Chapter Text
It was a bold move on his part to venture into the Wailing Forest with scant information, a fact he was well aware of. While Rosie’s advice was useful, it lacked any substantial defensive strategies. Yet, he reminded himself—she did warn him. Having a plan would have been the wiser choice, but shying away from potential danger wasn’t one of Alastor’s traits.
He’d felt the morning's heat rise several hours prior but chose to ignore it; instead, he opted to keep his eyes closed because lying beside him was the stillness of your resting form. Your body was like that of a sun-kissed stone on a cold morning. It was comforting and peaceful, something he lacked in the hustle and bustle at the Hazbin Hotel, and he feared any movement would stir you awake. Strangely, he did not want that.
Alastor inhales deeply, your aroma wafting through his nostrils until he can taste you upon his tongue. Your arboraceous spice was reminiscent of flavors he had long missed while mortal: the slight tang of cinnamon, the bitter undertone of cloves, and a sweet whisper of nutmeg. Inadvertently, his tongue traces over his canines, desperate to hold onto your taste, to the warmth you brought within his mouth and throat.
As he savors the lingering notes, a soft melody fills the air. At first, he thinks it might be a trick of his imagination, a remnant of some half-forgotten dream you’d cause. But as the notes grow clearer, he realizes it is you, your voice barely above a whisper:
"In shadows deep, an elemental roams,
Seeking warmth, a place to call home.
With an empty core, a void unfilled,
Longing for a light, a dream to fulfill."
Your rich and haunting voice sends a shiver down Alastor's spine. He remains perfectly still, not daring to breathe lest he interrupt the ethereal song. As you continue, he finds himself drawn into the melancholy tale:
"Through the endless night, it wanders on,
Hoping for a sign of the coming dawn.
In its solitude, it yearns to find,
A kindred spirit, so two fates entwine."
Your words thrum within him, seemingly weaving a spell while painting vivid images of loneliness and longing. Despite himself, Alastor feels a tightness within his chest, an unfamiliar ache that both unsettles yet intrigues him.
"Oh, lost one, hear its gentle call,
Seeking light amidst its fall.
In darkness, be its flame,
To chase away their endless pain."
The silence that follows feels heavy. Just as he is about to open his eyes, your voice, now tinged with amusement, breaks the silence in a continuing singsong:
“How much longer do you plan to feign sleep?"
Alastor eases one eye open to observe you. He chuckles lightly, intent on mustering a haughty response. But instead, he flinches from the sharp pain that wreaks through his body. His chest feels hollow, a pregnant emptiness and his throat suddenly tightens with uncertainty. He had no memory of an injury to the chest, just the arm. He looks to you expectantly for an answer, but your gaze just hardens in response.
A hoarse statement escapes him, “You’ve taken from me.”
He expected you to move, maybe fabricate some lie, or perhaps even speak in riddles. What he hadn’t expected, however, was your continuing silence and hard stare. It unnerved him. With those pools of inky darkness, he could not tell if you were staring at or through him.
Alastor hesitantly lifts a hand to his chest, fingers trembling across the loosely fitted cloth draped over him. There was no pain upon contact, proving to himself that there was indeed no wound. The hollow void he felt was on par with his first waking moment in Hell.
“What exactly did you do?” he asks with a mixture of curiosity and accusation.
His gaze steels, searching for any flicker of emotion, any tell that may betray your thoughts. Your following words came low, sending yet another shiver down Alastor’s spine.
“I saved you.”
He scoffs, bewildered at your statement as if you had explained everything in that short sentence.
“The Forest devours flesh, bone, and—souls.”
Alastor’s eyes widen, mind running amuck by the brash revelation. The Forest was dangerous; he learned that much from Rosie and the briars, but devourer of souls? Was that even a possibility? Only angelic weapons could destroy a soul permanently. A forest seems so simple and non-threatening—the perfect predator in disguise. His black pupils linger upon you just a beat longer.
“And what of my soul?” he asks, a hint of his usual bravado creeping back in.
“Healing. Slowly.” Alastor shudders at the ghosting of your clawed fingertips against his bindings. You continue, “I used my essence to—drive out the thorns, the corruptions. It will be a while, but you’ll begin to feel whole again in time.”
Alastor swallows hard, his mind processing the newfound information while battling confusion. The confusing mix of gratitude and wariness toward you, his savior, yet a potential threat, was convoluted. Alastor follows through: “It seems I am in your debt.” A wry smile tugs at the corners of his lips.
