Prepping for a trip. I will be in a different time zone, so next Sunday's update may be an hour earlier than usual. :)
Anyone else out there going to Twin Cities Con? I'd love to say hi! :D
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"Chapter" 14 for anyone who wants to be pissed off again about its length LOL
Daylight cut across the carpet, warming Grace’s cheek. She roused slowly, still curled up on the couch in the common area of the hotel, her little red plushie cat in her arms and a cover draped over her.
I don’t recall taking this with me, she thought of the plushie. And I know I didn’t take a cover; just my pillow.
There was no accounting for how the plushie had wound up in her arms, but Grace assumed Charlie had brought a cover when she found her there earlier that morning in those moments of fleeting consciousness.
Realizing the other residents were up and about their business—and almost certainly would be interested in her business—Grace sat up, pulling the blanket tightly around her shoulders. She was in her pajamas out in public. What had she been thinking last night to make the choices she had?
Oh, right: the assumption she’d sneak back up into her room before everyone else woke.
Aforementioned ‘everyone else’ was gathered around the dining room table for what looked to be brunch.
Even Alastor was included in ‘everyone else.’
There he was sipping his coffee, looking his usual, unbothered self. Looking totally normal about what he’d done to her last night in what was getting harder to deny was just a dream. A cruel, torturous dream.
Actually, the dream was amazing. It was the waking-from-it-and-discovering-it-wasn’t-reality that was the cruel, torturous thing.
Charlie noticed Grace had sat up. “Hey, you’re awake!”
Grace shrunk back in her spot, heat rising to her cheeks.
“You’re welcome to join us,” Vaggie said, waving her over.
Grace moved to stand, but found herself immediately back on the couch, her left leg too weak to bear her weight. She barely kept from yelping in dismay.
They were all staring.
Niffty peered at her with genuine concern in her eye. “Are you okay?”
No! “Of course I am.” Grace followed that as lightheartedly as possible: “Why do you ask?”
Niffty failed to answer but continued to watch as if something was terribly wrong.
Weird … like … more weird than what’s normal for Niff.
Grace tried to laugh it off. “I’m just a little dizzy. Must’ve slept wrong last night.”
With how weak her leg had been just in attempting to stand, she knew there was no way she’d make it upstairs without assistance. And getting to her room was the thing she wanted most at the moment. She glanced between all the staring eyes at the dining room table, weighing her options.
“Just Husk?” She had no idea why she chose him but he seemed the safest of the group to help her up without prying or making wild accusations.
He raised his ample bushy red eyebrows at her in question. “So it’s ‘Just Husk’ again?” he teased.
She bristled at the ribbing but beckoned him over.
Grace kept Alastor in her periphery as Husk approached. She gestured for him to lean in. “I think,” she whispered as quietly as she could, “I need help getting to my room.”
He said nothing, assisting her to her feet and up the stairs. If not for him, she’d have collapsed in a sad little heap on the floor.
Once they were on the second story, Husk asked quietly, “Are you okay? I know Niff asked but … this seems more than ‘just a little dizzy.’”
“I’m fine,” Grace assured him. “I promise. Just … yeah. Just needed an extra pair of legs.”
He grunted a disbelieving little noise but didn’t press.
Once they reached her bedroom door, Grace leaned against the wall as casually as she could and not at all like she needed it for the support. “Okay, all good! Thanks for your help.”
Husk stood there, waiting for her to go inside. She was afraid of what she might see within her room, more afraid of what Husk might see in there. She shooed him away.
He crossed his arms. “I’m here to see you safely to your room.”
“Did—did I just hear Niffty messing with the bottles behind your bar?” Grace blurted, expecting he’d see right through her ploy.
To her surprise, he replied, “Excuse me, would you?” and tore down the hallway.
Grace exhaled, slipping into her room.
She supported herself against the closed door for a few moments before having the presence of mind to lock it. Then she looked at her bed.
It looked unslept-in. Grace’s mouth fell open.
It was a dream. Of course it was a dream.
I knew it.
And yet even knowing that, she was still somehow disappointed to see her bed that way, stunned to see it that way.
The ear massage, she was certain that had been real.
She’d been curled up in bed, had put Alastor in it after he’d passed out.
Was it possible he’d made it after waking? She still didn’t know him well enough to gauge how in-his-character that would be.
