Chapter Text
Alastor pinches the bridge of his nose, lifting his eyeglasses with the motion. Long streams of sweat caress the nape of his neck, his back, his face. Absent-mindedly, he tries to wipe the sweat from his face with the back of his hand, while the other firmly grips the wood handle beside him. He breathes tiresomely, once and again, before he looks down — and smiling, he proudly licks his bottom lip, tasting the lingering remains of rusty blood.
A sharp inhale, then a swing of the arms holding the axe, and a blunt, muffled noise. Blood spatters all over him, this time reaching his face. He doesn't dare close his eyes; he is mesmerized by the faded green eyes looking up at him. In a last effort he wrenches the axe free, gasping for air — it has gone clean through the body, through organs, all the way to the ground.
He tosses the axe to his left and straddles the cold body, knees sinking into the dirt on either side, slowly slipping his fingertips into the fresh wound.
Warmth.
His smile widens. He grits his teeth and lets out a tiny, deep sigh.
Closing his eyes, he ventures deeper; slick noises echo through his mind and slippery eels run between his fingers. He drops his head and glances down — his hands are completely inside the red moisture. He digs deeper, playing innocently with the firm, almost dense toys he struggles to recognize.
The night is cold and the dirt beneath him is sloppy. A couple of fireflies dance in the bayou, circling pleasantly over the grass. Crickets and toads serenade the moon by the wood cabin, where the silhouette of a man rises solemnly, dragging the remains of today's hunt toward his secret home.
✦
Sound: a rooster crow played on a muted trumpet — the band's little joke. Then bright, loping jazz piano under.
HOST: Gooood morning, New Orleans! Rise and shine, mes amis — this is Alastor Lebeau, and if you can see your own breath this morning, no, you have not died and gone north. The thermometer outside our studio window says forty-one degrees, and down here, friends, that is what we call an emergency.
Piano flourish.
HOST: That's right — the Crescent City woke up cold today. The fog's sitting on the river like a cat that won't be moved, the shoeshine boys on Canal Street are working in their coats, and I saw a man on my way in wearing two hats. Two. I tipped both of mine to him.
But take heart, cher — because you know what that little bite in the air means. It means carnival weather. Mardi Gras is just around the bend, March the fourth, and this whole town is starting to hum like a horn section warming up.
Band kicks in: bright, stomping number — "Tiger Rag" style.
The band finishes. A beat of quiet — longer than usual. When the host returns, the bounce is gone from his voice. Lower. Careful.
HOST: Friends... before we carry on, I've been asked to read something. Set down your coffee a moment. This one's worth your ears.
The family of Mr. Daniel "Danny" Brennan, aged twenty-three, of Constance Street in the Irish Channel, asks the public's help in finding him. Danny plays trumpet in the clubs by night, and some of you know him from the bandstands on Rampart — a good-natured fellow whose high notes could raise the roof. He was last seen Friday night, near midnight, leaving a supper club on Rampart Street, headed home on foot along the river.
He's six feet tall, broad through the shoulders, fair-skinned with red hair and green eyes. He was wearing a gray tweed jacket and his Sunday shoes — his mother says he'd just had them resoled.
Pause.
HOST: Now I know what some of you are thinking, because I've heard it all week at the barber's and the lunch counter. A young man goes missing after midnight — that's not a mystery, Al, that's a Tuesday. He's sleeping it off somewhere. He hopped a freight. He's got a girl across the river.
(quiet, firm) Friends. Danny Brennan is the third young man to vanish since Twelfth Night. Théo Landry, twenty-six, a stevedore — last seen walking home from the wharves. Marcel Aucoin, twenty, a seminary student, cher, a boy who didn't drink and was in bed by nine — gone from six blocks away. And now a trumpet man who never missed a Sunday dinner at his mother's table in his life.
Three men. All young, all strong, all last seen walking alone, after dark, within shouting distance of the Quarter. Men like that don't just misplace themselves. And strong as they were — nobody heard a thing.