“A debt that could have been avoided altogether if you’d just stayed away.”
“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”
Your body weight shifts on the cot as you rise to sit up. The removal of your body heat almost causes Alastor to mewl from its absence. Instead, he watches as your arms wrap around your knees and your head comes to rest upon them, locking eyes in silence.
His gaze traces your bottom lip as you chew at it with contemplation. If only he had a penny for your thoughts. But before either of you can get another word out, there’s a soft knock at the door followed by Zestial's familiar tongue.
"Mine Nocturne, what calamity hath befallen thy humble abode? The exterior lies besieged by the fallen forms of sylvan beasts. Doth, thou find thyself in solitude, or hast company graced thy presence?"
Your eyes lock with Alastor's, a flash of panic crossing your features. "Fuck," you breathe, the expletive barely audible.
Alastor's eyebrows shoot up, his grin widening at your uncharacteristic outburst. As his mouth opens, likely to unleash a quip or chuckle, you lunge forward. Your hands clap over his mouth, the sudden proximity sending a jolt through you both. His breath, warm and quick, ghosts over your palms as you feel the curve of his growing smile beneath your fingers.
You're frozen there for a heartbeat, acutely aware of every point of contact between you. Alastor's eyes dance with mirth and something else—a challenge.
He watches your eyes dart between him and the door, myriad emotions flickering across your face. Suddenly, determination settles in your features. You lean close, your breath ghosting over his ear: "Don't move. Don't speak. And whatever you do, Don't. Touch. Anything."
Before he can muster a response, you place your hands on either side of his face, your touch warm against his skin. You press your forehead against him, and for a moment, Alastor finds himself lost in the depths of your inky darkness. A shiver runs through him as you thumb his cheekbones, leaving trails of tingling energy in their wake.
You exhale softly, and Alastor is surprised to see a fine mist of black sand escape your lips. The particles dance in the air between you, shimmering with otherworldly energy before abruptly forcing their way through and under his flesh.
A strange sensation washes over him, like shadows wrapping around every fiber of his being. He feels the sand - your essence - settling into him, rendering him translucent. Glancing down, he finds his body barely visible even to his keen eyes. Fascination mingles with a hint of wariness at this display of power he hadn't anticipated and an unexpected thrill at the moment's intimacy.
Pulling away, Alastor is left on the cot. Squaring your shoulders, you compose your features into a neutral mask. "You can enter, Zestial. I'm alone, just cleaning up after a long night," you call out, your voice steady and betraying nothing of the tension that Alastor can feel radiating off you.
You watch as Alastor tucks himself away into a corner of the room. It would have been easier just to send Zestial away, but you knew better. The Overlord would not take no for an answer, especially with the horrid condition of the exterior. Memories of the night flood your thoughts, causing you to cringe in distaste: the littered bodies of all those dead creatures. That damned Radio Demon was the root of all your current misfortunes.
Instinctively, you sneer at his ghostly form, your ire blatant on display for him to see. As expected, Alastor responds by flashing his signature wide grin, his eyes gleaming with mischievous delight. He places a translucent hand over his heart in mock offense, mouthing the words 'Why, I'm hurt!' His exaggerated gestures and silent chuckle only serve to heighten your irritation. Even invisible and silent, he manages to be infuriatingly charismatic.
Zestial enters through the door, his tall, spider-like form clad in his usual striking black and neon yellow suit. His wide-brimmed hat with its curled edges catches the light as his kaleidoscope of lime green eyes locks onto you.
"Mine Nocturne! I missed thy presence yester-eve. When I sensed not thy aura, worry did grip mine heart." Before you can respond, Zestial sweeps you into a tight embrace. Over his shoulder, your eyes drift to Alastor's ghostly form.
You watch as Alastor's ever-present grin tightens at the corners; a flicker of something dark passes through his eyes. His translucent hands, once relaxed, grip his elbows tightly, knuckles whitening despite their spectral nature. The Radio Demon's usual easy demeanor seems to crack, revealing a flash of... what? Annoyance? Or was it, daresay, possessiveness?
Zestial releases you, his multiple eyes searching your features, eagerly awaiting an answer.
“There was a breach in my barrier, and those creatures managed their way in. I just had to do some massive cleanup,” you try to dance around the truth.