Grace struggled to get from the bedroom door to her shower, cruising along the furniture and walls like a baby still learning to walk independently. Her left leg, whatever was wrong with it, would not support her weight at all.
She sat heavily on the lid of her toilet, stripping out of her pajamas. Not so much as a hint of injury. No contusions, no scars, no swelling. Nothing abnormally hot or cold. Thinking back to no-fucking-duh-that-was-a-dream, she groped over her torso. Nothing was tender, merely supporting the definitely-a-dream theory.
I know I heal but there’s no way I could have done that so quickly and without even thinking about it.
I guess that really was nothing then. She sighed. I must’ve just slept on it really wrong. I was on a couch last night.
Grace limped into the shower and washed up while sitting on the tiled floor, afterward wrapping herself in a towel and making her way to the bed.
She plopped onto the mattress, assessing her leg. Muscles inarguably weak. Limping and difficulty moving it.
Somehow, she’d sustained a groin injury.
Her training may have been old, but at least she could recall best treatment options for stuff like this in the event this injury was the first she couldn’t heal without outside intervention. The less she needed to outsource to others, the better; there would be no explaining this away if she couldn’t even explain it to herself.
Grace settled into bed, where she knew she would have to stay for the long-haul. Did the Hazbin Hotel offer room service? She had yet to avail herself of such amenities but bet if she texted Charlie, Hell’s princess would jump at the opportunity.
She would need someone to fetch her an ice pack.
Grace removed one of the pillowcases and set it aside before hoisting her leg up with a pained grunt atop a stack of her pillows. The pillowcase, she used to tie tightly around the top of her thigh for compression.
And now? Boredom and loneliness.
Welcome to Hell, party of me.
She tipped her head back with a loud sigh, her horns getting snagged in the fabric of her headboard. Grace’s eyes popped open and she flipped around, her heart pounding as she searched frantically for other holes she hoped beyond all desperation would be there.
There were only the two she’d just made.
Dammit!
Well, there would be no more argument about ‘was it a dream?’ Grace had no evidence to support believing last night had really happened.
Could the ear massage, then, have also been a dream?
She clenched her eyes shut. This unrequited crush was going to drive her deeper into madness and depression. I should tell Alastor what he’s doing to me. I bet it’d make him happy to know how much he’s torturing me without even trying.
As if her thoughts had summoned him, Alastor constituted himself inside her room, just in front of her locked door.
And there was Grace, reclining on her bed in nothing but a white towel knotted in her cleavage, with her left leg elevated in a blatant ‘I’m injured and vulnerable’ display. Her eyes narrowed on him. “Y’know, if you continue to insist on barging into my room unannounced, one of these days you’re gonna see more of me than you intend to!”
Alastor’s expression remained unchanged.
How she continued to be surprised by that, she would never know—same as how she injured herself.
To break the ensuing silence, Grace finally asked what she couldn’t bring herself to during last night’s dream: “Did I help?”
He lifted an eyebrow in question.
Grace’s gaze dropped purposely to his chest.
He didn’t answer, instead rounding her bed and taking hold of her face, pinching her cheeks gently between his thumb and index finger. “Are you injured?”
She refused to look him in the eye, setting her jaw while considering all the ways she could respond. Alastor wouldn’t be asking a question like that if he didn’t already know the answer. As if she wasn’t resting there with a flagrant ‘I’m hurt!’ sign all over her. This was a test to catch her in another lie.
She clenched her teeth and bit out, “Yes.”
Alastor released her, stepping away.
“Alastor,” she snapped. Fueled by both anger and pain, she demanded, “Did I help you?”
“Ask nicely.”
Grace was starting to feel funny, in a familiar way she really disliked. “Did. I. Fucking. Help. You!”
He turned away, his arms tucked behind his back. “Yes.”
Some fucking gratitude! “You’re welcome, by-the-way.”
“There’s no need for that unbecoming sarcasm. As I recall, you helped me for your own pleasure.”
I healed him for my own pleasure and not to make him feel better? Grace’s heart dropped. Is that what he truly thinks? She grumbled, “Do us both a favor, then, and leave me the hell alone.”
Without looking back at her, Alastor vanished into a black cloud of writhing tentacles that dissolved into the floor.
As Grace suspected, Charlie was more than happy to be at her beck and call.
As Grace didn’t suspect, whatever injury she’d sustained was being stubborn about healing; she’d hoped she would be up and out of bed by the next day. Her leg, however had a different agenda.
