(Alastor x Vox) Knife Through the Heart

Chapter 1

"It's been a wonderful time catching up with you, my dear Rosie, but I'd best be on my way. The work of a radio broadcaster is never done." Alastor offers a slight bow before he heads out the front door. Melodic chimes ring above his head as he pushes the entryway of her emporium open. "And please give my regards to Mimzy and the other ladies."

Bringing a hand up to her smiling face, Rosie giggles, socketless eyes boring directly into Alastor's. "Mimzy will be awfully disappointed to find out that she missed you. Can't you stay for a little while—just until she returns from her show?"

"Oh, I very much do admire her songs, but I really am afraid I can't afford to dilly-dally any longer. The Princess is expecting me back at the hotel, and I so very much would hate to disappoint her. It would be a travesty, a complete blemish on my impeccable record as a show-stopping entertainer!"

"Ooh, is that right? Well, please do give my regards to the Princess, my dear. You know as well as anyone else just how much I admire her moxie and bubbly personality!" But...there's a pensive, considering mystique about her as she brings a hand up to her face. Seemingly lost in thought, Rosie frowns, casting a worried glance at Alastor. "Though, how are you faring, my friend? I couldn't help but notice how pale you've looked all evening."

All at once, there's a cacophonic screech in the air, like a needle scratching against a gramophone record. Alastor's smile falls a fraction of an inch as he openly gapes at his fellow overlord, though it doesn't very long. In the blink of an eye, he's back to his usual self—gazing at Rosie pleasantly. Laughter erupts from the walls, from the ceiling, as if they're actors being given a grand ovation.

"Nonsense, my dear! I'm always pale; it's one of the downsides of being dead! And need I add that I'm only acting for the betterment and enrichment of...myself! There's nothing more entertaining than watching a good-spirited belle like Lucifer's daughter believe she actually has a chance at redeeming all of these loathsome sinners!" Alastor beams, clasping his hand together, head tilted as he returns Rosie's gaze. "We already had an opportunity for Heaven with the life we lived before."

Rosie pauses for a moment, attention instead fixated upon rearranging a vase filled with black petunias and chrysanthemums situated upon her desk. "I just worry about you, that's all. You're almost like a son to me," she whispers that last part to herself, but it's only thanks to Alastor's close proximity to the overlord that he catches her words. "I'd hate for you to get hurt..."

Alastor can't find it in himself to speak, but for the life [and death] of him, he can't imagine why.

Almost a century has passed since that fateful day when he woke up in hell. One thing led to another, and in the end, Rosie took him under her wing. He owes a lot to her. More than he could ever hope to repay, but at the very least, he'll honor this one request.

He'll never be saved. None of them will.

Afterall, he's killed far too many souls. Far more than he could ever count, ever hope to atone for. And that's all well and good, because Alastor never regretted a single kill. Not a single one during his days as a radio entertainer, not when the Depression had stolen away many humans over the course of those ten years. How many humans were marked as sinners, condemned to an eternity of hell for the mere act of stealing a loaf of bread to feed their loved ones?