Well ...

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Chapter 19: A Very Happy Ew Year

In the following days, Alastor proceeded to make himself scarce while the sun was up. And when he returned to the hotel each evening, he exchanged pleasantries with everyone. He teased and joked and flirted—in his special, charmingly awkward way—with Grace as if it wasn't weird that he all but vanished each day.

He revealed nothing more like what he’d said about his father on New Year’s Eve. It was as if he'd welcomed her in, panicked, and pushed her away while needing her more and more.

Although he snuggled with her in bed, held her hand when nobody else was watching, kissed her cheeks and the top of her head when they were alone, he didn’t initiate anything even remotely sexual. For all intents and purposes, whatever DNA it was that Angel Dust thought Grace had rearranged in Alastor, it seemed to have reverted to its sex-apathetic, pre-Grace state.

Grace could not say she felt similarly.

Alastor’s encouragement for her to pursue him echoed in Grace’s mind as clearly as if he whispered it to her now: You can initiate these encounters, you know.

Presently, relaxing jazz played softly from an old radio on the mantle above his bedroom fireplace while he sat in one of the armchairs, sipping at what smelled suspiciously alcoholic from the glass in his hands. His eyes were closed as he swayed slightly with the music, a zen smile on his face.

Grace stared at him in silence. While his eyes were closed, she could admire him to her heart’s content without question, without challenge, without awkwardness.

She still blushed because her thoughts rapidly spiraled into filth. Where she wanted to put her lips and tongue. Where she wished he’d have his.

There’s always masturbation. I could probably do it in his line of sight and he wouldn’t know what was happening.

Okay, he’s asexual, she chastised herself, not puerile.

He took another sip from the glass in hand, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a swallow.

She kind of wanted to suck on it a little bit.

Alastor opened his eyes, his gaze training immediately on Grace. His head tilted ever so slightly, the blissful smile on his lips extending now to the crinkles in the outer corners of his eyes.

Grace’s heart splintered at how his expression transformed when he looked at her.

If there was ever a non-verbal invitation for sex, that was it.

She licked her dry lips, sucking the bottom one behind her top teeth before sauntering toward where Alastor sat.

His smile brightened and he scooted as far to one side of his chair as he could to afford her room to join him. 

This is it. Moment of truth!

Although she was filled with confidence that now was the moment, the first time since death that she could safely pursue another soul, Grace was still petrified. She squeezed into the spot partly beside him and partly on his lap. He promised I could do this.

Putting on her most sultry gaze—not that such things mattered to him in the least—she caressed his face with her right hand then traced down the front center of his neck over his Adam’s apple, down the middle of his shirt. She pressed her hand to his chest. “I want you to fuck me, Alastor,” Grace breathed. “Fuck me so hard you rattle my teeth loose. Please, my Demon Overlord, concuss me!”

Alastor held her focus, gently wrapping his hand around her right wrist. He leaned toward her with a heavy-lidded gaze.

She braced herself for the kiss to end all kisses. The kiss that would set her whole body aflame with unquenchable desire.

But he stopped, his breath tickling her lips as the most twisted, sinister smile she’d ever seen overtook his expression. Looking at her with pure malice in his twinkling eyes, Alastor replied to Grace’s request: “No.”

She recoiled, but not because she wanted to; it was a pure visceral and autonomous motion. In that moment, there was the sensation of having an enormous, cosmic rubber band snapped against her chest hard enough to steal away her very breath. For a second, Grace thought Alastor had punched her, full force, in her chest.

The pain was so much worse than having been stabbed through the heart.

And then a searing stream of liquid began trickling from between her cleavage, tracking along the lower crease of her left breast.

There was no thought, only the desperate need for self-preservation. She shoved away from Alastor and scrambled to her feet, sprinting for his bedroom door.

He might have called after her; she didn’t break stride.

She didn’t stop when she fled past Husk’s bar nor when Vaggie saw her, crying out to her in worry. She plowed right on by Angel Dust, and then Kofax and Cherri without sparing an acknowledgment to any of them.

