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Summary: Alastor is saved by a curious creature while out burying his latest kill. Naturally, he brings it home. AKA The supernatural pet distribution system goes terribly wrong and now he has to deal with feelings.

Relationships: Alastor/Original Female Character

A03: Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4, Ch.5, Ch.6, Ch.7, Ch.8, Ch.9, Ch.10, Ch.11, Ch.12, Ch.13, Ch.14, Ch.15, Ch.16, Epilogue

Tumblr: Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4, Ch.5, Ch.6, Ch.7, Ch.8, Ch.9, Ch.10, Ch.11, Ch.12, Ch.13, Ch.14, Ch.15, Ch.16, Epilogue

Tags: Pet Distribution System Gone Wrong, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Language, Vague Supernatural Knowledge, future smut, OC is a Creature but Yadda Yadda Magical Transormation, no beta we die like sir pentious, If I Changed Tenses Shut Up, Descriptions of murder, descriptions of torture, Masturbation, Skullfucking, but imaginary skullfucking, Alastor goes to Hell for a reason, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Mildly Dubious Consent, Canonical Character Death, Alastor has to go at some time right?

Ch.11 Erotophonophilia Part 1

“So who’s the babe?”

Alastor choked on his coffee, just a bit snorting up his nose before he cursed and frantically sat his cup down, blindly reaching for the napkins before Selene, the new secretary, complained about the messes he left at the coffeepot. Again.

“The what now?” Fuck his nose burned.

“The chick you’ve been meeting after work each night?” Erick offered Alastor his own handkerchief, a small apology for surprising his fellow radio host. “Dark hair, nice smile?”

“Ah,” Alastor muttered a quick thanks under his breath and dabbed the last of the coffee from his upper lip. He made a show of rubbing his sinuses, using the precious few moments it bought him to come up with a cover story. Unfortunately it also gave Erick, Alastor’s self-styled ‘wingman’, plenty of time to come up with his own conclusions.

“So she’s your girl right? You finally leaving the bachelor life behind?,” Erick stepped close, smile wide and eyes alight like a little kid excited to share in a secret. “C’mon pal, you can’t keep a secret from me! You gotta tell me who she is!”

Oh, she’s just a Nightmare who can suck your life force out through your fear and likes to take humans apart for funsies. “She’s my niece.” He doesn’t like to do it, not to a stand-up guy like this, but the lie falls out of Alastor’s mouth easily enough, “She fell on some hard times and momma and I are helping her get back on her feet.”

Erick whistled and backed off, hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he backpedaled. “Damn, niece huh? A shame. I thought you’d finally joined us in the world of depravity.” He laughed, a loud booming and good-natured sound that honestly, Alastor enjoyed. Besides Erick’s insistence at trying to get Alastor to go home with any girl with a half-pretty face at Mimzie’s, he was a decent man with a decent set of pipes that matched Alastor’s own frenzied style of piano-playing. He was one of the few men who didn’t immediately put Alastor’s teeth on edge: a man you could be proud to bring home to momma, if you could get him through the door.

“A-ha, you still have your work cut out for you my friend! Now, did you see station management's newest memo about--” Deflect, deflect, deflect.

“Does she like to dance?” Erick wrapped his arm around Alastor’s thin neck, bringing the taller man down a good five inches to his level so as to whisper in his ear, “You see, Ismelda and I broke up. No no, no apologies, we just didn’t see eye to eye on the whole 'going steady' thing--but she was a damn good dancer and I miss it. All the good girls are getting shacked up and leaving me behind. I could use someone….ah, unattached, yeah?”

A record scratched somewhere in the back of Alastor’s mind as he imagined his Mare in Erick’s arms, smiling and laughing as he tossed her in the air, the dull lights reflecting off their shiny black heads. “She’s a terrible dancer.” God, could she even dance? It doesn’t matter, she wouldn’t be dancing with anyone other than him.

"I'm a great teacher!" As if to demonstrate his ability, Erick twirled Alastor around and dropped him in a dip. A move that would have gotten him an elbow to the ribs if Alastor wasn't caught so completely off-guard by his co-worker's sudden interest in his Mare.

"No thank you—put me down—I will be the first to take her to Mimzie's. I don't want to overwhelm her." He didn't need anyone else's grubby hands on her anyways. She was his.

"Uh-huh," something flashed behind Erick's eyes, a little flare of the 'ah-ha!' as if he had connected two dots previously thought unrelated. "And if I said she was just my type and I wanted to take her out on Saturday?"

Alastor stiffened and whipped his head towards Erick, smile turned grimace as he forced himself to calmly dust off his vest and not reach for the knife at his waist. "You will do no such thing," his said harshly.

"I see," Erick laughed and backed away, hands up in defeat as he shook his head. "You do have a little crush on your niece!"

"I—what???"

"I get it now! You know it's not the most taboo thing, hell the blue bloods been doing it for ages!"

"Erick, really it's not—"

"It's okay, Al! I get it! She's already part of the family, she already knows how weird you are and she's a cutie. She may have fallen on hard times, sure, but another's misery is your gain right?"

"I really can't emphasize how wrong—"

"Uh-huh, got it sir!" Erick saluted as he backed out of the break room.

"Seriously, Erick you've got it—" Panic gripped Alastor as he followed.

"Just make sure I get a wedding invitation!"

"A—what??? Erick don't—!" Alastor gripped both sides of the doorway, knuckles white as he looked to-and-fro for witnesses. Erick's office door slammed shut and his loud cackling instantly made Alastor's hackles raise even higher, his teeth aching with the pressure he was putting on them as he ground out his frustrations.

What just happened to him?

It was stupid of him to have let The Mare meet him out in the parking lot after work. He could have met her literally anywhere, literally any corner from here to Bourbon would have done fine enough. Now he had potential witnesses!

