Grace took her new journal out to the pool and sat in a vacant rattan chair. She gazed up at a Hellish sky filled with heavy, dark clouds before flipping the journal open to the first page.

Charlie hadn’t gifted any of them with pens. Or pencils. Well, that was going to put a damper on doing anything with this journal, at least for the time-being.

But Grace’s solitude was short-lived, anyway.

Angel Dust plopped himself down on the next nearest pool furniture, stretching out his lanky limbs as if luxuriating in the stifling mid-December humidity.

Grace closed the empty journal, not that she had anything yet to hide from Angel.

Angel smiled at her.

She knew that smile, knew the topic that would emerge from his mouth whenever he decided to open it.

“Is he a grower or a show-er? I’ll bet he’s a grower.”

And … there it is. Grace didn’t even acknowledge the question or the assumption that followed.

“Is it the same each time? Same foreplay? Same position?” Angel asked when Grace failed to answer his previous question. And then without allowing her the chance to answer those questions, he said, “I’ll bet he’s real methodical.”

She failed to answer that one, too. Except she didn’t remain silent. “He gets hard from abusing me and then uses my body as an outlet to alleviate an inconvenient erection.”

With a snort, Angel replied, “An inconvenient erection? I think I was in that porno.”

“Angel!” Grace cried in exasperation. “You want me talking about my sex with Alastor and then you do this when I actually do?”

“Arright, arright, arright.”

“So it’s not passionate, at least not in the sense of the word as I’ve ever known it. I wouldn’t call it rough or even kinky.” Although maybe it would be considered that by some? I don’t even know anymore. “It’s …”

Angel supplied, “Violent?”

“Yeah? I … guess?”

“I was hunting for new information about your sex life,” Angel said. “I know he gets rough with you. We all know that. We’ve seen the aftermath of what he does to you when you can’t hide the bruises and scratches and bites. And we all see when you try to hide those bruises and scratches and bites. In case you ever thought otherwise, it’s super obvious to the rest of us why you cover up when you do, the way you do.”

“I’m sorry, did I ask for your judgment, pornstar?” Grace glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. 

Angel Dust seemed in no way bothered by her barb.

“Okay, two things. One: would Val stop mistreating you if you asked him?”

Angel opened his mouth to respond but before he could, Grace continued.

“Two: if I told Alastor to stop with the violent sex, I would either end up with even worse violent sex or no sex at all. And we all know—”

“Bad sex is better than no sex.”

“Exactly,” sighed Grace, her shoulders sagging. “If he’s not rough with me, he doesn’t get aroused, and if he doesn’t get aroused, I get no nooky.”

“Well …” Angel shrugged. “Then I guess we’re fucked.”

“Tell me about it.”

Angel chuckled. “I really don’t think you want me to.” He augmented wryly, “Either you’ll be able to relate a little too well or you’ll wish you didn’t know.”

“Touché.”

Grace’s stomach grumbled loudly. Angel Dust glanced down at it; an indication it was loud enough he could hear it from his spot. 

“I’m so hungry, I could shank a bitch.”

Angel jumped up from his lounge chair. “And that’s my cue to go … anywhere else.” With a smirk and a wave, he excused himself from the pool deck.

Grace followed him back into the hotel, though while he went to the bar to visit with Husk who was probably only marginally less likely to shank him than Grace was, she went into the kitchen and helped herself to what was in the refrigerator—which was virtually nothing palatable for her. And the few things that qualified as vegetarian were of no interest to her. She sighed; shopping had not been on her to-do list for the day, but she had little choice. And even less cash.

On her way out of the hotel, Alastor appeared from nothingness and fell in stride beside her. “And where are we going this delightfully dreary afternoon?”

“Well I don’t know where you’re going, but I need groceries,” Grace replied without missing a step. She spared a glance at him upon reaching the hotel’s front door.

His gaze darted opposite her. And there was a hint of pink in his cheeks.

What is happening with you lately, Al?

Hey. I finally figured out how not to waste my breath asking him stuff. She can be taught!

The moment Grace stepped outside, Alastor snapped his fingers.

The next moment, she found herself standing at the end of a strip mall. She attempted stifling her annoyance with his interference. “So … You think you know everything about me, do you, Radio Demon?”

His focus dropped to the sidewalk near her feet. “I know you better than you know yourself.”

“The ego on this one!” Grace scoffed, noticing out of the corner of her eye that the pink in his cheeks darkened. “So then why have you asked what I want from you? Isn’t it obvious?”

“Of course it is, Grace. That doesn’t stop me from wanting to hear you say it.”

