Your mind was still toiling over everything that had happened at the hotel.

The way Alastor had changed... it wasn't like him. The Alastor that you knew was sweet, charming—even occasionally overbearing—but he was never the overprotective, seething nonsense he had become when Vaggie accused him of using you.

And that was a whole other thing to think about: Vaggie had been in hell for a whole lot longer than you had, so did that mean she knew Alastor better than you? Could it be totally reasonable that she thinks he's planning something, and you're nothing but a pawn in his personal game of chess?

But then again, if that last part was correct, then what would Alastor's ideal end game be? Why would you, of all demons, be a part of it?

You squeezed your eyes shut and combed your fingers through your wet hair. The warm water flowed over your skin like a blanket, keeping you safe. Doing exactly what Alastor said he would do when you found out that Lucifer was going to come for you and all of the other Purebloods in hell.

The thought of Satan himself coming for you felt like a drill through your skull.

You were literally being hunted down. By Lucifer.

And it wasn't even your fault.

☆

You hadn't said a single word to Alastor at all since the two of you got back to his hidden cabin (more like hidden mansion).

After changing into the casual set of clothes that Alastor had given you a few days ago—the olive hoodie and leggings—you walked downstairs with quiet steps. The wooden steps felt sticky under your bare feet, and it was a small sensation that you found yourself savoring.

The beautiful, yet faint ring of piano keys could be heard as you ambled into the living room. You knew then exactly where you would see him: sitting at his piano, lean fingers gracefully dancing along the ivories, making the gorgeous song play.

And there he was, sure as the sun was bright. His back was arched to better allow his arms to reach multiple keys at once, but his expression was unreadable. The series of keys he was playing sounded like the beginning of a song, simple and repetitive, but allowing the listener to anticipate.

"There you are, my love," he greeted you without looking up from his still dancing fingers. Despite everything, all you wanted to do was sit down on that bench beside him, watch his fingers move, and let the music float through your body. "How are you feeling? Did the shower help?"

"A little bit. I'm fine now." Yeah, hit him with the good ol' fine.

"I'd like to play a song," Alastor continued. "It's my second favorite, aside from Bohemian Rhapsody. Feel free to listen, if you would like."

"I would like to," you said quietly. It seemed like you were talking to yourself—Alastor was so focused on the piano and the music he was making.

(Start the song at the beginning, if you want to listen while reading. The video is up above.)

Just then, Alastor looked up at you, and his face suddenly became readable. As odd and cliché as it was, you could see the love in his eyes and in his smile. His features were relaxed, and he closed his eyes, continuing the song's introduction.

Then, not to your surprise, he began to sing.

"Here's the church, and here's the steeple..." His fingers moved with passion. "You open it up and see all the bad people, doing bad, bad things... to each other."

You didn't recognize the song, but it was a wonderful tune. And then your foot moved, practically with a mind of its own. A small step forward.

"And look at you. Ms. Independence! Once a victim, now you get your vengeance, on the bad, bad people..."

He stopped, took a breath.

"Who did a bad, bad thing..."

Your body seemed to ignore the mixture of strange feelings that were resonating in your heart and in your gut. As the music swelled, and Alastor's voice rose, continuing through the chorus, your feet continued their mission to move you closer to the music, to the piano, to the loving (yet hot-headed), caring (yet careless), attractive (yet scary) man.

His voice seemed to vibrate, pushing through the air as if the music itself wanted to be breathed instead of the oxygen.

You took a breath, but all you could smell was the all-too-familiar scent of cinnamon and blood.

"But, where were you? And where was he? What did you do and what did he get to see?"

When he sang, you noticed how his voice took on a whole new volume, a whole new passion. You could tell just by the lilt in his tone that he didn't sing just to sing, but he sang because he loved it. He sang because he felt the music, just like you could feel it now in your ribs as you breathed deeply.

"Ohh... you're a devil, woman. Ohh... I'm a fucking saint. Yes, it's a simplistic position..."

