor shrugged, smirking. “Not my problem.”
Alice giggled. “Well, at least Louis still has to do the dishes.”
Alastor laughed out loud at that — a genuine laugh, warm and rich. “Oh, you’re right! Maybe I should’ve stayed just to see that.”
They drove all the way back to New Orleans under a blanket of quiet night, the only sound the hum of the road and the faint tune Alastor hummed under his breath.

When they finally walked back into the radio studio, it felt like stepping into another world — one that belonged to them. Alice went straight to her small bedroom, collapsed on her bed, and stared at the ceiling.
She was exhausted, but her mind wouldn’t stop. She felt bad for Alastor — the way his own family had turned their backs on him, the way that cruel comment had cut so deep. But she understood that pain all too well. Her own family had done the same — shamed her for her choices, for not fitting the mold they wanted.
Maybe that’s why she cared so much for him.
They were two misfits — two souls carved from different worlds, both outcast by their kin — but at least, in this lively city of Jazz and speakeasies, they had found each other.

Chapter Text

A few weeks had passed since Thanksgiving, and life in New Orleans had found its rhythm once again. Alice still helped Alastor with his radio show—putting on records, fetching coffee, and jotting down notes as his smooth, melodic voice poured like honey through the microphone. His audience grew with every broadcast. People could even recognize him by his voice alone, turning their heads in speakeasies when they heard that unmistakable laugh. Alastor would grin, tip his hat, and order his drink like a man who knew he owned the room.

It made Alice proud, watching him thrive like that. But she could never quite shake the chill that followed whenever he came home late, humming cheerfully with blood under his fingernails. He never spoke of it, and she never asked. Yet she saw the gleam in his dark eyes—the kind of satisfaction that wasn’t born from radio fame. Still, life was good. Frighteningly good, in that intoxicating way only New Orleans could be.

One night the fog lay thick over the French Quarter, soft and silvery, swallowing the edges of the streetlamps. Alice walked back from the old bookstore with her arms full of novels, her boots clicking softly on the slick cobblestones. The air smelled of river water, mulled wine, and chimney smoke. From every corner came the hum of life—distant jazz floating from hidden doorways, laughter behind shuttered windows, and the faint jingle of bells from some unseen carriage down the street.

The old houses glittered with shiny lights, their balconies strung with garlands and glowing glass bulbs—emerald, gold, and ruby red—spilling color onto the mist. Candles flickered behind lace curtains. Pine wreaths hung from every door, and the scent of roasting chestnuts drifted from a vendor’s cart. A group of carolers stood at the corner, their breath visible in the chill as they sang “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Their voices mingled with the low, ghostly notes of a trumpet somewhere far away.

Alice stopped for a moment, caught between wonder and unease. The beauty of it all felt almost otherworldly—She had never seen anything like it before.
When she finally reached the radio studio, she opened the door, and the warm air hit her like a hug. The smell of cinnamon and wood smoke drifted through the room, mixing with the faint crackle of a fire in the hearth.

Alastor stood by a tree in the corner—of all things—looping a string of lights around it. The colorful bulbs glowed softly against the dark wood floors.

Alice blinked, a small laugh escaping her.
“What in the world are you doing?”

Alastor turned, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Well, it is December, my dear. One must decorate properly.”

Alice tilted her head, half amused.
“I’ve never had a Christmas tree before.”

That made him stop mid-step, the lights dangling from one hand.
“How is that even possible?”

She shrugged lightly.
“My father thought Christmas trees and presents took away from Jesus’ birth. He said celebrating like that was sinful—so Christmas was just an extra-long church service for us.”

Alastor looked absolutely scandalized.
“You mean to tell me you never had a tree, or presents, or stockings? Do you even know who Santa Claus is?”

Alice shook her head, smiling sheepishly.
“Father said he was a modern reincarnation of the devil.”

Alastor pressed a hand dramatically to his chest.
“Blasphemy! That is the most absurd thing I've ever heard!"

Alastor studied her for a moment, as though making a decision, then picked up a box filled with shiny glass ornaments.
“Well, that simply will not do. Here, you must help decorate.”

Alice laughed softly and took one of the ornaments. Gleamed like captured snowflakes in the firelight. As she hung them carefully on the tree, Alastor put on a record—a lively jazz rendition of “Jingle Bells”—and began humming along, tapping his foot to the rhythm.

The sound filled the studio, warm and bright. Alice couldn’t help but smile.
When they finished, the tree sparkled from top to bottom, glowing against the crackling fire.

“My, it looks splendid, my dear,” Alastor said, stepping back to admire it.

“Thanks! That was… actually really fun,” Alice admitted, cheeks pink from the warmth and laughter.

Alastor grinned, eyes glinting.
“Well I guess I'll have to take it upon myself to make sure you have the best Christmas of your life.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. Christmas is my favorite holiday—and by the end of it, it shall be yours too.”

Alice smiled at that. She never would’ve guessed Christmas was something Alastor enjoyed, but then again… Christmas was a charming holiday, full of warmth, color, and mystery—much like Alastor himself.

The next few days were some of the most fun Alice had ever had. It amused her to see Alastor so enthusiastic about a holiday. He took her to Christmas speakeasy parties where they danced to festive jazz tunes, and at night they’d sit by the fire, reading stories like The Christmas Angel and A Christmas Carol.

As the holiday drew closer, Alice realized she should probably get Alastor a gift. Easier said than done. What could she possibly give a man like him? She spent days window-shopping, scouring every display for something—anything—that felt right.

A new suit? No, he had plenty.
A cookbook? He’d probably critique every recipe.

Then she saw it: a gold pocket watch gleaming under the shop lights. It was elegant, smooth, and polished—something timeless. Alastor already had a watch, but his was old, scratched, and made of plain metal. This one felt special.

At the counter, the cashier smiled. “Good choice! Would you like to personalize it?”
“Personalize it?” Alice asked.

“You can add a picture or have it engraved,” the woman explained.

Alice thought for a long moment before nodding. “Yes—engrave it.”

She carefully wrote the words:
From your dearest Alice, Merry Christmas.

Alice still thought it looked a bit bare so she looked at a design sheet and asked for the small design of deer antlers etched above the inscription. She didn’t know why—maybe because of all the mounted deer heads she’d seen in his old room—but something about it just felt right.

When the watch was boxed and wrapped, Alice held it close, smiling. A warm, bubbly feeling filled her chest. She couldn’t wait to see his face when he opened it.
Then of course Alastor’s radio show transformed into something truly peculiar — a strange, spellbinding blend of holiday cheer and unsettling folklore. Every night, as the static crackled through the speakers and the faint hum of the city drifted through the studio windows, Alastor filled the airwaves with Christmas music.

But not just the cheery jingles and bright brass tunes most stations played that time of year — no, Alastor preferred the more eerier ones. The ones that felt ancient and strange, carrying with them the weight of centuries.

Alice would sit at her little desk near the microphone, jotting down notes as he introduced each song in his warm, honeyed tone:

“Ah, dear listeners,” he would say, voice smooth and velvety, “tonight’s carol is Coventry Carol, a haunting lullaby said to be sung by mothers in Bethlehem as they cradle their doomed sons — the little ones soon to be slain by Herod’s sword. What better song, I ask you, to remind us that even amid joy, sorrow is never far behind?”

Alice would stare at him from across the table, wide-eyed, mouthing, “What are doing?!” but he’d just grin, eyes glinting devilishly as the record began to spin.

Then there were the ones Alice thought she knew — We Three Kings, for instance. Alastor’s voice took on a reverent tone as he dissected its verses, explaining how one of the kings carried myrrh, a burial perfume, and how the lyrics spoke of suffering, sorrow, and death.
“Myrrh is mine; its bitter perfume… breaths a life of gathering gloom,” he quoted with a sort of delighted relish.

“You do realize you’re supposed to be spreading Christmas cheer, not existential dread,” Alice teased one night, resting her chin in her hand.

“Ah, but my dear,” Alastor countered smoothly, “Christmas is nothing without a little death? You can’t fully appreciate the joy of the holiday, if you are not reminded that things can always be worse.”

She threw a pencil at him, and he laughed that melodic, charming laugh that filled the studio like brass and smoke.

But his favorite of all was Carol of the Bells. He played it nearly every night — the studio filled with its driving rhythm, that eerie cascade of chimes echoing off the walls.
“Now this,” Alastor declared one evening, “is true perfection. A Ukrainian folk chant meant to promise good fortune, yet listen — listen to that rhythm! There’s something almost… haunting about it, don’t you think?”

Alice tilted her head, half-smiling, half-creeped out. The song did sound strange when he said it like that — urgent, relentless, like a warning dressed up as a celebration.

“I think it sounds pretty,” she said softly.

“Pretty,” he mused, closing his eyes as the bells rang. “Yes… pretty in the way a ghost’s lullaby might be.”

Alice rolled her eyes but couldn’t help but smile. He had a way of finding darkness in everything — even in Christmas — and somehow, he made it beautiful.

After another wildly successful night at the radio station, Alastor shut off his radio with a grin that hadn’t left his face since the show began. “All right, darling,” he announced, brushing off his coat and turning to Alice, who was curled up on the chair with a mug of hot chocolate. “You’d better go get dolled up. And wear something warm—it’s a bit brisk tonight.”

Alice blinked up at him in surprise. “Tonight? It’s Thursday. We never go out on Thursdays.”

Alastor’s grin widened, eyes glinting with mischief. “Consider this an exception. It’s a surprise, my dear.”

Alice tilted her head, smiling despite her confusion. “A surprise? What are you planning?”

“I can’t tell you that,” he said, feigning offense. “You’ll ruin all the fun.”

Still laughing, Alice set her mug down and hurried upstairs. She changed into a thick winter dress the color of cream, buttoned her long red coat over it, and pinned her hair neatly beneath her hat. When she came back down, Alastor was waiting by the door, also dressed in red—of course—with his cane and that ever-present grin.

He tipped his hat. “Shall we?”

The moment Alice stepped outside, her breath misted in the cold air. “Goodness, it really is cold,” she murmured. “Where on earth are we going?”

Alastor pulled his old brass pocket watch from his coat, squinting at it. “They should be here any minute now.”

“They?” Alice asked, curiosity rising. “Who’s they?”

He gave the watch a few sharp taps and frowned. “You’ll just have to wait and see—blast it!”

Alice raised a brow. “What’s wrong?”

“This infernal thing’s starting to go to Hell, I think,” he muttered, shaking the watch with mock frustration.

Alice giggled, fighting to hold back a wide smile. “Maybe it already has.”

Before Alastor could reply, the distant jingle of bells drew their attention. A sleek, horse-drawn sleigh carriage rounded the corner, gliding through the lamplight until it stopped right in front of them. The horses snorted clouds of steam, their harnesses glittering with silver trim.

Alice turned to him, wide-eyed. “Oh, you didn’t.”

Alastor’s grin sharpened. “Oh, but I did. Come along, my dear.”

He offered his hand and helped her up into the sleigh before climbing in beside her. With a flick of the reins, they were off—rolling down the cobblestone streets of the French Quarter and Bourbon Street, the sound of hooves echoing through the night. Every balcony was draped with evergreen garlands and flickering candles, wreaths glinting gold in the gaslight.

“I wanted to do this early,” Alastor said conversationally, leaning back with his arms crossed, “because every year at least one place goes up in flames thanks to those blasted candles. Thought I’d bring you out before that happens, I'd give it about three days.” He chuckled, the sound low and warm.

Alice laughed, shaking her head. “You’re awful.”

The lights shimmered across her face, and for a moment, she could hardly breathe from how beautiful it all was. The scent of roasted pecans and pine hung in the air, and the soft notes of a brass band played faintly somewhere in the distance. She couldn’t believe she’d missed out on such magic every Christmas before this.

It was so peaceful—until Alastor, ever the entertainer, broke the silence with that devilish grin.

“Now, my dear, on your left stands the LaLaurie Mansion,” Alastor said with a grin, gesturing grandly to the towering house lit faintly by gas lamps. “Once home to the delightful Madame LaLaurie—a woman with a fondness for… interior decorating, shall we say?”

Alice tilted her head. “Interior decorating?”

“Oh yes! She simply adored rearranging things—furniture, servants, organs—” he said cheerfully, drawing out the last word. Alice gasped, covering her mouth. Alastor chuckled. “Why, they say screams still echo from her attic on cold December nights! But don’t worry—” he leaned close— “she only goes after people who gossip.”

Alice laughed nervously. “Then I’m safe, right?”

“For now,” Alastor teased with a wink.

“And that,” he continued as they turned down another street, “is the Andrew Jackson Hotel. Supposedly haunted by mischievous schoolboys who perished in a fire—ah, the innocence of youth! Now they spend eternity playing pranks on unsuspecting guests. Charming, really. I’d like to think I’d get along splendidly with them.”

“I’m sure you would,” Alice muttered, smiling despite herself.

“Ah, and there—Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop! The oldest bar in the city, owned by pirates who smuggled rum and jewels. They say Jean Lafitte himself still sits in the corner, nursing a drink and glaring at anyone who dares to order light beer.”

Alice giggled, clutching her coat tighter.

“Finally,” Alastor said dramatically as they passed a looming building with iron gates, “the Ursuline Convent. They say the nuns keep something… upstairs. Some say it’s vampires. Others say something worse.”

“What could be worse than vampires?”
“Tourists,” he said solemnly.

Alice and Alastor laughed through nearly the entire carriage ride, their laughter echoing down the misty, lantern-lit streets. Alastor played the part of a horrific tour guide, gleefully recounting grisly tales of hauntings and murders with the enthusiasm of a man describing fine wine. The poor carriage driver grew increasingly uneasy with every story — glancing back whenever Alastor’s voice dropped into that gleeful, sinister lilt — which, of course, only encouraged him further.

By the time they arrived home, Alastor was practically buzzing with energy, his grin sharp and wild. He kept the fire roaring and the lights dim, spinning story after story until the clock struck midnight. Alice sat curled beneath a blanket, equal parts frightened and delighted, while Alastor reveled in every gasp and laugh she gave — a showman in his own little theater of ghosts and Christmas cheer.
“Have you ever heard the story of Poor Eloise Duval, the Christmas hostess of 1897?”

Alice shook her head warily.

“Well,” Alastor said, clasping his hands together. “Eloise was a woman who adored Christmas. Every December, she hosted the grandest party in all of New Orleans — chandeliers dripping with holly,
musicians in every corner, champagne flowing like the Mississippi itself! But alas —” he lowered his voice dramatically — “she had one terrible flaw.”

“What was it?”

“She hated to share dessert.”

Alice blinked. “That’s her flaw?”

“Oh yes. A most grievous sin in my book,” Alastor said with mock solemnity. “You see, she made this marvelous fig pudding every year, soaked in brandy for days. People came to her parties just to taste it. But one Christmas Eve, her greedy little cousin Louis snuck into the kitchen and ate half of it before the guests arrived.”

Alice gasped softly. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes!” Alastor said with glee. “When Eloise found him, she flew into such a rage that she chased him around the house with a carving knife. He slipped on the spilled brandy, fell face-first into the fire, and—” he clapped his hands sharply, “—poof! Crisped like a Christmas goose!”

Alice winced. “That’s awful!”

“Quite!” Alastor said cheerfully. “But don’t worry—Eloise wasn’t deterred. She still served the pudding. Just… with a little extra ‘smoky flavor,’ shall we say.” He chuckled at Alice’s horrified expression.

“That night, her guests swore the pudding moved on its own — bubbling like something alive. And every Christmas since, the aroma of burnt sugar and singed silk fills that old mansion. They say if you take even a single bite of the fig pudding left out on her table—” he leaned close, voice dropping to a whisper, “—Eloise will appear behind you and ask, ‘Would you like seconds?’”

Alice covered her mouth, half laughing, half appalled. “That’s terrible!”

“Terribly festive, my dear,” Alastor said with a wink. “A classic holiday tale about sharing… and portion control.”

Alastor leaned back in his chair, a sly grin tugging at his lips as the firelight flickered across his sharp features. “Well now,” he purred, swirling the last of his whiskey in the glass, “you’ve heard my frightful tales all evening. Why don’t you give it a go, hmm? Entertain me with a spooky Christmas story, my dear.”

Alice blinked, startled. “Me? Oh, I don’t know many Christmas stories, let alone any like that.”

Alastor chuckled, his dark eyes glinting. “You don’t have to know any. Just make one up. I’m sure that imaginative little mind of yours can conjure something deliciously dreadful.”

Alice hesitated, her cheeks pink from the warmth of the fire — or perhaps from Alastor’s gaze. “Alright,” she said softly, “but please don’t laugh if it’s terrible.”

“I’d never laugh at you, my dear,” Alastor said, though his grin suggested otherwise.

So Alice began. Her voice was gentle at first, almost melodic.

“There once was a little girl who lived in a snow-covered village,” she said. “She was very poor, but every Christmas Eve she would put out a candle in her window — not for Santa, but for her brother, who had gone missing one winter’s night long ago. She believed if she left the candle burning, he’d find his way home.”
Alastor tilted his head, intrigued.

“One Christmas morning,” Alice continued, “the little girl saw a shadow outside her window. It was her brother — or so she thought. She ran outside barefoot in the snow to greet him, and he smiled at her. He looked just the same as before, except his skin was pale as frost and his eyes were black as soot. He didn’t speak, but when he took her hand, it was ice cold.”
The fire popped. Alastor leaned forward, fascinated.

“She led him inside to warm up,” Alice said softly. “But later that day, when the neighbors came to wish her a Merry Christmas, they found the candle still burning… and two sets of tiny footprints frozen in the snow, leading into the woods — and never coming back out. Now every year the two siblings lure children out into those very woods, promising extravagant gifts and fun, only for them to go missing every Christmas.”

She finished, almost startled by her own words. The room went quiet except for the soft crackling of the fire.

Alastor’s grin slowly widened, sharp and delighted. “Oh, my dear,” he purred, a low laugh rumbling in his throat, “that was marvelous. Sweet, tragic, and just the right touch of macabre. I daresay there’s a bit of darkness in you after all.”

Alice laughed, cheeks warm as she tucked a curl behind her ear. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”

“Oh, that must be it,” Alastor replied, eyes glittering. “Though honestly, that was a splendid story. Perhaps you should consider writing.”

Alice blushed deeper. “I’d love to… but I don’t think I’m any good.”

“Nonsense!” he snapped lightly. “You spun that little tragedy out of thin air in seconds, and delivered it with such mournful mystery. That takes talent.”

She waved him off. “I just read a lot of Gothic literature, that’s all.”

Days passed and just as Alastor predicted—almost to the day—one of the old houses downtown caught fire, something he gleefully announced on his radio show. Alice rolled her eyes as Alastor mouthed from across the studio ‘I told you so.’

Then on a quiet Sunday morning, Alice went to church alone. After the sermon, the pastor announced they’d be organizing door-to-door Christmas caroling. Alice perked up immediately and signed her name for a night.

But the next week, when she checked the signup sheet…

It was still just her name.

That afternoon, she found Alastor in his armchair, reading the newspaper with a cup of chicory coffee beside him.

“Sooo…” Alice started cautiously, “how do you feel about caroling?”

Alastor didn’t look up. “It’s hilarious. Half the people don’t want to be there, and watching them pretend to be cheerful is quite entertaining.”

Alice gave a nervous giggle. “Right. But, um… how do you feel about going caroling?”

He lowered the paper just enough to raise a brow. “Why?”

She explained how no one else had signed up, how she didn’t want to go alone.

Alastor sighed. “Alice, I care for you very much—you know that—but I will not go caroling. End of discussion. And if no one else signs up, then you’re not going either.”

Alice stared at him, appalled. He knew she hated being told what she could or couldn’t do.

But then—over his shoulder—she spotted the front page headline:

LOUISIANA GRINNING KILLER STRIKES AGAIN
Police Claim They Are ‘Closing In’ on Suspect

Alice knew that was nonsense; they’d been “closing in” September.

And then an idea flickered to life.

“You know…” she said innocently, “people who go caroling are usually seen as very wholesome and innocent, you know what I mean?”

Alastor glared at her “What are you trying to get at, Alice?

Alice smiled innocently ”Oh nothing, personally, I would never in a million years suspect someone who went door to door singing Christmas songs of.. being a murderer.”

Alastor’s eye twitched. He looked at her. Then at the newspaper. Then back at her.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “But, only on the condition that we don’t sing any of those bland biblical songs.”

Alice lit up and hugged him. “Deal!”

“You’re terrible, you know that,” Alastor groaned.

“Oh, I’m terrible?” Alice laughed. “You’re the one who kills people.”

“I know,” he said proudly, folding the paper. “And I still stand by what I said.”

They both burst into laughter.

The night came crisp and cold, and Alice stepped out of her room looking like a walking Christmas card—white dress, red jacket, cheeks pink from excitement. Alastor, in his usual red coat, looked… considerably less festive.

Alice handed him the caroling booklet — with every biblical song aggressively crossed out — along with a steaming coffee.

“Alright,” she said brightly, “are you ready?”

Alastor sighed as if preparing for war. “I suppose.”

Alice frowned. “Why do you hate caroling so much? You have no problem stealing the spotlight at the clubs.”

“That’s different,” Alastor said, buttoning his coat with exaggerated dignity. “There, I’m drinking and performing purely for the thrill of it. This”—he lifted the booklet like it offended him—“is charity.”

Alice stared at her boots. “Well… thanks for coming anyway.”

A corner of Alastor’s mouth twitched into a smirk.

“Don’t mention it, my dear.”

Alice brightened immediately and reached into her coat pocket. “Well, just in case, I brought this.”

She pulled out a bottle of whiskey.

Alastor snatched it instantly, took a generous swig, and let out a satisfied sigh.

“Thank you. I’m going to need it.”

“In that case,” Alice said, hands behind her back like a scheming child, “I came up with a drinking game while I was getting ready.”

“Oh?” Alastor raised a brow.

“Every time someone looks mildly uncomfortable while we’re singing… we will take a drink.”

Alastor barked a laugh. “My dear, we’d rack up drinks faster than your little heart can handle.”
“We’ll just have to see,” Alice said with a cheeky grin.

He agreed.

And off they went.

They made it through the first few houses without incident… unless you counted the fact that they were already halfway through the bottle. Alastor plastered on his signature smile. His singing voice was smooth, warm, irritatingly pleasant. Alice harmonized beside him, cheeks flushed from alcohol and cold.

Some people loved it, while others looked uncomfortable.

And so they drank.

A lot.

By the time they reached a massive house hosting a roaring Christmas party, they were thoroughly tipsy—the kind of tipsy where anything felt like a great idea.

They finished their song for the two women in the doorway, who clapped politely. Alice bowed. Alastor bowed dramatically.

Then Alastor hummed thoughtfully, tapping his chin like he was cooking up a great scheme.

Without warning, he pointed at a man in a blue suit across the threshold.
“You there—the blue suit!”

The man blinked, startled, and stepped forward. “Uh… yes?”

“Oh.” Alastor waved dismissively. “Nevermind. Thought I knew you.”

The man stared at him, offendedly.

Which only made Alastor perk up like a mischievous cat who’d found something breakable.

“Well now, look at that…” Alastor tilted his head upward. “You two seem to be standing under mistletoe.”

The girl beside the man gasped. “O-Oh no, I can’t! I’m engaged!”

“Fair enough,” Alastor said cheerfully. “Still—terrible luck to ignore it.”

The man hesitated. Looked at the girl. Looked at the mistletoe.

Looked at Alastor’s sharp-smile.

Then he kissed her.

Which was exactly when another man arrived behind them—presumably the fiancé. He froze. His face went red. Then he roared.

Chaos detonated instantly.

Shouting. Shoving. Someone yelled “MY JACKET!” Another yelled “GET OFF MY GIRL!”

Then fists. Lots of fists.

The poor girl shrieked and slammed the door right in their faces.

And Alastor?

He folded in half laughing.

Bent over, wheezing, absolutely delighted with himself.

Alice slapped his arm.

“AL! That was NOT cool!”

He straightened slowly, still grinning like a devil in church.

“Oh come now—that was hilarious.”

Alice tried to hold onto the outrage. She really did.

But her cheeks were warm with whiskey, the night sparkled with cold air, and Alastor looked so ridiculously pleased with his stupid prank…

Her lips twitched.

Then curled into a tiny, traitorous smile.

The night only devolved from there.

As they wandered deeper into the neighborhood, they realized half the city was hosting Christmas parties. Warm light spilled from doorways, music drifted into the streets, and — thanks to their caroling efforts — they got invited into more than a few homes for hot gumbo, spiced ham, and, unfortunately, even more alcohol.

Alice, red-cheeked and swaying slightly, ended up chatting cheerfully with strangers near a fireplace — until she realized Alastor was suspiciously missing.

She found him in a quiet side room, kneeling beside a towering pile of wrapped gifts, rearranging tags with the concentration of a surgeon.

“Alastor,” Alice hiccuped, clutching the doorframe, “what… what are you doing?”

Alastor didn’t even look up.

“Oh, nothing. Just a harmless little adjustment to their holiday cheer.”

“Al… no, no, no, you can’t do that,” Alice scolded, stumbling closer. “You’ll ruin their Christmas!”

“No, I’m just making it more interesting," he said brightly.

She tried to glare at him. She really did.

But then she spotted a tiny present labeled Baby Thomas. Inside was clearly something heavy.

Alice blinked, leaned down, and whispered, “You should switch this one with the one for Mr. Delgado. The baby will get Cuban cigars.”

Alastor froze… then slowly turned toward her, delighted.

“Oh! Now you’re thinking.”

And that was the beginning of the end.

They repeated this at five more parties.

By midnight, Alice was so drunk she didn’t even care if Santa himself caught them. Alastor was in full festive menace mode, set on causing as much chaos as humanly possible — and Alice who was at first scolding him, had somehow become his enthusiastic accomplice.

He stole a mistletoe from someone’s porch, held it over random couples walking down the street, and cackled when people panicked.

At first Alice protested.

Then she started pointing out targets.

“Aww, those two look shy,” she slurred. “Go help ’em out, Al!”

And he did.

They helped — and ruined — many relationships that night.

Alastor also discovered that if he sang carols in a low, unnervingly eerie tone, people closed their doors very quickly. He found it hilarious.

Alice did not.

Until she did.
When one family shut the door on them mid-song, Alice staggered forward, banging on it with both fists.
“HEY! We weren’t DONE!”

By the time they reached the end of the block, “caroling” had fully deteriorated into “festive pranks.”

Alastor somehow found a white bed sheet and draped it over Alice — which she insisted was just a brilliant idea — and sent her waddling up to passersby.
Alice threw her arms out dramatically.

“You will be visited by three ghooosts tonight!” she announced, wobbling. “To atone for your terrible sins! Repent!!”
People screamed and fled.

Then Alastor jumped out from behind a lamppost for good measure, scaring the life out of them.

They high-fived.

It was the most fun either of them had in months.

Eventually—after several near-arrests and a heated ten-minute debate over whether Louis Armstrong or Paul Whiteman had better music (Alastor eventually convinced Alice it was Louis Armstrong)—they somehow stumbled their way back home.

Alastor was trying very, very hard to pretend he wasn’t absolutely wasted. He walked with the stiff dignity of a man who believed he was gliding… while actually zig-zagging like a drunk shopping cart possessed by a demon with inner-ear problems.

Alice clung to his arm, wobbling.

“Yoooou’re drunk,” she declared, poking his chest accusingly.

“I most certainly am not,” Alastor lied, tripping over absolutely nothing.

Alice lifted the wreath she’d definitely stolen from someone’s front door. “Then why am I holdin’ THIS?” she demanded, as if this shattered his whole case.

“That,” Alastor sniffed, “proves your criminal behavior, not mine.”

Alice snorted. “Right, because you’re just a saint when it comes to crime.”

Alastor ignored her and began humming Carol of the Bells, except every third note was wrong and every fifth note sounded like a threat.

Alice giggled. “See? Aren’t you glad you came caroling?”

“Cher, I think we gave up caroling halfway through,” he reminded her.

Alice gasped dramatically. “OH YEAH. Well— it was still fun.”

Alastor chuckled low. “Yes. Ridiculously so. I haven’t had that much fun in ages.”

Alice beamed. “This should be our new tradition. Just messing with people. We’re terribly good at it.”

“I agree,” Alastor said, placing a hand over his heart with theatrical sincerity. “And to think—truthfully—I thought you were terribly boring at first.”
Alice stopped dead. “You thought I was WHAT?”

“Oh, certainly. Most people are either boring or far too much. But you…” He waved vaguely at her face. “Somewhere over these past few months, you transformed. You’re not the helpless, timid girl anymore—you’re funny, sweet, absurdly sentimental, too forgiving to the point of foolishness… You’re perfect.”

Alice blushed furiously. “Well—I try.”

Then she squinted at him. “What do you mean I’m foolish? I’m very smart.”

Alastor raised a brow. “You are dating a serial killer, sooo…”

Alice pointed at him. “Yeah? And whose fault is that?”

He burst into laughter, and Alice followed right after.

“Well, it’s better than dating a rich asshole who doesn’t understand the word no,” she said, shrugging. Then she laughed harder. “Who would’ve thought—a serial killer treats me better than a seemingly normal man!”

Alastor grinned smugly. “Hey, don’t knock it till you try it.”

“I’m not killing anyone,” Alice insisted.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “But if you did, who would it be?”

“I don’t know!”

“Come on, someone must get on your nerves.”

“…Well, I guess my ex.”

Alastor’s smile sharpened. “You know, if you give me his name, I could make that happen for you.”

Alice waved him off. “He doesn’t even live in Louisiana.”

“For you, I’d drive to Canada to kill him,” Alastor said proudly.

Alice patted his cheek. “Wow. Aren’t you sweet.”

They dissolved into hiccuping laughter again.

Reaching the studio took far longer than it should have. They kept stopping to admire “important” things like a firefly, or a brick, or a dog that may have actually been a coat on a fence.
But eventually—they made it.

Alice immediately threw her coat at a chair. She missed. Alastor threw his coat at the same chair. He also missed.

Too tired to think, Alice trudged upstairs and walked straight into Alastor’s room like she owned the place.

“Miss Alice,” he said, blinking at her. “This is not your room.”

She looked around, confused. “Well, to hell with it,” she decided, and flopped onto his bed like a fainting Victorian maiden.

Alastor stared. “Are you sure? Because if you wake up in a panic tomorrow—”

“I won’t!” she said, waving him off. “Besides, we’re courting anyway. And your bed is WAY softer than mine.”

He sighed dramatically. “Well, in that case—you had better get out of that dress before you crush yourself.”

He unlaced her corset because she was leaning sideways like a collapsing bookshelf. She stepped out of her gown—still modestly dressed—and was basically unconscious as soon as she hit the pillow.
Alastor changed into his pajamas and slipped beside her. Alice immediately scooted onto his chest like a sleepy cat seeking warmth.

Alastor lit a cigarette.

“Those things cannot be healthy…” she mumbled into him.

“There’s no proof,” he said smugly. “Besides—you’re the one who wanted to sleep in my room.”

Alice snuggled closer. “Alastor… I love you…”

He rested a hand on her sleepy head.

“I know,” he murmured.

Alice smiled into his chest and finally drifted off—leaving Alastor wide awake, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark, looking… oddly content.

Chapter Text

A few days slipped by in a merry blur, and at last—Christmas Eve arrived.

Alice woke up very late. The kind of late where the sun was already shining like it had given up on her entirely.
She gasped, bolting upright.

“Oh no—oh no, oh no, I overslept—”

She scrambled into her prettiest red dress, smoothed her blonde curls, and practically flew out of her room, ready to make up for lost time.

The kitchen was empty.

“Alastor?” she called.

Silence.

She checked the sitting room. Nothing.

Finally, she peeked into his office—
and found him sitting comfortably at his desk, scribbling away at his script for that evening’s Christmas Eve special.

He looked up, spotted her, and broke into a smug little grin.

“Well, well, well… look who has finally decided to join the living! I was beginning to think you’d slipped into a permanent hibernation. I had to eat breakfast without you.”

Alice put her hands on her hips. “I know, I’m sorry! You should’ve woken me up!”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” he said, waving dramatically. “You looked far too peaceful. Like a spoiled housecat basking in a sunbeam.”

“Alastor,” she groaned, rolling her eyes. “I am not a spoiled cat.”

“That’s exactly what a spoiled cat would say,” he replied.

She tried not to laugh. “Do you need anything?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, sliding his notes aside. “Read me today’s newspaper. Tell me if there’s anything worth mentioning in tonight’s broadcast.”

Alice picked up the paper and perched on the corner of his desk.

“Well… the stock market is up, again.”

Alastor snorted. “It always is. Boring. What else?”

She flipped the page. “Another house burned down from Christmas candles.”
Her face fell. “And just days before Christmas… How awful.”

Alastor chuckled under his breath.

Alice snapped her head toward him.
“Alastor!”

He cleared his throat, straightened, and pretended to be serious.

Then Alice turned another page… and froze.

“Oh.”

There it was.

A man found dead in an alley near a nightclub—smile carved into his face.

Alice lowered the paper very slowly.

“So,” she said, tone crisp as a candy cane snapped in half. “Looks like you had a busy night.”

Alastor’s pen halted mid-stroke. He lifted his eyes with the innocence of a fox caught in a henhouse.

“Whatever are you talking about, my dear Alice?”

“ALASTOR.” Her voice shot up like a kettle about to boil. “You snuck out in the middle of the night to kill someone, I didn't even know you left?! AND on Christmas Eve?!”

“It was still the twenty-third,” he corrected primly, raising a finger. “When the bastard took his last breath it wasn’t even eleven. So technically—technically—not Christmas Eve.”

“Unbelievable…” she muttered, glaring daggers.

“Oh, come now.” He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “I assure you it was entirely justified.”

“Really?” she snapped. “And what exactly did this man do to deserve having a smile carved into his face?”

Alastor didn’t even flinch. He simply reached forward and tapped the name in the article with the tip of his pen.

“Mr. Jack Henderson,” he said calmly. “A dreadful husband. I witnessed him strike his wife two nights ago—for absolutely nothing. So I removed him. Now she will have a quiet, peaceful Christmas. I considered it a gift.”

Alice’s scowl weakened—just the tiniest bit.

She wanted to be mad. She truly did.

But abusive men ranked extremely low on her sympathy scale.

She let out a long sigh. “…Well… I suppose that’s… one way to handle it.”

Alastor smirked like he had just won a debate. “Ah. The Christmas spirit finally reaches your heart.”

“Don’t push it,” she warned, though the way her lips betrayed her with a soft upward twitch did not help her case.

Alastor noticed instantly. He always did.

“You are terrible at pretending to be stern,” he said with a laugh.

Alice shot him a halfhearted glare—more pout than anger. “Shut up.”

But he was still smiling, and she could feel it even without looking at him.

“Come now,” he said lightly, waving his pen. “Let’s not allow this to tarnish your first truly magnificent Christmas Eve.”
Alice gave him a flat, tired look.

Before Alastor could reply, a loud, sharp BANG BANG BANG rattled the front door.
Alice jumped. “Were you expecting anyone today?”

Alastor blinked, already rising from his chair. “No, not at—”

“I’ll get it!” Alice said, snatching the newspaper off her lap. “You’re still hard at work.”

She hurried out of the office toward the entryway—

She smoothed her hair, pasted on the sweetest smile she could manage, and pulled open the front door.

Her stomach dropped.

Two police officers stood on the porch.

Her pulse spiked so sharply she thought she might faint.

But her smile didn't budge.

“Evening, officers,” she chirped, maybe a little too bright. “They’ve got you fellas working on Christmas Eve?”

One of the men tipped his hat. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry to bother you on the holidays, but we’re here to ask your, uh… courting partner a few questions.”

Alice let out a gasp worthy of a stage actress. “Questions? About what?”

The second officer stepped forward. “There was another murder last night. The Grinning Louisiana Killer. A witness claims Mr. Broussard was seen near the scene.”

Alice blinked innocently. “Last night?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sometime between ten and eleven.”

“Oh well that can’t be right,” she said with a light laugh, waving a hand. Her fingers trembled, so she hid them behind her back. “Alastor was here all night. Working on his Christmas special script. Barely slept at all, poor thing. Hasn’t even left this house!”

The officers exchanged a look. A long, loaded one.

Then the older man squinted at them.

“Say… didn’t I see you two kids caroling a few nights ago?”

Alice’s whole demeanor brightened instantly—shoulders lifting, eyes going wide with wholesome Christmas cheer.

“Oh! Yes, that was us!” she chimed, clasping her hands together like she’d been waiting all afternoon to be asked. “We had such a wonderful time. Alastor has the perfect voice for those old carols, don’t you think?”

The officer’s face softened with recognition. “You’re right. You both had fine voices. Reminds me of when my mama used to take us door to door.” He chuckled, nostalgic.

Alice laughed with him—light, musical, just a shade too high.

“Well, we love spreading a little joy. You know… doing our part for the community of New Orleans!”

In her head, she was screaming: Thank GOD he must have saw us early—before we were drunk off our asses.

The older officer turned to his partner with a firm nod.

“If she says Broussard was home all night, I believe her. Man must’ve been misidentified.”

His partner shrugged. “Yeah. Looks like a dead end.”

Alice pressed a hand delicately against her chest, breath fluttering like a woman deeply moved. “Oh, wonderful. I’d hate for this to trouble you gentlemen any longer. Are you sure I can’t get you something warm? Hot chocolate? Coffee? You must be freezing out there.”

Both officers waved her off politely. “No thank you, ma’am. We appreciate the offer.”

“Of course,” Alice said warmly, giving them a sweet little wave from the doorway. “You two stay safe now.”

The instant the door clicked shut, her smile collapsed like a punctured balloon.

Her hands trembled so violently she had to press both palms flat against the wood, trying to steady herself

Alice climbed the stairs with her heartbeat still thudding in her throat. When she stepped into the office, Alastor was standing stiffly by the window, watching the officers walk away down the street. His silhouette looked carved from stone.

He didn’t turn right away.

When he did, it was sharp—too sharp.

“Why,” he asked coolly, “were the boys in blue at our door?”

Alice exhaled, rubbing her arms. “You wanna take a guess?” she said, trying to lighten the mood with a laugh.

Alastor didn’t even blink. No smile, no chuckle, nothing. His expression had gone flat and cold.

“What,” he said, voice low, “exactly did you tell them, Alice?”

The question hit her like a slap. “I—what? —I just told them you stayed in all night. They said you were spotted near the crime scene, the one from last night.”

Alastor’s face twisted in disbelief. “Alice, that is a terrible lie. You should have called me down. I know how the police think and operate. You don’t.”

“Oh calm down,” Alice snapped back, stung. “They believed me.”

“Oh, sure,” he said with a bitter scoff. “Because you didn’t just invite them to come back with the whole department and catch me by surprise, right?”

Alice stared at him—truly stared—and her anger rose so fast her vision wobbled.

She stepped right up into his space and glared up at him.

“Alastor, look at me, do I look like I’m lying to you?” she demanded, voice shaking with fury.

Alastor finally looked at her. Really looked. Her trembling hands, her flushed cheeks, the outrage burning in her eyes. She did not look like someone hiding a betrayal.

Alice’s voice softened but stayed firm.

“Alastor… if I wanted to tell the police about you, I would’ve done it months ago. You know that.”

His mouth opened, then closed again.

Alice, still breathing a little fast, reached out and set her hands on Alastor’s shoulders—steady, warm, grounding.

“It’s okay, Alastor,” she murmured.

The tension in his posture eased, just a little. His jaw unclenched.

“Well… why didn’t the officer ask to speak to me?” he muttered, frowning as though the question offended him more than the police visit itself.

Alice cracked a small smile. “Actually… he recognized me. From when we went caroling.”

Alastor’s face fell in a very specific way—horror mixed with embarrassment.

“Oh no.”

Alice snorted. “Relax. He must’ve seen us early. Before we got completely wasted.”

A reluctant laugh escaped him, soft and short.

“So he saw us caroling, and just assumed I was a good person incapable of murder?”

Alice nodded with faux solemnity.

Alastor sighed dramatically. “Our police department is actually a joke.”

“Yeah,” Alice said, crossing her arms, “but you know what else?”

He raised a brow. “What?”

“I was right—people do think carolers are good people. See? Aren’t you glad you came with me now?”

Alastor rolled his eyes so hard it was practically audible.

“I suppose you were actually on to something.”

Then a beat of silence.

Alastor tilted his head, studying her.

“So… you lied for me?”

Alice shrugged. “I mean… I guess.”

His smile came back—slow, sly, pleased.

“Who knew you had it in you?”

Alice shoved his shoulder lightly. “Don’t get excited. I’d rather you not make this a habit. I’m serious.”

“Of course,” he crooned, still smirking.

“I mean it,” she insisted. Then pointed a finger at him. “Oh—and you’re not killing anyone tomorrow. I am putting my foot down. No murders on Christmas.”

Alastor lifted both hands in surrender, laughing.

“Fine, fine. I wasn’t planning on it anyway, my dear.”

Alice narrowed her eyes knowingly.

“Good.”

Alice crossed her arms, remembering something. “OH—AND you need to find a better way to dispose of a body.”

Alastor blinked at her. “Oh? And now you’re going to tell me how I should kill people?”

“Yes,” Alice said simply.

The bluntness startled him. His eyebrows actually shot up.

Before he could form a response, Alice pushed on, voice steady but eyes tired.

“You kill terrible men to give yourself some sense of control, right? Don’t bother denying it.”

Alastor’s mouth opened, stunned into silence.

“But, that doesn’t mean,” she continued, “that you have to be a known serial killer.”

Alastor frowned, genuinely confused. “Known?”

“Yes, known.” Alice gestured vaguely toward the street. “Bodies left out with carved smiles? That’s not subtle. That’s not even trying.”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed. “It sends a message to others.”

Alice shot him a glare. “Alastor, how long do you think you can keep evading the police?"

He didn’t answer.

“Decades of this? Eventually they’ll narrow it down. Someone will notice something.”

He exhaled slowly, reluctantly. “…I suppose you may be on to something.”

“I know I am,” Alice said, lifting her chin. “I mean, you buried a body that one night you forced me to drive out to the bayou. And I don’t think that guy even got mentioned in the paper.”

Alastor scoffed. “He didn’t. But the only reason I did that was because my girlfriend stole my car, followed me, and miraculously took the exact same back road I was on.”

Alice rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “I didn’t steal your car, Alastor. I borrowed it. There’s a difference.”

“Uh-huh,” he said dryly. “A thief’s favorite defense.”

She gave him a shove that he didn’t budge an inch from.

Then Alice’s voice softened, her bravado draining away.

“I just… I don’t want to lie to the police again.”

Her fingers twisted together. “I was terrified. Terrified I might go to jail… or lose you.”

That last part slipped out before she could help it.

Alastor froze. Something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe.

He cleared his throat. “Well… I suppose people disappearing would look less suspicious.”

Alice nodded. “Exactly.”

“But then,” he continued, grimacing, “I’d have to drive all the way to my cabin to dispose of them. And that’s—quite the commute.”

Alice shrugged. “Then maybe only kill people every once in a while. Save on gas.”

Alastor rolled his eyes. “Oh, very funny.”

“Just saying.”

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll… take it into consideration.”

“Thank you.” She fixed him with a firm look. “And you promise you won’t kill anyone tomorrow?”

Alastor pressed a hand dramatically over his heart. “I promise. I cross my cold, twisted heart.”

“…Not reassuring,” Alice muttered.

“I know,” he replied, cheerfully.

Alice went quiet. She didn’t like how easily the words had come out of her—discussing murder like it was a matter of dinner plans. But what else was she supposed to do?

By now she knew exactly who he was. All the shadows he carried. All the things he did when the sun went down. She had spent months wrestling with it—lying awake while he slipped out into the night, fighting every instinct screaming at her to pick up the phone, every whisper of fear that maybe, one day, she would be next.

But every time, without fail, he had a reason.

A terrible man.

A dangerous man.

A cruel man.

Alice held on to that reasoning like a thin, fraying lifeline—proof that somewhere inside Alastor’s darkness, some strange, warped sliver of light still flickered.

Then Alastor clapped his hands, snapping Alice back into the real world. “Now! Let us get back to work, shall we? We have a big show tonight.”

Alastor and Alice spent the rest of the afternoon preparing for the big Christmas Eve broadcast. Alice sat cross-legged on the floor with his script spread across her lap, red pencil in hand, while Alastor paced behind her like a restless metronome.

She tapped one line sharply with the pencil.

“Okay—here,” she said, underlining it twice. “Where you report on the latest Christmas-candle house fire? Maybe… don’t laugh like it’s the punchline to a joke.”

Alastor looked genuinely puzzled. “What? It is a little funny.”

“ALASTOR.” Alice’s glare could have burned a hole through him.

He blinked, taken aback.

“People don’t find tragedy funny,” she said. “Especially not on Christmas Eve.

He crossed his arms. “People just don’t understand my humor.”

“That,” she said flatly, “is because laughing at a burning house on Christmas Eve is a little dark, even for you.”

He paused… actually considering this.

Then sighed dramatically. “You may be right.”

Alice beamed. “Good. Look at you growing into a decent human being.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he muttered, but he looked amused.

Finally, evening rolled around. Alastor slipped on his headphones, Alice took her place by the records and notepad, and with one theatrical flick of his wrist, he flipped the ON AIR switch.

Instant transformation.

“Good evening, New Orleans,” he purred, voice rich as brandy. “And merry Christmas Eve to you all.”

Alice watched proudly from her corner as he sailed through the weather, the news (not laughing—barely—at the house fire), and a segment on Christmas songs. She changed the records, brought him fresh coffee, jotted listener notes, and answered callers… even if Alastor only honored two of their requests out of twenty.

Then, at the very end, Alastor leaned back with a fox-like grin.

“And now, dear listeners… I have a little surprise for you.”

Alice froze.

Uh-oh.

Without warning, he began to sing “I Told Santa Claus to Bring Me You.”

Smooth. Velvet. Perfect.

Alice’s jaw dropped. She loved his singing voice—too much.

Then she realized something horrifying.

He wasn’t staring at the microphone.

He was staring directly. At. Her.

Alice went crimson.

She mouthed, Stop!!

He only sang louder, eyes bright with mischief.

By the time the song ended, she was a flustered, overheated, red-faced mess, trying to hide behind a stack of records.

Alastor clicked the mic off.

“Well, dear listeners, thank you for tuning in—and may your Christmas tomorrow be festive and bright. Goodnight.”

He removed his headphones and turned to her with a grin.

“Well? What did you think?”

Alice stammered, “Um—it was very—uh—nice.”

He laughed. “I knew you’d like it. Now then! One Christmas tradition remains.”

Her embarrassment temporarily forgotten, she perked up.

“Really? What is it?”

Alastor’s voice softened—rarely, but unmistakably.

“Well… ever since my mother died, I’ve made her famous jambalaya every Christmas Eve. A small tradition. But a dear one.”

Alice’s expression melted.

“Aww… Al, that’s actually really sweet.”

He shrugged lightly, but there was a warmth in his eyes she didn’t often see.

“Come along, my dear. I’ll teach you the recipe.”

Alastor got to work in the kitchen, cigarette tucked behind one ear and an old, yellowed recipe card propped against a jar of flour. The whole place soon filled with the savory, spicy smell of his mother’s jambalaya—so good it practically wrapped around the house like a warm blanket.

An hour later, it was ready.

Alice had spent that hour turning the dining table into something straight out of a Christmas postcard—red tablecloth, fancy plates, little evergreen sprigs tucked into napkin rings she absolutely did not have the patience to make but somehow managed anyway. She even poured wine into their nicest glasses, she had to use wine, ever since their chaotic caroling night, every time they smelled whiskey they both got nauseous.

Alastor carried two steaming bowls over, setting one before her… then, confusingly, a tall glass of milk.