To what, he didn't quite know yet. It wasn't like they had done anything yet beyond taking strolls in the dark, sharing a cigarette or two while one-sidedly making plans for the weekend before returning home.

But their time together was private, something precious that Alastor didn't want other's witnessing. From the moment they woke up Monday morning, snuggled against each other like two perfect puzzle pieces, Alastor had felt something change. One would think that it would have been the moment she had brought him to completion, an adolescent-like spill in his pants as she tasted the blood—his blood!—that she had drawn. But that was not The Moment.

It could have even been the quiet afternoon they spent in the water. The Mare bare and turned away from him, her back and wings exposed as she lazily snoozed, fingertips twitching as dragonflies tried to land on them. But no, that was not it either.

It was when he had woken up, eyes blurry and struggling to focus together as he watched the dust motes float through a morning sunbeam. It was quiet. The quietest his mind had been in a long time without being covered in fresh blood. It was novel, to lay there and feel…content…to feel as if there was no place he'd rather be than in bed with his Mare.

Now that was a startling thought and he would have sat up in panic if it weren't for the soft weight against his chest. He had looked down, eyes working double time without his glasses to focus on the sleeping woman on him. She had fallen asleep on his chest, one arm curled up under her chin and the other lost somewhere between their bodies. Across them lay an extended ebony wing, the claws of which were clutched around his bicep. Alastor had found his own hands holding her just as tightly, one resting in the dip of her waist and the other wrapped securely around her thigh, stuck there for so long that there was an audible sticky noise when he lifted it off.

She had awoken then, pointed chin digging uncomfortably into his sternum as those red eyes found his. "G'morning, darling," he didn't fight the words. He didn't try to hide the fondness in his voice. He found he no longer wanted to. He wanted to wake up to her like this every day, to see that deceptively sweet smile as she pushed herself up him, to press their foreheads together and feel the gentle nuzzling of her nose against his. If it meant hunting down the filth of New Orleans, if it meant letting her cut and slice into his flesh, if it meant finally succumbing to the atrocities of love and lust he'd do it.

For her.

For him.

Because at the end of it all, he was selfish. He would keep her and she him, whatever that meant for their present and future. Such a revelation should have been terrifying, even daunting, and yet to Alastor it only felt natural. He understood then why he was so different, why he had no attachment to others nor a true desire for companionship beyond simple entertainment.

They were not for him.

If soulmates were real, if humans were meant to search and find their 'other halves' then someone like Alastor—someone violent, cold, and sadistic—was doomed to forever be alone. With no mortal to turn to he had only the supernatural left, his spirits, his gods, his magic. It was a pipe dream to be able to find that which he had so secretly and desperately wanted, a private wish he had coveted for so long that he had already given up and forgotten it.

And yet there it was, sitting in his lap and arching her back, concerning noises coming from her joints as she stretched limb and wing. His glorious partner, his soul-mate, His Mare. He still didn't have a name for the feeling in his chest but it drove him to drag her down anyways, half-flipping them over so that she rested in his arms beneath him with just enough space for her wings against the bed. She let him, because of course she did, she had never once let him do anything to her that she did not in someway approve or was curious about since she was released.

He had wanted to kiss her again, to feel her in his arms as he pressed her into the mattress. He wanted to lose himself in her, to bury his face into her neck and take her flesh into his teeth. He wanted to pull at her hair and expose her neck, to worry at the thin flesh and mark her as his in the indecent ways only a man could. He wanted to pull every sound he could out of that throat, to hear her say his name in ecstasy and shout in pain and all the soft little noises in between. He wanted to cry into her chest, to curse her for the grip she had on his heart. He wanted to wrap his hands around her throat and throttle her for all the mental misery she had subjected him to. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to feel the warmth of her cunt around his throbbing cock, and to make her crazy with the lust she had infected him with.

Her very presence had driven him mad.

And he was thankful for it.

But he had let her go that morning with nothing more than another long, drawn out hug.

They had returned home by midday with plenty of time to empty the car and help Claudette with a late lunch before Alastor had to get ready for work. It was lovely, domestic even and something that should have bored Alastor to tears and yet he was enthralled. For underneath it all he still was a murder with an active mark and an active plan and he was looking right at a creature who had spilled more bloodshed and misery than he ever could even if he had another hundred years to do so.

His vicious creature hidden under the guise of a docile and demure young woman struggling to cast on stitches under his mother's patient gaze. The flash of red anger in her eyes, the slowly fraying yarn as it caught on her claws, the curl of her lip and the sharpness of her canines in the low light, the jerky way in which her neck snapped on her neck as she got more and more frustrated and began to lose her human fluidity, all of them were his spies.

He had wanted to bring her into the city right then and there, to watch with morbid fascination if anyone else could see her wrongness or if they were blinded by her nearly perfected camouflage. Would they be beguiled by her pretty face and tailored dress? Would they be drawn to dark eyes and a smiling mouth, guard dropped even as they followed her into a darkened alley not once thinking that the slim woman could overpower them through sheer brute force?

Fuck he wanted—no, needed—to see it.

But not yet. She needed to finish regaining her full strength, to fill the gaps between her ribs and flesh out the angles of her hips; to make sure that should they come across another bump-in-the-night that she would be safe. Alastor was powerful himself, his spirits, gun, and knife leaving him quite safe from most of the night's bogeymen but he had seen first hand himself how even a rougarou had hurt her. He saw her flinch from pure silver and frown at the crosses above the doors they passed, he saw her sniff and avoid certain herbs in the kitchen as he cooked, he saw the way in which she shook her head every time the church bells rang their solemn song and he knew that as powerful as she was, she was not invincible.

