☆ Alastor's POV, present tense

I used to hate Purebloods.

That is, until I met (Y/N).

There are very few demons in hell who are able to tell the difference between Purebloods and True Demons. Evidently enough, I am one of those few who can decipher which of us belong and which do not. The sorting process is a complicated one, and when it goes wrong, I'm able to tell who's the outcast in a group full of sinners.

(Y/N) is an outcast. She is a Pureblood. Her soul, mind and heart are all as pure as hell's sky is red. That much is obvious to me. (Another thing that is obvious to me: I love her. And that is really saying something, because with the exception of my mother, I have never felt love before.) With this information—and all of the commotion about Lucifer coming after the Purebloods—I will have to protect (Y/N) from whoever wants to send her away, or worse, kill her.

Keeping her out of harm's way will be more difficult than it sounds. Purebloods are everything but a joking matter in hell, especially with how dramatically political tensions have been rising.

From the beginning, I have known (Y/N) was pure. One look into her purple eyes and I could tell that much, and more. I could tell what she did was an accident. I could tell that there wasn't a speck of evil—or malicious intent—behind any of the things she did while she was alive.

"Alastor, am I a Pureblood?" (Y/N) whispers, looking up at me with a look that resembles placid confusion. I can faintly see the fear hidden behind the forced frown that creases her forehead. I'm not quite sure how to answer her question. Of course, the answer is yes. But telling her might make her panic. I, myself, am on the brink of panicking.

Before I can think of a reasonable answer, the hotel's front door swings open from behind me.

☆ Second person POV, past tense

The hotel lobby was quiet for a very long time.

You could remember Alastor explaining how you were pure. Rosie had mentioned it, too. The memories were fresh and recent, and thinking back on them was like breathing. It was easy.

Alastor's eyes were unfocused and distant, and even though he was smiling, you knew that his expression didn't mean he was feeling any emotion even remotely close to happiness. By now, he was probably already neck-deep in some dark tunnel of thought. You briefly considered staying quiet, but you had a burning question that just had to come out. "Alastor, am I a Pureblood?"

Before Alastor could answer (not that you needed him to answer, for you already knew that the answer was yes), Vaggie burst through the front door of the hotel, eyes wide, breath uncaught. "Charlie, your dad is—"

She saw you. She stopped talking.

"(Y/N)? What are you doing here?"

Alastor grabbed your forearm. "My love, we must go back home. Now. It isn't safe here."

"Why not?" you asked. Again, you knew the answer to that question. You could tell by the urgency in Alastor's tone that Lucifer would be coming after you.

"Wait," Vaggie started.  "Not that I care or anything, but..." she looked right at you, and her eyes held some sort of emotion that resembled, well, something caring. "If you go back out there, it might be over for you."

"I... uh..." Did Vaggie know you were a Pureblood, too? And, if yes, how?

Alastor turned around to face Vaggie, who was still standing in the doorway. "What are you suggesting?" Alastor asked her, but the way he said it made it sound like it was more of a demand than a question; a statement made by someone who was tired of talking and tired of listening. "That we stay here? Because, considering the fact that Charlie's father is Lucifer himself, that would be the less preferable of our two options."

Vaggie cringed slightly and crossed her arms. "Again, it's not like I care. Just saying, there are already swarms of Lucifer's little bootlickers wandering around the city in search of Purebloods. And since Charlie told me that (Y/N) is a Pureblood, I know that walking out there would be suicide for her."

The sickening feeling of fear and dread bubbled in your stomach as you realized the full weight of the situation. You were being hunted, in a world full of blood-thirsty hunters. The floor beneath you seemed to spin, filling your head with the sort of dizzy weightlessness that made you want to close your eyes and collapse to the ground. "Pureblood," you said, tasting the word in your mouth, as if saying it out loud would somehow make the word not apply to you.

Alastor said, "It wouldn't be suicide. I'm here to protect her."

Vaggie retorted, "Like you would do anything to protect her."

Alastor, with his eyes sparkling, his hands folded tightly behind his back, and a thick tension in his voice, said, "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

You whispered Alastor's name, but you were ignored, or maybe just not heard.

On the other hand, Vaggie was visibly becoming angrier and angrier by the second. "You're the fucking Radio Demon, the single most evil demon in hell. Your soul count is higher than Angel's STD count. You hide in your little hut out in the woods so Lucifer and his henchmen don't come looking for you, because you're an evil little piece of shit, and I know for a fact that you won't do anything to protect (Y/N), or any other Pureblood in all of hell, unless—" she stopped, gasped, then continued, "—unless she's part of some sick scheme of yours."