Band eases in: a slow, aching cornet lead that gradually lifts.
HOST: The police ask anyone who was near Rampart and Basin, Friday night between midnight and one, to come forward to the First Precinct. You needn't give your name. You needn't explain what you were doing out at that hour — this is New Orleans, nobody's asking.
Pause.
HOST: (quietly, over the music) This is WWL, New Orleans. Look after one another out there.
✦
Alastor struts down the boulevard, a smile on his face and a cigarette on his lips. He hums a gypsy jazz ballad, looking forward to his favorite lunch counter, where the coffee is strong and the jambalaya is always piping hot. The city bursts with people; the air fills with a dozen melodies and the sweet aromas drifting from the bakeries, with talk and gossip in three languages spilling down from the balconies.
Gliding toward a streetlamp, he catches the post one-handed and swings around it, heels lifting off the cobblestones, too happy for the sidewalk to hold him. The number one radio host is here, shining as a new day waits on his little devilish endeavors. But for the time being, his footsteps carry him into a nice, proper lunch counter.
“Hey! Al! Bébé!” a lady shouts from outside, distracting him from his first sip of coffee. He knows damn well who it is by the chirping sound of her voice, and he takes the sip anyway.
Without glancing back, he answers:
“Mimzy! Ma chère!”
They greet each other with a kiss on both cheeks, smirking at the tickle of the fake eyelashes Mimzy always wears.
“Heard you this morning on the radio, and let me tell you, your voice sure is soothing — like a balm for my ears.”
Alastor chuckles around a spoonful of jambalaya.
“Why, thank you, chère! It is a pleasure to be a delicacy to your ears.”
Mimzy snickers and pats his forearm. Chilly as the day is — it could be pouring or freezing — she always wears a nice little tassel dress; a little hat perched on her golden bob.
She leans in closer, glancing to both sides of the restaurant as she reaches into her purse for her lace hand fan.
“Do you know the news?” she whispers, covering her mouth with the fan.
Alastor raises an eyebrow; finishing the last of his jambalaya, he glances at her.
“Not in the slightest.” Mimicking the gesture, he hides his mouth behind his cup of coffee.
Mimzy smiles, her eyes glittering with mischief.
“Well, let me tell ya, bébé — the word's on the street—” she lowers her voice “—there's a new daddy in town…”
Alastor leans a little closer, tossing a bill onto the counter.
“And…?”
“He's hosting a blowout tonight, at his newly bought manor just on the outskirts of town!”
“Ma chère, there's a new rockefella every day these days! And let me tell you, they're always up to spending their money on this town.”
Alastor loses interest and starts to straighten up.
“Bébé! Listen, please! That's just the tip of the tea.”
Alastor squints, smiling foolishly at her — but as he crosses his arms, he leans in again.
“He's looking for a new jazz headliner!” Mimzy taps her shoes enthusiastically. “This blowout is holding the auditions for it, and let me tell you, the girls are gossiping that the pay is heavy sugar.” She winks at him.
Mimzy watches a glow rise in Alastor's eyes, the smile on his face growing into a grin.
“Not only that — rumor says he's highly influential in these waters. So potentially, he could patronize a whole new jazz band!”
Alastor hums, curiosity kindling behind his eyes.
“Quite the interesting gentleman to arrive in town. Do we know his name yet?”
“Morningstar,” she whispers softly. “And I know you don't care for this sort of matter, but he is quite the look — the girls and boys who've seen him are drooling in awe.”
“I see.” Alastor drinks his coffee with studied disinterest and rises to leave, offering her his arm.
“…And mister Morningstar doesn't seem to mind them both.”
“What's important, chère, is that we take a place in this blowout—”
“Bébé — who do you think I am?”
Mimzy snaps her fingers as Alastor opens the door for them.
“I already did,” she says, throwing her arms wide to either side of the frame.