He couldn't have that. He would not see her end. He would not see her fall because of her fondness for him. He would keep her strong, be a witness to her glory, a supplicant upon her altar of fear; begging, weeping, reaching out for just the barest glimpse of her abominable power. Together, they'll rid New Orleans of the filth that ravages his fair city. Clean the streets of every man that dares lay hand upon woman or child, who vilifies and abuses those with an ounce of color to their skin and frankly, get rid of anyone that Alastor simply could not stand.

So he brought her to work the last three days, a sleek little cat slipping out between his legs as he exited the car chirping as she ran to the shadows. She met him perfectly on time, stepping out of the shadows in whatever dress he had left in the back seat for her, prim and proper and only ever once with a bit of blood under her nails. Together they drove to the river, to a quiet spot where they could talk and plan in relative peace.

Well, Alastor talked; his limbs flailing as he whispered in hushed tones every step of his plan, of each new idea that infected his foul brain every time he caught a glimpse of Gregory at the end of the night. The Mare nodded along, humming her agreement or shaking her head at his ideas, stealing his second cigarette and skipping ahead like a schoolgirl, twirling her skirt and mimicking her own ideas upon an invisible body between them.

She had rapidly filled out, whatever it was she did in those scant 8 hours a day filling out her borrowed dresses so that they pulled tight in all the right places Alastor did not know he enjoyed. The softness of her jaw, the fullness of her breasts, the curve of her hips and the way her borrowed heels cut into the tops of her feet, pillowy soft and delicate as she balanced upon the wooden fence along their path. He desperately wanted to know how many people she had fed upon. Did she kill any of them or did she leave them to lay and rot where she found them? She never answered. Only laughing when he asked and placing his cigarette back between his lips.

The foul thing.

And yet every night he welcomed her into his bed, curling around her and burying his nose into the back of her head to breathe in her blood-tinged scent. He fell asleep to the sound of her gentle purring, his dreams filled with sex and violence and so, so much blood. He awoke every morning with her head on his chest, her body half on top of his and his hands wrapped securely around whatever parts of her he could grab. He felt the urge to take her, to act out on his rapidly disappearing dreams and make her squeal beneath him.

But the smell of coffee reminded him of who else was in the house and he could not bear the thought of his mother…no, just let that thought go thank you very much.

He may have finally accepted his concerning and rapidly growing attraction to The Mare but that didn't mean he had to lost control. He was not about to lose their virginity while his mother cooked him breakfast. The thought of drinking his coffee and looking his mother in the eye not ten minutes after deflowering their tenant spirit was…

Alastor felt a lump in his throat, nearly retching on the feeling as he lit up his first cigarette of the night. Thursday night to be exact. The night he and his precious Mare would grab their prey and spend the entire weekend—three days!!!—losing themselves in more ways than one.

He felt giddy as the nicotine hit, his heart beating rapidly in his chest as the sun set and the last of the station's employees began to head out. Soon, Gregory would be in, if he wasn't already. Just him and Alastor and The Mare all alone in the empty station with its sound proofed rooms.

His fingers shook as he put out the spent cigarette, twisting and crushing it more than necessary as he impatiently fetched another with his odd hand.

A tap at the window and Alastor jumped, cursing as the movement caused him drop his lighter and singe the tip of his fingers. He glared at the raven sitting innocently on the windowsill, its head tilted just so that its eyes appeared red in the disappearing light. He rolled his eyes and let it in.

"You could have waited until I finished lighting it," Alastor said petulantly to the bird as it hop hop hopped across the small table under the window. It flapped its wings indignantly, reaching out quickly to nip his wrist as if to chastise him before it disappeared.

He had watched The Mare shift many times by now and yet the motion still filled him with awe. His eyes and mind had yet to fully grasp how what was once a large raven one second was now a naked woman the next, tossing her hair as the last feathers fell away into silken curls. She leaned casually against the table, immediately catching Alastor's attention as his eyes squinted in judgment when bare skin met the furniture. He'd have shooed her off, chastised her for putting her naked lady bits on public furniture if she didn't stop him in his tracks by snatching the unlit cigarette from his lips.

"I should have never let you try one," he pouted as she sauntered to his desk and grabbed the discarded lighter. She smiled agreeably, humming in her throat as she flicked it, red eyes aglow in the light of the flame.

"At least get dressed first. Before you burn your self on the ashes." Alastor took a page from her book, stealing the cigarette back from her mid-inhale. "Go on, in the bag there," he mumble around the cigarette, waving her towards the travel bag sitting in the chair next to the door. She rolled her eyes and complied, fully immune to way Alastor's eyes followed her every movement with laser-like focus, his face lit up periodically by a long pull on the cigarette, the image of nonchalance if it weren't for the mild twitching in his pants.

"When you're done, just sit there patiently. Come read with me if you must but no wandering." Alastor broke his gaze and slumped down in his own chair, sighing is resignation at the pile of letters he was only halfway through. "We need to make sure everyone else is gone before we hunt. I don't want to explain the strange woman in my office." He shuddered to think what chaos Erick would unleash if he came across The Mare wandering around.

"We shouldn't have to wait for long," he continued, "Gregory should be in within the hour."

The Mare pulled her chair close, grinning brightly as she reached for a discarded pen and paper. 'I can let you know when he's here."

Alastor rose an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

'Can sense where humans are.'

"What? Like radar? You have human radar?"

'How else do you think I feed from afar?'

Alastor shook his head, both distressed and impressed about how little of the Mare's skills he knew about and how little she willingly shared. If he didn't ask it directly she would never divulge. As if he wouldn't do the same.

"Alright," he passed her the remainder of the cigarette and waved around the letter in his hand. "Is there anyone in the building right now?"

The Mare closed her eyes, as still as a corpse as she focused. A small chill wafted from her, noticeable only from Alastor's proximity and hyper-awareness of every little thing she did. Beneath him his shadows trembled, eager to come out to play. She opened her eyes a moment later and shook her head.