Zestial’s eyes cock upwards. He scans the room suspiciously, clearly unsatisfied with your answer, and who could blame him? The Overlord was no idiot.
Zestial's spindly fingers reach for your shoulder, his touch gentle yet possessive.
"Wherefore would such vile creatures and wicked briars seek thee out, Mine Nocturne? 'Tis most peculiar, for thou art, not their preferred sustenance."
As Zestial speaks, his grip on your shoulder tightens. His lime green eyes, filled with concern and something akin to affection, search your face intently for any hint of falsehoods.
From the corner of your eye, you notice Alastor's translucent form practically vibrating with tension. His eternal grin has morphed into a tight, barely contained snarl, teeth gleaming dangerously even in his spectral state. His eyes flash between rest and radio dials, locked onto Zestial's hand on your person.
Oblivious to the seething Radio Demon, Zestial continues, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur: "Pray, speak true, Mine Nocturne. Hath some danger befallen thee in the night's dark embrace? Allow me to ease thy burdens, as I have done countless times before."
At these words, a low, staticky growl emanates from Alastor's corner, barely audible but unmistakable. You find yourself torn between answering Zestial and keeping an eye on Alastor, whose growing fury threatens to materialize him at any moment—frustrating demon.
You place a reassuring hand over Zestial's, your touch gentle but firm. "I swear all is fine," you assure him, your voice steady. "If I'm ever in need of help, I know I can come to you, Zestial. But for now, I truly need rest."
With deliberate grace, you step away from Zestial's hold, creating a respectful distance between you. As you do, you catch a glimpse of Alastor in your peripheral. The tension in his spectral form visibly eases, his features smoothing out like ripples settling on a pond. His signature grin, which had been strained and feral moments ago, now relaxes into its usual enigmatic curve.
The Radio Demon's eyes, no longer flashing between states, return to their normal half-lidded amusement. He leans casually against the wall, the picture of nonchalance, as if his earlier fury had been nothing but a fleeting shadow. You can't help but notice the satisfied glint in his gaze as he observes the newfound space between you and Zestial. Yes, frustrating demon indeed.
Clearly, still with reserve but wanting to respect your wishes, Zestial accepts your response. He gives the room a once over, his eyes never locking directly onto Alastor, thankfully, before departing through the same door where he came. However, the sound of the door coming to a close evokes your fury at a particular Radio Demon.
"What part of 'don't move and don't speak' did you not understand?" you hiss, digging an accusatory finger into Alastor's now fully materialized chest. As you glare up at him, the realization of just how much taller he is hits you - at least three heads' difference. Despite Zestial's even greater height, something about Alastor's towering form unnerves you in a way you can't quite explain. His ever-present grin seems to widen at your obvious discomfort.
Alastor raises his hands in mock surrender, his voice laced with amusement.
"My deepest apologies, dear. But I don’t seem to remember doing either of those things. I merely stood in a corner, observing."
Alastor chuckles as you pinch the bridge of your nose, exhaustion overwhelming you. "Just... go. Please. I need to rest."
For once, Alastor doesn't argue. He gives you a slight bow, his grin never faltering. "As you wish, Darling Dove. I'll take my leave."
As Alastor steps out of your hut, closing the door behind him, his eyes widen at the carnage surrounding your home. Zestial was correct in his concern. The ground was scattered with the twisted forms of forest creatures and rotten briars, evidence of your nightly activities.
His grin turns thoughtful as he surveys the scene. With a snap of his fingers, shadowy figures emerge from the ground. "Clean this up," he commands, his voice low. "Every last bit of it."
As consciousness creeps back, you're greeted by a symphony of aches, each movement a reminder of the previous night's ordeal. The much-needed rest has done little to soothe your weakened form. Once again, you find yourself caught in a losing battle with your feathery cot, its soft embrace both a comfort and a prison. Is it mere exhaustion pinning you down, or something more?
Seeking solace, you bury your face deeper into the plumage. A mistake. The metallic tang of Alastor's blood assaults your senses, its coppery notes intertwining with the earthy scent of feathers. Unbidden, his promise echoes to mind, smooth but tantalizing: 'Oh, will I now? Well, if that is so, then—don't mind if I do.'
"Argh, I need to feed," you groan, the realization hitting you like a physical force. It's not just fatigue weighing you down—you're famished, starving for a delicious nightmare. The hunger gnaws at you, an insistent, primal urge.