Alastor's mouth drops open. He sweeps Mimzy up and spins on his heels, both laughing, bouncing down the street already trading ideas for songs, for outfits — and the urgent matter of finding a trumpet player to give the audience an elevated impact. Better yet: a saxophone player, the thought arriving fast in the minds of the mischievous pair.
✦
The sun begins to set on the horizon, chilling the air, luring the bohemian souls out of their homes for the night. Lightbulbs and flashy neon signs flicker to life along Canal Street, followed by the echo of trumpet wails and the distinctive laughter of people enjoying life after a hard-earned dollar. But tonight is different: many of these free spirits are gathering on the outskirts of town, crowding the riverside, hopping aboard the ferry.
“Is the manor actually the old Seven Oaks?” Husk points across the river, a note of disbelief in his voice.
“Don't tell me you're scared of that place,” Mimzy huffs, stepping onto the ferry. Beside her, Alastor offers a hand to help her aboard.
“Well, it has a reputation—”
“Think of the possibilities, my fellow friend!” Alastor cuts in before Husk can mutter another word. “To have all the resources to rebuild the old city dump — quite remarkable.” He stares at the white house on the horizon. “One opportunity we should not let pass, right?”
Alastor winks, that singular, confident smile offering a sort of relief. Husk sighs and follows him through the crowd, one hand carrying the black case of his saxophone. He can't deny the big fish is waiting, lurking inside that wicked house — and the rumors of black magic and the like only deepen his sense that this is a bad idea. But watching everyone so joyous and carefree, Alastor and Mimzy already rehearsing tonight's number in front of him, cheering him on, makes it easy to overlook his fears.
“You two are going to be the ruin of me,” he grumbles, joining them with a weary smile.
The trio rehearses — vocals and Husk's sax — and a knot of the crowd cheers them on. A lady offers Alastor her hand, inviting him to dance; he takes it the same instant, and nearby a young man passes Husk a little buzz. Other players try to follow, competing for the crowd's attention, but Mimzy is charming enough to win against the onlookers effortlessly. Some are already throwing flowers at her, drowning her in compliments.
All of them bask in the excitement — singing, dancing, prancing — not thinking too hard about the competition, just stealing a moment of pure bliss before they reach the fated destination, the ride itself a warm-up act for what none of them could possibly imagine unfolding.
✦
The house rises at the end of the avenue: Doric columns on all four sides, white, freshly limewashed, lit from below — a Greek temple floating in the cane fields. Up in the rooftop cupola, a single red light burns. The double doors open onto a grand central hall, two stories high — the heart of the house. A checkerboard marble floor in black and white; a crystal electric chandelier big enough to rob the room of its attention; and facing you as you enter, two twin staircases — wide, curved, mirrored — sweeping up both sides of the hall like a pair of white wings, mahogany handrails and blood-red carpet pinned down by brass rods. Between the staircases, at floor level, the mouth of the main salon. Husk whistles, letting his amazement out the only way his brain can manage.
A butler receives them without asking their names. Nobody has a name here.
“Well, well, well!” Mimzy exclaims. “Isn't this ritzy?” She nudges Alastor.
But he is lost for words as well, mesmerized by the palace they've walked into. He nods in awe.
“Not bad for a million-dollar renovation, chère.”
With a dazzling smile he walks toward what used to be the dining room and double parlors, now opened into a single space under thirteen-foot ceilings. At the far end stands the stage — raised three steps, its mouth framed in gilded moldings salvaged from some dead theater, footlights along the lip and a wine-dark velvet curtain. It is wide enough for a ten-piece band, dressed with a white grand piano, drums, and brass. The dance floor lies up front, little cocktail tables along the walls. On hot nights — or nights like this — the French doors to the gallery stand open, and the music spills out across the water toward the river.
