Chapter Text
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In the vibrant streets of New Orleans, where jazz and jambalaya blend with history and mysticism, lives a man whose voice is as recognizable as the mighty Mississippi itself. His name is Alastor Hellend, a renowned broadcaster whose voice has graced the airwaves from dawn till dusk.
Every Sunday, to the sound of the bells at St. Louis Cathedral, Alastor walks alongside his unwaveringly faithful and generous-hearted mother. Despite his fame, he remains humble and devoted, his presence as comforting as the countless stories his voice has narrated over the years.
As they cross the threshold of the church, Alastor’s mother makes the sign of the cross, and he, with a respectful gesture, removes his hat. Sunlight filters through the stained glass, bathing the nave in celestial colors. Alastor offers his arm, and together they step into the sanctuary, ready to receive the divine word and give thanks for life’s blessings.
“Oh, Mrs. Hellend, it’s a pleasure to see you again alongside your charming son!” Mr. Macornie interrupts their path, removing his black hat from his head and holding it against his chest as he bows forward in greeting to the beautiful lady and her son.
“Mr. Macornie, the pleasure is mine to see you once more. The sisters informed me that your wife had been seriously ill,” Alastor’s mother says, concern evident as she places her gloved hands over her chest.
“They informed you correctly. Thankfully, by God’s grace, my wife has finally regained consciousness and is much better now. I’ve come to offer further thanks to my Creator for this miracle,” Alastor may even be moved by the way the man speaks of his beloved; his unmatched smile tightens even more.
The conversation between the man and Alastor’s cherished mother continues as she inquires about the mayor’s wife’s condition. Alastor, curious, gently strokes his mother’s shoulder and steps away from her to explore the aisles surrounded by people in long dresses, their eyes wide and excited, focused on a specific place or person.
Alastor’s ruby eyes lock onto the face of a small man cheerfully greeting the congregants.
His golden hair fell in gentle waves across his forehead, like sun-kissed threads woven by the gods. His blue eyes, deep and mysterious, held ancient secrets and glimpses of a world beyond our own.
The man’s pale skin contrasted with the robe he wore—a long, white garment adorned with subtle blue details along the edges. Each thread of gold and blue seemed woven by the very hands of the stars.
Despite his diminutive stature, the man exuded a commanding presence. His steps were silent, as if he floated above the earth. People paused to look at him, captivated by his beauty and warm aura.
Was this man an angel disguised as a mortal? Or perhaps an older being, hidden among the folds of reality? No one knew for certain. But those who saw him, even for an instant, felt they had glimpsed something divine.
And so, the young man continued on his path, his white robe billowing in the wind, his blue eyes shining like stars in the night. His beauty remained an enigma.
“Is he the new priest our father mentioned?” One of the women, fanning herself with malice, asked a man who couldn’t tear his gaze away from the beautiful angel (as Alastor had aptly nicknamed him).
“Yes, his name is Lucifer. Father said it’s time for his official introduction,” the man replied.
Lucifer—a name so embroidered and beautiful, so defined and unique that it could disturb the minds of others. A precious gift from heaven, bestowed upon the church.
“Lucifer,” Alastor whispered, emphasizing his tense smile. What a beautiful name, he thought.
He brought his hand to his chin, fingertips tracing the contours. Curiosity and sick lust began to color his perverse mind.
How satisfying would it be to sink his teeth into that delicate white woolen skin, drawing out every drop of blood and savoring each area of the wound? God.
He wanted to trap the elusive little white rabbit he’d observed moments ago, corner it like prey, and bind it until struggles and cries for release spilled from those rosy lips. He longed to see those flushed, tear-streaked cheeks, wet from weeping, while he orchestrated the twisted game.
To slice through the fine skin with his best weapon and watch the blood leave its mark.
He was going mad.
Lucifer was driving him mad.
“Alastor, Alastor!” The woman’s voice, tugging at his shoulder, finally snapped Alastor back to reality. He lowered his eyes to his mother and relaxed his hands, which had clenched at some point, leaving small traces of blood from his short nails digging into his palm.
“My apologies, Mother. I was lost in thought; I thought I heard your voice,” Alastor said. His mother chuckled softly and shook her head. “We’d better find seats as soon as possible—the meeting is about to begin.” Alastor nodded carefully, extending his arm for her to take hold.
She was proud of how polite and successful her son was.
Meanwhile, Alastor contemplated the ways in which he could have that angel in his hands and devour his flesh.
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