Alice blinked.

“I already poured wine for us.”

“Yes,” Alastor nodded gravely, “but you’re going to need this, even I think this it’s a bit spicy”

Her face dropped.

“If you think it’s spicy, then this is going to kill me.”

He tapped the spoon against her bowl. “You guessed it! This is how I plan to finally murder you. In the comfort of our home. Death by spicy jambalaya.”

Alice stared at him. “I knew it!”

They both burst into laughter so hard Alice had to lean on the table and Alastor actually wheezed.

Then they ate.

It was delicious—rich, perfectly seasoned, full of flavor.

And so spicy Alice briefly saw a flash of her ancestors calling her home to glory.

Alastor watched her struggle with an expression halfway between admiration and pure amusement.

Between coughs Alice rasped, “You know… cough… it’s not polite to laugh at someone across the table.”

He straightened instantly, clearing his throat. “You’re right.”

He lasted eight seconds before snickering again.

Alice finished her bowl. And three glasses of milk. Only three. Alastor looked genuinely impressed.

After dinner, Alice cleaned the dishes and pots, humming while Alastor lit a cigarette and put on a random Christmas record—something jazzy and scratchy from the 1910s.

Midway through scrubbing a pan, Alice called, “I’ve never heard that Christmas song you sang earlier.”

“That’s not surprising coming from you,” he replied from the living room.

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I just mean you’ve never played it on the radio. Or, you know… sing it.”

Alastor glanced over his shoulder, smoke curling past his smile.

“Well, I never had reason to sing it.”

His eyes met hers. “Until now.”

Alice instantly turned pink.

Alastor immediately laughed.

“Stop laughing at me!” she groaned, flustered and scrubbing aggressively at a very clean plate.

When Alice finally finished, she joined him in the living room, the space smelled like cigarette smoke, chimney smoke, and cinnamon from the candle she insisted on lighting every night. She settled beside him—close enough that their shoulders touched—and neither of them spoke for a moment.

He seemed deep in thought, staring at the fire.

Alice leaned gently against him, watching the flames dance. The warmth of the room, the glow of the tree lights, the soft crackle of the record—it all felt impossibly peaceful.

After a while, Alice murmured into the quiet, “So… what’s on the agenda tomorrow? For Christmas day?”

Alastor blinked like he’d been caught drifting somewhere far from the room. His smile snapped back into place a beat too late.

“Oh. Ah. Not much at all. Just a simple Christmas morning.”

His voice was light—too light.

“So I can sleep in?” she teased.

“Not quite as late as you slept today,” he said, side–eyeing her. “Frankly, I’m still baffled by that. You even went to bed early the night before.”

She squinted at him, suspicious. “You’re telling me you have nothing planned for tomorrow? Really?”

“No,” he answered—sharply, quickly, like the word had fallen out of his mouth before he could shape it.

Alice raised an eyebrow.

“Alastor… you’ve planned something every week this entire month. You’re like a festive mastermind. You’re seriously saying you’ve got nothing for the actual holiday?”

He sighed. It was dramatic, practiced, and absolutely the sigh of a man trying to cover his tracks.

“Well… perhaps… we may… go out to a speakeasy Christmas party.”

Alice frowned. “Okay, you’re acting weird. I think you had too much wine.”

His laugh burst out—too loud, too bright, and painfully forced.

“Absurd!”

“Right,” Alice said slowly, narrowing her eyes. “You've definitely had too much wine”

She headed upstairs, shaking her head. Whatever he was on about, she’d figure it out tomorrow.

In her room, she slipped into her nightgown and reached into her closet. From the very back, she pulled out the neatly wrapped gold box—the pocket watch she’d chosen for him weeks ago. She smiled just looking at it.

Alastor had told her not to get him anything.

She had bought it before he said that but, she would have bought him something regardless.

She wondered if he had a present for her. Knowing him? Probably something chaotic, dramatic, and way too expensive, or all of the above.

Alice crawled into her cozy bed, curled under her blankets, and placed the gift gently on her nightstand.

Tomorrow was Christmas.

She couldn’t wait to see his face.

And with that warm thought in her chest, she drifted peacefully into sleep.

Chapter Text

Hey ya'll! Before you start reading this amazing chapter, I wanted to give a huge thanks to an artist who wanted to remain anonymous, for drawing this picture of Alice! I think this is so cool! I have ZERO artistic abilities so I usually never see my characters drawn, until now! So if anyone cares, I'm making this cannon and this is what Alice looks like. Anyways ya'll have fun reading!

Christmas morning drifted softly into Alice’s room like a shy guest, tapping gently at the frost-kissed windowpanes. The Louisiana sun—usually bold and brazen—filtered through in a muted, silvery glow, as though winter had wrapped even New Orleans in its rare, delicate hush. Her blankets were warm, her breath soft, and for the first time in her life, she had slept as though cradled by the holiday itself.

She stretched beneath her quilt, smiling faintly when she heard it—Christmas music, distant but unmistakably cheerful, crackling from the gramophone in the living room. Of course Alastor was already awake.

Alice tip-toed down the hallway in her soft pajamas, her steps quiet against the wooden floorboards. The moment she entered the living room, her breath billowed out in a sigh of wonder.

The Christmas tree glowed in the corner, its glass ornaments catching firelight like stars caught mid-fall. The hearth crackled warmly, flames licking at the logs with a merry hum. And in the center of it all sat Alastor—perfectly composed in his armchair, already dressed in one of his sharp red suits, the light glinting off his cuff links.

He looked up, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, well… look who’s managed to rise at an acceptable hour this time.”

Alice narrowed her eyes at him, but her lips betrayed her with a smile.

“Merry Christmas to you too, Alastor.”

He chuckled, striking a match and lighting a cigarette with the casual flourish of a magician.

“You know I’m only teasing. And—yes—Merry Christmas, Alice.”

He stood, dusting ash from his pants.

“Now then. We have quite a day ahead of us, so sit down. I’ll make you some hot chocolate. I’ve got a few gifts for you.”

Alice’s eyes widened.

“You told me not to get you anything!”

“Indeed I did,” he replied smoothly, disappearing briefly into the kitchen, “but I never said I couldn’t get my charming little radio assistant something.”

He returned moments later, steam curling from a porcelain mug he set into her hands—rich, warm hot chocolate topped with a little swirl of cream. He placed three beautifully wrapped gifts in her lap, the paper shimmering gold and deep red in the firelight.

Alice stared.

“Alastor! You didn’t have to—”

“I’m perfectly aware I didn’t have to,” he interrupted lightly. “But when you told me you’d never truly had a proper Christmas…”

His voice softened, just a fraction.

“Well. I felt compelled to remedy that. Now— go on and open them.”

Alice felt the sting of tears gathering behind her eyes, but she forced down the lump in her throat as she loosened the first ribbon. Inside lay a leather-bound notebook, the cover warm and rich beneath her fingertips, her name beautifully burned into its surface. It smelled of untouched pages and untold stories—of futures waiting to be written.

“I thought,” Alastor murmured, watching her with an almost boyish attentiveness, “you might like a place to trap all those stories dancing about in that very busy head of yours.”

Her lip trembled.

It wasn’t just a gift—it was the first real, deeply personal gift she had ever received.

“Oh… Alastor, I love it.”

“Now, now—don’t get teary. It’s only a notebook,” he chided with a playful flick of his fingers. “Besides, you still have two more.”

Alice reached for the second box and unwrapped it carefully. When she lifted the lid, she couldn’t stop the gasp that rose from her chest.

A red velvet dress, soft as rose petals, with delicate white embroidery curling over it like freshly fallen snow.

“Something stunning for tonight,” he said lightly.

“Tonight?” Alice blinked. “I thought you said we weren’t doing much.”

For a moment—just a fleeting moment—Alastor almost looked awkward.

He straightened, adjusting his tie. “Well—yes. A change of plans. Remember last night? I mentioned we might attend the big Christmas speakeasy party. The one everyone loses their minds over. Second only to Mardi Gras, of course.”

Alice’s smile bloomed like a lantern warming to life.

“Sounds fun. And… thank you. This dress is gorgeous.”

Only one box remained. Smaller. Heavier.

She opened it—and her breath caught.

A gold picture frame.

Inside, a photograph of her and Alastor dancing. One of their earliest nights together—the night she’d worn her old gold dress, and he’d spun her across the dance floor as though she were made of smoke and moonlight.

“I suppose you can thank the jazz club for that one,” he grumbled with a faint grimace. “They insisted on taking it. I normally detest having my picture captured. But… I thought it might mean something to you.”

Alice held the frame delicately, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment.

It meant everything.

Everything she had never allowed herself to hope for.

“Alastor…” she whispered.

“I don’t even know what to say.”

He waved a hand, turning his face away though his cheeks blushed a little, a betraying shade of red.

“Think nothing of it, my dear.”

But she knew he wanted her to think something of it.

And she did.

She thought of warmth.

Of gentleness hidden beneath sharp wit and wickedness.

Of a home she had never truly had until now.

She thought of the first Christmas she had ever—finally—felt loved.

Alastor tapped ash neatly into the tray and said, with a spark of excitement he tried (and failed) to hide, “You should go try on your new dress. It ought to fit, but I want to be certain.”

Alice felt her heart flutter.

She gathered the velvet bundle carefully and hurried up the stairs, her feet practically floating. In her room, she slipped into the dress—and gasped.

It fit her perfectly.

Soft, sumptuous velvet molded to her shape like it had been stitched by magic itself. She had never worn anything so rich, so lovely, so utterly unlike the plain cotton dresses she’d grown up in.

Then her eyes landed on the small gold-wrapped present resting patiently on her nightstand—the gift she had gotten for him.

Her nerves fluttered.

Her palms warmed.

But she picked it up and made her way back downstairs, the skirt whispering around her ankles.

The moment she stepped into the glow of the tree, Alastor froze—mid-puff of his cigarette.

“Good heavens…” he breathed, eyes widening. “You look radiant.”

Color bloomed in Alice’s cheeks. “Thank you. It fits like a glove.”

“It fits,” he said, standing straighter, “like it was made for you.”

Then his gaze sharpened, noting the way she held one arm tucked behind her back. “Are you hiding something? What is that—have you a knife back there? Planning to finally take me out?”

Alice snorted a laugh. “Close.”

She brought her hand forward, revealing the small gold-wrapped package.

Alastor blinked, thrown off guard. “Is… this for me?”

Alice nodded.

“But I told you not to get me anything,” he said, though the scolding was half-hearted at best.

“I know,” Alice said softly, “but I bought it before you told me not to, so it doesn’t count.”

A smile tugged his lips—the real kind, the rare one, the one that made his eyes crease at the corners. He accepted the gift with an odd, almost delicate hesitation, as though the paper itself might vanish if handled too roughly.

He peeled away the gold wrapping.

The pocket watch gleamed in the firelight—deep gold, the front engraved with proud deer antlers, elegant and sharp. He opened it, and inside the inscription shone softly:
From your dearest Alice.
Merry Christmas.

Alastor stared.
Not coldly.

Not blankly.

But with a kind of stunned stillness Alice had never seen on his face.

Her stomach knotted. “Do… do you not like it?”

Alastor’s expression softened instantly—like ice melting at the first touch of warmth.

“No,” he said, voice almost reverent. “I love it. Truly. Alice, this is… extraordinarily thoughtful.”

Relief washed over her, bright as sunlight. “I’m so glad.”

He traced the inscription with his thumb. “I desperately needed a new one too. My old watch finally broke.”

“I know,” she said with a light laugh. “I bought this the same day it broke.”

Alastor raised a brow. “So you’re the one who jinxed it.”

She giggled. “Yep. Guilty as charged.”

“Well,” he said, snapping the watch shut with a satisfied click, “this is certainly an upgrade. I shall cherish it forever.”

Alice felt her face warm. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in an impulsive hug.

For a second, he froze—caught completely off guard.

Then, slowly, cautiously, like someone easing into unfamiliar waters, he returned the embrace, his hand coming to rest between her shoulder blades.

“Of course, my dear,” he murmured.

The rest of the afternoon unfolded slowly, wrapped in the soft haze of firelight and drifting carols. Alice curled up beside the radio, sipping the last of her hot chocolate while Alastor lounged nearby, his long legs crossed elegantly, listening to dramatic Christmas stories with an amused smirk tugging his mouth.

Every few minutes, he flipped open his new pocket watch—her gift—and checked the time with a little glint of pride in his eyes.

It made her heart melt every time.

Just as a new record began crackling into life, the telephone rang.

Alastor groaned. “This had better not be another solicitation. If I hear one more advertisement for peppermint soap, I’ll—”

He picked up the receiver. “Yes? What—oh. Aunt Adine.”

Alice suppressed a laugh. His entire posture changed, he slouched, lowered his chin, and looked suddenly five years younger.

From the receiver came a familiar, booming, affectionate voice:

“Alaaastor! bébé! I just called to—HEY! Y’all hush now, I’m talkin’ to Al!”

A crash sounded on the other end. Then shouting. Then what might have been a pot hitting the floor.

Alice’s eyes widened.

The phone was clearly being passed around like a hot potato, every relative shouting over the next:

“Merry Christmas, boy!”

“Who burnt the damn roast?”

“Thibodeaux, put that fire OUT!”

“That’s my doll! Gimme!!”

“WHO LET THE ROOSTER INSIDE?!”

Alastor pulled the receiver away from his ear, wincing like the noise physically wounded him. He massaged his temples with long, suffering fingers.

“This,” he muttered darkly, “is precisely why we did not spend Christmas in the bayou.”

Alice giggled, leaning closer to whisper, “I think they miss you.”

Before he could reply, Aunt Adine’s voice blasted back through the receiver:

“OH! And happy early birthday, sugar!”

Alice whipped her head toward Alastor so fast her curls bounced. She smacked his arm.

“Birthday?! You didn’t tell me your birthday was soon!”

From the phone:

“Did he now? Shame on you, Alastor! Y’all know he a New Year’s baby—popped out just in time to ruin the fireworks!”

Alice burst into laughter.

Alastor absolutely did not.

He forced a smile that looked like it had been stapled onto his face.

“Yes, Aunt Adine. Thank you. Marvelous. Truly.”

The teasing only escalated:

“How old you turnin’, cher? Twelve?”

“Remmeber when he couldn't blow out all candles, remember?”

Then a small child got on and simply screamed into the receiver for a full, uninterrupted thirty seconds.

Alastor stared at the ceiling, defeated.

Finally someone shouted:

“Put sweet Alice on the line! Gimme that phone!”

Alice blinked. “Me?”

The receiver was thrust into her hands.

Instantly, the chaos softened—as if the entire bayou collectively exhaled.

“Oh, darlin’ Alice! We miss you somethin’ fierce!”

“Can’t wait t’see you again, chère!”

“We love you, bébé!”

“And you keep little Al outta trouble, y’hear?”

Alice’s throat tightened.

Her heart ached in that warm, painful way—like pressing on a bruise you don’t want to stop touching.

They sounded like…

family.

The kind she wished she’d grown up with.

When they finally hung up—after a full hour of bayou pandemonium—Alice set the phone down gently, still listening to the ghost of their laughter in her ear.

A lingering, aching warmth melted through her chest.

They returned to the sofa, but as carols played and the fire crackled, Alice found herself glancing at the telephone again and again.

Just a little hopeful spark.

Just a wish.

But the phone stayed silent.

By evening, the hope dimmed into something small and heavy.

Alastor noticed, of course. He always did.

He leaned toward her, voice gentler than usual. “Are you quite alright, darling?”

Alice swallowed and stared down at her hands. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Alice.” His tone left no room to hide. “You’re a terrible liar.”

The words slipped out of her in a soft, fragile rush.

“I just… thought maybe my family might call. To wish me Merry Christmas. But they didn’t.”

Alastor’s eyes darkened, the kind of dark that had nothing to do with murder or shadows—just quiet understanding.

“Do they even have our number?”

“I told Mimmzy to give it to Cindy,” Alice said, forcing a little laugh. “Not that it matters. I’m sure my father told them not to contact me.”

Alastor’s voice softened, rare and solemn. “I’m so sorry, dear.”

Alice inhaled deeply, then offered a brave smile. “It’s alright. I won’t let them ruin today. Not when it’s been so wonderful.”

That made something in him ease.

He even smiled.

“You’re right,” he said, glancing at his pocket watch one more time—this time with a nervous flicker she didn’t yet understand. “And… speaking of today… I was thinking we might take a little walk before the speakeasy party tonight. A pleasant one. Yes?”

Alice brightened. “That actually sounds lovely.”

“Fantastic.” He clapped his hands once, too quickly. “Now! Put on your new dress. I’ll wait downstairs.”

Upstairs, Alice dressed carefully, applying a bit of lip color and fixing her hair despite the ache in her chest. She refused—refused—to let old wounds spoil the magic of the day.

When she came downstairs again, Alastor was waiting.

And he had dressed to the nines.

His suit was a striking blend of deep red and crisp winter white—almost perfectly matching her velvet dress. He looked elegant, dangerous, and heartbreakingly handsome.

He stepped forward with a gentleman’s flourish and helped drape her coat around her shoulders.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Alice nodded, smiling softly.

And together, they stepped outside, two silhouettes walking into the cold Christmas evening.

The air was crisp as Alice and Alastor walked, their breaths puffing white into the fading Christmas evening. Alice glanced at the sky—the sun had just sunk below the horizon, leaving the world drenched in red and gold, like someone had spilled molten color across the heavens. It was beautiful.

Alastor led her forward with a quiet purpose. But they weren’t heading toward town. No where near any of the speakeasies, not toward people or lights. Alice frowned.

“Alastor… where are we going?”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “Hm? Oh—just taking the scenic route. It is Christmas Day, after all.”

His voice was light, but something underneath it was not.

They reached the pier, where Christmas lights shimmered on the dark water, turning every ripple into a glimmer of red, green, and gold. Alice smiled softly.

“Alastor, I just… I have to say thank you. This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

He smiled, but it was small. Thin. “I’m glad.”

The answer was so simple it sliced the moment clean in half. Alice’s stomach tightened.

“Well,” she said gently, “you should know that I’m so grateful. For everything you’ve done for me.”

“I’m aware you’re grateful,” he said. “It’s no trouble.”

Then silence swallowed them again.

A sinking feeling twisted in Alice’s chest. They were walking farther and farther from town—past the last clusters of lights, past familiar streets, into the quiet edges of New Orleans where the only sound was water lapping at wood. She didn’t know what “scenic route” this was supposed to be. They just kept walking.

Alice risked a glance at him.

This wasn’t her Alastor.

Not the playful, smooth, loose-shouldered man she knew.

He was stiff.

His fingers tapped restlessly against the back of his other hand.

His eyes kept jerking toward the water, then toward her, then away again.

He looked… nervous.

A terrifying thought slid into Alice’s mind, cold as the river wind:

What if he’s going to kill me?

He was taking her far from town.

No witnesses.

And they were near the water—dark, deep, silent.

He could stab her.

Toss her in.

She’d vanish beneath the surface, and no one would hear a thing.

Alice tried to breathe. Tried to tell herself she was being dramatic, ridiculous, paranoid—but she couldn’t think of any other reason he’d lead her so far out here.

By the time Alastor finally stopped walking, Alice’s nerves were raw. Her heart pounded so loud she could barely hear the waves.

They had gotten along so well. He was the best thing to ever happen to her. She loved him. But maybe… maybe he only wanted to give her a perfect last month before he got rid of her.

Alastor leaned against the railing, staring out across the water. The sunset light skimmed the waves in molten red and gold. Alice barely saw any of it—her mind was too loud, too scared.

“Isn’t this a lovely evening?” he asked softly

Alice swallowed. “Mhm.”

He drummed his fingers on the railing, eyes flicking toward her, studying her expression. Alice didn’t dare speak. Every muscle in her body was coiled tight, waiting.

Then Alastor stepped behind her.

Alice’s blood went cold.

This is it.

He’s going to stab me.

He’s going to kill me.

She couldn’t take another second of it.

She whipped around, fear bursting out of her in a panicked cry:

“Please don’t kill me!”

But when she turned—

Alastor wasn’t looming over her.

He wasn’t holding a knife or a gun.

He wasn’t preparing to toss her into the river.

He was kneeling.

Bent on one knee.

A velvet black ring box open in his trembling hands.

Inside it: a breathtaking diamond ring, catching the last scraps of sunset.

And Alastor—Alastor looked up at her with the most terrified, hopeful expression she had ever seen.

Chapter Text

Alice stood frozen. Completely, utterly frozen.

A string of Christmas lights glowed on the porch rail behind Alastor, their crimson reds and mossy greens flickering gently like distant embers. A phonograph inside a house up the hill crackled with a warped recording of Silent Night, drifting faintly through the cracked window.

Alastor was kneeling on one knee before her, the little black velvet box open in his trembling hand. A delicate silver diamond ring rested inside, catching the warm glow of the Christmas lights and scattering tiny reflections across his fingers. His breath ghosted in the cool December air like fog from a chimney.

Alice had braced herself for cold steel, for a knife, for the moment he got bored or realized he had enough. But instead—

A proposal. On Christmas night.

The very last thing she ever expected.

Alastor’s hopeful, anxious expression faltered when he saw the horror in her eyes. Slowly, nervously, his brows pulled together. Behind him, one of the lights flickered out, twisting the shadows across his face.

“Um… my dear,” he murmured, voice uneven, “I’m not going to kill you. You know that. I would never harm you…I—I love you, Alice.”

Alice couldn’t move—couldn’t even breathe. He had never said those words before.

I love you.

They hung in the humid air between them.

Seconds stretched. Alastor waited… and waited… until the hope in his eyes fractured. He let out a shaky breath, the corners of his mouth twitching downward as he snapped the box shut with a soft, painful click.

Alice had never seen him like this—never. Sadness washed over his face, but he held it back with the same strained, polite smile he used on strangers. He couldn’t even look at her.

“What was I thinking…” he muttered under his breath, laughing hollowly. “Of all the idiotic notions…”

He tossed her the studio keys. They jingled sharply in the quiet.

“You should probably head back to the studio,” he said. “And no hard feelings, Alice.”

Then he turned away from her, gripping the railing overlooking the water as if he needed it to hold himself upright. His breathing was wrong—too deep, too fast, like something inside him was snapping.
Alice’s voice finally came back, small and trembling.

“I just—don’t you think this is a little sudden? We’ve only known each other for three months—”

“I told you to go,” he snapped, still not looking at her. “Go, Alice.”

She flinched.

“Alastor…?”

He spun around, eyes dark and furious—and hurting.

“Leave!”

Alice jumped back, heart hammering. She turned, forcing her feet to move, and walked away. Behind her, she could hear him muttering to himself—soft, frantic words drowned out by the wind.

She walked along the waterfront, staring at the now darkening horizon. The sky had grown dusky, and Christmas lights reflecting off the water along with the fireflies drifted like tiny floating lanterns—glowing, gentle, free.

Her chest felt tight.

What if I’m making a mistake?

She loved him. God help her, she did. So why couldn’t she say yes? She told herself it was because everything was happening too fast, because three months wasn’t enough.

But deep down… she knew that wasn’t the whole truth.

She was scared.

Not of him—not truly. Her gut told her he wouldn’t hurt her. Not like her ex-fiancé. Alastor was dangerous, yes, terrifying even—but not to her. Not in that way.

And with him… for the first time in her life… she could breathe. Laugh. Be herself. She was happy—truly happy, maybe for the first time ever.

And as the fireflies glowed over the water, flickering like tiny sparks of hope, Alice realized she didn’t want to lose that.

She didn’t want to lose him.

Alice didn’t think—she just ran.

She spun around and sprinted back down the pier, her shoes pounding against the wood, her lungs burning. The hem of her velvet dress swinging around her ankles. Alastor was still there, rigid and motionless against the railing, jaw clenched like he was trying not to fall apart.

He heard her footsteps and turned, startled.

“...Alice?”

She was panting so hard she could barely form words, but she managed to gasp out—

“Yes.”

Alastor blinked. “What?”

Alice swallowed air like she was drowning.

“Yes,” she said again, louder this time, her voice cracking. “Yes, I’ll marry you. I—I love you, Alastor. I love all of you.”

This time he froze.

The man who always knew exactly what to say, who always had a charming quip ready—stood silent. Breathless. Shocked. Like someone had knocked the wind out of him.

Slowly, almost mechanically, he fumbled inside his coat for the black velvet box.

“So… you actually want to marry me?” he asked, voice thin and disbelieving.

Alice nodded, still catching her breath, tears stinging her eyes.

His hands were stiff, awkward, trembling a little as he handed her the ring box.

“I, ah—do you… do you like it?”

Alice slipped the ring on her finger. It slid into place perfectly, the silver shining in the dim light, the diamond catching the faint glow of the fireflies and Christmas lights. Red rubies winked around the center stone like tiny embers.

“It’s beautiful,” Alice whispered. “I love it. I love it, Alastor.”

Alastor let out a breath he had clearly been holding for far too long.

“Good,” he murmured. “Thought it looked like you.”

But he was still visibly rattled, his shoulders tight, his smile unsure.

Alice reached out. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, voice cracking on the word. “I’ve just experienced entirely too many emotions in the past ten minutes. This is… not how I envisioned this endeavor playing out.”

Alice winced. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just—you know, in my defense, you were acting weird on the way here, taking me to some secluded part of town. I honestly thought you were gonna stab me and throw me into the harbor.”

For the first time that night, the tension melted from Alastor’s face. A real laugh slipped out of him—relieved, shaky, but genuine.

“Well, I suppose I can see how you’d think that.”

Then, smirking, “But I did tell you I wouldn’t kill anyone on Christmas. And I am a man of my word.”

Alice snorted. “Oh, so you’re just saving it for tomorrow. Planning to finally take me out then?”

He chuckled, a wicked glint returning to his eyes.

“Damn. You read my mind.”

He took her hand, lifting it gently to study the ring. His fingers were warm, steady now.

“It looks lovely on you,” he murmured, softer than she’d ever heard him.

Alice stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

“I love you,” she whispered.

His arms came around her instantly, tightly, like he was terrified she’d disappear again.

“I—” His voice trembled. “I love you too, Alice.”

For a moment they just held each other, breathing the same cool night air.

Then Alastor straightened, smoothing his coat like he needed the familiar gesture.

“Well,” he said lightly, “I suppose I should take you to that party now.”

Alice grinned. “Let’s go tear that speakeasy up.”

He flashed that sharp, brilliant smile of his. “Now you’re talking.”

They started walking back toward the city lights, hand in hand.

After a few steps, Alastor looked around thoughtfully at the dark empty waterfront.

“You know,” he said casually, “you’re right. This is a good spot. No people. Easy disposal.”

Alice shoved him. “You’re insane.”

Alastor laughed, brushing a kiss against her temple.

“Well, then that would make you a crazy woman who’s marrying a crazy man.”

Alice slipped her hand through Alastor’s arm as they strolled toward the French Quarter, their footsteps echoing softly on the damp cobblestones. The city was quiet—the kind of quiet New Orleans only managed on Christmas night, when even the ghosts seemed to rest.

Then something cold brushed the tip of her nose.

Alice blinked, startled, and looked up.

A single snowflake drifted lazily down from the ink-black sky—then another, and another—tiny white sparks flickering in the glow of the gas lamps. The air glistened like a shaken snow globe. She held out her gloved hand as the flakes melted on contact, little diamonds dissolving into nothing.

Alastor stopped beside her, his dark brown eyes lifting skyward.

“Well I’ll be,” he breathed, a warm puff of fog forming as he spoke. “It hasn’t snowed here in years.”

The two of them stood motionless in the quiet street, watching as the flakes multiplied, swirling between wrought-iron balconies and drifting down onto the sleepy Quarter. The soft snowfall painted the night in silver.

It felt almost unreal—like something borrowed from a dream.

Alice leaned her head gently on Alastor’s shoulder, breathing in the clean, cold scent of winter mixing with the faint, sweet spice of his cologne.

“You know…” she murmured, voice hushed, “I think this is my favorite holiday.”

Alastor made a soft, self-satisfied sound.

“Well how can it not be?” he chuckled, smug and warm.

Alice laughed with him—right up until a man several yards ahead slipped dramatically on the icy pavement and landed flat on his back with an echoing thud.

Alice winced “Ouch! That must have hurt.”

Alastor on the other hand burst into delighted laughter, practically doubling over. Alice swatted his arm.

“Alastor! Stop—he could be hurt!”

“That’s what makes it funny!” he insisted between hysterical cackles.

She dragged him along before he could start mindlessly narrating the poor stranger’s suffering like it was a radio segment.

They arrived at an old laundromat with fogged-up windows and a flickering neon sign that buzzed like a tired firefly. Alastor stepped close to the rusted metal door, leaned in, and whispered something low—something that made the lock click and the lights inside shift from dull to warm.

He held the door for her.

Inside was another world entirely.

Gone were the rattling machines and the sour smell of detergent. The room glowed with golden light and polished floors. Everyone inside was dressed to the nines—velvet gowns, tailored suits, glittering jewelry that caught the light like stars trapped in motion. Garlands of evergreen draped across the walls, and candles flickered on every table.

But what stole Alice’s breath was the towering Christmas tree in the center—nearly scraping the ceiling—decorated with glass ornaments that shimmered like captured snowflakes. Ribbons cascaded from its branches like falling satin.

“Alastor,” she whispered, awestruck. “It’s… beautiful.”

He placed his arm around her waist, pulling her gently against him. The warmth of him contrasted perfectly with the cold still clinging to her coat.

“Merry Christmas, my dear,” he said softly—almost tenderly, in the way only she ever got to hear.

And surrounded by music, candlelight, and softly falling snow outside the windows, Alice believed it might truly be the perfect Christmas night.

—

Weeks slipped by like the river current, and before either of them knew it, they had survived Alastor’s twenty-third birthday—New Year’s Day—an event that consisted almost entirely of bootleg liquor, questionable jazz, and Alastor insisting he was not at all drunk despite slurring in three different accents.

Now, sober and faced with reality, they had a different beast to wrangle: planning a wedding.

They didn’t want anything grand—at least, Alice didn’t. Alastor, on the other hand, had a flair for spectacle and a radio audience that grew larger by the day. He couldn’t sneeze in public without someone spinning it into gossip, so planning a “small” wedding with him was like trying to calm a hurricane with polite suggestions.

Alice adored showing off her ring, but reactions were… complicated.

Interracial marriage was still illegal, and while Alastor was technically mixed, his complexion made people stutter, hesitate, or whisper behind their hands. Alice didn’t care. If anything, her chin lifted a little higher each time she caught someone staring.

Finding someone willing to officiate the ceremony took weeks—far too many drawn-out conversations, whispered inquiries. But eventually they found a man who said yes without flinching, after a very generous bribe. Alice nearly hugged him.

Wedding planning became her joy.

The flowers.

The cake.

Her dress.

Mimzy dragged her to every boutique in New Orleans until Alice found the gown—a white dress with delicate floral lace and tiny beads that caught the light like dew. Mimzy, of course, insisted on trying on gowns herself, swinging around in feathered skirts and sequins. It made Alice laugh, even though there was always an undercurrent between them.

They both knew what Alastor was.

They both knew the other knew.

And they both pretended they didn’t.

It was a strange, quiet agreement.

They set the wedding date for May 13th. Alice marked it on the calendar, circling it three times in red. She should’ve been floating with excitement—and she was—but as winter turned to spring, something heavy started tugging at her heart.

Her family.

She wanted to call them. She wanted her mother and sister by her side, wanted her father to walk her down the aisle. She wanted, just once, to share good news without bracing for disappointment.
And Alastor noticed—of course he noticed. He always did.

One evening, as she sat staring at the telephone like it might bite her, he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Ma chère,” he said softly, “it’s our wedding. You may invite whomever you wish. If you want your family there…” He lifted her chin so her eyes met his.

“…then you must call them.”

Alice swallowed hard.

The phone looked heavier than any weapon.

But she nodded.

Because she knew he was right.

Alice unfolded the little scrap of paper she’d kept tucked in her dresser—her family’s phone numbers, scribbled down the night she ran away. Her hands trembled. Out of everyone, she figured her sister would take the news the best. Cindy was married to a wealthy man in South Carolina; she lived in a world of pearls and porch parties. And Alice knew—if anyone wouldn’t start screaming immediately—it was probably her.

Probably.

With a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, Alice dialed the number. The line rang. And rang. Until—

“This is the Miller residence,” a crisp, pompous voice answered. “State your name, please.”

Alice blinked. A butler. Of course Cindy had a butler now.

“Uh—hello. My name is Alice. Alice Everglow. I’m Cindy’s sister.”

There was a brief, startled pause. Then—

“A moment, miss.”

The line clicked, and then a very familiar, very girlish voice burst through:

“Hello? This is Cindy!”

Alice’s face broke into a smile. “Hi Cindy, um—It’s me, Alice.”

There was a sharp inhale—and then Cindy exploded.

“Alice? ALLY?! Oh my STARS—IS THAT YOU?!”

Alice smiled at the old nickname, but had to pull the phone away from her ear as Cindy squealed loud enough to rattle the receiver.

“Yes!” Alice laughed. “I’ve missed you so much!”

“I’ve missed you MORE!” Cindy shot back, outrageously dramatic. “Oh honey, it is SO good to hear your voice! Tell me EVERYTHING—how’s New Orleans? Is Mimmzy treating you right?”

Alice smiled. “It’s been… surprisingly good, actually. I work at a radio studio now.”

Cindy gasped like Alice had told her she’d become a movie star. “A RADIO studio? Oh my, oh GOODNESS, I’m so happy for you!”

Alice nodded, even though Cindy couldn’t see it. “There’s actually… something I need to tell you.”

Cindy’s tone shifted instantly—worried, motherly. “Oh sweetheart, are you alright? Do you need money? Is someone bothering you?”

“No, no—nothing like that.” Alice swallowed hard. “I… well… I’m getting married.”

Silence.

Then—

“WHAAAAAAAAT?!”

Alice jerked the phone away again as Cindy shrieked loud enough to wake the dead.

“OH MY LORD, ALICE EVERGLOW—MARRIED?! I never thought I’d live to hear it! Who?! When?! HOW?! You have to spill EVERYTHING right this instant!”

Alice laughed nervously. “His name is Alastor. We met at a speakeasy, and… things just happened fast.”

She left out the part where he's a serial killer, figuring that was for the best.

But Cindy was already suspicious.

“Mm-hmm… and how long have y’all been together?”

Alice winced. “Three months.”

“…three months?” Cindy repeated slowly, like she was tasting the words and finding them suspicious. “Darlin’, that is—”

“I know it’s quick,” Alice cut in gently. “But I love him, Cindy. Truly. I’ve never been this happy.”

There was a long, quiet breath on the other end.

“Well…” Cindy finally said softly, “if you’re happy, then I’m happy for you. Really.”

Relief flooded Alice. “Good. Because… I was hoping you’d be my maid of honor.”

Cindy gasped, dramatic as ever. “ME?! Oh Ally, YES! Oh honey, I’ll wear the biggest hat in Charleston if you want me to!”

Alice laughed, eyes prickling. “Thank you.”

But then Cindy hesitated.

“…Have you told Mama and Daddy yet?”

Alice’s smile faltered instantly.

“I… don’t know if I want to. Father will be furious. I ran away from a marriage just to go get married somewhere else. Lord knows he’ll have something to say about that.”

Cindy snorted. “Oh, you should’ve heard him at Thanksgiving. Going on and on about how I’m such a ‘good, obedient daughter.’”

Alice sighed. “That sounds like him.”

“How’s Mama?” Alice asked softly.

Cindy’s voice softened too. “She’s alright. She misses you. A lot.”

Alice felt her throat tighten. “I miss her too.”

There was a pause—raw, heavy.

“Oh Lord, Cindy,” Alice whispered. “I don’t know what to do. I want them there… but I don’t want Father glaring holes through me the whole ceremony.”

“Well…” Cindy said reluctantly, “I don’t think I can go if they don’t. Daddy will throw a FIT. And if I show up for something like this, he’ll chase me across the state.”

“I know,” Alice murmured. “I know.”

Cindy sighed dramatically. “Look, the worst Daddy can do is say no and holler a bit. He’s not about to march himself to New Orleans—he hates traveling more than he hates unpolished silverware.”

Alice let out a tiny laugh. “You’re right. I’ll… call them.”

“Good luck little sis, I'll be here rooting for you.”

They exchanged goodbyes, Cindy promising to pick out the most “positively STUNNING” maid-of-honor dress she had ever seen.

But when Alice hung up, her hand lingered on the receiver.

She’d made the call.

And it still didn’t feel any easier.

Alice was happy she finally got to speak to her sister again, but as more weeks slipped by, she began dreading the inevitable second phone call. The one with her father. The thought alone made her stomach twist.

Her father had always been a frightening man—a powerful preacher in their modest town in North Carolina, where his word sat just beneath God’s. He held the town in such a tight fist that people feared him more than the devil he raved about. Miss a Sunday service, and he would brand you sinful, wicked, or worse. Alice, being the preacher’s daughter, was expected to be the perfect example: quiet, obedient, modest, a model Christian girl who never questioned a thing.

For a long time she managed. She drifted through her childhood like a church mouse—silent, unnoticed, bending to every rule laid before her. It was easier that way. Safer.

Cindy, on the other hand, was their father’s pride. Bubbly, charming, loudly pious. She thrived in the spotlight—sang loudest in the choir, prayed the longest, charmed the congregation with bright smiles. Compared to her, Alice always seemed too timid, too soft-spoken… too much like her mother, whom her father often dismissed as “frail.”

When he finally deemed Alice “old enough to marry,” he chose a wealthy family several hours away. Alice wanted to believe her life might finally be improving. She wanted to believe she could be happy.

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

Her fiancé was cruel beneath his polished manners. Demanding. Hungry. One small mistake—spilling a bit of tea, speaking too softly, hesitating—earned her a slap. And the nights were far worse. His eyes turned ravenous as he tugged at her clothing, ignoring her tearful refusals. They weren’t married yet, and she clung to the only rule she had ever been certain of—her chastity belonged to God until her wedding night. But he didn’t care. His fists and his words carved the truth into her: she was trapped.

As their wedding day crept closer, Alice realized she would not survive a life at his side.

So, with Cindy’s help, she ran.

Escaping meant abandoning everything she had been told was sacred: her family, her church, the path chosen for her. She carried the guilt like a stain on her skin. Dancing for men in New Orleans only worsened it. Their hungry eyes mirrored her fiancé’s, and each night she felt smaller, filthier, more damned.

Until Alastor.

Alastor was a murderer—she knew that. But he was also the first person who saw her as something more than a lamb to be claimed. With him, she wasn’t a sermon or a sin—she was simply herself. And somehow, that was enough.

Now, with a wedding of her own to plan, she feared calling home more than anything. She feared her father’s voice. She feared his judgment. She feared crumbling all over again.

But she feared losing the chance to hear her mother’s voice even more.

More days passed before Alice finally gathered enough courage to make the call.

She stared at the telephone as if it were loaded. Her fingers trembled around the receiver.

Alastor sat beside her on the sofa—relaxed, legs crossed, one arm draped behind her shoulders. His calm confidence steadied her, but only just a little.

“Whenever you’re ready, my dear,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”

Alice swallowed hard, lifted the receiver, and dialed the number she knew by heart.

Ring… ring…

Someone picked up.

“…Hello?”

Alice’s breath hitched.

“Mama? It’s me. Alice?”

A sharp gasp crackled through the line.

“Alice? Alice, darling—oh, thank the Lord, it’s you!” Her mother’s voice trembled with pure relief. “Oh sweetheart, I’ve been so worried. We didn’t know if you were alive or— or—”

“I’m alright, Mama. I promise,” Alice whispered. Alastor took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I’m in New Orleans now. I… I met someone. His name is Alastor. He hosts a radio show.”

Her mother practically whispered, too afraid her husband might hear.

“Oh my… a radio man?” She sounded delighted, but flustered. “Oh, I would do anything to see you right now. But your father… well, I don’t know what he’ll say. But I surely would like to meet him, darling. I miss you somethin’ fierce—”

“I miss you too, Mama. I think about you and Cindy every day.”

“Oh, me too, baby. I’ve been prayin’ for a sign you’re alright. Have you been eatin’ enough? Are you stayin’ warm?”

Alice let out a soft laugh. “Mama… it’s New Orleans. You don’t have to worry about the cold down here.”

Suddenly a deep, booming roar erupted in the background.

“WHO ARE YOU TALKIN’ TO, WOMAN?”

Alice flinched so hard the receiver shook.

Her mother’s voice quivered. “It’s— it’s Alice. She’s—”

“Give me that phone.”

There was a clatter, heavy footsteps, a rustle—

Then that voice.

“This is Pastor Everglow.”

Alice’s stomach turned solid. Her father’s voice still cracked like a whip, sharp and merciless.

“H-hello, Father.”

A beat of stunned silence. Then his voice dropped into a dangerous low rumble.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve callin’ this house.”

Alastor’s jaw tightened like stone. His thumb stroked soothing circles over Alice’s hand, though his eyes—dark, murderous—were fixed straight ahead.

Alice forced herself to breathe. “I only wanted to speak with you both. I—I have news. I’m getting married in May. I met a very sweet man named Alastor. He’s a well-known radio host down here.”

“Oh, really.”

His voice sharpened like a blade.

“You really called me to say you’re marryin’.”

A cold laugh.

“You wouldn’t marry the wealthy, respectable man I arranged, yet you’ll run off with some… some street rat from New Orleans?”

“He’s not a street rat,” Alice whispered, cheeks burning. “And I didn’t call for a lecture. I called to ask if you wanted to come.”

“Come?” he barked. “To your ungodly wedding?”

Alice winced.

“You ran away from this family. Defied God. Shamed your church. You are no longer a daughter of mine.”

Alice’s vision blurred.

Alastor pressed closer, his shoulder brushing hers, silent but steady.

“Please, Father,” Alice whispered, voice cracking. “You know why I had to leave. I told you what he was doing to me—”

“You’re tellin’ your whimsical lies again.”

His words snapped like a whip.

“That fiancé was a good, God-fearin’ man. You were the problem. You always have been.”

Alice bit her lip until she tasted blood.

Alastor’s hand settled on her back, grounding her.

“So,” she whispered, “I take it you’re not coming.”

Silence.

Long, suffocating silence.

Alastor’s fingers twitched—itching to rip the man’s throat out through the telephone line.

Finally Pastor Everglow exhaled sharply—almost a snarl.

“You know what? I will come. We all will.”

His voice dripped with cruelty.

“I ought to see what filthy hole you’ve dug yourself into. We’ll show up a day before this trashy wedding of yours. Maybe you’ll even make us some dinner—since you’re playin’ house now.”
Then the line went dead.

Alice stared at the receiver, unable to breathe. Her hands shook violently.

Alastor gently took the phone from her and set it aside.

Then he wrapped an arm fully around her shoulders, pulling her against him.

“Well,” he sighed with forced cheerfulness, “at least they RSVP’d.”

Alice let out a small, shuddering laugh—thin, watery, the kind that broke halfway through. She buried her face in Alastor’s vest, clutching the fabric as though it could hold her together.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m so, so sorry. This was a mistake. He’s going to ruin our wedding…”

Alastor wrapped both arms around her, protective and warm. He pressed a kiss into her hair.

“No,” he murmured, firm but gentle. “You have nothing to apologize for. And nothing will ruin our wedding. I promise you that.”

Alice shook her head weakly.

“I hope so… but I know my father, Alastor. I know he’s going to try something. I just… I feel it.”

Alastor’s expression shifted instantly—his eyes darkening, the warmth in his voice replaced with something far more dangerous.

“Well,” he offered lightly, as though discussing weather, “you know I can always make this problem simply… disappear, my dear.”

Alice jerked back with a glare.

“You are not killing my father, Alastor.”

He groaned loudly, throwing his head back dramatically.

“Oh, come on, please? He’s such a terrible man. I’ve never wanted to stab someone’s throat more.”

Alice blinked, offended but also… a little amused.

“Oh really? Not even my ex-fiancé?”

Alastor tapped his chin thoughtfully, giving an exaggerated hum.

“Hm. See, now that is a difficult choice…”

Alice rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt—tears still clinging to her lashes.

“Well, either way, you can’t kill any of them.”

“Fiiine,” he grumbled like a sulking child denied dessert.

But then his voice dropped—low, velvet-dark, and entirely serious.

“But if your dear father speaks to you like that again…” His eyes gleamed crimson. “I will make certain he regrets it.”

A tiny smile tugged at Alice’s lips despite the tears.

He meant it—absolutely.

Chapter Text

The day before the wedding arrived with a warm May breeze drifting through the open windows of the studio—carrying the scent of blooming magnolias and the distant hum of the city. Sunlight spilled across the wooden floor in soft stripes, catching on the scattered decorations, the half-set table, and the nervous flutter in Alice’s chest.

She wished she was relaxing—resting, pampering, maybe even just sitting down—but instead she was practically sprinting from one corner of the room to the other. She dusted shelves, swept floors, straightened picture frames, then rearranged the furniture again—even though Alastor swore nothing looked different the last four times she’d done it.

Her apron was dusted with flour, her hair pinned up messily, her cheeks flushed with a mix of heat and anxiety. She had prepared drinks she knew her mother and sister liked, cooked the dishes her mother used to make on Sundays, and triple-checked that no corner looked too bare or too cluttered.

Alastor watched her from the small kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, chopping vegetables with a practiced elegance that made even cooking look theatrical. A knowing smirk curved at his lips.

“Darling,” he drawled, “you’re going to wear yourself out before the main event even begins.”

“I’m fine,” Alice insisted, straightening a vase of flowers—again.

Alastor set his sharp kitchen knife down and looked at his frazzled fiancée.

“Mm,” he hummed. “Famous last words.”

Alice sighed, but a soft smile tugged at her lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m entirely serious,” he warned lightly. “Don’t wear yourself out. We both have a very long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“I know,” she said, but her hands fiddled with the edge of a tablecloth. “I just… I want to show my father I’m doing just fine. That I’m not the disappointment he thinks I am.”

That made Alastor pause.

He went still, the air around him sharpening. Then he fixed her with a flat, unimpressed stare.

“My dearest Alice,” he said slowly, “what that man thinks of you does not make you who you are. If he believes you’re a disappointment, then he is a foolish man indeed.”

Alice’s throat tightened. “I know—but he’s still my father. And all I ever wanted was… for him to just be proud of me.”

Alastor exhaled softly—not irritated, but sympathetic in his own begrudging way.

“I know,” he murmured.

Then he flipped open his new pocket watch, glanced at the clock face, and muttered, “Damn—it’s late.”

He untied his apron, hung it on the wall, and brushed his hands off. “I need to write my script for tonight’s radio show before it slips my mind.”

Before heading up the stairs, he pointed toward the stove.

“Stir that pot for a few minutes and take it off in about six. Biscuits are in the oven—take those out in thirtyish minutes.”

“Okay,” Alice said with a small nod. “Sounds good.”

Alastor leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head—light, warm, reassuring.

Then he flashed her a grin and vanished up the stairs to his office with the brisk, jaunty stride of a man preparing to charm an entire city… while leaving his fiancée to try very hard not to rearrange the furniture for a sixth time.

After setting the table and dusting for the sixth time that day.

Alice was finally ready.

More than ready.

The food was arranged neatly on the tablecloth she ironed three times. Every surface gleamed from hours of dusting. The studio smelled faintly of lemon polish and rosemary bread. She had even dressed early—two whole hours ahead of schedule, for once feeling proud of herself.

She’d just finished the last touch of powder on her face when—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound sent a spike of ice straight through her chest.

They were an hour and a half early.

Her heart stuttered, then began pounding so hard it echoed in her ears. On her way to the door, she whispered to herself with every breath:
You’re fine. It’s all going to be fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.

