What

the fuck

just happened.

Grace blinked, staring at the ceiling above her bed.

The lights in her room flickered.

She turned her head against her pillow just enough to see out the window. It was a cloudless sky. Grace would have thought by the way the lights flickered that there was a storm outside, but no.

Weird. 

The flickering continued. Several moments elapsed before Grace noticed the lights weren’t quite flickering. It was a pattern of long flickers and short ones with occasional breaks between them.

If she didn’t know any better, it was code.

-.- ..-. .- -..- / -.- -. --- .-- ... / .-- .... .- - / -.-- --- ..- / -.. .. -.. 

.--. .-. . .--. .- .-. . / ..-. --- .-. / .- / .-- .... --- .-.. . / -. . .-- / .-- --- .-. .-.. -.. / --- ..-. / .--. .- .. -. 

And it continued like that as if the lights in Vee Tower were now programmed to flicker intermittently. That was going to get really annoying really quickly.

Flipping the light switch off somehow did nothing so she unscrewed all the bulbs in the room that she could reach.

Exhausted from lack of sleep, lack of proper nutrition, and likely from whatever it was Vox had done to her while on the set of his talkshow, Grace tucked in for the night, gingerly pulling the covers up over her head to block out the continuing flickers of the remaining lights in her room.

She slept through the night and missed the usual opportunity to visit the conference room, so she sneaked out first thing the next morning to make up for it.

Grace had just finished carving yesterday’s vèvè when the elevator pinged and the door opened—sort of, anyway. It slid open partway, then closed, then opened a little less than it previously had, then closed. Then finally opened fully.

It had done the same creepy thing to her.

Vox led the charge again, pausing to turn on the lights. He then scoffed, as flipping the switch did nothing to change the continuing rhythm of flickers that had started soon after yesterday’s airing of Vox 2 Nite.

“You really oughtta get an electrician in—” Travis started.

“I don’t need an electrician,” Vox snapped. “I am one. I’m electricity itself, you pathetic excuse for a soul!”

Travis replied, “So then maybe fix this shit? The blinking is giving me a headache.”

“I’ll fix it when I feel like fixing it!”

Which is exactly what someone who’s already tried to fix it and failed would say.

“Do you think that maybe this is some sort of precursor to the next Extermination Day? Like … since we’ve evened out the playing field with the Angelic Steel weapons, they’re moving on to a technological attack?” Travis said. “God forbid they move on to germ warfare!”

“You would be worried about that,” Valentino muttered as he approached the conference room table and took a seat much too close to Grace for her liking. She quickly scooted away.

“Well, gee,” countered Travis sarcastically as he sat beside Valentino, “I wonder why?”

“Okay, well, how about the thermostats?” Velvette said. She chose a seat across from Valentino.

So of course Vox took his chair at the head of the table and groaned, “Oh what the fuck’s wrong with the thermostats?”

“They’re showing it’s fifty degrees out. There’s no way that’s accurate; it’s at least a hundred!” she replied.

Oh my fucking god. They are so unbelievably dumb. I'll bet the readings switched from Fahrenheit to Celsius.

“I got an email last night with the subject line ‘Stinky Cheese.’ I thought maybe it was some new kinky thing Angel Dust had come up with but after opening it, all my documents are automatically translated into Swahili, my voxPod only plays Jethro Tull no matter what I click on, and my TiVoX recorded that shitty movie, Gigli, and won’t let me erase it!” Valentino added to the list of complaints. 

I know that list of misbehaving electronics, Grace mused. Why is that so familiar?

Valentino punched the top of the conference room table. 

Grace recoiled.

“Not only that,” he continued, his voice rising, “but its audio is in Welsh and the captioning is in Korean and the TV doesn’t respond to any of the changes I’ve tried to—”

“Oh what the fuck!” Velvette interjected. “One of my brand ambassadors just bought a whole warehouse full of pink leotards and charged it to my business account and I can’t reverse it! What am I gonna do with a warehouse full of pink leotards!”

Travis cut in, his voice quiet and hesitant. “I just got a notification from FUX NEWS that Voxtek invested in Euro Loo Loo Land and promptly lost billions.”