I wish I had a way to call your bluff. She glanced at the anchor of this strip mall. She was certain the old shop sign secured to the window used to say ‘glass-blowing demonstration’ but the current tenant either couldn’t afford to fix the broken neon or had other uses for the property. She wondered if it had been acquired recently by Valentino. The neon now glowed: ass-blowing demons.

“Did you ever think that maybe I wanted to walk here?” Grace snapped out of the blue. “That maybe there were some other stores I wanted to duck into?” Okay, she failed at stifling her annoying with his interference.

“What for?” he asked.

Grace didn’t respond as she past a couple storefronts. She paused at the third. A Victoria’s Secret. Because of course a lingerie brand for women founded by a man would exist in Hell. They deserve to be here for sizing me incorrectly only to cram me into cups too small just for the sake of making a sale. Bastards.

She stared a little longer than necessary at the red teddy on prominent display in the front window. It was a strappy, fully lace thing from its unlined cups to its crotch, leaving little to the imagination. If Grace was a lesbian, or even bisexual, she would love seeing a woman in that—at least, she supposed she would. She bit her tongue and cast a sly glance at her asexual she-still-didn’t-know-how-to-categorize-him. “‘What for?’” Grace echoed. “Maybe I wanna buy lingerie.”

“What for?” Alastor repeated.

For—someone who wouldn’t know what sexy was even if it crawled on all fours over to him and begged him to suck his cock. She felt a twang in her chest. I suppose I deserved that. “Same reason someone might wanna be an Overlord,” she mumbled, mentally kicking herself as she continued on to the next storefront.

“You’d want lingerie for power? Control? Out of boredom?”

Actually … that’s frighteningly accurate. “I’d say you’d be surprised, but … clearly you are.” She gave a stiff little laugh despite herself.

A group of young male sinners emerged from the Victoria’s Secret. No bags in hand. Grace assumed negative intent that they’d gone in there and painted the dressing room stalls with their man chowder; Charlie would be disappointed in her. And probably also supremely grossed out by Grace’s assumptions.

Why else would they have been in that store if not to ogle whatever young female sinners were presently in there sorting through panties and bras for their next new set?

Their gazes met Grace’s. Then Alastor’s.

Recognition lit up their eyes immediately. I get recognizing the Radio Demon. Smart to know which Overlords are the most dangerous. But why would they recognize me? I’m a nobody. Wait. Oh. Ohhhh noooooo. Oh, god, please, no—

“Hey,” one announced. “You’re the two demons from that Artificial Sintelligence movie Valentino teased!”

Ahhhhh shit.

“Are you the same couple from the radio porn he did?” one of the others followed before either Alastor or Grace could respond to the first sinner’s remark.

“They’re supposed to be the same couple!” said a third, elbowing his buddy with an exaggerated eye-roll. “You’re such a fucking dumbass!”

“We’re not a couple!” Grace blurted. And then she took a big step away from Alastor, who just stared at her with the most quizzical, crimp-browed, blushing smile on his face. She was aflame now from horns to hooves. 

“Hot damn! She’s totally the ditz from the radio porn! I’d recognize that voice, anywhere!”

“We’re—not—we’re not them!” Grace cried, trying to raise her voice an octave to hide any similarities. “That was proven to be a fake, anyway!”

They all burst out laughing.

The last one to speak replied, “Fake? Like the billboard that showed Vox humping a pillow that had artwork of him—” he nodded toward Alastor “—on it?”

Alastor’s antlers appeared in an instant. There was his threshold for this teasing and taunting. Grace was surprised he wasn’t more short-fused over such things.

Before he could do any damage to these idiots—even if they deserved it—Grace interjected, “I feel sorry for you if you’re stupid enough to believe anything Valentino does is real. What a bunch of shitheads!”

Without giving them any opportunity to respond, she did an about-face and rushed further down the strip mall façade. That wouldn’t be her problem should they fall prey to the Radio Demon’s temper.

If the gnashing of teeth and crackling of bone and shredding of skin and abject keening coming from yards behind her was any indication, it turned out to be more of a them problem in the end.

Not that it justified Alastor’s brutality, but Grace elected to believe he was defending her honor.

Eerie, heavy silence followed and Alastor soon fell in stride beside her again; it was obnoxious how he could do that with such little effort. Height and long legs would do that.

She spared a glance at him as she speed-walked.

With that glance, he made a noise that Grace couldn’t identify. His expression gave her nil to work with. As usual.

The sky then opened up on them; Grace cursed having no umbrella. Not that it was so bad to be rained upon—and thankfully this wasn’t rain of the acid variety—but she’d never especially liked the feeling of her hair plastered against her clothing. She grumbled under her breath, bringing her hair over her right shoulder and twisting it up tightly even though she knew it would come undone and be damp and annoying and stuck to her chest in moments.