"Fabulous! Let me know when someone does come, yes? Good girl." And yet she did not. An hour and a half passed, then two, then nearly three before Alastor finished going through his letters and jotting down potential advice segments—his patience fragile and frayed. Beside him the Mare folded his discarded papers, littering his desk with a dragons, cranes and ducks. He did not ask were she got that knowledge.

"Are you sure he isn't here yet?" Alastor's voice was strained, his knee bouncing and hitting his desk repeatedly with his frustrations.

The Mare rolled her eyes and flicked a folded triangle at him, hitting him squarely in the face before tapping forcefully on a previously written note. 'No one is here.'

Alastor stood up in a flurry, growling low in his throat as his hands gripped at his hair. "Grrrrr, where the fuck is he?!" He paced frantically around his office, tugging harshly at his hair as he felt the last of his patience snap. "The fucker…", he stopped suddenly and dropped his hands, all tension immediately gone as he faced the Mare. "Let's go. We'll get him ourselves."

Her Alastor was a fickle thing. Determined, yes, but always switching about and letting his emotions get the better of him despite his insistence that he was above them. Whether it was fighting and fighting and finally succumbing to his love for her or switching between breaking into his prey's house or waiting patiently outside it's home he always changed his mind, waffling to-and-fro between his decisions before gritting his teeth, biting his proverbial bullet and jumping head-on into whatever ill-choice he had made.

The Mare had no such inclinations.

She may change her mind based on the information available to her but once a decision was made, she kept to it. In this case, her decision was to let Alastor bite his nails and curse under his breath for about five more minutes until she went and got his prey herself.

Faster if he drew blood from that poor tortured thumb.

Ah, his blood. She felt her mouth water at the memory, that single saccharine drop she had placed on her tongue that caused her precious lamb to orgasm so hard his eyes rolled back and his body fell limp in the slack chains she had strung him up in. It was never her intention, determined as she was to play by his rules and let him come to her and in some ways he certainly had but what a delightful insight he had given her. Another glimpse into his twisted little mind that had hers whirling through the night, images of him tied up and bloody, eyes glassy with pain and pleasure, his pretty voice cracked and broken as he begged for mercy in the form of his release—death or pleasure, hers alone to decide.

She breathed heavily through her nose, mind returning to the present as the copper tang of blood filled her senses and Alastor barely acknowledged the pain as he sucked his thumb into his mouth, brows drawn together in concentration as he once again debated the short climb up into the third-story apartment. Her own eyes followed his, tracing the water pipe that ran down the edge of the handsome brick building to the newly added fire escape, it's metal ladder drawn up and away from the would be wanders of the alley. She considered the front door, easy to open she was sure and too solid for Alastor to just shove his way in.

No, the best way was definitely the window. Of course, she could always Call the thing down, mesmerize the dull creature and send it tumbling out the window into her waiting arms much like she had almost drawn Alastor into The Circle when they first met. But that required at least some visual contact and their prey was currently…she closed her eyes and focused on the apartment above them, feelings of fear and pain and regret and anger wafting over her, swirling and twisting nauseatingly and making her stomach ache.

Their prey was well on its way to getting drunk after taking its anger out on its mate. She was in pain; pain that was not enjoyable and left her feeling hollow and broken while her partner, her husband, drowned out its anger, doing its best to snuff out the flame of its anger under copious amounts of the foul tasting liquid.

It would either drink itself comatose or go after it's wife again.

Her decision was made.

She reached out to pull Alastor's thumb out of his mouth and pressed her lips to the back of his hand before she slipped away into shadow. His noise of distress was, as always, hilarious and she resisted the urge to snicker as she slipped silently into the night, right into the heart of the even darker shadows of the alley.

"What are you doing?", Alastor hissed. His fingers gripped the car door frame, his head just barely peeking out the open window ever wary of being seen so close to his prey's domicile. His head whipped back and forth before he silenced, fingers slipping back into the vehicle and twisting around the clothes The Mare had left behind, his handsome face twisted into a grim smile as he tried to watch her move within the shadows.

A futile thing really. She was a dark as the caverns that never saw light, the definition of her limbs lost the moment she stood still; she faded into the background as a shadow does, only every drawing attention when one moved out of place. She was a flit of movement in the corner of your eye, the suspiciously dark shadow upon the ground that you could have sworn was not there a moment ago. She was the odd casting of a tree's limb in the dull lamplight, moving silently up the brick facade and darting quickly into an open window.

She was a small black cat, tail flicking against the window frame as she silently hopped down to the floor. The apartment was small, nothing more than a open living room and a small hallway with an even smaller bedroom. Simple. A pain for not only did The Mare need to get the prey, she needed to dispatch the woman.

Well, not too difficult she supposed. Once upon a time she would have simply killed the woman too, fed on her fear as she choked upon it, ebony claws tightening around a throat as ivory teeth sank into the flesh of…the cat shook its head, the sound of her ears slapping against her head drawing the woman's attention.

They stared at each other, the woman's haunted, sad eyes curious as the little black cat with it's own glowing eyes chirped at her. The woman's eyes darted to her husband, his head threatening to fall upon his chest as it bobbed along to the music from his radio, his eyes as closed as his ears to the rest of the world. The woman smiled, stopping her cleaning of her own blood from the floor, her lip split again and a flash of pain flitted across her face but still, she smiled. She extended her hand, the limb shaking with the effort and cat trotted happily towards her.

The Mare rubbed her face against the woman's fingers, getting her to itch the pleasant spot amongst her whiskers and purring happily when a second hand joined under her ear. The woman dared not make a noise but her lips parted as if to coo and she moved both her hands down to scratch both sides of the The Mare's neck, her fingers hard and purposeful as they sunk into the cat's fine muscle and bone. The woman gathered the cat in her arms, cradling it carefully in her arms with one hand cusping its head lovingly, a thumb on one side and the rest of the fingers on the other.