“What?!” Vox roared, leaping from his seat. “I didn’t! I wouldn’t! What the fuck?!” 

Forget the Angelic Exorcists. This has Kofax written all over it! Grace snorted a chuckle and then stilled, holding her breath. Had that been loud enough for any of them to hear?

Vox slowly leaned over to peer beneath the table. 

He moved quickly, like a flash—faster than Grace would ever have imagined he could move—and the next thing she knew, Vox’s chain was wound around her numerous times, pinning her arms down to her sides. Tight, and getting tighter by the breath.

Suffocating.

“What were you doing under there?” Vox growled. “How much did you hear?”

“I—” Grace could think of no good way to respond. “I—I was—” She had nothing. No rebuttal, not a single thought in her head. She forgot English, and her brain smoothed out. 

It made the little chnk! Windows distress sound, the three D sharp beeps of a crashing Apple computer.

Grace isn’t here, Mrs. Torrance. 

There is no Grace; only Zuul.

All that remained of one Grace Bedgood was ancient pop culture references.

Of all the times Grace had gotten caught doing something she shouldn’t have been doing, this was the second worst.

“Are you spying on us? Going to report back to that obsolete prick so he can air our problems for everyone to laugh about?”

“No—no, I wasn’t eavesdropping!” Grace fibbed. And then wide eyes and gaping mouth morphed into a devious grin in hopes she could convince them of her lie. “But now that you mention it, that’s a brilliant idea!”

“Well, I guess that means we’re going to have to make damn well good and sure that you’re not leaving my sight.”

Oh, fuuuck. God, dammit, Grace!

Being in Vox’s company for a few minutes was exhausting. Being in it for a full day was intolerable. Having him in the room with her overnight made her want to slice open her neck with that steak knife she gripped while keeping a wary eye from her spot on the loveseat as Vox slept—or acted asleep—in bed. 

So now I’m not eating and not sleeping. This is going … about as well as expected, I guess. Her stomach growled and she hissed at it to shut up.

‘Feed me, feed me!’ God, you’re as bad as Wubby!

Oh, jeez, I hope someone’s taking care of her! Probably Charlie. Maybe Kofax. Definitely not the Radio Demon, I’m sure.

The next morning, Vox hauled Grace to a portion of Vee Tower that she’d not managed to find in her explorations. But then again, she’d gone back to several of the same locations time after time—mostly by accident, although she returned to the conference room deliberately.

In this room was a single TV that didn’t even look as sophisticated as Vox’s head. Across from the TV was an oval coffee table with a single potted plant placed in the center. There was a lovely, wrought iron chandelier behind the seating area that flickered and blinked with the same code as all the rest of the lights in the tower. Several smaller alcoves branched off through arched entryways that lacked doors.

There was a loveseat likely actually large enough to seat two but only really large enough for Valentino’s gigantic ass on its own, and kitty-corner to that, a three-cushioned couch on which Velvette partly reclined, phone in hand. 

Vox took the seat on the far end of that couch.

Grace, on the receiving end of Vox’s tether, stood off to one side, wondering what fresh hell was awaiting her today.

They sat in silence, Vox flipping mindlessly through channels on that television in front of him, and both Valentino and Velvette scrolling equally mindlessly on their phones.

Velvette, if you give even the tiniest, most microscopic fuck about me, you’ll help me out here.

She continued scrolling her phone as if she didn’t hear Grace’s silent plea.

Still no telepathy, then. Damn.

A minute, an hour, a super eon elapsed—she had no clue how long she’d been standing there in silence like Princess Leia at Jabba the Hutt’s palace waiting to be rescued by her serial-killer-slash-Jedi-Knight who probably didn’t know where she was and if he did, almost certainly didn’t care.

Travis joined the Vees and, for lack of seating, leaned instead over the asymmetric back of the loveseat on which Valentino took up a disproportionate amount of space.

Tired, drowsy, and hungry, Grace elected to sit on the floor near none of them.