Instinct took her to the room she first slept in upon her arrival to the Hazbin Hotel. The door still opened for her, locked for her, was a silent refuge for her to start analyzing what just happened.

Grace collapsed on her old bed, pulling her hand away from her chest to reveal her palm covered in blood. So much blood.

This had to be more blood than when Travis had stabbed and killed her.

Growing uncharacteristically lightheaded at the sight of it, Grace pressed her palm to it once more and lay down on her side, drawing her knees toward her chest.

Wubby materialized, as if she knew where she was most needed, and curled up against Grace's arm, purring hard enough to vibrate the bed.

Like the little white Hellborn feline was trying to cure Grace with love and frequency.

But love.

Love got the dik dik demon where she was now.

Grace let the reopened wound between her breasts ooze freely, blood seeping from between her splayed fingers and pooling on the bedsheets beneath her. Staining them, ruining them. Tinging her cat's fur pink.

Although she knew she couldn't bleed out, she could feel as though she was, and she believed wholeheartedly that she deserved to feel that way again for being such a damn fool.

I should have known. I should’ve known that all these things Alastor’s done, these overtures were nothing more than to gain my trust, to get me to drop my guard around him just so he could turn around and rip my heart clean from my chest. 

Had he done that literally, Grace was certain, it would’ve hurt less than rejecting her.

Perhaps he’d meant to do the next nearest thing, anyway; force her to relive the very act that ended her life.

Previously, she’d thought being sent to spy on Vox was Alastor’s ‘long con.’

Then she believed he was after her soul for the sake of making himself effectively immortal.

But now the ‘long con’ was clear. It was the longest con of all: breaking her heart. 

Early into her infatuation with Alastor—back when she denied her feelings for him still and was telling others she wanted every little bit of information about him to protect herself from him—Grace had researched his name. She’d known no one before him with it and thought it unique. 

In her reading, she came upon references of a poem by Percy Shelley where Alastor was a tormenting spirit, and some crackpot Frenchman Charles Berbiguier mentioned in his autobiography a demon named Alastor who was an infernal judge and executioner.

Not that name meanings meant anything, of course, but she’d discovered the name symbolized vengeance.

He was meant to be judge, jury, and executioner. It would be natural his sole purpose down here would be to torment Grace, to inflict upon her righteous punishment befitting her sins.

While Grace hadn't done so, it seemed commonplace for demons to adopt new names upon manifestation in Hell; Angel Dust had. Kofax had. So, too, had Travis.

Alastor, as always, was a mystery but Grace guessed he selected his knowing its meaning and history. Knowing how apt it was for his dark, dreadful soul.

And so Grace let that reopened wound bleed freely, considering it retribution for what she’d done in life, and now for having allowed herself to trust Alastor, for having fallen in love with someone so cruel.

I deserve every bit of this.

Her wound wept, and so too, did she.

Grace blinked herself awake. The first tendrils of consciousness were confusion. Not realizing where she was, nor why she was there. Then piece by piece, she put together the puzzle of her nightmarish memories from the last 24 hours.

She slowly sat upright on her old hotel bed, displacing Wubby as she leaned on her right hand. Her chest had stopped bleeding sometime overnight—whether or not she’d wanted it to—but not before soaking into the sheets and mattress beneath her, and adding a hefty helping of red to Wubby's otherwise pristine white coat. Niffty would have her work cut out for her in cleaning up this crime scene. Wubby had a Hell of a grooming job ahead of herself, as well; Grace was smart enough to know better than to try to bathe her.

The blouse Grace had slept in was unsalvageable. No amount of cold water or hydrogen peroxide could save it. She glanced around the room with a deep breath.

No Alastor.

Well I suppose I should be grateful for that.

She didn’t know how she’d ever be able to face him again. 

Once upon a time, terror had turned to lust had turned to love. 

And in a single word all of two letters long, love became abhorrence.