Her fingertips were shaking as she closed them around the cold steel doorknob and pulled it open.

Her father filled the doorway like a shadow—tall, severe, dressed head-to-toe in black. His expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes made Alice instantly shrink inward. She forced her mouth into a polite smile.

“H-Hello, Father. Please… come in.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at her. He simply crossed the threshold as if the door had opened itself.

The family followed behind him like a procession.

First Cindy, in a large pink hat that nearly brushed the door frame, and her husband Nick Miller hovering behind her. Then her mother—sweet, quiet, trembling slightly—wearing a modest sky-blue dress.

The moment Alice saw her, something inside her cracked—something small and soft and long-starved.

“Mamma,” Alice breathed, rushing forward.

Her mother’s hands flew to her face before Alice even finished stepping into her arms.

“Oh, Alice,” she whispered, pulling her close, holding her like she had been waiting years for this moment.

“I love you dearly. I’ve missed you more than words.”

Alice buried her face in her shoulder.

She smelled the same—lavender soap and warm flour.

Her hair was soft against Alice’s cheek.

And for one fragile, borrowed moment, Alice felt safe.

Truly, blessedly safe.

Held. Loved.

But then—

Alice opened her eyes.

She saw him over her mother’s shoulder.

A figure standing just behind her, tall and broad-shouldered, his suit pressed sharp as a blade. His hair slicked back with familiar precision. His posture rigid, claiming the room simply by existing in it.
Alice’s breath vanished.

Her stomach dropped straight through the floorboards.

Leland Brendle.

Her ex-fiancé stood in her doorway.

Alice stumbled back so sharply she nearly lost her footing. Cindy reached and grabbed her arm to steady her.

“Alice?” Cindy whispered.

Alice couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Her hands were trembling so violently she had to hide them behind her skirt.

“What… what is he doing here?” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her father turned, his face hardening.

“Watch your tongue, girl. That is no way to greet a guest in your home, is it?”

Alice’s pulse hammered in her throat. Her mind reeled, memories she’d buried clawing their way back—the shouting, the bruises, the apologies that never meant anything. She felt herself fading at the edges, like she wasn’t fully standing there.

Her father’s lips curled in a small, satisfied smile.

“I was told Leland hunts down here from time to time. Knows the city well. Thought he’d be a valuable person to bring along for this… little trip.”

Leland stepped forward, wearing that same smile Alice used to dread, the one that always meant danger.

“Hello, Alice,” he drawled dangerously sharply. “It’s been… a while.”

Alice said nothing. Her throat was a tight, burning knot. All she could do was hold her posture rigid and pray no one could see how her legs were shaking.

Cindy pulled her into a quick hug, whispering into her ear, voice rushed with guilt.

“I’m so sorry. I tried to talk Daddy out of it. I really did.”

Alice swallowed hard, whispering back, “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

Not even close.

Nick gave her a simple wave from behind Cindy, already looking bored.

Inside the studio, the air felt too thin—tight with old memories she wished she could tear out of herself. Alice kept her eyes fixed anywhere but on Leland, slipping carefully out of his reach every time he stepped even an inch closer.

Her father was already prowling the room like an inspector hunting for sins. He lifted framed photos between two fingers as if they were contaminated, squinting at them like he expected filth to leap out.

He ran a thumb across a shelf and frowned at the nonexistent dust.

“This place is… quite small,” he muttered. “Don’t see a single cross on the wall, either.”

Alice forced her voice steady.

“Well, it also doubles as the radio studio. The equipment’s upstairs—”

Leland cut her off with a snort.

“My family’s maid quarters are bigger than this.”

Her father barked a laugh. Leland joined him.

Alice felt something sharp twist in her chest.

Her father waved a hand dismissively.

“Speaking of, where is…Alan?”

Alice clenched her teeth, but immediately jumped at the opportunity to go get Alastor.

“His name is Alastor. He’s upstairs working on his script for tonight’s show. You all should tune in—he’s quite impressive. I'll go get–.”

“I didn't ask for an essay! Just bring him down, girl,” her father snapped.

Her mother immediately murmured, “Dear, maybe we should let the young man work—”

“Hush, woman! I wasn’t talking to you.”

Her mother fell silent, shrinking like a scolded child.

Alice inhaled slowly, grounding herself.

“I’ll… I’ll go get him.”

She turned toward the stairs, feeling every set of eyes on her, every ghost of old fear clinging to her spine—and forced herself to climb each step, one after another, toward the only person who could steady her.

Toward Alastor.

Alice barely made it up the stairs before her legs started trembling again. She pushed open Alastor’s office door and closed it quickly behind her—then simply slumped back against it. The moment it clicked shut, her polite smile disintegrated. Her chest was tightening, her breaths coming in short, sharp bursts as if she’d run miles.

Alastor didn’t notice at first—he was still bending over his desk with that satisfied grin.

“Ah, just in time, my dear! I’ve just finished tonight’s script. A chilling little—”

He finally looked up.

The script slipped right out of his hand.

In two long strides he was in front of her, one hand on her shoulder, the other steadying her elbow.

“Alice?” His voice was low, urgent. “Sweetheart—what happened?”

She tried to speak, but only a broken gasp left her throat. Her breaths were shallow, too fast, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

“Focus on me.” Alastor’s voice softened but sharpened with command. “Breathe. In… and out.”

After a few seconds, her lungs loosened just enough. The panic didn’t vanish, but the edges blurred; she no longer felt like she was drowning.

Alastor let out a careful sigh of relief.

“So,” he said gently, still keeping one steadying hand on her arm in case her knees gave out, “what’s going on? What happened?”

Alice gulped for air. “My family’s here.”

His eyes widened. “Already? They are… rudely early.” His voice sharpened with offense, as if punctuality itself had been personally insulted.

Alice nodded, though her whole body still trembled. She opened her mouth to speak—but only a small, broken sound came out. Nothing resembling words.

Her silence alone wiped the last trace of humor from Alastor’s face. His grin faded into a cold, dangerous stillness.

“Oh dear… what happened?” he pressed softly. “Did your father already say something? Do something?”

Alice tried again to speak—to tell him her abusive ex-fiancé was downstairs right this moment—but the words lodged in her throat, stuck behind panic and disbelief.

The fact that she couldn’t say it worried Alastor more than anything. He tilted her chin up delicately to inspect for bruises. His eyes scanned her face with lethal focus; he looked ready to murder someone if he found so much as a fingerprint on her.

Alice shook her head quickly. “I—I’m fine. No one hurt me.”

“Well,” Alastor muttered darkly, “that would have been their first wise choice.”

“Alastor…” She felt her throat closing again. She swallowed hard. “My father—brought—my ex-fiancé.”

Alastor didn’t react at first.

Then he went utterly still.

Not frozen in shock—frozen in the way a predator freezes right before the kill. His expression didn’t change. His breathing didn’t change. Only his eyes darkened, like heavy curtains drawn over a storm window

“…You are telling me,” he said quietly, voice dangerously calm, “that your despicable ex-fiancé is downstairs.”

“In my home.”

“Right this second.”

Alice nodded, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. “My father said he hunts here… that he ‘knows the area.’ But he did it on purpose. I know he did. I know it.”

A single tear escaped and slid down her cheek.

Alastor pulled her into his arms immediately—firm and protective, like he meant to shield her from the whole world. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of ink, old paper, and the warm spice of his cologne.

Little by little, the shaking eased. Not gone—but softened under the steady anchor of his hold.

“Alice,” he murmured against her hair, “look at me.”

It took a moment, but she lifted her head. Her eyes were glossy, vulnerable.

“I will not let him lay a single finger on you,” Alastor said, and every word was a vow carved in stone. “Not one.”

Alice nodded, a small tremor in her throat but some safety returning.

Then—

“Good Lord! Come on, girl—we're not gettin’ any younger!” her father barked from downstairs.

Alice flinched so hard her whole body jolted.

Alastor’s jaw tightened—not theatrically, not for effect, but with real, simmering fury.

“Lovely,” he muttered. “He bellows like a mule and smells half as pleasant, I’m sure.”

He gently guided Alice into his desk chair, as if she might fall or break in his hands, then crossed the room with purposeful strides. The clink of glass and bottle filled the air, and when he returned, he handed her a small glass of rye.

“Here. Drink this.”

Alice stared at him, bewildered. “You… Want me drunk? Alastor, that's absurd!"

He huffed a soft laugh. “You won’t get too drunk from one glass, dear. It’s only to settle your nerves. It always worked for me.”

Alice blinked at him. “You? Nervous? Since when?”

“Oh, plenty of times,” he said lightly—though there was sincerity under it. “You forget—I came to this city at twenty years old. I’d lived my whole life in the bayou. I’d seen more boats than cars. New Orleans is a very charming city but it’s… loud. And bright. And full of people who didn’t exactly welcome someone with my complexion.”

He gestured to his skin with a flick of the hand.

Alice’s breathing slowed—not normal, but steadier—as she listened.

Alastor’s gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the room, as though pulling a memory from a distant shelf. “Hell, my very first radio interview,” he mused, settling lightly on the edge of his desk. “I was so frightened of what the producers would think of me that I gulped down several glasses beforehand just to walk through the door.”

“And it worked?” Alice asked softly. “That’s how you got the job?”

He let out a sharp, amused laugh. “Goodness, no! They didn’t hire me in the slightest. Said I was far too… oh, what was the phrasing?” He tapped his chin. “Ah—‘too exotic for their program.’”

Alice blinked. “Oh.”

“But,” he continued, leaning toward her with a conspiratorial brightness, “I discovered a different technique. Very advanced.” He lowered his voice. “I call it… faking confidence.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Faking?”

“Mhm.” He nodded. “After that rejection, I sulked in a diner for hours—until a song came on. You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile. And I thought: what a marvelous revelation.”

The smile he gave her then wasn’t the sharp, practiced showman’s grin—just something small, warm, and real.

“I found that If you put on a smile,” he said gently, “no one sees what frightens you. They only see certainty. Control. And people will believe in that—trust it—even if it’s a lie.”

He tapped his chest lightly.

“That, my dear, is how I got my job.”

Alice stared at him, breath easing, her pulse slowing from frantic to merely frantic-ish.

For a brief moment, she forgot the nightmare downstairs.

“That's quite admirable, Alastor. I always thought your smile was one of the best things about you.”

“Well,” he said, tipping his head, “Aren’t you sweet.”

“But… if it’s all true,” she whispered, “why are you drinking now? Are you nervous about my father and…my ex fiance?”

He immediately snorted. “No, darling. This is not for nerves.”

He lifted his glass.

“This is so I do not march down there and murder your father and your wretched ex on sight.”

Alice actually let out a thin, shaky laugh.

Alastor’s grin brightened like he’d been waiting for it.

“There’s that delightful smile of yours,” he crooned.

Her cheeks warmed, and she ducked her head, embarrassed by how easily he could shift the world back into place.

“Now,” he continued, voice smooth as syrup yet edged like a blade, “you have nothing to fear anymore. Your ex-fiancé may have been a… grizzly man, certainly—but you’re forgetting about your current fiancé.”

He tapped a finger against his chest with mock offense.

“My dear, I have yet to be bested by the strongest of men. I’m sure this ex-fiancé of yours is no threat to me at all, which means he's no threat to you. And if either of those gentlemen downstairs”—his smile sharpened into something beautiful and lethal—“step so much as an inch out of line…”

His eyes sharpened dangerously.

“…I’ll handle it.”

Alice exhaled—a real breath, the first one that didn’t hurt since she’d cracked open that door and seen who waited on the other side.

Alastor raised his glass to her.

“To a very… entertaining evening.”

They clinked their glasses, crystal chiming sweet and cold, before drinking the glass of Rye.

“Well then,” he said with that confident, razor-edged grin, “shall I finally meet the charming religious scum downstairs?”

Alice swallowed, nodded, and slipped her trembling hand into the crook of his offered arm.

Her steps were unsteady—

but she was no longer walking alone.

Chapter Text

Alastor and Alice descended the stairs together, his arm linked with hers. The moment Alice’s family saw Alastor, the room shifted—a collective tightening, smiles faltering, eyes widening, expressions stiffening.

Every single one of them reacted.

Some hid it better than others.

But Alice felt it like a blow none the less.

Alastor, of course, acted as though he noticed nothing at all.

He brightened pleasantly.

“Good evening! Thank you all for coming. Truly—welcome to our home. My dear Alice has told me so much about each of you.”

Alice swallowed and began the introductions.

She gestured first to her older sister—Cindy—who perched beneath a massive pink, feathered hat that looked one vigorous breeze away from liftoff.

“Alastor, this here is my older sister, Cindy.”

Cindy stared at him, mouth parted, still too stunned to speak. Alastor dipped his head with that effortless, old–world charm of his.

“Mrs. Cindy,” he greeted warmly. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”

Cindy’s powdered cheeks flushed rose.

“Oh—well! Aren’t you a gentleman,” she squeaked, practically bubbling.

Alice hurried on before Cindy melted into the floorboards.

“And this is her husband, Nick Miller.”

Nick gave a stiff, bored smile—the look of a man who wished he were anywhere else, preferably on a yacht with a drink. Alastor extended his hand. Nick hesitated… until Cindy dug her elbow sharply into his ribs.

“For heaven’s sake, shake the man’s hand! I hear he’s one of the most popular radio hosts in the whole city,” she hissed. “I told you that—”

“—six different times on the way here, yes,” Nick muttered, rolling his eyes. He finally clasped Alastor’s hand, offering a half-hearted smile. “Ah. Yes. Delighted to meet you, Alastor.”

Alastor’s grin stayed perfectly, impeccably unfazed.

“As am I,” he replied, pleasant as ever.

Then Alice turned toward her mother.

“And this is my mother, Victoria.”

Victoria looked nervous, hands folded tightly, but Alastor stepped forward with extraordinary gentleness, taking her hand and bending to kiss it.

“It is an honor to meet you, Mrs. Everglow. I've heard such lovely things.”

Victoria blinked rapidly, startled into a small smile.

“Oh—well—goodness. It’s wonderful to meet you too, Mr. Broussard.”

“Please,” Alastor said softly, “call me Alastor.”

Then came the pause.

A heavy one.

Alice swallowed, her fingers trembling against Alastor’s sleeve as she motioned toward the man scowling at them like a gargoyle carved from judgment and disdain.

“...And this is my father,” she forced out. “John Everglow.”

Alastor lifted his brows pleasantly.

“Ah. So you’re the father I’ve heard so very much about.”

He extended his hand.

John didn’t take it.

He stared at it.

At Alastor.

At his hand again.

Finally, with the slow, reluctant disgust of a man lifting a dead possum by the tail, he gripped Alastor’s hand.

And squeezed.

Hard.

Alastor didn’t so much as blink. His smile grew almost imperceptibly sharper, as if to say try harder, sir.

John released him with a grunt, flexing his fingers behind his back.

But Alastor had already turned his attention elsewhere—

to the last man in the room.

Leland.

Understanding clicked in his eyes instantly.

A tiny twitch pulled at the corner of Alastor’s mouth—too sharp, too fleeting, like a man suppressing the urge to imagine something violent.

Leland looked at Alastor like he was tracking mud on a white carpet.

Alastor looked at Leland like he was inspecting a moldy fruit at the market.

Alice swallowed hard.

“And… this is Leland Brendle.”

Leland didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t offer a hand.

Alastor didn’t either.

For a long, brittle moment, they just stared at each other—

slowly, coldly, openly

evaluating

judging

disrespecting.

Two predators deciding whether the other was worth sinking teeth into.

Alastor’s polite grin never faltered, but something frostbitten settled behind his eyes.

Then—very intentionally—he looked away first.

He didn’t acknowledge Leland.

Didn’t offer a greeting.

Didn’t grant him even one of the social niceties he’d given everyone else.

He simply skipped over him as if the man weren’t even standing there.

“Well!” Alastor announced cheerfully, clapping his hands once, bright as sunlight off a razor.

“It’s lovely to finally put faces to all the names my dear Alice has spoken of.”

Alice’s father stiffened.

Leland’s jaw clicked tight.

And Alastor smiled wider—like he was daring them to say something.

Cindy immediately perked up, fanning herself.

“Well I gotta tell you I'm simply starved! Haven’t eaten in hours.” She turned to Alice, smiling warmly. “Let go each, shall we.”

Alice managed a small, grateful smile back… while Alastor’s hand discreetly brushed hers, steadying her.

The evening had only just begun—but the tension in the room promised it would be a memorable one.

As everyone drifted toward the kitchen, Alice felt a hand clamp around her arm—hard.

Her breath caught.

Her pulse spiked.

Her body froze.

Leland.

He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear.

“Alice. I think we need to talk.”

Alice couldn’t speak. Her throat closed. Her fingers trembled uselessly at her sides.

He clicked his tongue.

“You know, it was mighty rude of you—running off the way you did. No note. No explanation. Nothing.”

His grip tightened. “I don’t know what possessed you to do such a thing. I was worried about you, Alice.”

Alice tried to pull away—quietly, instinctively—but he held fast, just like he used to.

“And to put salt on my wound, you left me for… him?” Leland sneered. “Some swamp rat? Come on, Alice. You know who you were supposed to marry. It was your duty—to your family, and to God. Is he really worth going against the Lord?”

Something ugly flickered in his eyes.

Alice’s stomach twisted.

Before she could even form a word, a voice cut through the hallway—

Smooth. Sharp. Dangerous.

“Mr. Brendle,” Alastor said. “You must be terribly lost. The kitchen is that way.”

Leland’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing.

Alastor stepped forward—placing himself cleanly, deliberately, between Alice and Leland.

The movement forced Leland’s hand off her arm.

“Perhaps,” Alastor said, tone still bright, “you didn’t hear me the first time.”

He pointed again.

“The kitchen. Is. That way.”

For a heartbeat, the two men stood toe-to-toe.

Leland clearly expected intimidation to do its usual work.

But Alastor’s smile only widened.

His eyes sharpened.

He looked… eager.

Daring him.

Daring him to throw the first punch.

Leland hesitated.

Then—like the coward that he was—he backed off and stalked into the kitchen without another word.

The moment he disappeared, Alastor turned to Alice, all his sharpness melting into concern.

“My dear,” he murmured, touching her arm gently, “are you hurt? Are you alright?”

Alice nodded…but her breath was shaking.

So were her hands.

But not from fear.

From rage.

Alice’s breath suddenly hitched—then broke open, not into tears but into anger she had never allowed herself to feel.

“Did you hear what he said to me!?” she hissed, voice trembling. “He said he wanted to talk. And then started going on and on about how ‘worried’ he was when I left. Worried, Alastor. Like he ever cared about me.”

Her voice rose—quietly, violently.

“Then to pull it all together he had the nerve to act clueless as to why I left. As if he was just the picture perfect man who could do no wrong? As if he didn’t—didn’t put his hands on me when I told him no. As if he didn’t slap me across the face because he had a bad day. As if he didn’t talk to me like I was—nothing. What a piece of absolute garbage!”

Alastor stared at her in stunned silence—not horrified by her anger, but utterly captivated by it.

He had always known Alice as a sweet, shy, timid little thing, a woman who carried too much sympathy for people who didn’t deserve an ounce of it. She was the sort who would choose peace over conflict every time, even when the world swallowed her whole for it.

Alice rarely raised her voice.

She rarely pushed back.

She rarely allowed herself to feel this deeply.

And yet here she was—fire and fierce where softness and kindness used to be, steel cutting through where her gentleness once sat.

Alastor couldn’t help himself.

He liked it.

…Perhaps more than he should.

Alice sucked in a breath, pacing one small step.

“Oh! And then—then he has the nerve to say I should’ve married him. That it was my duty to my family. And to God!” She threw her hands up. “Lord, I hate him! He hasn’t changed one bit!”

“Yes,” Alastor murmured, voice dark with agreement, “I can see that.”

Alice let out a long breath, letting her anger simmer down, leaving her flushed and shaken.

That was when Cindy randomly waltzed in, pink hat bobbing.

“Alice! You have got to tell me where you got this wallpaper! It is to die for. I simply must use it in the guest room.”

Alastor answered smoothly before Alice could gather herself.

“I picked it up from a little shop downtown, a few blocks from Bourbon Street.”

Cindy lit up. “Oh! great! Thank you—Alastor.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice theatrically.

Also, y’all better come eat. Father’s getting impatient.”

Then she spun on her heel and sashayed back toward the kitchen.

Alice exhaled, rubbing her temples.

“Well,” she muttered, straightening her dress, “we’d better go eat and get this whole thing over with.”

Alastor offered his arm.

“I’ll be right beside you,” he said quietly. “Every second.”

Alice took it—and this time, her grip was steady.

Alice and Alastor stepped into the living room. The moment Alice’s father saw them, he threw his hands up.

“Finally! You know, it’s quite rude to keep guests waiting for food, girl. Is this how you plan on treating people at your wedding?”

Alice froze, unsure how to respond, but Alastor smoothly cut in before she could flounder.

“Oh, no need to fret, Mister Everglow,” he said with a warm, practiced smile. “We merely had a small matter to attend to. Nothing more.”

Her father huffed, unimpressed, and turned toward the dinner table.

Alice exhaled—but then she spotted Leland by the fireplace, standing under the mounted alligator skull she’d shot last Thanksgiving. He examined it like a jeweler searching for flaws. When he noticed them, he flashed Alastor a smile so false it practically squeaked.

“You know, Alastor,” he drawled, swirling his drink, “I do a fair bit of hunting around here. Got myself a very good shooting eye.”

“You hunt at all?”

Alastor’s eyes darkened—not dramatically, just enough for Alice to feel a cold ripple through the room. He smiled, though there was no warmth in it.

“Oh, I hunt,” he said lightly. “Quite often, actually.”

Leland let out a soft, unimpressed chuckle. “Oh really? What kind of game do you hunt? Swamp Squirrels? Frogs?”

Alastor stepped closer to the fireplace, letting his gaze slide toward Leland with quiet amusement.

“Oh, all sorts of… creatures.”

The pause on creatures made Alice’s stomach knot.

Alastor gestured toward the skull above them. “Ever manage to take down a large gator? Something as big as that?”

Leland glanced at it, smirking. “Oh, that? Please. I’ve taken bigger.”

Behind him, Cindy rolled her eyes so hard her hat feathers trembled dramatically.

“Ain’t no way, Leland. If you did, you’d have bragged about it the whole drive here—same as every other animal you bragged about. But not once did you mention no gator.”

Leland flashed her a sharp glare.

Alastor gave a gentle, airy laugh. “Oh, calm down, Mr Brendle. I didn’t shoot that alligator either.”

Leland’s smirk returned, thin and venomous. “Of course you didn’t. Probably fake, isn’t it?”

“Oh no,” Alastor said cheerfully. “Quite real. I’ve shot many like it. But”—he gestured toward Alice—“I wasn’t the one who took this one down.”

Leland’s head snapped toward her so fast she heard the shift of his shirt collar.

“Her?”

A scoff.

“No she did not. Do you honestly take me for a fool? Alice would probably faint dead at the sound of a gunshot.”

Heat flooded Alice’s face—not from embarrassment, but anger.

“I did shoot it,” she said clearly, stepping past Alastor. She pointed at the neat bullet hole between the skull’s empty sockets. “Right between the eyes.”

Alastor beamed at her, pride warm and effortless. “I must say she’s got quite the shooter's eye herself, Mister Leland.”

Alice couldn’t stop the little smile that tugged at her mouth—not when Leland looked so beautifully stunned.

Alastor added lightly, “You may even want to watch out.”

Alice elbowed him, laughing. “Oh hush.”

Leland, unable to form a comeback that didn’t make him look worse, turned sharply and moved to the dinner table—every step stiff with wounded pride.

His false smile stretched thin as paper.

Alice and Alastor finally sat down with everyone at the dinner table. Leland was still glaring across the table like he meant to set Alastor on fire with his eyes alone—but Alastor only met the look with a bright, unbothered smile.

“Well,” Alastor said cheerfully, lifting his glass, “no point in letting the food get cold. Everyone, please—dig in!”

Alice’s father gave a short, disgusted scoff. “No grace? Not even a moment of prayer? How sinister.”

Alastor tilted his head, all easy politeness. “If you’d like to say grace, Mister Everglow, you are more than welcome. I won’t stand in your way.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” her father snapped, glaring down the length of the table. “This whole place feels dark. Sinful. There’s just… something not right here.”

Alastor leaned forward slightly, folding his hands as though preparing for a gentle debate on a Sunday porch. “Is that so? How peculiar. It’s only an old radio studio. Hardly a den of wickedness.” His grin sharpened. “Unless, of course, we count the devilishly good music.”

Alastor chuckled at his own joke.

No one else did.

When Alice’s mother gently touched her husband’s arm and whispered, “John, please don’t—”

He yanked his arm away as though it burned.

She lowered her gaze.

Cindy, eager to break the tension, clapped her hands together. “Now, Alice, you simply must tell me how Alastor popped the question! I’ve been dying to know.”

Alice pushed a tight smile into place. “Well… it was Christmas Eve. He took me down to the docks. The sunset was beautiful that night. And then he—”

She paused, throat tightening.

And then I thought he might kill me.

And then I almost said no.

“…he asked me to marry him,” she finished softly.

Cindy practically vibrated. “Oh, how sweet!” she squealed, shaking Nick’s arm. Nick didn’t even look up from cutting his steak—he just nodded absently, the bare minimum participation to keep the peace.

Her father, however, slammed his fork so hard the table trembled.

“You proposed on Christmas Eve?” he barked. “That day is sacred—reserved for the birth of our Savior! No man should dare to share that day. It should be Christ’s only!”

Alastor blinked once, then tilted his head with polite curiosity—like someone inspecting a peculiar insect.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “I imagine Jesus has bigger fish to fry than my little proposal. I truly doubt he's keeping a ledger of holiday engagements.”

Cindy stifled a laugh behind her napkin. Nick didn’t bother hiding his; he just smirked into his drink.

Alice’s father turned crimson.

Alastor’s smile remained bright as ever—sharp enough to cut glass.

Before Alice could intervene, Leland’s voice cut through the room, smooth and poisonous. “That’s it? How… simple.”

Alastor’s eyes flicked to him—pleasant, polite, deadly.

“Some of the finer things in life are simple,” he replied coolly.

Leland smirked. “Tell me, Alastor—this whole radio thing… is it just a little hobby of yours?”

Alastor didn’t blink. “It’s a profession.”

“A profession?” Leland raised an eyebrow. “Really? Talking into a microphone is considered a profession now? How much do you even make doing that?”

“A great deal more than you think,” Alastor said evenly.

Leland leaned back, smug. “Well, considering you live in the same place you work, it must not be that much.”

Alice saw the way Alastor’s fingers tightened around his fork, the faint gleam in his eyes—dangerous, razor-sharp.

Under the table, Alice slipped her hand onto his leg.

A grounding touch.

Alastor inhaled slowly. Then—

“I assure you,” he said, voice smooth as silk, “we live very comfortably here. Alice makes this place feel like a true home.”

He offered her a warm smile.

Then he turned back to Leland, smile sharpening.

“But I suppose you wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

Leland was shocked—baffled, speechless—but only for a beat. He reset himself with a shallow sip of wine and a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. Then he turned to Alice with the falsely gentle tone of a man preparing to slip something poisonous into a compliment.

“Well,” he murmured, soft as silk, “I do hope this… scandalous marriage of yours treats you well, Alice. Truly.”

Alice froze. She knew that tone. That syrupy sweetness always meant something was coiled behind his teeth, waiting to strike.

Leland shifted his gaze to Alastor next, wearing a mock-concerned expression so polished it gleamed like lacquer.

“I’ll admit,” he said lightly, “I was rather worried when I heard Alice was marrying again. She has such an… annoyingly unique nature. But I’m relieved you don’t mind her little habits.”

Alastor paused mid-reach for his glass, the movement suddenly too careful.

“…Habits?” he repeated.

Leland smiled the kind of smile gentle men use when they want to twist a knife without letting blood show—sweet, pitying, almost sympathetic.

“Oh, nothing dreadful,” he assured. “She was always just terribly timid. Quiet as a mouse, really. Always slipping around the house so softly I scarcely knew she was there.”

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as if reminiscing fondly.

“Half the time she didn’t speak at all. Lovely girl—if one doesn’t mind a wife who disappears into the wallpaper. I always thought most men would find that… disappointing.”

A dainty shrug.

“What’s the point of having a wife you never see? Though—well.” He glanced meaningfully at Alastor, voice cooling. “I suppose that arrangement might suit some men quite well.”

Alice went rigid. That wasn’t even subtle.

And then, with the cruel confidence of a man mistaking Alastor’s silence for weakness, Leland let the next line drip out, soft as lace and twice as cutting:

“I mean who would want to see their hideous ‘colored’ husband every day, and just being reminded that, that was the best she could do.” he added mildly, as if remarking on the weather.

Alastor didn’t bother pretending anymore. His polite smile fell away entirely—slow, precise, like a blade being unsheathed. Alice felt his temper coil beside her. Whatever he was thinking, it was anything but peaceful.

She darted her gaze between them, stomach tight. If Leland understood who he was baiting, he would shut his mouth and start praying.

But drunk on his own smugness—and emboldened by watching Alastor’s expression disintegrate—Leland pushed on.

“Well,” he sighed, swirling his wine lazily, “I do hope you manage to whip her into shape. She’s always had that little… tendency to disobey.”

A dismissive flick of his fingers.

“Or—” he added, voice feather-light, “perhaps she’ll run away before you’re properly wed. It’s what she did to me, after all.”

His smile sharpened, predatory under its politeness.

“But maybe that’s why she’s marrying you,” he said. “After she left me, she couldn’t find anyone respectable willing to take her, not with how closed-off she is.”

The table went dead still.

Even Alice’s father blinked, a little stunned.

Alastor took a calm, deliberate sip of water.

Then, in a tone so polite it could cut glass, Alastor said,

“Do excuse me… I believe I neglected to bring out one more dish.”

Alice blinked at him, confused—she hadn’t seen him cook anything else.

Alastor rose with calm, deliberate grace, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned carrying a steaming pot. He set it down at the center of the table like it was a centerpiece worthy of worship.

“This,” he announced, lifting the lid with theatrical pride, “is gumbo. A classic Louisiana dish—one of my personal favorites.”

His eyes slid toward Leland, soft as velvet—poisonous as foxglove.

“Though I should warn you… most people find it a touch too spicy.”

That was all the bait Leland needed.

Determined to save face after being shown up over the gator skull, he piled a heroic, borderline reckless amount onto his plate.

Alastor served himself a modest spoonful and settled back into his chair. They both took their first bite at the same time.

For a second, Leland remained perfectly still.

Then the spice hit like a sledgehammer.

His eyes flooded. His face turned scarlet. His jaw locked in a trembling attempt at manly dignity.

Alastor didn’t react.

Not even a blink.

He simply smiled—soft, smug, knowing.

“I did warn you it had a little kick,” he murmured.

Leland choked. Then shot to his feet so violently his chair scraped across the floor.

He stumbled into the kitchen, grabbed the faucet, and practically shoved his entire head under the running water.

Alice pressed her napkin to her mouth, shaking with suppressed laughter. She was certain she’d turn red from holding it in.

Leland staggered back into the room, sputtering, furious.

“What the hell did you put in that slop?!” he barked. “You poisoned it, didn’t you?!”

Alastor tilted his head with a curious little smile.

“Poison? It’s paprika, Mr. Brendle. Unless you believe seasoning itself is sinful.”

That did it—Leland snapped.

“You wanna take this outside, swamp rat?!”

Alastor’s eyes lit up with a dangerous delight and stood up.

He rolled up his sleeves with the enthusiasm of a man preparing for a long-awaited fight.

“Oh, I’d be delighted to.”

Alice had half a mind to intervene… but the other half really wanted to see Leland get flattened.

But before either man could take a step, a voice cut through the tension like a thunderclap:

“Boys. That is enough.”

Alice froze. Everyone froze.

Her mother—gentle, trembling, soft-spoken her whole life—was standing. And raising her voice.

Alice had never heard her mother do that.

“We are here to celebrate Alice and Alastor’s engagement,” she said firmly. “Not to compete over who is the better man. Though I believe Mr, Bendle has made it quite clear Mr. Broussard would win every time.”

Alice’s father gawked at her as if she’d slapped him.

“No one was talking to you, Victoria. How dare you raise your voice? What’s gotten into you?”

Before he could continue, Cindy slid up beside Alice and whispered, “Well, little sis, this has been, um well… something. But I think I’d better take the folks back to our hotel before they claw each other apart. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”

Cindy’s husband, Nick, muttered, “Really? I kinda wanted to see the fight, Cindy—”

Cindy shot him a glare sharp enough to peel paint.

“I said we’re leaving.”

Nick shut his mouth.

Leland was so furious he didn’t even make up an excuse—he simply stormed out the front door, silent and seething.

Alastor called sweetly after him, “Running away, are we?”

Alice elbowed him so fast he actually winced.

Alice’s mother approached and gathered her into a soft, trembling hug.

“I can’t wait to see you tomorrow, my darling girl,” she whispered. “You’re going to look so beautiful in your wedding dress.”

“Thank you, Mama… I’m sorry tonight was such a mess.”

Her mother smiled gently. “Oh, it’s quite alright.”

Then she turned to Alastor, offering a small but sincere nod.

“You—you had better keep my daughter happy and safe. You seem like a pleasant man. And I pray that I’m right.”

Alastor bowed his head slightly.

“Of course, ma’am. I promise I shall do my very best.”

Alice’s father didn’t look at either of them. He didn’t say goodbye. He simply walked out after the others, stiff-backed and seething.

And just like that, the house went quiet.

For a long moment, Alice just sat there in the sudden stillness of the house. After all the shouting, posturing, and chaos, the silence felt almost unreal.

Then she let out a shaky laugh.

“Well,” she breathed, rubbing her face, “I don’t think that could have gone any worse.”

Alastor sank onto the couch beside her with a soft huff of amusement. “They were… certainly an interesting collection of people.”

Alice flopped backward onto the cushions like she’d been shot, her limbs going limp with exhaustion. “You don’t have to be nice. They acted awful.”

“Not all of them,” Alastor countered gently. “Your mother and your sister were pleasant enough.”

Alice nodded, pushing her hair out of her face. “Yeah… although Cindy’s husband looked like he wanted to throw himself through a window.”

Alastor chuckled. “He certainly had that air about him.”

Alice stared up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling as the adrenaline drained out of her. Then—unexpectedly—a tear slipped down her cheek. And then another. She curled her knees to her chest, trying to hide her face, but Alastor immediately pulled her close, his arms firm and protective around her shoulders.

“My dear,” he murmured, “I know it was a rather awful night.”

“It was more than awful,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “It would’ve been fine if they hadn’t brought Leland. I… I hoped I’d never see him again.”

“I know,” Alastor said softly. “And I very much doubt you’ll ever have to again.”

Alice leaned into him, her forehead resting against his chest. “I hope so.” After a moment, she looked up at him with a watery smile. “…Thank you for not… killing them.”

Alastor’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Oh, don’t thank me yet.”

Alice swatted his arm. “Alastor.”

“What?” He raised his hands innocently. “It’s not as though you were desperately trying to stop me from fighting him before everyone left.”

Despite herself, a laugh escaped her, small but real. Her tears stopped. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, drawing in a deep breath.

Then she sighed and stood, her legs sore and trembling after hours of nerves buzzing through her. “I should… start cleaning up. Do the dishes. Something.”

She barely got two steps before Alastor caught her wrist.

“No,” he said firmly. “You’ve done more than enough today.”

“I’m fine, Alastor, really,” Alice insisted. “I wouldn’t just leave you to clean all this by yourself—”

“How about we strike a deal?” he interrupted smoothly.

Alice crossed her arms. “A deal? What kind?”

“You,” he said, touching her chin with a soft but unmistakably authoritative tap, “go upstairs, take a hot shower, and relax. When you’re finished, if there’s anything left to do, you may help.”

Alice gave him a flat look. “You’re not going to let me say no, are you?”

His grin widened. “My, what a clever girl. Now off you go—go relax.”

Alice went upstairs and let the hot shower beat against her shoulders. She tried to relax—tried—but the evening clung to her like damp clothes. Her father’s disappointed stares… Leland forcing himself back into her life… the bickering, the shouting, the humiliation.

But tomorrow, she reminded herself, tomorrow would be grand. She was going to marry Alastor—someone who loved her, protected her, and chose her. She would be happy.

She dried off, slipped into her silk pajamas, and padded downstairs to help clean the kitchen.

But when she stepped inside, she stopped short.

The kitchen was spotless. The dishes were washed and dried. The counters gleamed. The food had already been put away. Not even a crumb remained.

Alice let out a breathy laugh.

Of course.

He tricked her.

She shook her head and made her way upstairs, toward Alastor’s office. The warm glow of his desk lamp spilled into the hallway. He was inside preparing his radio broadcast, tuning dials with deft fingers.

Leaning against the doorway, she said, “You tricked me.”

Alastor glanced over his shoulder with a sly, triumphant smile.

“That I did. You’ll have to negotiate better deals, my dear.”

Alice walked in—and noticed something beside her desk.

A little tray.

Pastries.

Her favorite apple tea, steam curling up from the cup.

Her book, opened to her page.

And a soft, fuzzy blanket folded beside it.

She blinked. “What’s all this?”

“Well,” Alastor answered lightly, still adjusting a dial, “you’ve had a rather… eventful day. I took it upon myself to make your night a touch more pleasant.” He sniffed dramatically. “I even forced myself to brew that vile tea you love.”

Alice rolled her eyes. “Oh, really? And this coming from the man who drinks black coffee so bitter it could peel paint off a wall.”

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “It’s not my fault you have such terrible taste.”

Alice curled into the blanket. The warmth, the softness, the quiet—everything her body had been silently begging for since the moment dinner went off the rails. She took a slow sip of her apple tea, letting the sweetness melt the leftover anxiety from her bones.

“You’re sure you don’t want help?” she asked, glancing over at Alastor as he adjusted the switches on his broadcast board. “Changing records or anything?”

He placed a dramatic hand over his heart.

“My dear, I managed this operation alone for years. I assure you, I’ll survive one night.”

Alice gasped in mock offense. “Wow. Sounds like you don’t need me at all. Maybe I should just quit.”

Alice tried—truly tried—to keep a stern expression.

But her lips twitched.

And then curved.

And then betrayed her entirely.

“There it is,” Alastor said without even turning around. “You are, without exaggeration, the worst liar I’ve ever seen.”

A soft laugh escaped her, and his followed right after—a warm, gentle sound that loosened every tight knot still twisted inside her chest.

Alastor leaned forward, flicking a switch. The microphone crackled awake beneath his fingertips. In an instant, his entire presence shifted—his posture straightened, the air seemed to sharpen around him, and then—

His voice.

That voice.

Elegant, velvety, smooth as molasses and sharp as a razor. It slipped easily into the room, filling the quiet with a comforting hum she had grown to adore.

Alice lifted her book.

But she didn’t read a single word.

Instead, she listened to the man she loved fill the room with his voice, and for the first time all night, she felt entirely, blissfully at peace.

Chapter Text

Alastor's POV

—

Alastor lay awake beneath his bed sheets, staring at the ceiling while sleep refused him its mercy. Beside him, Alice slept on—peaceful, unguarded, her breathing soft and even.Trusting in a way that bordered on idiocy.

She slept as though she were not sharing a bed with a murderer.

As though the man beside her had not personally ended nearly a hundred lives.

What a foolish girl.

He shut his eyes and attempted sleep again. It did not come. Something gnawed at him instead—persistent, unwelcome.

That dreadful dinner from last night replayed in his mind like a broken record.

The thin, false smiles stretched like cheap wax.

The sideways looks—measuring, judging.

And the way those men spoke to Alice as though she were an object—something to be claimed, bartered, broken in and owned.

Alastor had never wanted to kill two people so badly in his lifetime.

His jaw tightened.

Slowly, he turned his head toward Alice.

Alice had drifted closer sometime in the night, drawn there unconsciously. One hand rested near his sleeve—not touching, never demanding. Just close. As if proximity alone were comfort enough. Her hair spilled across the pillow in untidy softness, her face smooth and unguarded by suspicion or fear.

She didn’t look like someone who had endured as much cruelty as she had.

Poor thing.

If there ever had been a woman in dire need of a spine, it was Alice Everglow.

And yet—how she thoroughly puzzled him.

Alastor would think anyone raised by that man would have come out sharp and ugly, bitter to the bone. Cruel people tended to raise cruel children, Alastor knew that well. But meeting her father alone, one would expect the offspring to be cut from the same rigid cloth—cold, judgmental, hollowed out by obedience and the fear of God.

But Alice had endured that house. Endured years beneath that man’s watchful disdain. Even endured an abusive fiancé who mistook possession for affection.

And still—she remained warm.
Warm in a way Alastor could not dissect. Kind to the point of self-destruction. Forgiving as though pain were merely another chore to be quietly endured. It irritated him. Deeply.

Kindness like that did not survive without consequence.

And yet here she was. Soft-spoken. Looking at the world as though it might, at any moment, offer something good if she were only patient enough.

It made zero sense.

The clock on the wall ticked with maddening precision, each second dragging him nearer to tomorrow.

To the wedding.

To Alice.

To a woman he did not love.

And yet—she loved him.

That was the most unfathomable part.

She actually loved him.

Freely and earnestly.

Alastor was not blind to the hope she carried—that foolish, tender belief that perhaps, in time, he might soften. Might change. Might become something better for her.

Absurd.

It really wasn't difficult for Alastor to simulate affection. Hold her hand. Press a polite kiss to her cheek. Open doors. Speak gently. Perform the role of a devoted gentleman. It also helped—considerably—that Alice had been raised on scraps of affection all her life, especially from men. When one had been starved, even the smallest crumb felt like a feast. She mistook decency for devotion because she had so rarely known either.

And Alice—poor, trusting Alice—had not the slightest inkling that he did not love her at all.

But perhaps—if he allowed himself a sliver of generosity—he did enjoy her presence. She amused him. Even calmed him at times. There was a quiet comfort in having her near, in protecting her from the sharper corners of the world. She was fragile. Soft-spoken. Terribly unwilling to defend herself, as though resistance had been trained out of her entirely.

It was precisely why the memory of her anger lingered so vividly.

That moment after her former fiancé talked to her—when her voice hadn’t wavered, when her eyes had sharpened just enough to strike instead of shrink—had delighted him far more than he cared to admit. Real anger. Earned anger. The kind that meant she was learning, however slowly, that she was allowed to take up space.

The thought drew an unbidden smile to his lips.

He was proud of her.

He told himself it was merely academic interest. A fascination with progress. Nothing more.

But if he was being honest, he didn't mind stepping in, in fact he liked it. Liked that she looked at him as though he were a shield.

If he were being brutally honest, he might concede that he considered her…a very dear friend.

But love?

No.

Alastor doubted he had ever been capable of such a thing.

The clock continued its steady rhythm, each tick needling him closer to morning.

At last, an idea surfaced—sweet, violent, and perfectly doable.

He knew precisely where Alice’s family was staying. Alice’s bubbly sister, Cindy, had mentioned it offhandedly, unaware she was placing a blade directly into his grasp. An immaculate little hotel overlooking the harbor. Polished, overpriced, soulless. Fitting.

And besides—he deserved it. He hadn’t killed anyone in nearly two weeks.

An intolerable drought.

He had held himself back for Alice’s sake, careful, restrained, civil. Afraid that even a whisper of his usual activities might unsettle her, might make her hesitate and have second thoughts. As if she ever would. The girl would follow a pleasant voice straight into the abyss if it asked kindly enough.

Quietly, meticulously, Alastor drew the covers away and rose from the bed. He dressed with practiced precision, every movement deliberate, silent. This was not the first time he had slipped away while Alice slept, nor—he suspected—would it be the last.

Once finished, he paused, eyes drifting back to the bed.

Alice’s breathing was slow and even. She hadn’t stirred. Alastor adjusted the blanket around her shoulders without thinking, tucking it more securely so the cold wouldn’t bother her. A pointless gesture. Instinctive. Irritating.

He buttoned his coat, straightened his cuffs, and moved like a shadow.

Before leaving, he glanced back one final time.

Alice had curled toward his side of the bed, one hand tangled in the sheets as if she might anchor herself there in his absence. Her face was soft, unguarded—no tension in her brow, no fear lurking behind closed lids. No doubt at all.

Disgustingly trusting.

And then, uninvited, his traitorous mind supplied another image of last night: Alice, curled up in his office chair, wrapped in a blanket far too big for her, green eyes bright as she watched him work. The way she’d laughed quietly at his jokes. The way she listened.

He dismissed the thought at once.

Sentimentality was a useless indulgence.

A disease.

He would not allow it to take hold.

Turning away sharply, Alastor slipped out into the night.

The night air hung thick and damp, clinging to him as he walked. A typical May evening in Louisiana—heavy, oppressive, and perfectly suited to his mood. The distance to the harbor hotel gave him plenty of time to let his thoughts fester.

Alastor found himself circling the same question, over and over again, like a tongue probing a rotten tooth.

How could a man treat his own daughter like that?

It irritated him how much the thought lingered. Alastor’s own father had hardly been a beacon of warmth—far from it—but Alastor had never been gentle. He had been willful. Sharp. Difficult. A problem child grown into a problem man.

Alice, however—

Try as he might, he could not find a single real flaw in her.

She was too gentle, certainly. Too forgiving. Excessively kind, to the point of discomfort on her own behalf. As though cruelty simply slid off her without ever leaving a mark—or worse, was forgiven before it could properly wound.

And yet, the image of Alice’s father across the dinner table returned unbidden, igniting fresh heat in Alastor’s veins. The man had barely acknowledged her as a person. Had not used her name once, the whole night.

Girl.

Each time he had said it, something tight and volatile had twisted inside Alastor’s chest. A careless word, spoken without thought—and Alastor had pictured his hands around the man’s throat, thumbs pressing until that sanctimonious voice cut off mid-syllable.

Disrespect was one thing. Possession was another. He despised both.

Then there was Leland Brendle.

Spoiled. Sheltered. Raised in comfort thick enough to insulate him from consequence. Men like that grew arrogant in safety. They mistook indulgence for entitlement, thought compliance was the natural state of the world. As if the word no—simply did not exist to him.

Tonight, perhaps, he might expand his vocabulary.

Words like please. Stop. Mercy.

Alastor slowed, scowling at himself.

No. That wasn’t it. This was not about Alice. Of course it wasn’t. It was about the insults. The looks. The thinly veiled racial sneers, the galling audacity of it all. That was the offense. That was why he wanted them dead.

He repeated the idea until it settled neatly into place, comfortable and familiar.

The hotel loomed into view—tall, pristine, smug in its polish. Its windows reflected the dark water of the harbor below.

Coincidentally.

Or perhaps not.

It stood overlooking the same stretch of docks where he had proposed to Alice on that Christmas night.

Alastor’s mouth tightened.

He hated that he noticed.

Alastor circled the hotel first, slow and deliberate, noting which rooms still glowed faintly behind heavy curtains. A light on meant a potential witness.

Eventually, he slipped inside.

The moment he crossed the threshold, something old and familiar settled into his bones. His senses sharpened, posture easing into something predatory and precise. The hunt steadied him. This—this was a language he knew fluently.

He moved down the halls soundlessly, ear turned to every door, cataloging voices, breaths, murmurs. He listened for the shrill whine of Leland Brendle or the self-righteous bite of Alice’s father. Any trace. Any excuse.

Then a door opened.

Instinct snapped tight.

Alastor vanished behind the nearest corner, pressing himself flat against the wall without thought. A heartbeat later, he leaned out just enough to look.

And immediately locked eyes with Mimzy.

“Well I’ll be—Al!?”

Damn it.