You lift your chin, resting it atop the sea of feathers. A deep sigh escapes you, the exhale sending a flurry of plumes into the air. They dance in the dim red glow of Hell’s night, a hypnotic swirl of white and crimson-tipped feathers—a visual echo of the night's events. As they settle, so does your resolve.
You phase through the door and steel yourself for the aftermath of your desperate activities from the previous night.
But the scene that greets you is far from what you expected. Where you anticipate a graveyard of mangled corpses and desiccated briar husks, you find instead a flurry of activity. Alastor's demonic minions, shadowy figures with glowing eyes, dart to and fro across the clearing. Their movements are a frantic dance, part cleanup crew, part slapstick comedy.
Most of the grisly evidence has already vanished, but the real show is the ongoing skirmish between the minions and the stubborn briars. In full strength by the night, the plant-like monstrosities lashed out with thorny tendrils, snagging the demons mid-sweep. One unfortunate minion finds itself hoisted into the air, broom and all, by a particularly ornery briar.
You can't help but stare, torn between amusement and bewilderment. The scene before you is absurd, almost laughable. Alastor's minions—creatures of nightmare themselves—were reduced to squabbling with overgrown weeds.
A realization hits you as you watch a demon wrestle a broom from a briar's grasp. Alastor is trying to pay it forward in his own twisted way. The thought sends an odd warmth through you. There is a tug at one of your tendrils, one that made up the skirt of your fitted dress. Below was one of Alastor’s bloodied minions holding up an envelope with a broad, wicked smile—the cute little thing. You snatch the envelope and watch as the little one scurries away to rejoin the cleanup battle. The envelope read in fancy cursive letters, ‘My Nightmarish Dove.’ Those words did not belong together, you muse.
My Nightmarish Dove,
I do hope this missive finds you well-rested. By now, my delightful minions should have made short work of our sylvan adversaries - or at least provided you with some nightly entertainment. Their enthusiasm often outweighs their competence, but isn't that half the fun?
Now, onto more pressing matters. I find myself in dire need of stimulating company and a stiff drink - preferably in that order. Would you do me the honor of joining me this evening at the Hazbin Hotel's bar? I propose a night of some light chatter and games. I do very much love games. Who knows? Perhaps you'll even grace me with another taste of your enchanting nightmares.
Speaking of taste, I must confess the memory of your essence lingers most tantalizingly. One might say you've gotten under my skin.
Until tonight, Alastor
P.S. Don't fret about appropriate attire. Your shadows suit you perfectly.
Your fingers tremble at the edges of the letter before it disintegrates into fiery fragments carried away by the wind. Heat floods your cheeks as you gently touch the tendrils of your dress. You'd never felt bashful about your choice of clothing before—that is—until now—you frustrating devil. You sigh heavily before disappearing beneath Hell's earth.
Finding your next victim was not tricky, but your choice was unusual. Typically, you preferred sinners for their more flavorful nightmares, yet today, you found yourself drawn to a Hellborn.
As you emerged beneath the floorboards, your eyes rested upon a sleeping imp. His undereyes were heavy with bags, possibly from crying himself to sleep. The imp pulls away from your fingers that ghost upon the mars of his right cheek. The burn was large, mean, and angry. You wonder how he came to attain it. Your curiosity, however, takes a backseat to your growing hunger.
Looking at your surroundings, you notice a bedroom adorned by a sign reading “Loona’s Room.” Reaching with your essence, you make sure the Hellhound is asleep. Her rhythmic breathing proves just that.
Without another thought, you mount the sleeping imp, your bodies aligning perfectly. As you begin, the familiar grit of sand fills your nostrils, bringing an instant wave of anticipation. Oh, how desperately you needed this feed.
The circus tent looms before Blitzø, its vibrant colors dulled by the night. As he steps inside, the familiar scent of popcorn and sawdust is overtaken by acrid smoke. Flames lick at the edges of his vision, but he can't look away from the center ring.
There, Stolas stands tall, his feathers gleaming in the firelight. In all his magnificent glory, the Goetia Prince turns to Blitzø, "Oh, Blitzy," he coos, his voice a mixture of affection and pity. "Did you really think I could love someone like you? An insignificant creature born to only serve beneath our feet?"