“Bébé, here! I got us the schedule!” Mimzy yelps through the crowd, gliding between bellhops and their shining silver trays to reach Alastor where he stands, contemplating the room. He grins mischievously and takes the paper; as she hugs him from the side, he throws his free arm around her shoulders, holding the list out in front of them. Tracking the names with his index finger, he finds the three of them right at the bottom.
“Lovely, ma chère! Lady Luck herself is on our side today!” He takes her by the shoulder. “We're billed right at the top of the evening, when the crowd is at full boil!”
Mimzy shrieks with happiness, and Alastor backs off with a chuckle.
“Dear Lord! Husk needs to hear this!”
Mimzy snatches the paper from his hand and flounces off as gleefully as she arrived. When he finally loses sight of her, his smile deepens. He turns, gazing across the people gathered near the main stage, gloved hands folded neatly behind his back.
White tie, wall to wall — a flock of penguins in patent leather, every collar starched to the throat like a row of polite garrotes. He notes who wears their tails easily and who's rented them; the cut never lies, even when the man does. The ladies are the new fashion poured into satin — bias-cut, backless, water made fabric — champagne and oyster and pale gold, tasteful to the point of anonymity. Only one gown by the stage is crimson, deep as a held note, and Alastor awards its owner a flicker of genuine respect: in a room full of people dressed to belong, here at last is someone dressed to be remembered. Diamonds at every throat. Perhaps a third of them real. The gloves go to the elbow, the smiles considerably less far, and everyone's eyes keep making the same small pilgrimage — up and back, to the dark balcony facing the stage, where cigar smoke curls over a mahogany rail and the host has not yet deigned to appear.
He plucks a champagne from a passing bellhop — smiling that wide, unhurried smile — and descends into the glitter, perfectly dressed and entirely unnoticed.
✦
The trio is chatting over appetizers, seated at one of the cocktail tables near the stage, when the lights go out all at once. A hush drops over the manor; glasses pause halfway to lips — and then the whispers come rushing, bright and fast, every head tipping toward the stage.
A spotlight blooms against the curtain, revealing a lonely microphone. From the wing, a man in livery and white gloves hurries toward it, and scattered applause breaks out.
“Mesdames et messieurs… votre hôte!” And the servant vanishes behind the curtain.
The curtains part. Before he is seen, he is heard — the slow, unhurried tap of expensive shoes against the boards — and then the spotlight finds him. A man dressed in white from topper to heel: not the white of weddings, but the white of a thing that has never once been told no. A white tailcoat cut with impossible precision; a silk top hat tipped at an angle that on any other man would read as careless and on him reads as an invitation. And below it all, black shoes polished to a wicked shine, and a slim black cane he clearly doesn't need but clearly adores.
Then — the heresy. Against all that immaculate white, a waistcoat of hot, electric pink, and a ribbon to match knotted at his throat where etiquette begs for white. Carnival-bright, candy-sweet, and just slightly wrong, the way the apple must have looked to Eve.
He doesn't wear the outfit so much as preside over it, twirling the cane once between two fingers as he steps to the microphone.
The crowd applauds fiercely — some even daring to whistle — and the host bursts into laughter, delighted. He sweeps the microphone up in one hand and bows deep at the waist, the other arm sweeping its cane behind his back in a single theatrical flourish: the very picture of a showman who has taken a thousand bows and savored every single one.
He lets the applause run a moment longer than is polite, then lifts a gloved hand — not to quiet them. Heavens, no. Merely to confirm that yes, they are quite right to — and brings the microphone to his lips.
“Mes chers amis,” he purrs, the smile audible in every syllable. “You're too kind. Truly. Far too kind — but do go on, I shan't stop you.”
A ripple of laughter.
“Welcome to Seven Oaks. Leave your names at the door, leave your troubles on the water, and whatever you do—” a slow turn of the cane, a wink toward the dark “—do try to enjoy yourselves. It would be such a shame to waste the evening I've prepared.”