The woman stood and The Mare peeked one eye open, still thoroughly enjoying the little bit of pampering before she figured out what to do with the woman. That is, until the woman's timid smile turned vicious, her lip dripping blood as a wild light came into her eyes and she twisted the little cat's head until it snapped.

Oh ho!

The Mare's heart jumped in surprise even as her body when limp. She let herself hang there, reveling in her shock as the woman continued to pet her, slim fingers digging cruelly into The Mare's broken neck as she stood and carried her limp body into the bedroom. How fascinating to be a victim of a broken woman, the beaten whom took out their own shame and frustrations on the innocent. Or maybe there was a cruelty in the woman all along, something foul and tainted that drove her husband to hit her, to try and beat out the cruel gleam in her eyes.

All so so fascinating and maybe, after The Mare fetched Alastor's prey, she could come back and torment the woman. Tease her by coming back as the cat every day, moving from wherever the woman would stash her 'dead' body, a flash of a black tail in the window while Alastor was at work, a soft meow that could never be found, waking her with fresh scratches before hissing and diving under the bed to disappear. Oh yes, she'd come back to this one. She would be a filling meal.

But there was no time now. Alastor was waiting.

So she let herself fall out of the woman's arms, resolidifying and striking her with a well placed elbow to the face before the woman could register what was happening. The woman landed hard and The Mare followed her with hands around her throat, ice cold fear paralyzing the woman and making her scramble in panic, The Mare's hand around her mouth blocking her screams, stopping her lungs from desperately pulling in air, her head throbbing and turning red from the blood trapped within. She passed out quickly, body already tired from her earlier beating and her tarnished mind struggling to keep up with what was happening.

The Mare patted her hair much in the same gentle way the woman had the cat, the backs of her fingers tracing gently across her bruised cheekbones and swollen lip. Oh yes, she'd be back for this one.

The Mare walked silently into the living room casting a cursory glance at Alastor's prey and found him in the beginning stages of sleep. Delightful. She let herself out the front door, once again a little cat trotting happily down the hallway and stairs up to the heavy front door. She opened it slowly, shadows expanding and darkening the hallway so that she could return to her favorite form and nicker softly for her Alastor to enter.

He followed obediently, lips pulled back into a tight grimace as he skulked out of the car and into the entryway. The Mare snorted. He was better served just waltzing into the place like he owned it. No one would have batted an eye at that. But a grown man hunched over with his head whipping to-and-fro with each step? He was lucky she had her shadows to cover him. What did he ever do without her?

She nuzzled against him once he was inside, lips tickling under his chin and a low nicker in her throat as she pressed him against the door to close it. "S-stop that," Alastor pushed her head away and shook his head, hand rubbing against the spot she just assaulted. "There's plenty of time for that later, dear one. Lead the way."

She snorted and trotted away briskly, silent as the grave as she flitted between the dark corners of the stairs, red eyes glowing from the shadows and leading her Alastor up, up, up to the prey's den. He was not as stealthy as her, large feet slapping against the hardwood, the fancy leather of his shoes betraying his every step as he slowly ascended behind her. She snarled at him when he took a corner too sharp and nearly fell, an aborted noise of pain escaping him for just a moment as he caught himself on the railing, her bared teeth in his face silencing him before they entered the final set of stairs.

Alastor's replying smile was sheepish, a light dusting of pink across his cheeks betraying his embarrassment as he straightened up and held up his open hands. Silly thing, she could never be mad at him. A quick lick to his cheek and they were off again, slipping into the open apartment door and locking it safely behind them.

The Mare stood a silent sentinel by the door, content to watch as Alastor took in the small space. He was still at first, breaths shallow as he observed the discarded dinner on the the counters, the dirty pots and pans, and the cleaning supplies on the counter. A few more steps in with his eyes focused on the sleeping prey, his steps slow and precise to avoid making the hardwood squeak. His head tilted towards the half cleaned blood, a foot reaching out to toe a lost tooth. He looked back at The Mare quizzically, pointing at the surprising amount of blood on the floor. She tossed her head towards the bedroom, refusing to step forward.

This was Alastor's time after all.

He nodded and prowled down the hallway, disappearing for a moment into the bedroom before exiting just as silently. He slipped his hand inside, locking the door and closing it. The Mare titled her head but did not question his choices. She watched him come back to the living room, hand slipping into his pocket to pull out a hated-syringe. Her lips pulled back involuntarily as the light caught it, the milky white liquid sleep taunting her and filling her with disdain. She'd rather he knock the man out, garroted it until its breathing stopped, reviving it just enough to lie weakened in the back of the car.

She reminded herself that this was not her kill. That Alastor was showing her that which he had never shown another, prideful as he gave her a quick wink over his shoulder before plunging the needle into the prey's neck. It was quick, nearly as quick as it worked on her. The prey woke for just a moment, eyes nearly bugging out of its head as the sharp prick woke it from its alcohol induced slumber.

And then its eyes lost focus, blearily looking up at Alastor's vicous grin, his eyes alight with a manic gleam as he leaned down into his prey's face. "Hello Gregory," his voice was husky and low as he sneered at it. "Sleep tight." Recognition. For only a moment before the prey's eyes drooped more, each blink a struggle as it tried to lift its arms, to push back against the slim man crowded into its personal space.

Futile.

The Mare licked her lips as the prey slumped forward into Alastor's arms, his heavy weight even heavier once fully unconscious. But Alastor was fueled by adrenaline, his quiet giggle manic and high as he shoved it back into the chair. At his feet his spirits swirled, power swelling around him as he spoke low but clear, supplicating to his gods for the strength, stealth and luck needed to serve them their due. He spoke of the slow and arduous torture, of the sweet fear and pain he'd deliver to them, of the marks he'd place upon his sacrifice's soul and the joy in which he would serve. He spoke of sharing his joy, of his eagerness to learn from his Mare and through her teachings he would serve Them better.