Blitzø tries to speak, but words turn to ash in his mouth. Building tears hover just at the edges of his eyes. The flames creep closer, searing his skin, leaving white-hot marks that mirror his childhood scars.
Suddenly, the scene shifts. He's at Verosika’s party, surrounded by the sneering faces of his exes. Their laughter cuts through him like knives. In the center, Stolas embraces another imp, their lips locked in a passionate kiss. Blitzø feels his heart shatter at the sight, a cold emptiness spreading through his chest. He reaches forward, his claws wanting to grasp onto anything that could bring him comfort.
"You're unlovable, Blitzø," the voices chant. "A failure. A fraud."
The flames suddenly return, engulfing everything. Blitzø sees Fizz's disappointed face in the fire, a reminder of another life ruined, a life he’d changed forever. The heat intensifies, and Blitzø screams—
Suddenly, you pause. Something about Blitzø's anguish resonates with a memory. The pain in his eyes is eerily similar to the vulnerability you glimpsed in one of Alastor's nightmares. A pang of unexpected empathy hits you. With a twist of your essence, you begin to reshape the nightmare.
The flames recede, replaced by a soft, comforting light. Stolas appears again, but his eyes are filled with genuine love and understanding this time.
"Blitzy," dream-Stolas says gently, "You are worthy of love. You always have been." Blitzø messily collapses into Stolas's embrace, finally finding solace and acceptance.
You withdraw from the dream and hide within the shadows as Blitzø gasps for air after abruptly being pulled awake. He grabs his face in several places, inspecting for new burn marks. When he finds none, he sighs heavily and stares at the brilliant stone that adorned his wrist. You wet your lips. The taste of the nightmare—no, dream—lingers on your tongue. It's bittersweet, complex, and unsatisfying. This rare empathy leaves you feeling off-balance.
“Stolas…” is all you hear before exiting.
"A dream? Really?" you mutter, perched atop the familiar glass building that has become your unofficial thinking spot. Your legs dangle over the edge, feet tapping rhythmically against the smooth surface as you gaze down at the bustling denizens of Hell below. This vantage point has always helped you reorganize your thoughts, but tonight, clarity seems elusive.
Alastor’s invitation came to mind, and as much as you try to fight it, a drink sounds appealing right now. A stiff drink and a little bit of chatter can’t possibly hurt. You sigh, resigned. "What harm could a little conversation do?" you muse aloud, already knowing you're likely underestimating the Radio Demon's capacity for mischief.
Alastor's fingers trace the soot-stained fabric, a remnant of your first encounter. The once-white cloth now bears your permanent mark, the dark substance seeping into its very fibers. The irony of the metaphor isn't lost on him – how fitting that you've left such an indelible impression.
He understands his initial draw to you; your uniqueness, your power, the tantalizing mystery you represent – all of this is clear. But the possessiveness that surges through him is something else entirely. Unlike the casual ownership he feels over the souls in his collection, this feeling is raw, primal, almost— rapacious. It's a hunger that both excites and unnerves him. He wonders what game he is playing here and precisely who the player is.
Leaning back into his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight, Alastor dangles the fabric between his fingertips. His mind races, replaying the day's events like a twisted newsreel.
That mesmerizing black sand, he muses, the very essence of her being. Used to hide me, to feed... Is this soot merely a dormant form of the same power?
His eyes narrow, focusing on the cloth. Green energy crackles around him, the air heavy with the scent of ozone and something darker, more primal. He pushes his will into the fabric, willing the soot to yield.
Come now, my dear. Don't be shy. Show me what you're truly capable of.
The soot struggles against the cloth, a tease of movement that thrills him. But then, suddenly, it snaps back, a jolt of foreign energy—your energy—shooting through his hand. The strain ultimately backfires, sending a slight tremor of shock through his arm reminiscent of your essence.
Alastor's rambunctious laughter fills the room, a staticky, unsettling sound. "Oh, you are a tough one to crack, aren't you? Wicked and quick to escape but not without leaving a trace."
He examines his hand, still tingling from the shock. She leaves herself in everything she touches. Is that why I can't seem to shake her from my thoughts? This... pull?
His gaze drifts to the bandages on his arm, stark white against his skin. They are another reminder of you, the night in the Forest, the vulnerability he'd shown, and the altruism you'd displayed.
