Chapter Text
They meet once every ten years, for one full cycle of the sun. That is the arrangement she agreed to, in exchange for him to stop hunting her across the globe. She comes willingly. And he has a full twenty-hours of uninterrupted time with his Sun Summoner.
Once, they meet on what the otkazat'sya have taken to calling Halloween. He remembers a time when only the northeastern Celts celebrated this day, although they called it Samhain. Centuries later it was co-opted by a new faith and became the eve of their Saint’s Day. As it was a day of Saints he no longer recognized, he paid little attention to festivities of the day before.
Halloween, he learns, holds no religious value anymore, not in the place she chooses to meet, a metropolis called Chicago. He lets her pick the hotel and plan their activities. Like their previous meetings in the big American cities, he expects to spend time wandering some park or walking through busy streets to buy food from a cart before they sit, eating and looking at statues of foolish leaders. Instead, she keeps him inside, seated on a couch in the suite and makes him watch a movie while eating brightly colored triangles made from sugar. The candy shapes he does not mind, the movie does.
“I don’t understand why the green one simply doesn’t smite them all at the beginning,” he states, taking another helping of what Alina tells him is called “candy corn.” It resembles corn in no way that he can observe.
“Because then the movie would be over,” she tells him, “and the witches need to eat children so they can be immortal.”
He chews a few more candied corns and considers, “how limiting that must be – relying on the flesh of children to reach immortality.”
He turns to smile at her and raises his brows. She rolls her eyes and he grins, glad for their small inside joke.
“This movie is a classic, Aleksander,” she admonishes, reaching towards the bowl of sweets that he has pulled closer to his side of the couch. She selects a small treat in a silver wrapper, “it seems people of all ages watch it religiously every year.”
Ah, so there’s the religion, he thinks.
They sit in silence through a short scene where the lead actress sings a song at what appears to be one of the strangest parties he’s come across. He spends too much time trying to ascertain the dress code before he realizes the people are wearing what they call costumes – giant animals, deceased entertainers, and random creatures from a hodgepodge of folklore. He feels tired just looking at all the mismatched symbolism and imagery before a thought crosses his mind –
“What is your costume?” he asks with a sideways glance. Perhaps she’s chosen this movie to prepare him for an outing with the public in which they attend some bizarre gathering of inebriated adults in spandex and bad wigs. He supposes she will have picked some hideously gaudy costume for him to wear, which would be worth it only if she in turn has chosen something see-through or revealing.
Instead of gratuitous cleavage she answers him with a snort, “My costume is these pajamas,” she gestures to her gray leggings and overlarge maroon sweatshirt emblazoned with the letters of a nearby university. It’s new; she must have purchased it at the airport. “As if I had any hope of dragging you out tonight.”
He mulls over her comment and glances at the clock. It’s only 7:00 pm, plenty of time to acquire the necessary garments and accessories. It occurs to him that this day, this random evening of publicly endorsed debauchery, could offer the perfect cover for both of them to display their talents to an audience. They haven’t partaken in such a spectacle for quite some time.
“What if you could?” he says, and he turns to give her his full gaze. He finds her face still glued to television, he faintly hears one of the characters talking about a book in French.
“What if I could what?” she asks without looking at him. He sighs and she frowns when he summons a film of shadows over the screen to get her full attention.
“What if you could drag me out tonight?” he watches, pleased, as she slowly turns to face him with unconcealed surprise. “I’ll even let you pick my costume,” he offers, then leans in close, letting his breath spread over neck before he presses his lips to her pulse, “if you let me pick yours.”
-
In the end, she vetoes both a light blue cheer leading uniform and a black leather jumpsuit with a red wig. But when he finds a costume with tiny, two-tone blue and red shorts over black fishnets and a torn-up white shirt that says “Daddy’s Lil Monster” she grins and says, “Only if I get the bat, too.” Sure enough, there is a wooden baseball bat covered with graffiti propped next to the stand for this costume. The cashier folds her garments and suggests two bottles of spray-on hair dye.
