Two days pass, and the bio-scientist known as Baxter remains rooted to the hotel basement. Alastor will occasionally drop by unseen, if only to ensure no spyware has passed the threshold. Seems the little angler fish has set up some sort of laboratory, and beyond some inhumane experimentation on the live roaches Niffty delivers from time to time, Alastor can see no evidence of nefarious activity.
He’s about to report as much to the Princess, but as usual, her mouth is quicker than his. “Hey-a, Alastor…”
He swallows his dread. That tone means she needs something.
“So, we have a couple new guests - and that’s great! The thing is, they haven’t all been attending our group sessions," she trails off, avoiding eye contact and twiddling her forefingers, “... which are mandatory.”
Normally this is the part where he enthusiastically assures her that he will correct this misbehavior, that she needn’t worry her pretty blonde head, no problem, her loyal hotelier is on the job.
Would that it were still that simple. He glimpses them from the corners of his eyes: the mocking glances, the contempt, the sneers. He hasn’t bothered looking into whatever slander Vox and his little doll have attached to his name: it’s clear enough in the brazen, insolent denizens' eyes. To reinstate his reputation would require a public demonstration of power and cruelty beyond what Charlie typically deems acceptable, and under circumstances that warrant an exception to the benevolence with which she muzzles him. Thus far, no such opportunity has presented itself.
“So,” Charlie drawls with increasing discomfort, “I was wondering if maybe you could, you know…”
Alastor’s eyes narrow, smile tight. She will need to complete her own thought this time.
“... talk to them?”
The twitching corners of her mouth are more grimace than grin.
Before Alastor can get a word out, a petite figure in a white suit manifests in a plume of pink smoke. “Or I could do it,” the little Devil volunteers, looking far too eager for Alastor’s taste. He flashes Alastor a charming grin, cherubic face peeking handsomely from beneath the brim of his (ridiculous) hat. “They’re way more likely to listen to someone important, after all.”
Alastor’s smile turns provocative. He bends at the waist until level with the King's eyes, ignoring the pull on his stitches. “Oh? And if they refuse - what will you do then?”
As intended, Charlie beholds her father with trepidatory expectation, and Lucifer fumbles. “I-,” his expression falls flat. “I left the stove on.”
He vanishes the same way he came in.