Vox glowered a greeting at Travis. “What the fuck took you so long? I set a time. I said 8. Not 8:08. Who are you to disobey me?”

Travis shrugged, aloof as he got. He likely felt some degree of security while hiding, literally, behind his owner. “Sorry. I lost track of time listening to the radio.”

“So you mean to tell me that not only were you late, you had the audacity to be listening to the radio? Were you listening … to him?”

You’re such a jealous, needy little bitch, Grace thought at Vox.

Like she was one to talk.

“You told me to, you TV-headed dumbass.”

Vox’s eyes narrowed, his scowl deepening. “Was this a new broadcast?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, as far as I could tell.” Travis’s belligerent smile widened. “You underestimate the entertainment value of listening to another man Grace emotionally eviscerated.” His gaze flicked down to where his wife sat.

She had the lame realization that they’d never actually divorced or even separated. They did vow “’til death do us part,” so technically speaking, they wouldn’t be married now, both having fulfilled that ‘death’ portion of their vows.

Thank god.

“So, tell me, Grace: is destroying men second-nature to you now?”

Grace turned a slow, cold and calculated look on him. “You really don’t want to have this conversation, Travis. Not now. Not in front of them.”

“Try me,” Travis challenged through clenched teeth.

Grace snortled. “Okay, you really wanna boast about how you couldn’t satisfy one, single, woman for even a month before she sought out other lovers? Really? You want Valentino to know what an inadequate lover you were.”

“Look at you getting off on hurting others, Grace!” Vox cackled. “That bastard’s sadistic streak wore off on you, huh?”

Grace jumped to her feet in a swift, shockingly acrobatic move. “Don’t call him that!”

Vox’s cackles turned into full belly-shaking laughter.

“You can go eat a whole gallon of the most watery, dysenteriest shit, Vox!” she spat.

“Gross!” Vox said through gales of laughter.

Well that didn’t have the intended effect.

Velvette glanced over her shoulder at Valentino with a smirk. “Heh. Actually, I might like this one more than I thought …”

Vox took a moment to catch his breath, finally asking Grace, “Do you want to see him again?”

Grace gasped, thinking maybe he was going to release her. “More than I want to breathe!”

And there it was: the magical moment her fury over Alastor’s betrayal had fully fizzled out. 

She still loved him desperately even after all that.

Vox switched input on the television screen and Velvette groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Ugh, not this again!”

Valentino corrected her with a long-suffering groan, “Again, again.”

The power went out completely. Vox’s face glowed furiously through the darkness. “What is this? Are we in a third-world country or something?”

Grace folded her arms over her chest. “It is Hell, last time I checked.”

“Yeah, but still!” Vox stood like he was going to do god only knew what before the power came back on.

“Y’know … if I didn’t know any better,” said Travis amid his coughing and hacking, “I’d believe all these shitty tech glitches are Grace’s doing and maybe you oughtta get rid of her. She’s like a poltergeist in this building.”

Rather than being upset at the suggestion she was at fault for the issues or likening her to a poltergeist, Grace snapped, “What’s with all that obnoxious coughing? You ever think to maybe get yourself checked out?”

Travis leveled a shockingly disgusted look at Grace and answered, “I caught coronavirus in jail halfway through 2020 … died alone, face-down, quarantined in a hospital bed, you heartless shrew.”

Grace blinked, leaning back into her stance. That was … interesting, to say the least. “You were in jail? And died of … the common cold.”

“First of all, it wasn’t a common cold. It was a global pandemic! Secondly, of course I was incarcerated. What would you expect happened after that little freak you made called the cops on me right after I killed you and that sleazebag you were humping in our bed?”

“Hunter—?” Grace recoiled with a gasp, her eyes going wide. “Hunter called the cops?!” A wide grin spread across her face. “I always knew he’d do great things in life!”

“Of course he turned me in. For years, he’d been looking for a reason to have me hauled off to jail. That retarded little shit always hated me.”

