Chapter Text
“Come listen to a dreadful tale I’m telling
In Whitechapel three murders have been done;
With horror many hearts they now are swelling
Those fearful deeds that now to light have come.”
~ Lines on the Terrible Tragedy in Whitechapel, 1888
The work of a hotelier, Alastor notes as he strides down the hall, is never truly done.
Not that he finds himself complaining, of course. Alastor’s worst threat in Hell has always first and foremost been boredom, before anything else. While the Hazbin Hotel promises entertainment in spades, watching souls struggle to climb towards redemption and failing spectacularly, Alastor has found it also provides distractions aplenty too. He rather enjoys having a project to set his mind to, in between his broadcasts and watching the residents make fools of themselves.
Besides, it’s an opportunity to show what a proper hotel should be like. Modern renditions, apparently, are merely transient spaces for travelers and little else. Angel Dust even talks of ridiculous places where rooms can be rented by the hour. What a foolish notion! In his day hotels were homes, and cared for as such.
So Alastor is sure to spend time every day fixing up and improving his little project. As hotelier and host of the hotel, he has a reputation to maintain. And regardless of whether or not he actually thinks this project will succeed, it certainly won’t fail because the premises are unsound.
There’s more work today than usual, after that disastrous visit yesterday from Charlie’s father and Mimzy. The loan sharks had made quite a mess in the lobby. The doors had been broken off their hinges, the windows shattered, a significant portion of the wall and ceiling had been displaced, and the burning tar-covered boulders launched inside had torn up the flooring something dreadful. Alastor spends most of the early morning repairing it with his shadow minions, while the rest of the hotel’s residents sleep.
The incident with the chandelier had, of course, been an unwelcome embarrassment. He would have only been too lucky if Lucifer had been crushed in its descent. The chandelier itself had been vanished by the King of Hell in his bid to win over his daughter, but Alastor spends some time inspecting the ceiling for damages and replacing a new light fixture. One that will not cause him to look like a poor excuse for a hotelier the next time the King comes calling.
His eye still twitches angrily at the thought.
Then inspections of the building, inside and out, to be certain the loan shark attack hadn’t done irreparable damage to the structural integrity. He spends some time repairing fractures, fixing windows, and replacing shattered light bulbs, but the hotel is at last in reasonable condition once more. Should these little Sinners fail to find redemption, they will only have themselves to blame, and he’ll enjoy their helplessness thoroughly.
And all done in time for a nice morning cup of coffee and the newspaper! Alastor’s efficiency continues to impress, if he does say so himself. And oh, he does.
Alastor strolls idly down the hall of the second floor, staff tucked against one shoulder, playing himself soft Louisiana jazz for entertainment. But he silences the music unexpectedly when his ears catch something far more entertaining: voices from the lobby.
“—ve it here! We have all kinds of amenities to make you so comfortable, you won’t believe it! You’ll get your very own room that you can decorate however you like— yes, Angel, he already knows there’s no rent— and community meals, and lots of activities! And two other guests, just like you! I just know redemption is possible for any kind of Sinner, no matter what you did in your past life, don’t you worry! Here, let me introduce you to the others—you’ve already met Angel, of course, and Vaggie here, and the others should be getting ready for breakfast—oh, this is so exciting! ”
It certainly is. Charlie’s exuberant speech can only mean one thing: a new potential guest of the Hazbin Hotel, and another delightful failed attempt for Alastor to watch. He’d planned to retire to the balcony for his morning coffee and newspaper, but he adjusts his direction now for the lobby, far more interested in the latest upcoming catastrophe.
The real question is what form this failure will take. Alastor is not a betting man, not like dear old Husker—he prefers to gamble only when he knows he’ll win. But mentally betting with himself on the flavor of failure for Charlie’s project is always a fun little time, and he’s already considering the possibilities as he strolls towards the voices.
There’s no sounds of panic, so this certainly isn’t an attack. A few other demons have independently tried to slip into the defenses of the hotel under the cover of being applicants, only to strike once through the door. Foolish and stupid; Alastor had eaten them at once, of course, since they weren’t so easily convinced to say sorry with a song and dance. A pity it isn’t an attack today, since it is breakfast and Alastor is feeling a bit peckish, but it is what it is.
There are other failures to bet on, however. Some demons wander in out of curiosity more than anything else, lured by promises of rent-free living and the protection of an Overlord with no chains attached. Most turn right around and leave the moment they hear about redemption, detoxing, bonding exercises and no killing. It’s always a grand old time to watch the very mission statement of the hotel crash and burn so immediately.
Far more entertaining are the potential guests that enter genuinely curious about the concept of redemption. These ones are drawn in by a tantalizing lie of freedom from this wretched pit of hellfire and brimstone, and are almost always the weaker Sinners of Hell. The ones that flock to Overlords in droves because they don’t quite have the malice or the gumption to defend themselves or are too new to have learned the ways of their newfound afterlife.
These ones might make excellent recruitment candidates, and if Alastor were actually interested in helping the cause for real, he might even tell Charlie so. They’re weak enough to be controlled, and their sins aren’t so many and bloodied. If anyone could be redeemed, it would be them. But it’s much more fun to watch her exuberance and overexcitement frighten them away from their own redemption, because they’re simply overwhelmed with the kindness and positivity that makes Charlie, well, Charlie.