The Mare jumped as she felt the icy-cold touch of something brush along her spine, bone-thin fingers tracing up her spine against the flow of her fur to flick once at her ears before disappearing. She nipped at where she thought the phantom fingers would be but found nothing but the bitter taste of clove and ash. And then a thrum of power, much like her own before Alastor's spirits came together and solidified as one, a strikingly thin creature with a great rack of antlers towered over him, long claws extended to their sleeping prey before it slammed back into Alastor with a rustle of static.

Alastor fell forward as they merged, arms shaking with the exertion before he stood up quickly and dusted off his hands. And then he surprised The Mare yet again, turning around to heft the larger prey upon his own back, barely showing any exertion as he lumbered towards her. "Just needed…a little extra help," he offered before pulling open the front door.

Amazed, The Mare watched as the shadows she was so used to hiding in also wrapped themselves around Alastor. She could see him just fine but the corners of the hallway were dark and the lights upon the ceiling flickered and were dull as if fighting the urge to blow out. Inside the apartments she felt the occupants shudder and pull away from their doors, hiding away for reasons they did not know into their bedrooms or sheltering against their living room windows, anything to not look at their front doors.

He was quieter too. The soft scuffing of his shoes which had been almost offensive to her ears when the entered completely silent as she followed. Why, she even heard her own soft padding steps over his own and she gave in to the urge to change into a small owl, silently gliding down the staircase in lazy circles as she waited for Alastor to catch up.

And he did, abnormally quickly. As if he skipped an entire story but she knew he did not. He simply had the strength and confidence to move as a man twice his muscle mass, the shadowy tendrils of his spirit wrapped around his exposed arms and helping him support the extra weight.

Fascinating.

She opened the door for him, changing quickly into her preferred form so as to grip the handle with her claws. He did not mutter a thanks for they still needed to sneak the body into the car but he reached out with a gentle hand to scratch against her ear instead.

Once outside she dashed into the car, a fleet cat jumping through the open window and into the back seat where she could change into her human clothes. Behind her the car rocked silently as Alastor tossed his prey into the trunk, the only noise his grunts of exertion as he maneuvered the big man all the way in. She met him outside, prim and proper and ever so curious as she eyeballed the man in the trunk.

The grin Alastor gave her was precious, like a little boy in front of those pretty pine trees with the gifts underneath. Except it wasn't the colored bulbs on the tree that lit up his eyes. His were lit up with the promise of murder, at the excitement of spilling blood and heady power of his spirits as they withered away, their duty done and the offending streetlights once again brightening up to full power.

They closed the trunk together, fingers lacing together as Alastor pulled The Mare close with his other arm around her waist. She let him nose along her jawline, his lips ghosting along her flesh with barely there kisses as he swayed them to music only he could hear. She relaxed in his grip, enjoying the excited beat of his heart and the way his blood ran hot against her, every point of contact positively burning as he twirled them back onto the sidewalk.

"Let us go, my dear."

She never was so excited to get into that iron vehicle.

Before them the black of the bayou seemed to stretch on forever for he had turned the headlights off the moment they turned off the main path, letting the bright moonlight and Alastor's muscle memory lead them on. He hummed under his breath, fingers tapping lightly along the steering wheel as his mind kept slipping from the road.

Alastor was positively vibrating with excitement, his heart pounding in his chest hard and long enough that he vaguely wondered if he should be concerned about it as his age. But he couldn't really find it in him to care for his prey was in the trunk and his sweet Mare was sitting beside him, just as excited. From the corner of his eye he would see her vicious grin and the subtle flexing of her form as she struggled to contain herself.

His mind was filled with new ideas, new ways in which his Mare could be used asked politely to assist him. He had been scared when she disappeared, afraid someone would see her or him as she escaped his car but that fear had quickly turned to curiosity and then awe as he watched the flat shadow race up the brick wall and then watched a black cat step out from behind a potted plant.

He wouldn't deny the jealousy he felt at watching her, the ease in which she broke into houses and slipped easily in and out of shadow by her own power. What he wouldn't give to be able to wield the shadows that easily without having to beg his gods for temporary boosts in power that could be denied if he fell behind on his offerings. He disliked being under the whims of another. He wanted to be like her, powerful and stealthy and oh so confident in everything she did.

He faked it well enough. Enough to climb as high as he did as a black man anyways but there was always an undercurrent of fear beneath every action he performed, his mind racing for a million ways every single minor interaction could turn south for him, his fingers twitching and ready to fight his way out, his voice charming and boisterous or calm and demure as he needed to defuse tension and convince his enemies that he wasn't worth the time.

What he wouldn't give to see a time where the color of one's skin did not matter. His Mare would see those times as she saw the rise and fall of societies and he would be left behind in the dirt. He was envious, who wouldn't be? But he couldn't not find it in him to hold that mote of envy for more than a millisecond. She was his and he hers for what little time he had left on this planet and she was to help him in his minor crusade against the foul men that plagued his city. Her powers were his to borrow, her help appreciated and desired.

He had begun to feel nervous when The Mare didn't come to the window. He didn't think she had been hurt, not by Gregory, but he was worried something held her up. What surprises lurked in that shabby apartment? He was suddenly grateful he didn't try and climb up there himself.

And then he watched the front door crack open, flickering light spilling out onto the street as she beckoned him. He was nervous still, eyes wide and searching for looky-loos as he scuttled inside and tried to close the door quietly behind him. Of course his Mare cared not for stealth and lapped at him like an overgrown puppy, the door closing too loud behind him and making his heart jump into his throat.

In his panic he had batted her away, his nervous chuckle falling odd and flat in the darkened hallway. And then he had followed her up, never as silent as she but as quiet as he could be. Up and up and into the open apartment, his prey asleep and helpless in his armchair.