By day three, she had finally regained some strength in the leg but thought it best to remain off it for a little bit longer.
She’d exhausted the few shows of interest on her bedroom television. She’d read through the book Charlie brought her—Dante’s Divine Comedy, ironically enough—even though she’d read it before. Re-reading the thing and comparing Dante’s vision with reality proved good for whiling away an afternoon.
She played more Minesweeper on her phone and, once more, questioned her sanity for doing so.
Kofax texted. Cherri texted.
Fucking Valentino texted, but he’d been doing so pretty much daily, anyway.
When nighttime fell and loneliness courted her, Grace hefted herself out of bed and limped over to her window to watch the world outside for a bit. She sat on the plush settee, resting her elbow on the windowsill as she heaved a deep sigh.
With a buzz, the radio at Grace’s bedside switched itself on. She rolled her eyes and thought to tell Alastor to bug off but there was no telling if he was within earshot.
Quiet, soothing jazz began to play.
Despite herself, Grace smiled.
There was something obnoxiously sweet about this gesture … in an obnoxious, intrusive sort of way.
After a few songs, there was a knock at the door.
Charlie, Grace guessed, bringing her an unrequested though welcome nightcap.
“Come in,” Grace responded. “Door’s unlocked.”
She gasped when Alastor let himself into her room. Through the door. The normal way. “You knocked!”
He closed the door behind himself with a simple explanation: “It upsets you when I don’t.”
Grace blinked, at a complete loss for words.
“You’re out of bed.”
“Yeah. I don’t know if it’s possible to develop bedsores in Hell but I didn’t want to take my chances.”
Alastor laughed, prompting Grace’s heart to do a few cartwheels in her chest.
He helped himself to her bed, which seemed an oddly brazen move even for him, and he settled a book with a battered hard cover on his lap.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No!” Grace replied a little too quickly. First, she was terribly lonely. Secondly, she was terribly smitten with him and the last couple days after she’d sent him away had truly sucked. “I just … don’t understand why you’re visiting.” And reclining. On my bed. Like you’re comfortable there. Like you belong there. She struggled to swallow around the lump lodged in her throat.
“Do you think I’m incapable of enjoying the company of others?” Alastor said, crossing his legs at the ankles.
“I suppose not,” she said slowly. “You stick around the hotel a bit much for someone who’d prefer to be left alone.”
“Then why are you so surprised I’m here?”
“I just … didn’t think you enjoyed my company enough to warrant seeking me out when I wasn’t already available.”
He smiled placidly, otherwise not responding.
O … kay … Flush with embarrassment and frustration, she turned her attention to the book on his lap. “What’s that?” She nodded toward it.
“It’s my favorite anthology.”
That would explain the well-worn cover.
In her silence, he added, “I figured you might be bored while convalescing. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s entertaining.”
If she lasted a thousand years in Hell and spent every conscious moment in his presence, Grace feared she still wouldn’t be able to figure this Overlord out. What’s your game, Radio Demon?
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Oh. Shit. She’d narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s bright in here.”
“Lies.” The dour tone of his voice sent a little thrill down her spine. “Apologize. And come here.”
What the fuck is this?! Nonetheless, she mumbled, “I’m sorry,” and limped back over to her bed before reluctantly sitting down on it, hefting her leg back up onto the pillows, and in so doing, falling against him. “Sorry—” she pushed off and repositioned herself, keeping her hand on his leg for longer than she needed.
He didn’t pull away, nor did he pluck her hand off himself. She met his gaze and caught a softening in his expression. Grace was tempted to just leave her hand there, to see how long she could get away with touching him. That seemed somehow cruel. She straightened, clasping her hands together tightly over her lap. “So … What’s in the anthology?”
“Victorian-era poetry. Writing from a time when such things were deep and mellifluous rather than just … word vomit.”
“Oh,” Grace exhaled. Well, this would help her situation none.
“What?” Alastor asked.
“I took a semester of Romantic and Victorian Poetry in college.” She turned away to hide her blush. To think she actually had some common ground with this demon! “It was one of my favorite courses.”
“So then I imagine you’ll enjoy these.”
With a laugh, Grace echoed, “Enjoy them? Ha! I bet I could identify them and even still recite some!”
“Prove it,” said Alastor. “I’ll read them, and you tell me the name of the poem and who wrote it.”