Kindness, genuine kindness, is not a common thing in Hell. It always comes with strings, or more likely chains, attached. Sinners aren’t known for being trusting and are known for being suspicious. It makes for an entertainingly terrible combination, one that Charlie hasn’t quite figured out yet.
Based on her high-pitched introduction that Alastor can make out from even here, he would put high odds on that particular failure today.
(The idea of this Sinner actually joining barely crosses his mind. In one sense a pity; that would make for more long-form entertainment. But the thought of an actual recruitment succeeding is laughable).
But there’s one other more common still, and if this Sinner hasn’t fled yet, than he’d bet his money on—
A muffled voice, too far to make out just yet, speaks up. It must be the new potential redemptor, because Charlie’s excitement takes a more hesitant, cagey form of enthusiasm when she answers. It’s the tone she adopts when she’s trying very hard to be positive about something that simply isn’t.
“Oh! Um, yes, the Radio Demon actually does live here. But don’t worry! He’s our host and facilities manager. As long as you’re a resident in our redemption program, you’re completely safe with him! He protects our hotel, including its residents, and he’s promised he won’t eat any of our participants as long as they’re not a threat to us. Sooo…don’t you worry!”
Alastor’s smile tightens. In point of fact he had never made such a promise; not in a Deal, and not by verbal or written agreement. Charlie’s negotiating skills are truly terrible, ill befitting of any powerful denizen of Hell. Her only request of him had been that there be ‘no trickster voodoo strings attached.’ Without proper definitive elaboration on precisely what those terms meant, it was still vague enough that he could do virtually anything he wanted here even if he was bound by a proper Deal. Which he isn’t.
He’s not sure if he should be irritated with Charlie for putting words in his mouth, or delighted that she’s learning to properly lie. After some deliberation, he decides upon the latter. Even if her tone and delivery could use some work. Perhaps voice lessons, in the future; if she’s going to lie about him, she may as well do it convincingly.
Besides, although he’d never truly made an agreement, and he was bound by no letter of law, he had gone out of his way to respect Charlie’s residents…at least, not enough to eat them. He is here for his own entertainment, amongst other things, and a game isn’t fun without rules. Watching this little redemption project fail would be far too easy if he intentionally interfered with Charlie’s little redemptors, like setting a queen on the board against pawns.
Too simple. Over too fast. Too boring.
So Charlie isn’t entirely wrong. Unless they pose a threat to his territory, his establishment, or his business partners, Alastor poses no direct threat to the inhabitants or staff of the hotel. Because it’s far too fun to watch them claw their way up a relentless, endless mountain towards that tiny pinprick of light in the distance with their own blood, sweat and tears, and then to fall and break every metaphorical bone in their bodies by their own merits and failures.
The despair is just so much tastier that way.
But even if he doesn’t actively interfere with the redemption applicants, his presence alone is enough to cause more than a few to flee the hotel in a blind panic. Some clawing out their eyes, or tearing off their ears, as they run. No matter how many times Charlie endlessly tries to assure them that he’s quite safe, actually, as long as they’re there.
He never makes any attempt to dissuade them. After all, it’s hardly his fault if the sight of him taking the stairs or inspecting the premises causes them to flee in unholy terror. He never did anything.
(“You could try to be a little less, um…spooky?” Charlie offers advice once, in her endearingly naive way, after the fourth to flee. “Maybe let them know you’re nice?”
“But I’m not nice, Charlie dear,” Alastor tells her fondly, with a pat on the head. “That’s precisely why I’m here.”
“For redemption?”
“In Hell,” Alastor clarifies, and leaves her to continue his work, covering her stunned silence with a jaunty little tune).
If he’s making bets, then Alastor is willing to bet today’s visitor is one of these. Almost willing to try, but not enough to sleep down the hall from the Radio Demon. And, since the conversation seems to have turned to him specifically, it seems that it’s his cue to test his bet.
He’s just beginning to deliberate on his form of entrance—should he walk down the stairs towards them, or zip ahead to the kitchen to be waiting in the wings of the tour?—when he hears the visitor speak again. And this time, he’s close enough to make out not just the buzz of indistinct speech, but a voice and words.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. I’m not worried at all. I’d rather hoped Mr. Alastor was in, actually. It would be nice to see him.”
Alastor freezes in place with a screech of feedback and several pops of static. That voice. He knows that voice. He hasn’t heard it in at least seventy years; they’ve deliberately kept their distance from each other. For the man to show himself here now, after Alastor’s seven years away—
He abandons his plans for entertainment entirely. Work before business, after all. He steps into his shadow, darting through walls and floors with ease, slithers up through the void and the ether alongside Charlie just in time to hear Vaggie say in disbelief, “You want to see him?”
“And here I am,” Alastor says, spinning his staff once as he steps forward to meet the visitor, before tapping it purposefully to the ground in front of himself and settling both hands over its red, polished surface.
His shadow prowls the red carpeted floor, testing shadows, counting allies and threats, feeding the information back to him so he never once has to take his eyes off his opponent. Charlie, Vaggie, Angel Dust, situated behind him by only a step or two. Husk and Niffty, from the feel of their chains, both in the kitchen. No sign of the serpent or his eggs, which is probably for the best.
