Old No.7 | An Alastor x Reader Story

The Smell of War

The road was dark save for the stretch of dirt outlined by the headlights. I sat in the passenger side seat, fingers tracing over the hilt of the pistol sitting in my lap like a prize dog. I could tell my quiet contemplation was making my driver, a young-looking sinner, uneasy. Glancing at him, I said, "This your first time committing arson?"

"N-no...I mean...y-yes, ma'am." He stammered, gripping the steering wheel tighter. I raised an eyebrow and snorted. Thankfully committing arson did not demand steady hands. 

"Alastor and the rest will have cleared out the muscle," I said, "We just have to burn the bitch down. It's the easy part."

The young sinner was quiet for a moment before saying, "But...w-what if they retaliate?"

A grim smile tugged at my lips, "That's why we have a defense built. Don't worry, if the mugs show up, we'll be ready for them. Pull off here and kill the headlights. We're going on foot from here."

I gestured towards a small side road nearly hidden by trees. The warehouse was just up ahead. We could walk the rest of the way. Opening the car door, I holstered the pistol and took a deep breath of fresh air, "Smell that?"

"S-smell what?"

My grin was nearly as wide as Alastor's, "It's the smell of war."