The Riddle Of Magic

Chapter 27: Reversal

The Radio Demon didn't often dream, or rather, the visions granted by dreaming seldom stuck with him after awakening. It was the feelings invoked by those dreams which lingered most, practically instincts burned into him.

When he had come to Hell, of course his dreams were ones of violence. His days and nights were near-constant battle and his dreams often reflected the same. He often woke on edge, wary for a fight, his blood singing at the thought of the next kill and the rush of power he would gain from it.

As the decades dragged on, sometimes those dreams would soften somewhat as endless battle became wearisome. There was a longing for something different, though he would certainly continue to defend himself and his interests with as much brutality as required, or even a dusting of creative overkill if someone was particularly irksome.

But regardless of the period, whether in the middle of his warring or the lulls between, there would be strange dreams of music that brought a powerful possessive want. Even when his dreams would be of darkness, sometimes there would be flickerings of flame that sang, a taste of a world beyond what he was doomed to.

Music may be something meant for all to hear, but there was a quiet hope in him that those melodies be something just for himself.

After he'd drifted awake to Charlie's music, he'd felt that familiar greed, all the stronger now for the connection to his shadow and the magic they shared.

The urge to keep her close, to keep hearing her sing, was so powerful it was practically a sin in itself. He could scarcely believe he'd been so forward as to ask her to stay beside him, as if that was his right to do. She'd indulged his wish, gracious as she was, and continued her music, though he'd dozed off again after another couple of songs.

There weren't any strangely long dreams this time, or any visions at all. Simply a quiet oblivion.

When he woke Charlie was no longer singing, but playing instead with the Pidgin. Surrounding the little spectre were tiny chiming musical notes carved in glimmering fire. The notes' color spanned like a rainbow, the colors changing depending on their pitch, and the tiny shadow was attempting to catch the notes as they rang, playing a quiet calm melody.

Nearby, other spectres hovered in space, floating as though trying to emulate the ringing of the notes, bouncing in time to the simple tune.

Alastor watched her for a long moment, red eyes taking in the gentle demoness with quiet wonder.

Spectres were creatures to dislike light, the steady shine and brightness being in opposition to themselves. Fire confounded them in how it wobbled and danced, with it flickering, tremulous movements.

The princess had always spoken to the spectres in the same fair fashion as she did to other beings, but something had changed in the past few months. They paid attention to her more now, and wondered after her presence beside him less. Still, most maintained their wary distance, with the notable exception of the smallest of their number, which dwelt closer to her than ever.

During the initial months at the Hotel, they flitted about with a wariness, disregarding her at the very least, if not avoiding her outright. They regarded him with confusion as he lingered near her, and they circled in each others' orbit. They could not understand his propensity to the princess, who shone to them like starlight.

Shadows should not linger near light... but what place was there, other than following after?

Charlie turned to him to check him, catching his gaze. "How are you feeling?" she asked, smiling at him shyly.

"Better," he nodded as she vanished the little notes of flame. "Thanks to you, of course, my dear demon belle."

He sat up, stretching, and the Pidgin squeaked, tottling over to him. He patted it and it sniffed at his hand, but rather than returning to the shadows of his glove, it wandered back over to Charlie.