She squinted down the corridor, then her expression bloomed into something bright and knowing. “Alastor? What’re you doin’ skulkin’ around a place like this so late?”

“Quiet, Mimzy,” he hissed, irritation flaring sharp and immediate. Of all the people to run into—

She took one glance at him—his posture, his eyes, the tension barely leashed—and grinned wider. “Ohhh. I see. You’re hunting ain’t ya.” She made a sweeping gesture. “Don’t let little ol’ me stop you.”
She started to move past him, heels clicking softly against the floor, a silk wrap draped a little too casually over her shoulders. Then she stopped and turned back.

“Say… ain’t your weddin’ tomorrow?”

His jaw tightened.

She tilted her head, faux-innocent. “So what’s the groom doin’ prowlin’ around hotels the night before?” Her lips curled. “That sweet little thing of yours’d be furious if she knew you were here.”

“She won’t,” Alastor replied flatly. “She rarely does.”

The words fell from his mouth with practiced ease. Mimzy’s brows arched.

“Oh?” she drawled. “Got her all twisted ‘round your finger, huh?”

Something sharp and unpleasant coiled in his chest.

He ignored it.

“The poor dear’s been starved of affection her entire life,” he said smoothly. “It makes attachment effortless.”

“Uh-huh,” Mimzy hummed.

Then she clapped her hands together lightly, as though pleased with herself. “Still—gotta admire my own brilliance,” she said cheerfully. “I mean, really, who would’ve thought you’d actually listen when I suggested gettin’ yourself a nice little bride? Make you seem respectable. Normal.” She winked. “And I picked you a good one, didn’t I? You know, you basically owe this whole weddin’ to me.”

Alastor rolled his eyes.

“I mean, when I first met her,” Mimzy continued, lowering her voice in a way that was meant to feel conspiratorial—though it scraped his nerves raw—“I just knew. Sweet. Soft. In need of savin’.” Her lips curled. “Desperate, if we’re bein’ honest.”

She chuckled under her breath. “Honestly, doll, I’m shocked she stuck around after learnin’ about your…hobbies. And even more shocked she buys that you actually care. Guess some folks just don’t expect anyone to play dirty anymore.”

The words settled uncomfortably in the air.

Alastor didn’t like how they wormed their way under his skin. Didn’t like how quickly his mind betrayed him—supplying images he hadn’t asked for. Alice’s hands, folded so neatly. Her voice, soft when she said his name. The way she leaned into him so effortlessly, trusting him with a kind of faith he had done nothing to earn.

Enough.

“I’m looking for a man, goes by the name Leland Brendle,” Alastor cut in sharply. “I believe he is staying here tonight.”

Mimzy blinked, then shrugged. “Oh, him? Spent a few hours keepin’ me company earlier.” She waved a hand airily. “Left after. Caught a late train home.”

Something dropped cold and heavy in Alastor’s chest.

Damn it.

His shoulders stiffened as frustration crackled through him—two men who deserved to die, and one already slipped through his fingers.

Just his luck.
Mimzy’s smile softened—faux sympathy, but not entirely unkind. “Looks like your prey slipped the noose.”

Alastor tilted his head, lips curving pleasantly. “Hardly a tragedy. A conversation deferred is still a conversation to be had. I’ve all the time in the world.”

“Shame,” she said. “So—what now, Al? Go home and crawl back into bed like a good fiancé?”

“No such luck,” he replied lightly. “I came looking for two men, actually.”

Mimzy’s eyes widened. “Two?” Her grin turned sharp. “In one night? What is this, your version of a bachelor party?”

Alastor smiled, showing just enough teeth. “Perhaps.”

She laughed, then waved a hand. “Alright then, who’s unlucky number two?”

“John Everglow.”

The humor slipped from her face.

“Everglow?” she repeated. “As in—Alice Everglow?”

“Yes,” Alastor said smoothly. “That would be the one. Her self-righteous father.”

Mimzy stared at him for a long moment. “Al,” she said at last, voice quieter now, “even for you, that’s… risky.”

“Is it?” he asked pleasantly.

“What if she finds out?” Mimzy pressed. “You really think Alice won’t notice if her own father turns up dead the night before her wedding?”

Alastor waved the concern away. “She won’t, there won’t even be a body to find."

“But what if she does?”

He laughed softly. “Then that is a problem for a universe that does not exist.” He paused, then added—too quickly—“Even so, Alice is absurdly forgiving. Foolishly so. She’d excuse just about anything.”

Mimzy didn’t laugh this time. “Al,” she said gently, “she might forgive a lot. But that’s her father.”

Her tone struck something unpleasant.

For a split second—just one—Alastor’s mind drifted.

Alice, looking at him the way she always did: warm, open, trusting.

Now stripped of it.

No softness. No light. Just betrayal and hatred.

The image unsettled him more than it had any right to.

He smoothed his expression at once.

“That,” he said sharply, “is not worth considering.”

Mimzy studied him, then sighed. “Well,” she said, backing away, “good luck to you, Al. Try not to ruin your own wedding, huh?”

Mimzy turned, her heels clicking softly down the corridor.

“See you on the dance floor tomorrow.”

Alastor remained where he was long after she disappeared—rigid, and faintly annoyed with the echo she’d left behind.

He turned toward one of the tall hallway windows, the glass catching faint reflections of the hotel’s dim lights.

Perhaps Mimzy was right.

The thought irritated him, but it lingered all the same. Killing John Everglow—now, of all nights—might be excessive. Reckless, even. He didn’t know which room the man occupied, and at this hour he was likely asleep beside his poor wife, oblivious and undeserving of the intrusion. It would be inconvenient. Messy. Hardly elegant.

Alastor exhaled slowly through his nose.

No, it wasn’t worth the trouble. Not unless opportunity fell neatly into his lap. It would take something bordering on miraculous for—

His gaze drifted downward, through the glass, toward the docks below.

A lone figure stood near the railing, a cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. The ember flared as the man lifted it to his lips. Alastor’s eyes narrowed, sharpening, taking in the cut of the coat, the familiar posture.

That jacket.

Recognition struck like lightning.

John Everglow stood directly beneath him—alone, exposed, right there on the very stretch of dock where Alastor had proposed to Alice.

For a moment, Alastor simply stared.

A wide, slow grin spread across his face, something bright and feral and delighted. He leaned closer to the window, savoring the sight, as though afraid it might vanish if he blinked.

Well.

Would you look at that?

He turned on his heel and headed for the stairs, abandoning all pretense of elegance as he descended far too quickly, boots striking the steps with barely restrained impatience. If anyone had seen him in that moment, they might have mistaken him for a child racing toward a Christmas tree on Christmas morning.

The universe, it seemed, had finally decided to indulge him.

And that could only mean one thing.

John Everglow was meant to die.

Tonight.

As Alastor walked to the docks he noticed that they were nearly empty, the boards damp with salt and night air. The river lay flat and black, reflecting the half-moon in broken pieces. John stood near the edge, cigarette glowing like a small, sinful star.

Alastor approached without hurry.

He stopped beside him and struck a match, the flame briefly illuminating his grin as he lit his own cigarette. He exhaled slowly, savoring it.

“Terribly late hour,” Alastor remarked pleasantly. “You’ll forgive me for asking—why are you still awake?”

John Everglow stiffened, then turned sharply.

“You?” John snapped. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know,” Alastor said lightly. “Restless. Couldn’t sleep. Thought a walk might do me some good. Especially the night before I marry your daughter.”

John scoffed. “I saw the invitation,” he said, gesturing sharply. “Not even a church wedding. What kind of unholy nonsense do you call that? A marriage without God watching isn’t a marriage at all.”

Alastor resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Christianity had always struck him as a remarkably strange faith—endlessly preachy, selectively moral, and obsessed with control while pretending at virtue. He had met too many men like John Everglow who hid cruelty behind scripture and called it righteousness.

Still, Alastor smiled. Slow. Indulgent. The sort of smile that suggested patience where none truly existed.

“Now, now,” Alastor murmured. “Doesn’t that book of yours say God sees everything? Seems rather hypocritical to claim He only attends ceremonies with pews.”

John’s mouth twisted with open disgust.

“You know, Alice can do far better than you,” he spat. “You’re beneath her. A filthy Creole swamp rat—raised in muck and superstition. I don’t know what possessed her to say yes.”

Alastor blinked once.

He was almost impressed. John hadn’t even waited to be provoked.

“Well,” Alastor said pleasantly, “I won’t disagree. Alice could do better than me. But that unfortunate little marriage you arranged for her did a number on the poor dear. Hard to develop standards when one’s been taught they don’t deserve any.” He smiled faintly. “That fault is yours, I’m afraid.”

John took a step forward, anger flaring. “You don’t have the right—”

“Oh, I’m very curious, actually,” Alastor interrupted lightly. “Tell me, Mr. Everglow—do you dislike my manners… or my color, do be honest?”

John’s silence was answer enough.

Alastor inhaled calmly, smoke curling between them, and nodded.

“Ah. How refreshing. Subtlety really is wasted on your kind.”

Alastor studied John for a long moment, eyes sharp and measuring, before continuing in a conversational tone that felt entirely too relaxed for the hour.

“You know,” he said pleasantly, “I simply must ask—why do you think you’re entitled to treat Alice the way you do?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” John snapped, turning away.

Alastor’s hand closed around his shoulder like a vice.

“Oh, come now,” Alastor said softly. “Surely a man can indulge his future son-in-law. At dinner, for instance—you never once said her name. Just girl. Over and over. Curious habit for a father and, might I add, rather disrespectful.”

John tore himself free and sneered, eyes blazing. “Watch yourself, ‘boy’.”

Alastor felt it then—that familiar, electric tightening beneath his skin. His fingers curled, nails biting into his palms as instinct urged him forward.

But no.

Not yet.

He forced the feeling down, mastering it with practiced ease. He wanted this slow. Wanted every word to land. Wanted John Everglow to understand—fully—why tonight would be his last.

“Oh, calm yourself,” Alastor replied softly. “I just find it fascinating. One daughter grows up terrified of her own shadow, while the other seems to glide through life without a shred of fear. Cindy, isn’t it? Confident. Outgoing.” His smile thinned. “I can’t help but wonder—did she receive special treatment?”

John stiffened. “Cindy is different. She always has been.” His tone warmed with pride. “She’s pretty. Obedient. Friendly. She takes after me. A lively girl—charming in a proper way.”

“And Alice isn't?" Alastor asked, confused.

John’s mouth twisted. “For your information, Alice was a difficult child. Always questioning. Drifting. Filling her head with nonsense.”

“Nonsense,” Alastor echoed, faint amusement curling around the word. “Oh, do tell.”

“Alice takes after her mother,” John continued dismissively. “That woman poisoned Alice’s mind with foolish ideas. Music. Books. Fantasies. Sinful indulgences. I corrected it—with both of them. Kept a tight rein.” He sniffed. “Still didn’t take. Now she’s too timid for her own good. Fades into the crowd. Frankly—she’s dull.”

“Dull,” Alastor repeated quietly.

The word struck like a fracture line splintering through glass.

Dull?

Alice was anything but.

Heat surged up his spine, sharp and immediate, a violent urge curling tight in his chest. His fingers twitched at his side. For a fleeting moment, he imagined how easily that mouth could be silenced, how quickly the river would swallow the rest.

“I must disagree,” Alastor said, stepping closer. “Alice is actually quite clever. She notices what others overlook. She’s imaginative. Witty, in her own quiet way. Unfailingly kind.” A humorless laugh slipped out. “A rare thing. And yes—that kindness makes her weak. It lets men like you walk all over her.”

His voice dropped.

“Do you truly not see it, John? Or do you simply refuse to acknowledge that you’re the one who broke her?”

John bristled. “She was raised right. God-fearing. Obedient. The way a woman should be.”

Alastor’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh? Does your God demand women flinch at raised voices? Apologize for merely existing? Live as if punishment is forever looming just out of sight?” He leaned in. “She was terrified to even call you, did you know that?”

Then his voice softened—not kinder, just quieter. Deadlier.

“But I know Alice. I know that after she came to live with me, she began to bloom—slowly, painfully—into something like a functioning human being. It took months for her to lower her guard even a little. Months before she stopped apologizing for everything."

Alastor’s smile thinned. “And I’ve met a great many vile people in my time. Truly dreadful ones. Yet in all my years, I’ve never encountered anyone as genuinely kind as your daughter. So gentle. So understanding. If miracles exist, perhaps she’s one of them. A final apology from your God—for everything she survived.”

John’s face twisted with fury. “No,” he spat. “That’s because Alice is weak-minded. Susceptible. Easily led astray by evil.” He stepped forward, jabbing a finger into Alastor’s chest. “I told you before—I sensed darkness in you the moment I met you. Men like you carry the Devil with them. I knew something was wrong the second I stepped into your house.”

Alastor chuckled softly.

“How amusing,” he said. “I felt the same way about you.”

Alastor’s hand slid into his coat pocket. The familiar weight settled into his palm, grounding him. Steel whispered free, catching the moonlight as he brought the knife into view.
“I can tell you one thing,” Alastor continued gently. “You were wrong about Alice.”

John’s eyes flicked to the blade. Color drained from his face.

“But you’re quite right about me.”

John swung first.

That was all the invitation Alastor needed.

The punch barely grazed him before Alastor moved—fast, effortless. The knife sank into John’s side with practiced precision. John screamed, staggered back, but Alastor caught him by the collar and slammed him into the railing. The wood groaned beneath the force.

Alice flooded his mind.

The way she flinched at raised voices. The way she folded in on herself. How she apologized for nothing at all. The terror in her eyes when she’d spoken of her father. The way he’d called her girl.

The knife drove in again.

And again.

John’s shouting dissolved into choking, desperate gasps as Alastor forced him down. There was no wild rage in him now—only clarity. Cold purpose.

“For every time you broke her,” he murmured.

When it was finished, Alastor searched John’s pockets, filling them with stones before tipping the body over the edge. The harbor accepted him without a sound.

Silence followed.

Then dread.

As the adrenaline drained from his veins, reality settled in. Tomorrow, Alice would stand at the altar. She would wait—eyes hopeful, hands trembling—for her father to walk her down the aisle.
He never would.

Alastor pictured her glancing toward the doors. The pause. The confusion. The hurt. For the first time in his entire life, he wished—truly wished—that he could undo a kill.

He scoffed quietly at himself. Absurd. The man wouldn’t have come anyway. He’d made his contempt clear. He’d simply paid the price—for everything he’d done. To Alastor. To Alice.

Still…

Alastor pulled out his pocket watch—the one Alice had given him for Christmas. His thumb brushed over the engraving inside.

'From your dearest Alice.
Merry Christmas'.

His jaw tightened.

No one would ever make her feel small again.

The sky had begun to pale by the time Alastor turned away from the docks. Morning crept in slow and inevitable, bleaching the night of its secrecy.

Alice would wake soon.

He reached into his coat and withdrew the small leather-bound journal he’d carried since boyhood. Its pages were worn, its spine softened by time and repetition. Alastor documented everything of consequence within it—every turning point, every hunt worth remembering.

John Everglow.

Name, circumstances, cause.

Why he died.

Why did he deserved it.

The entry was neat. Precise. Almost reverent.

When he finished, he closed the journal and slipped it back into his pocket as if sealing the deed itself. Then he walked home.

Alastor returned just as quietly as he’d left. He shed his coat, changed into his pajamas, and slid back beneath the covers. The bed was still warm, Alice’s presence lingering in the sheets. He settled carefully, arranging himself just so, the picture of peaceful sleep.

Moments later, Alice’s alarm rang.

Alastor did not stir.

She moved softly, as she always did—slipping from the bed with practiced care, as if existing too loudly might be a transgression. He could hear her, even with his eyes closed: the gentle rustle of fabric, her cautious footsteps, the faint pause as she glanced back at him to make sure he was still asleep.

Always considerate. Always careful. Always her.

Chapter Text

Alice woke up to the blaring sound of her alarm and immediately smacked it off, holding her breath.

She lay still for a moment, heart thudding softly, and turned her head. Alastor slept on his back, utterly unmoved by the morning—breathing slow and even. It always amazed her how deeply he was able to sleep, as though nothing in the world could wake him. Alice studied his face briefly, the familiar lines and composed expression, and felt that strange mix of warmth and disbelief curl in her chest.

Carefully, she slipped from the bed.

The May heat had already settled into the house, the air thick and faintly damp even this early in the morning. New Orleans never truly slept, and it also never truly cooled. Alice moved quietly across the room, dressing in her underthings and gathering what she would need for the day. Gloves. Shoes. Hairpins. Each small item felt momentous in her hands.

And then it struck her—fully, properly.

Today was her wedding.

A smile spread across her face before she could stop it. She brought a hand to her mouth, as if containing the joy might somehow lessen the danger of it escaping too loudly. Her heart fluttered, light and giddy, the way it used to when she was a girl imagining white dresses and flower petals and music drifting through open windows.

She hurried downstairs and opened the old hall closet, the one she’d kept her secret in. Carefully, she drew out her dress. She’d hidden it there for weeks so Alastor wouldn’t stumble across it by accident. The fabric was cool and soft beneath her fingers as she laid it out, smoothing it as if it might calm her nerves.

Alice sat in the front room waiting for Cindy to arrive and take her to the wedding venue.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

Her excitement, sharp and bright at first, began to thin around the edges, slowly giving way to something tighter. Heavier.

She folded her hands in her lap and stared at them, thinking. She had imagined her wedding a thousand times growing up—never overly extravagant, modest. Never once had she imagined it would be in the jazzy city of New Orleans. Never once had she imagined the groom would be a radio host. And certainly never—

She swallowed.

A serial killer.

The thought landed like a stone in her chest. Her fingers trembled, and she pressed them together until they stilled. Alice drew in a slow breath, the way Alastor had taught her to do.

At least he isn’t overly cruel, she told herself. At least not to her.

Recently, Alice had spent countless hours in the small library in her free time, devouring books of every category she could find. Including some crime, horror and even case studies. Things that made her stomach twist and her skin crawl. Needless to say, it was not her favorite genre. But compared to some of the men she’d read about, Alastor felt… restrained. Civilized, even. She's read about horrific stories of sexually violent murders, jealous murderers, even some cases, where the murderers simply ate their victims, at least Alastor didn’t do that.

Alastor wasn’t perfect. Far from it.

But she knew—deep down in that quiet place she trusted—he would never hurt her. Not ever.

But one thought always lingered in her mind. And maybe—just maybe—she could help him. Alice smiled faintly at the thought. She had lots of love to give. Surely, enough of it could soften anyone. She was almost certain it had already begun to work. She had noticed that Alastor hadn’t slipped out at night in weeks. At least, not that she’d noticed.

Still, the unease lingered.

Alice drifted toward the window, peering down the street for any sign of Cindy’s car. The sky had lightened to a pale blue, sunlight catching on the distant rooftops, the city humming awake.

That was when she noticed Alastor’s jacket lying over the back of a chair.

Her brow furrowed. He never left it there. He was always very meticulous about such things.

She stepped closer before she could stop herself. A small leather journal peeked from the inside pocket, worn with age and use. It looked old. Important.

Curiosity tugged at her—gentle, but insistent.

She reached out to grab it.

—HONK!

A sudden honk blared from outside.

Alice gasped, snatched her hand back, and spun toward the door.

Cindy was finally here.

Heart racing, Alice grabbed her things and dashed forward, excitement and nerves tangling together once more as she pulled the door open—leaving the jacket, and the journal, untouched behind her.

Alice stepped outside with her dress carefully draped over one arm and her makeup bag tucked under the other. The morning air was already humid and warm, the kind that promised the day would
grow heavy and bright all at once. Cindy’s car idled at the curb, and the moment she spotted Alice, she leaned halfway out the window, grinning ear to ear.

“Ally!” Cindy cried. “I am so excited! I could barely sleep last night.”

Alice smiled instinctively as she climbed in, comforted by her sister’s familiar energy. Cindy glanced at her properly then—really looked—and her grin softened into something more knowing.

“Oh, honey,” she said gently, cocking her head. “You look like you’re about two seconds away from being sick. Didn’t sleep well either I take it?”

Alice let out a small, shaky breath and adjusted her grip on the dress. “I slept great, actually. I didn’t wake up once, I guess I’m just… nervous.”

“Well, that’s normal,” Cindy said at once, bumping her shoulder lightly with Alice’s. “It’d be weird if you weren’t.” Then her lips curved into a teasing smile. “To be honest I’d be lying if I said I wasn't worried for you too. You’ve known this man, what, eight whole months? And all this right after you bailed on your last engagement.”

Alice shot her a look. “I didn’t bail, I ran away."

Cindy lifted a brow. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

They both laughed, the tension easing just a touch, the way it always did when they found that easy rhythm again— just two polar opposite sisters against the world, like they’d been all their lives.

“Oh!” Cindy added, waving a hand as she pulled the car into gear. “Speaking of—Leland went back home last night. Saw him catch the late train after… entertaining himself.” She smirked. “Paid some girl off and disappeared.”

Alice grimaced. “Ew! He’s such a sleaze bag.”

But beneath the disgust, something in her chest finally loosened. She hadn’t even realized how tightly she’d been holding that breath—how much space his shadow still took up in her mind. Knowing he was gone, truly gone, felt like closing a door at last. Out of her life. For good.

Cindy glanced at Alice again, more serious now. “Ally, don't take this the wrong way but, I just want to make sure you’re absolutely sure about this. Truly. I mean—you've only known him for a short time, what if he’s, I don’t know…” She paused, then deadpanned, “a serial killer or something?”

Alice went completely still.

Cindy burst out laughing. “Oh my Lord, Alice, I was joking!” She wiped her eyes. “You should’ve seen the look on your face!”

Alice forced a laugh, doing her best to look amused, even as her thoughts screamed.

Oh, if only you knew.

Oblivious, Cindy reached over and patted Alice’s knee affectionately. “Relax. He seems polite, charming—very put together. And most importantly?” She smiled warmly. “He makes you happy. I can see that.”

Alice nodded slowly. “Yeah,” she said. “He does.”

And that much was true—undeniably so. She loved Alastor. That certainty settled her more than anything else. And maybe—just maybe—she could help him, the way he had helped her.

After all, people could change.

She had to believe that.

For her own sanity.

Eventually, Cindy pulled the car to a stop just beyond the tree line, gravel crunching softly beneath the tires.

Alice stepped out slowly, her shoes sinking slightly into the damp earth. She took it all in at once and felt her chest loosen. Since Alastor wasn’t religious, a chapel didn’t feel right for their wedding.

Instead, they picked a venue that lay nestled in the woods, where willow branches draped lazily toward a narrow river that wound past the clearing. Morning light filtered through the leaves, turning the water to glass. It was beautiful and quiet, just the way she liked it.

It truly did feel like them.

Off to the side stood a graceful wooden building prepared for the reception, its open windows and shaded porch promising refuge from the mosquitoes that thrived in Louisiana summers.

Cindy let out a low whistle as she climbed out beside her. “Well,” she said, surveying the scene, “I’ll be damned. This place is really somethin'.”

Then she glanced at Alice, her voice dropping just enough to carry meaning. “Just so you know—Daddy’s gonna have a fit, you're not having your wedding in a church."

Alice’s stomach twisted on instinct. But the feeling passed.

“Oh, of course he is,” she replied, rolling her eyes with a tired sort of affection. “Father’s tried to control my life since the day I learned to speak. He’ll just have to survive this one.”

Cindy laughed softly at that, and together they headed inside.

The interior was just as Alice had imagined—flowers everywhere, clusters of lanterns casting a warm golden glow, ribbons tied lazily along the wooden beams. Nothing felt too stiff or imposing.

Alice felt a pulse of excitement rush through her.

“Oh!” she suddenly exclaimed, turning bright-eyed to Cindy. “Come on, I need to put my dress on.”

Cindy grinned wide. “Yes, ma’am. Let’s go, sugar!”

They hurried to the dressing room, laughter bubbling between them like it had when they were girls. Cindy laced Alice into her gown with practiced care, tugging the floral lace snug at her back. The fabric was delicate, light as air, and the slight train brushed the floor just enough to make Alice feel elegant without feeling trapped.

She smiled at her reflection.

“Hey,” Alice said suddenly, brow creasing. “When’s Mama getting here? Shouldn’t she be—”

“—Yeah,” Cindy cut in gently. “I’m sure she’s just dolling herself up. Or trying to get Daddy dressed without starting the next world war.”

That earned a small, knowing laugh from Alice.

When Cindy finished, she spun her around. “Alright. Let me see you.”

Cindy’s smile faltered. Then her eyes softened. Then—much to Alice’s surprise—they slowly teared up.

“Oh, Cindy, don’t cry,” Alice said quickly, laughing nervously. “That’s Mama’s job.”

“I know,” Cindy sniffed, wiping at her cheeks. “I just—Alice, I’m so proud of you. Truly. I was so scared when you ran away here. I didn’t understand it back then.”

She took Alice’s hands, squeezing them tight.

“But now?” she continued. “Now I see it. This—this was the bravest thing you’ve ever done. And I really do think it’s the best choice you could’ve made.”

Alice’s throat tightened. “Stop,” she said softly. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

Cindy smiled through the tears. “Good,” she teased. “Means it’s real.”

Then a knock came as Cindy finished tying the final ribbon at the back of Alice’s dress.

Cindy moved to answer it, still smiling—until the smile faltered.

“Nick?” she said, confused, seeing her husband. “I thought you were sleepin’ in.”

Nick stood in the doorway, unease drawn tight across his face. “I was. But someone had to drive your mama out here.”

Cindy frowned. “What do you mean? Daddy was supposed to bring her.”

Before Nick could answer, a soft voice came from behind him.

“When I woke this morning,” Alice’s mother said quietly, stepping inside, “your father wasn’t in bed. I knew he’d gone out for a smoke last night, but…” She trailed off, worry written plainly across her face.

Alice’s stomach dropped.

“Did he leave?” she asked, her voice thin. “Is he—Is he still out there?” Panic threatened to rise. “Mama, the wedding is in two hours.”

Cindy was at her side instantly, fingers closing around Alice’s trembling hands. “Hey. Hey.” She squeezed gently. “Don’t you fret yourself sick just yet. You know how Daddy gets when he’s in a mood. Probably needed air. Or time. He’ll show. He always does.”

Alice nodded, though the unease lingered, curling low in her chest.

Her mother’s eyes finally fell on Alice then—and she gasped.

“Oh,” she breathed, one hand flying to her mouth. Tears welled instantly. “Alice… you look just divine. My goodness—you look so grown up.”

Alice smiled and stepped forward, wrapping her arms around her mother. She suddenly felt small again, just a girl pressed into the familiar arms of her mother.

“If only your granddaddy were here,” her mother said softly. “He’d have loved this. A wedding by the river.” She smiled through her tears. “Oh, how I wish he could see you.”

Memory washed over Alice in a warm, aching wave—summer days long past, sitting in her grandfather’s little boat as it chugged through the South Carolina swamps. His low humming as the radio crackled. The smell of water and greenery. The way she’d leaned over the edge, watching dragonflies skim the surface while the trees bowed low above them.

“I think he’s here,” Alice said quietly, blinking back tears. “In spirit, at least.”

Her mother guided her to the chair and began brushing her hair, slow and gentle, just as she had when Alice was a child. Cindy hovered close, dusting powder along Alice’s cheeks, her touch careful, familiar.

For a moment—just a moment—everything felt soft again.

More guests began to trickle in—Alice’s bridesmaids, a handful of her old dancing friends from her flapper days, all silk and smiles and soft perfume. Mimzy breezed in last, resplendent as ever, looking like she’d stepped straight out of a nightclub poster. The room buzzed with low chatter and laughter, the pleasant kind of noise that made the air feel alive.

Then—

A sudden eruption of sound tore through the hallway.

Loud hooting. Laughter. Voices overlapping one another in rapid-fire cadence, thick with accents that rolled and snapped like music. Someone whooped. Someone else laughed so hard they wheezed.
Cindy froze mid-eyeliner stroke.

“Who in their right mind is being that obnoxious right now?” she muttered. “Don’t they know there’s a weddin’ in an hour?”

A sharp knock followed.

Cindy straightened. “Oh. now that must be Daddy,” she said briskly, already marching toward the door. “And if it ain’t, I’m about to give whoever is out there a piece of my—”

She opened it.

And stopped dead.

For a heartbeat, she said nothing.

Alice recognized the voice immediately.

“Well hello there, miss,” a woman drawled warmly. “We were just—”

Alice whipped her head around so fast her mother hissed in protest, fingers still tangled in her hair. Alice barely noticed.

Standing in the doorway were two women.

Nadine and Jeanne.

Alastor’s aunts.

Alice’s face lit up. “Aunt Nadine! Aunt Jeanne!” She hurried forward and wrapped them both in a hug.

“Oh Lord, look at you, chérie,” Aunt Nadine exclaimed, holding Alice at arm’s length and inspecting her proudly. “Ain’t you just a vision?”

Aunt Jeanne clasped her hands together. “Prettiest thing I ever did see. Just glowing. Like a magnolia in full bloom.”

Alice laughed, warmth flooding her chest. “Thank you! I’m so glad y’all could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Aunt Jeanne said promptly. “Honestly, I was startin’ to think Alastor would never get married.”

Aunt Nadine elbowed her hard. “Oh hush, Jeanne.”

Alice turned back toward her family, smiling. “Mama, Cindy—this is Aunt Jeanne and Aunt Nadine. They’re… well, they’re Alastor’s family.”

Cindy blinked, still processing. “So y’all were the ones makin’ all that racket?”

Alice shot Cindy the most lethal glare she could manage without smudging her makeup.

Aunt Nadine laughed loudly. “Sorry ‘bout that. Some of the little ones—it’s their first time outta the bayou.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I swear they’ll behave for the ceremony.”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “As for the grown ones… well. I already smacked one upside the head on the way in, so I’ve done my civic duty.”

Alice laughed outright.
Aunt Jeanne smiled at her kindly. “We just wanted to check if you needed anything, sweetheart.”

“Oh—no, thank you,” Alice said, still smiling. “Please, just enjoy yourselves.”

“Well aren’t you just a delight,” Aunt Jeanne said fondly.

The room felt warmer somehow after that—louder, livelier, threaded through with laughter and easy affection.

Then a man suddenly appeared in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, his grin already familiar. Alice recognized him instantly.

“Louis,” she said, surprised.

“The one and only,” he replied cheerfully. “Well now—don’t you look mighty fine, bride.”

“Thank you,” Alice said, smiling despite herself. “And you’re not planning on starting any trouble today, are you?”

Before Louis could answer, Aunt Nadine cut in sharply. “He ain’t,” she said, fixing him with a look. “Already had words with him before we walked in.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. Cousins scrap sometimes. It ain’t the end of the world.”

He leaned farther into the room then, eyes drifting over the flurry of women, curls, perfume, silk, and laughter. “Well I’ll be—Alice, you got yourself some real pretty friends.”

Alice blinked, unsure what to say.
Louis’s gaze landed squarely on Cindy. “And you—aren’t you just a sight.”

Cindy stiffened. Her cheeks flushed pink, equal parts offended and startled. “I’m married.”

Louis grinned. “Well now, that ain’t never stopped me before.”

A sharp smack landed on the back of his head.

“Louis!” another man barked. “You had better behave or you want Alastor to finish what he started last Thanksgiving?”

Alice turned to see Adan, another cousin, shaking his head in exasperation. “Keep it in your pants, Louis. This ain’t the time.”

Louis rubbed the back of his head. “Y’all are no fun.”

“Alastor’s already on edge,” Adan added. “You don’t wanna be the reason he snaps.”

“That boy wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Louis scoffed as Adan dragged him away.

Alice let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Relief warmed her chest. “Oh, thank goodness he’s here?,” she said softly. “When I left this morning, he was sleeping like a log.”

“Oh, he’s here,” Adan called back over his shoulder. “Been here awhile.”

Aunt Jeanne chuckled. “Well, we best go make sure that suit’s sittin’ right.”

As they turned to leave, Aunt Nadine paused, taking Alice’s hands gently in hers. “Welcome to the family, chère.”

The words hit Alice harder than she expected. Her eyes stung, and she swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”

When the door finally closed, Alice’s mother tilted her head thoughtfully. “Well,” she said, “your in-laws certainly are… energetic.”

Alice laughed softly. “Just a little. But they’re so kind and whitty—and their cooking is to die for.”

Her mother smiled, brushing Alice’s hair one last time. “That’s all that matters, my dear. As long as you’re happy.”

Alice smiled.

The clock crept closer to the hour, each tick louder than the last. Alice’s gaze kept drifting to the door, her heart stubbornly clinging to a hope she knew—deep down—was already bruised beyond repair.
Cindy finally broke the silence, clapping her hands once, bright and decisive.

“Alright, sunshine. It’s time. Everybody’s getting lined up, and if we don’t move now, someone’s gonna start faintin’ from the heat.”

Alice didn’t move. Her fingers tightened in the lace of her dress.

In a small, fragile voice, she whispered, “Why did Father leave?”

Her throat closed. “How could he do this?”

Cindy’s smile faltered—but only for a second. She slipped closer, voice warm and buoyant, like she was patching a crack before it could widen.

“Well, hey—he might still show up. You know Daddy. Always dramatic. Might come sweepin’ in at the last possible second just to make an entrance.”

But Alice shook her head. The hope finally slipped loose. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes.

“I don’t think he’s coming.”

Cindy sighed softly, then lifted Alice’s chin with gentle determination.

“Then that’s his loss. Truly. He’d’ve turned it into a whole sermon anyway.” She dabbed carefully at Alice’s eyes. “I know he suffocated you back then, and I hate that I didn’t protect you more. But you left that life. You’re happy now. And I’ll be damned if I let him steal one more thing from you—especially today.”

With that, they made their way outside, the air was thick and heavy, the kind of May heat that pressed into your lungs. And much to Alice's dismay, dark clouds started to gather overhead, swollen and restless.

Alice peeked past the curtain.

The clearing was full—Alastor’s loud, colorful family clustered together, her own distant relatives fanning themselves, friends from New Orleans laughing softly, waiting. So many faces. So much support.
It should have been enough.

But there was still one face missing.

Mimzy appeared at her side, all silk and sparkle, eyes sharp despite the smile.

“What’s that look for, doll?” she said lightly. “It’s your weddin’ day! We’re gonna tear up that dance floor—just like old times. You ain’t havin’ second thoughts now, are ya?”

Alice shook her head. “No. I just…” She swallowed. “My father didn’t come.”

Mimzy’s expression flickered—just a heartbeat too long—before smoothing over.

“Well I’ll be,” she said softly. “You talk to him?”

Alice shook her head again.

“If he wanted to be here, he would’ve been. I’m not going to beg.”

Mimzy nodded once, firm.

“Good. Then to hell with that guy.”

Then the music began.

One by one, people stepped forward. The aisle filled. The moment had finally arrived, whether Alice felt ready or not.

Her nerves buzzed beneath her skin—excitement tangled with fear, love braided tightly with dread. She loved Alastor. Truly. Even knowing what he was. She wished her father were here. She wished—just for a second—that time would stop long enough for her to breathe.

But it didn’t.

Before it was Cindy’s turn to walk down the aisle, she slipped back to Alice’s side and wrapped her in a fierce, familiar hug—the kind only sisters give, all warmth and history pressed together. She pulled back, hands still resting on Alice’s arms, her smile softening into something wistful.

“You’re lucky, y’know,” Cindy murmured.

Alice blinked at her confused. “Lucky?”

Cindy nodded, her expression gentler now. “Yeah, honestly I’d be lyin’ if I said I wasn’t a little jealous of you right now.”

Alice frowned, confused. “You’re jealous that Father skipped my wedding?”

Cindy let out a quiet laugh. “Oh Lord, no. Not that.” She squeezed Alice’s hands. “I’m jealous because you’re marryin’ for love. Real love.”

Alice hesitated. “Well… yeah. You didn’t?”

Cindy’s smile wavered. She looked down the aisle for a moment, then back at Alice. “I like Nick,” she said carefully. “He’s somewhat kind. He’s very respectable in our town. He’s got money and a good name. Daddy thought he was the perfect man.” Her voice lowered. “And I was foolish enough to trust his judgment. I went on and married that dull man without question.”

Alice’s chest tightened. She didn’t know what to say.

Cindy, ever the older sister, didn’t linger in the sadness. She patted Alice’s hand and straightened, her brightness returning just enough. “But you,” she said softly, “you get to do this your way. Even if it’s a little messy.” She smiled. “At least you get to do it right.”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead briefly to Alice’s. “That’s somethin’ special.”

Then Cindy turned and walked toward the aisle as the maid of honor.

Now Alice was alone.

The music swelled faintly, and her heart followed it, pounding, trembling—full of love, fear, grief, and hope all at once.

Chapter Text

Alice stood alone behind the curtain.

The murmur of the guests drifted toward her, softened by the trees and the river beyond, but it all felt distant—like sound heard underwater. Her bridesmaids had already taken their places. Cindy stood at the front now, shoulders squared, chin lifted, trying to look brave for her.

Alice’s hands trembled.

She tightened her grip on her bouquet, the flowers cool and slightly damp against her palms. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe—slowly, deliberately—in through her nose, out through her mouth.

Don’t think about Father.

Don’t think about the empty space beside you.

Don’t think about the man you’re about to marry.

A serial killer, her mind whispered unhelpfully.

The same man who had nearly killed her once.

Her stomach twisted.

The piano swelled, the notes growing clearer, closer. That was the signal. There would be no more waiting. No miracle arrival. No footsteps rushing in at the last second.

She would walk alone.

Alice opened her eyes just as the music rose, and her feet moved before she could talk herself out of it. One step. Then another. The curtain was drawn aside, and suddenly she was there—fully visible.
Everyone stood.

So many faces turned toward her, a sea of expectation and warmth and curiosity. Friends from New Orleans, a handful of distant relatives, Alastor’s loud, colorful family. Lantern light glowed softly overhead, catching on her silk and jewelry.

Alice’s chest felt tight.

She found her mother first, standing near the front, eyes shining with tears, a gentle, proud smile trembling on her lips. That alone nearly undid her.

Then—him.

Alastor.

He stood waiting, tall and immaculate in a white suit trimmed in red, his dark hair unusually slicked back, his posture relaxed but attentive. And when his eyes met hers, his smile changed instantly—widened, softened, brightened in a way meant only for her.

It was like the world steadied.

Her shaking eased. The noise faded. The fear loosened its grip.

It didn’t matter that her father wasn’t there. It didn’t matter that she was walking alone. She realized, with a strange, quiet certainty, that she had been alone long before today—and that this moment, flawed as it was, was still hers.

She didn’t need someone who had never truly cared for her to guide her forward.

She already had that love waiting for her at the end of the aisle.

So Alice lifted her chin, fixed her gaze on Alastor’s dark, delighted eyes, and walked toward him—step by steady step—into whatever future awaited them both.

Alice made her way to the front at last, face to face with Alastor—the man she was about to marry, the man she loved. He was smiling broadly, that unmistakable grin warm and bright, as though nothing else in the world existed beyond her.

“Mon dieu,” he murmured softly, eyes sweeping over her with open admiration. “You look absolutely exquisite, my dear.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. “So do you,” she whispered back. “You look very dashing.”

“Well,” Alastor replied lightly, lips curling, “I should certainly hope so. Aunt Nadine adjusted my hair at least five times. I fear she’d have dragged me back down the aisle if it were even a strand out of place.”

Alice giggled despite herself, the sound easing the tightness in her chest. Then her gaze faltered, her voice softening. “It turns out my father didn’t—”

“Ah,” Alastor interrupted gently, squeezing her hands just enough to ground her. “Let us not waste our breath on useless people today, Alice. Not on a day meant only for us.”

She hesitated, then nodded. He was right. Dwelling on what she could not change would only steal something precious from this moment—and she refused to let that happen.

Thus the ceremony began.

The officiant’s voice carried through the clearing as a breeze stirred, warm and damp with the promise of rain. Willow branches swayed overhead, their long leaves whispering secrets, and the lanterns hanging from them rocked softly in time. Dark clouds continuously crept across the sky, heavy and bruised, casting shadows over the river nearby.

She quietly prayed the rain would hold up.

Alice kept her fingers laced tightly with Alastor’s, drawing comfort from his steady presence as the words continued around them. The world could darken, the wind could rise, the sky itself could threaten to break—

As long as he was holding her hand, she felt she could endure anything.

The officiant’s voice faded into the background as he invited them to share their vows.

Alice felt her heart flutter wildly in her chest. She had rehearsed these words a hundred times in quiet moments, whispering them to herself in mirrors and moonlight, terrified she might stutter or mumble when it mattered most.

Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the small paper hidden in her dress. She took a breath, lifted her eyes to Alastor’s, and the world seemed to narrow until there was only him.

“Alastor,” she began softly, her voice trembling with warmth rather than fear, “before you came into my life, I felt… misplaced. As though I were living inside a story written for someone else. I did everything I was told, followed every rule laid before me, and still felt unbearably alone.”

She paused, fingers curling gently around the folded paper.

“Then you found me. And without ever demanding, without ever trying to mold me into something smaller, quieter or something else entirely, you made room for me to exist exactly as I am. You saw me—when I didn’t yet know how to see myself. You listened. You stayed. You made the world feel wider instead of confining.”

Her voice softened, thick with emotion.

“You didn’t just simply love me,” she said. “You freed me. With you, I learned how to laugh without judgment, how to speak with my whole voice, how to live without constantly looking over my shoulder. You showed me what it means to feel safe. To feel chosen. To feel alive.”

Alice smiled, blinking through the sting in her eyes.

“I know you aren’t perfect,” she continued gently. “And neither am I—no one truly is. But with you, the darkness has never felt so frightening. Because you stand beside me, not above me. You protect me. You believe in me. And every day, you continue to choose me.”

She folded the paper, her voice steady now, certain.

“So today, I stand before everyone we love, to say that I choose you too. I choose your smile, your laughter, your steady presence—and yes, even your terrible jokes.”

Alastor clutched his chest in mock offense, drawing a soft laugh from her before she went on.

“Alastor, I promise to walk beside you, to trust you, to love you with all that I am—today, tomorrow, and for as long as this world, and whatever comes after it, allows.”

Her gaze never left his as she finished, quiet but sure.

“You are my home, Alastor. And I will always choose you.”

A hush settled over the guests as Alice finished. Sniffles sounded softly from behind her—Cindy made no attempt to hide them—and even her mother dabbed at her eyes, pride and tenderness written plainly across her face. Somewhere above, lightning flickered through the heavy clouds, or so Alice thought. Her nerves were wound tight enough that she couldn’t quite be sure.

Then Alastor smiled.

He hadn’t brought notes. Of course he hadn’t.

He reached for Alice’s hands, warm and steady, and the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them.

“Well,” he said lightly, his voice carrying easily over the breeze, “I suppose it’s my turn.”

A ripple of quiet laughter passed through the crowd, but Alice barely registered it. Her heart was beating far too loudly.

“For those of you who know my dearest Alice,” he continued, “you’ll already be familiar with her most irritating trait—her relentless habit of seeing the best in people. Even when it’s wildly unearned.” His smile curved, fond and unmistakably sincere. “Especially in me.”

He squeezed her hands gently.

“Alice, my dear,” he said, softer now, the words meant only for her, “from the moment you stepped into my life, you became something I never anticipated—a quiet miracle, I suppose.”

He paused, eyes never leaving hers.

“I never expected to meet someone who didn’t merely tolerate me, but understood me, all of me. Someone who is able to see past my flaws, and even—my apparently dreadful jokes.” His smile flickered. “Even though I must remind you, my love, that you laugh at every single one.”

A few guests laughed. Alice felt her throat tighten.

“You know, my dear, that I don't make promises lightly,” Alastor went on, his voice deepening, steady and solemn now. “But this much I do promise to you, I promise to be your shelter when the world grows sharp, your voice when yours trembles, your steady hand when the past reaches for you. I vow to guard your joy as fiercely as my own, to cherish your softness, never exploit it, and to ensure you are never made to feel small again”.

Something dark and resolute settled beneath his words, not threatening—but absolute.
“Alice, you have given me a future I never thought to want,” he said quietly. “And now that I have seen it, I will not let it slip from my grasp.”

His thumb brushed gently over her knuckles.

“Today, I choose you. Tomorrow, and every day that follows, I will continue to choose you—through this life, and whatever may come after.”

His smile softened into something private, reverent.

“You are my constant. My companion. My home.”

A pause.

“And I am yours.”

Alice’s vision blurred as tears welled in her eyes. Alastor’s words had struck deeper than she’d expected—though she should have known better. A man who commanded the airwaves for a living knew exactly how to make words linger in a heart.

The officiant’s voice cut gently through the moment.

“Alice Rose Everglow,” he said, turning to her, “do you take Alastor Gaston Broussard to be your husband?”

A raindrop landed on Alice’s cheek—or perhaps it was only her tears. She hardly knew the difference anymore.

“I do,” Alice said. Her voice trembled, but her certainty did not.

Alastor slid the ruby-and-diamond ring onto her finger with reverence, as though sealing something sacred.

The officiant turned.

“Alastor Gaston Broussard, do you take Alice Rose Everglow to be your wife?”

Alastor’s smile was sharp and radiant, utterly assured.

“I do.”

Alice slipped the band onto his finger, her hands still shaking.

The wind surged suddenly, rushing through the willows, tugging at lace and lanterns alike. Alice barely noticed. All she could feel was Alastor—his hands firm at her waist, steady, grounding.

“By the power vested in me,” the officiant declared, raising his voice over the rising storm, “I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Alastor didn’t hesitate. He pulled her close and kissed her—deep, sure, possessive in the gentlest way. Thunder cracked overhead at the exact moment their lips met, sharp and loud enough to make Alice jump. Alastor didn’t loosen his hold for a second.

Rain came down in earnest then, heavy and warm. Guests scattered toward the reception hall in shrieks and laughter, dresses gathered, shoes abandoned. But Alice and Alastor stayed where they were, standing in the downpour as though the world had narrowed to just the two of them.

Alice’s dress clung to her, soaked and heavy. Water beaded on Alastor’s glasses, his carefully slicked hair surrendering to the humidity, curling back into its natural waves. Alice laughed—bright, unrestrained.

He laughed too.

“Well, Mrs. Broussard,” he said lightly, brushing a thumb over her cheek, “I suppose I ought to get you inside before you catch a cold.”

Before they could move, music drifted out from the reception hall—soft and unmistakable. One of her favorites.

‘I’ll Never Smile Again’

Alice’s grin widened impossibly. She took his hands and tugged.

“Dance with me.”

He lifted a brow. “In the rain, my dear? I—”

“Oh, come on,” she laughed. “Unless you’re afraid of a little rain.”

His smile spread slowly and delightedly. Without another word, he drew her close and guided her into a gentle waltz, their feet moving easily despite the slick ground as the storm raged around them.

Somewhere nearby, Alice was certain her mother was wringing her hands in worry about Alice getting sick. Cindy was likely shaking her head, muttering, That girl’s lost her damn mind.
Alice didn’t care.

She was exactly where she belonged.

Eventually, Alice and Alastor retreated indoors, damp and breathless, still laughing from their impulsive dance in the rain. The moment they stepped inside, Cindy descended on Alice like a storm of her own.

“What in the world were you thinking?” Cindy scolded, hands already on Alice’s shoulders. “Your hair, your makeup—your dress! Alice, you look like you wrestled the weather and lost.”

Before Alice could protest, Cindy had whisked her into the ladies’ room, expertly redoing curls and powder with the practiced urgency of a sister who refused to let the bride look anything less than
perfect. Alice only laughed softly, letting herself be fussed over.

Alastor, meanwhile, couldn’t have cared less. He shrugged off the attention, leaving his hair to fall back into its natural curls, rain-touched and unruly—exactly the way Alice adored it.