Alastor didn’t break stride as he shrugged out of his coat and slung it over her shoulders. 

Words of gratitude dried in her throat when she glanced up at him to catch a sweet smile on his lips as his gaze raked her body. 

“Red is becoming on you, darling.”

And that was all he said.

Grace blushed, pulling the jacket as closed as she could over her chest—which wasn’t very closed at all considering it was tailored for a slim man and meant to remain open.

Several storefronts past, Grace slowed again when motion caught her eye. In the window of the Hobby Lobby was a crazy-elaborate model train display. HO size, if she wasn’t mistaken.

“Hunter would love this,” Grace breathed in awe as she watched the train scoot along on its track through beautifully and lovingly erected scenery. Despite herself, tears welled in her eyes and she sniffled.

“Who?” Alastor asked, a little too quickly, a little too harshly. 

Grace swiped the tears from her lower lashes, casting a glance at him in time to catch his eyes darkening along with his cheeks.

Her phlegm thickened. “It’s—he’s—nobody you need to concern yourself with,” she choked out, regretting ever invoking that name here.

“Who is that, Grace?” he pressed.

“Hunter …” She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “He …” Oh, what’s Al gonna do about this, anyway? Nothing. He can’t do a damn thing, not even if he wanted to, and why would he want to? Grace murmured, “Hunter was my son.”

He sneered. “Oh. Well. If that isn’t a peach of a name.”

And that was not the reaction to this revelation that she expected from someone like Alastor. “Excuse me?” she shot back.

“Nothing,” he replied sharply.

“Knew all there was to know about me, huh? Didn’t have that on your Grace bingo card, didja?” She forced a laugh, which came out wryly at best, turning away to focus on the train display. How could she describe a child like Hunter to a man who lived in the dark ages before developmental disorders had proper names?

Well, this one had had a name back then, but one more accurately suited for the likes of Alastor, who got his jollies from torturing defenseless little animals. That name most certainly didn’t apply to Hunter, who was as much a lover of animals as his mother was—if not more so.

And furthermore, why should she describe Hunter to a sadistic fucker like Alastor, who’d probably be inclined to mock and ridicule people like her son?

Grace licked her suddenly parched lips, keenly aware that the rain was seeping through Alastor’s coat and reaching her skin. Aforementioned sadistic fucker’s silent, anticipatory stare was killing her.

“Hunter was … a little boy who struggled to make friends, couldn’t ever sit still, wanted to talk about nothing but trains, and didn’t say his first word until after his fourth birthday, long after we’d given up hope that he would ever speak. We tried sign language but he never really took to it. Travis often said Hunter’s quirks made it difficult for them to bond … and yet Hunter’s first word was ‘Dada.’ Travis was watching a poker tournament on the TV and didn’t even look up when Hunter said it.” The anger flashed through Grace just as it had in the moment and she growled, “I could’ve strangled the bastard.” Knowing what he would do to her six years later, she added, “Should’ve strangled the bastard.”

She took a few moments to compose herself before she continued, “Hunter was only ten when I was murdered. Probably my only real regret is missing watching that remarkable, amazing boy grow up. All he wanted was to become a train conductor.” Grace pressed her palm to the Hobby Lobby display window, tears sliding down her cheeks alongside raindrops.

Alastor said nothing.

“Hunter was asleep in the room beside ours … where I was screwing another man in our marriage bed while I thought my husband was busy at work.” She spared a glance at the Radio Demon. “Travis decided to come home for lunch that day.”

Visible confusion transformed before her eyes into visible disgust.

Grace postulated that this admission was her version of when he’d confessed to her that a childhood hobby was putting live frogs through a meat grinder. She preferred to believe his sins were worse.

The silence was deafening. Uncomfortable. Made Grace want to die, anew. So she rambled, “Hunter should be 23, now. I like to think he became a railroad engineer.” After a hesitation, during which Alastor remained silent, she said quietly, “And Haven should be 32.”

“Haven?” Alastor echoed weakly.

“My daughter … who thankfully made better decisions as a young teenager than I did. I always assumed she ended up raising her little brother after I died. She already had her own apartment by then. The only reason she didn’t go no-contact with Travis and me was because of Hunter. She’d move mountains for him, follow him without hesitation to Hell and back. She loved that little boy just as much as I did.” Grace dared to glance at Alastor through her tears. “She was in the delivery room with me when Hunter was born. Followed him to the scale when the nurse weighed him, sobbed and declared he was the best thing she ever saw.”

Still, Alastor stared at her wordlessly.