The rest was a blur. He remembered finding Gregory's wife in the bedroom, passed out on the floor from whatever beating her husband had given her. He locked the door and closed it gently, giving her some plausible deniability for when the police came poking around. She could say she locked herself in there for her safety, to escape the assault of her husband's fists after he knocked her tooth out.

Or something.

He didn't actually care.

He wanted Gregory. And oh, what a thrill it was to wake him for just that moment of recognition before the fear hit and the sedative worked its magic. He felt his spirits stir beneath them and he gave in to the call of his gods, asking for their power as he always did. He asked for the strength to move his prey and the ability to move quietly through the night, he asked for them to turn people's heads and give him the luck needed to serve them, to give them the life they desperately wanted.

It was another blur after that, his mind coming to when he closed the trunk and his Mare interlaced their fingers together. He brought her close, pressing her against his front as the pleasure of his borrowed power ebbed away and was replaced with giddy joy. He restricted the laughter in his throat and spun them around, pressing gentle kisses to her jaw as the shadows swirled around them, concealing the ruinous pair and giving them a moment of privacy before the itch began anew under his skin.

He was so close now. So close to ending the weeks long desire bubbling under the surface of his skin, the itch in his brain that made him see all the ways in which he could end people. Gone would be the pretty bruises on the grocer's throat, the bashed in temple of the butcher. He'd be able to see them as people again.

Until the next foul beast crossed his path.

Some handsy man in the dark alley next to Mimzie's speakeasy, their refusal to take 'no' for an answer and constant harassment of the barely adult girls who sang there, their eyes and heads filled with dreams of stardom. Maybe he'd catch the whisper of conversation from around the corner, some well-to-do threatening a colored woman and daring her to stand up for herself just so he could self-righteously teach her 'her place'. Perhaps he'd simply catch wind of another woman beater on the opposite side of town, another angry drunk to be taken care of and disposed of into the nearest dumpster.

He pulled up to the cabin sooner than he expected, mind distracted and ears ringing as he parked. He didn't even crack a joke, his jaw clenched tight in a twisted grin as he kicked the door open. Twice since the first kick was too hard and nearly slammed it back upon his shin. Behind him The Mare melted into the shadows, clothes dropping to the seat as she reverted to her favorite form, wings flapping excitedly as she pranced around the car, head tossing and snorting as she shrieked their combined excitement to the sky.

And what a beautiful night! Completely clear with the milky way in full display, a glittery ribbon of stardust slashed across the sky as if someone had cut into some god's throat, each sparkling star a drop of silver blood. The full moon loomed bright and large in the sky, as if eager herself to see the horrors Alastor would commit. Around them the frogs sang and the drone of the cicadas covered the sounds of Alastor pulling Gregory out of the trunk, grunting with each breath as he struggled without the supernatural help of his spirits.

The Mare took pity on him, using the claws at the ends of her wings to pick up their prey's ankles as Alastor led them, arms under its armpits, to The Shed. Each stumble of his jostled the man in his arms, his prey groaning in confusion as his eyes opened once before slipping back shut. Alastor cursed as he struggled to open the lock with one hand, back aching with the weight of the man. He had used too little sedative, too worried about the reaction between it and the alcohol that wafted off his prey. It had only taken one murder cut much too short to learn how badly they interacted and he did not want a repeat.

Not when he had an audience.

"Quickly, quickly," he whispered, desperately pulling his prey into the open door. The Mare followed obediently, dropping the ankles she held and finding herself a dark corner to settle in. Alastor scoffed, eyes rolling as he struggled under the full weight of his prey.

"Now you choose to be an observer?"

A mocking neigh answered him as she sat, rear end on the ground and wings slack, just barely hanging off the ground. "That's…," he grunted again as he slowly lowered Gregory to the ground, just under the rusting meat hook, "…incredibly rude." But then again, he was supposed to be showing her how he worked, showing off his skills and ingenuity and offering her a show.

"You're lucky I adore you," he snarked.

His hands were steady now, stabilized as he fell into the easy rhythm he had created so many murders ago. His heart no longer thudded in his chest uncontrollably, hurting his head and making his vision swirl. He was past that now. It still beat swiftly, a pounding against his thin rib cage but the pulse pulse pulse of it was comforting now, like the steady tempo of his favorite song.

He hummed along, head bobbing along as he uncoiled the long length of rope from its place on the wall. He twirled it along his hands, reveling in the light burn it left before he gripped it tightly, pulling it taut as he considered the best way to string up his new plaything.

He took this time to prep his tools, fingers dancing along his wall of choices before they fell upon his favorite. His most personal. The first set of knives he received from his father. The wooden handles worn with age were still pristine, kept oiled and polished and protected in their leather holster. The blades were razor sharp, their fine edge glinting in the low light of dimly lit lantern on the table. He tested the edge of his favorite, a large knife meant for cutting and hacking, and found it sharp enough to split the skin of his thumb with barely any pressure.

By the wrists, he decided, eager to have as much flesh to tear into as possible. It didn't take a single thought for him to wrap them up, his father's training on knots kicking in as it always did. Gregory stirred as his arms were jerked above his head, moaning softly as Alastor lowered the hook just enough to hook into the special loop he made for it.

Gregory stirred again as he was winched up until his heels lifted off the ground, head lolling as he struggled to shake off the alcohol and sedative. This was Alastor's favorite time, everything faded away to silence. Even the critters outside sensed what was about to happen and scurried away, the croak of the last frog seeming to echo within The Shed before blessed silence fell.

Pleasure thrummed through him as the crimson blood ran down his wrist and he licked the traces of it off the knife, careful as always to not cut himself unless he wanted to. He let himself by mesmerized by the rivulets that now reached his elbow, the first drops of blood to christen the newly thatched floor his own.