Once she was presentable again, Alice sought out her mother and wrapped her in a tight embrace. Her mother held her just as firmly, voice thick with emotion.

“Your father is a fool for missing such a beautiful ceremony,” she said quietly. “Alice, I am so very proud of you.”

Alice smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. The absence still lingered, a dull ache she couldn’t entirely shake.

“Yes,” she replied softly. “I just wish the weather had held out a little longer.”

Her mother chuckled gently. “Well, I’ve always heard that wedding knots tied in the rain hold tighter than dry ones.”

That earned a real smile from Alice.

As the reception carried on, laughter and music filling the hall, Alice noticed a strange little thrill each time someone addressed her as Mrs. Broussard. The name felt unfamiliar—foreign, even—but she liked the way it sounded, the way it settled into her chest.

It felt like the beginning of something entirely new.

Thunder still muttered beyond the walls, but inside the reception hall it was utterly defeated by noise—joyful, reckless noise. Alastor’s cousins had apparently decided that this wedding demanded a full Cajun brass ensemble. Trumpets blared, fiddles shrieked, washboards rattled, and somewhere someone was stomping in rhythm that made the floorboards tremble. There was no such thing as quiet tonight.

The reception was alive in a way Alice had never quite experienced before. Laughter spilled from every corner, glasses clinked, skirts swirled. She was glad—truly glad—that everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Still, she found herself overwhelmed. Too many voices. Too many well-wishes. Too many hands touching her arm, calling her Mrs. Broussard with delighted familiarity.

At some point, she realized Alastor was no longer beside her.

She scanned the room, her smile faltering just slightly, then spotted him through a half-open door off the main hall. He was standing close to Mimzy, their heads inclined toward one another, voices low—too low for the rest of the party.

Alice hesitated, then stepped inside.

“Um—hello?” she said lightly. “You do realize the party’s out there, right? Is everything alright?”

Both of them turned a fraction too quickly.

Mimzy recovered first, waving a hand. “Oh, yeah, yeah—perfectly fine. I was just… givin’ Al hell for lettin’ you get soaked like that. Ruinin’ a perfectly good dress.”

The tightness in Alice’s chest loosened at once. She smiled, brushing it off. “Oh, it’s alright. It’s mostly dry now.”

“See?” Alice said gently. “No harm done.”

Mimzy looped her arm through Alice’s without missing a beat and steered her back toward the noise. “Well that's good. C’mon, doll. Look at you—shoulders tight, jaw clenched. I know that look. You need a drink.”

Alice laughed. “I appreciate it, Mimzy, but I’d still like to remember my own wedding.”

“Oh, relax,” Mimzy said, already reaching for the bottle. “A little drink never hurt anybody.”

One drink turned into a quick shared shot, punctuated by cheers and applause from nearby onlookers. Alice felt warmth bloom in her chest, tension easing its grip.

A moment later, Alastor appeared behind them, eyebrow arched.

“Well now,” he drawled. “Are we doin’ shots without me?”

Mimzy snorted. “Please. As if you could keep up.”

Laughter rippled through the small group, and just like that, the strange moment vanished into the noise and light.

Before Alice quite realized how it happened, she was on the dance floor—spinning with Mimzy and her bridesmaids, skirts flying, laughter bubbling out of her as swing music swept her along. For once, she wasn’t thinking. She was just there.

Across the room, Alastor’s cousins were in rare form—everywhere at once, most flirting shamelessly, laughing louder than the band.

"Mais, cher," one of them purred to Mimzy, tipping his hat. "If I'd known there'd be this kinda beauty at the weddin', I'd've booked a hotel."

"Boy, you wish," Mimzy shot back with a laugh, twirling away.

Another cousin, sporting a toothy grin, leaned against the bar, shaking his head. "I swear Alastor got some kinda magic spell on him. How he get a woman that fine, and I'm still out here single?"

"You single 'cause you ugly, man, remember. If you stopped going for the super hot ladies who are way out of your league, then maybe you could actually get some!" the eldest cousin, Jim, called out.

The whole group burst into laughter, and Alice couldn't help but giggle as well. These men were ridiculous, but she loved them, she was delighted to call them family.

Eventually, Alice collapsed into a seat at the head table beside Alastor, breathless and glowing.

He leaned back on one elbow, a knowing smirk tugging at his mouth. “Looks like you’re having quite the time, Mrs. Broussard.”

Alice beamed, her head pleasantly light from the drinks. “Why yes, I am. Your cousins are remarkable musicians—you could probably hear them clear across the Mississippi.”

Alastor scoffed softly. “Oh, without question. They wouldn’t recognize an indoor voice if it smacked them upside the head.” His smile sharpened. “Though none of them possess musical talent quite like mine, my dear.”

“Of course not,” Alice said, amused, resting her chin in her hand.

The night carried on in a blur of laughter and sound. They cut into the red velvet cake—rich, sweet, and utterly indulgent—and Alice savored every bite. Not long after, her mother excused herself. The noise had clearly worn on her, though she never outright complained. She mentioned wanting to check whether Alice’s father had returned to the hotel, her voice carefully neutral.

Before leaving, she pulled Alice into a tight embrace, shaking her head fondly at the roaring music behind them.

“I’m so very proud of you, my sweet girl,” she murmured. “And never forget—I love you.”

Alice held her a moment longer before letting go, watching her disappear into the crowd. When she turned back toward the room, the music swelled again, the night still young.

After hours of dancing, talking, and—very likely—too many drinks, Alice felt the need for a breather. Her feet ached, her head buzzed, and the noise was beginning to all blur together. She slipped away from the crowd and headed toward the restroom.

She stopped short when she heard it.

Soft laughter. Then unmistakable kissing sounds.

Frowning, confused, Alice pushed the door open just enough to peek inside.

Her stomach dropped.

Cindy—her sister—was pressed against the wall, hands tangled in the lapels of one of Alastor’s cousins. Luis. Very clearly not her husband.

Alice’s mouth fell open. “Cindy?! What the actual hell?!”

Cindy jolted like she’d been struck by lightning, her eyes going wide. Luis swore under his breath—“Merde!”—and bolted past Alice, disappearing down the hall.

Alice stared at her sister in disbelief. “Cindy, are you out of your mind? Your husband is literally a few yards away from here!”

Cindy groaned, dragging a hand down her face. Her hair was mussed, her lipstick smudged, and the alcohol on her breath told Alice everything she needed to know. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “He was just… charming. He listened to me. He actually found me interesting.”

Alice could tell Cindy was several drinks in—enough to loosen her tongue, not enough to excuse this.

“He talked to me like I mattered,” Cindy continued, her voice wavering. “Like I wasn’t boring. Like I wasn’t invisible.” She let out a bitter laugh. “It’s not fair, Alice. I wish I’d married someone like that instead of Nick.”

Alice’s frustration softened into something heavier. “Cindy…”

Alice was tipsy herself, unsure how to handle this mess. “Hey,” she said gently. “It was just a mistake, right? A one-time thing. You could… tell him and just apologize.”

Cindy shook her head immediately. “No. I can’t. He’d never forgive me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Besides… this isn’t the first time.”

Alice went still.

“I’ve cheated before,” Cindy admitted, staring at the floor.

Alice exhaled slowly. This was far bigger than she’d expected. “Okay,” she said at last. “Well I won’t tell anyone. But Cindy, you need to figure out what you actually want. Because this?” She gestured weakly toward the door. “This isn’t going to end well.”

Cindy nodded, eyes shining miserably.

With a sigh, Alice helped her straighten her dress and guided her back out into the reception, settling her beside Nick—who looked just as bored and distant as ever.

As Alice walked away, guilt and sadness twisted in her chest. What Cindy had done wasn’t right. But she couldn’t deny the truth either—Nick never tried to match Cindy’s brightness, never met her halfway. And somehow, that made everything hurt a little more.

Cindy lingered in Alice’s thoughts longer than she wanted to admit. Her sister had always worn confidence like armor—bright smiles, loud laughter, effortless charm. You’d never guess anything was wrong beneath it. Alice supposed she’d learned that trick from their father.

Still, tonight was her wedding night, and Alice refused to let anyone else’s unhappiness dull it.

The party stretched late into the night, music thundering, laughter spilling over itself. She danced until her feet ached, Alastor spinning Alice across the floor with theatrical flair as cheers followed them wherever they went. At one point she was certain she’d never laughed so hard in her life. It felt unreal and wonderful.

Eventually, though, the night wound down. By the time they made their exit, Alice was pleasantly drunk, clinging to Alastor’s arm in the car, giggling and slurring heartfelt declarations of love every few minutes.

“You know,” she said seriously, poking his chest, “I really love you. Like. A lot, a lot.”

“How reassuring,” Alastor replied dryly, though his smile gave him away.

Back at Alastor’s studio, exhaustion hit them both at once. Alice kicked off her shoes and promptly collapsed onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. Alastor joined her, loosening his tie and flopping down beside her.

For a while, they simply lay there, the quiet wrapping around them like a blanket.

Then Alice frowned slightly.

Married couples usually did things on their wedding night. Things she had never particularly wanted to do.

The thought made her stomach twist. It wasn’t fear, exactly—just discomfort. The idea had never appealed to her, and after her ex-fiancé, it appealed even less. At best it sounded awkward. At worst… deeply unpleasant.

But, Alastor was surely expecting something.

She turned her head toward him, hesitant. “Um. You know… what married couples usually do on their wedding night, right? Do you… want to…?”

Alastor stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Ah.” He cleared his throat. “Well. I suppose we could, if that’s something you’d like. Unless you’re tired. Which would be perfectly understandable. Exhaustion is very—”

She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Sure.”

He turned to her at once, eyes narrowing. “That was not convincing.”

Alice winced. “I just— I’ve never really been excited about it, but if you wanted to, I mean—”

“Not really,” Alastor said promptly, a beat too fast.

She blinked. “Wait. Really?”

Alastor sighed “Frankly, I’ve never understood the appeal. Messy. Awkward. Entirely too much… everything.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then a quiet understanding hit them both, and relief washed over them like a wave.

Alice let out a long, heartfelt breath. “Oh, thank God.”

Alastor chuckled softly. “Seems we’re rather well matched, my dear.”

She smiled, warm and a little sleepy. “Yeah. I suppose we are.”

They shifted closer, curling up together easily, comfortably—no expectations, no pressure. Just warmth, laughter, and the quiet certainty that she’d married someone who truly understood her.

Outside, the storm raged on.

But inside, Alice felt perfectly safe.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Alice woke with her cheek pressed to Alastor’s bare chest, his steady heartbeat grounding her in the soft haze between sleep and waking. Sunlight filtered in pale and thin through the curtains. For a moment, everything was quiet—

Then came a knock at the front door.

Sharp. Insistent.

Alastor stirred beneath her. Alice blinked, lifting her head. “Who’s…at the door?” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Alastor said, his voice still low and rough with sleep.

He sat up and moved with practiced efficiency, swinging his legs over the bed and pulling on a white button-down, fingers fastening the cuffs a little too neatly, a little too quickly. Alice noticed it in a distant way as she slipped into a soft house robe, tying it loosely at the waist.

She watched him pause at the bedroom door, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders.

“Alastor,” she said quietly, half-joking, half-not. “I swear to God, that had better not be the police.”

He glanced back at her, smiling easily—but there was a brief, unreadable stillness in his eyes, gone as soon as it appeared. “Ha! That would be impossible, my dear,” he said lightly. “I’ve been positively domesticated as of late, you know that.”

They headed downstairs together. Alastor reached the door first. His hand rested on the knob for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he opened it.

It wasn’t the police.

Alice’s mother stood on the front step, pale and drawn, her hands clasped tight in front of her. Beside her were Cindy and her husband, both wearing the same strained, uneasy expressions.
Alice’s heart dropped.

“Oh—Mama? Cindy?” she said. “What’s going on? I thought you’d all be headed home by now.”

Cindy swallowed hard. “Well, that was the plan,” she said. “But… Daddy never came back to the hotel last night. And when he still hadn’t shown up this morning, we—” Her voice wavered. “We filed a missing persons report.”

Alice felt the air leave her lungs. “Missing?” she whispered.

Her mother stepped forward, eyes glassy. Alice wrapped her arms around her without thinking, pulling Cindy into the embrace as well. Her mother felt smaller than Alice remembered, fragile in a way that made her chest ache.

“We came to see if maybe he’d stopped by here,” her mother said softly. “We asked around, called home, had the staff check the house—nothing. He’s just… gone.”

Alice’s thoughts spun uselessly. Gone. The word felt unreal, too large to hold.

“Well,” her mother continued after a moment, forcing steadiness into her voice, “we’ll be heading back soon. We just wanted you to know.”

“Of course,” Alice said quickly. “I’ll call immediately if I hear anything. I’m sure they’ll find him.”

Her mother hugged her again, then turned and embraced Alastor as well. “Take care of my daughter, Alastor. Keep her safe.” she told him quietly.

Alastor’s hands rested at her back, polite, proper. “Always,” he said.

When they left, the house felt unnaturally still.

Alastor busied himself in the kitchen soon after, the clink of pans and the smell of frying ham filling the silence. Alice sat at the table, twisting her fingers together as he set down a plate of eggs in front of her.

“This is all so…odd,” Alice said finally. “Why would he just decide to disappear, he had no reason too. I mean—he had an entire congregation back home. People who thought of him only second to God himself, why on Earth would he leave that.”

Alastor shrugged, a casual roll of one shoulder, as he sat down. “Stranger things have happened.”

Alice eyed him over the rim of her teacup. “Alastor,” she said, narrowing her eyes just a touch, “you wouldn’t kill—”

He looked up at once. “My dear Alice,” he interrupted smoothly, almost gently. “Of course not.”

She exhaled, embarrassed by the thought even crossing her mind. “I know. I just—I just don’t understand why he would leave our family, leave my Mama, like this."

“It is strange but, you know, New Orleans does have a way of… swallowing people,” Alastor replied mildly. “Especially those who arrive convinced of their own self righteousness.”

Alice snorted. “Oh, really? What? Did you cast some voodoo spell that dragged him into the spirit realm?”

His smile turned sly. “No, no. That particular idea was reserved for your former fiancé. Tragically, he fled before I could test the theory.”

Alice laughed despite herself, the sound easing something tight in her chest. Alastor watched her over the rim of his coffee, his expression softening at the sound.

Alice stirred her tea, her mind far away, then hesitated. “This is going to sound awful,” she admitted. “But… part of me feels relieved. At least this means he probably didn’t choose to miss our wedding.”

Alastor hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose that is one way to look at it”. He then downed the rest of his black coffee and stood up. “Now, eat up, my darling. We have a radio show to broadcast in a few hours.”

—

Days blurred into weeks, and weeks quietly folded into months—with no answers on Alice’s father’s disappearance.

The police questioned anyone who might have seen John Everglow. Every story ended the same way: the night before her wedding, he’d been spotted near the docks, standing alone with a cigarette, staring out at the water. That was the last confirmed sighting.

They did find blood near the pier, just stains worked into the warped wood—but it was dismissed as fish blood from the trawlers that came and went at all hours. New Orleans was full of messes like that. The report was filed. Leads dried up. The case went cold.

It was hard, in a quiet, unresolved way. Not knowing was worse than grief—it left questions hanging in the air, unanswered and probably unanswerable. Alice mourned the absence more than the man himself, the fact that there would never be an explanation, never a reason she could point to and say, this is why.

But life, relentless and indifferent, continued on.

Alice kept in touch with Cindy, and through her, learned something unexpected: their mother was… thriving. Without her husband’s constant presence, she had begun leaving the house more often. She joined church outings, took walks, laughed louder. Cindy said she had never seen their mother look so light, so radiant.

Hearing that stirred something complicated in Alice’s chest—sadness braided tightly with relief.

Maybe her father’s disappearance wasn’t just cruelty or chance. Maybe it was fate untangling something that had been knotted too tightly for too long.

Alice never said that thought aloud. But sometimes, late at night, curled beside Alastor, listening to the city breathe around them, she allowed herself to believe it.

—

Ten whole years passed like a record spinning—one song bleeding softly into the next.

In that time, New Orleans changed, the way living things do—slowly at first, and then all at once.

The Roaring Twenties roared louder with every passing year. Streets glowed late into the night beneath strings of electric lights. Jazz spilled from open doors and second-story windows, brass and laughter tangling in the humid air. Radios crackled in parlors and kitchens, their warm hum becoming as common as the cicadas at dusk. And woven through it all was a familiar voice—smooth, theatrical, impossible to mistake.

Alastor Broussard’s.

What had once been a modest radio program grew into something far larger, much larger.

Alastor’s show expanded first by minutes, then by hours, then by reach. Stations as far as Baton Rouge and Mobile carried his broadcasts. Advertisers lined up, eager to hear their names spoken in that velvet drawl. The papers took notice.

The Golden Voice of the Gulf.

New Orleans’ Gentleman of the Airwaves.

The headlines grew bolder as the years passed, his name praised and printed in thick black ink that smudged faintly on Alice’s fingers when she clipped them out. She kept every article in a small wooden box tucked beneath their bed, smoothing each crease with reverent care, as though the paper itself were fragile and holy. Sometimes, late at night, she would lift the lid and read them all again—smiling softly, marveling at how the city had fallen in love with the man she had fallen in love with first.

And Alastor wasn’t the only one whose star rose.

Mimzy’s ascent was sudden and spectacular. One sharp-eyed gentleman spotted her dancing under hot stage lights in a smoky club, feathers shaking and smile dazzling—and just like that, she was whisked onto the silver screen. Her name flickered across marquees, her face larger than life in picture houses across the city. If anything, her ego grew faster than her fame, but she wore it with the same unapologetic sparkle she always had.

Despite the glitz, Mimzy never vanished from Alice’s life. She still breezed through, trailing perfume and laughter, collapsing dramatically onto furniture and recounting her latest escapades as if they were scenes from a play. She remained Alice’s first true friend in New Orleans—the one who had welcomed her into this loud, jazzy world with open arms.

Every now and then, Mimzy would join Alastor on the radio, the two of them trading clever remarks and playful jabs like seasoned vaudeville performers. Their voices danced together over the airwaves, familiar and beloved, while Alice listened from the wings with a fond smile.

And then, one afternoon, everything shifted again.

Alastor announced—far too calmly—that he had a surprise. Before Alice could pry a single detail from him, he tied a silk scarf over her eyes and guided her into the car, his hand warm and steady at the small of her back. He drove clear across the city without a word, humming softly to himself while Alice tried—and failed—to guess what he was up to.

When the car finally stopped, he helped her out, careful as always, his touch reassuring. The sounds of New Orleans drifted around them: a streetcar bell in the distance, footsteps on pavement, laughter floating from somewhere unseen.

“Ready?” he asked pleasantly.

He slipped the blindfold away.

For a moment, Alice forgot how to breathe.

Before them stood a three-story townhouse just off St. Charles Avenue—tall and elegant, its pale façade glowing in the afternoon sun. Wrought-iron balconies curled along each floor like black lace, ivy climbing the brickwork as if it had claimed the place long ago. The windows were high and proud, promising light and space, and the front door stood solid and dignified beneath a small iron canopy. Somewhere nearby, a streetcar rattled past, grounding the moment in the living, breathing city around them.

“I do believe this will do us quite nicely,” Alastor said lightly, as though he were commenting on the weather. “Don’t you think, my dear?”

Alice turned to him slowly, eyes wide. “What?” she breathed. Then, louder, disbelieving, “You mean—this is ours?”

His smile widened, pleased. “Signed the papers this morning. Plenty of room for entertaining. A proper kitchen.” He tilted his head, watching her closely. “And perhaps—even—a small library for you.”

That did it.

Alice laughed, a soft, breathless sound, clutching Alastor’s arm as though the house might disappear if she didn’t hold on tight enough. Joy bubbled up so suddenly it almost hurt.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice hushed with awe. “It looks like a real home.”

And it was.

Inside, the house filled quickly with life.

Alice polished the floors until they gleamed like honeyed wood, threw open the tall windows to let in warm air and the constant music of the city—streetcars rattling past, laughter drifting up from the sidewalk, the distant pulse of jazz. She decorated each room with care and softness: lace curtains, vases of fresh flowers, framed illustrations and pressed leaves tucked into corners.

Alastor, of course, added his own unmistakable touches.

Red furniture—deep crimson velvet and lacquered wood—appeared as if by decree. Then came the skulls. Taxidermy pieces from occasional bayou hunts with his cousins, mounted with far too much pride. Alice eyed them warily.

“They’re… very bold,” she said diplomatically.

“They add character,” Alastor replied, grinning.

But even in the midst of their happiness, loss found its way to them.

Alice’s mother passed quietly one spring morning, slipping away as gently as she had lived. The news struck Alice like a sudden storm, stealing the air from her lungs. With her gone, there was no one left. Both of her parents were dead now, and the finality of it felt unbearable, like a door closing forever.

Alice didn’t know how to grieve. Some nights she cried until her chest ached; others, she lay awake in silence, staring into the dark, unsure what hurt more.

Alastor never left her side.

He held her through the worst of it, night after night, pressing her head against his chest while her sobs shook them both. He didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t offer hollow reassurances or grand speeches. He simply stayed—one hand steady at her back, the other tangled in her hair.

When Alice spoke of her mother—small memories, half-formed thoughts, the ache of things she wished she’d said—Alastor listened. Truly listened. And when she fell quiet, he murmured stories of his own mother in return, his voice stripped of its usual charm and performance. No showmanship. No grin. Just honesty.

“I know,” he said softly, again and again.

And somehow, it was enough.

Time, slow and unkind, moved forward as it always does. The grief never vanished, but it softened at the edges. And even with that loss etched into their lives, they found their way back to each other, settling into a gentle, familiar rhythm—quiet mornings, shared meals, and the unspoken understanding that whatever else the world took from them, they would not face it alone.

Even with the painful loss. They settled easily into a domestic rhythm.

Alice did her part to keep the house looking immaculate, she found comfort in routine, while Alastor insisted—absolutely insisted—on doing most of the cooking. Evenings were filled with the clatter of pots and pans and the rich smells of butter, spices, and simmering sauces, Alastor humming to himself as if the kitchen were another stage.

As his radio fame grew, so did the operation behind it. Alastor hired a full crew, which meant Alice no longer needed to be at the studio constantly—though she remained deeply involved. She would occasionally write scripts for his show, crafting dialogue and segments with wit and warmth.

“These are brilliant, my dear,” Alastor would say, waving the pages dramatically. “You ought to be publishing books instead of wasting your talents on me.”
Eventually, he convinced her to give it a try.

Alice didn’t expect much at first. But once she began, she found herself utterly enchanted. Creating worlds of her own—gentle ones, hopeful ones—was intoxicating. She wrote romance most often, stories full of longing and devotion, though sometimes she wandered into other genres when the mood struck.

She marveled at herself sometimes. The girl who once knew only Bible stories now wrote her own. She was proud of that growth—fiercely proud.

They traded pages in the evenings. Alice read his radio scripts; Alastor read her rough drafts. His critiques were honest—sometimes painfully so—but she valued them. Some manuscripts took years to complete. Each time she finished one, she sent it off to publishers with hope.

And each time, rejection followed.

Polite letters. Vague excuses. Silence.

Every one cut deeper than the last.

One evening, after yet another rejection arrived, Alice sat at the dining table staring at the paper in her hands.

“They’re throwing away gold,” Alastor scoffed, reading over her shoulder. “Absolute fools, the lot of them.”

Alice sighed. “Maybe I’m just not good enough, Alastor. I don’t know why I let myself hope. It was a foolish dream anyway.”

He stilled.

The grin vanished from his face. In a rare moment of complete sincerity, he stepped behind her chair and rested his hands on her shoulders.

“Don’t ever say that.”

She looked up, startled by the intensity in his voice.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, “I should have a word with these publishers. I have a suspicion they’re refusing you because of our last name.”

Alice knew exactly what he meant. There were whispers, sideways glances, doors that closed a little too quickly—judgment for marrying a mixed man. Even at the church she still attended, there were those who looked at her differently.

She refused to care.

She rolled her eyes. “Dear, if you kill all the publishers, I won’t have anyone left to send my manuscripts to. And besides—if they won’t publish me because of my name, then they don’t deserve my work.”

Alastor sighed softly. “Cher,” he murmured, his voice low and earnest. “You are brilliant. Never forget that. These people wouldn’t recognize genius if it danced naked in front of them singing jazz.”
Alice laughed. “That’s… quite the image.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “You will be published. I have no doubt. And when you are, the whole world will see what I already know—you are extraordinary.”

She reached up and squeezed his hand, letting his certainty steady her.

Even if the world didn’t believe in her yet, Alastor did.

That was enough.

Even though Alice’s writing never truly took flight, money arrived all the same—steady, plentiful, almost effortless.

She found herself owning things she’d never once allowed herself to dream of. A car of her own, glossy and new, dresses Alastor surprised her with simply because he liked the way certain colors looked against her skin. Evenings blurred together in champagne-lit rooms, laughter spilling too loud and too freely, music pulsing through grand houses that smelled of perfume and cigars.

They were invited everywhere now—especially to lavish dinner parties hosted by the city’s newest wealthy elite, men who had made their fortunes riding the ever-rising wave of the stock market. Alice often found it quietly amusing how full circle it all felt.

In the beginning, The only way they were ever invited to rich parties, was on Christmas eve when they were ‘caroling’. Wandered through rich neighborhoods singing Christmas songs, half for fun and half for mischief. That tradition never truly died. Even now, every Christmas Eve, they returned to the same grand houses, drank far too much champagne, and played just as many pranks—but—now they were expected guests, and had to behave, mostly.

As fun as the parties were, Alice still felt a chill the moment she crossed the threshold. Eyes followed them—lingering, assessing. Smiles stretched thin and brittle. Whispers floated just out of reach, sharp enough that she could almost feel them scrape her skin. Some were aimed at Alastor—his skin, his voice, his success. Others found their way to Alice instead.

How could she marry a man like that?

Surely it was for the money.

Alice pretended not to hear. It was more polite to try and keep the peace.

But perusal, Alastor noticed everything.

He never directly commented. Never directly confronted. He simply smiled wider, stood a little straighter, and rested a hand at the small of Alice’s waist—possessive, deliberate. His gaze would linger on certain faces a moment too long. He’d ask questions later, casually, as if out of idle curiosity. Where did they live? What line of work were they in?

Alice knew that look now. The quiet calculation behind his eyes.

She knew what it meant.

Murder.

Alastor had begun disappearing more and more often—slipping out late at night, sometimes not returning until dawn, sometimes not until the following evening. On those nights, Alice would at least leave something warm on the stove, just in case. More often than not, it went untouched. On those nights, Alastor was eating elsewhere—at the cabin, he explained, so Alice didn’t have to fret over him.

Alice hated it.

Sometimes there were names in the newspaper—men reported missing after saying some hurtful words to him. Sometimes there was blood on his clothes she pretended not to see. Sometimes Alastor would come home too quiet, too satisfied, his smile lingering longer than usual.

Alice told herself it would slow down. One day, he would realize he didn’t have to be so harsh. That he didn’t have to see the world as something to punish.
And sometimes—sometimes—she believed she saw proof.

It took more now to set him off. A disgusted look that once might have ended in a sharp knife, would instead be met with a tightening of his jaw, a narrowing of his eyes. Alice had learned those signs well. In those moments, she would slip her hand into his, grounding him. She could feel the tension ease beneath her touch, watching the darkness fade from his expression.

To Alice, that meant she was helping.

That her kindness was smoothing his sharp edges.

She told herself it was less frequent now.

She told herself she was making a difference.

But other than that, life was still good.

Alice made a habit of reminding herself of that—especially on quiet evenings when the house glowed warm with lamplight and Alastor’s voice drifted in from the radio room, rich and steady as ever. She had a home. She had safety. She had a husband who adored her in his own peculiar, unwavering way.

Once, Alastor sat sprawled on the sofa, the afternoon paper spread neatly in his hands, the faint crackle of the radio humming in the background. After a moment, his eyes drifted from the print to the wall across the room. He studied it with theatrical seriousness, head tilting slightly.

“You know,” he said at last, tapping the paper closed, “that wall is dreadfully bare. An oil painting would improve it immensely, you think? Something tasteful. Dramatic. I’d even allow you to choose it, my dear.” A pause, then a grin. “Two, if you’re feeling indulgent.”

Alice glanced up from where she was curled beside him and smiled, soft and amused. She shifted closer, resting her head against his shoulder.
“I don’t need an oil painting,” she said gently. “All I need is you. And a roof that doesn’t leak.”

Alastor let out a low chuckle, folding the newspaper with careful precision. “My dear,” he replied, mock-offended, “I refuse to let my wife live under a leaking ceiling. That would be an absolute stain on my reputation.”

She laughed, warm and unguarded, burying her face against his chest. His arm settled around her without thought, solid and familiar.

Life was good.

But then, the world broke.

The Great Depression hit.

The stock market collapsed almost overnight, and it dragged more than half the country down with it. Fortunes vanished. Businesses shuttered. Men who once threw champagne-soaked parties now stood in breadlines with hollow eyes. New Orleans—once bursting with music, color, and heat—grew quieter. Jazz clubs closed their doors. Speakeasies went dark. Laughter faded from the streets, replaced by hunger and desperation.

Families were forced from their homes. Shantytowns sprang up along the edges of the city, tin and scrap wood stitched together into fragile shelter. Children wandered barefoot. Mothers clutched empty baskets.

Alice watched it all with a heavy heart.

While, Alastor watched it all with a different expression.

He had never trusted the stock market—called it “a gentleman’s roulette table.” Radio endured. His show still aired nightly, advertisers still paid, and their home remained warm and full.

Sometimes, Alastor listened to the radio reports with thinly veiled amusement. Former critics ruined. Men who once sneered at him are now begging for work.

“Well,” he remarked one night, sipping his coffee, “it appears the mighty have discovered gravity.”

Alice shot him a look. “Alastor.”

“Oh, don’t give me that tone,” he said lightly. “You know many of these people wouldn’t spare a dime for others when they had it.”

She hesitated. Quietly, she said, “That doesn’t mean they deserve this.”

He studied her for a long moment. Then his smile softened—just a fraction.

“No,” he admitted. “But I won’t pretend I don’t find the irony delicious.”

Alice sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. She didn’t fully agree—but she understood him well enough now to know when not to argue.

Life was still good. Not easy. Not fair. But good—in the ways that mattered.

And Alice held onto that, even as the world around them fell apart.

But she refused to do nothing.

“I can’t just sit here,” Alice said one morning, tying her coat with brisk determination. “Not while people are starving. We should do something.”

Alastor lounged against the door frame, arms crossed, watching her with mild amusement. “My dear,” he said lightly, “you are aware that neither you nor I are personally responsible for the collapse of the nation’s economy.”

Alice shot him a look. “You know, you could at least pretend to care.”

He smiled, unapologetic. “And deprive you of my honesty? I would never.”

She huffed, grabbing her gloves. “This isn’t just about rich people losing their fancy houses. Good, honest folks are out there with nothing. Families. Children. Surely we could spare a little—make a donation, help somehow.”

Alastor studied her for a long moment, his expression softening just a fraction. “Mon dieu,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Your heart is far too big for your own good, chérie.”
Alice crossed her arms. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” he said smoothly, then reached out and straightened her collar. “But it is one of my favorite flaws.”

She faltered, then smiled despite herself. “So… you’ll help?”

He sighed theatrically. “I will concede that it is… unfortunate to see so many innocents caught in the fallout. However,” he added, gently tapping her nose, “we must also be sensible. We take care of ourselves first.”

She knew when she was beaten. With a small sigh, she leaned up and kissed his cheek. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he replied, smiling as he opened the door for her, “you married me anyway.”

It was a dead end.

Thankfully, her church had already organized soup kitchens and charity drives, and Alice threw herself into the work with all the quiet determination Alastor knew so well. She stirred great pots until her arms ached, handed out bread until her fingers went numb, listened to stories she wished she could forget.

At night, she prayed—not only for Alastor, but for the city, for the country, for people she would never meet.

As the weeks wore on, something subtle but insistent began to unravel inside Alice.

At first, it was nothing alarming—just a chill that lingered too long, a sore throat that refused to fade. She told herself it was exhaustion, the damp cold clinging to the city, too many long days and too little rest. She had weathered worse before.

So she pushed through it.

She kept the house in order, helped Alastor with his ever-expanding radio work, and continued her days at the soup kitchens, ladling meals with a gentle smile even when her hands trembled. New Orleans was still hurting. She wouldn’t abandon people who needed her over something as small as a lingering illness.

But the illness did not remain small.

Her tongue swelled, thick and uncomfortable in her mouth. Food lost its appeal entirely. Angry red rashes bloomed across her skin like warning flares she pretended not to see. She hid them beneath sleeves and high collars, brushing off Alastor’s concerned glances with soft reassurances—just a cold, just tired, nothing to fuss over.

Alastor noticed anyway.

He always did.

Still, Alice smiled. Still, she insisted she was fine.

Then came the night everything finally gave way.

Alastor had invited her to the studio, eager to have her nearby while he worked. Alice agreed, though her body felt wrong—heavy and distant, as though she were moving through water. She masked it well, standing just off to the side as Alastor went on air, his voice smooth and confident, filling the room like velvet and warmth.

She loved listening to him.

The studio lights burned softly. The room was warm. Too warm.

And yet Alice was freezing.

A violent chill seized her, rattling deep in her bones. Her knees trembled. The floor seemed to tilt, the edges of the world blurring. She reached out instinctively, fingers grasping for balance that never came.

Alastor’s voice faltered mid-broadcast.

Alice never heard what he said next.

The last things she registered were the sharp scrape of his chair as it slammed backward, the sudden break in his carefully controlled tone, and the sound of her name—urgent, frightened—ripped from his throat.

Then the darkness rose to meet her.

—

Chapter Text

Alice woke as if clawing her way up from deep, black water.

Her vision swam—white light bleeding into shadows, the air thick and sour with antiseptic. Her entire body ached, bones rattling with cold no matter how many blankets weighed her down. Her head throbbed, ears ringing so loudly it felt like the world was splitting apart. She tried to swallow and hissed in pain, her throat raw and burning.

A stranger loomed over her—tired eyes, solemn mouth. A doctor, she realized distantly.

Her gaze drifted, unfocused, until it caught on something far more alarming.

Alastor.

He looked… broken.

His usual sharp composure was gone entirely. His tie hung loose around his collar, sleeves rolled past his elbows, dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes. His hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. He was standing far too close to the doctor, voice low but shaking with fury.

“Non, non—don’t you dare say that,” Alastor snapped, accent thickening as his control slipped. “You will do something. You are a doctor, bon sang!”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Broussard,” the doctor said carefully. “Her condition is severe. If she had been treated sooner—”

“I DIDN’T KNOW!” Alastor roared, the sound tearing out of him. “I didn’t know it was scarlet fever! Don’t you dare put this on me.” His voice cracked, sharp and raw. “You will save her. I don’t care what it costs, I don’t care what rules you break—she will not die. Tu m’entends? Elle est tout ce que j’ai!”

The room spun. Alice mustered what little strength she had and croaked, her voice barely more than a breath.

“…Why are you yelling?”

Alastor froze.

He snapped his head to her. When he saw her eyes open—cloudy, unfocused, but alive—something inside him shattered. He crossed the room in two strides, dropping to her side, taking her hand like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

“Alice,” he whispered, voice breaking completely. “Cher… oh, thank God.”

Tears welled in his eyes, spilling over before he could stop them. Alice’s heart lurched at the sight—she had never seen him cry, not once. It terrified her more than the doctor, more than the pain, more than the cold.

“You scared me,” he murmured, pressing her hand to his cheek, breath hitching. “Bon Dieu, you scared me so bad.”

The doctor cleared his throat softly, the sound almost swallowed by the heavy silence in the room.

“Mrs. Broussard, you are suffering from a very severe case of scarlet fever. Your husband mentioned you’ve been involved in charity work. That is likely where you contracted it.”

Alastor’s fingers tightened around Alice’s hand as if the words themselves were an attack. His breathing grew sharp, uneven. His jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might crack.

“I should have never let you go out there,” he snapped, his voice rising, trembling with fury and terror. “Jamais. I should’ve stopped you.” He laughed once—short, bitter. “Running yourself ragged for people who wouldn’t spare you a second glance. Bon Dieu, Alice—” His voice broke into a shout. “You are such a foolish, foolish girl!”

The words echoed harshly.

Alice flinched.

She had never heard him yell at her. Not once. The sting of it hurt worse than the fever burning through her veins. She turned her face away, eyes glassy, shame settling heavy in her chest.

The moment her gaze left him, Alastor froze.

His anger collapsed in on itself, twisting into something far uglier—fear. Guilt. He swore softly under his breath, “Merde…” and loosened his grip, his thumb gently rubbing over her knuckles as if trying to erase the damage he’d just done.

“I—” His voice dropped, raw and unsteady. “Ma chérie… I’m sorry.” The word tasted like ash. “I shouldn’t have—”

Alice slowly looked back at him. She managed a weak, crooked smile.

“They needed help,” she whispered hoarsely. “And if I said I regretted it… you’d know I’d be lying, why would I deprive you of my honesty.”

Alastor exhaled shakily, his shoulders sagging as though something vital had been ripped from him. He shook his head and carefully brushed a loose strand of hair from her fever-warm face. His eyes were red now, rimmed with unshed tears.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, voice trembling—but there was fondness there, devotion, the kind that hurt. “Trop bon pour ce monde… far too good.”

He turned sharply toward the doctor, regaining a brittle edge. “Alright. If you're not a useless doctor then tell me—what can you do?”

The doctor hesitated. “Strict bed rest, without question. I can administer a horse blood serum, but you must understand—the odds are not favorable. We can only pray. May God—”

Alastor shot to his feet, chair scraping violently across the floor.

“Don’t you dare,” he snapped, fury blazing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! Elle va vivre—do you hear me? She will survive this!”

Alice barely found the strength to lift herself. “Alastor… please—”

Both men rushed to her side instantly.

“Non, non, chère,” Alastor said urgently, guiding her back down, panic seeping into every word. “Don’t move. Don’t you dare move.” His hands trembled as he held her, like she might shatter. “Stay still for me.”

The doctor nodded firmly. “Mrs. Broussard, you must rest. Every ounce of strength matters now.”

After giving them what remedies he could and a long list of instructions, the doctor quietly excused himself, leaving the room thick with dread.

Alastor remained at her side, refusing to let go of her hand.

Despite the terror crushing his chest, despite the rage burning in his blood, he looked at her with something close to awe.

Alice—his Alice—selfless to the point of ruin, kind in a world that punished kindness.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead gently to her knuckles, his voice barely a whisper now, breaking apart.

“I won’t lose you,” he murmured fiercely. “Pas toi. Pas maintenant. Not ever.”

And he meant it.

The days dragged on, heavy and merciless, and Alice only worsened.

The fever refused to break. It burned through her in waves—one moment leaving her shivering so hard the bed rattled, the next leaving her drenched in sweat, breath shallow and uneven. Her throat was swollen nearly shut, every swallow an agony. Food became impossible. Even water was a struggle. She faded before Alastor’s eyes, growing weaker by the hour.

And Alastor did not leave her.

Not once.

He sat at her bedside day and night, sleeves rolled, collar undone, the sharp scent of exhaustion clinging to him. He pressed cool cloths to her burning skin, whispered for her to drink just one more sip, just a little, chérie, please. When the fever dreams seized her—when she cried out to people who weren’t there or clutched at him in blind terror—he held her hand and anchored her back to the world.
She had never seen him like this.

The man who once thrived on control, on sharp words and sharper smiles, became gentle to the point of reverence. He spoke softly, as though afraid the sound of his voice might shatter her. He told jokes she barely had the strength to laugh at, read her stories in that smooth, velvet voice even when she slipped in and out of consciousness. Anything, anything to coax a smile from her pale lips.
But Alastor himself was unraveling.

Dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes. His hands sometimes trembled when he thought she wasn’t looking. At night, when Alice drifted into uneasy sleep, she would wake to find him still there—sitting rigid in the chair beside the bed, eyes locked on her chest, counting every rise and fall of her breath. Measuring it. Guarding it.

As if his watching alone could keep her alive.

One night, long past midnight, Alice stirred.

The room glowed faintly with candlelight, shadows crawling along the walls. There was a strange scent in the air—metallic, sharp, unfamiliar. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first.

Alastor was hunched over the nightstand, shoulders tight, murmuring words she did not understand under his breath. Chalk symbols were scrawled across the wood in careful, deliberate lines—circles, sigils, things Alice didn’t recognize.

“…What on earth are you doing?” she croaked.

Alastor startled violently, knocking over a small vial of dark liquid. It clinked and rolled across the table as he spun around, one hand flying to his chest.

“Mon dieu—Alice!” he hissed, breathless. “You scared the hell out of me!”

She let out a weak, rasping laugh, which immediately turned into a coughing fit.

He crossed the room in two strides, guilt flooding his face. “Easy, easy,” he murmured, helping her settle back against the pillows. His voice softened. “You shouldn’t be talking, or awake, go back to sleep.”

She glanced past him at the chalk marks, eyes tired but curious. “You look like you’re about to summon something.”

He hesitated, then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just… trying to help. Speed things up a little.” His jaw tightened.

Alice smiled faintly. “If you really want me to get better,” she whispered, “you should pray.”

He scoffed gently, though there was no real bite in it. “Oh really? How about I do my thing, you do yours, and between the two of us—” He brushed his thumb carefully along her hand. “—We'll get rid of this sickness once and for all.”

She chuckled, hoarse and fragile, but sincere.

As the days blurred together, Alice began to notice the quiet changes.

Alastor only ever left the house to go to work—and even then, he returned as if pulled by a string. If he went to the grocer, he came straight back. No lingering. No late nights. No blood on his cuffs. No strange silences that followed him home like ghosts.

He wasn’t killing.

At first, Alice didn’t want to mention it, scared it would send him back into his…hobby. So she kept the thought tucked carefully in her chest, like a fragile secret. In her fevered, hazy state, it made her strangely happy. Maybe this—this—was what it took. Maybe her suffering was the thing that finally stopped him.

The idea didn’t frighten her.

If her illness was the price of his restraint, then it was a price she would gladly pay. Perhaps this was her purpose all along—not to write something that lasted, not to be remembered by strangers, but to save a single soul. Even if it cost her own.

Then one night, everything unraveled.

Alice was so weak she could barely lift her head from the pillow. Each breath felt thin and shallow, as though her lungs were forgetting how to work. Her skin was clammy, her body burning and freezing all at once. The air in the room felt heavy, pressing down on her chest.

Neither of them said it. Neither dared to name the fear sitting between them.

But they both knew.

This might be the end.

Alastor sat at her bedside, one hand gripping hers as though he could anchor her to the world by sheer will alone. His other hand trembled as he pressed a cool cloth to her forehead, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

Trying to ease the suffocating weight of the moment, Alice summoned what little strength she had left and gave him a crooked, tired smile.

“Hey… Alastor?”

He leaned in at once, panic flashing across his face before he could mask it. “Shh—ma chère, don’t speak,” he murmured urgently, fingers tightening around hers. “You must save your strength.”

“I have to,” she whispered. “Just—one thing. I gotta know.”

Her grip on his hand weakly tightened, as if afraid he might slip away. “Why’d you stop?”

He frowned, confusion cutting through his fear. “Stop what, chère?”

Her breath hitched. “Why’d you stop… murdering?” The word came out hoarse, barely audible—and immediately sent her into a fit of coughing that shook her frail body.

Alastor froze.

Then he moved, swift and gentle all at once, lifting her slightly, rubbing slow circles into her back, murmuring soft nonsense in French under his breath until the coughing eased. “Easy, easy… mon cœur, I’ve got you. Breathe. That’s it.”

When the room finally settled, a heavy silence fell—thick, fragile, as if even the candles were holding their breath.
Alastor stared at her.

Not because of the question itself—but because she was asking it now. Because she was asking it like someone who knew this might be her last night.

Slowly, something in him cracked.

A faint, broken smile tugged at his mouth, more grief than humor. “Because,” he said quietly, “I am needed here most.”

Her eyes fluttered, struggling to focus. “Oh?”

His voice lost its polish then—no charm, no performance. Just raw truth. “Alice… you are the only soul on this miserable planet who truly knows me. Not the smile. Not the stories.” His throat tightened. “You see the monster behind it all—and you love me anyway.”

Alice tried to speak, but no sound came. Her lips moved, shaping the words ‘you’re not a monster’.

He saw it.

And something in Alastor shattered.

His breath hitched sharply. “Don’t,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t act like it’s your last night, it's not!” His thumb brushed over her knuckles, frantic and tender. “I’ll be damned if I let some cursed fever take you from me—not like this. Pas comme ça. Not after everything.”

Alice’s chest ached—not from sickness, but from the weight of his love, heavy and aching and real.

With the last scrap of strength she had, Alice smiled up at him—small, glassy-eyed, but warm.

“Maybe… maybe I finally changed you.”

He let out a shaky huff, something dangerously close to a laugh. “Now don’t go getting cocky on me, cher.”

But his hand trembled as he pressed the cool cloth back to her forehead, lingering there as though letting go might undo him. His voice broke, just barely, as he whispered, “Now hush. I mean it. You need to rest.”

Somehow—by stubborn will, by prayer, by whatever strange forces watched over her—Alice survived that night.

From then on, improvement came in agonizing inches. A little less fever one morning. A little more strength in her hands the next. Breathing without it burning. Sitting up without the room spinning quite so violently.

Weeks passed before she could truly say she was better.

The doctor was astonished she managed to pull through. But he told her plainly that her body would never fully recover—that scarlet fever had left its mark. She would be weaker now, more vulnerable to illness, her endurance forever diminished. He spoke gently, apologetically, as though he expected grief.

But Alice only smiled.

She was alive. That was enough.

Still, recovery was tedious. She spent most days confined to bed, wrapped in quilts, sunlight crawling slowly across the walls. She read every book she owned—twice. She wrote pages and pages of stories, her handwriting growing shaky by the end of each session. She even stared at the ceiling long enough to start naming the cracks, assigning them personalities, imagining their histories.

Boredom, it turned out, was its own kind of torment.

That was when she noticed the book.

It sat tucked away on a high shelf, leather cracked with age, its spine bowed from years of use. She had seen it many, many times before, it was Alastor’s old voodoo book. His mother’s. He never really touched it in front of Alice, never spoke of it unless pressed, and even then only vaguely.

Alice knew she probably shouldn’t open it. It went against her upbringing, her church, everything she had been taught. But it was also a big part of who her husband was.

Plus, she was bored. Achingly, bored.

So she did it anyway.

Carefully, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. The effort left her dizzy, her vision swimming, but she steadied herself and retrieved the book. By the time she returned to bed her heart was pounding, but she was proud of herself all the same.

She opened it.

The pages were yellowed and soft, edges frayed from years of turning. The book smelled faintly of smoke, herbs, and something metallic she couldn’t quite place. Inside were dense lines of writing—French, Creole, and English woven together—interrupted by symbols she didn’t recognize.

There were notes about gris-gris bags and what they were meant to protect against. Lists of herbs and roots—high john, sassafras, angelica—each annotated in the margins with warnings or blessings. Diagrams of veves, carefully drawn and redrawn as if someone had practiced them again and again until they were perfect. Mentions of crossroads, of spirits that listened better at midnight, of offerings left quietly and respectfully.

Some pages were gentle—prayers for protection, charms for luck or health. Others were darker, edged with intent, written in a firmer hand.

Alice was utterly fascinated.

She had always been curious about Alastor’s faith, the beliefs he had grown up with—but he had kept that part of himself carefully closed off. And Alice, loving him, had never forced the door open.

Alice was so engrossed, that she didn’t hear Alastor come home.

Alastor stepped into the bedroom with his arms full of groceries—and stopped dead in the doorway.