“Excuse you!” Grace roared in fury, jumping on the coffee table to make a beeline for Travis. She was so blinded by her rage that it didn’t even occur to her that she was straddling Valentino and cramming her breasts to his face just to reach by him, lunging for Travis’s throat and throttling it as she bellowed, “He was your son! He loved you! You were his first fucking word and you didn’t deserve that honor! You were the one who always hated him, you judgmental monster!”

A radio filtered voice interrupted before Travis had any chance to retaliate.

“Adam!”

Grace’s head whipped up and around to see the television screen.

“First man, next to die.” Alastor tipped his head to the side with a fantastically, deliciously sadistic grin.

An unfamiliar voice—who Grace assumed was Adam—responded, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Alastor,” the Radio Demon replied. At that, Grace pulled her hands from Travis’s neck and dismounted Valentino, who looked altogether stunned. 

She stood, pivoting on her heel to see the television screen. “Pleasure to be meeting you, quite a pleasure. I’m about to end your fucking life.”

What ensued was entrancing, Alastor and Adam trading barbs. Alastor moving around Adam’s swings and swipes with ease and calculated precision, as if he was dancing while his opponent was—

“You’re sloppy,” Alastor mocked through a maniacal, clench-toothed grin.

Yeah. Yeah that. And also, ohmygod, the way he said that was so sexy! He could call her sloppy with such derision that it would probably make her come all over herself.

More barbs were exchanged, more swings and swipes and evasion that was nothing short of choreographed ballet. 

Adam roared, “‘Cuz radio is fuckin’ dead!” That swing of his guitar was met with a loud crack!

Grace gasped.

Vox waved at Grace excitedly out of her periphery but she still stared at the TV. “Wait, wait!  It gets even better! Keep watching!”

Alastor stared down at his broken microphone staff in dismay and spoke without his filter: “What just happened? Ffffuck.”

A moment later, Adam swung with what Grace had thought was just a guitar but in terror learned was the Angelic Steel weapon that slashed Alastor’s chest.

Grace shrieked and reeled back as if watching it happen live, as if feeling that pain herself, and jerked her head away, clenching her eyes shut.

“Oh, you’re not laughing? Oh, that’s right. He was dying.” Vox scoffed. “You’re every bit as dramatic as that lazy-eyed son-of-a-bitch.”

Alastor said, his unfiltered voice trembling slightly, “Have to disagree with you there. Radio’s not dead, but it is ending this broadcast.”

In the ensuing silence, Vox said, “Look at that gaping Angelic Steel wound across Alastor’s chest! Look at all his blood there on the ground! C’mon, Grace, look, look!” 

Grace shook her head, her eyes squeezed shut. She knew what had become of that injury. She knew he’d survived it. She’d had a hand in healing it after infection set in. And yet pain throbbed through her chest as if none of those things were true, as if her heartache mirrored the wound Alastor had suffered.

“You’re really stuck on him, aren’t you?” Vox asked. His tone almost sounded pitying.

Her eyes flashed as she stared him down, growling, “I love him, you reeking twat-goblin!”

With utter glee, Vox replied, “Oh, I’m so glad you finally admitted that. Now I’m gonna make sure you can never be with him again.”

Vox had been on conference calls all afternoon—from the so-called comfort of Grace’s room; in addition to being a boring affair to witness, it was also awkward.

He had to resent her for having to make these accommodations just to keep a spiraling eye on her while conducting his business.

She considered it a tax on the price of owning her soul.

While—judging by his behavior—he clearly assumed she was paying attention and trying to concoct ways to undermine him, the reality was that she’d long-since zoned out, her glassy-eyed gaze unfocused out the window.

Grace hated Vox’s empire. She hated his face. She hated his soul. She wanted nothing more for him to die eternally.

His much-aggrieved groan caught her attention and drew her out of her anti-Vox reveries. And for that, she hated his groans. He had to sound utterly abhorrent in the throes of passion.

Then Grace heard Velvette’s supremely agitated voice and could resist a small smile. What would it take for them to sever ties with each other completely? she wondered. And could I get them there?

“I have to step outside,” Vox snarled, turning that hypnotic eye back on Grace. “I will slit your throat with Angelic Steel if you leave this room.” Without another word, he vanished in a bolt of light.