Alastor glares at him over a thin smile pressed to his whiskey glass, while the rest of the room goes on adoring the night's host.
“Now that is a rockefella,” Mimzy whispers lasciviously, staring mischievously at Alastor. “Don't you think, bébé?”
Alastor side-eyes her. Not bothering to reply, he simply takes a longer, slower drink of his whiskey. Husk shakes his head as Mimzy giggles under her breath.
The dandy rockefella plucks the microphone from its stand in one smooth motion — freeing himself to roam — and begins to stroll the lip of the stage, cane swinging idle at his side.
“Now then. You haven't crossed all that dark water for me — though I confess I'd understand it if you had.”
A scatter of laughter.
“No, no. Tonight, mes amis, Seven Oaks is hunting. I am in want of a band — a real one. Not a pleasant little supper outfit to fill the silence between cocktails, but something with teeth. Something to put on that stage every night and make this old house forget it was ever a ruin.” He spreads the hand that holds the cane. “Three have come to play for their supper. You shall hear them all. You shall be the judges — well.” A small, private smile. “Co-judges.”
He turns, slow, toward the dark wing where the bands wait, the long cord of the microphone trailing after him across the boards.
“Though I'll admit — strictly between the four hundred of us—” he drops his voice, leaning into the microphone now, conspiratorial, delighted “—it's the last one I'm curious about. The one they've tucked away at the end of the evening. I've heard the most peculiar things, chères. Things that made even me raise an eyebrow — and I assure you, that does not come cheaply.” A beat. “So we shall save them for last. The best wine, the deepest cut — n'est-ce pas?”
He sweeps the cane toward the stage.
“But first — the other two. Do be kind.” A beat. “Or don't. I find I rather enjoy watching people earn it.”
And with that he saunters back, drops the microphone neatly into its stand, and melts off toward the dark.
✦
Half-tossing his empty glass onto the cocktail table, laughing softly, Alastor glances at his companions — who are staring at each other, mouths open, disbelief in their eyes.
“No. Fucking. Way.” Husk holds his face in one hand, a little pale, tipping backward as he downs what's left of his liquor. “Are we really prepared for this show?” he asks the ceiling, fear plain in his voice.
“Of course we are,” Alastor answers, smiling easily. “If the rumors of our greatness reached his ears, we must believe we are worth—” the word spills out in spite “—the expectations.”
“I would love to reach his ears, at least… among other things.”
Both glance back at her, eyebrows lifting.
“What?” she exclaims. “You can't deny he's a treat for the eyes… perhaps my voice can reach his ears.” She winks at Alastor.
“Oh, it will, ma chère,” he replies, plucking another round of drinks from a passing bellhop without breaking stride.
It must.
“Let's show them — and this Morningstar fellow — what true talent looks like.”
✦
Jazz flows through the hall, through the guests dancing, drinking, laughing. The moon hangs silvery, riding high — and in this city, people would sooner stay out than miss a single hour of the buzzing jazz life.
The band warms up in the half-dark behind the curtain. Mimzy loosens her throat, humming the tune they're about to play, and Husk sits on a stool beside her, wetting the reed of his saxophone and blowing it warm. Alastor watches them, close to the stage yet hidden from the crowd's eye. He glances at the band currently playing; they're doing a good job, making people dance and clap — the usual.
A wry smile.
Cold shivers run down his spine.
He looks up at the balcony facing the stage — and there he is.
The host lounges against the mahogany rail, in no hurry, one elbow propped on the wood and his chin resting idly in his gloved hand, as though he has been watching for some time and sees no reason to pretend otherwise. The cigar smoke curls past him, unbothered. He isn't watching the stage. He isn't watching the band, or the crimson gowns, or the four hundred faces turned politely toward the music.
He is watching Alastor.
And when their eyes meet, he doesn't look away. He smiles — slow, knowing, delighted — and tips his chin a fraction in his hand, as if to say: Yes. You. I see you.