There she was. Propped up against pillows. Glasses perched on her nose. Completely absorbed in that book.

For a long moment, he simply stared.

Then a slow, delighted grin spread across his face.

Well. Isn’t this something.

He set the groceries down quietly, leaned against the doorframe, and lit a cigarette, watching her with open amusement. The sight was too good to interrupt—his sweet, devout wife nose-deep in his own mother’s voodoo book.

Finally, the faint curl of smoke reached her.

Alice inhaled—and froze.

She looked up and shrieked, snapping the book shut and flinging it into the air like it had bitten her.

Alastor burst into laughter, catching the book with ease. “By all means, my dear,” he said between laughs, “don’t let me interrupt.”

She clutched her chest, face flushed. “Alastor! You nearly killed me!”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” he teased, still grinning. “Besides, you’ve survived much worse this month.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, flipping through the pages fondly. “So,” he added lightly, “find anything interesting?”

Alice crossed her arms. “I was just bored.”

“And of all the books in this house,” he said, raising a brow, “you chose this one?”

She shrugged. “It was the only one I hadn’t read.”

That made him laugh again—softly this time. “Curiosity is a dangerous thing, darling.”

“Oh hush,” she said. “It’s very fascinating. I didn’t realize how much thought went into it.”

Something shifted in his expression then. He turned the book toward her. “Well… if you’re going to read it, you may as well understand it.”

And for the first time, he truly talked about it.

She had never seen him so passionate about something outside of radio. His hands moved animatedly as he spoke, his voice laced with something almost reverent.

The symbols, he told her, were not spells in the way most people imagined. They were calls. Invitations drawn in chalk or ash, veves meant to honor specific spirits, to let them know they were welcome. “You don’t command them,” he said, tapping one of the symbols with his finger. “You acknowledge them. Big difference, darling.”

Offerings, too, were misunderstood. Not bribes. Never bribes. They were gestures of respect—food, drink, music, candles—things given freely, without expectation. “If you come begging,” he murmured, “you’ll get nothing. If you come honest… well. Spirits respect honesty.”

He turned a few more pages, stopping at one crowded with notes in his mother’s looping French. Here, he spoke of herbs—what soothed fever, what eased pain, what strengthened the body when it was trying not to give up. He pointed out the ones he had used on her while she was sick, his finger lingering there just a moment too long. Roots boiled into bitter teas. Leaves burned and inhaled. Powders mixed only under certain moons.

“Some things,” he said more quietly, his fingers lingering over a symbol drawn in faded ink, “you never mix. Ever. My mother drilled that into me.” His jaw tightened at the memory. “Get it wrong, and you won’t heal, dear… you’ll harm. Sometimes you invite things you cannot send away.”

Alice smiled faintly, eyes warm despite her lingering weakness. “I had no idea you were slipping herbs into my drinks.”

She tilted her head, teasing. “But, I’m glad your mother taught you properly—before you started drugging my tea.”

Alastor scoffed, waving a dismissive hand, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Drugging? Absolutely not.” He sniffed, offended in the most theatrical way. “Think of it as… adding flavor.”

She laughed softly at that, the sound fragile but real, and leaned against his arm. Instinctively, he shifted closer, steadying her without comment.

Alastor went on, and on, told her about superstitions passed down like heirlooms. Don’t whistle at night. Never turn your back on an altar once it’s been dressed. Always thank what helped you, even if you don’t know what it was. Honestly, especially then.

And then, softer still, he spoke of belief.

Not hope. Not wishing. Belief—the kind that settled into your bones and stayed there, unshaken by fear or doubt. “That’s the real power,” he said, eyes dark and earnest. “All the symbols, all the herbs, all the rituals—they’re just tools. Without belief, they’re nothing.”

Alice watched him as he spoke, truly watched him. The careful way he handled the book. The reverence in his voice. The way his hands stilled and his voice softened when he spoke of his mother.

His hands moved as he talked, tracing invisible patterns in the air, reverent and precise.

Alice listened, utterly captivated.

She had never seen him like this—not showman, not killer, not radio star—but a son, a believer, a keeper of old traditions.

And she realized then that this, too, was a part of the man she loved.

Strange. Complicated.

And beautiful in its own way, just like Alastor.

Chapter Text

A few more weeks passed, and Alice recovered as much as she ever would.

She was grateful—deeply, grateful—to still be alive. But, Scarlet Fever had definitely left its mark on her. She could feel it, every day, in ways she couldn’t ignore. Her body was not the same. Her limbs tired quickly, trembling after the smallest exertion. Doing half of what she once managed left her dizzy and breathless. Her vision was worse now, it blurred or doubled, the world going soft around the edges.

It frustrated her more than she liked to admit.
She struggled with simple household tasks now. Cleaning took too much out of her. Reading was almost impossible and made her eyes ache. Writing—once so natural—came slower, clumsier, as if her hands no longer quite obeyed her thoughts. Some days, alone in the quiet house, she felt like a burden. Like a failure.

But Alastor never treated her as such. Not once.

However, Alice no longer felt like herself. She felt weak—helpless—trapped within the walls of her own home. It had been so long since she’d felt the sun warm her skin that the absence of it was beginning to gnaw at her, leaving her restless and half-mad with longing.

So when Sunday morning came, Alice finally felt well enough to try leaving the house. For the first time in well over a month, she dressed in her Sunday best, smoothing her skirt and pinning her hair with careful, deliberate fingers, as though the ritual itself might steady her.

Alastor wandered in as she finished, stopping short when he saw her.

“Well now,” he said lightly, eyes traveling over her with fond amusement, “don’t you look just darling, my dear. What’s the occasion? Trying on old clothes for nostalgia’s sake?”

“I’m going to church, actually. ” Alice replied.

Alastor blinked. “You’re doing what?”

She turned to face him “I’m. going. to. church.”

“No, you most certainly are not,” he said at once. “You’re still far too weak.”

“It’s been weeks, Alastor. I’m fine,” she insisted—just as her legs betrayed her. A sudden wave of weakness forced her to grab the wall to steady herself.

He was at her side instantly, an arm around her waist, holding her upright.

“Yes,” he said dryly, “you’re positively glowing with health.”

She sighed, resting against him. “Alastor, please. I haven’t left this house in… forever.”

Alastor’s jaw tightened. He was not fond of the idea of her overexerting herself—but he also couldn’t tune out the longing he heard in her voice.

“You know, if you’re this worried,” she added softly, looking up at him, “you could come with me.”

That made him pause.

In the ten years they’d been together, Alastor had never once stepped inside a church with her. Alice never pressed him to, though she heard the whispers—about the married woman who always sat alone in the pews.

But now, faced with Alice’s hopeful expression, with how thin and pale she still looked, he felt torn clean through.

Finally, he sighed. “Oh, alright. Fine. Just this once. This won’t happen again.”

Alice’s face lit up, a smile so bright it made the ache in his chest a little worth it.

Alastor went and dressed himself properly—pressed suit, polished shoes—and helped Alice into his car, one hand steadying her as if she were made of glass.

And for the first time, they went to church together.
The car hummed softly as it rolled through the streets of New Orleans. The Great Depression was still taking its toll on the city. Once the colorful city of Jazz and booze, now stripped of its electric energy.

Alastor drove one-handed, relaxed, the other tapping idly against the steering wheel.
After a moment, he glanced over at Alice, expression thoughtful—then faintly concerned.

“Cher—I, dear,” he said carefully correcting himself, “I feel it is only fair to warn you… I have never been to church. Not once. In my entire life. I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do.”

Alice smiled serenely, hands folded in her lap. “Oh, don’t worry you’ll be fine, just do what everyone else is doing, you’ll fit right in.”

He raised a brow. “That is deeply unconvincing.”

“And,” Alice added brightly, “you can call me cher. I think it’s sweet.”

Alastor huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “It just slipped out. Besides, I know you don’t know any French.”

“So?”

“You don’t know what it means.”

“I do now,” she said smugly. “It means dear.”

“Mmm,” he replied, unconvinced. “You can add one singular world to your dialect, congratulations."

Alice opened her mouth—paused—then shook her head. “No. I know more.”

“Oh?” He shot her a sideways look. “Do enlighten me.”

“We,” she said proudly. “It means yes.”

Alastor’s lips twitched, as if suppressing a humorous smile. He stared very hard at the road ahead.

“…Are you laughing at me?” she asked suspiciously.

He cleared his throat. “No. Not at all.”

“Then what?”

“So that’s it?” he pressed innocently. “That’s the full extent of your linguistic prowess?”

Alice frowned, thinking hard now. She stared out the window, brows knitting, lips moving silently.

“…Bonjour,” she said at last. “That means hello.”

“It actually means good morning,” Alastor corrected.

She threw her hands up. “That’s close enough!”

He chuckled. “Is it?”

“So that’s really all you’ve got?” he teased. “Three words?”

“No!” she protested. “There’s also—uh—” Her face lit up. “Baguette.”

That did it.

Alastor burst into laughter so hard he nearly swerved off the road. “Mon dieu—!” He gasped, gripping the wheel as he tried to regain control.

“Alice!”

She started laughing too, shoulders shaking. “What?
It’s a French word! Right?…”

“Very well then,” he said between breaths. “Tell me, cher—what does baguette mean in English?”

“…Bread?” she guessed, laughing harder.

They both lost it.

Alice laughed so hard it turned into a cough, and Alastor was instantly at her side, rubbing her back, concern slipping in beneath the amusement.

“Easy now,” he murmured. “Careful.”

When she finally caught her breath, he smirked. “We are absolutely working on your French.”

She wiped her eyes, still grinning. “Hey, I think I’ve got a pretty good start.”

“Mmm,” he said dryly. “Yes. A very strong foundation.”

They soon arrived at the church still smiling, the last traces of laughter clinging to them like warmth against the cold winter air. Alice slipped her hand around Alastor’s arm and guided him inside, comforted by his presence even as she felt the familiar hush of the sanctuary settle over her.

The church was simple, yet quietly elegant. Wooden pews lined both sides of the narrow aisle, their surfaces worn smooth by generations of clasped hands and bowed heads. Stained-glass windows stretched along the walls, their colors glowing like jewels as golden sunlight poured through them, spilling fractured halos of red, blue, and amber across the stone floor. The air was thick with the soft, comforting scent of melted candle wax and old incense, warm and familiar. Somewhere near the altar, an organ breathed life into the space, its low, reverent notes rolling through the nave like a steady heartbeat, filling every shadowed corner with hymn and hush.

The moment Alice stepped through the doors, faces turned.“Alice! Oh, praise the Lord—look at you!”

“We’ve been praying every Sunday for your recovery.”

“You’re looking so much better, sweetheart.”

Hands reached for her—light touches on her shoulders and arms, gentle and reverent, as though she were something fragile returned from the edge of loss. Alice smiled shyly, murmuring her thanks, her cheeks warming with the attention.

Then their gazes shifted.

They landed on the tall man just behind her—immaculately dressed, smiling far too pleasantly, eyes sharp and unreadable.

There was a pause.

Skirts rustled. Pearls were clutched.

“Well I’ll be,” one woman said slowly. “Is that… is that your husband?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Alice said easily. “This is Alastor.”

The women exchanged looks—curious, amused, and just a little smug.

“Well, would you look at that,” another chimed in. “Ain’t this a miracle.”

“Took a brush with death to finally get him through those doors, huh?”

“Guess the Lord works fast when He really has to.”

Their smiles were sweet—but sharp at the edges.
Alastor’s own smile never faltered, but Alice felt the tension in him instantly. His arm stiffened beneath her hand, his posture tightening like he was bracing for a blow.

Alice noticed

“Well, we’d better get seated,” Alice said quickly, steering him toward an open pew before the conversation could dig any deeper.

They sat, and soon the service began.

The congregation rose, voices lifting together in hymns Alice had known since childhood—steady, familiar, comforting. Prayers followed, spoken in unison, echoing up toward the rafters like something sacred and shared. Alastor sat politely through it all, looking faintly bored, though his foot bounced once or twice against the floor.

Then came the reading.

The pastor opened his Bible and read of the narrow gate and the wide road—one leading to life, the other to destruction. Of choosing righteousness even when it was hard. Of walking in the light rather than hiding in the dark.

And then the sermon began.

The pastor's voice was measured, practiced, and carried easily through the sanctuary.

He spoke of Heaven and Hell—of salvation and damnation. Of the righteous who would be welcomed into God’s kingdom, and the wicked who would answer for their sins.

“But,” the pastor said, lifting his gaze, “we must remember this—no one is beyond redemption. The Lord calls even the most broken soul to turn back. To repent. To change. To open their hearts and let Christ in.”

Alice felt a small spark of hope bloom in her chest.
Then the tone shifted.

“There are those,” he continued, “who believe themselves untouchable. Who think no wrong will ever find them. People who climb high, who revel in power, who believe they can hide from consequence.”

His voice grew firmer.

“But you cannot hide from God. On Judgment Day, every soul will be weighed for what it truly is. And those who have done evil—who stood proudly atop the world while hurting others—will find themselves cast down. And they will suffer in Hell, forever.”
The word echoed.

“And yet,” the pastor said, softening again, “we are still called to love them. To pray for them. To guide them away from the devil’s grasp, for they, too, are God’s children.”

Alice’s heart fluttered.

This is perfect, she thought. He needs to hear this. Maybe this will make him reflect. Maybe it will help him change.

She turned to Alastor, wanting to see his reaction.
His finger was tapping rapidly against his knee—too fast, too sharp, like a ticking clock. His smile was gone. His jaw was tight.

He glanced toward her, then away, unable—or unwilling—to meet her eyes.

And just like that, the hope in Alice’s chest sank.

Then suddenly, Alastor rose from the pew, sharp and abrupt, like a cord pulled too tight. He didn’t look back—just turned and strode toward the exit, his steps quick and restless.

Alice’s heart lurched.

She pushed herself up to follow him, and the world immediately swam. A dull rush flooded her head, her knees trembling beneath her skirts. Hands brushed her sleeves, murmurs of concern rippling behind her, but she barely heard them.

She gripped the edge of the pew, steadying herself for a brief, stubborn moment—just long enough for the tilt of the room to ease—then forced her legs to move.

Slow, careful, but determined, Alice made her way down the aisle after him, refusing to let him walk out alone.

The heavy church doors swung open, and the hush of hymns gave way to winter sunlight and a biting breeze.

The light was blinding at first. Alice paused on the steps, blinking until the world swam back into focus.
Alastor stood several feet away, rigid. His shoulders rose and fell too fast, breath sharp and uneven. His fingers tapped against his thigh in a frantic, uneven rhythm—tap, tap, tap—like he was trying to keep time with something only he could hear.

Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

Alice crossed the stone path toward him, slower than she wanted to be, each step carefully measured. When she reached him, she rested her hand against his shoulder—gentle, grounding.

He flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away.

“Alastor?” she asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t turn around. He only murmured, almost to himself,

“You don’t—you don’t really think I’m going to suffer in Hell, do you?”

The question came out unsteady—nervous in a way that made Alice’s breath catch. She stared at his back, stunned. She had never seen him like this before. Not the confident grin, not the sharp humor, not the man who never seemed to doubt his place in the world.

But she knew Alastor, he murdered people, one of the worst sins, she couldn’t bring herself to answer.

And her silence was answer enough.

Alastor finally turned. Sunlight caught his face, harsh and unforgiving, and something in him cracked. His voice rose—not into a shout, but into something sharp, wounded.

“Is that really how you see me?” he asked. His jaw tightened. “Is that what I am to you?”

Alice frowned, shaken. “What? Alastor—what are you talking about?”

“That sermon,” he snapped. “Is that how I am to you? Some rotten soul that needs fixing before it burns?”

Alice froze.

“What? No—Alastor, no, of course not—”

“Well, that’s what they were preaching in there,” he cut in, pacing now, his polished shoes crunching against the gravel. He let out a laugh, but it was brittle, empty of humor. “Souls like mine. The ‘untouchable’ ones. The ones that rot from the inside out.”

“It was just a sermon,” Alice said softly, stepping closer despite the way her legs trembled. “You know how preachers are. They speak in extremes and—”

“Can I ask you something?” he interrupted.

She didn’t hesitate. “Anything.”

He stopped pacing.

Really looked at her.

“How can you still love me?” he asked quietly. “Do you love me the same as you did on our wedding day?”

The words hit her like a blow.

“Yes,” she said immediately, hurt flashing in her voice. “Yes, Alastor. What would ever make you think I didn’t?”

He laughed again, hollow and raw. “Because I know you. You hoped I’d change. You clung to that hope like it was a promise.” His jaw tightened. “It’s been ten years, Alice. I’m still killing people. Aren’t you disappointed?”

She shook her head—slow, steady. “You haven’t killed anyone this month.”

“That’s because I was caring for my dying wife,” he snapped. “Don’t dress that up into something noble.” He stepped closer, towering over her, though his hands shook at his sides. “You don’t honestly think I changed overnight, did you?”

Alice opened her mouth.

Then closed it.

For a moment, the words wouldn’t come.

And then he asked it—the question that had been burning behind everything else.

“How can you love me?” His voice broke. “Doesn’t loving me go against everything you believe? Isn’t loving me just as bad as a sin for you too?”

Alice stood there, heart aching, throat tight.

And she still had no answer.

Alastor dragged a hand through his hair, breath coming fast and uneven.

“Face it,” he said, voice rough. “I’m going to burn. I’m going to suffer. I’ll end up a tortured soul in Hell.” He laughed once, bitter and broken. “That’s all I am. Rotten to the core. There’s no good afterlife waiting for me—I’ve always known that.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and aching.

Then, finally, Alice spoke.

“Alastor,” she said, her voice steady despite the weakness threading through it, “I knew who you were when I married you. All of you. Every shadow, every dark corner you carry.” She turned fully toward him. “No, you’re not a saint. You never pretended to be.”

She swallowed, breath hitching.

“But that isn’t all you are.”

She gestured vaguely around them, her hand trembling. “Look at what you’ve given me. A home. A life where I’m allowed to exist as myself. The freedom to dream—to write—to be me.” Her voice cracked. “I get to share that life with someone I love.”

She blinked hard, fighting the sting behind her eyes.
“Truthfully, I don’t even know what my life would’ve looked like without you in it. It probably would’ve been quieter. Smaller. Duller.” She met his gaze, unwavering. “And I don’t know if loving you is a sin.”
Her breath trembled.

“But I know that I love you. And if that’s wrong… then I don’t want to be right.”

The rush of words drained what little strength she had left. Her vision swam, the world tilting, and she swayed.

Alastor caught her instantly, arms wrapping around her as if instinct alone was holding her together. His grip was tight—almost frantic.

“You’re insane,” he murmured, breathless.

She smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

He exhaled, his forehead resting against hers. Then, quieter—darker—

“If there really is an afterlife… I don’t think we’ll end up in the same place.”

She didn’t argue.

Instead, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” she whispered. “It won’t be for a long time yet.”

He said nothing.

Still cradled in his arms, Alice looked up at him, his dark curls stirring softly in the wind.

“You know,” she said quietly, her voice warm with certainty, “your life is yours, Alastor. No one else gets to decide how it ends.”

She rested her hand lightly against his chest.
“If you don’t like where you think you’re headed,” she said softly, “you don’t have to keep walking in that direction. Anything is possible. You can always choose differently.”

She smiled at him, gentle and certain. “I know you, Alastor. You’ve never been the kind of man to give up on a dream or surrender when things don’t go your way. You always find a way through.”

Alastor stared at her like she’d completely lost her mind.

Then something flickered behind his eyes—small, fragile, bright. Like a lightbulb sputtering to life.
“…You know, ma chère,” he said slowly, “I think you might be right.”

She smiled, exhausted but quietly victorious. “I usually am.”

He rolled his eyes. “Mmhmm. Coming from the woman who once thought baguette was an actual French word.”

She laughed.

And soon enough Alastor laughed with her—the sound breaking through the tension like sunlight cutting through storm clouds.

—

In the days that passed, Alice carried a fragile fragment of hope, she tried to let herself believe Alastor might actually change.

The sermon. The argument. The way Alastor had looked at her outside the church—raw, shaken, almost frightened. It felt like a turning point, a come-to-Jesus moment in its truest sense. She told herself that something had shifted in him, that something had finally reached his soul.

But hope, she was learning, could be cruel.

Because one night, Alice woke up in the middle of the night to the other side of the bed empty. As she sat up confused, she was just able to see out their window, just in time to watch Alastor slip out into the darkness, coat buttoned, hat low.

Alastor returned in the early hours of that morning. Quiet. Careful. And when he took off his shoes, Alice saw the dark stains at the soles.

Blood.

Alice saw it clearly, but said nothing.

That, after all, was what she had been doing for over ten years now—pretending not to notice. Pretending not to see. Pretending that love could outweigh violence.

But as this continued, Alice became more and more restless.

One night, her mind would not quiet.

The other side of the bed was cold and empty—again. Alastor was gone. Again. The house felt too large, too hollow, every ticking clock echoing like a pulse in her chest.

This isn’t working, she thought, staring up at the ceiling. He’s still murdering.

Her mind drifted, unwilling, back to what Alastor had said to her. The doubt crept in quietly, poisonous.

What if loving him is a sin?

Her breath hitched. She shut the thought down immediately, almost angrily.

No. She loved him. Her heart wouldn’t betray her like that. Love—real love—couldn’t be wrong. Could it? And besides, she had always wanted him to change. She still did. She just knew she couldn’t force it. Change had to be chosen.

Still…

It was taking far longer than she had ever imagined.

That was when the idea came to her—quiet, desperate, and a little shameful.

If she couldn’t change him, maybe she could remind him.

From then on, whenever Alastor left at night, she stayed awake.

She would sit propped up in bed or at the small table by the window, a cup of tea cradled in her hands, a book open in her lap though she often couldn’t focus long enough to read. Her eyes ached, her body tired too easily now, but she stayed up anyway, waiting.

Waiting for him.

When he came home and found her awake, surprise always flickered across his face.

“Darling, you didn’t have to wait up for me,” he’d say, gently scolding. “You should be in bed. Resting.”

Alice always had answers ready.

“I missed you.”

“I was getting the chills.”

“I didn’t feel well.”

Sometimes she even exaggerated her sickness, leaning a little heavier against him, letting her weakness show more than usual.

It worked—a little.

Some nights he stayed. Some nights he held her longer, kissed her forehead, tucked her in like she was made of glass.

But it was never enough.

He still found ways to leave. Still slipped back into the night, as if pulled by something stronger than her. And worse—she felt it now, a change in him. A restlessness. A hunger. It wasn’t just about killing those he deemed deserving anymore—he was going out every night. Killing every night.

He seemed desperate and hungry.

And the most painful truth of all settled heavily in her chest:

It felt like he was choosing the killing over her.

And Alice, for the first time in ten years, didn’t know how much longer she could pretend that didn’t hurt.

One lonely night, Alastor was out yet again.

Alice stayed up—again.

Her eyes burned with exhaustion; she’d been doing this for months now, and the lack of sleep was beginning to settle deep in her bones. She sat curled on the sofa, a cup of tea gone cold in her hands, a book open in her lap that she hadn’t turned the page of in over an hour.

She barely even registered the sound of the door opening—half-asleep, drifting—until a familiar presence shifted the air.

Alastor stepped inside.

Blood spattered his white shirt, dark and careless, blooming across the fabric like roses he hadn’t bothered to prune. He made no attempt to hide it. No guilty glance.

But something else caught her attention, something she couldn’t quite name.

His eyes looked darker somehow, his grin sharper. And he looked… happy. Not the usual smug satisfaction he wore after a kill—but something deeper. Genuine. Almost buoyant.

It unsettled her.

Alastor moved quietly through the room, clearly under the impression she was asleep. Until, Alice cleared her throat.

His head snapped toward her, surprise flashing across his face before it smoothed into that familiar smile.

She set her teacup down carefully. “Well,” she said lightly, eyes flicking to the stains, “looks like you had a very successful evening.”
The sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed.
His grin widened. “Oh ho—my dear, you have no idea.” Then, softer, curious, “But why are you still up? You’ve been having quite a lot of trouble sleeping lately.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve just been getting cold at night.” Her voice dipped. “The bed isn’t as warm without you.”

Before he could respond, she stood and moved toward the kitchen. “I made some steak. Dinner—or breakfast, I suppose. Rare. Just the way you like it.”

He waved a hand, shrugging out of his coat. “Tempting—and thoughtful—but I already ate.”

Alice stopped.

Slowly, she turned back to him. “Did you.” A pause. “You’ve been eating without me a lot lately. I miss your company.” She searched his face. “What did you eat?”

He smiled, sympathetic but distant. “Nothing fancy, I assure you. It’s just easier to throw something together there in the cabin.”

Her patience thinned—just a little.

“So you’d rather eat scraps alone than sit down to a proper meal with your wife?” She hesitated, then quieter, “Are you… mad at me, or something?”

Alastor blinked, startled. “My dearest Alice, of course not. I’ve just been busy—with—”

Alice scoffed gently. “I know what you’ve been busy with.” She gestured toward his shirt. “It’s written all over you.”

He glanced down at his bloodied shirt, unbothered. “Mmh. Quite right.”

Her voice softened, but there was an edge now. “Are you sure you’re not upset? Ever since we went to church, you’ve been gone every single night.”

“Yes, well,” he said breezily, “after tonight, I’ll slow down.”

That made her look up. “After tonight?” Skepticism crept in. “Why after tonight?”

He shrugged, almost casual. “I just don’t feel the need to go out every night anymore.”

“Well,” she said faintly, “you are thirty-three. Slowing down might do you some good.”

He laughed. “Please. I’m still very much in my prime.”

Alice forced a laugh—but it rang hollow.

He noticed.

Alastor pulled a chair closer, sat beside her, lit a cigarette, and began unbuttoning his bloodstained shirt with deliberate calm. “What’s wrong, Alice?” he asked softly. “I can tell something is on your mind.”

Alice hesitated—then gave in.

“What changed?” she asked. “You were so scared. You were worried about your soul. About what comes after. And now…” Her voice trembled. “Now you’re killing more than ever.”

He inhaled slowly, smoke curling around his face. “My dear,” he said evenly, “you don’t need to concern yourself with my life. It’s mine.”

She met his gaze, unflinching. “I know. But you seemed so afraid before. And now? — Have you made peace with it? With Hell?”

Alastor exhaled, choosing his words carefully. “You could say that.”

Her brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

He smiled—not cruelly, not kindly—but with something unreadable beneath it. “Don’t worry, Alice. I’ll be just fine. I promise.”

Confusion flickered across her face. “What are you talking about?” Then, half-joking, half-dreaded, “What—did you make a deal with the devil?”

He laughed softly. “Maybe I did,” he said. “Maybe I didn’t.”

“Alastor,” she snapped—then immediately softened, her voice trembling with quiet desperation. “Be serious.”

Alastor tilted his head, studying her with that familiar, thoughtful smile.

“So,” he said lightly, voice warm and teasing, “is that why you’re all out of sorts, my dear? You’re worried about my soul?”

Alice hesitated. “Well… that’s definitely part of it.” Then the rest spilled out before she could stop it. “I just— I miss you. That’s all. You’re always writing scripts, or at work, or off doing your… hobby. And then you come home at dawn.” Her voice wavered. “We don’t read together anymore. Or dance to our favorite records. Or cook. We don’t—”

Her throat tightened. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she felt foolish for it. She wiped them away quickly, but Alastor had already noticed.

He reached for her hands, gentle, grounding.

“Hey now,” he murmured. “It’s alright.”

His thumb brushed over her knuckles as his tone softened, losing none of its charm.

“And you’re right. I miss all of that too.” He sighed quietly. “I suppose I got a bit of tunnel vision for a while. After you got sick, and—well. Everything.”

Then his smile returned, brighter, conspiratorial.

“I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow—just you and me. No work, no distractions. We’ll read together. We’ll dance. Perhaps we’ll even go out for a proper dinner.” His eyes sparkled. “You’ll have to get all dolled up for me.”

Alice tried to stay cross, truly she did—but as he kept listing possibilities, her resistance crumbled. A smile crept onto her face despite herself.

Alastor noticed instantly, his own grin widening in triumph.

“So,” he said smoothly, “how does that sound? A date.”

She laughed softly. “Well… how could I say no to that?”

“Splendid,” he said. “Then it’s settled.” He squeezed her hands once more. “Now, let’s get you to bed. You’ll need your dancing feet in a few hours.”

Before she could protest, he scooped her up effortlessly.

“Alastor!” she laughed, cheeks warming as he carried her down the hallway and up the stairs. She clutched his jacket, laughing and blushing the whole way.

He set her gently onto the bed, tucked the covers around her with surprising care, and bent to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Sleep tight, my dear.”

And Alice did—comforted, smiling, and hopeful, even as the night closed quietly around them.

Chapter Text

Alice woke to sunlight warming her face, gentle and unhurried. For the first time in weeks, she felt rested—truly rested. She stretched beneath the covers, breathing in, and then she caught it.

Bacon. Something savory and rich. And beneath it all, the soft crackle of a jazz record drifting through the house.

She smiled before she even opened her eyes.

A glance at the clock made her blink. One in the afternoon. Normally she would have panicked, but she was up late last night plus the warmth and the music soothed her instead. She slipped from bed and followed the sound into the kitchen.

Alastor stood at the stove in a neatly tied apron, flipping bacon with practiced ease. His sleeves were rolled up, curls bouncing faintly as he hummed along with the record. It was domestic in a way that still startled her sometimes—and it was unmistakably him.

This was the Alastor she loved.

He looked up and caught sight of her, his smile blooming instantly. “Good afternoon, my dear,” he said brightly. “I do hope you’re hungry.”

“Oh, I am,” Alice replied, her voice soft with affection.

She tied her hair back and lingered nearby. “Do you need help with anything?”

He shook his head, utterly confident. “Not a bit. Everything is under control.”

She eyed him for a moment, then frowned slightly. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Nope.”

Her head snapped up. “What? Alastor—you need to sleep. Everyone needs to sleep.”

“Oh, don’t fuss over me,” he said easily, waving her off—only to yawn a moment later, betraying himself completely.

She laughed despite herself.

Soon, brunch was laid out on the table: bacon, eggs, hash browns crisped just right, thick slices of ham—and beside her plate, a steaming cup of cinnamon tea. Her favorite.

Alice was touched.

They ate together, the food warm and comforting. Alastor skimmed the morning paper as he chewed, his expression tightening at the headlines—job losses, closures, hunger. Alice felt a quiet ache for those suffering, and an equal, guilty gratitude for the stability Alastor’s work provided them.

Eventually, the paper was set aside.

And they talked.

Not about anything important, but it was still nice. They told small stories, idle thoughts, shared memories. Laughter came easily. It felt natural, familiar—something they hadn’t realized they’d been missing until now.

For the first time in a long while, the house felt full again.

Once the plates were cleared, Alice leaned back in her chair with a contented sigh.

“That was the best meal I’ve had in a long while,” she said warmly. “Truly.”

Alastor’s smile turned pleased, almost smug. “Well, I should certainly hope so,” he replied. “I do have a reputation to uphold.”

Then, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, he reached behind him and produced two books.

Alice blinked. “Alastor…?”

He chuckled at her expression. “This morning—quite early, I might add—I took a little stroll to that library you adore. I asked the kind old gentleman at the desk what books you hadn’t read yet. A far more difficult task than one would think.” He shook his head. “Took nearly an hour to narrow it down. This one caught my eye.”

He handed her a copy of Jane Eyre.

Alice’s face lit up. “Oh! I’ve always wanted to read this.” She looked up at him, touched. “You did all that… for me?”

“It was no trouble at all, my dear,” Alastor said lightly. “Besides, it’s been far too long since I exercised my own brain. I thought we might both benefit.”

She traced the cover for a moment, then leaned over and wrapped her arms around him. “This was incredibly thoughtful. Thank you.”

He laughed softly, returning the embrace. “Think nothing of it. Now then—shall we begin?”

They settled together on the couch, knees brushing, books open. Alice read eagerly, though more slowly than she used to, pausing when her eyes ached or her head throbbed. Alastor, of course, finished first—and took great pleasure in teasing her for it.

She merely rolled her eyes and kept reading.

At some point, she felt him grow still beside her. When she glanced up, she found his head tipped slightly back, eyes closed, his breathing slow and even. He’d fallen asleep without realizing it.
Alice smiled to herself and said nothing. He needed the rest.

She continued reading, occasionally glancing over at him. In sleep, his sharp edges softened; he looked peaceful, almost boyish. She lingered on that sight, warmed by the quiet intimacy of it, and turned another page.

Eventually, Alice turned the last page and let out a soft, satisfied breath. Alastor was still stretched beside her, far too still to be convincing. She shifted—just enough.

Right on cue, his eyes fluttered open. He rubbed at them lazily, then glanced at her as though he hadn’t been asleep at all.

“Have you finally finished?” he asked, smooth as ever.

“Yes,” Alice said sweetly. “And did you enjoy your nap?”

“A nap?” Alastor scoffed. “My dear, I wasn’t sleeping.”

She gave him a look—fond, unimpressed, and entirely unconvinced. “You absolutely were.”

He waved her off with a grin. “Baseless accusations.”

Alice laughed, then hugged the book to her chest. “I actually really loved it. I kinda think Jane reminds me a little of myself.”

“Oh?” Alastor tilted his head. “Do enlighten me.”

“Well you know, she’s quiet,” Alice said, thoughtful, “but she never bends. She’s strong even when she’s scared or lonely. She always knows who she is.” She smiled softly. “I think that’s admirable.”

“Hm.” Alastor considered this. “I’ll grant you that. Though I did find her rather stubborn. And foolish.”

Alice gasped, affronted. “Foolish?”

“She married a man who kept his wife locked in the attic, based on that, Rochester is a monster, and a terrible person.” he pointed out mildly.

Alice huffed. “Fair—but that’s a bit like marrying someone you know is a serial killer and doing it anyway. Would you call that woman foolish?”

Alastor lit a cigarette, eyes gleaming. “You said it, not me.”

Her pillow flew at his head.

“How dare you,” she said, laughing. “I am not foolish.”

“Oh, calm yourself,” he said, catching the pillow easily. “Rochester was nowhere near the man I am. But I will say—her refusal to become his convenient little secret was… refreshing.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Alice chuckled.

“But let’s be honest,” Alastor continued, leaning closer, voice lowering theatrically, “Rochester is far more interesting than Jane."

“Of course you’d think so,” she said, arching a brow.

“He’s brooding. Morally complicated. Haunted by his own poor decisions,” Alastor counted off on his fingers. “Frankly, delightful.”

“Delightful?” Alice echoed. “Mind you, he locked his wife in the attic.”

“Yes, well,” Alastor shrugged, “no one’s perfect.”

Alice shook her head, smiling, then said softly, “I liked that the story didn’t reward him until he changed. Until he was humbled.” Her eyes flicked over him, pointed.

Alastor immediately sighed. “Don’t start.”

He took a long drag, then glanced at her sideways. “Let me ask you something. If you were Jane Eyre… would you have gone back to Thornfield?”

Alice considered it. “Only if he’d truly changed.”

“Ah,” Alastor said dryly. “sure, sure.” His tone was unmistakably sarcastic.

She frowned. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know,” he replied, eyes forward, feigning innocence.

Alice rolled her eyes. “Well, at least no one’s locked up in your attic.”

Alastor smiled slowly. “That you know of.”

She laughed. “Oh really? And who would you lock up there?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” he said lightly. “Mimzy’s been up there for months.”

Alice burst out laughing. “We both know she’d never stop yelling or singing if that were true.”

Alastor laughed with her, the sound warm and unguarded, as the late afternoon light settled around them.

Alice tilted her head, a thought suddenly clicking into place.

“Come to think of it… Mimzy hasn’t written or called in quite a while. Have you heard from her?”

Alastor shook his head, thoughtful. “No. I tried ringing her a few weeks ago—no answer. She hasn’t shown up in the pictures or magazines lately, either.”

Alice shrugged, unconcerned. “Maybe the glamorous life finally caught up to her. Everyone needs a break now and then.”

“I suppose,” he said, unconvinced but letting it drop. He flipped open his gold pocket watch, the chain glinting in the lamplight. “Well, would you look at the time. You’d better get all dolled up for dinner.”

Her eyes lit up. “Dinner? Where are we going?”

“A surprise,” he replied smoothly, snapping the watch shut.

Alice didn’t press him. She went to change, pinning her dark-blonde hair into a neat bun and slipping into her favorite red dress—the one that made her feel like herself again. When she returned, Alastor had changed as well, his suit accented in deep red.

He looked her over appreciatively. “Well… don’t you look divine.”

She blushed, smiling despite herself. She suspected she’d never quite grow used to his compliments.

They drove downtown, the streets of New Orleans quieter than they once had been, the weight of the Depression lingering in shuttered shops and dimmed windows. Alastor parked, then offered his arm. Alice slipped her hand through it, leaning into him as they walked through the French Quarter.

They stopped in front of a familiar glow—warm golden light spilling from tall windows.

Antoine’s.

Alice laughed softly, her heart fluttering. “Oh… doesn’t this bring back memories.”

“Indeed,” Alastor said, pleased. “I take it, I made a good choice.”

She squeezed his arm. “You always do.”

Inside, the restaurant was calmer than it had been years ago—less crowded, softer around the edges—but still elegant, still breathing with quiet life. As they settled into their seats, conversation came easily, drifting backward through time the way it always did here.

Alastor smiled to himself. “I remember the first time we came to Antoine’s,” he said. “A waiter dropped a stack of plates and you nearly leapt out of your skin. You jumped so hard I thought you might take flight.”

Alice rolled her eyes, though she was smiling. “I was going through a lot back then, and you know it. Actually, I’m pretty sure I told you my entire life story right after that.”

“Oh, I remember,” Alastor said grimly.

“And yet,” Alice added, pointing her glass at him, “you still offered me a job at your radio studio.”

“Well, how could I not?” he replied. “I knew you’d be a natural from the start.” He tilted his head, teasing. “Though I must say—you’ve slowed down a bit these past few months.”

Alice scoffed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I only had a life-threatening illness that nearly killed me. I think that earns me a little grace.”

“I suppose,” Alastor conceded with a chuckle. “But let’s keep tonight cheerful. Happy memories only.”

They ordered drinks and dinner—shrimp pasta for Alice, steak for Alastor, rare as always. As they talked, Alice found herself slipping into memory again, seeing him as he’d been on their first night here: ten years younger, his radio show just beginning to hum with promise. Now he was a full-blown star, voice known across the city. The thought filled her with quiet pride.

The food arrived, rich and perfect, and then—right on cue—a brass band swept in, filling the room with bright, brassy joy. Alastor gave Alice a look she knew all too well.

Before the first song had truly begun, they were on their feet.

They owned the dance floor like they always had. Alastor spun her effortlessly, laughter bright in his eyes, and Alice kept pace with his quick, familiar steps. The room erupted in applause, hands clapping in time with the music. She wished, briefly, that she had more than one dance left in her—but her body had its limits now, and she hated how quickly exhaustion crept in.

Soon enough, it was time to go.

As Alastor paid and shrugged into his coat, he was intercepted by a colleague from the station—Greg Hefferman, one of the newer voices on the air. Their conversation stretched on, swallowed by the hum of the restaurant. The noise, combined with the dancing and the long day she’d spent reading, pressed in on Alice until her head throbbed and her vision swam.

She excused herself quietly and stepped outside.

The street was strangely empty—an odd thing for New Orleans, even this late. The silence felt reverent, like the city was holding its breath. Alice drew in a long breath of cool night air, and the tight ache behind her eyes loosened at once. Above her, the stars glittered faintly—steady, distant, and unchanged.

The day had been wonderful. She’d needed it more than she’d realized. When Alastor stayed out night after night, her thoughts had a way of turning inward, spiraling until loneliness felt heavier than her own body. But today—today he’d been here. Present. And with him beside her, she felt whole again.

Her gaze then drifted down the street—and that was when she saw it.

A small shop nestled deep within a narrow alley, half-hidden like a secret the city had almost forgotten. Its windows glowed with a warm, honeyed light, soft against the darkness, beckoning without a sound. That must be new, Alice thought, curiosity tugging her forward.

She crossed the street and slipped into the alley, her footsteps echoing faintly. The shop was closed, its door dark and still, but the window alone was enough to stop her in her tracks.

Inside the display, flowers bloomed in impossible abundance. Roses spilled over one another in shades of crimson and blush, daffodils lifted their golden faces proudly, daisies dotted the scene like fallen stars, and lilies stood tall and pale, serene as moonlight. It was breathtaking—too beautiful to be hidden away like this. The air itself seemed perfumed, sweet and heady, as though the scent had found a way to seep through the glass.

“This place doesn’t deserve to be tucked away in an alley,” Alice murmured, smiling to herself.

She leaned closer, pressing her forehead gently to the cool glass, drinking in every detail—the colors, the shapes, the quiet promise of life and care behind the window.

Suddenly a hand clamped around her waist.

For half a heartbeat, Alice thought it was Alastor—until she felt the grip tighten, bruising, possessive. Wrong. Too strong. Too eager.

She twisted around, breath hitching—and found herself staring into a stranger’s face.

She screamed.

The sound barely escaped before pain exploded across her cheek, white-hot and stunning. Her head snapped sideways as a hand crushed over her mouth, fingers digging into her jaw. The world reeled. Brick walls blurred. Her limbs felt distant, heavy, useless.

“Ain’t you just a pretty little thing,” the man murmured, breath sour, voice slick with entitlement.

Cold terror poured through her veins like ice water.

She fought anyway—scratching at his face, kicking blindly, panic lending her what little strength she had—but it was pitiful, ineffective. He laughed softly, amused—

Then came a dull, wet thud.

The man lurched forward with a strangled gasp, his grip faltering. Alice tore herself free, stumbling back, heart pounding, and spun—

Alastor stood at the mouth of the alley.

He looked terrifyingly composed. Hat straight. Coat immaculate. Eyes dark and empty, like something ancient had opened them.

“You possess a remarkable amount of confidence,” Alastor said mildly, “for someone foolish enough to put his hands on another man’s wife.”

The man wiped blood from his mouth and sneered, squaring his shoulders. “I ain’t scared of you, you scrawny swamp rat. Go back to the bayou where you belong.”

Alice, shaking, reached for Alastor’s sleeve. “Alastor… please—let’s just go—”

Too late.

The man swung first. His fist connected solidly with Alastor’s shoulder.

Alastor didn’t even blink.

Then the alley erupted.

Alastor moved like something unleashed—precise, efficient, horrifying. Bone cracked. Flesh met brick. The man’s confidence vanished in seconds, replaced by choking gasps and desperate scrabbling as he was driven into the pavement. Each blow landed with deliberate cruelty, not rage—but control.

Within moments, the man collapsed, bloodied and broken, coughing wetly against the stones.

Still, he spat through broken teeth, “Fuck you—and fuck your wife. You’re both sick freaks.”

Alice braced herself for more blows.

Instead, Alastor stopped.

The sudden stillness was worse.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his coat and withdrew a knife. The blade caught the alley light, gleaming once—almost politely—

Then vanished into the man’s chest.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Blood sprayed, dark and unreal, splattering brick and Alastor. Alice stumbled backward until her spine hit the wall. Her hands flew to her mouth, a silent scream trapped behind her fingers as her body refused to obey her, refused to move, refused to understand what she was witnessing.

Alastor straightened, knife dripping, his expression as calm as if nothing at all had happened.

And the alley swallowed the sound of the dying man whole.

Alastor turned to her, his voice soft, almost musical.

Are you all right, my dear?”

Alice couldn’t answer.

He stepped closer at once, concern flickering across his features despite the blood spattered over his face and shirt. With surprising gentleness, he tipped her chin upward, his thumb brushing her jaw. His gaze stilled when he saw it—the angry red hand print blooming against her cheek.

“My dear,” he murmured, a hint of reproach threading his tone, “I am so sorry. I should never have let you wander off alone at this hour. And an alleyway, of all places?” A faint, teasing sigh followed. “This isn’t your first night in New Orleans. You know better than to trust its shadows.”

Alice barely registered his words. Her eyes were locked on the body sprawled across the stones, unmoving, broken. She had never seen death before—not like this. Not so close.

Her voice finally cut through the quiet, brittle and shaking.

“Alastor… you—you killed him.”

Something shifted in Alastor’s expression. Not regret—calculation.

He took her hands in his own, heedless of the blood coating his fingers. “Look at me, Alice,” he said gently, firmly. “He hurt you. He was a bad man.” His smile was thin but reassuring. “But you can’t fall apart right now. Not here. Not yet.”

He waited until her eyes found his.

“I’m going to bring the car around,” he continued calmly, as though discussing nothing more scandalous than dinner plans. “When I do, you’ll step into the passenger seat immediately. Nice and normal. The streets are nearly empty tonight—very convenient.” A pause. “Then I’ll take care of him, and we’ll leave. Do you understand?”

Alice nodded, numb.

“Good girl.”

Alastor crossed the street with effortless composure, as unhurried as a man out for an evening stroll. He slipped into his red car, drove it over, and stopped beside her. Alice climbed in at once. Moments later, Alastor was out again—quick, precise, unseen—lifting the body and placing it into the trunk.

Then they were gone, swallowed by the night.

The city slid past in a blur of dim lights and shadowed buildings.

After a moment, Alastor glanced at her, his voice softer. “I’m sorry,” he said lightly. “I may have gotten a little carried away.”

She stared straight ahead. “A little?” Her voice trembled. “Alastor… you killed him.”

“Well,” he replied pleasantly, “it’s not as though he was going to cure the Great Depression or anything.” His eyes flicked to her cheek. “He left a hand print on your face, my dear. I couldn’t very well let that slide. Still… I regret that you had to witness it.”

Alice had a dozen things she wanted to say. None of them came. The image of the body burned behind her eyes, heavy and unshakable.

When they reached the townhouse, Alastor parked and rested a reassuring hand on her knee. “Go inside. I’ll dispose of him, then head to work. I’ll be home at a reasonable hour tonight—I promise.”

She turned to him. “You promise?”

He smiled warmly. “On my honor. Now go make yourself some tea, lock the doors, and try to breathe. I’ll be back before you know it.”

She nodded and started to open the door—then paused, noticing his shirt. The blood. All of it.

“Wait.”

Alice hurried inside, grabbed a clean shirt and a pair of trousers, then rushed back out, pressing them into his hands.

“You… probably shouldn’t go to work like that.”

Alastor glanced down, finally noticing the state of himself, and let out a soft, amused chuckle.

“Mon dieu—you’re quite right.”

He accepted the clothes, then slipped off his bloodied jacket and handed it to her. “Would you be a dear and clean this for me?”

Alice felt the stiff, dried blood beneath her fingertips. She swallowed, then nodded anyway.

Before she could say anything else, Alastor leaned out the car window and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek.

“Thank you, my dear. Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ll be home soon.”

Then he drove off.

Alice remained standing on the quiet street, the night cool and empty, the warmth of the day long gone. The engine’s sound faded into nothing, leaving only silence.

She went back inside.

The house felt unnervingly still, the quiet broken only by the rapid thud of her own heartbeat, loud in her ears. No matter how hard she tried, the image of the lifeless body in the alley clung to her mind—sharp, vivid, unrelenting. Her hands began to tremble.

So she kept them busy.

She boiled water. Steeped tea. Moved through the familiar motions until the shaking eased just enough to function.

Then she took Alastor’s coat and prepared to soak it in hot water. Before she did, she checked the pockets.

The first was empty.

In the second, her fingers closed around something small and firm.

A leather journal.

She had seen it before—countless times—but she had never read it.

Tea cup in one hand, journal in the other, Alice made her way upstairs to Alastor’s office.

She sank into his desk chair, the leather chair cool beneath her palms, and reached for the radio. The familiar hum filled the room as she tuned it in, waiting for her husband’s show to begin. She set the journal carefully on the desk.