A groan from behind him caught his attention, eyes widening in surprise as if he had forgotten what he was doing. Well…he had. Blood was a fetish of his, sue him.

He grabbed his whetstone and leaned back against his workstation, the edge of it digging uncomfortably into his backside and otherwise grounding him as he watched his prey continue to struggle waking up. The knife did not need it but still he began the therapeutic process of sharpening it, letting the shlickshlickshlick of the edge lull him and calm him, his mind going blissfully blank again as he sharpened without thought, his eyes focused on the man before him.

There was little struggle at first, just the soft groans and moans of a man stirring from a long slumber. Then the eyes opened, blinking blearily into the dark as the heaviness of the sedative began to ebb away. A tongue reached out to lick dry lips, sticky saliva doing little to parch the dryness in the throat from a night of drinking. A stumble here, a stumble there as weak legs realized they finally had a body to hold.

Gregory's head lolled back, his control still limited as he squinted up at the rope around his wrists. A tug. Another tug. Then eyes widened as stark reality came crashing down around him and he began frantically tugging at the rope, yelping loudly as his thrashing caused him to loose his fragile balance and force all his weight upon his twisted shoulders.

"I wouldn't do that if I were youuuuu~~~!" Alastor's sing-song voice broke the silence and Gregory's head snapped up in his direction, eyes wild and pupils dilated as he struggled to see beyond the darkness of the shed and the lantern light behind his abductor's thin figure.

"You'll pull your shoulders out of their sockets long before that particular knot comes undone I'm afraid." Alastor lets his amusement bleed out into his voice, scraping his thumb against the sharpened blade and humming thoughtfully when it rasped against his skin instead of cutting it.

"P-please let me g-go I have m-m-money! A-a-a-and I won't say nothing about this…this…," Gregory's eyes slowly adjusted to the low light but still he could not make out the man standing before the lantern. "I don't even know where I am! Jus-just let me go and I'll…I'll…!"

"You'll what?" Venom dripped from Alastor's throat as he grabbed the lantern and strode towards his prey in three long strides, "Start going to church? Make donations to the orphanage?" He let his voice crack with his mocking and shoved the lantern in Gregory's sniveling face.

"Will you stop hitting your wife!?" Gregory's blubbering stilled, the snot and tears on his face real but the words were not. He did his best to peer around the lantern, head struggling through the haziness of the sedative to place the flamboyant cadence of that voice.

"So she sent you did she? Gonna teach me a lesson? Some prissy little bitch with his toy knife? Ha! You'd best be letting me go boy before I get out of this—!"

Gregory's taunts are cut short with a quick slice down his center, his clothes splitting cleanly as the knife sliced through them and straight to the skin beneath. The mark it left was only surface level, it barely even bled but it made its point well enough. The blade was sharp and the man wielding it knew how to use it.

"Care to try again? I don't mind the tough guy act but it really gets exhausting after awhile." The silver blade pushed aside the torn fabric, catching under the sleeves and slicing through each one until the shirt fell to pieces upon the straw floor. The lantern never left Gregory's face, only moving far enough with its owner's movements that he could tell his captor was dark-skinned and very thin.

"Stop playing with your lantern and show me your face boy. Stop being a pussy and—"

"And you'll what? Hit me? Knock my teeth out? I'm afraid you'll find me a lot harder to degradate you asanine dullard." Alastor moved slowly around his prey, eyes riveted to the fascinating way in which blood was slowly dripping down its sagging belly.

"The fuck you call me?"

"A dullard. Moron. Idiot. Imbecile," from behind Alastor leaned over his prey, chest to back as he spoke against his prey's ears. "Numskull. Half-wit. Nincompoop. Ninny. I could go on and on and on, shall I?"

Recognition sparked in his prey's eyes as he tried to turn his head, to catch a glimpse of his would be torturer as he finally began to place were he knew that voice from. "I know you! You're that uppity nggh—!!!"

Alastor punched him, the lantern barely registering to himself but no doubt burning Gregory's cheek as the hot glass collided with it. "Finish that sentence and I'll feed you your own cock." He watched idly as his prey swayed precariously, scrambling on tiptoe to find its balance, cursing all the while.

"Just you wait," Gregory huffed between steps as Alastor finally lowered the lantern and allowed himself to be seen, "When I get outta here I'll find you a nice tree to—"

Alastor was bored already. Racist drivel really lost its bite somewhere around the third kill. It was always the same tired routine: blah blah blah your daddy must've hated you, yadda yadda yadda I can kill you and get away with it, uh-huh, you'll never amount to anything but Creole trash yes sir, my grandpappy had a wallet made with skin like yours, yeesh morbid but better than the uninspired nonsense he heard over and over and over again.

So, somewhere around when Gregory was threatening to make a "visit" to Alastor's mother and giving her a son she could be "proud of" (Seriously? The kid would still be mixed. Critical thinking was apparently not Gregory's strong suite.) and gearing up for his next dull round of insults, Alastor sunk the knife into his shoulder.

And oh! What a sweet sound that was! The knife ran straight through, lodging itself deep into the joint as Gregory screamed. The whimpers came next, the beginning of each a sob as Alastor had to wrench the knife back and forth a few times before he was able to pull it out.

"There, you see what you made me do?" Alastor giggled as he held the blade towards the lantern, playing with the glint of the light as he wobbled it. "Ah well, I forgive you. Since you sang so sweetly for me."

Gregory began to whimper again, in fear, blue eyes so wide and so focused on the knife Alastor now waved around, a bloody conductor's baton to the little ditty he hummed as he placed the lantern down.

"Oh? Serial killer got your tongue?" Another wave of laughter as Alastor put the knife down and chose a smaller one, a thinner one meant for flaying.

"Don't worry…I have just the fix for that…"

#nightmare distribution

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#nightmare distribution