Alastor holds the gaze a moment longer than most men would dare — and then, slowly, he smiles back. Not the polite smile he wears for the room, but something sharper, brighter, with teeth in it.
I see you too.
He tips his head, the barest courtesy — acknowledged — and turns, unhurried, back to his companions. The band onstage finishes its last song, and a round of applause rolls through the hall.
✦
The spotlight catches Mimzy mid-grin, one gloved hand already on her hip, and the room knows before a single note drops that this one is going to be trouble.
Alastor's piano kicks it off — a tumbling, breakneck stride that comes down the keys like a staircase collapsing in perfect time — and Husk's sax comes roaring in behind it, and then Mimzy opens her mouth and simply takes the room.
“Hold that tiger!”
She crows it and points a finger straight into the crowd — at a portly gentleman in the third row who nearly drops his champagne.
“Hold that tiger!”
She swings the finger to a blushing débutante, to a waiter caught mid-pour, to the whole laughing floor at once. She isn't singing at them, she's singing through them, prowling the lip of the stage on the balls of her feet, hips counting the beat, daring every soul in the room to keep up. She catches a man's eye and winks; his wife catches the wink and laughs louder than anyone. Mimzy blows her a kiss. By the second chorus the whole floor is shouting the tiger back at her — four hundred swells who came to be seen, forgetting entirely to be seen.
Then she throws an arm toward Husk, steps back, and gives him the room.
The sax takes it low and dirty. Husk doesn't move much — he never does — just plants himself, closes his eyes, and lets the horn do the prowling Mimzy started. It growls up out of the low register, all smoke and gravel, then climbs, bending the tiger's melody into something meaner and hungrier. Somebody at the bar says good God out loud. The horn doesn't care. It just keeps stalking.
And then — Alastor.
He's been laying back the whole number, feeding the others, content to drive from the shadows. Now Husk drops out, Mimzy throws him a look, and the piano steps into the light all on its own.
It starts almost politely. A neat little figure, prim, deceptively simple — and then the left hand drops that stride bass like a trap springing shut, and the right hand comes tearing across the keys in runs too fast and too clean to be quite fair, the tiger's melody splintering into a dozen glittering pieces and reassembling itself a half-second before you lose the thread. He plays it grinning, never once looking at his hands, looking instead out at the room, at the bands he's just buried, at the dark balcony above — playing to the balcony now, every impossible run a question aimed straight up at the man leaning on the rail.
Was this what you wanted?
Was this enough?
The keys hammer toward a finish that seems to gather the whole room up in its fist—
—and then all three snap back together for the last eight bars, piano and sax and that bright crowing voice, “hold that tiger — hold that tiger — HOLD THAT TIGER!” — and hit the final chord like a door slamming on a vault.
Silence. One whole heartbeat of it.
Then Seven Oaks comes apart — four hundred people on their feet, champagne forgotten, whistling and stamping and shouting for more, the loudest sound that ruined old house has heard in a hundred years.
And up on the balcony, in no hurry at all, a single pair of white-gloved hands begins, slowly, to applaud.
✦
The ovation is still rolling when the servant appears.
Not on the stage — there's no announcement this time, no spotlight, nothing for the crowd. He simply materializes at the edge of the wings the way good servants do, liveried and white-gloved, and waits for Mimzy to catch his eye. When she does, he inclines his head to the smallest degree and speaks under the roar, just loud enough for the three of them.
“The master of the house requests the pleasure,” he says, “in the box.”
Mimzy's grin sharpens. Husk exhales through his nose, already reaching for a cigarette. And Alastor — Alastor only smiles, as though he's been expecting the summons since the moment he sat down at the piano.
They go up the way you're meant to go up at Seven Oaks: by the twin staircases, through the murmuring crowd that parts for them now — the new band, that's them, did you hear them — past the upper landing, past the padded leather door, and into the box that faces the stage from on high.