One singular demon Sinner opposite him, staring back cool as a cucumber, unaffected by Alastor’s arrival via shadows. Then again, he wouldn’t be. He’s seen it before.
“Jack,” Alastor greets cooly.
The Sinner bows politely, sweeping a somewhat battered top hat from his head with all the proper decorum. When he stands, the hat remains in his gloved hands, equally proper for the indoors. His Victorian overcoat, with short cape, is currently unfastened, showing a sharply tailored three piece suit, sensible trousers, and spats over moderately worn leather boots. He carries no cane or staff, but there is a genuine gold watch chain tucked into his waistcoat pocket, and he seems unafraid of losing it.
Like most residents of Hell, the transition of human to demon has given this Sinner inhuman qualities. Like Alastor, this Sinner’s animal traits are more understated—suggestions of qualities more than blatant ones. The man’s hair is a mix of black and rusty orange, brushed enough to mostly hide his short, sharp pine marten ears. Patches of the same orange at his throat meld smartly with his matching rusty orange waistcoat, and a long, thin, fluffy tail is mostly hidden by the overcoat. He could almost pass for human, if not for the way his nose and jaw are a little too sharp and angular to be natural, or his teeth a little too needle-thin to be normal, or the way the fingers in his gloves are a little too pointed to be found in mixed company.
Alastor knows better. Despite this Sinner’s seemingly unassuming nature, no one comes to Hell who doesn’t deserve it. And Alastor knows better than anyone what old Jack is capable of.
“Mr. Alastor,” the man greets in a smart English accent, once his bow is properly completed. “A pleasure to see you again after so long.”
“I cannot say the same to you, sadly,” Alastor answers, voice curt.
“Oh!” Charlie looks surprised, but then cautiously excited. “Do you two know each other? Is this another friend of yours, Alastor? Oh my gosh, we’ve gotten to meet so many recently!”
“One, toots,” Angel Dust says. “We’ve met one.” He gestures with one hand towards old Jack. “Now two, I guess.”
“But that’s still so exciting!” Charlie says, ever the optimist. “I’m so glad we get to meet Alastor’s friends. I’m glad you’re opening up to us, Al!”
“The sentiment is appreciated, Charlie dear, but I wouldn’t consider Jack a friend,” Alastor says, still curt through sharp teeth. “Nor did I invite him.”
He hadn’t invited Mimzy either, of course. But at least she was somewhat expected to show up on occasion, and could at least be counted on to give him a chance to blow off steam.
Charlie winces a little, but adds hopefully, “But you do know each other?”
“In a manner of speaking, ma’am,” Jack says, tapping his hat against his leg. “Those of us in our shared profession are not especially common folk, even down here. It’s rather difficult not to know of each other, or to meet each other. If nothing else, than as a professional courtesy…or just one of interest.”
Alastor glowers at him as Jack throws a knowing wink in his direction. The group behind Alastor shuffle uneasily—due to Jack’s unsolicited wink, or the fact that the radio static is growing louder from the two nearby units, Alastor couldn’t say.
But then Charlie, that hopelessly naive optimist, once again tries to make something of the situation. She lights up as she steps around Alastor to get closer to Jack, and Alastor has to fight the automatic impulse to grab her by the arm and drag her back behind him.
Jack wouldn’t try anything here. Not directly in front of Alastor. Not his style.
“Oh!” Charlie says. “Are you also a hotelier? Where are you located? I’ve never heard of other hotels in Hell before, but maybe we can set up some sort of network, or give you a job here—”
Alastor’s radio screeches at the audacity of suggesting Jack join his staff before he can stop himself. “Not that profession, Charlie dear,” he says, through a thin smile that is far more a grimace. Jack smirks.
Charlie glances back and forth between them once again. “Raaaaadio host, then?” she offers with a hopeful but strained smile. It’s quite clear that she doesn’t want to ask about any of the other professions Alastor has held down in his afterlife.
Before Alastor can answer, Jack cuts him off, a disgruntled expression on his face. “Ugh,” he says, waving away the thought with a flip of his hat. “Radio. Frivolous fad of an invention that should have died long before it did.”
The entire lobby flickers, lights clamoring on and off, and the radio units screech in alarm. Distantly in the kitchen Alastor hears Husk and Sir Pentious yell in surprise at the power surge, and the rest of the group take hasty steps back from him.
Alastor already looms over Jack’s pathetic five-and-a-half foot frame, but he towers now, bending down to meet the man face to face with a furious smile. “Have a care,” he warns with a predatory snarl, his voice warped and distorted by radio feedback, “what you insult in my territory, Jack.”
Jack is unfazed, glaring right back like he thinks he’s won a point in some frivolous debate. “You know as well as I do, Mr. Alastor, that ridiculous technology led the way for the rest of the garbage littering Hell. Telephones. Picture shows. Talk boxes. Tell me, what was so wrong with newspapers and theater? People left their damned houses and experienced things.”
Alastor sneers, ignoring Charlie’s pleas in his ear to pretty please not eat their new guest, Alastor! “Perhaps I can enlighten you if you were to guest star on my show, Jack,” he growls. “I’m sure I could teach you the benefits of radio quickly. It would even be entertaining…for me, at least.”