"What makes you think I'm using her? What makes you think that you can accuse me of such an inhumane thing?"

"Because you are inhumane!"

And then something absolutely terrifying, spine-chilling, and overall slightly traumatizing happened.

Alastor unravelled. Feeding off of the anger that the pale girl was making him feel, Alastor turned into a demon, a real demon, the Radio Demon. His eyes flashed red as if a bolt of bloody lightning had struck them. The heels of his polished black shoes floated an inch above the ground, then another. The dark deer antlers on his head began to grow, the full length of them extending outward from his skull. His face fell into shadow, his smile suddenly morphing into something even more sinister than usual; it was scary enough to make someone shit their pants—and, based on the look on Vaggie's face, you were almost positive that she had shit her pants.

Alastor extended his hand out into the space between the two of them, and, as if by magic, his microphone cane thingy was summoned in the coils of his clenched fingers. He spoke again, and his voice was darker and scratchier than you ever thought possible. "I would advise you to stop talking and leave, now."

The sight of Alastor transforming into this... creature forced tears to spring to your eyes. This was all because of you. No, it was because of some stupid thing Vaggie said about you. You said his name again, louder, and when there was no response, you turned around in search of Charlie to ask her for help.

When you realized that Charlie was no longer in the room, your blood ran cold. A thread of paranoid thoughts ran through your head, confusing you, intensifying the dizziness and the fear and everything else you were feeling. Charlie was the daughter of Lucifer. Where did she go, to alert her father that there was a Pureblood standing defenseless in the lobby of her very own hotel?

Alastor had his cane aimed in Vaggie's direction. She stared up at him, a glassy fear stuck in her eyes. It was an odd sight to see; Vaggie shrunk back while Alastor appeared to grow a head taller. The microphone tip of his staff began to glow a sickly red, sputtering and sparking to life as if it was about to explode.

You feared for Vaggie's life.

"Alastor!"

Alastor finally seemed to hear you, and the effect was instant. He whirled around to face you, and you gasped, despite yourself.

His eyelids were narrowed, but nonetheless, you could see the thin black hand of the radio dials that sat in the place where his pupils should be. The orbs of his irises glowed against the darkness of his face like twin lightbulbs, glaring down at you.

Who is this demon, and what is he doing with my Alastor?

"Stop, please. She doesn't know. She doesn't know you. It was just an accusation, you don't have to—"

Vaggie scoffed, cutting you off. When you looked back at her, you saw that her arms were hugged around her hips, yet she still managed to look snooty. "Wow. I think this is your best work yet, Alastor. You really have her tucked under your thumb, don't you—"

"The only reason I'm not blasting you into another dimension," Alastor drawled, "is because (Y/N) obviously doesn't want me to. So if you would be so polite, can you spare us a moment?"

"Fine." Vaggie shrugged. "But, just so you know, Charlie left. Your time is running out. Have fun, losers."

With that, she left, slamming the massive oak door behind her and leaving a grim silence in her wake.

By then, you were crying. Tears silently, yet uncontrollably, leaked out of your eyes as if the faucet in your tear ducts had snapped. "Alastor, w-what do we do?"

Alastor sighed. Deeply. Everything about him seemed to relax; the cane in his hand vanished and he floated down so his feet were rested upon the floor again. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes again, they were back to normal, much to your relief.

"My love, I'm not going to let them take you," he said, taking a step closer to you. You unconsciously reacted by taking a step back, but only realized that you did so when the hint of hurt flickered over Alastor's smile. "I'm sorry."

"Is it safe for us to go back? To your house?"

"Our house," Alastor corrected. His voice was much softer now. It lacked the intimidating edge it had contained only moments ago. "And yes, it is. You have me, and I will stop at nothing to protect you."

The boiling tension weighing your chest down like a 10 ton block of metal, and when Alastor took your hand in his, you let him.

"My dear, I truly am sorry. For many reasons. I deeply regret my outburst, for you should not have had to see me, er..." He cleared his throat, but did not finish his sentence. "I'm sorry this is all happening to you, my love."

It felt like glue had been poured into your mouth and down your throat, disabling your speech. Maybe you were traumatized, or maybe you were in shock. Something like that.

But even if you had been able to respond to Alastor's numerous apologies, you still wouldn't have.