The noise of the room falls away behind the door to a warm, muffled hum. Up here it's all low light and cigar smoke and good leather, the little open bar gleaming at the back, the humidor glowing softly in its glass. And at the rail, his back to the room he owns, watching the empty stage where the magic just happened, stands the man in white.
He doesn't turn at once. He lets them feel the room first.
“Do you know,” he says, conversationally, to the stage, “how long it has been since anyone made me sit up in my chair?” Now he turns — slow, delighted, the hot-pink ribbon at his throat the one spot of color the shadows haven't swallowed. His eyes go over Mimzy (a slow, appreciative tilt of the head), over Husk (a respectful nod, one professional to another), and come to rest, at last and at length, on Alastor.
“You,” he says, and the word is warm and amused and not entirely safe. “You played that last chorus straight at me.”
“I play to whoever's listening,” Alastor answers, easy as anything. “You happened to be the only one in the house who was.”
For a moment the two of them simply look at each other, and the air in the box goes taut as a held breath — Mimzy glancing between them, fascinated, Husk pointedly busying himself with a match.
Then Lucifer laughs — a real one, bright and genuine and pleased — and sweeps a gloved hand toward the bar, the stools, the whole gleaming private world above the floor.
“Sit,” he says. “Drink. Smoke whatever you like — it's all the real thing up here, I promise you.” The smile curves. “We have a great deal to discuss, mes nouveaux amis. Because I think — yes, I rather think — I've just found my headliners.”
He lets the offer settle for half a breath. Then he raises one gloved hand and — snaps.
The padded door opens at the sound, obedient as everything else in this house. Women glide in from the landing — liveried, lovely, soundless — and each one carries a golden plate, and on each plate, folded thick and neat, more money than the three of them have seen in a year. They drift through the box and tilt the trays low, an offering held just within reach. The green glows under the low light. Everything Lucifer offers, Alastor notes, is always held just within reach.
"A taste," He says, watching their faces rather than the money. "Consider it a courtesy. One does not ask artists of your caliber to work on promises."
Only now does Alastor let himself look properly at the rest of the box — and realize they were never alone up here. The shadows beyond the bar hold a handful of others: not many, but the kind whose stillness says they matter. A heavy-set man with a senator's jowls and three rings. A silver-haired woman draped in furs too warm for the room, a cigarette holder balanced between two fingers. And among them, woven through them, the company — beautiful young men and women in clothes a half-step too fine for what they are, leaning close, laughing softly at things that aren't quite jokes, a hand resting too long on a lapel, a mouth at an ear, the warm and unhurried choreography of people who are paid to make the evening feel like a gift. Nobody here is in a hurry. Nobody here will remember a single name come morning. That, Alastor understands, is the entire point.
"Fridays," He goes on, turning back to the three of them. "That's what I want. Every Friday night, this stage, this house — you, top of the bill, no one above you. The supper bands can squabble over the other six evenings; Friday belongs to my headliners." A pause, the smile curving. "I'll have you brought across, of course. A launch from the New Orleans wharf, there and back, so none of you need trouble yourselves with the water or the hour. Arrive like guests, leave like guests." He spreads his hands. "And the salary, naturally, is quite apart from what's on those pretty plates."
Mimzy doesn't wait for anyone's permission. She snatches two fat bundles off the nearest tray and presses them to Husk's cheeks like a child squashing a friend's face, crowing with delight.
"Husky! Do you feel that? That's folding money, bébé!"
Husk— who came across that black water certain this was a terrible idea — finds himself laughing despite every bone in his body, and plucks two bundles of his own off the plate before the girl can move on.
"Alright," he admits, grinning. "Alright. Maybe the haunted house has its charms."
And in the middle of all of it — the trays, the money, Mimzy's whooping, the soft laughter of the company in the dark — Morningstar’s eyes find Alastor's again, and hold.