“Only if I can instruct you on proper elocution,” Jack sneers right back. “It has been over a hundred years, Alastor. That accent was tacky to begin with and it’s only gone out of style. Americans trying to reinvent posh for their silly broadcasts—what a laughable joke.”
The lights flicker again, but Alastor allows himself to step back out of Jack’s face now with a sharp bark of laughter. “Oh- hoh, old Jack, don’t for a second pretend you didn’t cultivate that highbrow accent you’re wearing now, you Cockney bastard.”
This time, it’s Jack that hisses. Alastor knows he’s scored a hit when the man’s eyes change in a blink, from copper-colored irises to solid, void-black sclera. The way he blurs a moment later, features growing distorted in a transformation attempt, is another sure indication that Alastor’s barb left its mark enough to draw out his opponent’s demon powers.
Alastor’s smile climbs higher with glee as he takes another strike. “Incidentally, while you were cultivating that voice, did you get yourself some proper education as well? Can you spell ‘knife’ and ‘kidney’ yet, hmmm?”
Jack’s teeth are distinctly longer now, and his long fingers are growing even longer, stretched and distorted. He squares his shoulders, standing back to his full height to try and look impressive, but since he’s barely the size of Charlie’s father the attempt is laughable. Alastor stands equally straight-backed, towering over him by a full two heads without counting his ears, and sneers at him as he settles his staff in front of him once more.
He ignores the commotion behind him as he meets Jack in a vicious glaring contest, neither of them blinking.
“Oh my god. Oh my god, I wish I could film this without him blowing up my phone. Somebody get the fuckin’ popcorn out here already!”
“Who the fuck is setting off the Boss at eight in the fucking morning?”
“Is it a bad boy?”
“We’re…not sure? They seem to know each other.”
“Well, they ruined the ssssausages I was cooking for breakfassst! The electrical short sssset them on fire.”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up, nobody cares about sausages, this guy just insulted radio as modern tech and Smiles is about to go apeshit on his ass.”
“He…hatessss modern technology, I thought?”
“Modern to some ye olden English dude, I guess? This is crazy. I can’t believe this is happening.”
By now, Alastor’s shadow is circling restlessly, Jack’s teeth and claws are going sharper by the second, and there’s tangible energy building up between the two of them. It is hardly Jack’s style to start a fight when he’s outnumbered, but that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous if he chooses to be. Alastor begins to adjust his footing, ready for the lunge, and—
—and Charlie, naive, bright-hearted fool that she is, steps directly between the two of them and holds up her hands to actively push them away from each other. “Okay!” she says, with a strained smile and frazzled voice. “So not radio where you know each other! Got it!”
“A laughable joke, to think I would be,” Jack says, but there’s a lot more bite and a lot less politeness in his voice than there had been previously.
Alastor’s microphone screeches angrily, causing most of the gathered group to yelp and cover their ears. Jack only continues to glare, refusing to show weakness, even if his sharp ears twitch in obvious pain. “As if radio would want an uneducated, talentless hack like you,” he snarls, his voice distorted and crackling.
But Charlie just grits her teeth and pointedly turns her back to Jack—foolishness!—before putting both her hands on Alastor’s arms and gently but firmly trying to force him back a step. He doesn’t let her actually move him, but he doesn’t remove her fingers from his arms either.
“Let’s all calm down,” she says, through grit teeth, “and try this again. Nicely. If we want to redeem people, we need to set a good example. Alastor, can you please explain how you know this person? Um, Jack, I think you said his name was? You guys shared a job?”
Alastor’s eyes twitch. He glares balefully over Charlie’s shoulder at Jack, before he finally picks her up by the arms and sets her deftly next to him at his side. Not between them. He’s no fool.
“He’s also a serial killer, Charlie dear,” he answers curtly, once she’s properly situated, not with her back to said serial killer. “Most know him as Jack the Ripper.”
Behind him, a mug crashes as someone starts coughing frantically. Alastor swivels an ear discreetly in that direction, listening in while refusing to take his eyes off Jack for a moment. Angel Dust, from the sounds of it, hacking while Husk thumps him on the back with a growl, and Niffty squeals delightedly as she rushes over to clean what sounded like a shattered coffee mug.
After a moment, Angel Dust recovers his breath enough to gasp, “Wait, what, for real? The Jack the Ripper? The dude who killed all them ladies in England?”
Alastor’s eye twitches, while Jack positively preens. “The very same. And that is one of my names, amongst others. The Whitchapel Murderer, The East End Killer—”
“Leather Apron,” Alastor cuts in, just to piss him off.
Jack hisses at him. “A no-good has-bin and you know it,” he snaps, his careful mask melting away to show the rage-filled person he really is. “The press may have thought us one and the same, but they were idiots.”
“How could they be expected to tell when your work was so unclear, Jack?” Alastor drawls, allowing his smile to become deliberately more lazy, more superior.
Jack’s eyes narrow at him, before they flick past him to Angel Dust. “At least some of your residents have class, I see,” he says instead. “They know me right away.”
“No one knew you right away, Jack. It took a title for even one to recognize you. Charlie knew me at her doorstep. Which of us is more notable?”
Jack shows his teeth again, and his right hand starts to flex, claws slipping in and out, in and out. Niffty, no longer distracted with cleaning shards of mug with her dustpan, asks obliviously, “So is he a bad boy?”