You were right next to Alastor now. His shoulders rolled underneath his shirt as his fingers moved. His back arched and he continued singing, as if he hadn't noticed you were right there beside him. Maybe he hadn't.

You slid onto the bench next to him, just as he was finishing the chorus.

He looked up, and although he had stopped singing, his fingers kept moving, as if it was the end of the song. Then they, too, stopped, and the room settled into a sweet silence.

"My love..." Alastor paused, then looked around the room, as if he didn't know what to say. He looked slightly unsure of himself, and also saddened. Maybe that was for the best. "I'm sorry."

You sighed. At this point, you didn't need to hear any more of his pointless apologies. You were smart enough to know that there was nothing he could do to stop Lucifer from coming after you. You were a Pureblood. Every demon in hell resented you, and what could you or Alastor do against that?

Then your eyes started to sting, and soon enough, you were crying.

You covered your face with your hands, embarrassed to be crying for the second time today in front of Alastor. Immediately, you felt the salty wetness of your tears drop down onto your palms.

Then Alastor's arm wrapped around your shoulders. It again made you remember the night in the woods, after seeing Angel Dust, and the other night when you had your terrible nightmare. Every time, he was there to comfort you.

Alastor pulled you close to him, so that your head was resting on his chest. The soft touch of his lips against the top of your head only made you cry harder.

It hadn't been very long since you died. A week, at the most, but it felt like it had been forever since you had run those kids over, since you had called your parents to tell them the terrible news, since you moved in with Nate, since you had been shot. Alastor's personality was so loud and so unique, that it was easy to get wrapped up in his charisma—in his voice, in his smile, eyes, and even in his hair—and forget about everything else.

You ached for that feeling of his hair between your fingers. The sensation in your chest deepened to the point where it was painful.

"It's not your fault," you mumbled from behind your palms, sniveling. "There's nothing we can do at this point. I'm a Pureblood."

Alastor's arm clenched against your body. "I know."

"Alastor, why am I a Pureblood? I still don't understand."

"I believe I've explained this to you before, my dear."

You (reluctantly) removed your hands from your face. "I know, I know. But I still don't understand."

Alastor sighed. "It has a lot to do with Lucifer and the negotiations he recently made with the stuck up Gods up above. They have their heads in the clouds, literally."

You wanted to laugh, but your chest felt so tight that you physically couldn't. Alastor seemed to notice, because he stroked your hair with the back of his hand. The action relaxed you.

"What do you mean, negotiations?"

"Well, I think the whole transaction started with Charlie. She told her father that the overpopulation was becoming such a pressing issue that new precautions had to be placed or the problem would never be solved, so Lucifer took it upon himself to arrange a meeting with the angels." Alastor talked like a wise old grandfather, telling his little grandchildren a story about the devil and his kingdom. In a way, that was what he was doing, if you excluded the part about grandfathers and grandchildren. "He said that they needed to lessen their requirements to get into heaven, or else the population in hell would never decrease. Thus far, the exterminations and the current requirements weren't enough to stop the steady rise of incoming demons. So heaven obliged, and although the new regimen has been effective, a new problem has come up. That problem is you."

"Me?"

"Well, not just you in particular. All of the Purebloods are considered a problem to Lucifer and most of the other demons down here!"

You didn't say anything else. There were no words left inside of you.

An oddly peaceful silence swallowed the air, and the two of you sat like that for a while, arm in arm.

"I'm sorry. You will be okay; I won't let them hurt you," Alastor whispered. The words were useless, like paper promising to defend you against a tsunami.

"Remember when you promised never to leave me?" Your voice sounded so small in the vast room. "That night, when I was scared, and you came into my room to comfort me?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Do you swear that you'll keep your promise?"

"Yes. I will keep my promise."

"Swear it."

"I swear that I'll keep my promise to never leave you, and never let you get taken away from me, (Y/N)."