The Riddle Of Magic

Chapter 55: Summon

Alastor had been born into a rather fortunate position, in a rather unfortunate time. He was a child of two disjointed cultural worlds; but due to his unique position in the upper echelon of society, had found himself privileged in a time that others of his ilk were ostracized.

His social status had granted him access to resources and knowledge, which he had leveraged carefully in his adult years, enabling a life of secret violence. Even during his final evening on Earth he'd been a hunter feeding sacrifices to the darkness, stockpiling arcane resources with the shadows. He'd only become one of the hunted through an ironic comedy of errors.

Once he'd died, that life of secret violence had become an after-life of overt violence, but the Radio Demon was ever a hunter.

The great strength granted to him through Nox Magia put him into a league with few able to stand at his level. He tore souls apart where and when he pleased, the rumors about his power augmenting his status almost as much a battle itself did.

It wasn't often that the deer demon was the one being pursued, though every so often he was put in the path of beings that would challenge him. The Exorcists never seemed to fear him, but that was apparently because they didn't appear to feel anything. Whether they were machines or some form of magicked golem was unclear, but they weren't what he would call a proper opposition as they appeared like clockwork and vanished just as routinely. A battle against them wasn't much of anything other than running out the clock, the sort of strategy that grew boring after about a decade.

Hellborn would occasionally drift into his orbit out of curiosity at his exploits, though would almost universally attempt to flee once they saw he was their better. Another case of running out the clock, not much of a challenge.

Even his rivalry with Vox was a case of waiting for the fool to succumb to his own impatience, and crumble under his own hubris. Yet more of a battle that would yield victory the longer he waited.

Battles of attrition, all throughout his afterlife.

There was only one battle Alastor could recall where he'd not had the opportunity to wait, and it made an odd sort of sense that it would have come about after he'd wandered to the Hotel, looking for something - anything - to break up the monotony of eternity.

It had been a quiet type of horror to witness his own techniques turned against him, though they might be colored differently. Suddenly the tables were turned, and the predator made prey, as his damnable alter sought to rip away everything he'd come to care about.

Any thought of prowess was a joke. No matter how fast he moved, it wasn't enough to keep what mattered to him safe. Husk fell, then Cherri and Angel, then Niffty, and even Vagatha.

Charlie had fought at his side, and what a wonderful treat it had been to see the potential wellspring of her power. They were primal elements on the battlefield, striving against their enemy with every ounce of their strength. But in spite of it all, his cobalt copy was able to best her as well, though unlike the others he had stolen the blonde demoness away, carrying her off like some kind of captive war-bride.

The Radio Demon had thrown all care or caution to the wind, rushing through a conjured Gate to reclaim the princess. All of his senses were dulled from utter exhaustion, the world around him neither light nor dark, merely a currant haze.

How long had it taken? It was as if he was swimming through sludge, his body moving far too slow.

Every second was its own anguish as he tried to find his partner, knowing what hideous cruelty his alter was capable of. Alastor stumbled through the endless dim, lost for ages, calling out for Charlie despite knowing it wasn't tactically sound.