“He’s prolly the most famous serial killer topside, if that does it for ya, Niffty.”
For the first time, Alastor whips his head around with a crack to the group arrayed behind him, finding Angel Dust immediately and fixing him with a murderous glare. Based on Angel Dust’s hasty duck behind Husker, Alastor’s eyes had probably changed again. “Most famous besides our own Smiles, here!” Angel Dust yelps hastily.
Alastor’s smile turns marginally softer. “How kind of you to say so, Angel Dust,” he nearly purrs, before turning his attention back to Jack.
“I think that means he is a bad boy,” Niffty says to no one in particular.
“Enough pointless chatter,” Alastor says, returning to business and fixing Jack with a glare. “You are clearly not here for redemption, so I would know your business on my territory, Jack.”
“He could be here for redemption!” Charlie interjects hotly. “And if he wants to be redeemed, he gets to try. We don’t turn people away here!”
“A fascinating project, to be sure, Your Highness,” Jack says mildly, as he sets down his hat on a side table. “But not one I am interested in pursuing at this precise moment.”
“Oh,” Charlie says, crestfallen. “But you sounded so excited about the amenities! And the programs!”
Alastor doubts Jack sounded excited about anything. He could certainly be affable—it was part of his job—but he rarely did happy. Charismatic, certainly. Angry, absolutely. Excited? Never, so far as Alastor had ever known him.
True to form, Jack merely says, “You seemed excited, ma’am. It seemed rather impolite to interrupt royalty mid-speech. But I did tell you before that I was interested in meeting Mr. Alastor here, if he was in.”
“And why,” Alastor says, radio filter crackling with warning, “precisely, did you wish to see me, Jack?”
Jack plucks something from his overcoat pocket and begins to balance it delicately on his knuckles, twisting and flipping it between his long fingers with ease. An ivory penknife, Alastor notes—the same one he’s had since the last time they met, almost seventy years ago. It dances between his fingers with dexterity and grace, silver blade currently tucked away, but no less a sign of the skill and speed in those hands when it came to a knife.
Still, although it could be interpreted as a threat or a warning, Alastor knows it for the idle fidget it is. Jack has killed with a penknife before, but never so outnumbered, and he’s not stupid enough to try it now. It’s mostly just something to do while he’s bored, to try and shed a little tension from the conversation.
Based on the way the rest tense behind him, Alastor thinks it only really released tension for the two of them.
“Checking on the gossip, really,” Jack says, dancing the penknife across his knuckles again. “I had heard the Radio Demon vanished. Despite our many differences, I was sorry to hear it. Professional courtesy, you know. Our methods may vary, but it’s difficult to find someone with skill in our line of work.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Alastor notes that Charlie looks a little green. He ignores it.
“But then,” Jack says, “Imagine my shock when the rumor mill started up again. The Radio Demon, returned! And not just returned, but hosting the strangest project Hell has ever heard of.”
“It’s not that strange,” Charlie protests, visibly hurt.
“You’d have heard earlier than your rumor mill if you simply listened to my broadcast,” Alastor points out. “Forgive me if I find it hard to believe you actually came here on my account.”
“Oh, let’s not dredge up that argument, again, Mr. Alastor,” Jack says with a scoff, twirling the penknife around one of his fingers. “For Her Highness’s sake if nothing else. You know I don’t touch the stuff. The rumor mill is what I have to work with.”
“And? So you know I’ve returned. Why bother to come here?”
“To see if it’s true,” Jack says. “And to see if you’re still as good as you were.” He clucks his tongue. “Come now, Mr. Alastor, old boy. Is this rude behavior really the way to treat your old idol?”
Damn it. “You’ve a rather high opinion of yourself, Jack—” Alastor begins, hoping to destroy the verbal evidence before it’s too late.
But he’s interrupted by a bark of laughter from behind, unquestionably Angel Dust once again. Vaggie mutters, “Idol?” and Charlie’s eyes go unexpectedly big and wet.
“Alastor, did you look up to Jack here? There’s no shame in that! Well, I mean, there is a little since it sounds like it was kind of for murder but still—”
“Give us the tea, old timer!” Angel Dust hollers from behind.
Alastor’s smile grows wider. Sharper. Far more deadly. Which is perfect, since that mostly hides the flush of embarrassment in his thin cheeks. He keeps his irritating ears upright and straight through sheer force of will, to further disguise his true loathing for the subject.
“You are making assumptions that are incorrect,” he says, as mildly as possible. “Jack is a liar, and cannot be trusted.”
“I would hardly lie about my own reputation,” Jack answers, with a cold smile. “And the effeminate one in the back did know me, so I’d be happy to answer his questions. Because it’s true! This young man tracked me down in the early forties, and Heavens, if he wasn’t an excitable little fan of mine, asking about the methods of my work.”
Angel Dust cackles again, and Alastor mentally adds make his life miserable to his to-do list for today. Charlie might not let him kill the man, but he can certainly make him wish he was dead.
“It is quite rude to put words in my mouth, Jack,” Alastor hisses through a mouthful of static.
