Hell en Pointe | Alastor ✓

chapter 37

"Okay," you said, exhaling shakily. "Let's do this."

Alastor sat criss-crossed in front of you, nose dug into the ritual book, face scrunched from the aged smell that wafted into the air. You had slipped on the dress he got for you earlier, the material a little itchy, but you felt beautiful in it nonetheless. Alastor's radio tower always smelt a little stale, but the ancient book overpowered the dormant scent. You smiled a bit. No matter how nervous you were, you could admit that he looked rather cute.

"It says here we need a pentagram of the participants blood..." muttered Alastor, deeply concentrated. His eyes scanned the page, his left eye moving behind his red-tinted monocle. "...and the sacrificial objects at each point of the star."

You nodded. "...Alrighty."

Alastor smiled, gently placing the book down and digging through his coat pocket. He produced his old rusty hunting knife. You watched attentively as he slowly brought his wrist to his face, clamping his teeth around his cuff and pulling it down. You stiffened uncomfortably. He was doing that on purpose, wasn't he?

He then slowly moved over to his glove, nibbling on the middle finger of the cloth and gradually pulling it off, spitting it out into the floor.

Once his sleeve was rolled up and his glove was removed, Alastor offered you his bare, gray-skinned wrist of his left arm and pointed the blade with his right. You quirked a brow.

"Wouldn't want to ruin my coat," he said smugly. "Or my glove. Care to do the honors, my lady?"

You rolled your eyes, quickly taking the knife and holding his hand gently, slowly dragging the blade across his skin. It made a squelching sound as it entered his skin. He recoiled slightly and his teeth caught his bottom lip. He sighed a quivering sigh, watching breathlessly as you injured him.

"Done," you said simply, retracting the knife. He flipped his bleeding wrist around, the blood ebony and shiny, and he applied pressure to the sides of the wound to motivate it to bleed more profusely. He allowed the flood to fall on the floor in the middle of the two of you.

"Your turn," Alastor smiled, wrist still sticking out as he looked up to you. The interaction was almost childish.

You huffed and quickly slit your own wrist without flinching, copying Alastor and squeezing the blood out. Your blood was slightly darker than his, and as the concoction mixed into itself on the floor, it sizzled a neon green gas that smelled like death, blood, pine, vanilla, and pomegranate all at once.

You bent back from the intense, confusing smell. "The fuck...?"

"The gas is a product of the bond, I'm assuming," observed Alastor, still smiling.

You looked away, pulling your wrist inward and caressing it when you thought you had given enough blood.

Alastor took his slender, bare finger and dipped it into the puddle of mixed blood. He brought it to his mouth, slumping in delight at the taste.

You looked at him in shock. "Alastor," you scolded. "This is for the ritual, dumbass. Not a late night snack."

He chuckled, removing his finger with a pop sound, and you caught a glimpse of his split gray tongue. "Apologies, my dear. I just couldn't resist."

You rolled your eyes again and leaned forward and all fours, dipping a finger into the blood and dragging it out, forming a circle. Then, you messily drew a star in the center, forming a pentagram shape.

"Not the artist, I see," said Alastor in amusement.

"I dance, honey," you spat. "Not draw."