The comfort of routine helped. Just a little.

Just an hour to go.

Restless, her gaze drifted back to the journal. She knew it was wrong to read it. She knew how much Alastor hated her poking through his things. But he wasn’t here—and she needed the distraction.
Instead, she opened a drawer at random.

What she found made her snort—then laugh outright.

Books.

Several of them. At least half a dozen, stacked haphazardly.

How to Win a Woman’s Heart.
Charm, Courtship, and Control.
The Gentleman’s Guide to a woman’s heart.

Alice laughed so hard she wheezed, clutching her chest and circling a hand over it until she caught her breath. Tears pricked her eyes.

That was the last thing she had expected.

“Oh, Alastor,” she gasped, shaking her head. He was never going to hear the end of this.

She checked the other drawers, hoping for something equally ridiculous, but found only old newspapers and scattered papers. The humor faded, boredom creeping back in.

Her eyes drifted—again—to the journal.

She knew it was wrong. She really did. But she was so tired. So restless. And she needed something—anything—to keep her thoughts from spiraling.

One little peek, she told herself. It won’t hurt.

Slowly, she lifted the journal.

The leather was cool beneath her touch.

Just a glance.

Alice opened it—

And began to read.

Chapter Text

Alice’s eyes skimmed the first line of Alastor’s journal—and froze.

It was a…diary entry?

It was Alastor’s handwriting—precise, confident, unmistakably his.

October 12th, 1918

Hello.

My dear mother has insisted, quite firmly, that I begin keeping a journal. I find the practice dull and repetitive, but she is presently standing over my shoulder, staring at me as though daring me to refuse. I have learned, over the years, that defying her in such moments is… unwise. So, here we are.

She says I ought to write about what I want from life. That committing my thoughts to paper will “clear my mind.” A charming notion, really, though somewhat bullish, given that my thoughts are anything but tidy at present.

For instance—

I killed my father four days ago.

Alice sucked in a sharp breath.

Alastor had never spoken of his father beyond vague, dismissive remarks. Dislike, resentment—nothing more. Not this. Never this.

Her fingers trembled as she forced herself to continue.

Mother believes I am remorseful. I allow her to think so. The truth, however, is far less poetic.

I came upon him in one of his familiar fits—hands on my sweet mother, rage in his eyes, her screams filling the house like a siren. It was not the first time but it sure was the last. I don’t know what exactly happened but something in me finally snapped—clean and decisive.

I took the axe from the shed and struck him until he stopped moving.

And I must confess—it felt wonderful.

The power of it. After years of being struck, belittled, reduced, I held his life in my hands, and he was suddenly very small. Very quiet.

Of course, I cannot say any of this aloud. No, no. I wear the proper face, the grieving son, the shaken boy. Mother needs that version of me.

She has only told only her sisters, my dear aunts, Nadine and Jeanne the truth about what happened to my father. They’ve sworn secrecy, though I almost wish they’d tell my cousin Louis, if only so he might finally learn to keep his mouth shut around me.

Technically speaking, I’ve gotten away with it.

Father was a notorious drunk. A violent one. No one has asked too many questions, and no one seems to miss him. I suppose I’ll count that as a victory.

—

Alice’s chest felt tight. Her skin prickled as she flipped to a random page.

July, 1919

Hello again, dear journal.

I must admit, recently, I have found myself increasingly intolerant of my home. Do not mistake me—I adore the bayou itself. The hush of the water, The fireflies lighting the dark, the way the fog clings to the trees. But my family? They exhaust me.

Not all of them, of course, but just enough.

The looks some of them give me—those lingering, measuring glances—are the same ones I have endured my entire life. As though I am a mistake that cannot be corrected. Too light for some, too dark for everyone else. Never quite the proper shade for anyone’s comfort. It is remarkable how something as small as skin can make a person feel perpetually misplaced.

Even my own family walks carefully around me now. Mother. My aunts. As though I might shatter if spoken to too sharply—or worse, that I might shatter them. Ever since the incident with my father, they tread as if the floor beneath me might collapse.

Speaking of him—

I replay that night constantly. Every detail. Every sound. I remember how alive I felt. Powerful. In control. A sensation entirely new to me—and one I miss more than I care to admit.

There is a voice in my head now. Quiet, but persistent. It whispers suggestions. Encouragements. It tells me how easy it would be to feel that way again.

I am inclined to agree with it.

If my cousin Louis opens his mouth one more time, I suspect he may find himself the subject of my next entry.

In any case, I cannot remain here much longer.

I want to leave. To go somewhere larger. Louder. A city. I have finally made up my mind on which one, though Mother insists Baton Rouge would be more “sensible,” being closer to home. But sensible has never particularly appealed to me.

No—New Orleans calls to me.

The music that is born from that city is just intoxicating. The culture rich, alive, unapologetic. A place where noise is not only tolerated, but celebrated. I told Mother as much. She smiled—though I could see it was forced. Still, she let me go, and that alone means more than she realizes.

She does seem happier now. Lighter. She laughs more.

Amazing what a difference it makes when one’s husband is six feet under, pushing up daisies where the sun doesn’t shine.

So—I am packing my bags.

New Orleans awaits, and for once, I find myself genuinely looking forward to the future.

—

Alice read quickly, her heart hammering in her chest. With every line, she watched Alastor’s darkness take shape in real time—its roots tracing back to the night he killed his father to save his mother.

The realization settled heavily over her, and her chest tightened with it. Beneath the horror, beneath the violence, there was a frightened boy who had made a terrible choice out of love. And for that, Alice’s heart ached for him.

Alice flipped to another random page.

September 27, 1920

My, my! What a truly magnificent week it has been! At last, things are falling neatly into place.

I have secured myself a proper position here in New Orleans—steady, respectable, and delightfully public.

A radio host.

Yes—me. My voice carried through the airwaves, drifting into parlors and kitchens and dimly lit rooms all across the city. Can you imagine such a thing? I find the idea positively thrilling.

Do not be fooled, dear journal—it was no easy feat. I was turned away more times than I care to count. One evening, after yet another rejection, I downed nearly an entire bottle of whiskey in a valiant attempt to soothe my nerves. And wouldn’t you know it…It did absolutely nothing. I was still rejected.

Dejected, I wandered into a small diner and happened to overhear a song playing on the radio. I couldn’t tell you its name, only the line that stuck with me—you’re never fully dressed without a smile.

And oh—what a revelation.

People claim they want honesty. Authenticity. Something “real.” How charmingly naïve. What they want is confidence. Ease. A pleasant illusion they need not question.

So I smiled.

I smiled through my next interview—wide, polished, unwavering—and wouldn’t you know it? I was hired on the spot.

Fascinating, really.

There is a learning curve, of course. Knobs, dials, switches—technical nonsense. But I’m adapting quickly. I always do.

And the best part?

Nobody knows what I look like.

They hear only my voice. My words. No stares. No assumptions. No judgments formed before I even open my mouth. Isn’t that simply divine?

Ah—but prejudices persist nonetheless.

New Orleans is vibrant, alive with music and laughter. I’ve even heard whispers of grand, secret parties—speakeasies hidden behind false doors now that Prohibition has spoiled everyone’s fun. I do intend to investigate at some point.

Still, there are those who take one look at my skin and decide everything they need to know. Such small minds. Such wasted potential.

But I never let them see it.

But enough of such trifles. Let us move on to something far more exhilarating.

I killed someone today.

Oh, it was absolutely splendid.

I’ve been yearning for that feeling again—the rush, the clarity, the sense of control—and fate, ever generous, provided me with the perfect excuse.

I witnessed a man attempting to rob a young woman on the street. Truly distasteful behavior. Naturally, I intervened.

I chased him. Dragged him into a nearby alley. And stabbed him—cleanly, straight through the ribs.

Magnificent.

When it was finished, I returned the stolen purse to the lady’s doorstep. No note. No explanation. Just a small act of justice, delivered anonymously.

I rather like the idea of it—some unseen benefactor lurking in the shadows, punishing wickedness and righting wrongs.

A sort of… twisted superhero.

Perhaps one day the newspapers will take notice.

“Masked Avenger Strikes Again!”

Ha! What a delight that would be.

But for now, dear journal, it shall remain our little secret.

Until next time.

—

Alice could not stop reading. She didn’t know why but each page felt like watching a door slowly open, revealing the man Alastor had been becoming long before she ever knew him.

Alice flipped through a few more pages—and froze.

The familiar slant of diary entries vanished, replaced by something far colder. Names. Line after line of them. Each one followed by a date… and beneath that, a brief, clinical note describing how they died. Stab wound. Strangled. Most of them—stabbed.

Her stomach twisted as the truth settled in.

This wasn’t writing. It was a record.

Alastor had kept a ledger of the men he killed.

In a strange, unsettling way, it felt perfectly Alastor—methodical, meticulous, almost proud. But the sheer volume of names stole the breath from her lungs. There were so many. Too many. Each name a life ended, each date a reminder of how long he had been doing this.

Swallowing hard, Alice turned to another page at random.

November 2, 1921

Well, well, well! Life is simply marvelous!

My radio career is truly beginning to soar. Oh, the thrill of it—to know my voice drifts through the whole city of New Orleans! They listen, dear journal. They truly listen. Hanging onto every word as if I were speaking to them alone.

And of course, I’ve remained faithful to my other cherished pastime.

Every few weeks, I do my civic duty and rid this fine city of its more unsavory residents. New Orleans is wonderfully accommodating in that regard—an endless parade of wicked souls, practically begging for my attention. I’ve even taken to keeping records now, just to stay organized. One must be professional about these things.

Recently, however, I’ve begun to add a bit more… flair.

I carve smiles into them now.

Wide ones. Proper ones.

Then I leave them where they’ll be seen.

A warning, perhaps. Or a calling card. I do enjoy theatrics.

The public response has been utterly enchanting. Some call me vile—which, frankly, is fair—but others? Others whisper that I might be heaven-sent. A divine instrument of justice!

Ha!

Me—a gift from God.

Oh, how I adore public perception. It’s so very malleable.

Truly, I want for nothing. My days are filled with writing scripts, devouring books, indulging in music and parties and laughter… and, naturally, killing.

A dream, really.

However…

I do believe the police have begun to sniff about.

How dreadfully inconvenient.

Nothing concrete, of course, but I suspect I stand out just a touch too much. I can’t help it—my personality is rather… loud. My eccentricities tend to draw the eye.

So I’ve made a decision.

I must learn to blend.

The question, of course, is how one blends when one was born to stand out.

Well my dear friend Mimzy had a suggestion.

According to her, a man with a… sweetheart looks harmless. Domestic. Normal.

Can you imagine?

Me, courting.

The idea had never once crossed my mind.

I have always preferred solitude. But… she may have a point. A man with a woman on his arm seems far less suspicious than a man who prowls alone, wouldn’t you agree?

The trouble is—I haven’t the faintest idea how to date. I’ve never had the slightest interest in it. So naturally, I purchased several books on the subject.

Educational, if nothing else.

Alice’s gaze drifted back to the open drawer. The dating books. She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

Only Alastor.

She kept reading.

Armed with my newfound wisdom, I ventured forth into the battlefield of courtship.

And dear journal—dating is absolute torture.

Every woman I meet is either unbearably flirtatious, painfully desperate, or attempting to drag me into bed before dessert even arrives. How scandalous!

Truthfully… I don’t understand the desire at all. My cousins used to jest about such things endlessly, but I have never once felt it. Not even a flicker.

Curious, isn’t it?

Then again, I am a serial killer—so perhaps this is hardly my most alarming flaw.

Still, I’ve begun to form a rather clear picture of what my ideal woman must be.

She must be real. Not one of those hollow little flappers fluttering about with borrowed confidence and painted smiles.

No. I want someone sweet. Very trusting.

Obedient.

Someone with proper values. A woman who knows how to keep a home. Wouldn’t that be lovely? And perhaps tidy up my studio as well. I do make dreadful messes.

Most importantly… she must be naïve.

She has to be.

A woman who is too clever would eventually piece things together—and well… we can’t have that now can we.

It would also help if she were a bit.. broken.

I know it's a terrible thing to say but, someone who understands pain would understand me. Family troubles, perhaps. Something to make her cling—to make her need me as much as I need her to keep my secrets.

And of course, she must be pretty. A gentleman’s companion should reflect well upon him, after all.

Ha!

And so—off I go on yet another date. Wish me luck! Though it hardly matters—I seem to frighten them all away anyways.

I do wonder why.

—

Alice’s breath hitched as the words bled into understanding.

The woman Alastor described was unmistakably her.

Sweet.

Trusting.

A little broken.

Each phrase struck like a bell tolling in her chest. Her eyes burned as she reread the passage, her pulse roaring in her ears.

And then the truth sharpened.

He hadn’t started dating out of loneliness.

He hadn’t been searching for love.

He had been following advice. Mimzy’s advice. Dating as camouflage. A woman as a shield. A way to blend in.

Alice read it again. And again. Slower this time. Desperate. As if staring long enough might change the words, might rearrange them into something kinder. But the ink remained mercilessly clear.
His intentions were never vague. Never uncertain. They were laid out in neat, confident lines—cold as daylight.

A heavy, suffocating weight settled in her chest.

Was that all I was?

Something convenient?

Her thoughts began to spiral. Had he only dated her to appear normal? Had he only married her to disappear into respectability?

She shook her head sharply, as if she could physically dislodge the idea. No—no, that couldn’t be right. He hadn’t meant it like that. She had to be different. She was different. He fell in love with her.

He loved her.

…Right?

Then the memory surfaced, uninvited and cruel.

Mimzy had introduced them.

The pit in her stomach deepened, turning sick and hollow.

Alice turned the page with unsteady hands—only to be met once more by names. Rows of them. Dates. Deaths. She flipped faster now, heart racing, pages blurring beneath her fingers, until—
She stopped.

Her name.

Her blood ran cold.

Alice didn’t breathe as she began to read.

September 22, 1922

Well now—hello again, dear journal.

It appears I have been dreadfully negligent in keeping you entertained. One can hardly blame me, of course. Between the radio, my… extracurricular amusements, and the delightful parade of mediocrity that insists on wandering into my path, time has simply slipped away from me.

But today—ohhh, today warrants documentation.

I have just returned from what I can only describe as the finest date of my natural life.

Imagine my surprise.

Mimzy—bless her garish little heart—claimed she had found someone “perfect” for me. I scoffed, naturally. Her taste is enthusiastic but tragically unrefined, and when she mentioned that this girl worked alongside her in the clubs as a flapper, my expectations sank straight through the floorboards. I agreed only out of politeness… and curiosity.

She instructed me to play piano at one of the nicer speakeasies downtown, promising she would arrive with her prize in tow.

Enter: Alice Everglow.

Now ordinarily, I would not spare a flapper so much as a passing glance. But Alice—ahhh—Alice does not belong in a place like that. She was all wrong for it. Soft where the room was sharp. Quiet where everything else screamed. Dark blonde hair, wide, earnest green eyes, and an air of—how shall I put it—goodness. The genuine kind. Rare. Intoxicating.

Beautiful, yes, but not in that loud, desperate way the others wear like perfume. Hers was gentler. Quieter. She spoke softly, avoided my gaze, hands folded like she feared taking up too much space. Hardly the bold, brazen creature one expects from that profession.

I confess, at first I mistook her for fragile. Almost too fragile.

Then some brainless lout decided to insert himself into our conversation, declaring—rather proudly—that she could “do better,” and had the audacity to grab her arm. I was already calculating the most efficient way to rearrange his face when Alice—sweet, trembling Alice—told him no. Clear. Firm. Final.

Defended me.

Oh, that was unexpected.

And deliciously intriguing.

Later that evening—purely out of curiosity, mind you—I followed her home. Her apartment was… miserable. Cramped, worn thin, barely holding together. I almost—almost—felt sorry for her.

That night, sleep eluded me. I found myself replaying her voice, her expressions, the way she looked startled when I laughed. I wondered—absurdly—if I had stumbled upon something dangerously close to a dream.

The next day, I did what any rational man would do: I tracked Mimzy down and learned where Alice would be dancing that night.

The venue was a pit. Beneath my usual standards. But for her? I endured it.

She was on stage in a gold dress, smiling that practiced, hollow smile. The moment the music ended, it vanished. I noticed that too. I waited at the bar, rehearsing something clever, something charming—when I saw her shoved out of the dressing room by her manager, who had the nerve to yell at her like she was property.

I did not care for that.

So I followed him backstage, found him alone, and resolved the matter permanently. Left my signature, of course. One should always sign their work.

I returned to the bar. Not a soul suspected a thing.

Alice and I spoke for some time. I learned quite a bit. She despises her job. She dances not out of vanity, but desperation. Her family life is… tangled. She does not enjoy entertaining men—in fact, it repulses her—but she loves to dance when it belongs to her. Fair enough.

Then she mentioned new rules her manager had imposed. Verbal entertainment. Smiles. Compliance.

How fortunate for her that the problem had already been solved, but she didn’t know that yet.

I offered her a position at my radio studio. She accepted without hesitation—just as I suspected she would.

Later, another idiot tried his luck with her. Again. She refused him. He grabbed her anyway.

I have never wanted to kill a man more.

But patience, Alastor. Patience. One mustn’t frighten the prize away too soon. I settled for a punch and escorted her out myself. I can always find the fellow later anyways.

I walked her home. Asked her to dinner the following night. She hesitated—work obligations—but of course, those were no longer an issue, with her boss now gone. The following day she called. We made arrangements.

Dinner was… enchanting.

She is quiet at first, but once I mentioned books—ohhh, she blossomed. Couldn’t stop talking. Absolutely charming. A tragic little history, too. Religious trauma. A broken family. A former fiancé who left her flinching at the sound of shattered plates.

Timid. Delicate.

But not weak.

By the end of the evening, I knew—without question—that I could not allow her to slip through my fingers.

She is precisely what I have been searching for.

Sweet. Trusting. Untouched by the dreadful truth of what I am. Too sweet, really—though she insists such a thing does not exist. Ah, innocence always argues for itself.

A woman like her—more saint than sinner—casts an even more convincing illusion. With someone so pure at my side, who would ever suspect the man she chooses? One would assume only another saint could earn her devotion.

How delightful.

So I shall be patient.

I shall be charming.

I shall play my part to perfection.

And I will let her fall in love with me.

After all—

The long game is always the most satisfying.

—

Alice’s heart dropped.

There it was. Plain. Undeniable. He had never courted her out of love—only utility. She had been a shield. A costume. A smiling, gentle alibi.

Her pulse began to race, thunderous in her ears, as if her body sensed the collapse before her mind could accept it. The room felt smaller. Too tight. Tears welled unbidden, blurring the page as something inside her fractured—slowly, painfully.

And beneath the hurt, something sharper began to coil.

Anger.

No—no, she couldn’t let herself spiral. She forced herself to breathe. He loved her. He had to. He had shown it, hadn’t he? She remembered the way he looked when she lay dying from scarlet fever—how terrified he’d been, how his voice had shaken.

Or… had that been fear of losing his cover?

The thought made her stomach twist.

She shook her head violently. No. That wasn’t fair. People change. Feelings grow. Maybe that had been his intention at first—but then love followed. It had to have.

Clinging to that fragile hope, Alice turned the page.

More names.

So many names of the people he killed.

Then—

She saw a familiar name, a very familiar name.

John Everglow

May 23, 1923

Stabbed to death. Thrown into the harbor.

The world tilted.

Her father, Alastor had killed her father.

And on their wedding day no less, that's why her father never showed up.

He hadn’t just done it—and worse he had lied about it. Smiled. Held her. Comforted her through her grief.

The room began to spin violently. Her breaths came shallow and fast, her hands trembling—not with sorrow now, but with rage. A hot, blistering fury burned through the shock.

He lied to her.

Alice turned the page.

May 23, 1923

Ahhh.

So this is it.

Dear Journal,

Today, I am to be married.

How delightfully absurd.

Dear Alice—by all outward measures, the perfect woman for a man like me. Gentle. Loyal. Devoted to a fault. Foolish in that soft, tragic way that makes her believe goodness is armor. Naïve enough to mistake a well-mannered monster for something holy.

She looks at me as though I am capable of change, that I will turn to the light.

She has such silly thoughts.

She laughs at my jokes. Pours my coffee exactly how I like it. Listens when I speak as if every word is a gift rather than a performance. As if I am sincere. As if I am safe.

Foolish girl.

And—most remarkably—she knows.

She knows about the bodies. The blood. The things I do after dark. She knows what I am.

She was very nearly one of them.

When she caught me one night—going through the notions of despising a corpse, she was in my car, no less—I very nearly killed her. It would have been sensible. Necessary, even. But before I could act, she confessed that she had known long before that moment.

I can still see her standing there. Pale. Shaking. Terrified—and yet refusing to run.

She said my name like a prayer.

She said she loved me as though it were the simplest truth in the world.

Naïve, heartbreakingly naïve.

And I… stopped.

I do not know why.

Curiosity, perhaps. Amusement. Or some lingering, useless fragment of humanity that refuses to die quietly.

She stayed.

She loves me.

That fact continues to astonish me.

Because the truth—the honest, unsightly truth—is that I do not love her. Not in the way she believes. I suspect I am incapable of such inefficiency. Love, real love, requires vulnerability. Devotion. Ache.
What I feel is tolerance. Fondness. Ownership. Comfort.

Numbness, perhaps.

Alice does not notice. Of course she doesn’t. The poor, foolish thing has been starved of affection her entire life. A man who listens. Who walks her home. Who refrains from striking her. Who treats her with the bare minimum of decency.

That was enough.

My clumsy attempts at civility have convinced her she has found a fairy tale. A rescuer. A miracle.

And I let her believe it.

I suppose I am not guilty—merely surprised—that someone so kind, so gentle, so profoundly naïve could love something so fundamentally broken.

Especially considering where she came from.

Her father was a vile creature. Racist. Sexist. Self-righteous to the point of delusion. A man who wrapped cruelty in scripture and called it virtue. A preacher, no less. I find it fascinating—marvelous, even—that Alice emerged from such filth with her goodness intact.

He did not deserve her.

Which is why, last night, I corrected that particular injustice.

She will never know.

She cannot know.

Just as she will never know how close her former fiancé, Leland Brendle, came to sharing the same fate—damn the coward for fleeing town before I could address him properly.

Today, Alice will walk down the aisle alone. And for that, I feel the faintest sliver of guilt for her father’s absence.

But she will recover. She always does.

She will see me standing there and walk forward with stars in her eyes, believing she has been chosen. Cherished. Saved.

Foolish. Sweet. Naïve Alice.

And I will smile.

I will say my vows.

I will play the part flawlessly.

After all, marriage—like everything else—is simply another role.

And I do so enjoy the stage.

—

Alice couldn’t breathe.

The air felt thick, uncooperative, as if the truth itself had weight—pressing down on her chest, crushing her ribs inward. He didn’t love her. He never had. He had used her. Used her to disappear in plain sight. Used her smile, her softness, her goodness as camouflage.

Ten years.

Ten years of lies.

Anger surged through her, sudden and violent, splitting her heart cleanly in two. Her hands trembled as memories came crashing in—one after another, relentless.

The speakeasy.

She was miserable that night, hating her job, adjusting her dress, unsure of herself. And there he was, playing the piano—charming, polite, seeming like a man carved from chivalry decency. She had felt sorry for him then. The way people looked at him. The cruelty he endured just for the color of his skin. She had thought him strong for smiling through it.

She had thought that smile was real.

She remembered how he defended her that one night when she was working, stepping in when men grew too bold. The way he seemed to care. How he offered her a job—rescued her from her dreadful employment and that dingy apartment and let her move into his studio. How he cooked for her. Danced with her. Took her out into the glowing nights of New Orleans, laughter and jazz curling around them like a promise.

God, she had loved him.

The proposal flashed next—Christmas Day, down by the harbor. The water glittering. The air cold and bright. His voice steady as he asked her to marry him.

The same harbor.

The same place where he had murdered her father.

Her stomach twisted violently.

Then the years rolled on—his radio show climbing to fame, their new house, the luxury, the life they built together. And the night she almost died. The way he had looked at her then—terrified, frantic, holding her like he might shatter if he let go.

She had thought it was love.

But now—

Now she knew better.

He hadn’t been afraid of losing her.

He had been afraid of losing his cover.

A decade together. A decade of carefully curated affection. Every kiss, every gentle word, every shared silence—manufactured.

The sound of the phone ringing sliced through her thoughts.

Alice flinched violently, her heart lurching as if yanked by a wire. She stared at the phone for a moment before forcing herself to move, her hands still shaking as she picked it up.

“H-Hello?”

Her voice sounded shakier than she expected—thin, unstable.

A man answered back, “Oh, hello miss.”

“I—this is Alice Broussard,” she said automatically. “Can I help you?”

“Is Alastor there?” a man asked. “He’s late for his program.”

Alice glanced at the clock. Her breath caught. She hadn’t noticed the time slipping away—too lost in the horror of what she’d uncovered.

She couldn’t tell him the truth. That Alastor had gone to dump a body. That he had promised to go to work afterward and come home like nothing was wrong.

Her panic surged.

She hung up.

The receiver clattered against the base.

So he lies to her. Lies about loving her. And then has the nerve to be late to work.

Something inside her snapped.

Alice didn’t think, grabbed her car keys.

She didn’t think—she just moved.

The drive was a blur. She scanned every passing vehicle, searching for Alastor’s red car, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. The farther she went, the greener the trees became, the thicker the fog rolled in. Fireflies flickered through the air like nervous sparks.

She was getting close.

She turned off at the familiar willow tree, tires crunching onto the muddy dirt road. Her body buzzed with rage and grief, vibrating under her skin.

When she finally reached the small clearing deep in the bayou, Alice saw it—the cabin.

Alastor’s cabin.

The one she had never once been inside.

It sat low and quiet among the trees, dimly lit by the flicker of candlelight. And there, parked just out front, unmistakable even in the dark, was his gleaming red car.

Her blood went cold.

Rage rattled through her bones. Did he just get carried away? Did he lose track of time so completely that he missed his radio show? The very thought made her chest burn. It was unlike him—painfully so—and that alone made it worse.

Alice climbed out of the car and slammed the door shut, the sound cracking through the stillness.

From where she stood, she could see into the cabin’s front window—but there was no movement inside. No shadow crossing the walls. No sign of life.

She glanced around instead.

The bayou breathed all around her. Crawdads sang from the water’s edge, frogs ribbited in uneven chorus, and magnolia blossoms and long willow branches swayed gently in the warm night breeze. The beauty of it all felt cruel.

A hollow laugh escaped her.

She had always imagined that one day—when Alastor finally retired from the radio, from the violence, from the endless nights—they would come here. That they would live out their days on the bayou, quiet and free, wrapped in green and sunlight.

Now, standing there alone, she wasn’t sure that future would ever come.

Hope still lingered at the back of her mind.

She wished it wouldn’t.

Alice took a step toward the cabin—

And froze.

Dogs were barking.

The sound was sharp, close. Wrong.

Then came footsteps—leaves crunching, boots sinking into wet mud.

Alice’s heart thundered as she marched forward, every step fueled by years of betrayal and unanswered questions. Alastor, she thought fiercely.

But when the figure emerged from the shadows, her breath caught.

It wasn’t him.

The man was broad-shouldered, dressed in camouflaged hunting gear. A camo hat was pulled low over his head, and a matching bandanna covered the lower half of his face. He looked unsteady—frazzled, almost panicked—until he spotted her.

Then he froze.

Alice had no idea what was happening—

Until the dogs appeared behind him.

Two hounds, their chests heaving, crimson blood smeared around their mouths.

Her stomach dropped.

Before she could speak, the man tilted his head slightly.

“Alice?”

Her world stopped.

She knew that voice.

It had haunted her dreams for years.

The man slowly reached up and pulled down his bandanna.

Alice’s breath left her in a broken gasp.

It was Leland Brendle.

Her ex-fiancé.

Chapter Text

Alice stared at Leland, her mind struggling to reconcile the man before her with the ghost she had buried a decade ago.

He looked almost the same—older, yes, time finally etched into him. His brown hair was threaded with gray now, his face sharper, harder. But it wasn’t age that unsettled her. It was the absence of something she remembered all too well. The arrogance was gone. The smug, self-satisfied tilt of his chin. The man who once filled every room with his ego now stood hollowed out, eyes darting, breath uneven. Shaken. Afraid.

And that terrified her more than if he’d smiled.

Leland’s two hunting hounds sniffed around him, their bodies sleek and powerful. Alice’s stomach turned as she noticed the dark, wet crimson smeared around their snouts. Blood. Fresh.

It was too much. Far too much. Her chest felt tight, as though the night itself were pressing down on her. First Alastor—his journals, his lies, the revelation that ten years of marriage might have been nothing more than camouflage. A decade of love reduced to strategy. And now this. Her past, standing in front of her in the flesh. The man who had broken her before she ever learned how to fight back.

Why him?

Why now?

How could this night possibly get worse?

“What the hell are you doing here, Leland?” Alice snapped, her voice trembling despite herself.

Leland’s gaze dropped to the dirt. He muttered something under his breath—too quiet, too cowardly. Alice barely heard it.

But Alice’s eyes kept going to the bloodied mouths of his dogs.

Something ugly twisted in her chest.

The pain from Alastor’s betrayal curdled, transforming into something hotter, sharper. Anger surged up, fierce and unrestrained, and she turned it on the man who had dared to step back into her life.
“Really!?” she spat. “You’re hunting on land that isn’t even yours!? God, you are such a good for nothing loser!”

Her head swam as she shouted, the edges of her vision dimming, but adrenaline kept her upright. She refused to let herself falter in front of him.

Leland bristled. “I didn’t know anyone still lived out here!” he snapped back. “I—I thought the place was abandoned. I didn’t know it was you—”

“We don’t live here,” Alice cut in sharply. “It’s my husband’s cabin. We—”

She stopped.

Her heart stuttered.

“Where is Alastor?” she demanded, her voice dropping into something dangerous. “If he’d seen you, I know damn well you wouldn’t still be breathing.”

Alice’s eyes drifted back to the dogs yet again—and that’s when she saw it.

One of them was gnawing on something caught between its teeth. Fabric. Red. Striped.

The world tilted.

It looked exactly like the vest she had pressed into Alastor’s hands before he left that night.

The heat of her anger vanished in an instant, replaced by ice-cold terror that plunged straight into her gut. Her stomach dropped as if she’d stepped off a cliff.

Slowly—too slowly—Alice turned back to Leland.

“Where,” she said quietly, each word shaking, “is my husband?”

Leland looked away.

That was all the answer she needed.

One of the dogs suddenly bolted deeper into the woods.

Something inside Alice screamed.

She followed.

“Don’t!” Leland shouted, grabbing her arm, his grip painfully tight. “No—do not go in there!”

Alice didn’t think.

She reacted.

Her fist connected with his face in a sharp, brutal crack. Pain exploded across her knuckles, but she barely felt it. Leland stumbled back, clutching his nose as blood spilled between his fingers.

Alice didn’t look back.

She ran.

The woods swallowed her whole.

Mud sucked at her nice shoes. Roots clawed at her ankles. Shadows pressed in from every direction as she followed the sound of the dog—panting, whining, circling—until it stopped, nose buried in the earth, sniffing frantically at something unseen.

It was too dark to understand at first glance.

Alice stepped closer, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain it could be heard through the trees.

Then she saw a body.

The world tilted.

Her breath vanished from her lungs, ripped away as if her chest had caved in on itself. Her mind screamed—No! No! No!—over and over, a frantic, broken prayer.

She forced herself to look again.

And then—relief. Sudden, dizzying, almost painful.

It was just the man Alastor had killed earlier that night.

Her knees nearly buckled with the revelation.

Thank God.

But even as relief washed through her, something felt wrong. The body had been left here—discarded, unfinished. Alastor never left loose ends. He never did things halfway.

Alice swallowed, her thoughts scrambling. Maybe that’s what Leland saw, she told herself. The body. That must’ve been what shook him. Serves him right for hunting on property that doesn't even belong to him.

She clung to that explanation like a lifeline.

Then the dog moved.

It lifted its head.

And sniffed again.

Alice followed its gaze.

And froze.

There—half-hidden in shadow—was another shape. Another body. And what caught her eye wasn’t the blood, or the stillness.

It was the red vest.

Bright. Unmistakable. Burning against the dark like an open wound.

No.

Her chest seized, pain tearing through her so violently she couldn’t breathe. Tears flooded her eyes as she ran toward him, every step a denial, every heartbeat screaming that she was wrong.

He was lying at an unnatural angle, too still, too peaceful—like he was only sleeping.

Alice’s legs gave out.

Her knees slammed into the earth as the world collapsed around her.

She screamed.

All the rage. All the grief. All the sorrow she had been carrying tore out of her at once. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t.

With shaking hands, she cradled his head and turned it toward her, desperate—hoping his eyes would open, hoping he would smile, hoping he would tell her it was all right. That he loved her. That this was a mistake. That they would still live out their days here in the bayou, together, just as she had dreamed.

But when she turned his face—

There was a gunshot wound, clean and brutal, right between his eyes.

He was gone.

Alice shook his head, sobbing, her fingers tangled in his brown curls.

“Alastor, wake up,” she cried. “Alastor, this isn’t funny—please—wake up!”

She begged. She pleaded. She broke.

But he never did.

He just lay there in the mud and shadows, utterly motionless, as the bayou whispered on around them.

Alice cried out again, the sound raw and unrestrained, torn from somewhere deep in her chest where words no longer existed. He was gone. Truly, irrevocably gone. The truth struck her over and over again, each realization as cruel as the first.

Her mind became a battlefield.

Anger burned through her—white-hot and vicious. She hated him. Hated the lies. Hated the years of carefully performed affection, the way he had looked at her and sworn devotion while using her as a shield. Hated him for stealing her trust. For killing her father. For deciding her life for her without ever asking.

And yet—

Grief crashed into her with staggering force, knocking the breath from her lungs. Because no matter what he had done, he was dead. And death was final. There would be no confrontation now. No screaming, no truth dragged out into the open. No answers. The journal would remain nothing more than ink and paper.

That not knowing hurt almost as much as the truth itself.

Her hands trembled as she cradled his head, pulling him into her lap. His skin was cold—unnaturally so—devoid of the warmth she had pressed her cheek against so many nights. Still smooth. Still familiar. And that was what broke her.

Because beneath the fury, beneath the betrayal, beneath the shock and disbelief, there was love. Deep, aching, undeniable love.

Alastor had been there when no one else was. When she was poor, frightened, alone in a city that swallowed girls like her whole. He had given her a home. A place to rest. A place where she was allowed to be herself—quiet, soft, imperfect—without being told she was too much or not enough. With him, she had danced until her feet ached, read books curled against his side, laughed until her ribs hurt, cried into his chest and felt—if only for a while—safe.

And now he was gone.

Gone forever.

Her sobs deepened, turning broken and animal as she rocked back and forth, clutching him as though holding on tightly enough might somehow undo the impossible. But he didn’t stir. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t smile that crooked, maddening smile.

The man who had been her world—her greatest comfort and her deepest betrayal—lay lifeless in her arms.

And Alice shattered completely.

Footsteps.

They echoed behind her—slow, deliberate, growing closer—and Alice barely registered them at first. Her world had narrowed to the dead weight in her arms, to the hollow quiet where Alastor’s breath should have been. Her tears blurred everything, the forest dissolving into streaks of gray and shadow.

Then she looked up.

Through her tears, she saw him.

Leland stood over her, the hunting rifle raised, its dark mouth pointed directly at her heart. Alice didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. If anything, she felt strangely empty, as though whatever fear should
have lived in her body had already been burned away.

“I’m sorry, Alice,” Leland said, his voice almost gentle. “But I can’t let anyone know about this.”

Something inside her cracked open.

Her voice broke as she screamed, raw and animal, “You killed him! You killed him!” The words tore out of her chest. “How–how could you?! WHY!?!”

Leland hesitated. The gun lowered just a fraction. For a fleeting moment, something like regret flickered across his face.

“Well—obviously—I didn’t mean to,” he said quickly, defensive now. “I thought the bastard was a God damn deer.” He scoffed, then gestured vaguely to the other body nearby. “And besides, look at that. Your precious husband was carrying around a corpse. He killed someone, Alice. He was a bad man. Now he’s where he belongs. In Hell.”

Alice barely heard him.

Her eyes never left Alastor’s face.

She clutched him closer, sobbing openly now, her fingers trembling as they brushed his hair back from his forehead. Warmth was gone. He was cold—so terribly cold—but still beautiful, still him. She loved him. She hated him. Both truths tore at her until she thought she might split apart.

Alice didn’t notice Leland moving until he was suddenly there—kneeling in front of her, invading her space, lowering himself to her level as though he were offering comfort.

The closeness made her stomach turn.

He moved slowly, deliberately, as if he had every right to be there. As if this moment belonged to him.

Then his knee touched the ground.

Glass shattered.

The sound was sharp and cruel, slicing through the night. Leland glanced down, annoyed more than surprised, and followed the sound to its source.

Alastor’s glasses.

Leland stared at them for a heartbeat.

Then, without a word—without a second thought—he tossed them aside, like they were nothing. Like they were trash.

Alice’s chest tightened so painfully she thought she might scream.

Because even now—even now—he was taking pieces of Alastor away from her.

“I am sorry, Alice,” he said again. “I really am. But don’t worry—you’re going to be okay.” He chuckled softly, horribly out of place. “Tell you what. I can still take you back. I’m still single, if you can believe it.”

Alice stared at him in stunned silence.

How could he joke? How could he smile?

“Yeah,” Leland went on, encouraged by her lack of response. “We’ll do things the right way this time. Like they should’ve been ten years ago.”

“You can’t be serious,” Alice whispered, disbelief sharpening into fury. “You killed my husband.”

“And?” Leland shrugged. “Look at him. He was a murderer. Killed that other guy.”

“You didn’t know him!” she cried.

He scoffed. “Oh, baby—you didn’t know him either. Did you even know you were married to a killer?” He laughed.

The sound snapped something loose inside her.

“Yes!” she screamed suddenly. “Yes, I knew!”

Leland blinked, startled. “You’re crazy,” he muttered. Then his tone softened again, falsely soothing. “But it’s alright. I’ll take you home back to South Carolina. We’ll get married. Have kids. Everything will be just fine.”

He set the gun aside and placed his hand on her shoulder.

The touch made her skin crawl.

Every memory came rushing back—his hands bruising her arms, his voice cutting her down, the months she had spent shrinking herself into nothing just to survive him.

“No,” Alice said, her voice low and shaking. “I’m not crazy. You are. You think I’d marry the man who ruined my life? You’re insane.”

The slap came fast.

Her head snapped to the side, pain blooming across her cheek as he snarled, “Don’t talk to me like that! You should know your place.” His eyes were cold now. “And what choice do you have, Alice? Your husband’s dead. You don’t have a job. Come home with me.”

Alice looked up at him slowly.

Her hands were still cradling Alastor’s head.

No.

She would never let anyone own her again. Never let anyone lie to her, use her, break her.

Not ever.

In one swift, instinctive motion, Alice grabbed the rifle.

Her hands shook—not with fear, but with fury so white-hot it made her vision blur. Fireflies burst into the air around Leland’s face, glowing wild and frantic, their light dancing across his features as realization finally struck him. Terror widened his eyes.

“Alice—don’t—don’t be crazy—”

She stood.

The ground felt unsteady beneath her feet, but her spine locked straight, rage holding her upright when grief had already hollowed her out.

“No,” she said, her voice trembling with fury, every word tearing its way out of her chest. “I am done letting people decide my future for me. I am done being hurt. Used. Belittled.” Her grip tightened on the rifle. “No one gets to do that to me ever again.”

Leland scrambled backward, still on the ground, palms slipping in the mud.

“No—baby, I would never—” he stammered. “Just put the gun down. I love you.”

The word hit her like a slap.

“You love me?” she choked. “You just slapped me.”

He laughed weakly, desperate. “That doesn’t mean anything. Come on, darling—put the gun down.”

Something in Alice snapped.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, tears streaming freely now. “You don’t love me. You never did. You tried to change me. You hurt me. You hit me.” Her voice broke. “That isn’t love.”

She almost said more.

Almost said I know what love is—

But the words died in her throat.

Because suddenly, painfully, she wasn’t sure anymore.

Leland stared at her, frozen, his fear naked and ugly.

“Calm down,” he said sharply. “You’re being dramatic—”

The rifle rose.

The shot rang out, cracking through the night like the sky itself splitting open.

Alice didn’t flinch.

Leland collapsed, lifeless, hitting the ground with a dull finality. Alice screamed then—sobs and curses tearing from her throat.

“I hate you!” she cried. “You bastard! Rot in Hell!”

She kicked him once, twice, before his dogs rushed forward, teeth tearing into him, flesh ripping beneath their jaws. Alice dropped the gun at last, her whole body shaking, anger still coursing through her like fire.

The forest fell silent again.

And Alice stood there, broken, trembling, forever changed.

The wind rose suddenly, threading through the trees like a whisper of judgment.

Alice stood there, unmoving, her chest heaving as the rage drained from her body, leaving something far worse behind. Guilt. Regret. A sick, hollow understanding.

She had killed someone.

Not by accident. Not in fear or confusion. She had aimed. She had pulled the trigger. Cold blood clung to her hands no matter how hard she rubbed them together.

Her breath came fast and shallow. I shouldn’t have done that. The thought looped again and again, frantic and useless. Her knees nearly buckled beneath her, and she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth to muffle a sob that tore free anyway.

Then—

a drop of water struck her nose.

Another followed. Then another.

Rain began to fall, slow at first, then heavier, soaking her hair, her dress, the ground beneath her feet. It felt like the world itself was washing her crime back onto her skin.

Alice turned toward Alastor.

She dragged his body from the woods, inch by inch, her muscles screaming, her arms burning as rain slicked the ground beneath them. He was heavier than she expected—dead weight in the truest sense. By the time she reached the clearing, her head swam, her body shaking with exhaustion.

She collapsed to her knees in the mud, her dress ruined, clinging to her legs. With shaking hands, she lifted his face, brushing rain-soaked hair from his eyes.

“What do I do now?” she whispered.

He did not answer.

She lowered him gently, helpless, lost. She couldn’t leave him like this—but she couldn’t stay either. Not with blood on her soul and the echo of the gunshot still ringing in her ears.

Then she saw the shovel.

Under the rain, she dug.

Each thrust into the earth felt like a confession. Mud soaked her shoes, rain stung her skin, her arms ached—but she didn’t stop. When the hole was deep enough, she lifted Alastor’s body once more.
Just as she was about to lower him in, something slipped from his pocket.

A gold pocket watch.

Alice choked on a sob.

It was from her. The one she had given him for Christmas—their first Christmas together. Her fingers traced the inscription through the rain:

From your dearest Alice. Merry Christmas.

Tiny deer antlers curled around the engraving.

She pressed it to her chest, then slipped it into the pocket of her ruined dress. With shaking hands, she laid Alastor into the grave.

She cried the entire time she filled it in.

When it was done, she stumbled back toward the cabin, soaked and hollow, forcing herself inside only to blow out the candles. The bayou couldn’t burn down too—not tonight.

But the moment she stepped inside, her breath caught.

Symbols covered the walls. The ceiling. The floors.

She recognized them instantly—markings from Alastor’s mother’s voodoo book. She knew he had practiced his faith quietly in their townhouse, respectfully. Never like this.

And the smell.

It was wrong. Heavy. Rotten.

She took one step and something wrong was beneath her feet—she looked down and froze.

An arm.

A severed human arm lay at her feet.

Alice recoiled with a strangled gasp, her heart slamming against her ribs as she looked around. Skulls. Legs. Pieces of people scattered like discarded objects.

Her stomach twisted violently.

At the center of the room stood what could only be an altar—lined with candles and bones, flesh, and remnants of the dead.

A bitter, broken laugh escaped her.

So this is what you did too, she thought numbly. Rituals with human body parts?

Just hours ago, she had believed she finally understood him. Now she wasn’t sure she had ever known him at all.

The stench led her to a wooden icebox.

It’s just spoiled meat, she told herself desperately.

She lifted the lid.

Frozen body parts stared back at her.

The world tilted.

Everything clicked into place—every time he’d come home late, how he said he’d already eaten.

He had been eating people.

Alice stumbled backward, shaking her head violently. “No,” she whispered. “No—this can’t be right.”

But it was.

That was it. She couldn’t breathe in that place one second longer.

Alice ran outside.

She burst from the cabin, into her car, hands shaking as she turned the key. Tires tore through mud as she sped away, rain blurring her vision, tears streaming freely.

Behind her lay a grave.

And a truth she would never escape.

The drive back to New Orleans felt endless.

Alice’s hands shook so badly on the steering wheel that the car drifted more than once, the tires skimming too close to the edge of the road. She kept jerking the wheel back into place, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Tears blurred her vision until the streetlights smeared into long, trembling streaks of gold.

This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be.

Ten years.

She had been married to Alastor for ten years—and she had never known.

The thought slammed into her again and again, each time stealing more air from her lungs. He had been eating people. Not metaphorically. Not in some symbolic, exaggerated way. Literally. Human flesh, frozen and stored like meat.

Her stomach churned violently.

Had he ever fed her human meat? Had she eaten it without knowing—smiled at him across the table, thanked him, trusted him?

Alice gagged and had to swallow hard to keep from vomiting all over the dashboard.

And the rituals. The bones. The altar.

She had spent years believing he was a damaged man—someone hurt by the world, someone who needed patience and love and understanding. She had given him everything she had. She had softened herself for him. Excused him. Protected him.

All the while, he had been playing her. Smiling at her. Lying to her.

Anger flared hot and sharp in her chest, burning right alongside her grief.

She pulled up to the townhouse on shaking legs and stumbled inside, soaked to the skin. The door closed behind her with a soft, final click that made her chest tighten painfully.

The house was silent.

Too silent.

Her head, on the other hand, was screaming.

Alastor was gone.

He had lied to her.

He had been a murderer.

A cannibal.

And she had killed Leland.

All of it—every horror, every betrayal—had happened in less than four hours.

Alice’s breathing turned frantic, shallow. Her vision narrowed. She pressed her hands to her chest as if she could physically hold herself together, but her body refused to listen. Panic clawed its way up her throat.

People would ask where Alastor was.

They would look for him.

What am I supposed to say?

What am I supposed to do?

Alice couldn’t stop the thoughts.

They came in waves—memories, images, words—crashing into her over and over until her chest physically ached, as if her heart had split open and was bleeding inside her ribs. She pressed a hand to it, gasping, but the pain didn’t ease. It only grew tighter. Heavier.

She couldn’t take it.

It was too much.

Anger. Grief. Guilt. All of it churned together inside her, a thick, suffocating storm that stole her breath and twisted her insides until she felt like she might tear apart from the pressure alone.

Then she saw the liquor cabinet.

And in a desperate, reckless bid for relief, she tore it open.

She didn’t pour. She didn’t hesitate. She drank straight from the bottle—then another. And another. The burn clawed down her throat, sharp and punishing, and she welcomed it. The alcohol dulled the edges just enough to make the world wobble, to slow the screaming in her head.

But the anger stayed.

It simmered beneath the haze, darker now, meaner.

And then it surged.

Her drunken rage hit suddenly—violent and blinding—turning panic into something sharp enough to do something with.

This was Alastor’s fault.

All of it.

He had done this to her. Left her drowning in secrets and blood and lies, left her to piece together a life that had never been real to begin with.

Her steps were unsteady as she staggered toward the fireplace, hands shaking as she struck a match. It flared to life, the flame catching quickly, greedily, licking at the logs. The fire crackled—bright, hungry, alive.

Just like her fury.

She grabbed the framed photographs first.

Smiling faces. False memories. Moments she had believed in.