A moment later, there was a knock on the door.

Grace stared at it with narrowed eyes, making no move to answer. The timing of Vox having to leave and the knock was a little too convenient and whatever this was, it couldn’t mean good things for her.

“Princess Peach? Vox won’t be distracted for long.” Velvette announced herself from outside the room. “Let me in.” It was stated as a command but the tone lacked conviction.

Vox didn’t say she couldn’t accept visitors. With a resigned sigh, Grace went to the door, opened it, and promptly retreated to her seat by the window without acknowledging Velvette verbally.

There were quiet footfalls followed by the quiet clicking of the door’s latch into its strike plate. And then a soft thump. Grace turned then, seeing that Velvette had leaned a shoulder against the closed door.

Her arms were full with a rectangular box and atop that, a tray with some food. 

“It’s lunchtime. I figured I’d ensure you get fed.”

“Why,” Grace replied warily.

“Your clothes are hanging off you and I don’t want to have to alter any more before the next fashion show.”

Equal parts suspicious and surprised, Grace asked, “You still want me for that?”

“Now more than ever since I know it pisses Vox off.”

“Ah.” Grace couldn’t have been too surprised that seemed to be the driving force behind Velvette’s decision to keep her as a model, especially when she questioned the original motivations for the same.

Velvette sauntered over, setting the box down on the table beside Grace and then moving the tray of food onto the table closer to the apparently wasting-away demon.

To Grace’s annoyance, this meal actually looked as if it had been catered to her diet. That couldn’t have been Vox’s edict. Valentino had nothing to do with any of this.

So that meant it had to be Velvette’s decision.

Grace regarded her silently, questioningly.

Velvette volunteered in her silence, “Vox was a total cunt to you yesterday …”

“So? That’s no reason for you to bring me gifts and keep me fed. It’s not like I matter.”

The Overlord sighed heavily. “Maybe you matter so little that I like you. Or maybe … that makes you matter. Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that when you’re bitchy and cruel, you remind me a little of myself. Or maybe sometimes you should just accept things as they are and not ask so many fucking questions.”

Grace had clearly struck a nerve. Maybe, she thought, you don’t want to be reminded that you could possibly like me. She crossed her arms over her chest and turned away in her seat. “Thanks for the food,” she grumbled.

“Piss off, Grace.” Despite the words spoken, it had almost sounded like Velvette was smiling. Without another word, she excused herself, closing the door behind herself.

Grace offloaded the tray, inspecting each item as she went. 

The main dish was a plate of instant noodles topped with scallions, bok choy, and a hardboiled egg all sprinkled with sesame seeds—one of Grace’s favorites—and drizzled with chilli sauce. 

There was a side dish of a pair of portabello mushroom caps stuffed to overflowing with grated mozzarella and parmesan; cherry tomatoes and basil; garlic cloves and breadcrumbs; and glazed with what smelled like a blend of olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

Beside that was a small bowl of chickpea chowder that smelled obnoxiously good. And of course there had to be what was likely a calorie-packed dessert: a slice of cheesecake garnished with fresh raspberries.

Y’know, for Hell? This is pretty heavenly.

Plus she was starved for food that actually catered to her palate. It took her little time to devour everything on that tray.

She sat back, fully sated for the first time in an age, her gaze falling upon the box on which Velvette had rested the tray of food.

The Overlord’s words echoed in Grace’s head: Vox won’t be distracted for long. As in, hurry up and enjoy this gift I probably shouldn’t be giving you.

The box in question had a dial display that took up its right half, horizontal grooves comprising the left half. Two round knobs protruded from beneath the dial.

It looked like a radio from the 1950s.

What is this? Grace thought warily. It had to be some sort of trick. Maybe it was a bomb that would explode when she tried turning it on.

No, that would be stupid; a bomb to hurt, maim, or kill her would be enough to cause more damage to Vee Tower than she figured any of the Vees would abide, and certainly more damage than her death would be worth to them.

Yet she reached toward it with marked caution, like it would do something horrible when she touched it.

Nothing.