“And what words am I putting there?” Jack asks, still with that irritable knowing smirk. “You were far more the chatterbox, as I recall. I was an inspiration to you topside, isn’t that what you said? Thirty years after my murders and still mysteries aplenty to unravel. Didn’t you tell me you tracked down the newspapers reporting on my work, even in America? And didn’t you read the memoirs of those idiots Anderson, Macnaghten, and Abberline, when they came out in your time? Oh, there’s no need to look so put out, Mr. Alastor. I’m rather flattered that my work could inspire others.”
Alastor’s left eye twitches, and twitches again when Angel Dust snickers, “Holy shit, Smiles is a Ripper Stan.”
“Shut up, Angel Dussst! He’s going to evisssscerate you if you keep mocking him!”
Alastor doesn’t know what a ‘stan’ is, but the serpent’s prediction will be accurate if he doesn’t manage to get this situation under control, and quickly. So he says, “Certainly I studied your work, if only to learn what methods to avoid. And an interview is the best way to gather such information, when the person is available.”
He makes a show of studying his claws, although he’s careful to keep Jack in the corner of his eye. “Of course, once I learned your actual methods, it was rather disappointing. How does the saying go again? ‘ Il ne faut pas toucher aux idoles: la dorure en reste aux mains?’ ”
Jack scowls at him. Alastor sneers. “Oh, you still haven’t bothered to learn another language, Jack? How pathetic.”
“What… did you say?” Charlie asks hopefully. “For the rest of us?”
Alastor’s grin grows wider as he looks Jack directly in the eye. “ ‘Don’t touch your idols: a little gold always rubs off.’ Or, in case it is very unclear, Jack, never meet your heroes. You’ll be disappointed.” He buffs his claws against the lapels of his coat. “I certainly was.”
Jack scoffs. “Because I don’t use my position to chase power like you? Because I actually appreciate subtlety, instead of your ridiculous grandstanding with your broadcasts? Because I have no interest in being an Overlord?”
“Because your work has no meaning,” Alastor snarls back, with true loathing. “Because you kill but you don’t hunt. Because your prey is weaker and already helpless and does half the job for you. You’re preachy and lazy. It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic, Jack.”
A stunned silence fills the hotel lobby.
Then Jack laughs. It’s a high-pitched, almost hysterical bark of laughter, before he meets Alastor’s eyes. They’ve gone full black again, and his short ears have pinned back as much as they can in his hair. The penknife is no longer dancing over his fingers, but clutched in his trembling fist.
“You want to lecture me about morals, you bloody bastard?” he growls, and his own voice is more guttural now, filled with rage. “We’re both in Hell for the same damned things, last I checked!”
“My work had purpose,” Alastor says loftily.
“And mine didn’t? Some of my work made it down here, you know? Women of the night so deep in their own bottles they did the world a disservice. They were scum. They didn’t deserve to live.”
“They were weaker than you. Beneath you. What manner of lesson were you teaching? What benefit to society? Or were you always so weak, Jack, that the most you can handle are ale-addled whores?”
“Don’t test me, Radio brat,” Jack snarls through too sharp teeth. “Just because I prefer the subtlety of the game doesn’t mean I’m not dangerous. I don’t need to play games of politics with Overlords in their shining towers to prove I can kill, or that I’m a threat.”
“Oh, Jack old boy, you couldn’t play with the big-timers if you tried. I’m afraid even Vox could thrash you soundly, and that one doesn’t even like to get his hands dirty.”
“If that’s the case, then you’re even more of an idiot than I took you for. You’ve made rather a target of yourself in your shining little hotel here, haven’t you? Staying put in one place, announcing your presence everywhere—you’re too flashy. Too obvious. You’re asking to die.”
“Unlike in the living world, Jack, there’s no need to hide what I am here. Why not enjoy the power my name brings? Everyone knows the Radio Demon. There’s power in names here.” Alastor drums his fingers on his staff as he watches Jack smugly. “And I assure you, I’m more than capable of holding my own, no matter who might dare to try their hand at taking me down.”
“Too flashy,” Jack repeats again, with a dismissive flip of his hand. “Letting people know who you are ruins the game. You can’t even walk down the street without demons fleeing. They run before you can catch them.”
Alastor’s smile grows wider, and the space around him dims. “I think you’ll find, old Jack, that I rather enjoy the chase,” he says, his voice thick with warbling radio filter. “It’s what makes the kill so thrilling.”
“Enough! What is wrong with the two of you?”
As if broken from a trance, both Alastor’s and Jack’s heads snap to the side. Vaggie glowers at them from a few feet away. She throws her hands up when both Alastor and Jack stare at her. “Are you two both seriously arguing about the…the methods of serial murder? Do the two of you understand how messed up that is?”
Alastor raises an eyebrow. “My dear, I’ve never once taken means to deny or disguise what I was, and what I still am,” he says lightly. “You knew precisely what I was capable of when I showed up at the door. If you find this relatively benign conversation shocking, then I myself am astonished.”
“But why?”
Charlie steps forward now, arms wide in supplication. She wears that expression Alastor is becoming all too familiar with: a mix of naivety, disgust, and overly optimistic determination. Her puppy-dog eyes are wide as she reaches out, trying to draw upon the empathy of men who absolutely do not have any, unaware that her entreaty is doomed to fail from the start.
“Why do this?” Charlie asks. “What is so important about this…this ‘work’ of yours? It hurts people. It kills people. That’s bad, regardless of how either of you handle it!”