She glanced at him, wide-eyed. Are we … playing?
“Now, no cheating.”
Grace feigned offense. “The very idea!”
“Put your back to me.”
If Grace’s eyes could go any wider, they might have fallen right out of her head. But she obliged because in her mind, any excuse to touch him was a good one. She repositioned her stack of pillows, her leg now dangling off the side of the bed.
He read:
“I was milking in the meadow when I heard the Banshee Keening—”
“Little birds were in the nest, lambs were on the lea,” Grace continued the poem by way of interruption. “Alice Furlong, ‘The Warnings.’ Next!” Alastor shifted against her back and she glanced over her shoulder to meet his gaze. “What?”
He said nothing in response but returned his attention to the book, flipping pages rather aggressively for a tome of which he claimed fondness. “Very well.” He read from another:
“The night is darkening round me—”
“Emily Brontë, ‘The night is darkening round me.’” Grace then recited the next few lines.
Judging by more furious page-flipping, she recalled the poem correctly.
After a few moments, Alastor began another poem:
“Wilt thou go with me sweet maid
Say maiden wilt thou go with me
Through the valley-depths of shade,
Of night and dark obscurity,
Where the path has lost its way
Where the sun forgets the day
Where there’s nor life nor light to see
Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me?”
He had an unfair advantage on this one—Grace was too distracted by those words on his voice to be able to be able to place it. Instead, all she could focus on was what felt suspiciously like a not-particularly-subliminal invitation. Wilt thou go with me sweet maid?
“Grace?”
There hadn’t been much gap between the last question and her name. Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me, Grace?
Her heart thumped painfully in her chest.
If she had read that poem, she didn’t remember it. “I don’t recognize that one,” she confessed.
“Ha ha!” He twisted again in his spot, flashing her a devious grin. “I caught you!”
You have no idea, Baby Horns. None, whatsoever. “Yeah. I guess so,” Grace replied weakly. “So what was it?”
“How much would it haunt you if I didn’t tell you?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I wouldn’t say haunt as much as it would annoy me.”
He chuckled, again, that delectable chuckle that was far deeper than she would have expected from a tenor. She curled her hands into fists, suppressing a shiver of sheer delight.
“So what was it?” Grace said through clenched teeth.
Rather than giving her the name of the poem or its author, Alastor picked another and read:
“They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.”
Grace recognized this one, albeit vaguely. “… Dowson?” She snapped her fingers, trying to recall more about it. “The title was something … wasn’t it Latin?”
“‘Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam.’ But yes, Ernest Dowson. Okay, how about this one:
“How do I love thee?”
“Elizabeth Barrett Browning! Are you even trying to challenge me?” Grace teased him before reciting:
“Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.”
Grace paused, realizing she wasn’t so much reciting the poem as she was confessing her feelings for Alastor, the words slowing from her lips and growing more impassioned with each.
“I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose—”
She exhaled the final line on a whisper,
“I shall but love thee better after death.”
In the heavy silence following the last line of that poem, Grace realized the radio was still playing, albeit softly.
It was an old recording being sung by an operatic singer with a thick accent. Between the quality of the recording and the singer’s accent, Grace could understand only bits and pieces of the lyrics
unintelligible, music music, unintelligible
“Dark was my heart and sad—”
music music music, unintelligible words
“—a thousand fadeless flowers
bloom in my garden,
down each pathway shine.”
music music music, more unintelligible words
“—God keep my garden fair,”
unintelligible, music, music, unintelligible
“—my heart was like a garden,
Where bloomed no rose, no lilly pure divine.”
What—
the—
She genuinely couldn’t tell if her pulse was racing so fast she couldn’t feel it anymore or if her heart had stopped.
What just happened here?
Grace couldn’t bring herself to looking over her shoulder at the Radio Demon.
What difference would it make? His expression wouldn’t reveal anything, anyway.
Something told her he was, in his way, professing whatever feelings he was having at the moment. Not love, per se, nor friendship. Just something … vaguely … favorable?
As if she’d somehow brought to mind fond memories of better times.
When was the last time someone actually loved you, Alastor?
After a painful swallow, Grace broke the silence. “Would you please read me your favorite poem out of that book?”
He sighed quietly, flipped some pages, and recited more.
Word after word soothed, drawing Grace deeper down into herself—and those feelings for Alastor that were best left unexplored—until she drifted off to sleep.
Stay sane, deer friends!
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