"Walk with me for a moment," he says. Not to the room. Only to him. He tilts his head toward the rail, toward the long drop and the bright floor below and the empty stage waiting in its light. "Let others enjoy themselves. You and I, mon cher — I think we have a different sort of conversation to have."
It isn't a question. He is already turning, already drifting toward the mahogany rail, certain in the way of a man who has never once reached for a door and found it locked.
Alastor sets down his glass, that wide unhurried smile settling into place — and follows.
At the rail, the noise of the floor below rises faint and warm, the great room settling into afterglow now that the last band has played. For a moment Alastor simply looks out over it all — and then, without turning, he speaks.
"I'll tell you plainly," he says, easy and pleasant. "I don't much care for making deals with men I don't know. It's a poor habit.”
The host laughs — soft, genuine, delighted to be challenged.
"Ah. There it is." He leans an elbow on the rail beside him, unhurried. "Forgive me. I do so enjoy being the mystery that I forget it makes other people nervous." He turns his head, and the smile is all warmth and no apology. "Lucifer. Lucifer Morningstar. The man whose house you're standing in, whose money sits in your friend's hands, and whose launch will carry you home tonight." A pause, eyes glinting. "Hardly a stranger worth doubting, wouldn't you say? I've shown you rather more than most men show on a first meeting."
"You've shown me a great deal of house," Alastor allows. "That's not quite the same as a man."
"No," Lucifer agrees, pleased. "It isn't." He lets it sit, then circles back, light as ever. "So. My Fridays. Have you an answer for me?"
"I have a consideration for you." Alastor's smile doesn't move. "It isn't only my neck on the line. There's a girl who'd press money to my face and a sax man who thinks your lovely house is going to eat him. I don't make their choices for them. We'll talk, the three of us. Then you'll have your answer."
Lucifer inclines his head, entirely untroubled — as though the delay only confirms something he already suspected.
"Spoken like a man worth waiting for." He looks back out over the floor. "But let me be clear about one thing, mon cher, so there's no misunderstanding between us later." The lightness in his voice doesn't change. "The offer to the band stands or falls with the three of you, as is only fair. But the offer to you—" he turns, and now his attention is a weight "—is open regardless. If they say no, the door stays open. For you. It always will."
Alastor says nothing. But he doesn't look away either.
For a while the two of them simply watch the room — the dancers, the glittering crowd, the small bright theater of money and want laid out below the rail like a model village. It's Lucifer who breaks it, and he breaks it gently, the way one offers a cigarette.
"You have me at a disadvantage, you realize. You know my name now. I still don't have yours."
"Alastor," he says. And then, because the man clearly collects such things: "Lebeau."
"Alastor." Lucifer tries the word out, tasting it, looking quietly pleased with the flavor.
A servant arrives at his elbow on cue, bearing a small tray: a glass of whiskey, neat — and a flute of champagne, its rim and stem chased with fine gold detailing. The whiskey goes to Alastor without his having asked for it. He notes the gesture — the knowing of it, that someone watched what he drank downstairs and remembered — and says nothing at all. He simply takes the glass.
"Tell me," Lucifer says, swirling the gold-lipped flute, "what does a man like you do, when he isn't burying lesser bands beneath a piano? Some hobby, surely. We all need our little pursuits — the things we do for no reason but the pleasure of them."
Alastor laughs — delicately, almost privately, into his whiskey. The question is funnier than Lucifer can possibly know.
"Oh, this is the hobby," he says, and lets the smile widen just slightly, just enough. "The music. The stage. The hunt for a willing audience." A small, fond turn of the glass. "I do so love finding people who appreciate a good performance. It's astonishing, the lengths I'll go to for it."
Lucifer watches him a beat too long — that bright, unhurried, weighing look — and something in his smile sharpens into approval.
"How fortunate for me," he murmurs, low, "that you've found one tonight." His eyes move over Alastor's face, unhurried, frank. "I've a feeling, mon cher, that you and I are going to be very, very good for one another."