Alastor has enough practice with Charlie’s moral preaching to keep any reaction from showing on his face. Jack, on the other hand, has no such practice, and no such filter.
“A rather misinformed way to look at it, ma’am,” he says. “People died, but they were people that deserved to die. Someone’s got to do it, especially if layabout constables aren’t.” He scoffs. “Do you know what a terrible mess Whitechapel was before I began my work? I did it a service, cleaning up scum.”
“But there could be better ways than killing people!” Charlie protests.
“And how would you suggest that?” Jack asks, with a wave of his hand. “Give them money and they spend their shillings on more ale over the safety of lodging houses. Give them work and they steal and squander. Their own families didn’t want them and wouldn’t help them. They did more for the community dead than alive.”
“I can’t believe that,” Charlie says firmly. “I won’t believe that.”
“Oh? You won’t? Did you know, Your Highness, that murder is rather a source of entertainment for the masses?” Jack idly begins twisting the penknife between his fingers again, flipping and spinning it once more as he talks.
“Maybe in Hell, sure,” Charlie says. “But up top—”
“Up top it’s just the same,” Jack says. “Murder is interesting. It’s intriguing. It’s exciting.”
“But why would anyone like that? It’s horrible! People died. They were probably scared or hurting,” Charlie says. “It’s not—people can’t enjoy that—”
She looks flustered. Alastor finds it thoroughly irritating that Jack is the one giving her such a dressing-down, but at the same time, he can’t refute the man’s words.
He’s right. Alastor has seen it.
“I think you’ll find, ma’am,” Jack continues with an irritating tone of superiority—more irritating because it comes from a place of truth, “That most human beings are merely too cowardly to actually take action like myself, or Mr. Alastor. But you’ll also find a significant number of them did and still do take enjoyment from our work. Not to mention money!
“Why, after each of my jobs in Whitechapel, city dwellers would gather to gawk at the scenes in the hopes of glimpsing a corpse! The newspapers and broadsheets made an absolute killing, if you’ll pardon the pun, Your Highness. Hawkers and vendors would set up near those crowds and earn shillings upon shillings for their families, selling refreshments and souvenirs. Those who found the bodies or had an ounce of gossip to spare about it, real or otherwise, became instant celebrities. Murder tourism is a trade unto itself. The waxworks exhibitions loved my work! I even inspired penny-dreadfuls and theatrical performances that kept the masses entertained long after my work was done, and some of the greatest novels of the era— Dracula, Dorian Gray —took inspiration from what I did. One kill from me could mean meals and warm beds and shillings in the pockets of hundreds of others and entertainment for thousands . Why, I daresay I did a service for the economy with my work.”
Charlie’s jaw is slack, eyes wide at the lecture. After a moment she shakes her head and says, “But—but that’s so…”
“Human nature,” Jack says. “That’s all it is. Humans take advantage of whatever opportunities they have at their disposal, even if it means profiting at the expense of others. Humans look for interesting distractions to remind themselves that their lives aren’t nearly so bad as others. The fact of the matter is, Your Highness, that terrible stories are fascinating as long as they aren’t happening to you.”
Charlie swallows.
“And it’s not just in my era, either,” Jack says, stopping his penknife dancing over his knuckles to gesture to Alastor. “Detestable as I find radio, I imagine Mr. Alastor’s own work made for some excellent stories in his brand of the entertainment industry.”
Charlie looks over to Alastor, eyes wide. It seems to him she’s almost pleading for him to disagree—for Jack to be a detestable outlier to the nature of humankind.
She’ll find no comfort from him.
“Loathe as I am to agree with dear old Jack, he isn’t wrong,” he says with a little shrug, his smile indifferent. “Oh, people would certainly try to disguise their interest in the Butcher of New Orleans, claiming to want to know his movements to be safe. But they couldn’t really hide their macabre fascination with a murder mystery happening on their doorstep, and more than one whispered that the dead men probably deserved it anyway. Knowing a person who knew a person who knew one of the missing gave you social status like you wouldn’t believe! The gossip flowed like water. Excellent for radio. I always had stories to provide to the masses…in more than one way, not that my listeners knew it at the time.”
“There you go, Your Highness,” Jack says, flicking his penknife at Alastor like an instructor’s staff. “And I’d dare you to find a single instance of serial murder that didn’t have the same story. Murder is fascinating, as long as you’re not the one dying. And in a city, what are the odds that it will ever be you? It’s quite a safe passion to indulge in.”
“Until it isn’t,” Vaggie says bluntly. “Until you’re the poor bastard on the other side of the knife.”
“In my experience, people never do consider that possibility until they’re in it,” Alastor says, idly tapping his claws against his staff again. “It’s what always made the hunt so lively.”
“A favorite saying amongst my own potential works,” Jack agrees with a near purr, “was much the same. ‘I ain’t afraid of him. It’s the Ripper or the bridge for me. What’s the odds?’ ” He sighs. “If only I had time to really teach them the odds. I always loathed that they flaunted their fearlessness at me so flippantly.”
“That’s horrible,” Charlie says. “It’s just…how can you enjoy suffering like that? Can’t you even see how cruel that is? To try and see it from the other side, how frightened they must have been?”