She hurled them into the flames.

Glass shattered. The frames cracked. The images curled inward, blackening and disappearing as if they had never existed at all.

Then the newspaper clippings.

The articles she had once saved so carefully, the fragments of his past she thought she understood. They burned easily—too easily—ash lifting into the air like dead snow.

The fire grew larger.

So did her anger.

She stumbled to the closet and dragged his clothes out in armfuls—shirts, jackets, anything that still smelled like him. She threw them into the fire one by one, watching the fabric catch, shrivel, vanish. The heat stung her face, dried her tears, made her skin prickle.

She welcomed it.

She wanted it to hurt.

She wanted everything gone.

Finally, her hands closed around the journal.

The one that had shattered what was left of her world.

Her fingers trembled so badly she nearly dropped it. Her heart pounded wildly, alcohol and rage and grief crashing together as tears streamed freely down her face. A broken sound tore out of her—half sob, half scream—as she hurled it into the fire.

The pages caught instantly.

Flames devoured the words, the ink curling and blackening, secrets turning to smoke.

Alice stood there, swaying, watching until there was nothing left but embers.

Nothing left at all.

Chapter Text

Also a new Alice design just dropped!!

Alice opened her eyes, she lay on her back in the bayou grass, staring up at a sky emptied of everything. No moon. No stars. Just an endless, velvety black pressing down on her.
The air was warm and heavy, thick with the scent of wet earth and magnolia blossoms. Spanish moss draped from the trees like pale lace, swaying lazily in a breeze she could see but not quite feel.

Fireflies drifted overhead, slow and golden, as if someone had scattered the stars too low and too carelessly and then forgotten to retrieve them.
Alice felt impossibly comfortable. Safe.
She smiled faintly.
This is nice, she thought.
She eventually sat up, brushing nonexistent dirt from her skirt, and that was when she saw a cabin.
It stood just beyond the trees, candlelight spilling warmly from its windows, steady and inviting. The porch steps were clean and dry, somehow untouched by mud or rot. It glowed like a memory she couldn't quite place.
Alice rose and walked toward it. Her feet barely made a sound against the ground, and with every step, the bayou seemed to pull back, parting for her like an audience making room for something sacred.
She walked up and opened the door.
The smell hit her first.
Wood smoke—sharp and bitter, clinging to the air far too strongly.
Alice peered inside, the cabin opened into a small kitchen, something simmering gently on the stove. Jazz drifted through the air, low and indistinct, so soft Alice couldn’t quite name the melody—only the feeling it left behind. The space felt impossibly warm, like a home she had once imagined, like a dream she’d never dared to fully believe in.
She walked in and immediately froze.
A man sat in an armchair by the window, one leg crossed neatly over the other, a cigarette resting between his fingers as though it belonged there. He looked so… right. Handsome. Peaceful. His dark curls were slightly mussed, his sleeves rolled back, his vest pressed to perfection.
Alice’s breath caught in her chest.
“Alice,” the man said warmly, glancing up. His expression softened the moment his eyes found her. “There you are, my dear. I was beginning to worry.”
For a moment, Alice couldn’t speak. She blinked once, then again, as if afraid he might vanish if she didn’t look closely enough.
It was him.
It was Alastor.
“You’re home,” she whispered, the words leaving her like a prayer, though she didn’t know why—she had been the one to arrive.
“Well, of course I am.” Alastor gestured lightly with the cigarette before bringing it to his lips. “Where else would I be, ma chère?”
He exhaled.
The smoke that left his lips was not gray or white, but thick and black, curling unnaturally as it rose. It lingered instead of fading, heavy and suffocating, staining the air without touching the ceiling. The smell was overwhelming—burnt fabric, ash, something darker beneath it all.
Alice wrinkled her nose before she could stop herself.
“That’s… rather strong,” she said.
Alastor glanced at the smoke, then back at her, amused. “Blast. I thought these tasted a bit off. I happened to try a new shop today—last time I do that.”
He lifted the newspaper in his other hand.
“Have you seen the morning headlines? Quite exciting. I’ve got so many interesting topics for my radio show.”
Alice stepped closer, peering over his shoulder.
At first glance, the paper looked normal—columns, bold titles, neat rows of ink. Then her eyes focused.
Every line said the same thing.
SMOKE SMOKE SMOKE SMOKE SMOKE
Over and over. Endless. No stories. No names. Just the word, swallowing the page whole.
Alice blinked, her heart fluttering uneasily.
“That’s… not right,” she murmured. “It just says… smoke?”
Alastor laughed lightly. “Oh? You must have read the column about that foolish woman who caught her house on fire. Left her fireplace burning, I suppose. How utterly careless.”
Before Alice could look again, he folded the paper neatly and set it aside, as if nothing were wrong. The black smoke continued to coil lazily above him, thick and bitter.
Something inside Alice twisted.
“Somthing doesn’t feel right,” she said quietly.
Alastor cocked a brow. “Whatever do you mean, my darling dear? Everything is fine. You’re safe.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “Are you feeling unwell?”
She swallowed.
Is this a dream? she wondered. She’s never dreamed something so vivid before.
She stepped closer to Alastor, searching his face—but he rose at once. His hands came to her waist, warm and solid, grounding her.
He pressed his palm to her forehead.
“Mon dieu,” he said softly. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m not,” Alice said, confused. “I feel fine, I—”
“Oh hush.” His tone was gentle but firm. “Let me take care of you, my dear.”
He pulled her closer. “I love you far too much to let some sickness try and take you again.”
Alastor then kissed Alice’s temple. Then her cheek. Then her lips—slow, lingering, unbearably tender.
Alice’s chest tightened.
What has gotten into him? she thought, smiling faintly. He's never been like this. Never.
It felt wrong yet, she didn’t dare pull away.
She leaned into him instead, breathing in bitter smoke and warmth and the faint, familiar trace of his cologne beneath it all.
“Well,” he said lightly, brushing a curl from her face, “I know exactly what will make you feel better. I made dinner. Your favorite!”
Alastor gently guided Alice to the small table by the window. A plate waited there, piled high with seafood—shrimp, crawfish, oysters gleaming with butter and herbs. Steam curled upward, carrying the scent of the bayou itself.
“It looks delicious,” she said softly.
“Why of course it does.” He kissed her knuckles. “I’d be worried if it wasn’t anything less than perfection—especially for you, ma chérie.”
They ate, and the food tasted like comfort—warm and familiar—though a faint, bitter smokiness lingered beneath every bite.
When she finished, Alastor stood and offered his hand.
“My darling,” he said, smiling, “you're looking better already. But just to be sure… dance with me?”
Alice didn’t hesitate and placed her hand in his.
Music drifted in from nowhere and everywhere at once—a melody she could almost recognize. They moved together slowly, his hand firm at her back, guiding her with effortless precision.
Only then did Alice realize she was barely moving at all.
Her feet were no longer touching the floor.
She was floating.
Her skirt swayed beneath her, weightless. The room stretched and bent around them, the walls farther away than they should have been.
Her heart fluttered.
“This feels… strange,” she said.
Alastor chuckled, spinning her gently. “Really? To me, you dance beautifully.”
Alice let out a weak, embarrassed laugh, warmth rising to her cheeks—until the sound caught in her throat and fractured into harsh coughing. Almost at once, her chest tightened, and Alice suddenly found it impossible to breathe.
Each inhale scorched her lungs, fire blooming in her chest for reasons she couldn’t understand. She clutched at her throat, eyes darting wildly as panic crept in. Instinctively, she looked to Alastor for help.
He only watched her.
Alice stumbled, then collapsed to the floor, gasping, what little breath she had, was immediately knocked out of her. Her breaths came sharp and useless. No matter how hard she tried, her lungs refused to fill. Spots danced at the edges of her vision.
“Alastor—” she rasped.
She looked up again.
He was gone. Vanished.
Her heart lurched. “Alastor?” she called again, her voice thin and breaking, swallowed by the room. There was no answer. The cabin stood eerily still, as though he had never been there at all.
Then a hand settled on her shoulder.
It was cold.
Alice stiffened and turned—
—and screamed.
Behind her loomed a shadowy silhouette, tall and unnaturally slender. It was almost human in shape, but not quite. Antlers curved from its head, stretching toward the ceiling, and its smile was impossibly wide—too wide, stretching far beyond what any human mouth should allow.
The shadow spoke.
Its voice was Alastor’s… distorted, threaded with static, like a voice crackling through a radio.
“Don’t worry,” it said gently. “You’re safe.”
The shadow reached out, cupping Alice’s face with an intimacy that made her skin crawl.
Her coughing worsened, harsh and desperate, her chest burning as she wheezed for air.
“Oh,” the thing murmured fondly, tilting its head. “How I love you, Alice.”
Her mind reeled. Nothing made sense. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.
Then—
An impossibly loud crash echoed outside.
Alice jerked her head toward the window, coughing violently as she peered through the glass. The bayou lay calm and unchanged. No fallen trees. No ripples in the water. No movement at all.
Except for the fireflies.
Alice’s brow furrowed.
They weren’t moving.
They hovered perfectly still, frozen in place like pins of gold embedded in the night.
“That’s odd…” she thought.
She stared.
The longer she looked, the brighter they became. Their glow intensified, swelling and swelling until it burned white-hot—until her eyes ached, until the light swallowed everything—
Until the cabin dissolved into smoke and heat and blinding brilliance.
—
Alice surfaced slowly, her head pounding, the air thick with smoke. She tried to breathe and immediately broke into harsh, burning coughs. When her eyes opened, all she could see was smoke, gray—shifting, choking, unreal.
She turned her head weakly. Fire. Flames crawled over the furniture, swallowing the room. The sight didn’t make sense. Nothing did. Her chest tightened; the air wouldn’t come.
Then another loud crash. The front door splintered open and blurred figures rushed in through the smoke, shouting words she couldn’t grasp. Hands grabbed her, lifting her from the floor. The world tilted, faded, and Alice slipped back into darkness.
—
A while later Alice woke to a steady, metallic ringing, as if a bell were tolling somewhere inside her skull. It pulsed and warped, rising and falling with no rhythm she could follow. Her eyes fluttered open, then squeezed shut again—everything swam, smeared with white light and shadow.
“—Mrs. Broussard? Mrs. Broussard, can you hear me?”
The voice felt far away, muffled, like it was traveling through water.
Alice tried to answer, but her throat was dry and raw, scraped bare. She swallowed and winced. The air smelled sharp and clean—antiseptic, alcohol, something bitter beneath it, but not smoke. That confused her.
Her eyes opened again, slower this time. The ceiling above her was pale and bright, a lazy fan turning overhead with a dull whir-whir-whir. White curtains hung around the bed, stirring faintly. Sunlight pressed through tall windows, it was too bright.
Where am I?
A man stepped into her blurry vision, his face swimming until it settled into focus. Middle-aged. Round spectacles. White coat.
“Well now,” he said gently, smiling. “Good. You’re awake. Welcome back to the living, Mrs. Broussard.”
Alice stared at him. The name felt wrong in her ears, like it belonged to someone else.
“W…what?” she croaked.
“You know, you’re a very lucky lady,” he went on, pulling a chair closer and sitting beside the bed. “Very lucky indeed.”
Her ears rang louder. Lucky? Her head throbbed. She tried to move her hands and felt a sharp sting.
“What… happened?” she whispered.
The doctor’s expression softened. “Well, you were involved in a terrible house fire. You suffered minor burns to your hands and arms, nothing too severe. Mostly smoke inhalation. You breathed in far more than was safe.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “You nearly died, Mrs. Broussard.”
The sentence didn’t land. It floated past her, unreal.
“I… I don’t—” She shook her head weakly. “That doesn’t—”
Her eyes drifted down to her hands.
Bandages. Thick, white, wrapped around her palms and fingers. Beneath the gauze, her skin burned and pulled, aching in a way she couldn’t ignore.
Her breath hitched.
“That’s—that’s not—” Her heart began to race. “Those aren’t—”
“Don’t worry. You’re all right,” the doctor said quickly, placing a steady hand on her arm. “I promise you, you’re all right. The burns will heal. You’re safe now.”
Safe.
The word made her stomach twist.
Before she could speak again, there was a firm knock at the door.
The doctor glanced over his shoulder. “Ah. That’ll be the police. Don't worry, they just want to ask you a few questions.”
Alice’s pulse spiked.
Two uniformed officers stepped in, followed by a man in a dark suit and fedora, his tie loosened just enough to look human. He tipped his hat politely.
“Mrs. Broussard,” the detective said. “I’m Detective LeRoux. This is Officer Theo and Officer Martin.”
Alice stared at them, her mind slipping, struggling to catch up.
“We just have a few questions,” LeRoux continued. “Won’t take long.”
Questions?
“What… kind of questions?” she asked, her voice thin.
“Well,” he said, pulling a small notebook from his coat. “About the fire. How it started. What you were doing before it broke out.”
Fire?
“And,” he added, watching her closely, “where your husband is.”
Her brow furrowed. “My… husband?”
“The fire department estimates the blaze started around 3:30 this morning,” LeRoux said. “We were also notified that your husband, Alastor Broussard, failed to appear for his… radio program last night at seven o’clock. He never showed.”
Alice’s ears rang again, louder, shriller.
“His car wasn’t in the driveway,” the detective continued. “Which leads me to believe he wasn’t present during the fire.”
The room tilted.
Alastor.
The name cracked something open inside her.
Suddenly—
Blood on the floor.
A man screaming.
Alastor covered in the man’s blood.
A journal. Pages and pages of neat handwriting. Lies. Calculations. Her name reduced to ink and convenience.
Only married her to blend in.
The bayou at night. The long drive. The radio producer’s concerned voice on the telephone.
Leland.
Hunting rifle in his hand.
Dogs with red-stained mouths.
Alastor on the ground.
Still.
Gone.
A gunshot wound clean through his head.
Her hands shaking.
Rage like fire tore through her veins.
Leland’s face—white, horrified.
Her aiming the gun.
The gun recoiling.
The sound.
Dirt. A shallow grave.
The cabin.
Body parts.
Symbols carved into wood and bone.
Her car swerving down dark roads.
The bottle in her hand.
Another drink.
Another.
The fire.
Flames devouring his clothes, his papers, his memories.
Burning everything that had ever been him.
It all came back at once.
Not in order. Not gently.
It crashed into her like a wave, cold and crushing, dragging her under.
Alice stared straight ahead, her eyes wide and empty, breath shallow and fast.
“Mrs. Broussard?” the detective prompted. “Can you please tell us where your husband is?”
Alice’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
It was all too much. Too fast. Too horrible.
The silence stretched.
The officers exchanged glances. LeRoux frowned slightly.
Officer Leo exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Mrs. Broussard,” he said, his voice tightening, “I need you to focus. We have to understand what happened. Where is your husband? Was he in the house when the fire started, or not?”
Alice said nothing. Her eyes drifted past him, unfocused, as if his words were floating somewhere she couldn’t quite reach.
A flicker of impatience crossed Officer Leo’s face. He opened his mouth to press her again—
—but the doctor rose from his chair.
“That’s enough,” he said, firm and unyielding. “She’s only just regained consciousness, and she’s clearly in shock. You’ll have to give her time.”
Officer Leo hesitated, jaw tight, then finally nodded, stepping back.
“We really need—” the detective began.
“You’ll get your answers later,” the doctor cut in. “Give her a few hours. Or a day. Right now, you’re doing more harm than good.”
Another pause.
Finally, LeRoux sighed and nodded. “All right. But we’ll be back.”
The men filed out, the door closing softly behind them.
Alice remained staring at the wall, her body trembling, the echoes of memory still crashing through her.
Safe, the doctor had said.
She had never felt farther from it.
Alice trembled beneath the thin hospital blankets, her hands curling into the sheets. The memories pressed in from every direction, loud and merciless. She wished—desperately—that she could forget. Just for a moment. It was all too much to carry at once. Alastor was gone, and the love she had wrapped her whole life around had never been real. Not in the way she believed.
Another knock sounded at the door.
Alice’s heart lurched. She turned pleading eyes toward the doctor, a silent please in her gaze. She couldn’t bear another face, another voice, another question. But before the doctor could even rise from his chair—
The door flew open.
“Alice!”
The voice was bright and sharp and unmistakably alive, slicing straight through the ringing in Alice’s ears. She flinched, her head pounding in protest as hurried footsteps crossed the room. A blur of pink silk and too-sweet perfume flooded her senses, powdery florals overwhelming the sterile scent of antiseptic.
Cindy.
Her sister was suddenly there, tan skin flushed, blonde curls pinned just-so, eyes wide with horror as she took Alice in.
“Oh my Lord, look at you,” Cindy gasped, already at the bedside, her gloved hands fluttering uselessly over the blankets as if she didn’t know where to touch. “Oh, you poor thing! Why on earth do they have you laid up like this, like—like—”
Her voice cracked, the rest of the sentence dissolving into breathless disbelief.
Her words dissolved into breathless worry. Cindy reached for Alice’s face, cupping her cheeks as if checking she was real, solid, still breathing.
Alice tried to speak. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Her sister’s eyes softened instantly. “Oh, baby,” Cindy murmured. “Don’t you strain yourself. Your big sis is here now. You hear me? I came as fast as I could.”
Cindy brushed Alice’s hair back, her voice dropping into something gentler, steadier. “You gave me quite a scare, Ally. I got a phone call at five in the morning and I took Nick's car and—”
She paused.
Her hand stilled.
“Wait, where’s Alastor?” Cindy asked suddenly. “Where’s your husband, sugar?”
The question hit Alice like a physical blow.
Her chest tightened. Her vision blurred. For a heartbeat, she couldn’t breathe at all.
Alastor.
Just the name echoed, hollow and vast, and everything Alice had been holding back collapsed at once. Her face crumpled. A broken sound tore from her throat, and then she was sobbing—raw, heaving cries that hurt her lungs and scraped her chest like broken glass.
Cindy recoiled in alarm. “Alice—Alice, what is it? Honey, what’s wrong?”
Alice shook her head, tears streaming down her face, words drowning before they could surface. Her hands clenched the blanket like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the bed, to the room, to reality.
“He’s—” Her voice cracked completely. She swallowed, tried again, barely audible. “He’s gone.”
Cindy’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh my Lord.”
For a moment, Cindy said nothing. Then she squeezed Alice’s hand tightly, eyes shining with tears of her own.
“Oh, Alice… I’m so—so sorry,” she breathed. “I didn’t know. I thought—God, I just assumed…”
She turned toward the doctor, who had been lingering near the foot of the bed, clipboard tucked under his arm.
“He was in the house, wasn’t he?” Cindy asked quietly. “During the fire.”
The doctor hesitated.
“No,” he said gently. “That’s just it. They say they didn’t recover any other bodies from the house. And there was also no sign of Mr. Broussard’s car anywhere on the property.”
Cindy blinked, thrown. “What?”
She looked back at Alice, disbelief hardening into something sharper. “Where is he? His whole house burned down, his wife’s laid up in a hospital bed, and you’re telling me he’s just—gone?” Her voice rose despite herself. “Alice, when was the last time you saw him?”
Alice’s sobs faltered, draining away into a hollow, fragile silence.
She stared at the ceiling, its white surface swimming. The words dead, bayou, blood, grave slammed against the inside of her skull, clawing to be released. Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might tear her apart from the inside.
She couldn’t say it.
She couldn’t say any of it.
“I…” Alice whispered, her voice breaking. She shook her head weakly. “I—I don’t know. And I don’t think he’s ever coming back.”
Cindy frowned, studying her sister’s face as if the truth might be written there, just out of reach. Then, carefully—almost afraid of the answer—she asked the question that split the air open.
“…Alice,” she said slowly, “did he—did he leave you?”
The room tilted.
Alice turned her head just enough to look at her sister, eyes wide, breath shallow. Leave her.
She wanted to scream No. He didn’t leave me—he never loved me—he’s dead—
But she didn’t.
The idea sank into her chest, heavy and cold—and possible.
In a way, it was true.
Alastor was gone. He wasn’t coming back. He had vanished from her life as completely as if he had walked out the door and never looked back.
And this version of the truth didn’t end with handcuffs.
Didn’t end with a cell.
Didn’t end with her standing in the center of it all, soaked in guilt and blood.
Alice swallowed hard.
Then she nodded.
Just once.
Cindy’s face darkened instantly. “That son of a bitch,” she snapped. “After everything you did for him—after you stood by him—he just up and leaves you!?”
Alice’s stomach twisted.
The lie burned in her throat, sour and heavy, but Cindy was already pacing now, furious on her behalf, words tumbling over each other in righteous anger.
“I always knew there was something off about him,” Cindy continued. “Too smooth. Too charming. Men like that cannot be trusted! And after ten whole years!”
Alice squeezed her eyes shut.
She hated herself for lying.
But she didn’t take it back.
And just like that, the lie settled in—fragile, ugly, necessary—waiting to be told, again.

Chapter Text

As Alice recovered, Cindy stayed at the hospital, right by her side. Cindy slept upright in the narrow chair beside her sister’s bed, her coat draped over her shoulders, her hat perched precariously on her knees. She complained about the chair, about the draft, about the nurses—but she never left.

As overwhelmed and hollow as Alice felt, she was grateful for her sister’s presence. Cindy’s voice, her fussing, her very solidity kept Alice tethered to the world. The last time Alice had even seen her sister had been at their mother’s funeral, grief hanging between them like a fog. Now, once again, Cindy became an anchor—imperfect, loud, relentless, but real. When Alice felt herself slipping, Cindy pulled her back, if only a little.

It was on the fourth day that the police returned.

This time, Alice was ready.

The detective—LeRoux—and two uniformed officers stood at the foot of her bed, hats in hand. Cindy hovered close, her posture protective, her sharp eyes flicking between their faces. The room felt smaller with them in it, and the air felt heavier.

LeRoux cleared his throat. “Mrs. Broussard, thank you for speaking with us again. We just need to go over a few things.”

Alice nodded faintly, fingers twisting in the blanket. She had practiced this very conversation in her head over and over again.

Alice told them her carefully crafted lie, how earlier that evening, Alastor had been acting strange—quiet, restless, distracted. How they’d argued. How he had left the house abruptly, saying nothing more than that he needed air. She told them that she’d waited, pacing, watching the clock, certain he would come back.

“He didn’t,” she said softly, her voice trembling in just the right places. “And I—I panicked and I—you know…emotions were very high.”

Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, real ones now, fed by truth twisted just enough to survive.

“I was angry. And heartbroken. I didn’t know what else to do.” She pressed a hand to her chest, breath hitching. “I started burning his things. His clothes. His papers. I know it was foolish, I know it was wrong—I just wanted the pain to stop.” Her voice cracked. “I must have fallen asleep. I don’t even remember when the fire spread.”

She bowed her head. “Oh, I loved him so much,” she whispered. “And he just left. He hasn’t even come back to see if I’m alive—”

One of the officers shifted uncomfortably. Another looked down at the floor. Cindy let out a sharp, indignant breath.

LeRoux, however, did not soften.

He studied Alice closely, his eyes sharp, calculating. “Mrs. Broussard,” he said slowly, “your husband had a successful radio program. A growing audience. Sponsors. A very bright future. Men don’t usually abandon that overnight.”
Alice swallowed. Her mouth was dry.
“I—I don’t know why he did what he did,” she said, shaking her head weakly. “I wish I did.”

LeRoux let the silence stretch. Then, casually, almost too casually, he added, “We spoke to his family down in Baton Rouge. Over in the bayou. They haven’t seen him either.”

The words hit her like a blow.

His family.

Alice hadn’t let herself think about them. Hadn’t allowed the image of worried faces, unanswered questions, the slow dread creeping into their days. Her chest tightened painfully. Somewhere, people were waiting for Alastor to come home. Waiting for a man who would never return.

But Alice said nothing.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, burned and bandaged, resting uselessly in her lap.

LeRoux watched her for a long moment longer, then exhaled through his nose. “If you remember anything else,” he said, “anything at all, you’ll let us know.”

Alice nodded.

With that, he tipped his hat and turned to leave. The officers followed. The door clicked shut behind them.

Alice was officially off the hook.

But the relief never came.

Instead, a pit opened in her stomach, deep and aching. Each time she told the lie, it felt heavier—like another stone laid on her chest, pressing down, making it harder to breathe.

The truth stayed buried.

And it was crushing her from the inside out.

As Alice slowly recovered in the hospital, the world did not stop to let her catch up.

People still talked.

She heard it in fragments as she wandered the halls on unsteady legs, pretending the movement helped, pretending she wasn’t unraveling. Whispers slid past her like ghosts—nurses lowering their voices, patients pausing mid-sentence, eyes following her with something between pity and fascination. Alice kept her gaze fixed ahead, her mind already far away, already sinking.

Nothing kept the thoughts from spiraling. Not walking. Not breathing. Not prayer.

One afternoon, she nearly tripped over a newspaper abandoned on the floor near the nurses’ station. It lay open, creased and smudged with footprints. Without thinking, she bent and picked it up.

The headline leapt out at her.

Rising Radio Host Alastor Broussard Goes Missing—Leaves Wife In Rage And Burns Their House

Alice did not finish reading.

Her fingers went numb. She dropped the paper as though it had burned her, the pages fluttering uselessly to the floor. For a moment, she simply stood there, staring at nothing, her ears ringing, her chest hollow.

She turned and walked away.

A few days later, Alice was eventually discharged.

Cindy insisted she come back to North Carolina with her—said it would be safer, quieter, better. Alice shook her head. Her hometown was a cemetery of other terrible memories, and for reasons she couldn’t explain, leaving Louisiana felt like leaving Alastor behind all over again.

Thankfully—or cruelly—the Lutheran church Alice had attended for all these years heard what had happened. They offered her a room in the parish house, saying it was the least they could do. After all, Alice had worked tirelessly in the soup kitchen, worked herself sick helping others, and now her husband had abandoned her in tragedy.

They called her a saint.

Alice hated that word.

The room they gave her was small: a narrow twin bed, a single window, a wardrobe barely large enough for a child. It didn’t matter. Everything she owned had burned in the fire. There was nothing left to miss.

Before Cindy left for North Carolina, she insisted on taking Alice shopping.

It was meant to be kind. A distraction. A fresh start.

Alice drifted through the streets of New Orleans like a ghost, her body moving while her mind lagged behind. Cindy talked and laughed and pointed out dresses, trying desperately to coax something—anything—out of her sister. Alice nodded when prompted, lifted her arms when told, let herself be dressed and undressed like a mannequin.

But, every street sang with a memory.

Every lamppost. Every iron balcony. Every passing radio playing jazz through an open window felt like Alastor’s voice humming just out of reach.

By the time Alice had purchased four simple dresses, she felt emptied out.

Back in the car, Cindy gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly. “Alice,” she said quietly, “please. Come home with me. I’m worried about you.”

Alice stared out the window. “I’ll be fine,” she said. Then, after a pause, “I just… don’t want to leave.”

Cindy’s smile wavered, sad and resigned. “Alright,” she said softly. “But you’ll call me. If anything goes wrong.”

Alice nodded.

As they drove toward the church, Alice suddenly spoke. “Wait!”

Cindy slowed. “What is it?”

“I—I want to see my house,” Alice said. “Or… at least what’s left of it.”

Cindy hesitated. “Are you sure?”

Alice nodded again.

Cindy hesitantly agreed and they turned down the familiar street, passed the great oak tree at the corner.

Alice stepped out of Cindy’s car and straight into the wreckage.

The smell hit her first—smoke, old and bitter, soaked deep into the ground. It clawed its way up her nose and into her chest, dragging her backward in time. Her breath stuttered. For a split second, she wasn’t standing in daylight at all—she was choking, coughing, heat licking at her skin, fire roaring louder than thought.

She steadied herself.

The house was practically gone.

Not just ruined—erased. Nothing stood where walls had once been. Charred beams jutted out of blackened earth like broken bones. Blackened fabric tangled like dead vines, and ash coating everything in a dull gray hush. The windows were empty holes. The roof had collapsed entirely. It felt obscene, the quiet. Like the world had decided nothing worth saving had ever lived here. The place where Alice had lived, loved, believed, burned itself into ash.

Cindy climbed out behind her and stared, hands on her hips.

“Wow,” she said, almost impressed. “This must have been quite the fire.”

Alice barely heard her.

She walked farther in, boots crunching softly against burnt debris. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for—if she was looking for anything at all—but something in her refused to stop. As if her body believed there had to be proof. Some small defiance against the idea that he had vanished completely.

Then she saw it.

A flicker of red beneath the ash.

Alice dropped to her knees. Her fingers trembled as she brushed away soot, uncovering the remains of a jacket. Once crimson, bold, unmistakably his—now nearly black, stiff with burns, the fabric torn and brittle.

Alastor’s jacket.

Her breath left her in a sharp, broken gasp as memories crashed into her all at once.

New Orleans. Years ago. A bright, crisp afternoon that smelled like river air and fresh bread. Alastor had just received one of his first big paychecks from the radio show. He’d been so proud, flashing that grin, insisting they “celebrate properly.”

They’d wandered through shops, laughing, his arm slung easily around her shoulders. Then that little clothing store. She could see it so clearly now—sunlight pouring through the front windows, dust motes dancing in the air.

Alastor had stepped out from behind a curtain wearing the jacket, standing before a tall mirror. His dark curls caught the light, his posture confident, theatrical as always.

“Well?” he’d said, turning slowly. “What do you think? Does it suit me?”

Alice had laughed, warm and easy.

“Well, I think you look good in just about anything.”

He’d scoffed playfully, dramatic as ever.

“Ah, but especially?”

She’d stepped closer, tilting her head.

“You look very dashing. Red is definitely your color.”

Then that smile—that smile—had spread across his face. Perfect. Soft. She’d loved it without question. Loved him without knowing how much of it had been a performance.

Back then, she had no idea.

Alice blinked, the memory shattering, and she was back in the ashes—staring at the same red jacket, now ruined and lifeless in her hands. Her chest ached as though something inside her had caved in.

Something glinted beneath the fabric.

Alice’s breath caught. She reached under the jacket and pulled free a small, familiar weight. Her fingers closed around metal and stone, and she knew instantly what it was.

Her wedding ring.

The diamond at the center was smudged with ash, but still intact. The two rubies on either side caught the light, stubbornly beautiful.

Cindy stepped closer.

“What are you—oh!” she exclaimed. “Good find. That’s really pretty.”

Alice didn’t look up. Her voice came out flat, hollow.

“It’s my wedding ring.”

Cindy blinked.

“Oh. Well… I mean, you could probably pawn it for something.”

Alice’s head snapped up.

“No! I’m not selling it.”

Cindy raised her hands quickly.

“Okay! Okay, geez.”

Alice stood and continued searching. There wasn’t much left. Almost everything had been claimed by fire. But near the edge of the rubble, miraculously untouched, sat a simple ceramic mug. White. Slightly chipped on the rim.

Alastor’s coffee mug.

She picked it up and held it to her chest.

That was all she took.

Cindy drove her to the church afterward, helping her settle into the small room. She folded the new dresses neatly into the narrow wardrobe, straightened the thin blankets on the bed.

“Good Lord,” Cindy muttered, glancing around. “This room is tiny. Ally, are you sure you don’t want to come home with me?”

Alice gave a faint, tired smile.

“No. I’m okay.”

Cindy pulled her into a tight hug.

“You’ll call if anything happens, right?”

Alice nodded.

“You’re a strong woman, Alice,” Cindy said softly. “You’ll get through this.”

Then she was gone.

The room felt impossibly quiet.

Alice unpacked her bag, placing the mug on the windowsill, where the light could touch it. She set the ring carefully on the nightstand, as if it were something fragile and living.

Then she lay down on the small bed, stared up at the ceiling—

and finally let herself cry.

The next two months were unbearable.

Alice remained in the church, a place that had once promised mercy. She had come here for years, believing it was where God listened most closely, where the air itself was thinner and prayers could rise without obstruction. Now it felt like exile. Like she had been locked inside a place she no longer deserved to enter.

Every time she passed through the nave, the stained-glass saints watched her. Their painted eyes followed her with terrible patience. She could feel their knowing—feel them holding the truth of that night between their colored hands. The fire. The gun. The blood. Things no prayer could scrub clean. She imagined they whispered about her when her back was turned, their mouths frozen in judgment while the light poured through them like accusation.

Church services became torture. People spoke to her softly, with pity folded into every word. They touched her arm, bowed their heads, murmured condolences. And every time, Alice told the same lie.
He left me.

Each time it carved deeper into her stomach, a pit that never closed. The lie sat there and rotted. She could feel it spreading through her, poisoning things that had once been sacred. Eventually she began to believe she wasn’t worthy of sitting in the pews at all. So she stopped going.

She locked herself in her room.

The room was small—too small to contain her thoughts. Silence made them louder. They piled up, tripping over one another, growing sharp. She began to feel guilty for existing in that space at all. For the warmth. For the meals left outside her door. People were still starving in the streets. The great Depression had not ended just because she was grieving. And yet here she was—fed, sheltered—after killing a man. After loving a monster. After every sin that scorched her skin.

She did not deserve kindness. She did not deserve comfort. She did not deserve to be alive in a bed while others slept on pavement.

But even sleep refused to release her.

Every. Single. Night.

It was the same dream that dragged her under. The bayou. The cabin. The cicadas humming low and steady. Alastor was there—he was always there, warm, smiling—and everything just felt perfect. She felt safe. Loved. She felt like herself again. She would wake with that feeling still clinging to her chest, only for it to collapse seconds later when reality came rushing back.

It had never been real. Ever.

He was gone. He had lied. Ten years of carefully arranged affection. Ten years of blood behind his smile.

She would wake furious, her heart racing, her hands shaking as she whispered curses into the dark. Sometimes, she wished she had been the one to pull the trigger that ended his life. He deserved it—for using her, for lying to her, for killing her own father, for abandoning her to carry his sins alone. For leaving her with his secrets and his ghost.

And then, just as violently, the rage would drain out of her.

She would cry until her throat burned. Until grief replaced anger like a tide swallowing a fire. She remembered their laughter. The way he had spun her around the floor. The sound of his voice when he was gentle. The way he had held her like she was something precious.

Alice was unraveling, thread by thread, and she knew it—but knowing didn’t stop it.

She began to smoke constantly. Not because she liked it—she didn’t. The burn in her throat made her gag, her lungs ached, her fingers always smelled stale and sour. But the smoke smelled like him. Alastor had always carried it with him, woven into his clothes, his hair, his voice. When the haze curled around her face, when it clung to her skin, it felt—just for a moment—like standing beside him again. Like he might turn his head and speak.

She chased that moment relentlessly.

Then there was the drinking—anything she could get her hands on. Cheap liquor that burned going down, stolen communion wine taken in trembling gulps, bottles hidden beneath her mattress like sins she was too afraid to confess aloud. She drank to quiet her mind, to smother the humming and the whispers, to push back the memories that clawed and scraped at the inside of her skull. Sometimes it worked—forty minutes of merciful silence, of floating numbness where nothing hurt and nothing mattered. And then the alcohol would turn on her, sharpening every thought, amplifying every voice, until the noise was unbearable. Still, she told herself it was worth it. Anything was better than being left alone with her own mind.

She couldn’t help but remember the time Alastor had handed her a drink—back when Alice’s family had come to visit their house, before their wedding day. Alice had been all nerves and fake polite smiles. Just a shot, he’d said with that easy confidence of his. It’ll calm you down, my dear. It’ll help. I promise.

She stopped caring about consequences. About God. About forgiveness.

She also started to drink her coffee black, from his mug—the one she’d dug from the ashes. The chipped rim bit into her lip every morning, drawing thin lines of blood that mixed with the bitterness on her tongue. She welcomed the sting. It felt right—punishment for wanting him, for missing him. She hated the taste of black coffee. Hated it. But the smell—burnt and dark and familiar—felt like a ghost pressed close to her face. Like Alastor standing just behind her shoulder, humming softly, watching her the way he used to.

The cycle worsened as time went on.

The mood swings came faster. Grief to rage to numbness in the span of hours. She grew sharp, volatile, difficult to be near. Eventually, she just stopped sleeping altogether. She could not endure that damn dream anymore. No sleep became no appetite. Days passed where she ate nothing and barely noticed.

In the deepest quiet, she began to hear him.

A low hum. Soft. Familiar.

Sometimes she caught his shadow in the corner of her vision—tall, leaning, waiting. When she turned, there was nothing. Still, she spoke to him. She screamed at him. People in the church heard her shouting through the walls and rushed to her door, only to find her alone, raging at empty air as if her husband stood before her.

Alice was unraveling.

The guilt pressed in constantly. The church made it worse. Every creak of the floor felt like eyes on her. Every prayer like an accusation. Loving him, hating him, mourning him—all at once, all the time. Her mind could not choose, so it tore itself apart instead.

When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized the woman staring back.

She was thin—sharp in places she used to be soft. Her hair hung limp and tangled. Her eyes were sunken, rimmed red and exhausted beyond sleep. A cigarette was almost always between her fingers, trembling slightly, smoke curling up like a confession she couldn’t stop making.

Alice was still alive.

But whatever she had been before was gone.

Letters began to arrive almost daily.

Some bore unfamiliar handwriting. Others carried return addresses from the bayou—Alastor’s family, people who still believed he was alive somewhere, who still hoped. Alice stacked the envelopes untouched in a drawer, then under her bed, then shoved them into the back of the wardrobe. She could not open them. She could not bear to see his name written by people who loved him without knowing what he was.

One afternoon, there came a knock at her bedroom door.

Alice didn’t hear it.

She was sitting on the floor, staring at nothing, thoughts looping so tightly they drowned out the world. She only realized someone was there when a hand touched her shoulder.

She shrieked and spun around.

“What—!”

It was Cindy.

Cindy recoiled, eyes widening. “My God, Alice—” Her gaze dragged over her sister’s hollow cheeks, the jut of her collarbones, the ashtray overflowing on the nightstand. “What happened to you?”
Alice barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Nothing. Nothing happened at all. Why are you here?”

Alice pushed herself to her feet too fast, swaying slightly, and crossed the room. She yanked a cigarette from the pack on her nightstand with shaking fingers.

“Well,” Cindy said carefully, “I’m here because you stopped answering my calls. And my letters. And the church called me because they’re—” she swallowed, “—they’re worried about you. They say your acting…strange?”

“Well, I don’t know why they would say that. I’m fine,” Alice snapped, already lighting the cigarette. Her hands trembled so badly the flame danced.

“No, you’re not,” Cindy said, voice firm now. “I mean just look at you…you’re skin and bones. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks”

“Well that’s probably because I haven’t slept in weeks,” Alice snapped, inhaling deeply. Smoke poured from her mouth like a confession.

Cindy stared. “Are you… smoking? You hate smoking.”

Alice shrugged. “Correction. I used to hate smoking.”

Cindy crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, patting the mattress beside her. “Please sit down.”

For once, Alice obeyed.

Cindy’s eyes drifted around the room, taking in the empty bottles littering the floor—some tipped over, some carefully lined up along the wall like quiet confessions. Her mouth tightened.

“Alice…” she said softly. “What’s happened to you? You’re drinking like—like a drunkard.”

Alice barely looked up. She shrugged, the motion loose, careless, as if it didn’t matter either way.

“It’s fine,” she said. “It helps. Do you want a glass?”

“No,” Cindy replied quickly. “I’m fine.”

She watched her sister for a long moment, searching her face for something familiar. Then she forced a small, brittle smile.

“I heard something the other day. I thought it might… take your mind off things. Maybe even make you laugh a little.”

Alice took another slow drag of her cigarette, smoke spilling from her lips.

“Oh?” she murmured. “And what might that be?”

“You remember Leland Brendle, don’t you?”

The name hit her like ice water.

Alice’s breath stuttered. The room seemed to narrow, the walls inching closer. Cindy didn’t notice—she kept talking, casual, unguarded.

“Well, he’s been missing for months now. No one knows where he went. Sheriff says it’s a real mystery.”

Karma, Cindy was saying. Serves him right. Arrogant bastard.

Alice didn’t hear the rest.

Leland’s face slammed into her mind—his shock, his fury, the terror just before the gunshot. Over and over. The sound. The recoil. The way his body fell. Alice’s fingernails dug into her palms, hard enough to hurt, but it wasn’t enough to ground her. She couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t breathe.

“I killed him.”

The words slipped out of her mouth before she could catch them.

Cindy blinked. “You… what?”

“I killed him,” Alice said again, louder now, her eyes too bright, her smile sharp at the edges. “I shot him.” She lifted her cigarette and tapped her temple, ash spilling onto the floor. “Right here. Bang. And that was it. I killed him.”

Cindy laughed—a short, uneasy sound.

“Alice, that’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke!” Alice snapped, surging to her feet, pacing the room like a trapped thing. “God, I knew no one would believe me. Even if I told them, I knew it.”

Cindy’s confusion edged into fear. “Alice… What are you talking about? Believe you about what?”

Alice let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

“Oh, so many things,” she said. “For starters—Alastor was actually a murderer. A serial killer. He killed people. Dozens of them.” Her voice shook, not with doubt but with something too big to hold. “And I knew. For ten years, Cindy. I knew, and I did nothing. I smiled. I played house. I let it happen.”

Cindy stood slowly. “Alice, sweetheart—”

“No,” Alice cut in, grabbing her sister’s shoulders, desperate now. “No, listen to me. I’ve been carrying this for too long.” Her words tumbled over each other. “The night he died, I found his journal. Lists—names, dates, plans—like grocery items.” Her grip tightened. “And our father—Cindy, he killed him. I read it. It was all there.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, beneath the frantic edge, there was only grief—raw and unbearable.

Cindy’s face drained of color. She lifted her hands as if to slow Alice down.

“Alice—Alice, slow down. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying my husband butchered people,” Alice shouted, her voice cracking, “and he ate them. I’m saying I loved a monster. I’m saying I buried him in the bayou after I found him with half his arms torn apart by dogs and a bullet through his head—”

“Alice, stop,” Cindy snapped, panic edging her voice.

“I’m not done,” Alice shot back.

The words poured out of her, tumbling over one another. “That journal—God, that journal. He wrote everything down. Names. Plans. He planned to marry me, Cindy. To look normal. To blend in. He used me for ten years and I never even knew.”

Cindy stood frozen, her mouth slightly open, unable to form a response.

Alice didn’t wait for one. “The night he died, I watched him kill someone. Right in front of me. Then he dropped me off like it was nothing—said he’d be back after he ‘took care of it.’” Her laugh was sharp and hysterical. “He never came back. Then the radio producer called—said Alastor hadn’t shown up to work. I knew. I knew something was wrong.”

Cindy said nothing, her eyes wide with horror.

“I drove to the bayou,” Alice went on, pacing now. “To his cabin. The place where he got rid of them. And you know who I saw?” She didn’t wait. “Leland Brendle. With his rifle. With those dogs.”
Her voice dropped, went raw. “I found Alastor first. Dead. Shot clean through the head. Leland mistook him for a deer.” She swallowed hard. “And I just—I snapped. I took the rifle and I shot him.”
Cindy didn’t move. Her gaze searched Alice’s face—not for truth, but for something solid. Something sane.

After a long moment, she asked quietly, “Where is this journal?”

Alice laughed. It came out broken, jagged. “Gone. Burned with the house. Along with everything else that ever touched my life.”

She stepped closer, eyes too bright, too fevered. “I don’t deserve to be here, Cindy. I’m just like him. I protected him. I loved him. I stayed quiet.”

Cindy reached out and took her hands, squeezing them tightly. “Alice,” she said softly, carefully, “you’re sick. You’ve been through something terrible. Your mind is trying to make sense of it.”

Alice tore her hands away.

“No,” she whispered. “You don’t understand. I remember everything.”

Cindy’s voice hardened, desperate now. “Alice, look at me. You didn’t kill anyone. Alastor wasn’t a murderer. He was just a swamp-rat bastard who left you.”

“Don’t call him that!” Alice snapped, fury flashing.

“He left you,” Cindy said. “He was a terrible man.”

Alice laughed, sharp and cruel. “Oh yeah? And what would you know about love? You cheat on your husband every chance you get.”

Cindy froze, color rising in her cheeks. “Alice,” she said tightly, “watch yourself. That was a long time ago.”

Alice tilted her head, smiling thinly.

“Was it?”

Cindy only stared at her, as if she were looking at a stranger wearing her sister’s face.

“This isn’t like you,” she said quietly. “None of this is like you.”

Alice laughed, a brittle, hollow sound that scraped her throat raw. “Maybe it is,” she said. “Or maybe the rest of me burned in that fire.”

Cindy flinched. Anger flashed across her face, sharp and helpless—but then she stepped forward and pulled Alice into her arms anyway, holding her too tightly, as if she were afraid Alice might slip through her fingers and disappear. Cindy’s face pressed into Alice’s shoulder, twisted with a terror that had nothing to do with monsters or murder.

It was the fear of madness.

Alice broke. She sagged into the embrace and cried quietly into Cindy’s hair, small, broken sounds she couldn’t stop. Because she knew.

She knew the truth.

And she knew no one would ever believe her.

Cindy loosened her grip and looked away, blinking hard. For one aching moment, Alice thought—this is it. This is when she’ll say she believes me. That she sees it too.

Instead, Cindy wiped at her eyes with the heel of her glove and drew in a steadying breath. When she turned back, she was smiling—but the smile was thin, fragile, held together by will alone.

“Hey,” Cindy said gently. “You’ve just been cooped up too long. That’s all. Anyone would be a little… mixed up.” She reached for Alice’s hand. “Let’s go for a drive. Just you and me. Like old times.”
Alice frowned. “No. I don’t want to leave.”

“Come on,” Cindy coaxed softly. “I drove all this way. I just want to spend time with my little sister.”

Little.

The word still worked, even now.

Alice hesitated, her fingers twisting together. A tight, uneasy feeling coiled in her chest—something wrong, something whispering don’t. But she was so tired. So tired of fighting.

“…Fine,” she said at last. “Just for a little while.”

Cindy exhaled, relief flooding her face. Before they left, she reached up and smoothed Alice’s tangled hair, carefully teasing out a knot the way she used to before church on Sundays. The touch was gentle. Familiar. It almost undid her.

They drove.

New Orleans slid past the windows in a blur of iron balconies and gaslight, the lamps stretching into long, trembling streaks against the glass. Cindy kept glancing over, checking on Alice as if she might vanish if left unguarded. Alice stared straight ahead, an unlit cigarette resting between her fingers.

Then the car turned.

Alice stiffened. “Hey,” she said, turning toward her sister. “Where are we going?”

Cindy didn’t answer at first. Her hands tightened on the wheel until her knuckles went white. When she finally looked over, her eyes were shining, mascara smudged and dark beneath them.

“You know I love you,” Cindy said.

Alice’s stomach dropped. “Cindy,” she whispered. “What’s going on?”

The car slowed. Gravel crunched beneath the tires.

When Cindy put the car in park, Alice followed her gaze—and felt the world tear clean in two.

New Orleans State Insane Asylum.

“No,” Alice breathed. “No—no, no, no—”

She clawed at the door handle, fumbling, frantic. “Cindy, you can’t—please—I’m not crazy!”

The door flew open.

Hands seized her arms—strong, relentless. White coats. The sharp sting of antiseptic in the air. Alice screamed, kicking and thrashing as they dragged her from the car, her heart hammering so violently she thought it might burst through her ribs.

“Cindy!” she cried, twisting back toward her sister.

Cindy was sobbing now, her face crumpling as she covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry,” she choked. “I’m so sorry, Alice. I don’t know how else to help you.”

“Please!” Alice screamed, reaching for her. “I’m not crazy—I’m telling the truth!”

Cindy couldn’t watch. She turned away as they pulled Alice inside.

The doors slammed shut.

Alice’s screams echoed down the corridor, her nails scraping uselessly against the floor—until the sound was swallowed whole.