What a delicious paradox you are, my Nightmarish Dove. Able to render the intangible solid, to give form to fears, and yet, you slip through my grasp like smoke.
Alastor's grin widens, his sharp teeth gleaming in the dim light. There's a hunger in his eyes, a predatory gleam that speaks of more than mere curiosity. Even with failure, his toothy grin only grows, fangs catching the soft glow of his room.
"But every puzzle has its solution," he purrs, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous timbre. "And I do so enjoy a challenge."
He rises from the chair, the fabric clutched tightly in his hand. The shadows in the room seem to deepen, responding to the dark intent radiating from the Radio Demon.
You may be the Harbinger of Nightmares, my dear. But I'll show you what true terror looks like. And when I'm done, you'll be begging to haunt my dreams.
When you approached the Hazbin Hotel, you half expected Alastor’s Radio Tower to be dormant. But its radiant light shone brightly. The “On Air” sign was illuminated, and you found yourself curious for the first time about what he may be broadcasting to his many listeners. The Hotel had many patrons coming and going, as Charlie’s silly attempt at a sinner's redemption had spread long and wide throughout Hell. You referred to it as the Infernal Ascension Project, a little funny title befitting a foolish notion.
Silly child, you muse, taking a few steps forward toward the Hotel. However, a crackle of green light shoots through Alastor’s Radio Tower before you get more than three steps in. It is quick and an evident power of his own. Inexplicable shivers run down your spine as goosebumps rise upon your flesh, a reaction you can’t explain. Shaking off the sensation, you press forward.
The familiar scent of booze, sex, and desperation greets you as you enter the Hotel. You go unnoticed as usual and find your way to the bar with no issue. Husk stands behind it, his back towards you as he organizes bottles. You slide onto a stool and lean forward slightly, your arms crossing over one another to rest on the smooth bar surface.
Without turning, Husk grumbles, "Whaddya want?"
"A Phantom’s Flare, if you’d please," you reply, a hint of amusement in your voice.
The glass Husk was polishing clatters to the bar top. He spins around with haste, eyes wide with disbelief. Then, his face splits into a toothy grin—a rare sight on the usually grumpy cat demon.
"Well, I'll be damned," he chuckles. "So, where've you been hiding yourself?" Husk asks, beginning to mix ingredients expertly. "Ain't seen you 'round these parts in ages."
You offer a vague response, not giving him much as usual. Husk chuckles at your lackluster answers.
"Still the mystery woman, eh? Some things never change." He pauses, giving you an appreciative once-over. “But I'll tell you what has—you're looking good, healthier, and beautiful as ever, if not more so."
You raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on your lips. "Careful, Husk. Someone might think you're going soft."
He scoffs, but there's no real heat behind it. "Ah, shaddup. Just stating facts. Besides," he leans in conspiratorially, "don't go spreading it around, but I might've missed our little chats."
"Oh?" you tease. "And here I thought you only missed my generous tips."
Husk barks out a laugh, then leans closer, lowering his voice an octave. "Yeah, well, your kind of 'tip' was a bit different, wasn't it? Staying outta my dreams—or should I say nightmares—was worth more than any stack of bills."
He shakes his head, a mix of admiration and residual fear in his eyes. "Gotta admit, it was a hell of a bargain. After that smiling bastard took everything from me, you were the only thing keepin' me sane. Funny how that works, ain't it? The Nightmare Queen herself chasing away the echoes in my head."
With a flourish, Husk finishes mixing your drink. The liquid shimmers with an otherworldly glow, perfectly representing its name. He reaches for his lighter, ready to add the final touch of flame to the Phantom's Flare.
"Damn it," he mutters, flicking the lighter repeatedly. Each attempt produces nothing but a weak spark. "Of all the times for this piece of junk to give out..."
The air crackles with static electricity. A familiar voice, smooth as silk but sharp as a knife, cuts through the bar's ambient noise.
"Allow me."
Alastor materializes beside you; his perpetual grin is more expansive than ever. Husk's expression sours immediately.
"Speak of the devil," he grumbles, not impressed.
Ignoring Husk's displeasure, Alastor snaps his fingers. A small mauve flame dances to life atop your drink. He slides the glass towards you, then settles onto the adjacent stool, his leg brushing lightly against yours.
Without breaking eye contact, he addresses Husk. "A Nightmare cocktail for me, my good fellow. And do be generous with the maraschino cherries."