If history taught her anything, it would be a matter of minutes before abhorrence dissolved into fury, then anger, then longing for him all over again.

Grace undressed, first peeling off the blouse with the dried blood that had crusted against her skin.

I despise the very thought of him.

That bra, too, was a total loss. She removed it and dropped it in the waste basket near the bathroom.

Blood had seeped and run enough to stain the waistband of her skirt. That garment followed the bra and blouse into the trash.

Still despising the very thought of him.

Her underwear had somehow managed to remain unscathed. That, she dropped in the hamper. Grace went into the bathroom and opened the shower faucet, cranking the handle as far into ‘hot’ as she could get it.

Scalding would still be too cold for her.

Once the mirror was overtaken with steam from the shower, she stepped inside and scrubbed herself down as if sloughing her skin off would remove the memory of each cell the Radio Demon had put his lips on, every place against which he’d had his fingertips.

Of course, it accomplished no such feat.

Still despising him.

Properly cleaned and her skin now a brilliant magenta from both the heat of the water and force of her scrubbing, Grace closed the faucet and stepped out, wrapping one towel around her body and cinching it in her cleavage, then winding her hair up into another like a turban.

He is despisable.

Grace pulled a pristine, white thong from her lingerie drawer and paired it with a white, unlined, strapless bra. She dried off, then perused her old closet for a fresh outfit, eventually selecting a floral-patterned, canary yellow sundress.

He’s still despised by me.

She dressed, then pulled her hair from the towel and wound it into a still-damp bun at the nape of her neck. She looked like the whisper of spring following a long, bleak winter.

So very, irreversibly despised by me.

And yet her mood was a lightless void. Maybe with her choice in clothing, nobody would notice she was a miserable blend of infuriated and heartbroken.

Taking a steadying breath, Grace went downstairs.

Almost everyone was around the dining room table already—including the King of Hell, himself. She joined them in time for Lucifer's announcement: “Who wants pancakes?”

Pancakes sounded dreadful. Coming from Lucifer? Doubly dreadful. Coming from Lucifer right just now? Triply dreadful. Interminably dreadful.

Grace considered any number of food items she could request from Lucifer or his daughter, both of who could simply conjure anything they wished. Nothing she could possibly request sounded appetizing. She thought she might never want to eat anything ever again.

She squeezed by Lucifer and took one of the remaining vacant seats at the table.

Vaggie, Kofax, Charlie, Niffty, Cherri, and Angel Dust abruptly fell silent, gaping at Grace.

Husk glanced at at their stunned faces and then at Lucifer; they exchanged shrugs. In the deafening silence, Husk answered on everyone’s behalf: “Flapjacks would be great; thank you.”

Lucifer whipped up an impressive serving platter of pancakes onto the middle of the dining room table. Husk and Lucifer helped themselves to first servings.

The women—and Angel Dust—continued to stare wordlessly at Grace.

“What?” she finally snapped, her glare darting between them. Before anyone could explain themselves, she gestured toward the stacks of pancakes. “We gonna eat here, or what?” Well, I won’t, but don’t let me stop you all from enjoying your afterlives.

Angel Dust held up one of his many hands, clearly struggling to find words that eluded him.

“Grace … are … are you okay?” Kofax asked quietly, concern etching her forehead.

There goes the hope my sundress would deflect from my expression. Nonetheless, of course, Grace lied: “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

Kofax’s mouth hung open wordlessly. She shot a helpless glance toward Cherri. Cherri, wide-eyed, shrugged in silence. Both of them turned to Vaggie, then Charlie. None of them seemed to know what to say.

Good riddance.

I should totally ask Charlie or Lucifer if they could go back in time and stop me from falling for that carmine creep. That thought was worth a small scoff she failed to swallow; she knew there was nothing that could stop the freight train that was her mind once it was on its tragic track toward Traumatown.

Speaking—or more accurately, thinking—of the carmine creep, himself: he appeared in the entry to the dining room, two mugs in one hand—his finger threaded through their handles to hold them together—and a plate of frosted beignets balanced on the open palm of the other.