His unreadable expression left Grace guessing what he was thinking and so she made an assumption, first taking a steadying breath and then offering the following explanation for questions he wasn’t asking: “You can’t genuinely think I fucked every man under the sun on the west coast and half the men under the sun in the midwest and not have gotten knocked up at least a few times before my death at 33.” She muttered under her breath to herself, “Thank god for Plan B,” before addressing Alastor: “Yes, I was fourteen when I had Haven. I knew jack shit about contraception. And even if I knew or cared, there’s no way I’d ever have gone and bought it, even if I’d had the funds to afford any—which I didn’t—or was brave enough to take a box of condoms off a shelf and present it to a cashier at the Thrifty’s drugstore down the street from my parents’ house.”

The boys wouldn’t have put on said theoretical condoms, and she wouldn’t have passed on the sex when they didn’t.

Alastor continued his wordless stare.

Not that this was news to Grace; she’d declared it before and would declare it again: “Man, I fucked up in life. No wonder I’m here.”

Alastor said nothing after he parroted Grace’s daughter’s name at her. He stayed beside her as she selected her groceries. Even paid for them in smiling silence. Snapped them both back to the hotel after checking out, whether or not she was ready to return.

He left her sopping and speechless at the front door before taking the stairs a few at a time until he vanished into the upper stories of the hotel. 

Grace watched numbly, plastic grocery bags weighing down both arms and his jacket still draped over her shoulders.

Charlie was there in the foyer, god only knew why. She approached quickly, ducking into Grace’s field of vision. “You okay?”

Grace stared silently after Alastor.

When Grace failed to answer, Charlie followed, “What’s the matter?”

“I … don’t know,” Grace replied quietly, still not looking at Charlie. “I think … I might have freaked Alastor out.”

“Oh, I sincerely doubt there’s anything that can freak him out. But … did you ask him what’s going on?”

Grace finally glanced at Charlie with impressive deadpan. “Yeah cuz he’s always super open and honest about his thoughts and feelings. I’m sure if I asked, he’d be totally forthcoming with an answer.”

“Couldn’t hurt to try,” said Charlie with a small shrug, as if she missed Grace’s sarcasm. “You can get through to anyone if you’re tenacious enough.”

Grace sighed heavily, glancing down at the bags in her grip. Everything needed to be refrigerated so she supposed she should be grateful Alastor brought them straight back to the hotel by magic rather than allowing her to walk through the streets of Pentagram City. The groceries didn’t have a chance to warm yet. “I’d better put this stuff away.”

So Grace went to the kitchen, leaving behind a trail of rain-soaked footprints she vowed to later apologize to Niffty for having to clean. She set the bags on the countertop beside the hotel’s refrigerator and popped open the fridge door, letting the cold air chill her hot, wet cheeks for a few moments.

Alastor, having dried off, constituted himself unceremoniously beside her. Why he returned to her, she’d never know. 

“Care for a hand?” he asked, lifting his jacket off her shoulders and folding it neatly before setting it on the countertop beside Grace’s bags of groceries.

She stifled a snort. Yeah, that’s why you’re here. To help that hoebag you inadvertently fell into cahoots with, that undoubtedly you regret getting in any way involved with? So is your perceived immortality still worth this, Radio Demon?

Oh, damn. Went and hurt my own feelings again. 

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. I’ve really gotta stop doing that. I’ve cried enough today.

“I’m good, thanks,” she replied stiffly.

“You’re not good, Grace,” Alastor responded. “That’s why you’re here. Just like me.”

She took a steadying breath, setting her jaw and refusing to look his way. It seemed he was teasing but struck an odd nerve instead and she really didn’t want to reveal that to him. “I can do this, myself.” She augmented through clenched teeth, “Thank you,” while reaching for the nearest bag.

He gently swatted her hand away and she looked at him with her mouth falling open silently.

He smiled just as he always did, maintained her gaze for a few moments. His cheeks went pink and with a startlingly loud, deep breath, he turned his attention to the groceries, fishing out the cardboard containers of dairy-free alternatives.

Alastor read off the primary contents of each as he handed them to her: “Milked almonds. Milked walnuts. Milked hazelnuts. Milked cashews.” His voice grew more baffled with each container. “What do you do with these?”

She glanced at him; he immediately found something else on which to focus. 

“They’re for drinking,” she explained. “Or for using as substitutes for cow’s milk.”

“How, exactly, do you milk nuts?”

Grace could swear she felt her horns growing as she gave him a wicked little grin. She purred, “Let me show you.”

Alastor blinked. “But nuts don't have udders.”

“Nor do you, but I could still demonstrate on you.”

And then she saw it in his eyes; the fabled ‘ace panic’ she’d heard about from time to time. That’s what that was. Grace closed the refrigerator door, leaning forward and pressing her forehead against it with a soft thump. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it.”

Guess what, deer friends? We're due for another midweek update! See you back here on Wednesday!