“Well, I imagine that’s what this whole place is about, hmm?” Jack waves a hand around absently at the lobby. “You seem rather spirited about this whole affair, Your Highness. And I do enjoy a good debate. Perhaps you can try to convince me.”
Charlie’s eyes widen. “Wait. Wait! Does that mean you would try the program?”
“I suppose it could prove entertaining, to listen to your arguments at least,” Jack says, with a small smile. “Though I daresay I will challenge you at every turn. I rather dislike being proven wrong, but I certainly am curious at how, by the seven circles, you would ever plan to redeem someone as infamous as me.”
Charlie looks delighted. “I believe everyone deserves a second chance! It might take you longer than others, but I’m sure we could make it happen eventually. And until then, you’d be safe and sound here, and you wouldn’t have to fight or kill or anything if you don’t want to.”
“I rather enjoy killing, but perhaps your program will help with that,” Jack says, taking a smooth step forward, eyes gleaming with interest. The penknife slips away neatly into his pocket as he extends his hand for Charlie, adding, “Perhaps a tour—”
Alastor slips sideways through the shadows quickly, in between Jack and Charlie again in less than a heartbeat. Charlie squawks in surprise, and Jack pulls up short, barely an inch from brushing his hand against Alastor’s coat.
“No,” Alastor says sharply. “Get out.”
Jack blinks, before meeting Alastor’s eyes coldly. “I don’t believe my redemption is in your hands, Mr. Alastor.”
“We both know you aren’t here for redemption,” Alastor says sharply. “I grow tired of this little game. Leave.”
Jack clucks his tongue. “So hasty,” he says. “Do I not deserve a chance to at least see this fancy new hotel? I came such a long way for a glimpse.”
“I don’t think it’d hurt to show him around, Alastor,” Charlie says. “Especially if he’s really interested in trying the program!”
But Alastor is fed up, and he’s had quite enough of this ridiculous farce. Jack’s face falls farther away as he grows taller, shimmering green with demonic energy. His limbs grow longer, thicker, disjointed; his head grows heavier as his rack of antlers grows in size. The room crackles and buzzes with his energy, the lights flicker again, and the shadows coalesce around him.
When he takes a step forward, raising one of his much longer, sharper claws, Jack the Ripper is wise enough to step back in turn. “Enough,” Alastor snarls. His teeth are too large and sharp to speak with anymore, so he speaks through the radio waves instead, and his voice is warped and crackling and deep. “I will not say it again, Jack! I will not abide anyone else hunting in my territory. If I find you here again I will devour you.”
He finishes his warning with a swipe of his claws, lashing out quickly with the hand not occupied by his staff. There’s a series of yells and protests behind him, followed shortly by noises of confusion when Jack isn’t a bloody paste on the carpet. Jack himself had darted back with a blur of speed, dancing nimbly out of reach of Alastor’s claws.
“I suppose a negotiation is not in order,” Jack says with a sigh.
Alastor’s only response is another step forward with an angry screech of feedback. Several tendrils of shadow slither from his back, raising over his head and antlers warningly. Jack might be out of claw range, but that doesn’t mean he’s out of Alastor’s range.
Jack, irritating and uneducated though he might be, is not stupid. He knows his first attempt into the hotel is at its end, and it has failed. “At least give me back my hat,” he says sullenly, gesturing to the side table now to Alastor’s right.
Alastor sneers through his fixed smile as he impales the hat neatly on one of his shadowy tendrils and flings it in Jack’s general direction, deliberately over his head. To his great disappointment, one of Jack’s arms stretches abnormally high, and his too-long fingers manage to neatly catch the top hat by its brim.
He brings it down to inspect the hole, before giving Alastor a sour look. “Now, that was just rude. I haven’t gone around tattering your beloved coat more than it already is.”
“Tell your milliner to bill me,” Alastor snarls. “Get out.”
Jack, idiot showman to the last, flourishes the hat with an elaborate bow before backing out the door. Once again, a smart man, knowing better than to turn his back on the Radio Demon. Alastor follows, ignoring the angry protests and indignant shrieks demanding to know what he’d just done, stomping after the man across the lobby and ignoring the damage to the carpet as his sharp hooves tear it up. He can fix that later.
But Jack, fortunately, is really gone. Alastor watches him go out the door, and watches him slink down the road some ways after, standing guard under the Now Playing marquee outside. He doesn’t reduce his size or allow his shadows and tendrils to slip away—he won’t, not until he’s sure the bastard is gone.
“Alastor!” Charlie is rarely angry, but she is certainly frustrated as she pushes open the hotel doors after him, incredulous. “What was that for? You promised me you wouldn’t interfere with people who wanted redemption! You just chased off another applicant!”
Alastor ignores her for a long time. Even when she gently pulls on one of the claws hanging at his side, or cautiously pushes away a slithering tendril of shadow when it gets too close. Even when she calls his name. He stays focused. Watching. Listening for the important things.
Because Charlie is far too naive. He’s told her time and time again that Sinners belong here, and this is their punishment, and there is no redemption. She might have seen friendliness or interest in her program in Jack’s eyes.
But Alastor is a killer. And he knows precisely what was truly in Jack’s eyes, because he’s seen it in the mirror before, time and time again, before and after his death.
It’s the all too starved look of a man who’s found his next target. And he’d found it in Charlie Morningstar.