And here’s the one-trick pony with the complete lack of any real effort like he thinks that’s gonna fix this. Different day, same old shit. 

Grace caught him out of the periphery and hoped he missed that acknowledgment.

Undeterred by her inattention, the Radio Demon strode to the chair beside her, regrettably wanting for an ass on its cushion that she hoped he wouldn’t take as an invitation to sit beside her, and greeted her with: “Little Fawn—”

He either had no clue how to continue or was waiting for her to respond.

The already deafening silence in the dining room became somehow amplified, stifling. As if the dining room had magically morphed into the vacuum of space.

Either way, Alastor’s words just dangled in the lack-of-air between them as if tangled in a web of awkwardness.

He set the plate on the table before her, then her mug of steaming repugnant New Orleans style coffee that it took every ounce of restraint not to pick up and splash into his stupid ugly face. She wanted to rip the hair out of his fuck-ass bob, strand by strand.

Grace remained silent, staring straight ahead of herself, until he brushed her shoulder with the side of his hand.

She yanked away from his touch, whipping around in her seat to glare at him. “Don’t you ‘Little Fawn’ me!”

Alastor’s eyebrows leaped up and his mouth fell open, joining the group of slack-jawed gawkers around the table. “I—”

A deep, wicked chuckle bubbled up from Lucifer’s chest as his eyes narrowed on Alastor. “Looks like maybe Grace finally came to her senses.” His gaze shifted to Grace. “Good for you!”

“Dad!” Charlie yelped.

“With respect, Your Highness,” Kofax interjected with a sharp edge in her voice that warned he was about to lose the functionality of any technology that he may have held dear, “that went too far.”

It’s entirely possible he’s right, though. Grace scowled quietly, refusing to meet Alastor’s gaze. His unwavering stare singed the side of her already flaming face.

Charlie glanced at Grace. “I think maybe that whatever happened, Grace should take this opportunity to practice the 24-hour rule.”

Not wanting to even address whatever the fuck this so-called rule was, Grace settled her narrowed eyes on Charlie. “And I think we should stop talking about me in third person again as if I’m not right here.”

Maybe this is proof I shouldn’t be right here right now.

“What’s the 24-hour rule?” asked Alastor, to Charlie’s blatant surprise. To everyone’s blatant surprise, for that matter.

Vaggie answered on Charlie’s behalf, as if the rule had come to her rescue on more than one occasion: “It’s the deliberate practice of giving yourself a full day to process your emotions before responding to a triggering event or conversation.”

“And something’s obviously triggered Grace,” Charlie added, “so space could only benefit her right now.”

“‘Triggered?’” Grace echoed incredulously. The more that word blanketed her, the angrier she got. “‘Triggered?!” she snapped at Charlie. “Do you even know how insulting it is that you trivialize this and reduce what he did to me to a trigger?! Do you think 24 hours is enough time to ‘process’ this?!” She then leveled at Alastor eye-daggers sharp enough to impale a lesser demon. “Do you think 24 hours of ‘processing’ this is going to help anything?” 

In fact, the more Grace brooded, the more she thought 24 hours of processing what happened would merely compound her fury and pain. Out of the corner of her eye, Grace caught Lucifer’s expression; he was eating this right up.

I should definitely not be here right now.

Punching Lucifer in his doltish dumbfuck face would solve nothing.

Except maybe, at least momentarily, making Grace feel slightly better about the King of Hell getting his yuks from her misery.

“I have to—” She shoved herself, in her chair, back from the table. “I can’t—” She leaped to her feet. With an ambiguous grunt of some sort of vexation and a dismissive wave over her shoulder, Grace fled the dining room.

And then the hotel.

Chapter 21: She Loves Him, She Loves Him Not

Assuming you all still like ... anyone in this story at this point ... I'll see you deers back here on Wednesday. We're on 2 updates each week pretty much until the full story is posted.