“It will look great on your bleached locks,” the pimply teenager tells her, “and it’s temporary, it shouldn’t damage your color.” Alina nods and adds the bottles to her purchase. Aleksander purses his lips when he sees the shiny black credit card she uses to pay and wonders, not for the first time, how she acquires her funds.
“Wait,” he says, stilling her hand as she starts to hand over the card, “I’ve changed my mind.” He walks over to a rack of costumes he’s only just now noticed. There he sees a smooth, satin gold dress with a deep V neckline and a giant golden crown. The crown seems to be made out of finger bones. He smirks the reminder of festival stands and false relics.
“This one,” he says, and holds the dress up against her when she comes closer. The neck line will curve around her breasts like a palm made from golden feathers. His smile grows salacious.
She reaches out a hand and runs it over the dress, saying softly, “You’re always trying to drape me in gold.”
He lifts his free hand to her cheek, “I simply want to see you shine.” She closes her eyes, and leans into his touch, if only for a moment.
Back at the register, the cashiers puts their almost-purchase on a back shelf and begins to fold the dress before wrapping the crown in layers of tissue paper. “You don’t even need any hair dye for this costume,” the girl tells them. “It’s perfect.”
At the next shop he has a moment’s worry when she holds up a bright pink jump suit to his frame, assessing the look and reaching for a black face mask with a white triangle. This was not what he had in mind. Fortunately, something else catches her eye and she drops the pink monstrosity and walks to a rack in the back of the store.
This costume looks simple and understated. It’s a shiny, gold suit coat with black lapels and cuffs. The hem is longer that most formal jackets but when he tries it on, the cut fits somewhere between casual and refined. And it’s a good color, her color, thought he suspects she seldom wears it these days.
Alina comes up behind him and reaches over her shoulder, placing a hand on the flat of his chest.
“Take this shirt off,” she says, undoing the top button. “Put on these pants.” The pants are a cheap, black pleather material. He gives a slight grumble of protest but accepts the form-fitting pants, pleased at the way she eyed him in the mirror. He steps into the fitting room to change and emerges in the full getup. Alina stands before him, dragging her eyes down his body. He smirks.
“Who am I?” he asks, and watches her reach for a tube of hair gel. She squirts some into her hands, staying silent and nods at him to lower his head. He matches her height and closes his eyes at the feel of her fingers running through her hair. When she releases him, she turns him towards the mirror and slides a hand across his bare chest, looking at their reflections.
“The devil,” she says flatly. He gives a small chuckle. “From a series about a teenage witch. She’s the most powerful witch ever born and it’s her destiny to rule over hell.” He leans his head a bit, wondering why this rendition of the otkazatsya’s most feared demon is the one she chose.
“The dress you picked for me,” she explains. “That’s the coronation dress she wears when he crowns her Queen of Hell.”
His eyes darken and his grin stretches wide across his face. He meets her gaze in the mirror. Hers is defiant and his is wicked.
They spend the night walking between bars and clubs in the city’s most populated areas. Some people seems to understand their costumes while others simply stare at Alina’s blazing gold silhouette. He nods in approval at their wonder and stares daggers at the men whose eyes linger too long. Several times through the night she raises her arms to call spears of light to her palms, sending rays of concentrated light up to the sky. The drunken party-goers think its some electrical trick. Some use the term "Morning Star." He cloaks them in darkness before anyone looks too closely, and rolls his eyes at the mortal's shrill shrieks when they disappear.
As the hours pass midnight, large groups of tired, sluggish people with disheveled clothes spill out of the closing bars. Couples and groups of friends begin to dance in the streets and for a few blissful minutes, she lets him spin her around and hold her to him as they shift and sway to the last strands of music from the closing nightlife venues. As people wander home and the crowds thin, they make their way back to the hotel and fall into bed just before dawn.
When he wakes up, she is gone. Resting above their pile of discarded golden clothes – which seem plainer, more muted now in the daylight – is a folded note. He reads it, noting the location of their next meeting, a decade from now, and gathers the few possessions he bothers to travel with.
He leaves the hotel room, alone.