Grace held her breath while plugging it in. Still, it seemed to be nothing more than a regular, old radio.

She turned one knob and the quiet static grew louder. Okay, that’s the volume, then. She adjusted the other knob until she landed on a station.

The host of this program sounded like the most dejected soul that had ever existed. He droned through Hell’s headlines, the infernal weather—contemptable as always—and the perpetual gridlock that plagued Pentagram City; more or less in order of importance.

An ad then played for the Hazbin Hotel.

Grace swallowed hard, glancing out the window. Maybe in her anger, she’d made some rash decisions that led to enormous, likely irreversible mistakes such as, for instance, handing her soul over to Vox.

The news transitioned into what—by the station jingle—sounded like a staple: some sort of literary programming.

“François de La Rochefoucauld once said, ‘Absence diminishes small loves and increases great ones,’” the radio announcer recited, “‘as the wind blows out the candle and fans the bonfire.’”

She knew which side of that absence she was from Alastor but somehow doubted he was on the same side.

The radio announcer continued:

“I’ve tasted your lips, your skin

and never realized

I’d been deprived for a century or more

Your kiss, your touch

Awakened my soul

I had no clue

I could crave something so much

I never even realized I was homesick

Until I found and lost you.”

Grace blinked. Wait. Wait, what? She bolted upright in her spot. Wait a good goddamn minute!

“How do I love thee? 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.

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,

I shall but love thee better after death.”

“Oh, my god!” Grace cried before pressing the back of her hand to her lips with a gasping sob. “That’s Alastor!”

“I don’t know where you went,” he continued. “To be clear: I can come find you and force you back. But I won’t. I told you once that you deserve better than me and so I’m giving you this opportunity to find yourself a less damaged and deranged soul. If that’s your desire, my little fawn, just know that I’m incomplete without you. I want you. But worse than that—” There was a pause so long Grace thought maybe the station had a glitch. Finally, he said on a weak whisper, “I need you.”

At the top of the hour, a song began to play.

“Smile though your heart is aching

Smile even though it's breaking

When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by

If you smile through your fear and sorrow

Smile and maybe tomorrow

You'll see the sun come shining through for you

Light up your face with gladness

Hide every trace of sadness

Although a tear may be ever so near

That's the time you must keep on trying

Smile, what's the use of crying?

You'll find that life is still worthwhile

If you just smile

That's the time you must keep on trying

Smile, what's the use of crying?

You'll find that life is still worthwhile

If you just smile.”

Grace yanked the radio from the table with a blood-curdling scream and wrapped herself around it, a fury building within her unlike anything she’d experienced. 

That jealousy when she met Mimzy had nothing on her now.

Static built at her fingertips, buzzing and burning like electric shocks.

Her heart skipped a beat; this felt similar to when she’d been drawing Alastor’s powers. But when she lifted her head and saw blue energy there instead, her rage became unadulterated disgust. Disgust with this situation, with herself. Somehow she knew she hadn’t entered into this contract with Vox of her own free will. But despite that, she felt like she was cheating on Alastor—even if it was something over which she had no control.

She scowled at her hands as her fingertips continued to spit blue sparks. The angrier she got, the brighter they grew. 

If she’d been leeching the Radio Demon’s powers and he never realized it—she couldn’t be sure if that was the case or if he didn’t want to admit to it—then perhaps she could draw Vox’s powers and keep that secret.

But this did, indeed, finally clarify one thing she’d been wondering: Alastor had not been feeding her his powers because there was no way Vox would do the same.

And maybe, somehow, someway, she could use this knowledge to her advantage.

Perhaps it was her delusions of grandeur, but Grace thought—with enough time in Vox’s thrall—that she’d be able to move from place to place just like he did. All she knew for certain is that she regretted not deliberately trying to travel from one place to another like Alastor did when she had a taste of his powers.

But being livid was exhausting. She took some deep, steadying breaths, closed her eyes and tried recalling better times.

Once her fingertips cooled off and her pulse slowed, she repositioned herself on the loveseat, drawing the cover around her shoulders tightly.

She fell asleep snuggling with the radio.